Tides of Hysteria

by Adam J. Smith

  “At least he found what he was searching for.”

  “And he died for it. Never to see the fruits of his labours. Right now, Annora’s living a fantasy while her body gets eaten; strands of her DNA giving up fragments of a whole that we may never put back together. We may never be able to re-piece what she knows. And even if we can; what does she know? What was Kirillion searching for?” He allowed silence to fall between them, his words to percolate in Jeri’s mind. Everyone here played so much it was rare to have a straight conversation. To think too much. Kirillion had always held fast to the notion that his solution was salvation, for them all, lowcases and elite alike. He’d just never explained what it was he thought he knew, and besides, there was no-one to interrogate him. Everyone oblivious in their own fantasies. Unconscious in their ecstasies. Jhon included. If only he’d paid more attention.

  “It’s for their own good,” he repeated.

  Jeri curled her legs up and nuzzled her head into his chest. He could feel her shaking. “I’m…” Her breathing ragged. “I think I’m scared.”

  He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever been scared?”

  “I’m scared every day. Scared I’ll break my back and have to live forever as a paraplegic. Scared I’ll finally piss Guinan off so much he says, ‘Enough is enough’, and slices my throat open.”

  “This is a different kind of scared. The riots… it’s never reached this point before.”

  “Certainly not this bad,” he agreed. They had become complacent, letting it get more out of hand than previous cycles. “Maybe we’re nearing time.”

  “Time for what?”

  It had been centuries since the last call to order. All of them in the great hall, sat dormant in the dome’s infrastructure now, For how long? Would it still function? They were all responsible, to varying degrees, for the thin veneer that kept them separated from the rest of the city; the people who did their bidding. Cultivated often over decades, some within this layer could be trusted to do their best by ‘the authority’, knowing the rewards at stake, without further motivation or direction. Others needed a more direct influence. When everything was clockwork, as prime movers they weren’t needed, or even felt. It was nearing time to regroup and start moving.

  “Call to order.”

  “Really? It’s been years.”

  He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Call to order,” he nodded, to himself, gazing out towards the darkness beyond the windows. The city lights cast a subtle glow on the underside of the dome, the occasional sparkle like air-holes poked into a box glinting from solarised sections. He fumbled for a remote and removed the false stars, replacing them with TV channels through which he scrolled.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Information gathering.” He settled on a news channel, CentralAir, where a livestream of the 32nd Avenue ablaze in the trenches of the trams played out while a grey-haired, square-jawed superimposed newsreader described the night’s actions.

  Holden

  “The CS gas has dissipated now, and as you can see, the protestors have dispersed. Along the borders, the authority have reduced their numbers to the nightshift. Fires blaze in bins, and under the canopies the protestors gather and sleep. It looks like the action is over for another night, folks, until the morning breaks here on CentralAir. To recap: after altercations in which both sides suffered injuries, and non-fatal use of force was used by the guards armed with sonic-rifles, a manned authority surveillance drone was targeted with an EMP grenade. As Nash Neox engineered to detain the guard, the guard died in the struggle, in what appeared to be an unfortunate accident involving an act of self-defence by Nash. In retaliation, CS gas explosives were then deployed in and around the so-called safe areas, meaning many of the protestors had to retreat within the towers or risk long-term health damage. This is Holden MacNeil for CentralAir on the waves.”

  He signed off, tired, and passed the airwaves to Jojo before stepping away from the desk. His eyes felt heavy, red, not surprising considering the intensity of the studio lights.

  They’ll try and blind you, use any tactic of distraction possible, his mother reminded him. Dead thirteen years now, but she was always there, helping to guide his path. If she could see him now – fuck, if she could see the city now – she’d cry. Her worst fears come true. It wasn’t the authority that she had railed against with her words of foreshadowing – not specifically – for the balance had been stable back then. Though in a controlled state. It had been life, and all the obstacles that could tear you down. If you want something bad enough, how do you think you get it?

  “No mercy, no pity.”

  He turned into the staff room where Bryn Ulner and Oli Smith were sat, dining a la carte from the vending machine. Torn chocolate wrappers splayed across the table. The smell was the smell of a hard day’s work, multiplied, since the cleaner only came in once a week, and was due in the morning. Unwashed plates and utensils stacked up in the sink. Mugs with lipstick on the rims sat piled like a tower of cards on the sideboard. Overhead, the light compensated the intense studio lights by being dimmer. There was always someone finding it difficult not to drift off to some dreamscape, sans the link, of course. “Hey.” He sat on the soft sofa lining one wall, opposite a bank of holo-screens.

  “Tough night,” said Oli. He was tall and lanky with a coarse black beard beneath round bottle-top glasses, and enjoyed wearing sporting trainers with jeans, shirts and dinner jackets. He was from one of the black neighbourhoods, originally, having moved out to the low district to find himself. And to find others like him. Not many people in Neon wore glasses, since corrective surgery was so easy it could be done in the local augmentation shop, and when asked once why he still wore them, he replied; “This is me.”

  “We were just saying,” said Bryn. “Nash is a right fucking pain in the ass. What was she thinking?” He chewed as he spoke, strands of caramel visible. With mid-length brown hair tossed over his forehead, and a crooked nose, he reminded Holden of a stray dog you might find wandering the alleys of CentralAir’s office building. They were lucky to have him, though – his editing skills were exemplary.

  Holden sighed. “She’s unpredictable.” She reminds me of my mother, in so many ways.

  “Yeah, no shit. Someone needs to rein her in before she goes too far.”

  “Any further,” added Oli. “Before she goes any further. If she keeps provoking them like that, they’ll just snap.”

  “Anyone got a direct line?” asked Holden. After the ensuing silence, he said, “Didn’t think so. We just gotta keep on top of it. And not just Nash’s offensive; all of them. Alexander on 60th, Juno on 21st. It’s not just the big fights but the small ones too. Until it’s on people’s doorsteps, they take no notice. As soon as those fires and those red-and-blue lights are reflecting through their windows; that’s when we need to be on top. Bryn; great editing tonight, and so quick. Seriously. Our edit was out there before the NCX adjustment.”

  “They didn’t need to edit,” said Bryn.

  “Interestingly, or not, I don’t know. Cleverly? They turned the guard into a civilian. It’s a total curveball. The anti-protestors will eat it up, but I can’t see it getting traction among anyone with half a brain-cell.”

  Oli stood to boil the kettle. “Our edit went out to twelve further broadcast studios. The genuine one, as of last check, is on just under fifty percent of the news stations. NCTruth has all three broadcasts and is trying to pick them apart for verification. Both our arch-enemy and ourselves have put out falsely watermarked versions of the genuine recording to cast doubt. To add to the confusion. While our own edits are without watermarks, of course. Coffee, anyone?”

  “Not for me,” said Holden. “I am done. I am getting out of here. Excellent work, though. Sometimes I wonder if you’re human at all. Then I look at you both and realise your disguises are little too on the nose.”

  Bryn stretc
hed out his bare, right arm, the veins along it thick and green. “It boils down to who is willing to go the extra mile. I may die before I’m thirty five, but so long as we put a stop to these bastards for the next generation, it will be worth it.” He tensed his fingers as though squeezing a tennis ball; in… and out… the Stim vial in his arm, and empty.

  “If you need a break, you should take one.”

  “I fucking live for it, man. Not going down without a fight.”

  “None of us,” added Oli.

  “No mercy, no pity,” said Holden as he left them and their bravado. There were some among their ranks who were on their side, who sympathised with the movement and worked nine-to-five to help accomplish their goals. But come five-oh-five they were back in the link, catching up with friends and shows and the latest basketball scores and living their real lives. To others, the movement was all there was, from breakfast to breakfast. Oli and Bryn were two such patriots, and had earned his respect.

  Nash’s actions tonight had annoyed him just as much as them. There really had been no need for it; he knew she was temperamental and had suffered directly from the authority in the past. The piece she had done with them two months ago was heartbreaking, hearing how her son had been mowed down. She claimed there were others like her son, working for the other side but afraid for their lives should they turn coats – her ongoing plea was to those guards and soldiers specifically; to anyone on the other side of the barrier who carried any weight. The difficulty was getting her message to them.

  Slitting open a soldier’s neck was not going to help in that regard.

  He stepped out into the middle of the night, the towers just far enough away to be obstructed by the variety of flat- or pitched-roof buildings that made the low district unique. Windows stared darkly; some inhabitants asleep while other rooms and apartments sat vacant, waiting for the inhabitant to return from the ‘front line’. The street was quiet, but not empty; shadows passed beneath dull lights. There was always somewhere open, somewhere to go. The rhythm of the dome never clicked with some people, like himself; day and night just different shades of darkness, and it was worse, of course, down central with concrete walls boxing you in. At least here in the low district he could see the vibrant Agridome, even touch its walls and almost smell the humidity and moss and thick greenery visible on the other side. A little imagination, and he could believe they lived on the edge of a jungle; one a thousand times more tangible than anything the link conjured up. The edge of Neon stood steadfast and vast but black, curving lights accentuating its colossal size as they twinkled to near obsoletion near the ring.

  “To be free – to know freedom – you first need to realise you have been imprisoned your entire life. Only then can you smash your way to freedom.” He remembered his mother saying that once, and not really understanding what she meant. Now he kept coming back to that word – smash. Why were so many of the women in his life so aggressive? So righteous? He hoped the movement could find an alternative to smash.

  He dived left, off the street, through an innocuous wooden doorway with an arch lined by a single, purple neon bar. The light continued down the steps, trailing the banister to his right and finally illuminating the doorway at the bottom. He pushed on the heavy door and the smells of the room pushed back; smoking barbecue, condiments, sweat and perhaps a few tears. A DJ in the far end ruled over a quarter-full dancefloor, lights and lasers slicing flailing silhouettes in half. The music travelled to this end as tremors, pleasant aftershocks through the legs, electro in the ears. There was always somewhere to go, and this was always somewhere to be. It helped that Alannah kept a shift here.

  She waved from the barside and began pouring him a drink, an erstwhile nightcap cocktail of Synesty, vermouth and grenadine. She called it The Holden. He sat on his usual barstool, very rarely pre-taken, and smiled as she put the drink in front of him. She leaned across the bar and they kissed, straight Synesty on her breath.

  As she was about to pull away, he pressed a hand to the back of her head and pressed her more tightly to his lips; just a few seconds extra to rebalance. To feel reconnected.

  “Everything okay?”

  “It is now.”

  “You’re awfully clichéd for a newsreader.” Allanah cocked her head, letting her brown hair fall across the top of her shoulder, and smiled, giving his hand a squeeze at the same time.

  “The hardest part of the job is hiding the fact that we jump from cliché to cliché while trying to make everything sound brand new.” He put on a fake, mocking accent. “Like, this has never happened before in the entire history of Neon. I think people are beginning to catch on.”

  “Well, I don’t care what you have to say. I could just close my eyes and listen to you all day.”

  “Poor you.” He downed his drink.

  “What did I miss?”

  “Nash killed a soldier. She could have taken him hostage, but I guess that was too much trouble.”

  “That’ll go down well. Sorry, I’ll be back.” Along the bar, a queue had risen. She began pouring drinks while he sat and wished he had taken his time with his. The day’s instincts kicked in and he looked up to find a holo-display for the latest news – a natural impulse for whenever there was a floating half-minute to waste – and then he remembered why he liked this place so much. There were no displays. Nothing but the music, food, drink and a comfortable chair. He swivelled round, looking for friendly faces. Mauri was on the dancefloor, his distinctive slow-waving actions like something from a dream, his augmented legs fixed in place. There were uncanny faces sat around the tables, and others he knew from local businesses that kept nightshifts. He looked again for Uldous, and again was disappointed. Ever since the incident his face hadn’t been seen again, no matter the channels and old acquaintances Holden sought. He still found it difficult to believe the video footage of Uldous careening a stolen authority drone into the ring, as though playing a one-sided game of chicken. They’d processed every frame of it for tampering though, and everything indicated that it was genuine. Where was he now? The authority still had him listed as ‘wanted’ but it could be a double-bluff. So he always made sure to check the shadows. He wanted to thank him for the file he’d received. If not for Uldous, none of this would be happening.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Alannah. “I’m back. I don’t have long left now – soon we can go home. I don’t mind if you want to head off early?”

  “No, I’ll wait. I don’t want you walking home alone.”

  “All the louts are at the border.”

  “You never know.” This was bullshit, of course – night or day and the likelihood of trouble was slim. Still, it was ‘the right thing to do’ as his mother would say. And he liked it here. He liked being with Alannah. “Have you made an appointment yet?”

  “No. I keep putting it off. I don’t want to be one of the ones, you know.”

  “Chances are high, though, you know that. Better to know than not.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. At the moment, I feel normal. It’s alright for you, you haven’t been tampered with. Would you want to take a test to find out if you’ve been violated?”

  He reached a hand over the bar. “I’m sorry, take all the time you need.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Every day I don’t do it, it just becomes this growing… thing… just sitting there, watching me. Waiting for me. Getting bigger and bigger.” She grabbed his hand back and squeezed.

  “You’re the gentlest person I know. I’ve never seen you get angry over anything else.”

  “It’s injustice. Our biological imperative destroyed. Why wouldn’t we be angry? Another drink?”

  “Please.”

  She poured another drink while the music switched gears, a heavier bass thumping up Holden’s barstool. He considered the fine line he had to tread; his anger and Alannah’s anger born from the same bloody pool, in different shades of red. In black-and-white the outcomes
were the same for them both – for the entire city – no children. Under the spotlight the blacks and whites grew starker: physically, the men were the same as always, but women had been altered to be less than their whole, and each woman felt it differently. A whole generation of men were suddenly subordinate in some eyes, and crumbling under the pressure. On the other hand; violent crime was on the rise, particularly sexual violence – almost every day he had to report on a deviant offender being caught or killed by the local constabularies. A combination of over-compensating, the lack of pregnancy risk, and a general feeling that the city was coming to an end all playing their part in the masculine mindset.

  He downed the drink in one go again without thinking.

  “Whoa, cowboy, take your time with those. May as well take straight Syn if you’re not going to enjoy them.”

  “Sorry. Another?”

  “Could you make that two?” said a stranger seating himself to Holden’s left.

  Alannah put an extra glass down before them. “Holden here has a special mix – you prefer it straight, yeah?”

  “Special mix sounds good.” The man rubbed his forehead and scratched at two-day old shadow. “Whatever works, you know.”

  “Alright, then.”

  “I’m Rylan.” He offered his hand, and Holden accepted, spying Rylan’s thick forearms and expecting a firm grip. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Have we met?” asked Holden.

  “There you go, boys. I’ll leave you to it.” Alannah stepped out from the bar to collect glasses.

  “Not bad,” said Rylan, sipping from his drink. “So this is what you finish a hard day’s work in the studio with?”

  Ah, sometimes I forget I have a public persona. He nodded. “Most nights. You a regular viewer?”

  “More of an occasional viewer. I usually prefer my news honest, though.”