by Terry Tyler
"Bryony, Ned's boss, she told him not to tell anyone. She's not Link, is she?"
"Not as far as I know. Which makes me doubly sure that I shouldn't say anything."
"Why's that?"
"Because she might be a bug. In other words, this might be a piece of misinformation fed to him to see if it brings any of us out of the woodwork."
"Shit. I never would have thought of that."
He sat back, hands behind head, but still didn't look at me. "In this game, you have to be suspicious of odd changes in protocol, unusual developments, anything. This could be really happening, or it could be a lie. In case of the second, it's best that I do nothing at all. And I would strongly advise both you and Ned to keep it under your hats, too."
Should I come clean? Yeah, better. "We've told Cosmo."
He sighed with irritation. "Oh, that's just great. Great. That means I've got to get in touch with him to ask him if he's told anyone, and every time we make contact we risk becoming exposed."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Even though I couldn't see his face, he exuded an air of 'now bugger off and leave me alone'. So that was what I did.
I conveyed Milo's thoughts to Ned, and Cosmo. Both of them thought that it was the start of something, but respected the hierarchy of the Link network and kept quiet.
On the face of it, nothing seemed any different. I went to work as Darcie at Nerve, though it had been wearing thin for some months. I wanted to be at home in the evenings with Ned.
He felt bad because the guys who guarded the drop-ins didn't know they'd soon be out of a job.
I said, "I'd tell them."
"I can't. Milo's right; you tell one person, word gets around, trouble starts. At least I'm still employed, for now; HO have hinted that I'll be superfluous to requirements but Bryony's going to say she needs me for Hope runs, so I can't piss her off."
"Good thing she still fancies you, then."
Driving jobs were like gold dust. We'd scarcely be able to live if he lost his.
About the wasteland we heard nothing, but that was normal. 'Out there' might as well have been in outer space for all we knew about it. It was easy not to think about the wastelanders, and how they were managing without the drop-ins.
The days of October ticked by, the weather grew wetter, the nights darker, and I hated going out to catch the ziprail half an hour after Ned got home. I wanted a normal life. I started to think, fuck Link. Yes, I liked that I'd played a part in helping people like the girl in purple find her family, but I wanted to do more than just pass on messages.
The third weekend in October was one of those rare, precious ones when I worked the Friday early shift, finished at six, then didn't have to go back into work until Monday night. The weather was gorgeous all weekend, blue skies and sunshine, and Ned and I walked around Lark's Pond and then spent a happy hour in our favourite café, Double Shot in Hub 11. Hub 11 is one of those that's been converted from a real street; it has a clear, domed roof, but is open at either end, and retains its original characteristics. I love those little touches of the past that you can find tucked away; Hub 11's shops, cafés and salons all have megacity façades, but above them you can see the old buildings. I'd love to go inside one, upstairs, look out of the window and imagine the road busy and bustling with cars and old-fashioned shops. I've been to a couple of historical places, like the Tower of London and Hampton Court, now in MC5, but they're always jammed with visitors, and you feel like you're in a museum rather than a place where people used to live. These streets, though, they're real life.
Double Shot café was old-fashioned, too; it didn't sell plant enzyme juices or brain booster teas, so it was largely ignored by the trendies, which worked for me; we ordered enormous cappuccinos and great doorsteps of carrot cake.
For those blissful seventy hours we stayed in bed late, ate and drank too much, walked and talked. I remember feeling completely happy, and wishing life could always be like that; I'm forever thankful for that time. I wish I could recall every detail. Later, I would look at the few pictures on my com so often that I'm surprised they didn't wear out.
My handsome Ned, standing in front of a tree with bright yellow leaves, squinting in the sunshine. Sitting on the grass, eating a sub roll. Both of us, heads up and smiling, with a backdrop of the lake. My darling in bed on Sunday morning; I was sitting astride him when I took the photo and I remember he pulled me to him, laughing. I remember the smell of his skin, the feel of his lips on mine, his face on the pillow after we'd finally pulled apart, his blue eyes crinkling up as he smiled at me and told me how happy he was, and how much he loved me.
And I remember I cried, because I was that happy, too.
Tuesday, the 25th of October. Ned was at work in the afternoon; I was lolling on the sofa watching mindless crap on the wallscreen when Milo messaged me.
U needn't come into work 2nite.
Eh?
Y not? U sacking me?
No. Problem with lighting. Just closing up.
U getting it fixed?
Ys. Stay home.
U sure?
Ys.
Since being a Link op, I'd grown used to alert-twitching at the slightest thing, and this was weird.
I called him.
"What are you ringing me for?" Boy, did he sound hassled. "Did you not understand the message?"
"Course I did. I just want to know more."
"There's a problem with the lighting. That's all. I'll let you know when to come back."
"Okay, but—"
He ended the call.
Hmm. Oh well. At least I didn't have to go in, even though I'd lose the night's pay.
I stretched out, stuck a few good things on our watch list for the evening, and waited for Ned to come home.
I didn't worry when he was half an hour late. When it got to an hour, though, I rang his com. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail.
After another hour passed, I looked up Bryony on Heart. I had no worries about Ned, but I didn't put it past her to find a way to get him round to her flat.
Still, he'd have called me, wouldn't he? Ned always called. He wasn't one of those douchebags who made a point of being elusive and unreliable, to make clear who's in charge.
I requested interface, because I wanted to see where Bryony was and what she was doing.
"Tara." She didn't like me, for obvious reasons.
I forced a smile and some pleasantries, then I asked if she knew where Ned was.
"Oh, gone missing, has he?" Glee shone out of her pretty face in pink and gold sparkles.
"Unfortunately yes, and it's not like him—he never, ever fails to ring if he's going to be late. What was he doing today?"
"He was on delivery to Hopes 34 and 19. Clothes."
"Can you track the vehicle?"
"Yes. Yes, I can. Hang on." I waited a moment. Then she said, "That's funny. He dropped off at 19 just after four. Should have been back on site by five."
"And it's after eight." I felt sick. "Where's the van now?"
"That's what's funny. It's still just outside 19. Has been for the last four hours."
I totally freaked. All sorts of thoughts careered round my brain, him passing out at the wheel, having an accident—Bryony said she would contact Missing Persons and ask them to send up a drone.
"It's better coming from me, because I'm his employer. If you do it, they'll just think it's a domestic. Partner playing away, you know? Oh, and you'll get the same with the police. They give it at least forty-eight hours, and even then they don't do much, attitude being that he's a grown man, and if he wants to go on walkabout that's up to him."
I didn't know what to do with myself—while I waited for her to get back to me, I paced around the flat, talking to anyone I could think of who might be able to shed light on it. Not Cosmo, though. I couldn't get in touch with him, either.
I couldn't reach Cosmo.
Ned was missing.
Milo told me not to come
into work this evening.
The drop-ins had closed down.
What the fuck was happening?
I curled up on the sofa, shaking. Was I going to go missing, too? I scratched at the place where my NuSens nestled, hating the knowledge that my increased heart rate and heightened blood pressure was, at this very moment, registering somewhere.
I called Milo.
I started to tell him what had gone down, but he shut me up. "Okay. I'll call around, see if anyone's heard anything."
"Milo, I—"
"Go. I can't help if I'm standing here talking to you, can I?"
Straight away, Bryony's call came through.
"The drone showed the van parked on a grass verge, quarter of a mile from Hope 19. It's empty. No sign of any sort of altercation, or accident. Nothing. It's like he's disappeared into thin air."
I didn't know what real fear was until that moment.
Do you know what happens to people who work for Link, if they get caught? No, nor do I. But what I can tell you is that they're never seen again.
He never showed, all night. Didn't answer his com.
That black shadow folded its long arms around me, hands at my throat.
Chapter 16
Radar
2060 ~ 2061
Shortly before his twenty-eighth birthday, Radar was released from jail. Three years short of his original eight-year sentence.
On release, he was driven straight to the notorious Hope 18, the final destination for the troublesome. Its reputation was a thing of whisper and hearsay amongst those who floated around the Hope Village system, with residents in every other Village telling each other that 'you don't want to end up in Hope 18'. This myth was gently encouraged by staff; though internet communication was severely restricted, selected rumours were allowed to circulate.
This time, Radar's release was not celebrated by a friendly key worker, on hand to give advice about life-fulfilling opportunities. Instead, he was picked up in an old jeep of the manual drive type, in which he sat behind two gorillas. Neither spoke to him on the journey out to the countryside near what used to be Milton Keynes.
When Radar entered Hope 18's community lounge for the first time, he stood by the door and scanned the room to see what was what. Whether it was as draconian an establishment as rumour suggested, or if gangs more fearsome than any he had yet encountered were the cause of its sinister reputation.
All he saw was groups of people playing cards and other games, reading, or talking. A few heads looked up, registered his presence, and looked away again.
So who was in charge? Hard to say. The pool tables, usually the VIP area in any Hope, were being used by three couples. Four guys and two girls who were just … playing pool.
Ah well. All would reveal itself in time. Radar made his way over to the table in the far corner and put down a credit token, indicating that he wanted a game, though in the language of Hope this indicated so much more.
A skinny guy glanced at him and said, "Sure, mate. We're on the second of best of five; I'll play you next."
And that was that.
They played pool. Radar asked the guy, who'd introduced himself as Trev, who was in charge, and Trev said, "Warden Bush, mate. Warden Bush."
It was the same in the canteen. Plenty of hard nuts, but this wasn't like Hope 44 or 23, where the king and his crew sat in the corner by the windows and the next gang down the league took the opposite back wall. Instead they sat in twos, threes and fours, or with their girlfriends.
Lying on his bottom bunk that night, Radar felt flat and depressed. It was quieter here, too. No music in the comm lounge. A guard supervising what was to be watched on the wallscreen. In Hope 23, Sid's gang made the choice, every time.
Odder still was that everybody … behaved.
Like they were all on zombie pills. Perhaps that was it.
The next week was like floating in a bubble. No familiar order to cling on to. He felt frustrated, wanted to kick out at something, or someone. Couldn't live like this; he'd felt more free in prison. Freakin' guards everywhere, and some of the inmates were on the look-out for wrong-doing, too. He'd noticed them breaking up the odd fight. Perhaps the gangs had to be more low-key here.
Other inmates talked to him, but it was only passing the time of day shit. Where've you come from? How long have you been in the Hope system? Have you ever been to a megacity or the wasteland?
Every time he asked who was in charge, he got the same answer: Warden Bush.
Maybe the real power had not yet approached him 'cause they hadn't seen how handy he was.
Maybe he needed to display his talents.
Radar reached across the twat in front of him in the canteen queue and nicked the last Coronation chicken sandwich right from under his nose.
The twat turned round. "Oi. Prick. That was mine. In case you ain't noticed, I'm in front of you."
Radar held the sandwich up. "I've got news for you, fuckhead. This is a dog-eat-dog lunch queue. Survival of the hungriest. Want to try and take it off me, or are you going to quit whining and have the cheese and tomato?"
The stupid pillock reached for the sandwich in Radar's hand. Like a kid, frowning, biting his lip, trying to grab it as Radar, who was several inches taller, held it out of his reach.
"That's mine, dick-brains!"
Radar laughed, and held the sandwich higher still. "Admit defeat, y' pansy."
By now, people were watching. Sniggering. Clapping and calling out, "Go-oo on, Fordham! Ford-um! Ford-um!"
Alas for poor Fordham, most were mocking him; Radar knew that, and could see that his opponent knew it, too. The battle was no longer about chicken substitute in curry-flavoured mayonnaise versus grated cheese and sliced tomato, but the decimation of Fordham's male pride.
Radar waited for Fordham to make his move. To take back the power.
The smaller man stopped reaching for the sandwich, clenched his fists, and—here it comes, here it comes—planted a nifty punch on Radar's jaw. A surprisingly powerful one; it hurt, but Radar wasn't about to let anyone see that.
He grinned, rubbed his chin, and in a soft voice said, "Ouch."
A few people laughed. The room went quiet, and Fordham stood triumphant, fists up and ready for action.
Radar grabbed him by the neck of his jumper, pulled him closer, and dealt such a blow to the side of his face that his opponent staggered back in shock and pain, and fell to the floor.
The cheering began again.
'Fight! Fight!"
"Come on, Fordham, hit the bastard!"
He didn't get a chance. Radar knelt astride him, delivering punches until the blood spurted onto his own face, until two pairs of arms dragged him away—and he felt the needle puncture his neck.
He woke up in foggy stages, understanding straight away that he was in the box, as he drifted in and out of consciousness and waited for the sedative to wear off.
The box, in his first week. This was good. Showed what he was made of, to anyone who mattered; perhaps whoever was really in charge around here would make himself known.
Radar spent two days lying on his back, dozing and trying not to think about shit that made him uncomfortable, gagging for a drink—the booze had flowed well in jail, too—doing press-ups, stomach crunches, hamstring stretches, anything to pass the time and keep the blood moving around his body. Three times a day the hatch opened with a meagre meal; every minute that passed, he expected to hear that someone wanted to see him, and that someone to be the Sid of Hope 18.
On the third morning, it happened.
He stood up as the door opened, expecting some shaven-headed brute with a body covered in tatts, but two guards stood there. One said, "Warden Bush wants to see you. C'mon, shift yer arse."
Warden Bush turned out to be a tall, thin man of late middle age and distinguished appearance, out of place in the grey desperation of Hope 18.
Radar's first thought: pussy.
He spoke like a posh git, too. W
asn't like anyone Radar had met before.
"Mr Bundock," he said, indicating the chair on the other side of the desk, "please sit down. I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Here we go, thought Radar. He knows I'm a wrong 'un, and he's going to make me pay. What's it gonna be? Toilet cleaning? He said nothing.
"Right, I'll get straight to the point. You'll find that Hope Village 18 is somewhat different from the other establishments in which you've lived. I don't stand for criminal activity of any kind, and neither do I allow the residents to run the place. There is no gang activity; if any group's behaviour could be construed as such, it is curtailed immediately. I will not allow Hope 18 to deteriorate into a free-for-all in which the black market flourishes. The delivery drivers, from both Nutricorp and the charities, are vetted, and submit to random checks to ensure that they are not bringing in alcohol, drugs, or any other sort of contraband. Do I make myself clear?"
"You do." Wasn't going to be much fun in here then, but Radar was sharper than most; he could get something going, without alerting watchful eyes—
"Now, I have a proposition for you. A job. You can turn it down if you wish, but you might prefer it to cleaning the showers and lavatories, which is your other option."
Radar allowed himself to smile. "I'll do anything rather than that."
Bush nodded. "That's what I thought." He rested his elbows on the arms of his high-backed leather chair, fingers linked. "I employ a small group of orderlies who assist the guards and other staff in ensuring that Hope 18 remains a peaceful place in which to live. Your job will be to break up fights—or preferably, to stop them before they start—to seek out anyone who fails to observe the evening curfew, or who tries to break out. You will report the discovery of contraband, the making of weaponry. In a nutshell, the orderlies are the eyes and ears of the staff, who can't be in twenty places at once. Are you interested?"
Radar frowned. "I ain't sure. Anything's better than cleaning, but—"
