by T. K. Malone
“Here,” Connor said, “you take a look and show me how to stay chipper reading this stuff.” He went over to where Kenny was standing. Kenny shrugged and went over and took Connor’s place behind the desk. As he began to read the autocue, his mouth dropped open.
“Shit,” was all he said as he sat back. “Well, that’s not the best news, now, is it?” He read it again. “Definitely more on the sombre side,” and he got up and went over to the coffee machine.
“You think?” Connor said, joining him.
Kenny sat on the couch. “So, when are we supposed to be launching this station. What’s it called, again?”
“Free World Radio.”
“Same as the old one, then. Missed a trick there, the… What’s his name?”
“Josiah Charm.”
“Him, yeah, missed a trick. Could have gone for a fresh new name. Firebird Radio—that would have been good. Do you think it’s that bad out there?”
Connor shook his head. “No way of knowing. Though the army’s out there—protecting the gates. So it can’t exactly be a scorched wasteland.”
“Well, time to roll up our sleeves and get on with it,” Kenny said with a measure of intent. “Or we could have another coffee and a smoke?”
“We’re a few hours behind schedule as it is, so I suppose one more won’t matter,” and Connor refilled their coffees.
“A few hours late? That’s not so bad.” Kenny pointed up at an LED clock on the wall. “That right?”
“Far as I know.”
“Right, then, let’s get this bulletin recorded. Cut it down a bit, then we’ll record a bit of footage of you playing records, pad it out from there. Do the set. Play the tape at the end and then call it a day and just leave some random mix on. Good enough for a first day?”
“I guess.” It wasn’t ideal, but then it wasn’t an ideal situation all round.
“You’ve met this Charm dude, so Molly said.”
“Yes,” and Connor fidgeted around, for some reason worrying about where this conversation might be going.
“What’s he like?”
“Like?” It was a question Connor had been mulling over himself. Charm’s character and motives were as much a mystery to him now as when he’d first got into the car those few days before. He blustered like the wind, his thoughts gusting in different directions, and his motives appeared haphazard, molding to fit whatever scene was before him. It was almost as though he was purposely trying to confuse Connor’s mind, to gain his compliance somehow, and though he’d reassured Connor that all would be well, Connor couldn’t avoid feeling guilty, as though the whole world’s problems were somehow his fault. “Overpowering, overbearing, confusing, contradictory, but somehow safe.”
“Safe?”
“Yeah.” Connor lit another smoke. “It’s like… It’s like you know you’re going to be safe with him. You can’t tell if he’s going to fly off the handle or smile and reassure you, but somehow, he makes you feel safe, wanted.”
“Sounds—” but then the studio door flew open and Kirk walked in. He paused just inside the doorway and looked around the room, nodding to Connor before appearing to appraise Kenny. Then he looked up at the clock.
“Doctor Charm,” he said, now staring straight at Connor and ignoring Kenny. “Doctor Charm would like to know what’s going on. He’d expected some kind of…show? Is that what you do? He’d expected something by now, something at the very least.”
At first Connor shriveled a little under Kirk’s cold gaze, but then his courage rallied. “Not quite that easy, Kirk. We’re planning the show, rehearsing the bulletin—”
“And sitting around drinking coffee. Can I be of assistance in any way?” and then he smiled. On most people, Connor thought, that expression of joy would relax everyone around, but on Kirk it just caused a shiver to pass through Connor.
“Assistance?” Connor brought himself to ask.
“Indeed. Doctor Charm has ordered me to help you in any way possible, so you can commence programming. In fact, he was most insistent.”
“We’ve got everything we need,” Kenny offered.
Kirk’s head slowly turned, his cold, brown eyes finally falling on Kenny. “Then why, Mr. Holmes, is the music not playing?”
“Trouble with the autocue,” Kenny told him, seemingly oblivious to the implied threat that still hung in the air. “The script is too dismal.”
Kirk went and sat behind the desk and stared at the autocue, his neutral expression fixed. “Looks fine. From my understanding, a succinct appraisal. Mr. Clay, in case you aren’t up to speed on world events, let me spell something out for you. The time for mollycoddling is over. No longer can you expect your meals to arrive by drone, your news to placate you, or your peers to console you. The times where news merely put the fear of whatever god you followed into you, only for you to be assured that you’d be fine, are now gone. News is now news, Mr. Clay. You will read it out, and you will not sugarcoat it.”
Kirk strolled over to the coffee machine, made himself one and then sat on the edge of Connor’s mixing desk. He tapped his free hand against his leg.
“It’s better this way; Doctor Charm’s way. Truth, Mr. Clay, truth. The world outside of here is in turmoil, and they should know that. What are you worried about? Upsetting them? They’ve all lost everything they’ve ever known; I think they’re beyond despair.” He stood. “Do you not agree?”
“What about hope?” Connor asked.
Kirk came over, bent, took up the cigarettes, and pulled one out. He lit it, squinting as smoke went into his eyes. “Hope? You talk about hope…already?” He grunted, a turbulent wave of smoke spilling from his mouth. “It’s too early for hope, Connor. You know that. You can’t have hope when everything’s gone to crap. You can’t just have it handed back on a plate. Hope must be earned, Connor, and at the moment, no one’s earned shit.”
“So we just feed them doom?” Connor couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Josiah Charm at the very least offered a future, a plan for it at least, and yet here was Kirk pushing nothing but a bleak and hopeless path. “What will it do to morale?”
“Kenny and Connor, Connor and Kenny; you make such an easy team, but you know nothing of discipline. What’s the first thing the army does to a new recruit?” He pointed up, as if testing the wind or waiting for an answer to be carried to him upon it. “No? Let me tell you. In order for the new recruits to fit in, the army first breaks them—makes them subservient then defiant…subservient then defiant, and it does it in a very precise manner. The objective is to create a person who understands who’s in charge and will…” and here he only smiled, as though reminiscing. “They say ‘Jump off a cliff’, but the truth of it is that that would be foolish. Suffice to say: obey at all costs is a better summation.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Kenny spoke up, “just who are you?”
Kirk turned and studied Kenny, as though scrutinizing him in minute detail. “My name is Kirk. I am head of the compound…police, if you like. Yes; police, stiffs, whatever you wish to call them. I answer to Doctor Charm, as does Connor, except, I answer from higher up the tree than he does. So, here’s the deal. Get the show on the road, so to speak, and get it there quickly. If you don’t, Kenny—Kenny Holmes—then you’ll be visiting my quadrant for a little meeting.”
“M…meeting?” Kenny said, his eyes searching out Connor, his voice tinged by a slight stutter.
“Indeed, a meeting where we can correct our…misunderstandings.” Kirk stubbed his part-smoked cigarette out. “Don’t think I don’t understand where you’re coming from, Connor. I do. Hope, well, that will be offered once it’s earned. For now, though, we need the micro farms growing their crops, the engineers planning, the drone makers… Well, I’m sure you know. We need to break them, Connor, only then will we allow you to put them back together.” He ambled to the door, opened it, lingered for a moment, and then turned and smiled at them. “Good day to you both,” he said and
left.
Kenny let out a huge sigh. “What a psycho.”
“Exactly how he was introduced to me.”
“So, what are we going to do?”
“Get to work,” and Connor tossed his cup into a nearby trash chute.
“What does he mean by ‘break them’?”
Connor walked over to the news desk, looked at the autocue and sighed. “Have you thought what’s going to happen once we have to get out of here? What are we? Just us two; take us two and say…Molly. A DJ, a cameraman and a micro farmer—”
“Biologist—she’s actually a microbiologist.”
“Whatever. Take us three. Are we really prepared for life outside? Say it is as bad as this news brief says it is, could you survive? Can you fire a gun? Could you trap a deer?”
Kenny shrugged, “I…er…”
Connor leaned forward. “I think that’s what they’re getting at. We haven’t even thought about it. We got picked up from our cotton wool lives and stashed away for safekeeping. Not once did we save ourselves, not once have we scrambled around for food. Nope, we’ve done nothing like that. What did you do when you first woke up?”
Although Kenny replied, Connor never heard his words. Instead, he remembered his curious day and night. Had Charm put him through that so this realization would be that much easier to take? If he had, then Connor had vastly underestimated him.
“Are you listening to me?” Kenny asked.
Connor snapped himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry, what did you say?”
Kenny frowned. “Doesn’t matter, safe to say: I think this Charm fellow’s right. We need a firm kick up the arse. Let’s do the bulletin.”
He ducked behind one of the cameras, and Connor saw a red light blink to green. Kenny then moved behind the other, raised his good arm, three fingers in the air. He dropped the first, the second, then the third, and pointed at Connor.
Connor hesitated, his eyes darting between the cameras before he tried to speak, but words failed to come out.
Kenny threw his hands up in the air, rounded the camera and said: “Swap places; I’ll show you.”
“I’m a DJ; no cameras—fuck, it’s hard,” and Connor jumped up.
“Hard? Look,” and Kenny sat down, cleared his throat and stared straight at one of the cameras. “Welcome to Project Firebird. I am Kenny Holmes. To bring you all up to speed, Black City has been completely destroyed by two surgical nuclear strikes, as have other grid cities across The Free World. In retaliation, The Free World—and our leader, Oster Prime—launched retaliatory strikes which have potentially eradicated any further Eurasion threat. Until government specialists can verify that no further nuclear threat exists, we will remain in this underground compound. It is with great regret I have to inform you that there are no survivors within a radius of ten miles from the city center.
“Further reports from outside indicate a large amount of unrest, including looting, rioting, murder, and rape within all settlements located around Black City and other grid cities. Widespread fires ravage the land and fallout continues to blight vast swathes of the countryside.
“The army is currently involved in maneuvers and skirmishes in an attempt to restore some form of order. Further bulletins will occur daily. In the intervening time, Doctor Charm would ask you to adhere to all guidelines and requests while he formulates a course of action to ensure your ultimate safety.
“Thank you for listening. I’m Kenny Holmes.”
Connor raised his eyebrows. He had to admit Kenny was a natural in front of the camera. For just a moment, he wondered if the man could take his place, but the bandage and the plateau of hair which erupted from it were just too ridiculous.
“I love it,” a voice, so distinctly Charm’s, rang out. “I love it. That’s a wrap, boys.”
Connor looked around the room. A screen embedded in the wall behind his mixing desk had burst into life. Charm’s smiling face took up most of it.
“Excuse the intrusion,” he went on to say, “but I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get it done. It was obvious to me that Connor’s stage fright would be insurmountable, but Mr. Holmes…” His face drew away from the screen, revealing his clapping hands. “Mr. Holmes, you are quite possibly my favorite guest right now. Guests, Connor; I like to think of you all as guests.”
Connor looked at Kenny; he was positively beaming under the praise. Then a thought loomed in Connor’s mind. “How did you know? No, no, how did you see?”
Charm looked a little shocked. “I see everything, Connor. I’m tapped into every feed, every room—though my modesty permits me limited access. Spying, Mr. Clay: not my style. I merely happened to be flicking through a few rooms and you caught my interest.”
“So, you can see—”
“Everywhere, Mr. Clay. Much needed, as well. If there’s a hint of subterfuge going on in this compound, Kirk will know about it. Now, there’s a man whose modesty couldn’t give a fuck about your privacy. Run with Kenny Holmes, Mr. Clay, and get that radio show going before I begin to wonder why I picked you up in the first place.”
7
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 3 days
Location: Project Firebird
“I for one am not overly positive that your bulletins are entirely accurate,” said Byron Tuttle. He’d fallen into step as Connor had snuck out of the studio. Even though only a day in, Kenny had already developed a habit of nodding off once the bulletin was recorded and the day’s music programmed in. In truth, his job was done so he’d no need to be there any longer, but he insisted on hanging around, theorizing that Charm or Kirk would find something else for him to do if he looked like he was at a loose end. As soon as Kenny’s eyes had shut, his snores started. Connor had done his final link of the day and crept out, to leave Kenny to his slumbers.
Connor glanced at Byron then all around the corridor, trying to give Byron the smallest of hints that the entire place was bugged; a thing Kenny had yet to comprehend completely.
“So it’s bugged,” said Byron. “Charm knows I’m a dissident—that’s why he chose me. The thing about a true dissident, Connor, is that he’ll find issues even in Utopia. It is the eternal struggle I embrace; the neverending protest. You should try it sometimes, it feels fantastic.”
“Eternal struggle?”
“Constant protest. If there’s something up, a slight fault or blemish in anything, then you blame someone, protest, complain—very liberating.”
“How so?” Connor asked as they reached the stairwell.
“Because then you can’t be at fault for anything. Why else?” and Bryon let slip a smile which told Connor he’d been had. “Seriously, though, did you really think the place wouldn’t be bugged? You have to remember we’re nothing but guests here; guests at the leisure of one Josiah Charm. Think of Noah.”
“Noah?” Connor said as they reached the bottom of the stairwell and emerged onto the lower level. “Canteen?” he then asked.
“Indeed,” said Byron. “Yes, think of Noah—do you remember the fable of Noah’s Ark? No?”
Connor had vague memories of having heard the name, but shook his head nonetheless.
“Cliff Notes,” Byron said. “Noah built a boat to save all the animals from a great flood. Note: he only tried to save the animals, not a boatload of humans. Why? I’ll tell you.” Byron grinned, appearing to enjoy being the focus of Connor’s attention. “My point is, what would have happened if he’d packed the boat full of humans and waited out the flood with them, rather than the two-by-two animals?”
Shrugging, Connor pushed the door of the canteen open, letting Byron through. They each took a tray and lined up for food.
“Well,” Byron went on, “we can’t be sure, but my guess is: he’d have been lynched before they made dry land.”
“Why?”
“Because folk are impatient, because they split into factions, because they crave power or are forced to take up its mantle by others. Forty days and
forty nights is a long time to keep control with someone like me muttering to all and sundry that he’d gone the wrong way to start with. No, Connor, if Noah had filled his boat full of people, he’d have been tossed overboard by the third week.”
“So, why do you do it?” Connor asked, his tray now filled and his gaze searching out a free table. “Why do you question everything?”
Byron threaded his way to an empty spot and sat down. He took a swig of his lager and smiled. “Because someone has to, and someone has to here. Kirk: he won’t question Charm, he’d kill for him, scrub a floor with a cotton bud for him, but he won’t keep Charm honest. That privilege must be borne by someone else, must be borne by you, Connor Clay.”
“Me? Why me?”
Byron looked up sharply, his expression verging on the startled. “Who else? Kenny, Kenny Holmes?” and he smiled. “Charm showed me the tape of his first moments with you—the tale of his arrival. You should play that after every dour bulletin, it’d lighten the load, so to speak. No, Connor, it has to be you.”
Connor had considered Zac to be one of the most knowledgeable people he knew, but Byron’s wisdom was plain to see. Though it was obvious that Josiah Charm had a fine acumen, Byron Tuttle’s intelligence was more subtle, more observational, much like his brother’s. After each sentence, Byron turned back to his plate, diligently working his way through his food, section by section, portion by portion, as if it were all to some grand plan.
Waiting patiently for him to finish chewing, Connor wondered why he had to confront Charm. Was “confront” the correct word, though? “Keep honest” Byron had said. “Assuming,” Connor eventually said, “assuming it does have to be me, why and how? Why would Charm worry about what I think, and how am I supposed to tell him? If I piss him off, he’s just going to turn me over to Kirk.”
“You underestimate the man, don’t you? Or is it that? No, I think the opposite. Do not, Connor, overestimate Josiah Charm. He is but one man, and one man—no matter how intelligent—needs others to succeed. If nothing else, he’ll use them to rinse himself of any blame, should things go wrong. Take, for instance, your perilous position.”
