by Lynch, S. M.
‘Sorry, yeah, I’m still here,’ I replied, shifting my xGen back onto my lap so Camille could see my face. ‘I just feel terrible I wasn’t… I mean, I knew she was… but I just didn’t take it seriously I guess.’
‘Yes, she seemed like the sort of person who would live forever…’ Camille trailed off and looked into the distance, continuing, ‘…well, the funeral will take place within the next couple of days. I thought it only right to get in touch in case you wanted to attend.’
The thought of missing just one day, a weekend day even, made me anxious. I feared if I left the city, the opportunity I’d been waiting so long for might pass me by.
‘Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate you calling Camille, but I have so many commitments here. I’ll see if‒’
‘Of course, but I know Eve would have wanted you here,’ Camille insisted gently, staring down her nose.
‘I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise, but…’
My thoughts escalated. I really don’t need this. Why is she looking at me like that? There is something unsettling about her stare…
‘Okay, well, we’ll hopefully see you here, Seraph. We’d all love to meet you. I’d better get going now, things to do. Call me anytime, I mean it. Anytime. Night or day. Au revoir.’
Eve Maddon was my father’s aunt and though unmarried herself, had dedicated her life to the cause of marriage. She produced couture gowns at her bridal house in York, England – a walled city founded by the Romans two millennia ago. Eve’s low-key, almost cottage industry, brought thousands of people through her doors, over a 50-year career that saw her build up an international clientele. Her niche business remained, despite this new world of mass-production and few marriages.
For some reason, Eve’s little industry had become a mainstay in an extremely limited market. The success of her business had always seemed bizarre to me, and in fact Eve herself was quite extraordinary, yet she’d stayed in that minor, backward city her entire life.
She’d been calling me from her sickbed for some time but I thought she’d snap out of it and get over whatever ailment it was that she refused to discuss. Though the fact she wasn’t working was certain evidence she was succumbing to something fatal, I failed to make that trip across the Atlantic that I had been promising and then putting off for so long. To say I felt deeply regretful in the immediate aftermath of her death was an understatement.
That morning, my usual gym session was out of the question. No amount of pounding the treadmill or racing uphill was going to cut it. Not even the punch bag seemed tempting. My perpetual anger had subsided and I felt frail. It was official – I didn’t have anybody left in the world. One thought bothered me the most, swirled in my head like a bad headache. What could have been…
Eve and I should have had more time together. The unfair nature of that was ripping my guts apart and Camille’s words rang in my ears.
She would have wanted you here.
Memories slipped into my periphery and I shook with remorse. My last living relative was dead. It hit me like nothing else. I convulsed with tears and buried my head under my pillow for the next hour, ignoring my xGen ringing and the crashing against my door outside. I’d no doubt missed Francesca’s cursory morning call and she was worried I was dead or something and had sent some lackeys over to check. It was a worry for her that I would one day get caught, hauled in with not a thing to back me up (the way I worked put me in danger). Yet I continually put myself up against the proverbial firing squad, every day.
After I got my shit together I sent her a quick message: ‘Eve dead. Need time off.’ My uncharacteristic use of few words would engage her otherwise hidden sensitivities.
I could almost hear her Aussie voice as she sent a reply: ‘Phew, I can call off the search party! And, sorry, I really am. Take some time. Call me later?’
I dragged myself out of bed and into the en suite to shower. It seemed clear to me what I had to do. There was no other option but to get over to England as quickly as possible. The tight knot of angst and remorse that had formed in my gut made me realize I owed it to Eve. For the first time in years, work didn’t seem to matter so much.
After washing, I pulled on whatever my hand touched in the closet and tied back my hair. I could smell coffee wafting in from the kitchen ‒ and was comforted by that in some small amount. For the first time in years I’d have to switch off the timer so the machine didn’t produce while I was gone.
I filled my mug and went to the window. Every morning I stood staring down on Central Park, that yellowish eyesore gradually reducing in size. I saw office workers purchasing various breakfast items from automated food carts on their way to work and for once, I envied those regimented souls. My burdens were suddenly so heavy that the view my Dakota pad offered was an unwelcome perspective ‒ I had no community to call on for solace, living the way I did made me an outcast.
I checked the latest flight schedules on my xGen and saw there was one jet leaving for the UK within the hour – and nothing else for hours after that. I ran round snatching stuff from the bathroom, along with a few items of clothing, before getting ridiculously burnt by the drink sliding down my throat at light speed.
I felt nauseous as I stood by my apartment door preparing to go, checking my jacket pockets and bag to ensure I had everything I would need. I cursed my itinerary for that day, which I would have to cancel. I had a hotel room booked at the Four Seasons, right next door to that of an NYPD commissioner who would be there to close some very shady foreign business deal. He would keep, I supposed.
I scanned the living area, one last check for nothing left lying around. I had already incinerated my trash in the custom-built, self-extinguishing furnace I’d had erected in the middle of my lounge. I never left a trace, never left anything important where it might be found. It was not beyond them to use a tampon to get my DNA on file for use at a later date. DNA tampering, or rather replicating, had become a big thing but was never acknowledged. The enemy were good at planting “evidence” at the scene of a crime to get someone jailed. I had dozens of cases stacked up on my desk ‒ people who had contacted me from the pen claiming they were innocent. They passed the SAFs (Speech Analysis & Filtration Systems), but their DNA had been their undoing. Most of course were ex-employees of Officium who were a threat of some sort. Why these people hadn’t been blown away on a street corner, I didn’t know. That was Officium’s usual style.
That is why I ensured everything I needed was right upstairs or on the xGen my hacker friend had given me.
I set the apartment security system on high alert and slammed the huge, solid metal door behind me. It clunked shut with a sharp thud, various locking mechanisms slotting into place. Striding out into the lush, wood-paneled, carpeted corridor outside, I headed to the elevator that would take me down to street level.
W72nd was a perpetual nightmare and was no different that morning. City sounds hit my ears; horns tooting, distant protestors yelling, eco-friendly vehicles skidding by and traipsing vagrants echoing their vitriol around the tall housing blocks. I wished I had the time to shout along with them, it might have helped me that day.
The Dakota still had the look of some sort of grand residence, but only because of a thick electric fence around its perimeter, plus a number of other high-security measures that had been implemented to protect its period magnificence. Many other prewar apartment buildings in the vicinity could easily be misplaced as dosshouses, crack dens, makeshift 24/7s or simply an opportunity for one of the city’s numerous graffiti artists.
I wanted to call Francesca and ask to borrow her driver but there was no time. I would brave an automated, bulky yellow hover-cab. I just hoped it didn’t stink of piss. I loaded my Cab GPS app and called for one, seeing on the screen that I was in a queue. I contemplated my boss’s car again but then, I watched as the queue gradually decreased and bumped me up the ladder.
I realized my impatience had something to do with the fact I was leavin
g behind my natural habitat. I was nervous. As much as I despised the city sometimes, it was my world. My dominion. I knew it like nowhere else. Ignorance is bliss? I wondered what might await me in England. The country my aunt had spent her whole life living in was also the place my parents had left decades ago ‒ and they never talked about it. I was going in blind. It had to be civilized, right? They would surely have cabs, trains and perhaps even bicycles? Shut the fuck up, Seraph, I told myself. My mind was racing with thoughts. Truth was, I had not left NYC in over 20 years and nowhere else existed, to me. I decided I would have to change my outlook, and, quick. I was a tourist all of a sudden, not just a grieving relative, but an explorer venturing to another continent. The possibilities that awaited me made my mouth twitch. Funeral and grieving, aside, I contemplated a way I could make the trip worthwhile in other ways…
Stood on the sidewalk on the corner of Central Park West, I eventually got a cab and keyed my destination into the cabbie computer. Heading across town, I watched unkempt tower blocks pass by – structures that had deteriorated with the battering elements of frequent storms, dust and pollution. I cringed (as I always did) at the sight of the 60ft concrete wall that surrounded the entire city. If it was built to prevent flood damage, I was Mary fucking Poppins. Many parks, streets, houses and public buildings were crudely swept out of the way to make way for the terrible Manhattan Dam, as it had become known. In reality it was just another barrier to escape. Its actual purpose was to enable greater population control – and surveillance. So many flooded the city in the wake of 2023’s tragedy and the place exploded into a hotbed for crime. New York had become Officium’s main sphere of business and was now their HQ, from which they felt they could run the world.
Through the colossal iron gates of the U-Card checkpoint on Manhattan Bridge, and across to Brooklyn, there were some sorry sights to see out of the window. Busloads of citizens were transported out to New Jersey to continue their lives of drudgery in the various factories and power stations struggling to keep the city alive. With families and marriage a thing of the past, few really cared about putting down roots, and dozens upon dozens of hobos still slept on the sidewalks – those who lay their hat wherever they found themselves come nightfall.
At the gigantic, automated reception of the airport, I scanned my U-Card above the ticket machine and the computerized voice of the self-serve kiosk rang out: ‘Good morning Seraph Maddon. Would you like to travel today?’
That impatience was still gurgling when I shouted, ‘Yes!’
‘What is your destination?’
‘Manchester, England.’
‘Please choose a ticket from the following options.’
On the screen, I saw one seat left on a flight about to leave in 15 minutes’ time. I selected that journey, not willing to wait around for hours to hop on the next one.
‘This ticket will require us to take 3,545 E-Dollars from your available funds of 6,348 E-Dollars, do you wish to proceed?’
Almost four months’ salary – yet negligible – I needed to do Eve’s memory justice.
‘Proceed.’
Fuck, though, that was a lot of money. I rubbed my forehead.
Then I saw the funds drain from my account, almost forgetting to grab my U-Card back from the top of the machine as I went.
I ran to the security point and chucked my baggage on the conveyer belt, before stepping through the X-ray machine. I then passed through the decontamination chamber, standing in it for half a minute while it dry-blasted tiny particles of antibacterial matter all over me.
I scanned my U-Card at the International Embarkation Vector and barely heard the greeting, ‘Good day Seraph Maddon, your identity has been verified, have a pleasant journey to Manchester’.
I ran through the turnstile, down a tunnel and toward the plane.
Having made it just in time, 30 minutes later I was flying 45,000 feet somewhere above the Atlantic. I got out my xGen and began canceling the various meetings I had set up for that day with colleagues, snitches and undercovers, hoping to avoid any small-talk with fellow passengers as I put on a busy demeanor. I needn’t have worried about washing that morning ‒ sat in that shitty tin can with sweaty businessman was going to undo my fresh scent.
I rested my eyes but refused to give in to deep sleep, though I desperately ached for it. I was Seraph Maddon. Everybody knew what I stood for, what I represented.
Not even the pristine air stewards, in their red and white uniforms, with their perfect smiles and helpful advances, could be trusted. Nobody could. You either joined the enemy or died trying to evade them.
CHAPTER 3
Two hours later. Sweaty, irritable and oxygen-deprived, I disembarked the jet and was hurled into a not-so-different world. Navigating my way through the vast, heavily populated corridors of Manchester Airport, all I saw were blurry outlines and masses of people.
Some kind of unreal exhaustion, or something, hit me. My head felt heavy and I was disoriented. I was edging closer to my aunt and the truth: she was dead. Maybe that was the only reason I was there ‒ to make it all real.
Absorbed by the masses streaming their way along a suspended bridge walkway, I somehow reached a packed, glass-roofed train station. The bitter stench of public toilets and greasy food outlets nearly made me dry-heave, having skipped breakfast and the plastic airline food.
Everything was automated and computerized, just like back home, with commuters scrambling to get on their way. It was the middle of the day but this world had no schedule. Shift patterns had no regard for day or night, human needs or what once might have been considered unlawful operational hours. I knew I wasn’t home, far from it, but the familiarity of similar systems in England made me less tense. I contemplated that I could be up and running soon, seeing what I could get from the people. Yet even thousands of miles from my place of origin, those inhabitants seemed wary of me, too. Perhaps my reputation preceded me, even in England.
I boarded a double-decker train on the speedline from Manchester to York, and as the journey got underway, I saw sheltered farms – miles upon miles of clustered white poly-tunnels – covering whatever fertile land was left in an attempt to protect crops from weather damage. Elsewhere, wind turbines had been squeezed in wherever possible. My eye also clocked what appeared to be endless numbers of recycling plants and power stations dotted across the landscape of Lancashire and then Yorkshire.
I spotted many small towns and villages, completely abandoned and left to decay. Amongst the few possessions I treasured, I had some photographs that my grandmother had developed from negatives, chronicling family holidays in the countryside and days out in some of England’s oldest cities. It seemed like sacrilege to transfer the images to digital format and I had kept the archive shots. What I vividly remembered of York centre was its narrow, cobbled streets burgeoning with obscure shops, the ancient Roman wall, market stalls, tearooms, throngs of tourists, and green riverbanks littered with families enjoying precious days out. It made me anxious thinking about how it might have degenerated; how its changed appearance might break my heart knowing Eve had seen it crumble round her.
Halfway through the train journey, the Global Health Council’s daily announcement infiltrated every screen in the carriage. It was nearing three o’clock in the afternoon. A representative for GHC appeared on the screen – a woman with almost unbelievably perfect skin, hair and teeth. She spoke in a cosmopolitan European accent, ‘Good day citizens. Please ensure you make frequent use of anti-bacterial detergents, hand wash, sprays, wipes and decontamination chambers. Perform regular deep-cleans in your homes. Avoid unprotected sex at all costs, and keep your distance from anyone you believe might be falling ill. Have a safe and pleasant day.’
I ignored every word of the patronizing, imbecilic message, having heard the same warnings several hundred times before. Why wouldn’t people already know these things? There hadn’t been an outbreak for some decades – but these brainwashing techniques kept the th
reat of another attack at the forefront of people’s minds.
I stepped off the train in York and was disappointed to see the Victorian building that once housed the platforms had been replaced by a gigantic, hideous plastic, see-through cube with escalators crisscrossing over themselves with one purpose – to see masses of bodies as efficiently as possible on their journey. Even that grey monster back home, with its 21 million inhabitants, had bore witness to thousands of protestors camping out on the streets to protect Grand Central, ensuring the station retained its original features. To developers it probably seemed easier to dispose of old buildings and start over, rather than transpose anachronistic structures into an age of overpopulation, high demand and low culture. Square-pegs, round holes.
Once out of York Railway Station, high-rise apartment blocks and office buildings dominated the view. I imagined workers crammed into tiny cubicles, laboring over renewable energy research and marketing. The world was panicky about resources running out and many were employed under the heavy-duty contracts of Officium to make headway in developing alternative fuels. If you asked me I would have made a guess and said that Officium had so much invested in technology ‒ that this was why energy was so important to them. The invention of the all-encompassing xGen in the 2030s meant computing, communication, navigation, Internet use – various multi-media – could all be handled by these relatively small devices with gigantic amounts of RAM. Made to the owner’s exact specifications, the unit could be ordered in varying colors, designs and size of processing capability. The gadget was guaranteed to last a lifetime and could be hooked up to the Internet anywhere, or charged up in any Mercy Inn, Sanctuary or 24/7. The pinnacle of information technology had been achieved. Nothing would surpass it.
The streets of York were disturbingly quiet, with lone citizens shuffling around, the entire city centre pedestrianized and only the clunking of trains moving in the distance breaking the silence. As I reached Low Ousegate, I noticed the river hidden beneath gigantic, thick concrete tunnels, presumably to protect the city from the swelling waters.
