by Jen Cole
“I need to use the ladies room. If George arrives while I’m away, tell him to take a seat.”
Before Fitani could object to being used in this way, she hurried over to the alcove with the restroom sign. When she returned, Jo saw with dismay that Fitani was still alone. If the Hunter’s agents had picked George up, and he’d spilled the beans, she wasn’t safe here, but she couldn’t help feeling he would not lightly betray her. She would wait a little longer.
The bill had been delivered in her absence and Jo took out her wallet and withdrew an amount to cover the meal and a tip. Then she shifted slightly to keep an eye on the door and nodded to Fitani.
“You were about to explain about the human line.”
“The purpose of the line is to discover areas where the contamination has gone deeper than two meters and to map the extent of its penetration. Employing two thousand hand-held probes is the most efficient way of doing this. The probes detect radioactivity to a depth of ten meters and send a data map of dangerous areas to the surgical excising machines, which later remove the contaminated sections in cores.
“New workers arriving at the line, go and stand behind anyone whose helmet is red. If there are no red helmets, they wait behind yellow ones. Employees’ helmets light up yellow two minutes before their shifts end, and red when their shifts are finished.
Jo was puzzled. “I don’t understand why they need to wait behind anyone. Surely new workers could just move into a gap in the line.”
Fitani’s brow wrinkled. “There are no gaps. The shoulder pads of the suits contain flexible, telescopic rods – lightweight but strong. These automatically extend to connect with the rods of adjacent suits, holding each employee in the line at one-meter intervals. The flexibility allows for height differences and gives employees arm movement, but once you step into the line, you’re locked into it until your helmet turns red and a signal from the helmet of a replacement worker standing behind you, breaks the link.”
“A chain gang,” gasped Jo in horror. “You allow yourselves to be treated like that? You guys need a union.”
Fitani tilted his head in puzzlement. “We are in complete union in the line. It must be held in place during the probing to ensure that no millimeter of soil is missed. I agree it’s not the most comfortable way of working, but there’s no alternative.”
“People must need toilet breaks!”
“There are no toilet facilities. We are only on the line for four hours. People relieve themselves before suiting up.”
Jo exhaled in disbelief. “Even so, out of two thousand people, surely some will need to go. And what if a worker becomes ill or has a heart attack?”
“The suits we wear have similar arrangements to the space suits once worn by your astronauts. If anyone needs to “go” as you put it, they can go in the suit. As for illness, the suits, like the smart-mats in our tubes, monitor the health of the employees wearing them. Medical emergencies trigger a helmet to turn red and as soon as the employee is released by a replacement worker, he or she is helped to a transport truck and delivered to the hospital silo.”
“You wouldn’t get me joining that chain gang,” said Jo. “I’d turn around and go home.”
Fitani laughed. “How would you get home? Return trucks don’t allow anyone with a white helmet through their doors, and the trip back is too far to walk in a lead-lined suit. In any case a lone employee wandering across no-man’s land would stand out like a white flag. You’d immediately be picked up and returned to the Edge. After your shift you’d be taken to the prison silo. Dereliction of duty is a serious thing.”
“Well then,” said Jo stubbornly, “I wouldn’t board a transport to the Edge in the first place. After I’d checked in at the pick-up area, I’d nip across into the fields and lie low until my shift was over.”
Fitani snorted. “A criminal as well as a ridiculous act. The perimeter alarms would sound as soon as you set foot in a field and you’d be imprisoned for trespass in addition to dereliction of duty.”
“Well, how bad would that be?” Jo argued. “Given the population is already confined, I don’t see much deterrent in a prison silo.”
“No? Wait till you try it,” said the host severely.
“The tubes in the prison silo are unequipped save for a thin sleeping mat, which is not the smart-foam variety. There are no holographic environments or communication facilities, which means that during Tube-Time you lie for twelve hours, completely isolated in a concrete casket. Nor is prison Play-Time much better. Playrooms are small and bare, with only one occupant per room allowed. There are no activities other than walking around within its limited confines and perhaps jumping up and down. The two meals a day consist of nutritious but flavorless gruel. During Work-Time you go to the Edge as usual – the only reason to miss work is certified illness, before returning to the prison silo if you still have time to serve. Believe me,” he said, “you do not want to do time in the prison silo.”
“Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’d go stand in the line. Tell me what I’d have to do.”
Jo glanced at her watch. Past 9.20 and still no sign of George.
“The work is not difficult, but it is tiring. Keeping their legs straight, all employees drop forward at the waist. A laser in their suit helmets outlines a red rectangle at their feet, a meter wide and half a meter ahead.”
“But rectangles projected from helmets would move around as employees moved their heads,” said Jo.
“Controls in the helmets ensure that regardless of head movement, each rectangle is projected onto a fixed area,” explained Fitani. “Furthermore the positioning of each is synchronized exactly with rectangles projected by helmets on either side to ensure no millimeter of ground is missed.”
“Okay,” said Jo. “I’m bending over a red rectangle.”
“You begin by pointing your probe at the top left corner. Probes throw a white square of light onto the area they are analyzing, which turns green after 20 seconds, signaling employees to move the ray along. The helmets maintain a green lighting of the probed areas so employees can see where they’ve been.”
“Seems foolproof,” admitted Jo, “except for the fact that there’s no way I could bend over like that for four hours.”
“Breaks are built-in. Every five minutes the power turns off and employees straighten and stretch for 20 seconds. When stretch time is over, the helmets emit a beep and the line bends to its work once more. When the rectangles are filled with green light, the line steps forward in unison to the front edge of the old rectangle. A new red rectangle is then projected and the process repeats. By this exacting and arduous method we undo the legacy of your era.”
Jo shivered. “It sounds horrible.”
“There are some silver linings though. Right now for example, we are at an exciting phase in our history. After thirty years, no-man’s land has almost reached its celebration size of one hundred square kilometers and Relocation Day looms!
We’ll build a line of new silos, two kilometers from the leading edge of no-man’s land and raze the old ones. The ninety square kilometers of cleaned soil, now behind us, will be added to our production fields. Our new silos will incorporate many exciting technical innovations and improvements, making our lives even better than before.
Jo pushed a little pile of spilled salt around in front of her. “Danny, you’ve indicated that the people living in all the Safe Places are well fed and housed.”
“Certainly. The Company cares for its employees,” he said shortly. “And now, having finally answered the question I came back to complete, I will bid you adieu.”
“But you haven’t fully answered my question,” said Jo.
Fitani reddened. “You asked to know all about my world, and I have described it in great detail, despite the time it took to do so.”
“You’ve told me all about the lives of ordinary employees,” Jo agreed, “but what of The Company’s Directors and Secretaries and their families? Do they have their own
special silo, or do they share the same tubes as the rest of the employees?”
Fitani looked horrified. “The Directors and Secretaries run the Safe Places. They must have an overview of both production and of employee activities, which cannot be done from the perspective of a silo.”
“So, as I suspected, they have other accommodations. Why haven’t you told me about these?”
A crimson tide washed over Fitani’s face. “It is not for employees to discuss the inner workings of The Company.”
“But you agreed to answer my question, and clearly you haven’t fully done so,” said Jo. “If you are unwilling or unable to complete your answer, you have broken your own rules. That means you must forfeit the game to me and nullify the Hunter immediately.”
Fitani’s jaw dropped. Then he closed it grimly. Jo waited.
“Directors, Secretaries and their families,” he finally ground out, “live and work at the centers of the Safe Places. I hope that satisfies you.”
“Thank you,” said Jo. “It certainly solves the mystery of that great opaque blur on the map you showed me. But it seemed to cover hundreds of square kilometers. How can so few people need such an enormous area?”
“I have now answered your question with sufficient detail that no forfeiture is necessary,” said Fitani angrily. “The game must go on.”
“All right,” said Jo. “Thank you again for your description.” She looked into the middle distance and addressed the viewers. “I feel I understand you all much better now, so I hope you won’t think I’m taking liberties if I ask you to discuss something among yourselves.
“If your Safe Place and all the others are feeding and housing everyone comfortably, what is the point of adding another ninety square kilometers to your production fields? Rather than waste that land on excess food production, why not use it to create a nature holiday reserve for employees? Overnight you could turn your dream of freedom into reality.”
Fitani gasped and then sneered. “So, you were unable to resist dispensing some ‘wisdom’ after all.” He disappeared without further comment.
Alone, Jo wondered if she’d gone too far. She’d obviously alienated the game show host, but what about his viewers? Had the comments she’d been dropping throughout her conversations with Fitani, sown any seeds of doubt about the ‘goodness’ of The Company? Had she primed the people of the future enough to want to take things into their own hands?
Jo checked her watch again. It was 9.30 am. She had to accept that her driver would not be coming. She stood, finding her legs unexpectedly wobbly, and turned to the doorway. A familiar shape filled it. George! Jo could not believe the depth of her relief as she strode to greet him.
“Mrs. Wiseman.” He spoke quickly. “Can you follow me?”
“Right behind you George.”
He turned before she’d even finished her answer and headed across the road.
~~~~
CHAPTER 21
The luggage carousel at Melbourne’s Tullamarine airport was attracting growing numbers. They milled to position themselves around its empty revolving belt and watched the hatch, willing the luggage to start flowing.
Richard Sayers smiled sympathetically as he passed. Travelling light meant he never had to endure that. He’d phoned ahead to his Melbourne contact and the car they’d arranged for him would contain a suitcase with toiletries and fresh clothing.
He stepped outside the building and waited barely a minute before a white Holden Commodore pulled into the curb. A slim brunette in tailored slacks and jacket climbed out and rounded the car with a smile.
As he watched her approach, Richard was struck by how much she’d changed in the last two years. At uni Marilyn had been the typical political science student – wearing old jeans with a variety of layers on top that she’d picked up from charity shops. Back then she’d despised ‘the man’, but now he realized her passion had probably been more a rebellion against her conservative middle-class parents. He wondered if she knew how close she’d gotten to falling back into their mold.
“Rick,” she gave him a hug. “I’ve missed you.”
Another complication. At university, Marilyn had seen herself as a free spirit. Sex had been for fun with no strings attached and the memory of that time had tricked Richard into doing the stupidest thing in the world – having a fling with a colleague. ‘Uni-Marilyn’ may have been a free spirit, but ‘colleague-Marilyn’ viewed their liaison as something more permanent.
He took the car keys she was holding and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ve got to head straight off. I’ve heard nothing from Bill Warrington for nearly a month.”
She pouted. “What, not even time for a little… drink before you go?”
“Marilyn, this is serious. I’m worried.”
He saw her stiffen and although she spoke calmly, he heard the anger in her voice. “Well then, why did you let it go so long?”
“I’ll fill you in when I get back,” he said, walking to the car. Marilyn had a readiness to criticize, which was far from endearing. Likewise, her need to constantly control her environment and the people in it made her good at her job but tiresome in social situations. His resolve to end the relationship strengthened, but he couldn’t ignore the twinge of guilt. It was Marilyn who’d brought him into BEAM in the first place.
It had been in the last year of his economics degree, at a time when his rage over The Incident as he always thought of it, was never far from the surface. He’d joined a radical group and participated in a number of noisy anti-globalization demonstrations, which had felt good at the time, but after the police and the headlines, the news media had gone hunting fresh meat and the public had forgotten their message, if they’d ever understood it in the first place.
Just as Richard had thought everything completely futile, someone in the group had introduced him to Marilyn. He still remembered their first conversation. He’d been complaining what a waste of time their protesting had been and she’d cut him off.
“If you’re really serious about doing something, you can.”
“What? Another protest? The reporters are sick of our mob at the moment.”
“I meant something actually useful. And long-term.”
He’d been intrigued. “Such as?”
“Buy me dinner and I’ll tell you.”
She wouldn’t say more in front of the others, but at dinner told him about BEAM – an organization that had recruited her the year before. She was working in their operations office part-time while she finished her degree.
“I’ve never heard of BEAM,” he said.
“What about WASB?”
“The Worldwide Association of Small Businesses? Sure, my folks were members. Their advice and support for small businesses is good value.”
“They also have a secret arm called BEAM – Businesses Exposing Antisocial Monopolies. It’s funded through WASB membership fees.
Richard frowned. “Why a secret arm?”
“Because when you’re trying to discover the illegal alliances and maneuverings of big business, it helps if they don’t know you’re investigating them.”
“But WASB helps businesses.”
“Small businesses. That’s the whole point. The giants are spreading their tentacles around the globe. Rather than producing superior goods, they’re using their wealth and questionable practices to swallow the little guys.”
Richard nodded. “And every very time that happens they increase their own powerbases, and true competition and business diversity are lost. It’s what we’ve been protesting about. Anti-monopoly laws are a joke.”
Marilyn nodded. “They’re only as good as the governments that enforce them and when the giants line politicians’ pockets, they don’t try very hard to find anti-trust violations. That’s why BEAM was formed. Small businesses need to protect themselves.”
“But what can BEAM do?” said Richard.
“Plenty. We have links with anti-globalization groups in ever
y country, and through them and our own people, we watch the operations of the giants and continually expose their attempts to use unlawful means to annihilate small businesses.”
Richard was curious. “How do you do that without exposing BEAM?”
She grinned. “The Internet. Drop enough evidence in enough places, and public outcry pressures law enforcement and governments to take action.”
It made sense and on finishing his degree, Richard asked Marilyn to recommend him. When BEAM learnt of Richard’s background, they welcomed him with open arms. On the surface, he became a sale’s rep for an Australian farming machinery company, which was a front for BEAM’s Aussie operations. In reality he was one of many agents working on BEAM’s most ambitious project yet – Operation H Group.
Over the following two years Richard developed expertise in talking to farmers and learning to read people. The task of collecting evidence against the H Group and helping farming communities to resist them was satisfying. If only the job weren’t so lonely. He was constantly on the move between trouble spots, and never able to shed his travelling salesman persona. It was no wonder he’d succumbed to the convenience of a fling with Marilyn.
As Richard accelerated onto the freeway, he sighed. Maybe it was time to think about moving on. He was only twenty-four, not too old to look for another job – one where he could tell people honestly what he did, and go home to the same place each night. But Operation H Group was too important to abandon. Before anything else, the H Group had to be stopped. After that, he thought, perhaps I’ll call it a day.
BEAM’s overseas branches had uncovered the H Group’s hidden agenda some years earlier. The H Group was ostensibly a small investment company set up by some top international businessmen. Among them, these businessmen held large financial interests in many of the world’s major supermarket chains and retail outlets. Through the H Group, they planned to acquire eventual control of primary production around the globe. It was a long-term project, but these men had vision, resources and patience, and their initial forays into the world’s orchard communities, had to date been promisingly fruitful!
