The Lancaster Rule - The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. I

by T. K. Toppin

  Well, not the gardens, at least, if one chose to ignore the automated gardener. It was a complete, multi-tasking unit that mowed the lawns, clipped the hedges, fertilized the beds—from its orifice located, yes, at its backside—and watered from an extendable arm with its “tail” connected to one of the numerous water outlets dotted around the property. And finally, it scooped up all tree refuse and clippings, churned them up in an internal chipping machine and spewed them out into the garden beds. A previous incarnation, I was told, had had a mechanically bland face of a middle-aged man, complete with cap and overalls, but it didn’t have the fertilizing functions this new, conical shaped, non-human-form machine did. Lorcan said they named it Mr. Bradshaw, like its predecessor and predecessor before that, a tribute to the real Mr. Bradshaw who once tended the lawns when Lorcan was just a young boy.

  “Whatever,” I huffed out eventually. My mind had wandered so far away from maps and GPSs that exasperation crawled in. I was never going to assimilate to this new world. Let’s face it; I was an ignorant twenty-first century dropout. And sometimes Max just made me feel even more stupid.

  Flustered and confused, we then spent most of the day talking about phrases and names of things that still either remained the same or had changed. Max was particularly reactive when, in surprise, I said a very emphatic “fuck” to a comment he’d made. His face reddened, but not before giving me a severe look mixed with a certain amount of awe. He explained that not many individuals used expletives in such a manner as I did; this having come about during the first Lancaster regime where such invectives were stamped out and considered improper and…vile. And after an entire generation or two of not cussing, most people now spoke quite differently. This brought up a whole slew of conversation topics, which we covered over glasses of juice and snacks. I tried my best to refrain from any more vulgar remarks. It was difficult, since Max opened up an entirely new vista that the Aguilars either didn’t know about or had chosen not to tell me. Plus, the Aguilars hadn’t seemed to mind me cussing. That much.

  Aside from not swearing so profusely—I’m still not convinced people refrain from cursing entirely; I mean, even the most civilized person must’ve exclaimed, “Oh shit,” at least once in their life—there were new laws as well.

  Max and I talked briefly about a homemaker’s law for professional parents who were paid a salary. But Max showed no interest in the topic and grew silent. He did, however, grit his teeth and inform me that before the first Lancaster regime, it was standard practice for professional parents to be paid and receive full benefits. But Dane Lancaster had all but obliterated that law during his rule, deeming it too progressive and generating laziness in people—everyone had to work for home and country. Decades later, the law had only just come back into effect.

  Health checks and immunization programs for all individuals were now mandatory. It started at the pre-natal stage and carried on however long you lived. Because of this, the average life expectancy of a person now was about a hundred and five. Of course, during the years of Lancaster the first, the mortality rate was quite high and most didn’t live past sixty. A century ago, before the wars, medical advances had made people live until about a hundred and twenty.

  “The Lancasters sound like a charming bunch,” I commented lightly. With no emotions invested in these rulers, I couldn’t even visualize what oppression meant. In my day of plenty, oppression was running out of dishwashing cubes and resorting to washing by hand. A stupid, shameful analogy, but true.

  “They’re tyrants,” Max snapped with anger. “Dictators.”

  Surprised to see such unchecked emotion, I jerked my head toward him. “I’m sorry. I get you don’t like them, especially after what happened to your grandmother.”

  He twitched up a shoulder and looked away. “The day will come when the Lancasters are no more.”

  I nodded, knowing how the rise and fall of rulers and nations pitched and heaved throughout the course of time. How once great nations ruled, only to be crumbled to the ground in the wake of another rising. Such was history. Such was life. And in the three hundred years I’d been sleeping, a great deal of upheaval had happened.

  “So. What else, change-wise?” I prompted cheerily, trying to change the subject. Max appeared to have fallen into a sullen mood.

  Our conversation shifted to the gaming world, and all the fully interactive games and scenarios for individual use or for the masses. This, at least, was familiar to me, since it had been mainstream in my time. But the games were now too vivid and too realistic, so much so that people were known to suffer from varying disorders, ranging from real to imaginary ones. As if these mental disorders weren’t bad enough, many suffered from physical disorders like blindness and deafness, caused by the constant use of the helmet gear. Heart failure from the sheer excitement factor, kidney disorders from not urinating often enough while in game-mode, even death brought on by starvation from forgetting to eat or drink.

  Max snorted with derision when he talked about the gaming world and the people it consumed. He struck me as someone who thought virtual games were a waste of time.

  Another topic we touched on was medicine and how it had progressed. While no real cures had been found, the use of cell regeneration and reconstruction techniques, based on stem cell research from my time, had greatly prolonged life as well as staved off or weeded out the genes that caused diseases and viruses. The common cold and forms of influenza were, however, still very much in fashion.

  A topic that piqued my interest was birth control. Female applications were things of the past as well, deemed too hazardous. A male contraceptive had been implemented, taking the form of a sub-dermal “ring” implanted at the base of a man’s penis, which destroyed sperm by way of low electrical charges emitted when it sensed friction. These were removable or could be disabled at any time, surgically or non-surgically, in the event of wanting to start a family or for other reasons. Most men, Max included, were implanted with these as soon as the onset of puberty came, and the device could be maintained regularly via one’s personal units. The Ring, as its called, had been developed about a hundred years prior by a veterinarian who, while holding a cattle prod, accidentally tripped and electrocuted the testicles of a prized and virile servicing bull—which happened to be mounting a cow at the time.

  I laughed when Max told me about the vet and his accident. Max appeared very proud of the fact he was being a responsible male, adding that unwanted pregnancies were quite rare now. But it didn’t mean the usual sexual diseases were no longer around. You still had to take care in exercising precaution and common sense.

  Many of the old taboos and discriminations were either forgotten or accepted, Max then informed me. For instance, he explained, same-sex relationships and marriages were now commonplace. No one lifted a discriminating brow at the thought. Even the staunch Lancaster regime didn’t seem perturbed by it. Intrigued, I pushed him on and commented light-heartedly about the butcher who delivered meat to the Wellesley’s. To me, by all appearances, the butcher was very manly, but he always gave Max a doleful stare. Max elaborated, stating that a few of his friends, who he assured me were Alternative—that being the acceptable term for homosexual now—were among those he considered closest. This made me wonder whether, just maybe, he had a tendency to lean toward his own sex.

  It didn’t surprise me. In fact, I was glad how the world had progressed. Growing up around the arts—and later, when pursuing a career as an artist—I had been surrounded by numerous gay men and women, many of whom I’d considered close friends. Two of them married happily, and one had just become engaged. The thought pulled at my heart.

  Long-married, and long-gone.

  I brushed the thought away, but that only allowed another in, of my mother and her interior decorating business; and her business partner, Marta.

  Marta was a brilliant designer, with such a fantastic imagination and ideas that clients sought her out. She was also the most outrageous transgendere
d person I knew. I’d known her all my life, before, as Mark, and after her transformation. And shit, I missed her. If it wasn’t for Marta, I may have ended up a scientist instead of an artist.

  With the image and spirit of Marta in mind, I boldly asked, “Are you Alternative, then?”

  Max glanced at me quickly, then stared hard at his hands. A slow smile formed on his lips, and he looked back at me. “No.”

  I chose not to reply too quickly. The way he said it led me to wonder. He wore an odd expression on his face, somewhere between derisive scorn and disappointment. Maybe, for all his talk, he wasn’t as open-minded as he said he was.

  He shifted, rolled his shoulders. His jaw clenched before he spoke quietly. “I mean, definitely, no.”

  “You don’t sound too convinced.”

  “I like girls—love them. There’s this person I know, I mean…I’ve never, with them, you know…”

  I smiled back, and gave him a friendly nudge on the arm. “I’m only teasing.”

  He drew his brows together, and in turn I averted my eyes, my cheeks warming. Why did I choose to start this line of conversation? The sudden image of Max’s pale naked body with another man prompted me to clench my teeth to prevent a bubbling laugh from erupting. He very well might be gay, and uncertain of himself, but I was shamefully still thinking like a twenty-first-century bigot. It was none of my business, anyway.

  Clearing my throat, I tried to sound like a grown-up. “You’ll know, when it’s time.”

  Damn it, I was grown!

  The thought made me realize that these last few months, I’d been regressing to childhood. I was shamefully dependent on those around me. I needed their help for everything, from eating to basic living, survival, and comfort. It had to change, and soon, or else I wouldn’t know how to live in this new world. I had to start learning things, and fast! It shamed me to realize how much Madge had tried to teach me, and now I was back to where I started out. Dependent.

  Quin had warned me of the dangers of telling people who I was and my real age. Lorcan and Max knew everything about me already, and in a way I was grateful they did, since they sheltered me from the world at large. Quin had said, and Lorcan agreed, that not only would there be pandemonium and extreme interest in me, but the entire scientific community and government would come swarming down on me with questions, probes, and tests and whatever else. And, most essentially, the public interest and the media circus that would certainly follow would make it utterly unbearable. Press-frenzy from my time was nothing compared to what they had now. It gave “intrusive” an entirely new meaning. It was best if I remained an anonymous pod-survivor of, say, a mere twenty years.

  I had no official papers to my name. All traces of any records of my birth were long gone, vanished. All known electronic data from my time were either sketchy or non-existent; the economic crash two centuries ago had been pretty much worldwide, and the numerous civil and urban wars that followed didn’t help matters. The economic wars, which lasted a good twenty years, split the world apart. Keeping track of a nobody like me, and millions of other nobodys, just didn’t matter. I didn’t exist, save in flesh.

  Lorcan informed me he’d take the necessary steps to create my new identity. He knew some people who handled things of that nature. However, with the recent mysterious deaths of suspected fanatics and the disappearance of the famous Quin and Madge Aguilar blaring across the news, he suggested, with tongue-in-cheek, that we wait just a little while longer.

  Aside from my lack of identity, I was completely ignorant of the world around me. History lessons, social skills, and general knowledge skills were all useless unless they went into practice. Everything now required a personalized password, or even a DNA sample, to use or unlock. And if I had no identity, my DNA would be useless, and also raise a gazillion red flags. People were so paranoid about security and personal safety that even their kitchen equipment was coded. I couldn’t even get the coffee machine to work, let alone find it amid the array of sophisticated kitchen utensils and appliances that graced Lorcan’s home. Thankfully, there was Mrs. Patel, the Wellesleys’ fussy, and yes, human, cook.

  Mrs. Patel was a sixth-generation East Indian; a short, stout woman of about fifty, she belied her genetic make-up with a coarse, broad inner-city London accent. She had a vague idea of who I was, but didn’t ask for any details. Instead, she filled my stomach daily with numerous delicacies from buttermilk pancakes to traditional East Indian curries. I was in heaven. She tried, every day, to teach me how to use basic appliances. If one could even find buttons or controls in the first place, that would’ve made things extremely easy, but most seemed to operate from voice commands. And even though the password to engage them was the same throughout the house, I repeatedly forgot to voice it. That alone locked me out of most things, and after three tries, the appliances wailed in warning. Whether I was blissfully ignorant or just couldn’t shake the fug in my head, I failed miserably to remember the password or to use it. Also, it’s not that I couldn’t use the appliances when I did get the password right, but it would’ve help greatly if I actually knew how to cook to make proper use of said appliances. I had grown up in a world full of conveniences, and rarely had I cooked my own meals. Not when the corner store held frozen delicacies, or my street was filled with restaurants and cafés.

  My time with the Wellesleys was like time spent in a surreal, idyllic paradise. I gained weight at last, my appearance bloomed, and I grew to care for both Lorcan and Max with an affection that surprised me. Max was like a special brother to me, my best friend in whom I could confide.

  Lorcan was the solid center of gravity that I found comforting and secure. It’s no wonder I looked forward to the evenings, when he’d always try to make a point of being home for dinner, sharing a meal with myself and sometimes Max. We’d sit for hours just talking or laughing, sometimes with him consoling me, draping a reassuring arm around my shoulders. I could almost sense the tightness that wound its suffocating clutches around my heart easing away. My painful memories and ordeals were slowly being dulled by the constancy of having a newfound friendship and understanding. I no longer felt like some prehistoric relic walking among the living like a clumsy, bumbling ignoramus. I felt alive again. And I wanted very much to start partaking in this new world. I needed to be a part of it, but I didn’t know where to start.

  I broached the subject with Lorcan a few times. When could I go out and see more of the world? Could I go with him into the city? Could I learn to drive? These, along with a multitude of other questions and ideas, were deftly, and very firmly, turned down. He claimed I wasn’t quite ready to do such things or be seen in public. People were still very skeptical and cynical toward pod-survivors. We were still considered outcasts, cowards. I argued my point, but he was firm, saying that the main concern now was becoming stronger, healthier, and remaining safe. But he promised me, repeatedly, that once the time was right, he’d personally see to it I got to do whatever I wanted to do.

  Just not right now.

  Chapter 10

  Lorcan smiled as he pocketed the small, shiny pendant. It hung from a chain of platinum links that looked more like silver thread. Delicate, yet sturdy. Like Josie. She would like this very much. The thought sent a warm sensation through him, knowing he could make her smile. More so, that he knew her well enough to know this. She needed it too.

  Three months had passed since he’d found her cowering in that hellish white room covered in all that blood. Three months, and barely a shadow of that frightened girl remained. That was a good sign. If only he could erase the haunted look she carried with her. To see it tore his heart. She’d stare off sometimes into a world only she saw, and those disarming eyes, those emerald orbs, dulled and blanked by what could only be unbearable pain and grief. He wished he could hold her close, absorb all the hurt and take it away. Cast it far away.

  He didn’t like to admit it, but a certain attraction pulled at him. It shocked him—angered him—to feel this wa
y. His heart belonged to Carmen. He’d made a promise. There would only ever be Carmen. But Josie tugged at his heart with such a fierce intensity. Not a day passed where he didn’t think of her. Going home was his favorite part of the day; he longed for it, and his traitorous heart raced with anticipation. It was the reason he worked more and more from home. He worried constantly for her. It was distracting and dangerous.

  For her.

  She must never find out what I really do. If she knew, what would she think?

  Lorcan forced the thought away, like he had many times before, and loitered on the terrace, waiting for Josie to return from the kitchen. Inhaling deeply, he took in the thick scents of mixed flowers and freshly cut grass. It was a fine summer evening, made more so by Mrs. Patel’s excellent roasted chicken with herbs, scalloped potatoes, and garden salad. And Max. They had all laughed and talked as they enjoyed their meal. It had been a long time since he’d heard his son laugh like that.

  Life was good. Lorcan rocked on his heels as he gazed at the sky. The evening, still light with a warm, auburn glow, made the burnished sky appear magnificently grand with shades of purple, orange, red and lilac, all mingled and marbled together, waiting for the coming darkness.

  At a soft shuffle, Lorcan turned. Josie padded out wearing Max’s hand-me-down clothes. The trousers, too loose, hung low on her hips, and an oversized T-shirt billowed gently with her stride. She carried two glasses of red wine, one glass not quite full; hers, as she didn’t want to upset her fragile stomach. Poor girl. Lorcan knew how much she loved food, yet couldn’t partake in most of the delicacies.