by G R Matthews
“I should have remembered.” Was not the response I expected, it was the one I got.
“Remembered?”
“Yes, I should have got it when I sat down. Been that kind of day, I suppose.”
“What do you mean remembered?” Why I was even asking? My best bet was to be quiet, drink my drink, hope my name was enough to get a little sympathy and then get out of this situation as quickly as possible.
“I was there, in the court. It was part of my job.” So that’s where I had seen her before. Not well, but then the court had been full of people and most of it had been a confusing mess. Faces sped past, witnesses, journalists, clips presenters, lawyers, judges, the Mayor alongside the crowd of onlookers, do-gooders, nosey parkers and ghoul chasers. I couldn’t tell you which one of those she was. I doubt that was one of the last bunch. She was too refined, too posh and that in-eye spoke of money and business. “I was so sorry about what happened. I had to transcribe the notes and summarise them all for the Mayor, that’s who I work for.”
“He sent a card, you know,” I said.
“I know.”
“Of course you do, sorry.”
“The card was really from him, by the way. I arranged it, the Mayor asked me to. He made sure he signed it himself.”
“You’ll have to thank him for me.” I tried to sound sincere, not angry. All I really wanted now was to forget. I hadn’t had enough to drink yet and she was still here, in front of me, knowing it all, in detail.
“I will. He will be very glad you read the card.” She sounded more sincere than I’d managed and I got the feeling it wasn’t an act.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” The flickering light of her in-eye was gone and she had a far-away look back in her eyes. “The accident was the first real crisis he had to deal with when he took over. He felt, still feels, responsible. After all, it is his city to run and the buck stops with him.”
“So it’s selfish on his part then. He doesn’t care about me or about…” I dragged in a big lungful of air. I wasn’t ready to finish that sentence. “He just cares because he had to deal with the media and it looked bad because it happened on his watch.”
She looked directly at me. It was a steady gaze. More than that, it was unrelenting. I could feel myself wilt under the pressure. I looked away.
“Let me get you another drink,” and this time it wasn’t me offering.
I sat there, in my guilt-upholstered chair, and watched her glide up to the bar to order the drinks. It shouldn’t have been a shock, though it was, when Tom helped her bring them back to the table. We rarely got to see his legs. Most of us would have said he started at the waist and finished at the top of his bald head. How he moved behind the bar had remained an unexplored mystery, until now.
Now she had Tom breaking the rules. If you can’t carry your own drinks it’s time you stopped drinking and went home. From the corner of my eye, I saw one of the long timers knock back his poison of choice and stagger out of the bar shaking his head. The world was changing.
“So,” she started, “how is work these days?”
Perhaps she was letting me off the hook a little. “It’s fine. I get enough jobs off the board to get by.”
“And the other wet-welders?” Perhaps she wasn’t. But she’d bought the drinks and it would be rude to throw them back in her face, metaphorically and physically.
“I don’t talk to them much. They return the compliment.” Which was certainly true. On a job, I never bothered to find out their names. They knew mine from the work docket and from the Fish-Suit. There weren’t that many of us in the city and you could bet your liver and kidneys that there wasn’t another one in the whole world taking their jobs off the board every day.
Only one percent of all Fish-Suit trainees lasted the course. For most, putting the suit on once was enough. I hated it as much as the next person but I could cope. Even in the early days, when everyone else was puking into the Oxyquid, the breathing liquid that swamped your throat and lungs inducing the instinctive fight against the fear of drowning, I wasn’t going to beaten. I don’t have much self-respect, especially now, but I don’t like being beaten.
“Sounds lonely.” No kidding, I thought. ”How do you cope?”
I moved my gaze slowly around the bar to indicate one answer to that question and added, “Born stubborn.”
“I need to powder my nose,” she said and rose from her seat. With a small smile she added, “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
Chapter 4
I sat back in the chair and rested my head on the wall. Now she had gone, I could let go of the cramp in my stomach and the ache in my shoulders. From my pocket I drew, carefully, a few folded pieces of card.
Opening the first, I stared, as I did every night, into the face of my child. Tyler had been fourteen when the photograph was taken, two weeks later was the funeral. I couldn’t cope, not sure who could’ve. I’d thrown myself into work, and the bottle. The coroner’s report, which revealed the sexual assault and the injuries inflicted afterwards, was more than my wife could take. She broke down. The city hospital worked hard, and I couldn’t argue with her care, but she’d surrendered her hold on the world. The cops never caught the pervert and murderer. They’d even suspected me at the start. Another reason my wife had left us all.
Work, drink. Drink, work. That was my life back then. Not too different to now I suppose, but then lives had depended on me and I didn’t care. The accident killed seven co-workers, my friends. That was the court case she was talking about. The judge had exonerated me of any guilt due to diminished responsibility. They took my licence and travel-docs off me. Two years later, I had the licence back and the psychs declared me safe. The travel-docs I never wanted back. I would be in this city, Tyler’s city, until I died.
The picture was just a scrap really. Lots of Tyler’s stuff had ended up ripped and torn. The anger and grief had done that. I just helped out by letting the drink give them free reign. Part of my treatment was to piece it back together and whilst I couldn’t find it all, I did find bits. I gazed at the smiling face on the photograph and felt a sad smile form on my own.
“Your child?” she asked and reached out an open hand. I hadn’t heard her return or know how long she had been watching me.
I swallowed and put the picture on her outstretched palm.
“A beautiful child. I am very sorry,” she said in soft tones as she handed the photograph back.
“Yeah. Me too.” It came out harsher than I’d intended. I wasn’t going to apologise.
“Corin,” she began, then faltered and had to regroup a little. “Corin, I don’t want to tell you how to live. Ocean knows, I’m in no position to pass judgement, but once in a while it might be good to let someone in. Let someone care a little and take some of the burden off your shoulders.”
“Lady, I did that a while ago. Look where it got me.” Why she’d stuck with me through three rounds of drinks was a mystery. I’m not handsome, my charm is sorely lacking and my social graces were left in the gutter along with last night’s dinner.
“And you think that is what either of them wanted?”
“They’re dead and the dead don’t want anything.” I raised my eyes to hers and let a little bit of anger flare in them. I could see, in hers, only cool water though. Water always dampens a fire.
“Then, perhaps, the living can care and can want, for you. As soon as I recognised you, I sent a message to the Mayor. He’s kept tabs on you through the city-web over the years. There aren’t many with your skills and expertise, and, well, he wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Probably just wanted to make sure I didn’t go insane and cause more damage.” I finished the beer off in a few short gulps and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “I don’t want to be rude,” I saw her eyebrows rise, “but I think it’s time you left. Thanks for the drink.”
“You’re right, I think it is.” She left her drink unfinished on
the table. “Maybe, one day you’ll let someone in and see it isn’t all bad.”
She stormed out of the bar. She’d never fit in if she couldn’t follow the rules, never leave your drink unfinished.
Chapter 5
I woke early and, as normal, I had a hangover. Not a bad one, only a three on my personal scale of one to ten. I’d never had a ten. The memory of the nine sent shudders down my spine.
Struggling out of the covers, I staggered the few steps into the shower and let the lukewarm water wash the night and the alcohol away. It worked for the former, but it had no effect on the latter. The painkiller took the edge off the headache and I sat at the small city-web access screen.
Tapping the keyboard, I brought up the job lists for today. There were one or two that suited me and I put in bids. The first was turned down straight away. A few moments later the second was accepted. At least I could earn something today. Next, I checked the news hub and apart from the usual reports of conflicts near the Antarctic oil fields there was nothing in the local area to worry or excite me.
The mail box was my last stop. In amongst the adverts for penis enlargements, hair regeneration creams and nights of passion with girls whose images promised paradise but were, probably, in reality, six foot four with arms like tree trunks and persuasive way of parting the unsuspecting sensation seeker from their money, was an invitation that looked genuine. The mail came from the rich girl last night. The one who worked for the Mayor. For some reason she, and he, wanted to meet. The meeting was set for tonight and in a restaurant that would consume all my earnings from today’s job for just a glass of water with a slice of fruit in it. Ice would be extra. If they were paying, and the message hinted strongly that they were, I would go. It would make a change from the bar.
I closed the system down and headed out to work. I’m a wet-welder. It’s not glamorous. It is dangerous. It pays the bills. There aren’t many of us around. The really good ones are usually on a permanent contract to the Company. The bad ones sell their skills on the job boards, just like I did this morning. The fact that I was reduced to working alongside the bad ones was, in part, my own fault. I’d been on contract once, but the court case put an end to that. It also meant that even on the boards I wasn’t seen as a good risk.
Sure, some of the foremen who did the casual hiring knew how good I was and understood what had happened. They were few and far between. Even fewer when they had their own jobs to protect. If something went wrong when I was on shift, it would be their neck on the line.
I managed to find enough work to get by and my rep was slowly building. In another ten years or so, it might be high enough and people’s memories fuzzy enough that I could try for another contract.
The skin-tight under-layer of the Fish-Suit was always a struggle to pull on. A cloud of talcum powder and swear words accompanied the activity. The exoskeleton which encased my whole body, protecting me from the hideous pressure at this depth whilst being flexible enough to do delicate work, was easier. Out of the water, it was bloody heavy and moving was real chore, but it was only a few meters to the airlock and the suit charging station it housed.
The outer doors closed and I attached the cables to the connectors on the suit. The red hose charged the power systems and I watched the suit run through its pre-launch checks on the heads-up display. All systems showed green. The next bit was the worst, and also the reason why there were so few of us. I gave the command, pressing the finger controls inside my glove. If I’d been in a full pressure personal sub, a worker sub, I could have used voice commands. In a Fish-Suit, you can’t speak.
The lights on the blue hose came on and I could hear the whistle of air being sucked out of my suit. It became harder to breathe. Thick gel entered the suit and started to pool around my feet and legs. It rose past my knees, hips and belly as I struggled to draw enough air into my lungs. It was always this way. You couldn’t help but feel the fear as you ran out of air.
I fought the natural instinct to panic and rip the suit off. The gel rose past my chest and over my chin, mouth and nose. I held my breath, we all did at this point. We knew what was happening, but there is an inbuilt reflex no one could overcome. There wasn’t a Fish-Suit user who couldn’t chill your spine with the story of their first time.
The last of the air escaped my lungs in one sharp, bubble filled, burst and I gagged mightily as I sucked in the gel. Some users, at this point, are sick and have to go out with the chunks swimming around their visor. One or two, so the stories go, had choked and died on their own vomit.
The gel filled my lungs and though it felt like drowning, I didn’t. It was this that put most folks off. The alternate feelings of suffocating, then drowning were not something everyone wanted to go through day in, day out. Some trainees said once was enough and gone back to the worker subs and other professions.
Anyway, this wasn’t my first time. I lost count years ago. The gel was full of oxygen and although my chest ached to push the gel out and drag more in, I knew it wouldn’t kill me.
The visor indicated the last of the checks complete and water poured into the cubicle. Once the room was full, I tapped out the instructions to open the outer door and used the thrusters, small but powerful water jets, to move out into the open ocean.
City lights gave the water a green glow. Other lights, embedded in, or tethered to, the sea floor increased the visibility to about fifty metres. Not too bad at this depth.
The sea is never quiet. There is always noise. Close to the city, the deep hum of the generators and the clanking of people and machines churning out whatever it was they made. Further away it became quieter, but the sea is a good conductor of sound. I’ve heard many things over the years, the deep thrum of whales shouting to each other over the miles, the moan of the sea floor moving, rhythmic thumps of, well, whatever it was that thumped rhythmically out there.
My visor showed the location of today’s work site, not too far away. Using the thrusters, I turned myself around and got moving. Fish-Suits were never quick. There wasn’t the room, or need, for a large battery to drive faster thrusters.
The job wasn’t likely to take long. The suit could keep me in the water for almost a day if I needed it too. I’d done that once. It wasn’t something I wanted to repeat. On the visor scanner, I could see two full-suits which would do any heavy lifting, and a mini-sub that contained the foreman. As I approached, I logged into the work-web to see the current state of play and to get my instructions. Simple support welding and water seal work. Boring. No challenge.
A few hours later it was done. I watched the payment enter my bank account in a little window on the HUD and headed back to the airlock to de-suit and get some food. The worst bit about the de-suiting? Getting the gel out of your lungs.
It burned like fire on the way up, your ribs ached as you pushed as much out as possible in one big heave. Then there was the coughing as your lungs tried to expel every last bit. All the time your own reflexes and reactions were trying to drag in as much air as possible. There’d been a time or two, maybe more, that in between a cough and gasp, I’d cover the floor with my breakfast, or lunch depending on the time of day. It wasn’t unheard of and I’d stopped being worried about it years ago.
Chapter 6
I got to the restaurant early. It hadn’t been hard to find the right clothes to wear. A single white shirt and pair of trousers were the only smart clothes I owned. I’d had a suit once, just for the court appearances. Once the court case was over, I shoved it down a waste chute.
The maître de gave me the dismissive once over. The look on his face when I gave him my name and he found it on the reservation list was worth the insulting looks. I’m damn sure he enjoyed the petty revenge of giving me the spare tie to wear. Yellow is not my colour.
He walked me to the table, past the other diners who obviously shared his disdain. A waiter was there, waiting, with the wine list. A quick flit around the city-web earlier to see what current dinner trends were su
ggested the new craze was to resurrect old languages and stick them on menus. If you were rich, you were educated. More importantly, if you were rich you had the implants that would translate the menu for you. I ordered a beer and put the wine list on the table without opening it.
She arrived, with the night’s bill payer, when I was halfway through my beer. I stood up to greet her, them. I’d been raised to be a gentleman. It had slipped a lot over the years, at times I’d forgotten completely, but it was still there, when I needed it.
“Corin,” she said by way of a greeting whilst I desperately fought to roll my tongue back into my gaping mouth, “let me introduce you to Merrick Storn, Mayor of the City.”
“Corin, good to meet you.” The Mayor put out his hand to be shaken and I had to focus to grasp it on the first go. The hand shake was firm and I was strangely glad he didn’t do the politician’s second hand over the first and pat routine. There was a knowing look in his eye as he said, “I know, but I didn’t employ Derva just for her looks. She is an incredible organiser and keeps me on track every day. I couldn’t be without her and she knows it.”
“Please, sit,” he continued and moved smoothly round the table to hold the chair for Derva, beating me to it. She folded her slim frame, coated in a deep red dress, into the waiting chair and gave her boss a small smile.
The waiter re-appeared and handed out the menus. I had no idea what they said. The websites had been right. For all I knew, I was holding the bloody thing upside down. A glance at Derva and the Mayor told me they were either better actors than I was or could read the menu without any trouble. Derva, I knew, had the in-eye and by the extension of simple logic the Mayor would have them too.
