by Terry Tyler
He bolted for the bathroom.
The knocks came again; this time they didn't wait for an answer, and nor did they need entrance ID. In walked a man and a woman in smart, dark clothes, followed by two guards of the type who guard the perimeter. Firearms and all.
The woman said, "We're looking for Milo Scott."
I said nothing.
The man turned back to the entrance hall and kicked open the bathroom door. I heard the toilet flush and Milo came out, doing up his trousers. Guess he was chucking something incriminating down there.
"And good morning to you too, arsehole." He joined us in the living room, and the woman held her com up to his face. No permission asked.
"You need to come with us."
"What for?"
"Milo Scott, I am arresting you on suspicion of involvement in an organisation that operates in direct conflict with the objectives of Megacity 12 and the government, under the revised Public Disorder Act of 2043, Section 4." She turned to me, and my stomach flipped over. Holding her com to my face she said, "Tara Jackson," and raised her eyebrows. "Formerly Bettencourt." She put her com back in her pocket. Was I off the hook?
Milo clutched on to his backpack, swinging it over his shoulder. "You can fuck off. I've not done anything wrong, and you can't prove I have."
"You were going somewhere. Where?"
"None of your damn business."
"I'm afraid it is."
She beckoned the two guards, who bustled forward, tasers at the ready.
"Are you going to come quietly?"
Still Milo didn't move.
"Take him."
And the two guards surged forth to take control of their prisoner. They dragged him away, and the last thing I saw, before they banged the door shut, was Milo's eyes boring into mine, not scared, not resigned to his fate, but as though he was trying to communicate with me.
Be careful. Don't do anything crazy.
"Out," said the woman, and I obeyed.
I went home, with Milo's old com in my pocket. Once there, I studied it; I tried to bring up Heart, but it was disconnected. There was a contact list, though, like people had years ago, with just six identities: X, G, V, C, Ca and S. Xav, Ginevra, Cosmo and Siri, I guessed, and two I didn't know.
I couldn't resist looking up Ginevra on Heart, on my own com. An unusual name; surely there couldn't be many. Eleven in MC12. For a long time, my finger hovered over each one, aching to click the profile to see if I could guess which she was. But I knew I couldn't risk it. Formerly Bettencourt or not.
I felt sick, constantly, over the next few dreadful, depressing, lonely days; I kept thinking about what Milo told me.
If they know you work for Link, you disappear.
Heartbreak was a new experience. I'd never felt anything like it. I couldn't cry enough, I wanted to scream and holler until something made it better, but nothing could. Everything hurt. I spent a lot of time with my head stuffed into Ned's pillow, crushing it to me, bawling my eyes out, breathing in what was left of his smell.
I tried everyone I could think of who might be able to help, but heard from nobody except Bryony, who said Missing Persons—currently ignoring me—thought Ned must have fled into the wasteland.
"Well, don't they look for escapees?" I asked.
"Apparently not, not any more."
"What do you mean, not any more?"
She sighed loudly, to let me know I was trying her patience. "I was told that they haven't looked for malcontents for the past year or so. The woman I spoke to doesn't know why not; she assumes it's because it's not worth the time and manpower."
"There's scarcely any manpower involved. They just send up drones."
"I'm just telling you what she said. You're going to have to face it, Tara. He's gone." Pause. "Left you."
Bitch. If only she wasn't so delighted by her version of the situation, we might have been able to put our heads together and find something out.
I phoned Nerve which was, London informed me, now under new management, and there was no job for me.
"Fuckers, aren't they?" he said. "I said to them, my girl Darcie, she's just the best, but they said they were getting in new staff. Which is a lie, 'cause Aspen, Britt and I are still here. I'm sorry, sweet cheeks."
So now I had money problems, which meant Hope Village unless I found a job quickly. I couldn't face looking at my account balance. I spent the rest of the day looking at job sites, but I just stared at words without taking them in. I was in no shape to present myself well.
I shut down Heart and went into the bedroom, where I pulled the duvet over my head, hugged Ned's pillow to me, and cried my eyes out.
I woke up on Tuesday, 2nd November, immediately overcome with grief. By that afternoon, Ned would have been missing for a week. I sat in bed, bracing myself to look at job sites, and scarcely noticed, at first, that someone was pressing my buzzer.
I dragged myself up to look at the viewer. My caller was a stranger, a man. Smart. Forty-ish.
My heart thudded. Good news or scary shit, had to be one of the two. Just in case it was the former, I buzzed him up, threw on a hoodie, and opened the door.
He held out his com with what I assumed was ID; I didn't study it.
"Michael Goodman, National Security."
I stared at him. "Tara Jackson, irrational insecurity." He didn't see the joke. I held open the door and he walked into my living room, glancing at the mess on the table: the half empty whisky bottle, the empty glasses and coffee mugs that I hadn't bothered to clear up since Ned disappeared.
I sat, which was a mistake, because he remained standing.
"Miss Jackson, I won't beat about the bush. I'm here to give you an official notification to stop prying into matters that are no concern of yours."
"What matters might they be?"
"Edward—Ned—Green, Cosmo Dixon and Milo Scott have been relocated. The Department of National Security requires you to cease all enquiries."
I began to shake, I couldn't stop myself. "What do you mean, relocated? Ned Green and I are getting married; call me demanding, but I wouldn't mind knowing where he is."
Not a flicker.
I stood up. "Are you going to tell me why?"
"You needn't concern yourself with that."
I folded my arms. "Er, yes, I need. How would you feel if someone walked into your house and told you that your partner had been relocated, but you weren't entitled to know where to, or why?"
Michael Goodman, National Security said, "I imagine you know why."
I ignored that. "You can't do this. He's a free citizen, and I am, too. We work, we pay our taxes, we're not criminals—I have a right to know where he is—"
"No, Miss Jackson, you haven't. Messrs Green, Dixon and Scott have engaged in practices in direct conflict with the objectives of Megacity 12. They have been relocated to places where they will not be able to continue with said practices."
"What, jail? Shouldn't there have been a trial? Is that where they are?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny that."
"Okay—so when will they stop being wherever they are?"
"You won't see them again."
That was a punch in the solar plexus. "Wh-what do you mean?"
"You will not see Milo Scott, Cosmo Dixon or Edward Green again. I strongly advise you to accept this, and cease contacting people in an effort to ascertain their whereabouts, which includes Missing Persons, Bryony Walsh at Roof Charity, the staff of Nerve café bar, or anyone else at all. Heed the warning; you won't be given a second one."
I went cold, all over. The icy black shadow stood behind me, a knife to my back. "Are-are they dead?"
"They're not, but they have ceased to be a part of your life. Now, I believe you're currently out of work, have no applications outstanding, and your finances could only just cover the rent for November, taken from your account yesterday morning. The Department of Employment has kindly provided a job opportunity that comes with accommodatio
n, the details of which you will receive in just a moment." He tapped his com a couple of times and put it back in his pocket; I heard mine ping. "A vehicle will arrive in the delivery bay outside the stack on Sunday at eleven a.m., to take you and your belongings to your new home. Your job starts on Monday."
"What? Hang on a minute—what if I don't want this? What if I want to stay here for now? I signed the contract as a tenant, and I've just paid up for the month—"
"Miss Jackson, you don't have a choice." A hint of a smile played around his lips. "Your social interactions of the last couple of years will go against your chances of finding work. By the end of the month, your only option will be to return to a Hope Village, and I doubt you would be placed in one of the more resident-friendly communities. Your new job is E Grade, but as it is live-in, you will have the chance to put a little money by, along with the three weeks' rent that will be credited back to your account. I suggest you keep your nose clean from now on, and at some point in the future you may be able to improve your circumstances."
"But—"
"I should mention that this opportunity comes at the request of Marilee Bettencourt; without her intervention, your only option would be Hope. She has requested, though, that you don't contact her or any member of her family. If you're wise, you'll take note of everything I've said. Are you wise, Miss Jackson?"
My mouth was dry. I could hardly get the word out. "Yes."
"Good. I wish you well in your new employment, and hope that you settle in with no further problems."
With that, he turned around and walked out of my flat, carefully closing the door behind him.
I was to be employed as a 'social motivator', whatever the fuck that was, in the Care Village. Aubrey House, Female Psychiatric B. I read my job description.
The clients of Aubrey House, Female Psychiatric B are young women with complex mental health issues. Aubrey House is a private establishment, which means that the clients' care is funded by their families.
As a social motivator, your time will be spent accompanying the clients out of doors for light exercise, engaging them in conversation and recreational activities, and generally assisting them in normal social interaction. You may be called upon to sit in observation; on occasion a client's behaviour will mean their activity needs to be monitored twenty-four hours a day, to ensure that they are not endangering their own or anyone else's welfare.
Didn't sound too gruelling. Playing cards with a few rich screw-ups and watching to make sure they didn't stab themselves or anyone else when nobody was looking. That was what I surmised by reading between the lines, anyway. I could deal with that.
I swiped on, to read about my new accommodation.
One room with an en suite bathroom, shared kitchen. On-shift meals to be taken in the restaurant, with clients. Well, that was okay.
I sat back, shut my eyes, and Ned appeared in my thoughts.
You won't see them again.
I've read about people swearing loved ones were still alive when others thought they were dead, saying 'I'd know if he was dead, I'd feel it', but cosmic vibes have never been my strong point. I didn't know if Ned was alive or not, and I had no way of finding out. My hand itched to delve into the dark net and find out if anyone else had experienced what I was going through, if there was anyone, anywhere, who knew what happened to Link operatives who were taken away, but I knew that I mustn't. Not unless I wanted another knock at the door.
Not unless I wanted to end up—where?
Part Three
November 2061 ~ September 2062
Chapter 18
Operation Galton Phase 11
November 2061 ~ January 2062
Jerome Bettencourt shakes Radar's hand and says, "I'll be in touch. Soon."
Two months later, the fifty men and women chosen from the prison system and Hope Villages around the country are transported to an un-signposted, anonymous building in East Anglia.
Jerome Bettencourt stands on a small platform at one end of the room, ready to greet his new task force. He calls them his POP team, an acronym that amuses him; it actually stands for 'psychos on patrol', but he isn't telling them that.
"Welcome!" He holds out his arms. "Congratulations—you've been chosen!"
He allows them a moment to glance at each other with a wary grin or nod, observes how one or two backs straighten with pride, though others retain their hostile stares—they'll be the real psychos. Or maybe the more intelligent; all will be revealed. "You make up my carefully selected POP team—my Primary Operatives. You were chosen after many, many hours watching video footage and reading warden reports; I rejected many, so if you're standing here now, consider yourselves the cream of the crop."
Step One: Make them feel valued. Once they believe their individual talents are being recognised for the first time in their miserable lives, they will do anything for you.
Jesus, but they're a hard-looking bunch.
He waits for someone to ask what they're doing here, but not one of them does. Suspicion; that's what he sees on their faces. A lifetime of being punished and shat on will do that to you.
He gestures to the chairs stacked up at the sides of the room, and the coffee machine.
"Get yourselves a cup of coffee, take a seat, and we'll get started."
They do so quickly, and without fuss, with hardly a word spoken. One of them, Benjamin 'Radar' Bundock, a particularly diligent orderly from Hope 18, is sharp enough to ask Jerome if he would like a coffee, too.
Clever chap. A possible for the elite force.
For Laser62.
Laser62 requires a certain rare breed of psycho. The type who will do whatever is required, with neither flinch nor question.
Coffee poured, arses on seats, and Jerome assumes a casual stance, hands in pockets; today he wears jeans and a sweatshirt, instead of his usual Italian suit. He needs to look like someone to whom they can relate. Standing there in his Saturday morning gear, with the huge screen behind him, he feels like one of those billionaire-tech-nerd types, about to roll out a new piece of virtual reality software. Couldn't be further from the truth. This is about real life. Humanity, close up and in the raw. Life and death.
"Okay." He rubs his hands together. "So you want to know what this great opportunity is. You're here because I intend to repurpose your skills, if you like. The rest of it I won't sugar-coat, because you don't need that shit—that's why I picked you." He touches his com; images appear on the screen. Dirty, broken down old caravans. A guy with matted hair on an old sofa on a patch of dusty ground, drinking from a can. A grubby child urinating into a bucket. Half-starved dogs foraging for scraps.
"You know where this is, right? Who these people are?"
Someone calls out, "They're wastelanders."
Jerome nods. They're actually pikey travellers filmed at the end of the 20th century, but this is the image most have of the wastelanders, a picture carefully fostered by the media. "Yeah, you all know about the wastelanders. What you don't know is that they've all gone."
Confused glances all round.
"The wastelanders were a stain on this country; I'm not saying there weren't good guys amongst them, but they were, for the most part, freeloading layabouts who thought they could live as they wished without lifting a finger to do their bit for the health and wealth of the nation. All of you here now, you contribute, every day, to the smooth running of the Hope Villages or the prison system. Some of you worked as orderlies, others in the kitchens, as cleaners, cooks, laundry workers—whatever. One or two of you were in the military, and were let down by it." He pauses, glancing over at Matlock, Brown and Skelton. "Thank you for your service." The three nod in acknowledgement, and he turns back to the screen. "This lot, though, they squatted on land that didn't belong to them, reliant on the generosity of hard-working megacity dwellers. But here's the good news. They've gone. We've taken back the wasteland."
Step Two: Instil the belief that they have earned good treatment, as opposed
to those selected for elimination.
A video appears behind him. Workers plant trees, tend flowers under an environmentally controlled dome. "This is what's happening in the wasteland now. Acres of empty land are being put to use, to benefit those who play a valid part in the growth of the UK. We're creating jobs, and more areas of natural beauty."
One man puts his hand up, displaying the swastika tattoos on his forearm to those behind him. "So where have the rats gone?"
Jerome smiles. "We did a lightning sweep over a week. Rounded 'em all up. A third were sent to work in industry in Russia and Eastern Europe—probably the first honest day's work they've done in years!"
He says the last part in a jocular vein, and pauses to observe how they react. Some laugh, a few say, 'Bloody right,' and words to that effect.
Step Three: Engender the sense of unity against inferiors.
"Another third were relocated to our research facilities in Dartmoor, Thurso and up near Hadrian's Wall, where they are currently assisting us in extensive medical and psychological experimentation for the good of all."
The scene changes to a psych experiment at the Hadrian Centre, in which a group is divided into guards and prisoners, very similar to the famous Stanford Prison scenario, but without the restrictions: at Hadrian, fatalities occur.
Jerome notices that some of his POP team sit up in interest; swastika man, Daz Faulkner, asks if they can watch the whole thing.
"Not at the moment, but you will get the chance to do so later." He switches to an assessment centre, AC3, used during Operation Galton Phase 10 last October. A group of large, one-roomed buildings, behind high fences. "Now I want to talk to you about those who were not suitable for work in heavy industry or the research centres. The third group." He turns to the screen and watches as a line of human life moves towards one end of the compound.
Hut K.
