by Terry Tyler
I hadn't understood what my job actually meant. Basically, I was telling thousands of people that Nucrop products were a healthy choice.
Ned didn't tell me what I should or shouldn't do, ever, and he never preached, but judged when the time was right to drop a piece of info into the conversation.
Later, I would remember that when he did so it was always when we were out for a walk, never inside the flat.
That night he told me facts that hadn't been part of my training course, and I saw that I was actively promoting a product that could cause infertility and obesity.
"And as long as they never get on top of their weight worries, they'll keep buying all those Nutricorp diet products."
Once that had sunk in, Ned told me about Lita Stone. I'd vaguely heard the name, back when I was a child, something to do with her revealing a malpractice in the early Hope Villages, but that was all I knew.
"She'd been living in a Hope for a while before she noticed that no women ever became pregnant; she discovered that the vitamin supplements and anti-deps given to the men were doctored with a sperm blocker. Twenty-five, thirty years ago, there were whistleblowing sites on the mainstream internet that got cancelled during the Great Shift—she got the info out via one of them, who then gave exclusive rights to a news site that's also long gone. She had to disappear, of course. She's a legend amongst activists."
"And you're an activist?" I said, and laughed, kind of nervously. "A known subversive?"
He ran a hand through his messy hair in that lovely, lazy way he did. "Well, I'm no Lita Stone, but I'm a non-active subscriber to a few dark net sites that talk about this shit. Like, don't eat Nucrop. I guess they realised that a major block on male fertility wasn't such a great idea if Hope Village inmates were working it out, so they changed to a more subtle course of action. I used to try to post stuff about it on Heart, but the censorship rejected it. A few friends found that their profiles had become severely restricted, and a couple of major league troublemakers disappeared, so I decided to get out. For now."
My mouth dropped open. "Disappeared? What do you mean?"
He shrugged. "Just gone. As if they never existed. I don't know any more than that."
"Jesus."
"Yep. Put the wind up me good and proper, that did. But I bet I've still got a black mark against my name."
He told me about a theory that there was also a chemical in Nucrop that induced a feeling of calm and well-being, though this hadn't been confirmed.
"You know, to keep us docile. But Nutricorp and the government soon shut down any whispers about anything like this. It's not like it was back in Lita Stone's day; she got samples out and sent them to a lab. You couldn't do that now; they wouldn't get through the scanners." He looked up at the darkening sky. "And that's another outrage."
"What is?"
"That you can't even send a present to your old granny in Senior Village without them knowing exactly what the content of the parcel is. Sometimes I'm tempted to write Happy Birthday and don't forget to kill the Prime Minister on the wrapping paper, just to see what happens."
I laughed. "I don't really think about it."
"No, that's because you've scarcely known any different. I have."
Ned was thirty-eight. Born in 2020, so he had clear memories of pre-megacity life. Even the dark net was monitored these days, though there were always rumours of other networks starting up. Knowing how to get onto them was something else, though, and I had enough trouble keeping my life together without diving down any more dark holes.
That was the night I started, though.
A week or so later, I turned up at MC12's Retail Village to do my usual Wednesday promo. I chatted to my team, Dinesh, Louis and Rachel, who were filling up the trays with delicious Nucrop samples, fresh from the oven. I wore my white body-con dress to show that eating carbs doesn't make you fat, my sash, and a yellow flower behind my ear.
The Nucrop Girl.
For the first time, I felt silly.
The first interested party came up—a young woman. I offered her samples, and did what I always do—asked if I could face ID her, so I could deliver 'foodie facts' straight to her com.
"ID away," she said, smiling. She seemed nice. Not someone I'd want to bullshit.
I held up my com. Her name was Edie. E grade teaching assistant. Husband Darren, F grade hygiene operative. My target market, to sign up for weekly deliveries. All over the country, Nucrop influencers were given heavy targets to reach, as ever-climbing numbers were required to maintain global interest—Nucrop was exported to countries that hadn't adjusted so well to the changing climate. I was told that I'd had a fabulous effect on product movement, but I needed to push even harder.
More people were coming up to take a look. More targets—all I needed was one sign-up, and they'd all fall into my lap. My target for the day was a minimum of eighty in six hours. Just over thirteen per hour. About one every four and a half minutes. I lured them in, then passed them to Dinesh, Rachel or Louis to face ID and add the goods; that took between one and three minutes, what with the necessary social niceties. I had to keep them coming as soon as a crowd gathered, to make up for the lean patches.
I scrolled through the 'foodie facts', reading about the supposed 'natural' sweeteners in the scones and cakes. The smorgasbord of vitamins for optimum health. There was little scientific fact to back up these claims, but few people ever asked.
Edie tried a piece of 'limited edition' butterscotch and ginger muffin—not really limited at all, but the phrase worked well as a carrot. She uttered a moan of bliss; yes, she would take up my suggestion of a twice weekly delivery.
"My hubby's going to love these!"
She held out the tray to two women next to her. "Bugger the diet, these are amazing!" More clamoured for a taste. We often employed fake customers to bring the crowd round, but Edie was doing the job for us.
I picked up the rhubarb and rose cookies, my next lure—and as I looked at Edie's pretty, honest face, I felt my smile disappear.
I stared at the tray, frowning.
Edie touched my hand, frozen as it was in mid-air. "Are you okay?"
I put the cookie tray down, reached out, and took the muffin pieces from her.
"You don't want to eat this crap."
"W-what?" Now she looked bewildered, wondering why on earth Ms Nucrop had taken back her yummy samples. The crowd around her went silent, apart from a few people whispering, what did she just say?
"I said, you don't want to eat this. You should read up about Sygar and BPB. They're not 'natural' at all."
People gasped. Someone started vidding me. Oh, shit.
In a flash, Dinesh was at my side, gently putting his hand in the crook of my arm. The speed at which he arrived told me that he'd been asked to keep an eye on me.
"I can take over here, if you like." And he smiled at the crowd and handed Edie back her muffins, and the cookies. He put an arm around me. "Tara, love, you know missing breakfast makes you cranky—you need to go do something about that blood sugar of yours!" He laughed, and a few laughed with him. "You, and you—yes, and you over there—could you be total darlings and let me see what you've captured?" Two coms were offered up. "Can I see yours as well, madam? Come on, you wouldn't want anyone to video you having a wobbly moment, would you?"
I could see Rachel out of the corner of my eye, talking on her com; Heart would block any possible comment about what had just happened.
Dinesh clapped his hands together. "Wow, those samples have gone quickly! I'll call for some more, and meanwhile, if you're interested in a regular delivery—I so recommend the butterscotch and ginger muffins with your Sunday morning latte!—have a word with Rachel or Louis, okay?"
What a pro.
I pulled my sash off and handed it to him. "Well saved. It's all yours."
So that was the end of my minor celebrity, and yes, I got into a lot of trouble. I met with the legal team who made me thumbprint and sign stuff to s
ay that I would not repeat falsehoods about Nucrop products, and was told I would be sued if I did; I got an official notification to say that my contract was terminated, and if I was not able to secure employment within the month, I would have to vacate my flat.
I also got a three-point social demerit.
If that wasn't enough, I had a rant call from arsehole Clinton about the shame I had caused him and Marilee, saying I was not to contact any of them again.
A couple of days later I disobeyed him and messaged Zia, to see if she was even a tiny bit on my side.
She replied:
'Honestly, Tara, what do you expect? Going out with a conspiracy theorist, telling customers not to buy Nucrop products? What made you think he might react any differently?'
I said that I didn't expect anything; I just wondered if she knew, that was all. 'Oh, I know—and you shouldn't be contacting me, should you?'
I ended the call.
And so my life was thrown up in the air once again, but when all the parts landed, it was better.
Ned moved in with me, and I used my scant savings to learn to drive; unlike most vehicles in the megacities, the vans used by the charities were not self-drive. Once I was roadworthy, Ned got me a job as a driver for Roof. E grade, but I didn't care; we could manage. No more acting the part for Nutricorp.
The first time I drove through the gates of MC12's perimeter, I was more excited than I'd been before any of my engagements as the Nucrop girl. This was adventure.
As my driver's mate for my first few runs, Ned kept having to tell me to keep my eyes on the road, because I wanted to take it all in—the England of my childhood, that I scarcely recalled. Most of the towns had been demolished or swallowed up and made unrecognisable by the megacities, but I saw little pockets of how the country used to be, and they made me remember. Ordinary streets, overgrown and shabby. Those old-fashioned shops, where they had goods in the shops for you to take away. Pubs. All boarded up, gone.
Mostly though, it was just countryside, left to go wild.
The first drop-in was a building that was once a grocery shop, guarded by two guys who worked for Roof; I wanted to stay and see the wastelanders, but Ned said no, we had to get to the next drop, and they weren't museum exhibits.
In the megacities, a lot of people called the wastelanders 'rats', and said they were dirty savages. I didn't think this was true, as they said similar things about Hope Villagers, and I wasn't dirty, nor was I when I lived in Hope 44.
Savage, though—yeah, when necessary.
Chapter 12
Aileen
May ~ August 2059
"Piss off, I don't want you watching me all the time, you nosy cow! There's nothing wrong with me, I just felt depressed—it's my fucking life, isn't it?"
I didn't react.
"Stop looking at me!"
"I'm not. But you know I have to sit with you, and you know why."
Rhea Davis spat at me and walked off, for the twentieth time that day. Trying not to sigh too loudly, I got up and followed her.
My new job in MC12's Care Village. Female Psychiatric B, Aubrey House. My job title: Social Motivator. We were known by the nursing and psychiatric staff, rather disparagingly, as 'socmos'. At the holochat interview I was told that my job was to befriend and initiate conversation with the clients, play games and go for walks in the grounds with them, and keep watch on those likely to harm themselves. My charges were young women aged between sixteen and twenty-five who suffered moderate to severe mental health issues. Mostly, they were from well-off families; a stay was not cheap.
I was told how lucky I was. Aubrey House was the go-to destination for patients from all megacities who had not benefitted from treatment elsewhere. I did feel lucky—anything was better than the cleaning job I'd had for the last eight months, since getting the sack from Sunflower Lodge. School toilets. Back-breaking, F Grade, which meant that I lived on tins of beans and rice from Afford's dirt cheap Care4U range (plain white packaging), and little else. One day I fainted, and was called into the manager's office on my return to HQ; I prepared to get my marching orders once more.
I try not to think about that time in my life because it was bloody awful, but I remember her calling out, "Come in!" after I'd knocked on her door, but I couldn't move. I just stood there, tears rolling down my cheeks.
I am forever grateful to her. Her name was Lesley; she opened the door, saw the state of me, and gently guided me to a chair.
"I'm worried about you, Aileen. Emil saw you eating a tin of beans, straight from the can, for lunch; they were wondering why you never joined them at the café. He thought I ought to know if you were experiencing hardship."
My colleagues were all in couples and not the main wage earner, or they were youngsters fresh out of school and living with their parents, like Emil.
I'm forever grateful to him, too. The upshot was that Lesley promoted me to team leader, which meant an E Grade salary.
That made me cry, too. Everything made me cry around that time.
In comparison, looking after girls like Rhea Davis was a walk in the park. I could sit down in comfortable chairs during my working day, and eat decent, subsidised meals in the restaurant. When you've had almost nothing, a tiny bit of comfort that others take for granted feels like untold luxury.
Meanwhile, Rhea had been self-harming again. Psych B residents were not allowed utensils with which they could hurt themselves or others—their meals were eaten with spoons made from a soft silicon material. However, Rhea had managed to steal a com from another socmo. Not because she wanted to use it, but to break up the casing and use it to slash into the flesh on her arms. Thus, she was on 'constant obs': round the clock observation. I even had to watch her go to the toilet or take a shower.
Sometimes, my job was a delight. Other days, it was one long round of complaints and abuse. Rhea called me a 'fucking dyke' when I watched her take a shower and 'a filthy slag' when I watched her empty her bowels, like I had a choice. When I sat with her to watch TV, as I'd been doing for much of that day, she told me to piss off and called me a nosy bitch, a stalker, a weirdo Billy-no-mates, and everything else she could think of to try to upset me.
It wasn't pleasant, but I couldn't let it get to me.
Other socmos lived in, which made financial sense, but there was no way on earth I was giving up my flat. On the 10th of August, Leah would be thirteen. On that day, she could ask for permission to see me. If a) she did so and b) NPU decided that a visit from her mother would not cause her 'emotional anguish', I wanted to show her a home, not a room in Aubrey House's staff block.
They were both big 'ifs', of course.
I followed Rhea down the corridor towards the main entrance, and after a few yards she stopped dead. Didn't turn round, just stopped. Put her head down, clenched her fists, still with her back to me.
"Stop fucking following me!"
"Rhea, you know I have to, and you know why you're on constant obs. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you'll get some privacy."
I waited for her to move off again; she sighed as loudly as possible and marched on, towards the scanner in the entrance lobby. As usual, she tried to run straight through it, only to be stopped by the security guard.
"Come on now, Rhea," he said. "Can we not go through this, five times a day?"
He took her by the arm, not roughly, and she kicked out at him, wild eyes filled with pain and desperation,
"Get your fucking hands off me, you Nazi cunt! Fucking pervert!"
The security guard beckoned to me for help; he could have overpowered her with ease, but was not allowed to use force. He wanted me to talk her down.
"You can fuck off too!" she screamed at me. "I just want to go outside and be on my own for a bit, is that a fucking crime?"
I approached carefully. "No, it's not a crime, but you're not allowed to be on your own right now. As soon as the ward sister sees that you're in a calmer state of mind, I won't have to trail you around ev
erywhere."
She slipped out of the guard's loose grip, scraped her nails down his face, and made a bolt for the door. Of course, it wouldn't open.
"Let me out of here!" She banged and kicked at the reinforced glass, sobbing, beating it with her fists, until the guard grabbed her by the waist and drew her back. I knew Rhea's cycles by now; in a moment she would go limp, rag doll-like, and collapse into my arms weeping.
As I held her and stroked her hair, I wondered what had happened in her life to make her this way. She was only seventeen, poor girl. We social motivators did not have access to the case files of the residents, in case it prejudiced us towards them. Our job was only to befriend, comfort and interact.
And yes, I realised they were all Leah substitutes.
On the night of the 9th of August, I went to bed so excited I couldn't sleep. I tried to stop myself fantasising about my com ringing with an unknown ID the next day, but I couldn't help it.
I wondered if she would think of me when she woke up, knowing she could ask to see me. If she did, I couldn't see any reason why they wouldn't let her. I'd been a good girl, I hadn't made any 'trouble' for years. I'd kept my job and my flat, I didn't have any undesirable social contacts. The most risqué thing I'd done in years was go ziplining with a chap who worked in Aubrey House kitchens.
On that bright summer morning, I opened the curtains of my fifth-floor flat in featureless Stack 231, looked out at the bright blue sky, and smiled.
Happy birthday, darling.
I thought, briefly, of Eric, and wondered if he remembered. I doubted it.
I'd taken a day's holiday so that nothing could prevent me from answering if she called.
If you've ever waited in vain for a call, you'll understand how that day was for me.
At first you're happy and optimistic. Noon comes, and you think, ah well, they'll probably call after lunch. Mid-afternoon, you're telling yourself that they're having a busy day, and are waiting until this evening. By seven you're giving them time to have dinner and settle down afterwards. By eight you're sick with nerves, and the evening goes downhill from thereon in.
