by Terry Tyler
"This does sound somewhat unfair," said Jesse, quietly and calmly. "Don't you think so, Georgia?"
"I'm sorry, I really am." Georgia crumpled up her paper napkin in one hand, gripping it. Every atom of warmth had disappeared from her eyes. "By which I mean that I'm sorry you feel this way. I'll be honest; I did look up your record when Rob told me about your situation and—well, to put it bluntly, you haven't been the easiest birth parent to deal with. And, as you say, Leah doesn't know who you are any more. She's happy with her friends and care providers; would you take that away from her? Isn't that a bit selfish?"
Another woman said, "That puts a different perspective on it," and a couple of them murmured in agreement. I wanted to kill them.
Georgia relaxed, the blush fading from her cheeks. She probably had to deal with this sort of thing all the time, and was well-versed in how to do so. "NPU has made ground-breaking strides around the concept that the traditional family may not necessarily be the best environment for a child. NPU affords a child a wider world view, a chance to develop their own personality, unencumbered by the emotional issues of the birth parents."
My whole body went from burning hot with anger to so cold I shivered. "My only emotional issue is having my child stolen from me." I stood, and turned to Jesse and Lorna. "I think I'd better go. Thank you so much for inviting me, the food was wonderful, and I'm truly sorry for spoiling your dinner party."
I didn't look at Rob. I picked up my bag, and walked out.
I did feel bad about Jesse and Lorna, who were lovely; I sent them flowers with a note of apology once I was on the ziprail.
I put away my com and stared out at the neat stacks and walkways, thinking I hate you, Megacity 12. I thought of our old cottage in Derbyshire, and I ached to be home again, in my normal life, not this crazy, dystopian nightmare.
Eric was right.
I wondered where he was. Whether we would have made it, if not for MC12.
I went to bed alone and exhausted. I wondered if Rob might call or come round, if only to be extremely cross with me, but first thing in the morning I received a message saying I had caused him a great deal of embarrassment, that he couldn't accept how rude I'd been to Georgia, and thought it best if we call it a day. I didn't reply, and I didn't realise how badly I'd messed up until I got a notification to report to the warden, half way through the next day's shift.
Sunflower Lodge had an excellent working relationship with NPU, I was told, collaborating as the two organisations did on the best possible care for children with learning difficulties. He'd been told by a valued member of NPU staff that, in a social setting, I'd made highly inflammatory remarks about its procedures; as such, he felt that I was not 'on the same page' as the rest of the staff.
In other words, I dared think for myself.
Anyway, I lost my job.
I shut the door on Sunflower Lodge and toddled back to square one.
Chapter 11
Tara
2051 ~ 2059
My future: not three years studying commercial art in glorious Cornwall, but a Tech Village cubicle and a little white box in Stack 228, MC12.
My first reaction was to tell Clinton to stuff it, that I'd make my own way.
"I'd give that some thought, if I were you," he called out, as I stormed out of the breakfast room.
Up in my room I studied the images he'd sent me of my new workstation and my new home. The flat didn't look much bigger than the Tech Village workspace.
I picked up my bag and went straight round to tell Tallulah what had happened—not the reason why, but about him washing his hands of me.
I was sure Tallulah would be sympathetic. By the time I got to their house, I'd convinced myself that she would ask her mum if I could stay there until I found myself a job and could afford a flat; her mum would be delighted to have me there.
Wrong.
Tallulah was shocked. "No college? But we were going to have such a good time!"
She'd chosen to do her 21st Century Culture degree down in MC15, too.
"I know, it's cack, but if I can stay in MC5, we'll still be able to hang out in the holidays."
"Yeah, but—"
"I was thinking; would your mum would let me stay here? Just until I find myself a job and a flat? She always says I'm part of the family, doesn't she? She could let me have the spare room, like before."
"Mum wouldn't allow that. She likes to keep it ready for a guest, just in case."
"Well, what would I be?"
Her cheeks flushed. "You know what I mean."
"Okay, well, how about a futon in here? Just for a couple of months, till I've found a job and saved up the deposit."
She grinned at me. "That would be cool."
"I know, wouldn't it? So, are you going to go ask her, then?"
The grin disappeared. "Yeah … okay."
She went downstairs and left me sitting on her bed. She was gone ages. I flopped back onto the soft pillows, looked up at the stars and rainbows on her ceiling, and wondered what it would be like to have had a happy childhood.
When she came back, I knew the answer just by looking at her face.
"Mum says no, sorry." She stood in the doorway, fiddling with the ends of her long hair.
"Yeah?" I sat up. "Did she say why not?"
"Oh, you know."
"No, I don't."
She glanced at me, then looked away. "It's, y'know, 'cause of who your dad is."
"I haven't got a dad."
"You know what I mean. Clinton. She can't go against a Bettencourt."
"But she wouldn't be, she'd just be putting me up for a couple of months—what about last summer? I got on great with her and your dad, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but—" She turned her attention to the door frame, scratching her nail against the paintwork. "Mum said that if Clinton's not paying for college and he's sending you away, there's got to be a reason. 'Cause he's treated Zia and Jerome like they're his real kids, and he's even adopted Jerome. Like, if he wants you gone, she can't go against him." Scratch scratch. "Why's he doing this, anyway?"
"'Cause he's an arsehole." I shut my eyes. I knew this feeling.
On my own, running down the road with nowhere to go, my little purple backpack bouncing up and down in time with my steps.
All alone in the world.
I'd been here before, I could deal with it again. I jumped off the bed. "I'll think of something. Thanks for asking, anyway. Hey—we still going to Seraphina's party on Tuesday? I can tell everyone; it'll be my going away party, too!"
Still she wouldn't look at me. "I-I can't."
"Why not? Come on, you're looking forward to it; we both are!" I wasn't particularly, but I was eighteen, so going to a party was always preferable to not going to a party.
She stopped scratching the paintwork and stared at me, her eyes all big, like she might cry. "Mum said it might be best if I don't hang out with you. Because—oh, this is fucking shit."
My heart started to thud. "Because what?"
She fiddled with her hair some more. "Look, this isn't me, it's Mum. But she said that—well, that if Clinton's, like, disowning you, it means that—that if I hang out with you it'll look bad on my social interactions."
"He's not disowning me, he's—"
Her cheeks flushed bright pink. "Yeah, but he is, though, isn't he? He's sending you away. Mum said you must have done something really bad—"
How quickly the rich close their doors. Just like that, I was out in the cold.
I said, "Fuck you, then." I pushed past her because I could feel angry tears welling up, and there was no way I was crying in front of her. If she could drop me just like that, fuck her.
As I walked down the landing she said, "I'm sorry, Tar—it's not me, it's Mum, and she said Dad would say the same, and they're paying for my education—"
I lifted a hand to wave in reply, without turning around, and carried on down the stairs.
One megacity is much like another.
The one-bedroom box in Stack 228, Sector 4, MC12 was like living in a cupboard compared with Clinton and Marilee's house, but I liked it. Nobody could come through the front door unless I said so.
Not that I knew anyone who'd want to, but I would, in time.
Starting my job meant being fitted with a NuSens. Of course I knew about them, but I'd never given them much thought. The nifty little gadget embedded in my upper arm meant that what I ate, what I drank, when I had sex—absolutely bloody everything would be recorded and analysed by MC12's AI. The robot-like nurse went on about how brilliant it was—all I would have to do was tap the NuSens icon on my com, and I would be able to see, at a glance, whether I had overdone the carbs that day, or needed a Vitamin D boost.
"And it gives menu suggestions—I'm addicted to mine, I check it before I go shopping so I know what to buy!"
Awesome. So this was the real megacity, the one that people rebelled against when I was a child. I remembered Shane ranting when I was a kid, saying he'd rather die than live under total surveillance.
I didn't fully understand what total surveillance was until I was fitted with my NuSens.
I knew that 'they' knew where we were at any given time, who we hung out with etc., from our coms, but that didn't bother me. This did, though. I hated it. The feeling that my employer would be able to tell if I had one beer too many, if I couldn't sleep, even if I'd missed breakfast.
I was offered this new thing, too: the iSync chip, to be inserted on the brow bone. It enabled you to record anything you could see, by tapping on the icon on your com.
"Then you can stream it whenever you want!" said the smiling nurse. "Say you've had a great day out with your family—you can relive it, later!"
Yeah, I thought, and who else can? I said I'd need to think about that.
"Well, I do recommend it, it's brilliant! The other day I watched my niece's sixth birthday party all over again!"
"You don't get a black mark against you if you don't want it?"
"No, no, of course not, but it's so addictive." She was practically having multiple orgasms over the idea of total removal of privacy, just so she could watch a cute kid blowing out her candles twice over.
"I'll give it a pass for now, all the same."
I ziprailed back to Stack 228, idly wondering if it was possible to fool NuSens. Like, drink a shit-load of beer or take half a bottle of vitamin tabs, then puke it all up. Do one minute of crazy exercise to make your heart rate go berserk in the middle of the night. Hold your breath under water at random times of the day. Fuck with the AI. Make it explode!
I arranged my belongings in my flat, and wandered around the neighbourhood, checking out cafés and hair and beauty salons in the nearest Hub. Not half as luxurious as those in the gated community.
I visited Lark's Pond, the best green area in the city—nearly a square mile of real countryside—and the peace and trees seemed to emphasise how alone I was, but not in a sad way. More like my life was a blank sheet of paper waiting to be drawn on; I was a little stick figure in the corner.
Next: my very first job, in MC12's Tech Village.
I was an 'angel', for the vast Educational Analysis team. Yes, that really was my job title; every team had a few. Basically, it meant that I went down to the 2-Go kiosk in the foyer about ninety thousand times a day for the team's coffees, lunches and snacks. I went up on the roof to collect deliveries (many had their purchases delivered to work), I made hair, dentist, doctor and nail appointments for everyone who was too lazy—sorry, busy—to make them for themselves. I fetched and carried anything that needed fetching and carrying. I was a dogsbody. The job was E grade, which meant that I could just afford to live in my flat if I sneakily bought my breakfast and lunch on the accounts of those for whom I fetched and carried.
It was Mitch, another angel, who introduced me to this.
"We all do it, and they know we do. Put it on a different person's every time; say Tom wants a brie and avocado croissant—you order two. Or order Jodie a Caesar salad as well as her zero burger and parsnip fries. Most never bother to check and if they do, they don't mind, 'cause they've all struggled to make ends meet on E grade at some point, but one or two will report you for it, for which you'll get a major employment ethics demerit; it's a four-pointer. I'll let you have the grumpy list. Don't put so much as a carrot baton on theirs."
I learned to live like every other hard-up eighteen-year-old in the stacks. I used the company gym so I didn't have to pay for membership in the local Mojo Body Studio; the activity in my daily life meant I scarcely needed it, but we were all paranoid that the tattle-tales in our arms would bring on a health maintenance demerit. My food and toiletries came from Afford, my clothes and cosmetics from Market Value. My braids were fairly low maintenance. No more salon lasering; I bought tweezers. I could have afforded better, but I wanted a social life, too.
I thought having to relinquish my previous lifestyle would be a major downer, but it wasn't. I didn't mind, I felt normal again. I was back where I belonged, with ordinary people.
I spent all my free time alone at first, because I didn't know anyone. I thought too much. About my childhood, a lot of the time. I looked up Benjamin Bundock and Radar Bundock on Heart, thinking that I might be able to connect with him now that I was over eighteen, but I still got a blank page and the words You do not have access to this profile. I tried another couple of people I remembered from Hope 44—same result.
I told Mitch, my fellow angel, about wanting to get in touch, and he said we could go to Locate, a massive database with details of everyone in every megacity and Hope Village.
"And most of the off-grids," he told me. "A handful have stayed independent, but most have hooked up with the megacities to get shit like medical insurance and power sources. So they're not actually off-grids at all."
I wanted to head straight for Locate and find out where Radar was, but it wasn't as easy as that. I had to put in a request, and all they would tell me was that he was no longer in Hope 44. I asked where he was now, but they said that information was not available to me. That was all.
I hoped so much that he'd escaped and was living in an off-grid, a real off-grid, taking care of cows and horses.
As for my MC5 life, I didn't understand at first how completely over it was. Both Marilee and Zia denied anything but a chat call, which upset me; they'd been the nearest I had to family for years. Marilee was moderately forthcoming and seemed not altogether unhappy to hear from me, but after a few short conversations she said it might be better if I didn't call for a while, 'just until the dust has settled'. I tried my best with Zia, but every time I called her she was 'just about to go to a lecture' or 'just about to go to bed', until I gave up.
Tallulah ignored my calls; after the fourth, she blocked me on Heart. Shortly afterwards, the rest of our crowd did the same. That hurt. Made me understand how Radar must have felt when I left.
I didn't want to tie myself in knots, seething and wondering what would have happened if I'd spoken out—a whole lot of much worse shit, I imagine—so I shut it out and got myself a new life. Toughening up never did anyone any harm.
I went to Nerve after work, with Mitch and his angel friends from different departments; I could afford two drinks on four nights a week or one blow-out, so I chose the former. I loved Nerve. It was so much more cool than the posh kid places where I'd hung out before. I was soon accepted by the inner circle, the king of which was a social media stylist called Cosmo. We became buddies because he saw me as some sort of princess-of-the-streets, which made me laugh because he'd moved to MC12 when he was eight, with B grade eco-activist parents, so he didn't actually know what 'the streets' were. As in school, I was amused by how the privileged saw pre-megacity deprived areas as milieux of dark yet thrilling adventure. There was nothing cool about being brought up by two CI drug dealers, but it gave me as much kudos out here as it had in Bettencourt land. All the same, I changed my name back to Tara Jackson. Bettencourt attracted
attention for the wrong reasons.
I had boyfriends, but nothing serious. Just sex and fun, really. Never came close to falling in love—that wouldn't happen for a while. I was neither unhappy nor wildly happy; I had good times with friends and busy days at work, though the only way to move up from my position was to 'angel' for a larger or more prestigious department; fetching coffees and making nail appointments didn't do much for a girl's résumé.
I liked my job, performed well and made sure not to get any demerits (aside from the odd one-pointer for too much booze over the weekend), because if I had no job there was nowhere to go but Hope Village. No more flat to myself. No more Nerve and weekend walks around Lark's Pond and Wildacre. No more staff outings to the Great Outdoors in MC13, which isn't really outdoors 'cause it has a weatherproof dome over it, but you can do lots of groovy adventure shit there.
The only advantages of going back to Hope would be the possibility of finding Radar, and losing the NuSens chip, which I resented more and more every day. I heard they were bringing in tracking chips in Hope Village, but they were purely for establishing location. No need to monitor the blood pressure levels of the scum of the earth, because nobody cares if they die.
I worked as an angel until just after my twenty-second birthday. It wasn't a bad life. It could have been a great deal worse.
I've never been vain; I wasn't then, and I'm not now. I had a good figure, simply because I was twenty-two and on my feet all day—you try doing up to twenty-five thousand steps by six p.m. and often being too busy to eat, you'd be a small size eight, too. I was no great beauty, but friends like Cosmo said I had a cool look. It was those braids, I guess; Cosmo got his 'hairy godmother' to fix me up with extensions that reached to my waist.
