by Tim Scott
“Are you? Really? Good for you.” The plume wagged madly on the helmet. “And who taught you to drag a suspect?”
“It’s what we always do.”
“Well, it’s breaking every Health and Safety rule in the book.”
“Oh. Really?”
“You’re both putting an enormous strain on your vertebrae! When you drag a suspect by the heels you must keep a straight back—dorsal spine in. Otherwise, you’ll stress your vertebrae here at T3. What did they teach you at college?”
“There was a lot about mustaches…”
“Almost too much,” said the other cop.
“Forget mustaches!”
The two guys shuffled. “I don’t think we’d be allowed to do that, sir.”
“Don’t let me see you dragging a suspect like that ever again.”
“No, sir.”
“Because if I do, you are both on an H and S report. And I’ll have you doing the Alexander Technique until you’re so bored you might as well be a slug.”
“Sir.”
The two guys picked up my heels again and lugged me to the street, my back scraping over the sidewalk slabs. A huge jam of police drongles were parked up at angles and the whole area had been cordoned off.
“So it hurts using the side-handled baton, but what about when you lift up your riot shield?” A medic was talking to a man in a chair near a tent.
“Yeah, it’s agony.”
“Show me where exactly.” The guy got gingerly to his feet. “I can lift it up to here. But it hurts if I try and go any higher. I can give someone a glancing blow, but I can’t smash them unconscious. That’s why, recently, I’ve been kicking them all in the groin. But I don’t get anything like the same satisfaction. I don’t get into bed at night and think: ‘Yeah, well done, Maurice, a good job done today.’”
And then I was dumped on my back in the middle of the street.
Above, I could see huge birds circling. And across the road, a large Health and Safety sign declared, “Please do not fall over. You could hurt your knee!”
Then a face blotted out the sky and someone loomed over me, reached down to flick my jacket apart. He placed a heavy machine on my chest and forcefully squashed down a handle, collapsing the air from my lungs so I was left coughing. After a minute, when I got my breath back, I leaned forward. I could just see the word arrested printed straight onto my shirt in large red letters, along with the date and a lot of smaller writing.
Another figure with a Handheld Feed Reader bent over me and began talking. He smelled of garlic.
“You are hereby arrested by the New Seattle State Department for being some kind of major pain in the ass,” he said. “You have all the usual goddamn rights—and this does not affect your ability to buy wholesale electrical goods on credit or to apply to be a foreign national of the following countries.” He consulted a list. “Belgium, China, and the Cayman Islands.” Then he called to someone: “Get some cuffs and a collar on this guy, then get someone to bag him and track him out ASAP. Book him and hook him!”
I was rolled over, and my hands were cuffed behind my back. Then my legs were stuffed into a red sack and I was hauled to my feet so the sack could be pulled up to my neck. Someone across the street shouted: “This response squad has a target in ten minutes. Ten minutes, people. So let’s get this show moving like a cow with a hot ass!”
A cop began winding me up in yards of heavy chain.
“I’ve breathed in too much smoke,” he said, coughing. “You want to know why they use that? It’s because of the marketing department. They want us to build up a brand. And when people see little plumes of red smoke all over the city, it gives our brand a boost. But they don’t understand that it gets everywhere. Gets under your nails. Look! You see? My nails have been red for six months now. And my eyebrows. You see my eyebrows?”
“Hey, where are the free doughnuts?” someone called. “Free doughnuts when we’re on a top-priority sting!” But whoever was asking was just met by a chorus of jeers. I looked across and saw them dragging Nena out.
“And you know our helmets?” The guy was still wrapping the heavy chain around me. “Health and Safety has gotten hold of a film of a cat sneezing and they’re playing it on a random time loop for us on the heads-up display. It’s supposed to make us all relaxed. You know, so we’re not stressed. And it’s a funny film. I laugh every time I see it, but it’s a pain in the ass to have a cat suddenly sneezing in your line of fire.”
“What’ll happen to us?” I said.
“Head hack and mind wipe, I guess.”
“A mind wipe?”
“They’ll destroy your memories from the last day as a precaution.”
“But they can’t. That’s illegal.”
“Illegal? The twenty-four-hour wipe was instituted three months ago.”
He clipped a massive rusting hook to the end of the chain by my neck and left. I fought desperately to think of a way out of this but I got nowhere.
Then Nena was brought across.
“Stay safe for Mother New Seattle,” said a cop, slapping Nena on the shoulder and leaving us both standing there in sacks, wound up in enough chain to anchor a battleship.
“Lean over and kiss me,” I whispered, urgently.
“What?”
“I need a bobby pin from your hair. Kiss me.”
She looked at me, then tilted her head to one side and leaned across. I felt the soft touch of her warm skin and the smell of her perfume. It was supposed to be a casual gesture, a cover. But the sensation ran through me like a spear, and for a moment I felt myself reconnected to feelings that I had not experienced in years. I almost forgot the reason for the kiss. And then I brushed her on the forehead with my cheek and finally pulled one of the bobby pins from her hair with my teeth.
When the cops saw what was happening they began shouting, but as they moved us apart, I deliberately fell, using the moment to work my hands to the top of the sack and spit the bobby pin into my fingers.
They dragged me to my feet. “You get it?” Nena said, looking shaken.
“Yeah.”
“You took your time,” she added, but I could see the confusion lingering in her eyes.
chapter
THIRTY-EIGHT
When I was a cop, we had competitions to see who could get out of a set of cuffs the quickest using a bobby pin. It’s not hard—just bend the end of the pin and insert it in the lock to release the ratchet.
It was harder if the cuffs were double locked, but these weren’t. Back then, I could do it blindfolded in under thirty seconds. I opened out the bobby pin and bent one end between my fingers so that I had a little hook. Then I felt around, trying to find the keyhole on the left cuff.
All around, the detail was packing up and generally shouting at one another. The arc lights began retracting with a hydraulic shriek, as a cluster of the police drongles scuttled away in clouds of dust.
Another cop was dragging out the ripped remains of the banner from the bar. It was stained with red rivulets.
Finally, I felt the bent end of the pin drop into the keyhole, but either the thing was stiff or I had lost my touch, because the ratchet wouldn’t budge.
“Hey! What are they still doing here?” Another cop with a Handheld Feed Reader was pointing in my direction. “Will someone please track those two? We’ve another target in ten. So let’s move, people. Move!”
Rain began to fall in a sheet as members of the Security Detail walked over, clapped hold of the huge steel hook that had been clipped onto the chain, and dragged me backward across the alley. Two other cops were doing the same with Nena. I felt a twist in my neck. Finally they hauled me to my feet again by a metal door. It had “New Seattle Police Department Prisoner Rapid Removal—Hookup 473” stamped across in huge yellow letters.
One of the cops plugged a feed from the door into the back of his neck, and after a moment it identified him. Lights blinked, and it opened.
They dragged Nen
a inside the tunnel first. I couldn’t see what was happening, but a minute later it was my turn. They hauled me into the tunnel, grabbed me around the waist, lifted me up, and slotted the huge hook into a catch above my head. Then they left me swinging there next to Nena. I was dripping wet.
The taller of the two cops wiped his face. “Have a nice trip,” he said.
“I hear the wine list is fucking excellent,” I said.
They grunted, unsure how to take that, then shuffled out and eased the door closed.
It was utterly dark.
We swung gently, tightly chained inside a sack with just our heads free.
“Can you get out of the cuffs?” called Nena, and her voice echoed around the tube. My eyes began to adjust and I saw the bulk of her outline.
“I used to be able to do it,” I said. Then I heard a creaking whirr of machinery, and she was abruptly swung forward. Above my head, a track of clacking teeth, thick with oil, rang with an undulating tremor and clang.
“Listen!” she cried as she was hauled away along the track. “There’s a conspiracy in the city and the police are involved up to their eyeballs.”
“What?” I shouted above the rising din as she swung farther away.
“Get that small fridge somewhere safe if you get out of here. Promise me!”
“The fridge? What’s so special about the fridge?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just promise me. And don’t look inside, okay?”
And then I lost sight of her as she was dragged into the darkness.
A screen flashed into life a little way ahead, casting a swath of flickering light over the metal walls, and I saw the tube we were in was huge.
“Hi, I’m Dan Cicero, mayor of New Seattle. You might have heard of me,” said the thin voice, reverberating with a sad, damp echo in the shabby gloom. “People call me the Mayor of Safety. Thank you for being arrested today. We have a zero-tolerance policy on danger in this city and, by getting caught, you’re helping us make this city a safer place. New Seattle Health and Safety is the finest in the world. And a strong Health and Safety Department means a strong city.”
“New Seattle Health and Safety,” sang a close-harmony group as I was yanked along the track toward the screen. “Stay safe! Watch out! Stay safe! Watch out for that—” Then there was the drawn-out sound of a long, tortuous crash.
The mayor’s face returned.
“And remember, please don’t die for no reason. I mean, what’s the point? Right?”
His eyebrows froze as the screen crashed and the words ran cold through my mind again. Why was this city tormenting me with this inane slogan?
“Sometimes people just do, all right?” I shouted at his picture, and my words echoed around the tube. “Sometimes they just do!”
Then it was my turn to be yanked along the track. The damp darkness seemed to seep into my bones, as though this was some abattoir of the soul. Rats were scampering about on the floor below, confused by the noise and my swinging bulk.
I fiddled the bobby pin into the keyhole and tried again to flick the ratchet release, but it was so stiff. Ahead, a slant of sunlight daggered through a grill above my head, and a much louder roar began to drown out the noise from this tube.
I was pulled to a hesitant halt and my legs swung madly. Above me, the machinery stuttered and scraped as though it were having a mad fit. Then, with a splitting squeal, the hook above me switched onto a new track and I was yanked left. It felt like I had pulled all the muscles in my neck. This was a bigger tube and I was moving much faster, twisting and swinging like a freshly slaughtered carcass of meat.
The noise of the track became deafening as I clacked over another interchange, and the rattling yowl of machinery felt like it would burst my eardrums.
Then the track stopped dead and I swung again.
Silence.
I worked desperately on the cuffs. Then I heard a voice shouting far away. I strained my eyes, wondering if it was Nena. But there was only the scamper of the rats below and the squeak of the hook gently grating above my head. I hung like that for maybe five minutes, and I got nowhere with the ratchets on the cuffs.
Then the track kicked back into life and I almost dropped the pin. Music mixed with the roar, and ahead another screen shone, showing a man in a field of buttercups.
“You have been arrested by the New Seattle State Police,” he was saying, “a force that is dedicated to your well-being. You should feel proud to have been arrested by one of the top-four state police departments on the Western Seaboard Area, as voted for by the readers of Happiness, Money, and Golf magazine.” I saw him hold up a copy as I was ratcheted past.
The next moment, I heard footsteps. And a figure tripped in front of me, clattering against the metal sides in a sliding, spidery sprawl.
“Nena,” I cried over the roar of machinery.
But whoever it was didn’t look up. He pushed my legs out of the way and was gone.
The track gave another yanking halt and I swung in the darkness.
Silence again.
But then, far away, I could hear the drone of drongles. I made a frantic effort to release the ratchets on the cuffs and one finally gave a few clicks. I tried to pull my hand through, but the gap was small.
The track came to life again, and I dropped the bobby pin. Blazing light loomed ahead, and I saw a group of workmen in a side tube. They had a works drongle that was piled high with materials and tools. I tried desperately to force my hand through the cuff.
I could hear the crowd and the drongles on a street outside now. I could even make out someone shouting in a hoarse voice.
“The end of the world is nigh! The end of the world is the most nigh I have ever seen it. And I thought it was pretty nigh last Tuesday. Who wants a nice sticker?”
chapter
THIRTY-NINE
Maddox ordered coffee.
Then he sat at a table staring at the city wall that rose up across the street from the Blue Lagoon café. The coffee machine behind the counter steamed.
“And then the lighting of the lamps,” he said without knowing where he had picked up the line.
The man in black sat down opposite in one lithe movement. He was wearing sunglasses. He always wore sunglasses.
“We have the guy—the ex-cop and the woman,” said Maddox. “Security Detail picked them up a few minutes ago, but there’s no sign of the fridge.”
“Find it,” said the man in black, his words falling like a dead weight on the table between them. “Why did you pick one that was so nervous?”
“It was small. I’ll put pressure on the head hack guys to find something,” said Maddox.
His coffee arrived. When he turned the man in black was gone.
“See you later, Maddox. Thanks for your help,” he said to the empty seat.
chapter
FORTY
A pool of gloomy yellow light spilled over the tunnel.
Grimy white tiles. My eyes struggled to focus as I passed a massive sign in spidery neon that declared: “This is New Seattle Head Hack Central. You will be booked and hacked for evidence.”
The rise of classical music fought with the horrendous noise of the machinery.
“If you are a real estate agent, you must declare it when asked,” said another sign. “And give up any property details.”
And then another: “Take the edge from the disappointment of prison with some haberdashery! Haberdashery is more than just a friend. It’s a big, lovely, supersoft companion for life!”
A huge counter flapped over to 146 with a crack like a gunshot, and I was dragged toward a set of double doors. I tried to raise my legs to break the impending collision, but I couldn’t do it, so I smashed them apart with my head.
My vision blurred into darkness.
And then I saw the streets of New Seattle empty of people. And I was running through them but there was no one there.
Then harsh, white light. I squinted. The track lurched, and I fell back to t
he present. I was hanging from the ceiling of a small office corridor. The doors were still flick-flacking shut behind me.
White light spilled from the light-tubes. A couple of cops in rolled-up shirtsleeves nonchalantly edged past my swinging feet, carrying files below. I could smell the antiperspirant from one. The track swung me down the corridor as a woman with a coffeepot backed out of a door and we collided, causing her to drop the pot with a clatter.
“It’s happened again!” she cried, straightening up. “I said this would happen again didn’t I?” she shouted to the corridor in general. “I said I wanted an office away from this thing.” Her voice floated after me as I was dragged on. “I demand an office somewhere else!”
Then the track kinked left and I was shunted hesitantly through a hole roughly smashed in the wall, and across a storage room. Files were stacked in tall, swaggering piles. The teeth gabbled away above my head, and the rich dark smell of burnt oil from the machinery filled my lungs. I swung sideways, catching my knee on a shelf before it yanked me up through a hole in the ceiling. The joists and pipes were still sticking out, and the broken edges of plasterboard shed little falls of dust as they vibrated. The room above was much bigger. The track wound around in a big loop.
And then, up in one corner, a board clattered through a trail of letters to spell: “Room 349, level two.”
A buzzer sounded and a red light flashed by a spur. The hook above my head unclipped from the main track and I sailed down the rails through a long sweeping series of bends, twirling and slipping through a faceless, filthy tunnel.
chapter
FORTY-ONE
A jolting halt.
I was breathing hard. After a moment, I felt myself lowered down through a hole in the floor until I rested awkwardly on a sofa in a brightly lit room. The journey had loosened the heavy chain, so the links hung in lazy loops.
“Mr. Lindbergh? Make yourself comfortable.” The man behind a desk didn’t look up. “If you’re unsettled by your journey, there’s poetry you can read to yourself on your right. That will help to calm you down. It’s the rhythm of the words.” He continued writing furiously.
