by Terry Tyler
Once I'd got it all on, I couldn't believe the reflection was me. I looked like one of Nerve's über-trendy.
"You don't look like you any more," said Ned. He sat on the bed, eyeing me with amusement.
"Exactement, mon cher," said Cosmo. "Don't worry, this is just her Nerve look. It'll all come off when she gets home."
"Oh, I don't know," I said, striking a pose. "I could get used to it."
Cosmo clapped. "Welcome, Darcie!"
"Darcie?"
"That's your new name. When you're in Nerve, anyway."
I winced. "I'm not sure I like it."
"Too late. I've already given it to anyone who needs to know."
"You could have asked me for some input."
"It was the name of my favourite aunt. Live with it."
Monday night came, and I discovered that being the other side of the bar was like watching a party through a window, and wishing you could turn the sound down. I worked with three others: Aspen and Britt, mixed race twins with white blonde hair, and a guy called London, who had a fuchsia pink, bald head. Even their names were Nerve-worthy.
The regular clientele had changed since I'd been away, which was good; no one recognised me. Guess the Nerve elite watched trending lists, not adverts for bread.
The first time someone came in for a contact I thought I was going to freak, because Milo had told me about the 'bugs'; ordinary megacity citizens whose undercover job was to root out Link workers.
"How the hell am I supposed to know the difference?"
"The genuine articles tend to be reticent, not sure if they're saying the right thing. Your average bug is more confident; they look around but it seems like they're acting; they'll talk in a low voice, smile and try to be friendly, because they want to draw you in. Some start telling you their circumstances, to add weight to their cover. Cut them short, if they do, and come and tell me."
This guy was definitely for real. Young lad, sweat on his upper lip.
"Um, are you Darcie?"
I nodded. "What can I get you?"
"N-Nothing—"
"This is a bar."
"Oh—yes, water. Still, please—still water."
I poured him a glass of tap. Didn't look like he could afford Nerve's prices. He took a large gulp, dribbling half of it down his chin, then blurted out, far too loudly, "S-Siri told me to come here."
Making sure no one was looking, I gave him the merest hint of a nod, and went to get Milo.
They sat in a corner, talked, Milo gave him something and he left, after which Milo went through to the back, and that was that.
Disappointing.
I asked Milo about it later, but he told me very little.
"I gave him a contact."
"Who?"
"That's between him and me."
Apart from these occasions, which happened only five times in the first nine months, it was just a bar job. Sometimes fun, sometimes tiring and tedious. In the summer I wished I was still out on the road, instead of looking at the sunshine through Nerve's windows.
So much for my thrilling new life as an undercover agent. I had two whole days and evenings off per week, and on one other day I worked from opening time until seven p.m., but the rest of the time I was out while Ned was home, and vice versa.
At least we wouldn't get sick of the sight of each other.
I worked New Year's Eve—all hands on deck, the busiest night of the year—and was so swamped with drinks orders that I didn't even notice it was 2061 until London grabbed me round the waist and shoved his tongue down my throat. A lot of people thought he was post-op trans, but he actually wore something that squashed his dick up between his legs when he had one of his tight body suits on, because he liked the androgynous look. Other times he let it all hang out; he enjoyed confusing people, and would bonk anything that moved.
"You know what they say, don't you?" he whispered in my ear. "The first person you kiss in the New Year is the person you'll be fucking by the end of it."
I eased myself away. "A, I'm already taken, and b, I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole—I know where you've been!"
You could say that sort of thing to London. He didn't get all up in arms and report you to the social demerit police. He laughed, grabbed my crotch and said, "One day, honey, one day!"
I gave him a big hug and wished him happy New Year, then looked over the heads clamouring at the bar to see that my darling Ned had just arrived. Seeing the face I loved so much, smiling through the crowd at me, filled me with happiness—and gratitude, because I knew how much he hated the place.
2061 was going to be a good year, I felt it in my bones. Everything was on the up. I lived with the love of my life, I was doing something worthwhile, in however small a way, and I intended to do a lot more. Ned and I had talked about getting married, because we wanted to make that commitment to each other.
He wrestled his way to the bar, elbowing the crowds out of the way.
"Happy New Year, dread-head." He leaned over the bar and kissed me; I kissed him back, ignoring the bloke next to him asking if he could 'have some of that too', and the woman on the other side saying, "Can you do that on your own time? We're fucking thirsty here!"
He let me go, and said, "Let's make it a good one."
"It will be. I know it. I feel it in my bones!"
Chapter 14
Jerome
June 2061
One couldn't work in MC5's Government Village and not hear whispers about Operation Galton, but only a select few had full access.
Jerome Bettencourt knew more than most, and he wanted in.
He had trained his ears to pick up conversational undercurrents, his eyes to look round corners and zoom in on certain words on a superior's screen, minimised just a second too late.
The brilliant long-term plan to take the country out of the 20th century and into the 21st had begun before he was born, unfolding so gradually that the public failed to see the big picture. A few had their finger on the pulse, but the majority believed everything they read or heard via the government propaganda machine (the media). On social media, bot profiles encouraged the idea that all those who questioned the official narrative were conspiracy theorists, dinosaurs, or selfish bigots who cared nothing for the climate crisis and the health and wealth of the nation.
Operation Galton Phase 3 took place back in 2024: the opening of the Hope Villages, and thus the removal of undesirables from the general population. Phases 4-9, nicknamed the Great Shift, occurred over the next three decades: the transition from property ownership and relative independence, to the tightly controlled megacities.
In his mid-level position in the Department of Social Care, Jerome was aware of the imminent Phase 10: the repurposing of the wasteland, and the wiping out of that tiresome Link network. He did not have the clearance for more detail, but Cousin Ezra was a major player, and Jerome was family now.
A few drinks and whispered promises, and Ezra welcomed the chance to unburden himself about the logistical difficulties of Phase 10. About the 'assessment centres', and the 'treatment'.
The official line, to all but a tight inner circle, was that the wastelanders would be given a choice: to live and work in Eastern Europe, or assist in clinical trials at the Hadrian, Dartmouth and Thurso research centres, where they would reside.
Jerome was fascinated to discover that this was a sanitised version of their real fate. That there was to be no choice—and a third group would have no future at all.
"It's rolling out in October, and I've got to get it right," Ezra told him, wiping sweat from his forehead and loosening his tie as Jerome gently stroked his knee, "because we'll streamlining the Hope Villages next. Phase 11."
"Really?" Jerome felt the buzz. He was too late to get in on Phase 10, but he badly, badly wanted to be a part of Phase 11, and dissolve a layer or two of Hope Village scum. Skanks like Tara. Still, look at her now. Serving drinks on an E Grade salary. Van driver boyfriend, thought to be a Li
nk operative.
Not for long, Tara. Not for long.
Another cocktail, a squeeze of the inner thigh, and Cousin Ezra confessed his most grave worry where Phase 10 was concerned.
The military personnel recruited to work at the assessment centres were to be offered a tempting incentive. Part of the 'package', as Ezra called it, involved a memory erasure procedure.
"Problem is, it hasn't been properly tested. There hasn't been time. I've assured Caleb and Freya that it will be good to go, come early autumn, but—" He gulped down his drink, and raised a hand at the waiter for another round. "Trouble is, I am not a hundred per cent certain that it won't fuck with their heads even more than herding a load of rats into the gas chamber."
Jerome was nearly ready to make his bid to be part of the inner circle. Ezra would recommend him to Caleb for Operation Galton Phase 11, and he would pitch his solution to Ezra's problem when the time was right.
Jerome knew his plan would secure his future amongst the country's decision makers—especially since Clinton had told him about his latest enterprise.
The Rise programme, and its canny little side project that would make them both billionaires.
Laser62.
Soon, the site would be set up. Access only by invitation. Hidden down labyrinthine tunnels in the deepest, darkest cavern of the internet.
Now all Jerome had to do was wait for Ezra to mess up.
Chapter 15
Tara
September ~ October 2061
When your life is going well it's easy to slip into complacency, because you can't remember how it felt to be pissed off. You're happy just to let the days keep passing, pleasantly and uneventfully.
When good times turn bad, the change can arrive suddenly, your life collapsing in one moment, or it can creep closer over a matter of time, slipping you little teasers about the darkness on the horizon, so low-key that you can dismiss or even ignore them.
This time, it was the second type.
The storm clouds began to gather one Friday night. I wouldn't finish work until midnight, and I couldn't wait to get home. The Tech Village idiots were out in force, their 'quick' after-work drinks turning into an eight-hour lager frenzy. Been there, done that, except that it's not so much fun when you're on the other side of the bar, and said Tech Village idiots expect you to find their lack of self-control as hilarious as they do.
"This really, really is the last one—shit, I said that three hours ago, didn't I?"
"If you see me up here again, tell me to go home!"
"Yeah, me again! Just one for the road, I promise!"
Like I gave a crap.
At around eleven the trendies started floating in, getting a few under their belts before setting off for Frenzy around one a.m. At least they could hold their drink. I counted the minutes until I could sign off and say goodbye to Britt and London, especially as I could see Ned sitting by the door with a bottle of lager, looking like he had some heavy shit to think about.
I was so eager to get out that I didn't bother to go to the bathroom and take off my dreads and eyelashes. Ned grabbed my hand and gave me one of those smiles that are not really smiles, lips pursed close together. He hugged me, and said, "Got something weird to tell you."
His boss at Roof had been told by the Department of Social Care that they were to stop delivering donations to the wasteland drop-ins.
"I'm not supposed to know. Bryony swore me to secrecy which, of course, I have totally ignored."
Ned had a 'thing' with Bryony before he met me; they weren't ever a couple, and she was a lot keener than him. He ended it in an amicable way after a couple of months but, shortly after I'd stopped working there, she applied for the vacant management position. Now, she lived in constant hope that she could rekindle the flame, not realising that for Ned there had only ever been a flicker.
"What reason do they give?"
"That's just it, they don't. Bryony got an official communication to say that from the 1st of October, i.e. next week, all donations to the wasteland must cease, with any remaining stores to go to Hope."
"That's shitty, isn't it? 'Specially as it's autumn. What will they do?"
"The wastelanders?" He shrugged. "Most are more or less self-sufficient, the drop-ins have enough stock to last a few weeks, and I suppose they can carry on trading with the off-grids, but it's going to be a blow. Bryony says the doctors who used to do the free monthly surgeries have been told no more, as well."
"What d'you think it means?"
"Dunno. Freya Wilson's mob trying to make them die more quickly." We linked arms and walked up the steps of the ziprail connect, situated just a few minutes' walk from Nerve. The silver tube arrived with a soft whoosh a few moments later, and we snuggled into a corner seat. Ned still looked very down in the mouth.
I pulled off my wig so that people would stop looking at me and opened my mouth to say something, but he shook his head. Frustrating though it was, I had to wait until we were off the zip.
I linked my arm through his as we walked away from the connect. "You're worried, aren't you?"
"Yeah. I wish I could find out what's going on—and I keep wondering how much they know about Link. If they've been giving us enough rope to hang ourselves." And then he told me something he'd heard about the new network that Milo had mentioned. The guy who was working on it—Jago—was a former government-employed hacker, currently hidden deep in the wasteland.
There were a few like that; Jago was a friend of the famous Xav, whose life's work was to get enough wastelanders together for an uprising.
Ned was distracted all weekend. On Sunday we met Cosmo for a drink, and told him; he was troubled by it, too.
"I can't help wondering if the party's going to be over soon," he said, and that sent a shiver down my spine. Not just a figure of speech, it really did. I felt like a cold black shadow had just run a skeletal finger down my back.
"What do you mean?"
"Not sure." He blew into his beer bottle to make a foghorn noise. "Maybe too many are slipping out of their clutches, aided by Link. Like, they tolerated it when we were just a few twats playing at a resistance movement, but now we've got too good at it."
Ned asked, "What would that mean for us?"
Cosmo shrugged, and flicked his pale blue fringe out of his eyes. "Dunno. Guess it depends if they've got your number or not."
That cold black shadow wrapped its chilly arms around my shoulders.
"Thing is," Cosmo said, "the most popular method for escaping the megacities' totalitarian grind is to hide amongst the tinned food and second-hand bedding kindly donated by the few megacity citizens with a smidgeon of social conscience, but from next week, when you driver chappies can no longer go out into the wasteland, our main highways close down."
"D'you think I should tell them? The guards, at the drop-ins?" asked Ned.
"Difficult one. Tara, see what Milo thinks, before Ned says anything. See if any of our people elsewhere know about it."
And then on Monday evening I had a visit from a young woman looking for a way out. She'd be catching the last train, if we could help her.
I thought she was a bug, at first.
Every time someone came in and said that Siri or Cosmo had sent them, I went through my checklist of bug alerts to watch for. This one ticked several boxes.
She was pretty, smart and didn't look out of place in Nerve, although I'd never seen her before, so my antennae twitched. She wore a cool purple top and palazzo pants; I almost asked her where she got them. She sat at the bar and bought a drink, an expensive one. Out of the corner of my eye, as I scanned her com, I saw her look from right to left, once, as if she'd only just remembered to look nervous.
When she asked if I was Darcie, I asked why, and she said, "Ginevra sent me."
The alarm bells were deafening. Ginevra was as good as retired, and hadn't sent anyone to Milo for two years; maybe the bugs didn't know that. Then she smiled at me, like she was trying to esta
blish a connection—just like Milo told me they did—and started telling me why she'd come. What with everything we'd been talking about over the weekend, I was consumed by panic. I said something sharp about not wanting her life story, and went out back to tell Milo.
"Thanks, good work," he said, without looking up at me. "Don't speak to her again; act like she's any other customer, and get on with serving. I'll see if I can contact Ginevra to check her out." I carried on standing there, and he said, "I don't need an audience."
"Oh. Yeah, sorry."
Guess I wasn't supposed to know how he contacted Ginevra.
He didn't come out for about ten minutes, during which time the girl allowed herself to get chatted up by some Tech Village blitzer. Eventually Milo appeared, and took her to a table. Must have been legit after all. So much for my bug-spotting capabilities.
Later, I asked about her.
"Yeah, she was real. Usual thing. Left in NPU as a baby by her mum who was evicted from here, now wants to find her family."
"Can I ask—what do you do in those cases?"
He didn't look at me. "I've told you. The less you know, the better."
"Okay." I thought for a moment. "Milo."
"Yeah?" He had his back to me, looking through the footage from earlier that evening, when the girl came in.
"There's something I need to talk to you about. Well, Ned told me something that I think you need to know."
"Mm-hmm?"
"He said that, at Roof, they've been told not to take any more donations to the drop-ins."
He lifted his head, but he didn't look round. "Really?"
"From the 1st of October. Official instructions from the DSC."
"Hmm." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "That's a curious development."
"What d'you think it means? Are you going to tell—you know, your people?"
"Probably best to just see how it plays out." Drum, drum. "Point being that if I start spreading the word, it could induce panic, and panic makes people act carelessly."
