Manhattan in Reverse

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Bethany Maria Caesar stiffened as she realized there was to be no escape this time. No window with a convenient creeper down which to climb. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘What do you think my punishment should be? Am I to hang from the gallows until I’m dead.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ Neill Heller Caesar told her. ‘Edward and I have come to an agreement which allows us to resolve this satisfactorily.’

  ‘Of course you have,’ she muttered.

  ‘You took Justin’s life away from him,’ I said. ‘We can produce a physical clone of him from the samples we kept. But that still won’t be him. His personality, his uniqueness is lost to us forever. When you’re dealing with a potentially immortal being there could be no crime worse. You have wasted his life and the potential it offered; in return you will be sentenced to exactly that same punishment. The difference is, you will be aware of it.’

  Was that too cruel of me? Possibly. But then consider this: I once knew a man who knew a man who had seen the Empire’s legionaries enforcing Rome’s rule at the tip of a sword. None of us is as far removed from barbarism as we like to think.

  SEVEN

  LIFE TIME

  Bethany Maria Caesar was taken from the Eta Carinae habitat on our deepflight ship. We disembarked her on a similar habitat in Jupiter orbit which the Caesars had resource funded. She is its sole inhabitant. None of its biononics will respond to her instructions. The medical modules in her body will continue to reset her DNA. She will never age nor succumb to disease. In order to eat, she must catch or grow her own food. Her clothes have to be sewn or knitted by herself. Her house must be built from local materials, which are subject to entropy hastened by climate, requiring considerable maintenance. Such physical activities occupy a great deal of her time. If she wishes to continue living she must deny herself the luxury of devoting her superb mind to pure and abstract thoughts. However, she is able to see the new and wondrous shapes which slide fluidly past her region of space, and know her loss.

  Her case is one of the oldest to remain active within our family thoughtcluster. One day, when I’ve matured and mellowed, and the Borgias have left the Vatican, I may access it again.

  Footvote

  I Bradley Ethan Murray pledge that starting from this day the First of January 2010, and extending for a period of two years, I will hold open a wormhole to the planet New Suffolk in order that all decent people from this United Kingdom can freely travel through to build themselves a new life on a fresh world. I do this in the sad knowledge that our old country’s leaders and institutions have failed us completely.

  Those who seek release from the oppression and terminal malaise which now afflict the United Kingdom are welcome to do so under the following strictures.

  1) With citizenship comes responsibility.

  2) The monoculture of New Suffolk will be derived from current English ethnicity.

  3) Government will be a democratic republic.

  4) It is the job of Government to provide the following statutory services to the citizenship to be paid for through taxation.

  a) The enforcement of Law and Order; consisting of a police force and independent judiciary. All citizens have the right to trial by jury for major crimes.

  b) A socialized health service delivered equally to all. No private hospitals or medical clinics will be permitted, with the exception of ‘vanity’ medicine.

  c) Universal education, to be provided from primary to higher levels. No private schools are permitted. Parents of primary and secondary school pupils are to be given a majority stake in governorship of the school, including its finances. All citizens have the right to be educated to their highest capability.

  d) Provision and maintenance of a basic civil infrastructure, including road, rail, and domestic utilities.

  5) It is not the job of Government to interfere with, and over-regulate the life of the individual citizen. Providing they do no harm to others or the state, citizens are free to do and say whatever they wish.

  6) Citizens do not have the right to own or use weapons.

  JANNETTE

  It was the day Gordon Brown was due to appear before the Iraq Enquiry again. He’d been called back because of discrepancies in his previous evidence. Opposition politicians (those we still had left) interviewed on Radio Four’s Today programme were full of eager anticipation, taunting their opponent to come out and face allegations about military funding deficits full on, confident he would screw up. Over in Brussels, the EU Commission was drawing up plans to send in teams of German and French engineers to take over critical shutdown procedures in UK nuclear reactors from our rapidly declining numbers of power station technicians. While in Russia, NovGaz was talking about payment in advance for supplying us with gas this winter. And I’d forgotten to buy Frosties for Steve.

  ‘Not muesli again!’ he spat with the true contempt which only seven-year-olds can muster. If only the Civil Service union leadership had that kind of determination when facing the latest round of abysmal Treasury budget cuts to compensate for the ‘migration situation’.

  ‘It’s good for you,’ I said without engaging my brain. After seven years you’d think I’d know not to make that kind of tactical error with my own son.

  ‘Mum! It’s just dried pigeon crap,’ he jeered as I stopped pouring it into the bowl. Olivia, his little sister, started to giggle at the use of the NN word. At least she was spooning up her organic yogurt without a fuss. ‘Not nice, not nice,’ she chanted.

  ‘What do you want then?’ I asked.

  ‘McDonald’s. Big Cheesy One.’

  ‘No!’ I know he only says it to annoy me, but the reflex is too strong to resist. And I’m the Bad Mother yet again. Maybe I shouldn’t preach so hard. But then that’s Colin speaking.

  ‘How about toast?’ I pleaded as a compromise.

  ‘Okay.’

  I couldn’t believe it was that easy. But he sat down at the table and waited with a smug look on his face while I put the granary bread in the toaster. God he does so look like Colin these days. Is that why he’s becoming more impossible?

  ‘What’s the prim?’ Olivia asked.

  Today had moved on from sniping at the Prime Minister to cover the demonstration at Stansted.

  ‘Public Responsibility Movement,’ I said. ‘Now please finish your breakfast. Daddy will be here soon.’ He’d better be.

  I put the toast down in front of Steve, and he squirted too much liquid honey over it. I didn’t chide. Both of them were suddenly silent and eating quickly, as if that would speed their father’s arrival.

  I opened the flat’s back door in an attempt to let in some cooler air. Summer was so damn hot and dry this year. Here in Islington the breeze coursed along the baking streets like gusts of desert air. Desert air that had blown across a sewage plant.

  ‘Poooeee,’ Steve said, holding his nose as he munched down more toast. I had to admit the smell which drifted in wasn’t good.

  Olivia crumpled her face up in real dismay. ‘That’s horrid, Mum. What is it?’

  ‘Someone hasn’t tied up their bin bags properly.’ Which was true enough. The pile of bags in the corner of De Beauvoir Square was getting ridiculously big. As more bags were flung on top, so the ones at the bottom split open. The Sky News and News 24 programmes always showed them with comparison footage of the ’79 Winter of Discontent.

  ‘When are they going to clear it?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Once a fortnight.’ Which was optimistic. Mass news media said that nearly ten per cent of the Army had deserted; the remaining political bloggers were putting the figure a lot higher. What was left of our armed forces was now having to provide civic utility assistance squads along with fire service cover, prison guard duties, engineering support to power stations. And a good percentage of the RAF was involved with the rollback from Afghanistan, getting the remaining ground troops out – much to the Americans’ disgust. We’d be lucky if the pile was cleared every month. I’d seen a rat the si
ze of a cat run across the square the other day. I always though rodents that big were just urban legend.

  ‘Why can’t they take rubbish away like they used to?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Not enough people to do that any more, darling.’

  ‘There’s hundreds of people standing round the streets all day,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s scary. I don’t like the park any more.’

  She was right in a way. It wasn’t the lack of people, of course, it was money to pay them to work. The way sterling was collapsing while the rest of the world climbed out of the recession was chilling. What would happen when the true tax revenue figures for the last six months came in was anyone’s guess. Officially, tax received by the Treasury had only fallen by ten per cent since that little shit Murray opened his racist, fascist, arse-holing wormhole. Nobody believed that. But, naturally, the first thing the Treasury had reduced was local government funding, with Brown standing up in Westminster and telling the councils to cut back on wastage. What was left of the opposition parties had rocked with laughter when he said it. Who could blame them? That phrase has been a Central Government mantra for fifty years whoever is in power. It never happens, of course. This time however things are different for all the wrong reasons.

  As a way to finally get the UK to sign on for the Euro, the pound in Zimbabwe-style freefall couldn’t be beaten. We desperately needed a currency that wasn’t so susceptible to our traitors. Except that suddenly, France and Germany were blocking us from joining, saying that Greece and the Mediterranean countries needed to regain their pre-recession economic stability levels first. Bastards.

  For once Colin actually turned up on time. He did his silly little ring tune on the front door, and both kids shot off from the table screeching hellos. Do they do that when I turn up to his place to collect them? I think not.

  He came in to the kitchen wearing a smart new sweatshirt and clean jeans; his curly brown hair neatly trimmed. I hate that old saying that men just get more handsome as they get older. But they do seem to preserve themselves well after thirty. Colin hadn’t put on a pound in the last two years. Well, not since he started jogging and visiting the gym on a regular basis again. I suppose that teenage bimbo he’s shacked up with doesn’t appreciate a sagging beer gut. Damn: why do I always sound like a stereotype bitch?

  Colin scooped Olivia up under one arm and swung her around. ‘Hiya,’ he called out to me. ‘Seen my daughter anywhere?’

  She was shrieking: ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ as she was twirled about.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I mumbled. ‘She’s just eaten.’

  ‘Okey dokey,’ he dropped her to the floor and collected a happy kiss from her.

  ‘Come on then.’ He clapped his hands, hustling them along. ‘Get ready. I’m leaving in five . . . four . . . three . . .’

  They both ran downstairs to collect their bags.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Never better.’ I gave the kitchen table and its mess a weary look, the work surfaces were covered in junk, too; and the sink was a cliché of unwashed pans. ‘How about you, still servicing the rich?’

  His expression hardened, that way it always did when he had to speak slowly and carefully to explain the bleeding obvious to me. ‘I have to work at the BUPA hospital now as well as my NHS practice. It’s the only way I can earn enough money after your lawyer took me to the cleaners in that sexist divorce court of yours.’

  I almost opened my jaw in surprise – I was the one who always made the needling comments. He was Mr Reasonable through everything. ‘Oh fine, sure,’ I said. ‘I thought it would be my fault.’

  He gave one of those smug little victory smiles. They used to annoy the hell out of me as well.

  ‘What time do you want them back tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, in the afternoon. Before six?’

  ‘Okey dokey. No problem.’

  ‘Thanks. Are you taking them anywhere special?’

  ‘The reviews for Splat the Cat have been good. I’ll take them to that this evening if there isn’t another power cut.’

  ‘As long as you don’t take them for burgers.’

  He rolled his eyes.

  I glanced out through the window, seeing his new navy-blue BMW 4x4 parked on the pavement outside. The stupid thing was the size of an Army tank. I couldn’t see anyone sitting in the passenger seat. ‘Is she coming with you today?’

  ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘Zoe.’

  ‘Ah, you remembered her name.’

  ‘I think I read it on her school report.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes, she is coming with us. She took the day off to help out. The kids do like her you know. And if you ever find yourself someone, I won’t kick up about them going out with him.’

  Oh well done Colin, another point scored off your shrew of an ex, especially with that emphasis on ‘ever’. Aren’t you the clever one?

  The kids charged back into the kitchen, hauling their overnight bags along the floor. ‘Ready!’

  ‘Have a lovely time,’ I said, ever gracious.

  Colin’s smile faltered. He hesitated, then leant forward and kissed me on the cheek. Nothing special, not a peace offering, just some platonic gesture I didn’t understand. ‘See you,’ he said.

  I was too surprised to answer. Then the door slammed shut. The kids were gone. The flat was silent.

  I had fifteen minutes to make the bus. I was going on a protest for the first time in years. Making my voice heard, and my feelings known. Doing exactly what Colin despised and ridiculed. God, it felt wonderful.

  33) There will be no prisons. Convicted criminals will spend their sentence in isolated penal colonies, working for the public good.

  34) New Suffolk will use the Imperial system of measurement for length, weight, and volume.

  35) Police are required to uphold the law and curtail anti-social behaviour. Police will not waste their time criminalizing trivial offences.

  36) Citizens are not entitled to unlimited legal funding. Citizens facing prosecution are entitled to have their defence fees paid for by public funding a total of three times during their lifetime. They may select which cases.

  37) The intake of alcohol, nicotine, and other mild narcotics is permitted. Citizens found endangering others when intoxicated, e.g. driving under the influence, will face a minimum sentence of four years in a penal colony.

  38) New Suffolk laws will not be structured to support or encourage any type of compensation culture.

  39) Any lawyer who has brought three failed cases of litigation judged to be frivolous is automatically sentenced to a minimum five years in a penal colony.

  COLIN

  The finance agency’s solicitor was waiting on the doorstep, talking to Zoe, when I drove up in front of the house. I’d met him twice before; he was from Belgium, arrived here a month after the wormhole opened.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Steve asked as I started to manoeuvre the BMW up the gravel, backing it up to the horsebox.

  ‘Bloke from the bank,’ I told him. ‘I’ve just got a few papers to sort out, then we’re off.’ At least the agency didn’t stick a For Sale sign up outside the house. That tended to earn you a brick – or worse – through the window these days.

  Zoe smiled and waved as I stopped just short of the horsebox. ‘Wait in the car for me,’ I told the kids. I didn’t want them to see the empty house. Last night we’d used sleeping bags on the bare carpet. Zipped together. Very romantic.

  The solicitor shook my hand and produced a file of documents for me to sign. He glanced at the kids, who were pressed up against the BMW’s window, but didn’t comment. I guess he’d seen it many times before.

  Zoe opened the garage door, and picked up the first of the boxes stacked on the concrete floor. She carried it over to the rear of the BMW, and put it in the boot.

  The solicitor wanted five signatures from me, and that was it – the house belonged to the agency. A four-bedroom house with garage
and a decent size garden in Enfield along with all the contents, sold for £320,000. Maybe two thirds of what I could have got last year. But that gave me enough to pay off the mortgage, and leave me with £30,000 in equity, which the agency had advanced me. That’s what they specialize in, one of many such businesses to spring up since January. A Franco-Dutch company who sell little bits of England to people who aren’t going to be accepted on the other side of the wormhole. Heaven knows there are enough takers from overseas, mainly India and North Africa, though for the life of me I can’t work out why they’d come here now.

  I’d bought the BMW on finance from the garage. My pension portfolio had been sold to another specialist agency based in Luxembourg – God bless our sneaky EU partners – giving me £25,000. That just left the credit cards. I’d applied for another two; more than that and the monitor programs would spot the new loan pattern. But they’d given me an extra £15,000 to spend over the last month.

  It had all gone into a community partnership I signed up for at www.newsuffolklife.co.uk. Most of the stuff was being shipped out in a convoy, with all the personal items we’d need crammed into the horsebox. The website recommended using them, they could take a lot more weight than a caravan.