Special

by Georgia Blain

Ivy shrugged. ‘She told me that this would be my home for a little while and that I would be looked after.’ She tried to explain. ‘I couldn’t contact anyone. They said it wasn’t safe. But, you see, I didn’t want to go back. So I didn’t try. And they have been good to me. It’s not as beautiful as Halston. It’s nothing like Halston. No one tests me. No one looks at me like I’m a disappointment. I help out with the kids and I’ve been learning maintenance works. I fix things.’

  I tried to tell her that people never thought she was a failure but my words fell, hollow and false.

  Ivy raised an eyebrow. ‘You know that’s not true. You and I never really got on but you were always honest with me.’

  I met her gaze, ashamed.

  ‘I was a disappointment the whole time I was there,’ Ivy said. ‘I know I failed those tests. They would have wanted to know how they could have gone so wrong with me. I’m glad to have got away from it all.’

  We followed her out to a hall, where four long tables were filled with food, and about fifty people sat around them, talking and eating. There were men, women and children. Ivy led us to the end table, and everyone shifted to make space for us. They seemed to know who we were. They asked if there was anything they could do for us. One of the men said he had access to music that Lark might enjoy, texts and images for me. We should come and see him soon. Another woman suggested we might like to get involved in some of the food production or preparation.

  ‘There’s plenty to do – you’ll enjoy it. We encourage involvement within the community,’ she said.

  Lark and I nodded, but I could feel myself pushing away, edging back from the table, wanting to get out of there, to be alone in my room again.

  Ivy told us she’d been helping to build a new wing for the hospital. ‘You could help out,’ she said. ‘Although, you probably want something more intellectual than that.’

  ‘But we’re not staying,’ I said. ‘We don’t know why we’re here or where we are.’

  No one seemed to be listening.

  ‘What is this?’ Lark asked, holding up a jar of liquid caramel. ‘It’s delicious.’

  ‘It’s honey,’ the man on her left said. ‘We’ve managed to cultivate an actual colony of bees. It’s extraordinary.’

  Lark passed it to me, urging me to try it. I shook my head. It was all too much.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I insisted, and I stood up, pushing my plate away. I didn’t want to be here.

  No one stopped talking, no one seemed to notice as I turned to leave the room. I glanced behind me to see if Lark was following, but she wasn’t. She was there at the table, her eyes still red from crying, talking to Ivy and the others.

  ‘Wren’s dead,’ I wanted to shout. ‘And we are being held here without our consent.’

  With the door closed behind me, I stood in the corridor, helpless, with nowhere to go.

  A small child ran past and stopped. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, whirling around to face me.

  ‘Fern,’ I told him.

  ‘Oh.’

  He wasn’t really interested. I was just someone he hadn’t seen before, and now that I had a name, he could run on. I watched him, singing to himself as he turned the corner, leaving me alone.

  Chimo is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.

  There’s already a thick yellow fog outside, the air so heavy I find it hard to breathe. The morning shifts are the longest ones, the ones that everyone who is able queues for. There is less work as the day progresses, simply because those who get a place on the line don’t give it up easily. The work is mindless, repetitive. You work for as long as you can, trying to earn as much data as you can.

  Chimo takes my hand in his for a moment and squeezes it gently. I look at him, the velvet of his eyes, the gentle tilt of his mouth as he smiles. We’re assessing each other, circling warily. I slide my hand away from his as the memory of the night before returns, leaving me lurching inside. I want to lean into him and kiss his neck, the saltiness of his shoulder beneath my lips, but I don’t. I woke with fear lying next to me and I’m careful.

  ‘You’re late,’ he says. ‘I was about to come and wake you.’

  I tell him I couldn’t sleep. The heat was too much.

  ‘You should have come to the courtyard,’ he says, then whispers, ‘You could have shared my hammock.’ His breath is warm in my ear.

  We wait at the entrance of the facility with our mobies out, ready to be scanned. I quickly check my data to see if there’s any indication of contact through the sieves, but I know it’s unlikely anything will show. Whether it’s Lewis, Miss Margaret or Lark, they would be more careful than that. Surface contact can be dangerous. It’s too easily read by the numerous patrols that roam our data feed to give information back to the Parent networks.

  A fight breaks out behind me as an older man pushes into the queue. A group of young men surround him, and the scuffle is quick, shielded from view. If you are caught by ReCorp Security Vision, you can find your data docked, punishment meted out to all in the vicinity, regardless of who started the fight.

  Sala watches for a moment before nodding at me. ‘You’ve recovered,’ she says.

  I tell her I have.

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Chimo nurse you back to health?’

  ‘I seem to have a strong constitution.’

  ‘It certainly wasn’t due to my nursing skills,’ he says.

  Sala laughs. ‘I’m sure there were other skills involved.’

  I am tired of this antagonism, this banter with a jagged edge like a rusting saw. I’m about to tell her I have no interest in there being enmity between us – in fact, I don’t want any kind of relationship with anyone – when Jiminy joins us. He is anxious, stepping from foot to foot, peering towards the head of the line and then slipping back into his place.

  ‘There’s a sh-sh-sh-shortage of spaces t-t-today,’ he says. ‘We sh-sh-should be fine.’ He looks to where the line snakes around the corner. ‘H-h-hope you’ve got enough d-d-d-data if there’s n-n-n-nothing.’

  I know my data is low, and I’ve got very little food, but I don’t speak.

  Chimo says he has plenty and some to spare. He looks to me at this point. ‘If anyone needs it.’

  I thank him for the offer and tell him I’m fine.

  The traders are roaming the line. There are the people who are unable to work, who hope to swap a little of this for a little of that. They’ll give you enough data to buy two meals in exchange for other data. They work with their families or in small groups that have banded together, finding out where the shortages are or what’s likely to go up in cost so that they can trade at a profit.

  Sometimes they work on the sieves, scrounging illegal data, risky access to food or water or accommodation, data that hasn’t come through the Parents’ channels but may be so well camouflaged that you can get away with using it. Their prices are cheap, though you have to be careful. If the sub-police catch you using illegal data, the penalties can be high. It would be disastrous for someone like me.

  Miss Margaret told me all this before she left me here. She was hurried as she explained. There was no time to tell us everything we needed to know.

  A young girl approaches us. She is emaciated, her eyes large in her face, her hair lank and stringy, her clothes hang loose on her frame and I can see the scabs on her skin.

  ‘Please,’ the girl says to me, tugging on my arm. ‘You’re too far back. See all these people in front of you? You will have no work. I can give you anything you want.’ She holds her mobie up in front of me, flipping through the images, a blur of details. ‘I just need some food.’

  The queue inches forward. Still, she pulls on my arm.

  ‘Just one meal?’ She looks away as soon as I turn to face her. ‘I can give you water for a week.’

  I know it can’t be legitimate. No one that poor has that much water. And she doesn’t want access to food; she wants the real thing. Something that she can put in her mouth right here and now.
I can see it in her eyes.

  I have one VitaCake in my backpack. It’s my lunch and my dinner until I get my next quota of food data. I take it out and give it to her. ‘I don’t need anything,’ I tell her. ‘Just take it.’

  She doesn’t even respond. She is too busy putting the VitaCake in her mouth, eating it as quickly as she can before moving down the line, desperate for more.

  ‘That was good of you,’ Sala says, watching me.

  I shrug.

  When we reach the end of the queue, Chimo goes in, then Sala. She is the last one, the cut-off. I have nothing.

  ‘Take my place,’ she says, pulling me in front of her.

  I’m about to tell her it’s fine, I’ll try my luck later on, but she stops me.

  ‘I’ve got enough,’ she says. ‘What you did back there … I know you have nothing.’ She shoves me forward so that it’s my mobie they scan.

  We rarely talk on the line. We just sort the rubbish, knowing that our rate is being monitored and that any pause for conversation will affect our data allowance at the end of the shift. I stand next to Chimo, who is listening to music. He must have been earning well to be able to afford arts data, I think to myself. He works deftly. Once or twice he shifts slightly and I can feel his skin against mine. He glances across and smiles, his mouth pale against the darkness of his skin, his curly black hair glossy in the harsh light of the facility.

  We can break to eat whenever we like. It just means our data is docked. I have nothing, but when Chimo pauses, he turns to me, his voice only just audible above the sound of the line. He has cold FishRice and even a Choco to share. I’m hungry enough not to protest, taking what he offers with no resistance.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  He nods.

  ‘Why are you being so good to me?’

  His smile is slight, without pretence. ‘I like you.’

  I look down at my lap, and he reaches across for my hand, squeezing my fingers gently in his own.

  I glance across at him. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ I can’t help but smile.

  ‘Persistence is my middle name. Besides, we have to help each other. That’s the way it works around here. Or the way we would like it to work,’ he admits. ‘But sometimes, when you’re hungry and worn out, the best doesn’t come out in you.’

  ‘Why does Sala dislike me?’

  He looks surprised. ‘She doesn’t.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘She’s more like you than you realise. She doesn’t trust easily. She thinks everyone is working for the sub-police.’ He leans in close enough for me feel the heat of his breath. ‘She also knows what it’s like to be wiped.’ His pulls away as soon as he utters the words. ‘We should get back,’ he says, looking at the line. ‘You need the data.’

  We walk home together at the end of the shift. It’s nighttime, although it’s never dark here. Even when power is shut off, the mediastream continues floating across the evening sky, pale images that drift in and out of each other, some so clever that they appear to dart and weave right into your hand, teasing you to pull them close. Without mediablockers you can’t avoid them. You can zoom in on some of them for free; others will waste so much of your precious data you may find yourself with nothing left after viewing a broadcast.

  ‘There was a message for you today,’ Chimo tells me. ‘I wanted to show you this morning but you were too late and I couldn’t risk it in the line or at the facility.’

  His face is illuminated by an image of a cloud. He looks almost ghostly, his features dappled by the light. He has his mobie in his hand and he pulls me behind a corner, to a place where it’s more difficult for the data to penetrate. I’m about to protest, to once again feign ignorance, when he shushes me.

  ‘We can’t waste more time,’ he says. ‘There are people looking for you. Your brother – and others. I hear whispers on the sieves all the time. You have to trust me. You know I know and I haven’t turned you over. I haven’t once betrayed you. I have nothing to offer other than my word.’ He brushes the hair off my face, tucking the longest strands behind my ear. There is a tenderness to his touch, sweet enough to hurt. This time I am the one who leans in. I kiss him. I’m crying and I can taste the salt in my mouth.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  His face is close, his eyes looking into mine as he tells me to let go and trust.

  With my mouth on his, I tell him that I do. I trust him, I want to trust him, I can trust him. I step back and look down at the ground as I finally tell him, speaking words that I’ve kept to myself for so long.

  ‘I’m Fern Marlow,’ I say, my own name strange on my tongue. I kiss him again. ‘And I shouldn’t be here.’

  Miss Margaret found me in my room.

  ‘Did Marcus show you the bees?’ she asked.

  I told her he hadn’t.

  ‘Have you spent all afternoon in here on your own?’

  I looked down at the floor.

  She waited for me to speak, and when I refused, she told me she was sorry. ‘I wish we didn’t have to take you away from Halston. I know you, more than the others, loved it.’

  Her eyes were shining and I thought I saw a doubt in her expression, a questioning of her own motives. If I did, it was brief.

  ‘Halston was the first place I was sent to work. It is the only place I have ever worked, and when I arrived I thought it was heaven. It was so beautiful.’ She sat on my bed. ‘I wasn’t much older than the girls in final year. I came with a small bag of clothes and not much else. Everything was and would continue to be supplied for me. I would have a room of my own, good food, access to a wealth of arts data, companions, conversation, gardens, and young girls to care for as though they were my own.’ She put her arm around my shoulder. ‘I can understand that you miss it.’

  I shifted away from her. ‘We’re not going back?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’

  She sighed, staring up at the ceiling as she did so. ‘I’m a carer – your carer – but I’ve done something that goes against this. Or perhaps, ultimately, it is what a carer should do. I don’t know. In any case, it comes from questioning, and that questioning is part of me.’

  I looked at her, confused. It wasn’t like Miss Margaret to speak in a jumble.

  Lark was standing at the doorway. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  I shook my head.

  Miss Margaret shifted over so there was room for Lark to sit as well. ‘Do you remember me mentioning my friend Rachel?’

  Lark told her she did.

  ‘She was a carer too. When we were young we were very close. We had every class together, we shared our homework, our clothes, and we slept side by side in our room. I liked to pretend we were sisters, and sometimes we would stay awake until late, imagining a life in which we lived together, caring for children together, working together to bring out their very best potential.’

  Miss Margaret stopped then. She turned her gaze to the floor. I heard her intake of breath before she continued.

  ‘We dreamt of what we were told to dream. Our vision for the future was instilled in us from as far back as I could remember. It was inconceivable to imagine anything else for myself. Running away. Becoming a scientist. Falling in love. As for having children of my own – I knew that would never happen.

  ‘Rachel, however, was different. Who knows why or in what way, precisely. Her design wouldn’t have been the same as mine, which would account for some of it. And although we had a very similar upbringing, the influences that can shape us can be so subtle. There may have been experiences she had – something she saw, touched or heard – that made her more receptive to the next moment of doubt. To say it is anything less than infinitely complex is foolish. All I know is that Rachel was never as compliant as I was. She was cheeky in class, disruptive and more and more questioning, which is not in itself a worrying thing – we should question – but her questions were soon aimed at the heart
of it all.’

  Miss Margaret looked from Lark to me.

  ‘As we grew older she became distant. She had another life, or at least I sensed she had another life. She was frequently on the streams, chatting to people I didn’t know, sometimes silent when I came into our room, or changing tack in her conversation so abruptly it was obvious she wanted me to stay in the dark.

  ‘I knew she’d become close to a boy at the neighbouring school. Like you, we only saw them at dances or dinners, or very occasionally other events were organised. I didn’t know his name then. He was tall with auburn hair and green eyes, which I assumed made him a very expensive design, and he carried himself with elegance. He was a leader. He and Rachel would go for walks and talk with an intensity that we no longer shared. I asked her about him and she shrugged him off as though he didn’t matter, but I knew she was lying.

  ‘In the weeks before our end-of-year dance, she became increasingly agitated. She was always on the streams, sending text with growing frustration. When I’d ask her what was wrong, she would dismiss me. She was fine, she always said. Totally fine. And then one night I woke to her crying. She was sobbing as though she had been snapped in two. I went to her, but she pushed me away. I persisted and all she told me was that, yes, it was him, and it seemed he no longer wanted to know her.

  ‘I’d guessed it was him but I had presumed it was nothing more than a crush and rejection. He didn’t come to the next dance. She went wild that night, dancing by herself, loud, defiant …’

  Miss Margaret shook her head.

  ‘I didn’t know what was happening to her. She became increasingly disruptive in class … It was just so alien to how we were meant to be.

  ‘We were about sixteen then – the age you are now. It’s a difficult time. Even the most careful design can be temporarily thrown amok by hormones. Schools cater to this. Teachers and carers know and understand. But with Rachel, it was something more. She began refusing to go to lessons. I was encouraged to talk to her. I was good at this, this was what I was meant to be able to do. But she became angry with me, and I didn’t know how to help her.’