by Terry Tyler
"You're concerned that you'll be ostracised by the other residents."
"Yeah."
Bush nodded. "I recruit new arrivals where possible, because they have not yet formed social connections. You have no loyalties. Also, your position will not be immediately obvious; you won't wear a badge. On the other hand, you should not feel you have to hide your status. When your position becomes clear, some will call you a 'snitch' or a 'rat', but those who do usually have something to hide."
"I'm not bothered about that. I can handle myself."
"As was confirmed in the canteen on Tuesday." Bush sniffed. "That won't happen again. You may use reasonable force to prevent a fight or to restrain a troublemaker, but you are not to instigate friction, or respond to verbal animosity with violence. If you do, your status will be immediately revoked, and you will be handed your mop. I employ wise, strong residents with a natural air of authority, not thugs."
Radar sat for a moment, sizing the Warden up. He'd been wrong. This guy was a real hard bastard. "Okay," he said, "I'll do it."
"Good. I'll let you spend an hour with Grayson and Leach, who are waiting outside; they'll show you the ropes. Oh, and you will enjoy certain privileges. The orderlies share a couple of crates of beer on a Saturday night, have their own private common room and sleeping area, and different bathroom times."
Radar grinned. "That's good."
Bush nodded, and stood up. "See this as the first step on the ladder."
"The ladder?"
"You've been in Hope Villages or prison since you were a child. Outside society. This job will give you, for the first time in your life, a taste of responsibility. An indication of how life could be on the other side of the fence; now and again, individuals do break free of the system from which it is assumed there is no exit. This could be you; don't mess it up."
The Saturday night crate of beer turned out to be two bottles of cheap whisky, too, which had to be shared with the other nineteen orderlies, but that was okay; with the beer, there was enough to get Radar to the place he wanted to be. Easier to get there, too, as he could only drink on one night a week.
Each orderly had their iris ID programmed into the entrance screen of the private common room, and Radar found that at any time of any day he would find others of his status within. There was a TV, a coffee machine, snacks, and packs of cards.
He felt good. The jail years had been hard. Having to act a certain way in order to survive, always watching his back; his reputation as someone to fear had kept him safe to a certain extent, but there were always others looking to relieve him of his status. Had to have his wits about him, all the time.
Sleep with one eye open.
Coupled with his steady intake of alcohol, that life had made him unsure of who he was. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he'd felt this way since he was eleven. Since Tara left. The only person apart from his gran who'd known the real Radar.
Or was the real him the person all the others saw?
Now, he thought he might find out. Here, he could relax. Think clearly.
He didn't care about getting the inmates into trouble. They were nothing to him. You had to play by the rules wherever you lived, whoever made them, whether it was Sid, Warden Bush, that jock bastard who ran Cell Block A or some wanky boss in a megacity. If the pricks and slags who lived in this place were too stupid to see a good thing when they had one, it was their own stupid fucking fault. And Hope 18 was a good thing. Any one of them could show the warden what they were made of, but they were all too busy whining about the rules, the staff, the orderlies.
This first insight into his own head was a revelation, and a fucking weird one at that: he'd always considered himself a rebel, but now he saw that he wasn't, not at all. He respected strong authority. Sid, Warden Bush, even the jock bastard. He liked to live within a structure, to know what he had to do then go ahead and do it, without question. When Warden Bush was pleased with him, he felt proud. So he bent the rules once in a while, like with that Finchy kid, but Sid had been right to test him, afterwards. Sid had earned his place as the king of Hope 23.
Radar didn't care what was said about him, either. Sometimes, when he was breaking up a fight, especially if there were a few of them and he had to press the button to bring fellow orderlies to his aid, he was called a snitch, a traitor to his kind; one dickwad said he was no better than the Jews who’d herded their own people into the gas chambers. Moron. Hope 18 was hardly fucking Auschwitz.
Mostly they were wary of him, and rightly so. He worked out incessantly, kept his beard long, his head shaved apart from a one-inch strip from forehead to neck; many years had passed since he'd heard any 'ginger' insults. People shut the fuck up when he walked past. He liked that. Enjoyed having licence to sort the idiots out.
As for the other orderlies, he got on okay with them but, as with Sid's gang, they were just people he shared a laugh, a game of cards and a beer with; he liked some of them well enough, but he didn't class them as mates. Not real mates. One of the women, Dani, was stuck on him, and he fucked her on a fairly frequent basis; he liked her and she made his dick hard, but he didn't want to be 'her man', although he knew that was what she was after.
Now and again, Radar wondered if there was something wrong with him, that he never formed close relationships like other people did, but he didn't let it worry him too much. Always been a loner. Ever since he lost his gran, and then Tara. It was better this way.
Generally, he was more or less contented with his life. It would do for now.
As his first year as an orderly drew to a close, though, as the autumn of 2061 turned into winter and the evenings began to draw in, an annoying little itch began to bother him. Every so often, when he awoke in the middle of the night in the small dormitory he shared with the thirteen other men like him, he experienced panic so intense that, if he didn't know about anxiety attacks, he might have thought he was about to die. The pounding heart, the dizziness, the shortness of breath.
Next year he would be thirty.
Was this it? He'd spent too much of his twenties in jail, but when he got out his life wasn't much different. Hadn't been free since he was a little kid. This was the best life he'd had since then, but was this it? Was he going to spend the next decade wandering the corridors of Hope 18, breaking up fights and inspecting food deliveries? And the next? Waiting in line to eat, wearing donated clothes, taking his turn to have a shower? Only being allowed to have a fucking drink on a Saturday night? Never having a place to call his own?
That was what he wanted more than anything. A room of his own. A door to shut the rest of the world out.
One night in late November he lay in his narrow bed, gazing up at the ceiling and the tiny square of night sky that he could see out of the window, and allowed his mind to roam free. He thought of the off-grids that he'd dreamed of as a kid. Living off the land, tending animals. He thought of the wasteland, and wondered if he should just fuck off out of Hope, for good. Be free. He knew it would be hard. No one had escaped from Hope 18 for years, because people like him made sure that the perimeter guards did their jobs properly.
Then again, he was in a position not to do so, now.
The time was not right, not yet. Finding a place to keep safe and warm wasn't a problem, but how would he feed himself in the winter? He didn't know what it was like out there. He'd heard there were food stores run by charities, but he didn't know if that was true. He might end up a filthy, stinking tramp. Starving. Wouldn't be much fun. At least in here he had showers, a decent bed, TV, hot meals and Dani.
But in the spring—yeah. If he left in March, he'd have the whole of the summer to set himself up somewhere. Could meet others like him. Plant potatoes and shit.
Might be boring. No electricity. No com. Nothing to watch. What would he do at night?
Freedom, though. Nobody knowing where he was, twenty-four-seven. Being able to do what he wanted, when he wanted. Being able to be alone. The more he
thought, the more the idea appealed.
Before he was thirty. Yeah. A new start.
He went to sleep happy. He would enjoy the benefits of Hope 18 during the winter. The days stretching out in front of him wouldn't seem so frustrating if he knew they weren't going to last forever.
The next morning he went about his business with a smile on his face. Nothing had changed, but at the same time everything had. The prison bars he'd felt closing in on him over the past couple of months were coming loose, and he could see the open gate in the distance. Away from the fuckheads in here, and that Hope Village smell, the same in every one: too many bodies in one room, mixed with disinfectant and air freshener. It seeped into his nostrils, constantly. Away from the sound of thirteen other men farting and snoring as he tried to get to sleep, from Dani giving him knowing looks over the table, from yet another fucking cut-price microwaved Nutri-Smartmeal.
He could catch fish. Make himself a home in a derelict house. He thought about it all morning. The fantasies alone would keep him going until spring.
He was just getting up from the table after his lunch (fake meat curry), when he heard his name being called.
"Radar!" The red cap beckoned him. "Warden's office, now! You got a visitor!"
Who'd be visiting him? He didn't know anyone outside Hope and prisons.
"Any idea who it is?" he asked, as he followed the girl out.
"No. But it must be important, 'cause it was Warden Bush's secretary who sent me to find you."
He reached the warden's office, and knocked.
"Come in!"
Sitting opposite Warden Bush was a youngish guy in poncey clothes. Dark mauve suit, pale grey cowboy boots. When the guy stood to greet him, though, Radar could see that this was no pussy. He was tall, with short blond hair, sharply cut, and a face that made Radar think, fucking hell, I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of this bastard. There was something about those blue eyes and high cheekbones that let you know his heart was ice cold.
"I'll leave you two to it, then," said Warden Bush, with a hint of a smile.
The visitor waited until the warden had left the room, then stood up, held out his hand and said, "Do sit down. Radar, isn't it?"
Unlike Warden Bush, he didn't sound as though his posh voice had trouble articulating his name.
Radar shook his hand, making sure to do so firmly and not for too long. "That's right." He sat. "What's this about, then?"
The man smiled, and sat back down. "My name is Jerome Bettencourt. I'm here to offer you a job."
Chapter 17
Tara
October ~ November 2061
I fell asleep on the sofa, woke up four hours later, and Ned was still missing.
I called again, and again, and again, but each time the result was the same.
I tried Cosmo, but had no luck there, either.
(Do you know what happens to people who work for Link, if they get caught?)
I called Bryony.
"I've been onto Missing Persons—they said there were drones in the nearby areas, but they haven't picked up anything. It's like he walked out of Hope 19 and evaporated." She paused. "Are you absolutely sure he hasn't done a bunk?"
"No way. I'd know if there was anything wrong."
"Would you, though? All those nights you were working—"
My jaw clenched. "Just because your partner works odd hours you don't automatically think, wahey, I'll use this time to go and pork someone else. He loves me. We’re getting married. We're—oh, whatever, you ask anyone. We're love's young fucking dream, okay?" Tears poured down my cheeks. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude. I'm just—my head's all over the place. What are they going to do next?"
"They said they'll put an alert on the com system, so that if he contacts anyone they'll get a message to contact Missing Persons, and his com will be picked up by any nearby drones. That's all, for now."
"But what if it's them who've taken him?"
"Beg pardon?" She sounded genuinely bemused.
"The—the establishment. Government agents."
"Why on earth would you think that?" She laughed. "Oh dear, you're not one of those conspiracy theorists, are you?"
"No—forget I said it." As part of Link, even at my level, it was easy to forget that most people sailed through life never questioning the official narrative.
"I'm sure they'll find him soon enough," Bryony said, and cleared her throat. "If he really has disappeared under suspicious circumstances, I mean."
Resisting the temptation to say something catty, I exited the call.
I spent the whole day contacting anyone I could think of, looking up reports about people who'd disappeared in the recent past and reading the Missing Persons site to see what they actually did, which didn't seem to be a great deal.
I drank, but not too much. Didn't want my head to run away with me.
Still no Cosmo. Still no Ned. On the sixth time I tried Milo, he answered.
I said, "How's the lighting?"
"Still not fixed. You needn't come in tonight, either."
"I was going to ask you for the night off, anyway, I'm in no shape to—"
"Well, that's okay, you've got it."
I looked at London on Heart, and saw that he was 'just off to work'.
I paced, I drank a bit more, I bit my nails, I took a shower, I cried, I prayed to nothing and nobody in particular. Then I rang Nerve.
London answered. "Hey, Darcie, what's up, beautiful?"
"I hear you've got trouble with the lighting."
"What?" He sounded distant. "Oh—yeah. Flickering all over the show. People are coming in, then leaving straight away. Enough to give one un petit mal!"
So he'd been told to lie.
"Can I speak to Milo?"
"Sorry, love, he's not here."
"Liar."
"Hey, I resent that, even from one as gorgeous as you!" He laughed. "Don't be arsey with me, sugar tits. You've got a night off; quel est el problemo?"
I tried Milo's phone again. Voicemail.
I slept on and off, cried on and off, shook, had a whisky, shook some more.
Morning came, and I rang Bryony—nothing.
Normally, Nerve would be open at eleven a.m. I called; Aspen answered and said there was nobody there but her.
"I'm a bit worried," she said, "every morning I get here at ten-thirty and the lights are all on, ready to go—I don't think Milo's ever got here later than me. I've tried calling, but he's not answering."
"I'll call him," I said.
"Yeah, would you? And get back to me if you can get hold of him."
He didn't answer me, either. This time, though, it didn't go to voicemail. Instead, a message came up on my screen. This smartcom is currently out of use. Please try again later.
I had to do something. I couldn't spend another day secluded in this flat, driving myself nuts.
I showered, dressed, and headed out for the ziprail.
Milo didn't say anything when he buzzed me in; I went up and found his front door open. He was packing, somewhat frantically.
"Close that, would you?"
Drawers were pulled out, his wardrobe empty, clothes all over the bed.
"Your com says it's out of use."
He didn't look at me; I followed him into the bathroom where he gathered up a bundle of toiletries, then I followed him back into the bedroom and watched him dump them into his backpack.
"Yeah. Yesterday it was the same with Siri, Cosmo, and other names you don't know, all of whom have disappeared, so if they've been got I imagine I'm next on the list."
I flopped onto the bed, my stomach busy turning itself inside out. "Do you think that's what's happened to Ned?"
"Du-uh. Yeah."
"What does that mean? What will they do to him?"
"Your guess is as good as mine."
I so didn't want to, and it really wasn't me, but I started to cry. "Milo, what can I do? There must be someone I can go to for answers, some
where! I've got to find him!"
His face softened; the first time I'd ever seen that. He put his hand on my shoulder, and squeezed it. "I don't know if you can, and trying to might make things worse for you. As it is, the first contacts appear to have been left alone. But I reckon they must be doing some sort of major sweep—what with the ban on deliveries to drop-ins, something's definitely going down." He turned back to his packing. "Anyway, I know a guy who knows a guy who's going to get me out. So I've got to go."
"Where to?"
"Best you don't know."
"Where will he take you?"
"Wasteland, I guess. Then I'll try to get to one of the countries that doesn't consider not wanting to live in fear a fucking crime." He pulled something out of his pocket; a com, but one of the older type, from ten years ago. "I know a guy. Another guy, I mean."
I leaned forward and looked at the com; I don't know why, there was nothing to see. "Who?"
"His name's Xav—"
"I've heard of him."
"Well, that network I told you about—it should be live very soon. For contacts in Europe. And us. It'll have a shed-load of encryption that will, cross fingers, make it indecipherable to the government arseholes." He zipped up the backpack.
"Is Xav in the wasteland?"
He nodded. "Was last time I spoke to him. Haven't been able to get hold of him for a week or so. Right, I've got to go." He reached out and clutched my hand. "If I find anything out about Ned I will find a way to let you know. I promise."
I squeezed his hand. "Thank you, and please, will you—"
My words were drowned out by a furious banging on the door.
Milo lurched back. "Oh Jesus—"
But there was nowhere to hide in a tiny flat in the stacks, and no window to escape from, not when you lived four floors up.
He turned to me, his face white but devoid of expression, and handed me that old style com. "Xav's in it. Don't use it unless you need a way out. You got that?"
"Yes—"
"I mean it. Only if you're desperate. He may be able to help—if anyone can, he can. The new network is Molenet. That's mole-dot-net. Or will be, soon."
