HELENA SLOWLY CAME TO. They were coming in over the channel. The ocean beneath them was a melancholy blue thrashing against the stark chalk cliffs. If there was a war, it could not be detected in the life wheeling and darting over the approaching land.
It was just as she remembered it.
Sitting up in her chair, she looked down over the nature reserves which ringed London. Along the southern coast the conurbations were low rise, slung hard against the landscape: the dense urban build-up was forbidden from soaring into the sky. The outer ring of the European Trade Capital housed Normals. The towering polymer scrapers that dominated the centre of London were Helena’s destination, her home. The heart of commercial European Oligarchy. Euros was based in the highest pinnacles of the spires that sat in amongst the clouds, her family estate occupying floors directly beneath the offices, forty two floors starting at floor six hundred and ninety four. Beneath that Euros owned the long leasehold but let the space to others. The City Corporation owned the freehold and had done for nearly a millennium.
She didn’t really know where Euros’ ownership stopped, just that once you descended into the five hundreds, some of the smaller Oligarchies and those whose headquarters were in other parts of the world leased space from the corporation.
The European Parliament was funded by the European corporations and, as such, occupied its own space high up among the towers.
The south coast passed beneath them quickly. Denholme stretched to see as much as possible. She briefly wondered where he was from.
The air was clear and she watched the specks of people going about their own lives. The architecture was clean, sharp and functional, with little ornamentation. Few Normals could afford the lavish amounts of energy required to construct homes that showed off anything more than their ability to provide shelter and basic necessities. Fewer still could afford to create augmentations that conformed to the building and design guidelines.
The buildings that bounded the nature reserves were larger, full of curves, natural lines, the feeling of care. They belonged to those who had energy to spare.
Helena had long thought it a miserable scene. She believed that form and function could, should, be interwoven, expressed through one another. It baffled her that the Normals ignored the philosophy of space, that they simply built to a minimum that served their purposes. It was not how she would have lived if their places were reversed.
The colours were grey and white, the watery reflection of glass.
The air had grown thick with all manner of airborne vehicles. Although the networks that delivered Normals to and from London were mainly housed underground, London remained the most important city in the world. Its skies were always thronged.
After three years away, Helena remembered how much she loved the place. She could already taste the noodles in her favourite bar, the liquorice of a locally stilled gin she’d discovered by accident on a particularly hazy bar crawl.
More than a million Oligarchs called London home: almost a sixth of all the Families worldwide lived there, including the majority of her family. Helena looked out with a motherly smile; London was the centre of her world regardless of where she had been born and no matter how long she stayed away.
The sight of the glowing pinnacles of the city, the thought that her family were there, working, leading their lives provoked a sense of peace that wiped away the pain and frustration of her flight across the globe.
She could see the three shards of London’s skyline, the home of Euros, the home of the European Parliament and the Greater Trade Zone, where the different Oligarchies, governments and corporations came to do business with one another, to consume luxuries, to enjoy themselves.
Euros’ heart was north of the river. It consisted of five intertwined spikes of translucent pearl. As the sun fell upon them they radiated a light of their own, a golden halo that lit up the land around them for kilometres. Its soft radiance cast no shadows but reached every hidden surface. The material had been invented just for the building, the secret of its creation patented by Euros to stop others copying their pride. The spires twisted together from bases that were hundreds of metres apart; they defied gravity, daring it to pull them down and call them to account. Standing at nearly a mile high the top floor was large enough to house the offices of the CEO’s of each of the five divisions: Helena worked for Resources, Adam for Strategy.
She was certain they were headed for Strategy.
The Parliament’s home was on the river, close to the geographical centre of the city. Straddling the Thames, it soared a thousand metres into the sky, tapering to almost nothing before a glassy disc more than seventy metres across capped it. It looked as if it would topple at the slightest breeze but had sat majestic above the city for two hundred years. Like the Parliament, its appearance was deceptive.
The council of Europe sat within, above the rest of London; only the Euros spires and the Trade Centre were taller. Near its feet sat the Houses of Parliament, ancient buildings nearly five hundred years old in their present form, a place of tourists and quiet artists. The Houses predated the Oligarchs, their age the symbol of an older world that had been riven by money, need and scarcity. Helena had visited them a number of times, normally for pleasure and always left with a sense of thankfulness that she had not lived then.
Euros, supported by the other major corporations, preserved the buildings and the compound, even permitting their continued use by those in charge of the province of Western Europe. Helena found it fitting that it still existed, that history was seen to be older than the Oligarchies.
The Trade Centre dwarfed Euros’ tower, covering more than ten square kilometres at ground level. It was home to the world’s corporations, the place where they came to meet. Other cities chased after London but the Trade Centre thrust skywards, a relaxed sense of its own unassailability. Its sheer scale meant its tenants reconfigured constantly. In the hundred years since it was first opened, it had steadily grown in size.
The Trade Centre was a crystalline finger rising from the earth, the nearest green space was more than two kilometres from the official southern entrance. Northwards it was four and a half.
Although thousands remained in their own corporations’ particular accommodation for months at a time, nobody permanently lived in the building. The European Parliament’s longevity was only due to the fact that it had been granted a thousand year headlease to the Trade Centre by the City Corporation. Leasing the space and facilities to the corporations paid for everything it wanted to do as well as ensuring that the corporations acknowledged it in more than a perfunctory manner.
The Parliament had been created as a joint venture between the local government and the original landowners, a group called Songthrush. As corporations superseded bankrupt and indebted sovereigns, the joint venture flexed its political ambitions to provide a stable environment for different multinationals to come together and meet while around the world conflicts raged.
The Parliament prided itself on existing outside the global economy, even if it depended on its continued functioning for its security. For their part, the corporations held the Parliament at arm’s length. Executives would exchange knowing looks, sharing stories about the bureaucracy’s latest decisions over dinner and in bars.
The Parliament was also the only employer in the formal economy to use Normals at a mid-management level. This was considered less efficient, on principle, and only added to its reputation for eccentricity.
Unlike the other continental parliaments, the European Parliament ran its own security force. It was the only parliament to join the corporations in dealing with international security anywhere on the planet. The Europeans also congratulated themselves that the Corporations did not have the monopoly on power in Europe as they did everywhere else.
Helena had no cause to complain; her building worked and so did the transport systems. As long as it stayed that way, she would be happy enough.
The closer they approa
ched to the Trade Centre, the less its singular spire held onto its distant impression of coherence. The masterplan for the site was consistent and the materials were the best energy could afford. However, the changing nature of the technologies used over the decades, the fashions for particular hues and shades, as well as the intransigence of corporations when it came to sharing space with others, meant that the overall effect was of a mayhem of textures and colours that bulged from a hundred different extensions.
From the jet, the Trade Centre appeared to have a constantly shifting surface, as if dirt was being chased endlessly across the outside. The hundreds of small craft that powered from one end of the complex to another formed a haze that on an overcast day could obscure entire floors. The centre had its own internal transport network, but continual construction works were being undertaken for at least half a dozen corporations at a time so that what were busy thoroughfares on one day could be dead ends on another.
The risk of getting on a tram and not only becoming lost but also finding oneself deep in an unpopulated part of the site with no return service meant that those who worked near enough to the outside often preferred to take external transport to destinations in another part of the building.
Even through the windows, Helena appreciated the clarity of the air over the city, comparing it to the particle haze and chemical pollutants that had been an unpleasant feature of the cities in Southern Africa.
London was clean. There were even porpoises in the Thames, just beyond the flood defences. If the old Parliament building was an attempt to remind the Oligarchs that they weren’t all powerful, the flood defences were the overwhelming rebuttal.
A historic engineering project made necessary because of manmade climate change in previous centuries, the continued need for them was a reminder of what a mess Normal people had made of the planet.
That the Oligarchs were able to devise, and implement a strategy to offset the worst of effects of climate change was part of what had initially enabled them to justify their grip on power. It was a cliché too well used to discard; the great grey scallop shell defences appeared routinely in presentations and promotional material as if it were London’s own mascot.
SHE WAS WRONG about where they were flying to. They headed swiftly into the heart of the city coming in well above the four hundredth floor of the Trade Centre.
“Nearly done Hels,” said Adam. She looked at him. “The company wants to talk to you, some of the other corporations wished to be present.”
She held her face, refusing to reveal anything. A press conference, she thought with dismay, wanting nothing more than to be left alone, allowed to process what had happened to her in private.
“What about him?” she asked.
“Edward?” He looked at the young oligarch, who was still deeply asleep. “He’ll be looked after. He’s our secret, even now.”
Adam smiled at Helena, “You did a great job keeping Indexiv away for us, Johannes is very proud.”
What on earth did Johannes tell him?
“How is Oliver?” she asked, and was satisfied to see a shadow of ignorance pass across his face.
“Not sure really, Father discovered him stealing from the family, megawatts of energy.” He trailed off.
He’s not sure he’s been told the truth, thought Helena, unsure whether she was impressed that he would think to question Johannes’ version of events.
The jet drifted sideways into its docking junction. The trade centre blotted out the sky, its sheer sides rising up above and falling away below. They felt like mites latched on to some blissfully ignorant behemoth.
The hatchway opened onto a welcoming committee. The Communications Director of Euros, Helena’s ultimate manager, was the first to enter. Behind him were a number of her more direct superiors.
The Director was a huge man, over two and a half metres tall. Even stooping his presence filled the small jet. He was one of her father’s peers; the two families were distantly related, joined somewhere by marriage.
He was wearing a slender grey suit that hung from his massive frame. Helena suspected that if he had not been an Oligarch, his legendary appetites would have seen him weigh in somewhere in the region of a small whale.
His lusts were carnal, in the fullest sense of the word, and he delighted in the fact that his small harem of Normal women was the talk of many a skiing trip. He was famous for witticisms, the only one of which Helena could remember related to his view that having sex with Normals was best practised like a Japanese banquet.
He smiled expansively, grabbed Helena’s right hand in one of his bear-like paws. Behind him, the others smiled at her beatifically. Adam nodded when acknowledged then quietly slipped out behind the jostling retinue with a wilting Edward. Denholme shrank back into his seat, ignored by everyone and the Hound, who had shut himself in the cockpit, did not reappear.
“Well done Helena, well done.” The others nodded their agreement.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied cautiously, knowing she was as far out of her depth here as she had been with the Hound in Southern Africa.
“No need to be cautious girl,” said the Director, “Euros owes you a debt of gratitude that we shall take our time expressing to you.”
There was a chorus of assent. Helena was getting lost in the sea of faces. Her primary AI was whispering to her, telling her to be suspicious. It only added to the confusion.
Before she had time to gather her thoughts, the Director had contrived to put his arm behind her and whisked her forward onto the vestibule floor past the gangway. They were followed by the Director’s attendants, a carefully choreographed blend of Oligarchs and highly ranked Normals.
He bent down, whispered into her ear, “Just a small conference to see through and then you’ll be debriefed.”
She nodded, “Sir.”
“George, call me George.” He stood up straight, said in a louder voice, “Euros is well pleased.”
The corridor was clear sided and lushly lit by the sun. As she walked along it, Helena remembered someone she had once heard speak about corporate image, about its role in inter-corporation communications management. In other words, the press corps was present, waiting to manage her experience for the good of the company. Helena groaned as her sense of being out of control threatened to overwhelm her.
If you could survive Southern Africa, you can survive this, said her AI. She tried to ignore it, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to for long.
When the Director remained silent, those around him took the chance to divulge whatever information they had. Helena had heard of his reputation for ignoring most of what was said to him so that the only certain way to get anything through to him was to repeat it, loudly and often.
The Director worked under the assumption that, if something was important, his staff would not give up. Most of his staff were aware of his policy and used the journey to the press briefing room to tick their lists. She suspected he was smarter than that.
They stopped briefly outside the pressroom while a couple of officers linked them into the Cloud.
As one of them was tucking a link behind her ear, he said, “I know you’re tired, but you’re about to be seen by thirty odd million people. Have you got enough energy to clean up a bit?” He smiled wanly stepping back to check out his handy work.
Helena’s eyes were wide open but she did as she was told. Her AI murmured in the background.
Which archetypal hero will they manufacture out of me? How will Edward be excluded from the agenda? thought Helena.
Her nanomachines were busy exfoliating her skin, cleaning away grease, applying colours according to one of her eveningwear schemes. Her attendant clasped his hands together in satisfaction and nodded contently to his companion who had finished with George. As they were about to be ushered into the room George held up a hand to stay their progress for a moment.
“Helena, let me lead, the link you’ve got,” he indicated toward her ear with a massive fore
finger. “It’s two way. If we need you to say anything you’ll be told.” She nodded mutely.
Somewhere, as if from behind a door, her AI sniggered.
“Walsh,” continued the Director. “Heads up.”
Walsh identified himself by stepping forward, “Sir, there’s information about the technology, but little else. The best line is considered to be its rescue from behind enemy lines by Ms. Woolf.”
The Director listened carefully, “If you’re asked about the medium of the technology, we’ll advise. If you’re asked about the personnel involved, dither. If you’re pressed about the technology itself, refocus on Ms. Woolf’s achievement and the wider war effort.”
A single man stepped ahead of them and opened the doors to the conference room. As he did so, another said, “Share price is down two megawatts, high volume, acceptable volatility.”
Then they were in.
THE light was flat and harsh. The footage of the Director as he escorted Euros’ latest hero into the room was adjusted in real-time. A small picture floated alongside them, showing what was being broadcast. Helena was presented as both heroic and perfect, someone who had overcome suffering with dignity.
Helena’s AI told her that there were one hundred and seventeen people in the room, plus AI aggregators for those news agencies unable to obtain passes or personal invites.
A few of the assembled shouted out her name; she looked from one to the other, keeping quiet. There was already someone at their table. She recognised him as Rupert Molliere, one of the Directors of Communications, and it was his show.
It took a few moments for the room to quieten down to a level where Helena could hear herself think. Murmurings continued but they did not interfere with the centre stage.
A Family War: The Oligarchy - Book 1 Page 20
