Megacity: Operation Galton Book 3

by Terry Tyler

  Let her stay. Let her stay.

  When he sees her stand and walk out of the door, he hears himself cry out.

  Faulkner says, "What's up wi' you?"

  "Nowt. Cramp." He rubs his leg to add weight to the story. "Standing still for too long." He grins, because he remembers the psych woman on training saying that smiling and laughing do something good to your brain. "C'mon. Let's go get something to eat."

  He and Faulkner sit at a table in Hut C, eating those tasteless shit Nutri-Smartmeals like in Hope. After several months of decent food, he'd forgotten how bad they are. Blake, Matlock and Reardon join them, and Radar does his best to shove the girl into a corner of his mind where she won't bother him. Afterwards, he patrols the whole compound. Hears a couple of people having a last fuck in one of the toilets, and leaves them be. Organises the removal of those lucky bastards whose numbers weren't called. A tall girl with spiky blonde hair and a million tatts asks him where they're going.

  "A research place, better than Hope," he says. "All brand new, and you'll have your own room."

  She perks up. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Honest truth. You lot are lucky, I promise you."

  And then all there is to do is to cull those left. Hut K. K for Kull. K for Kill.

  She's sitting with an acne-faced skinny girl, a junkie fella who looks like he lives in a ditch, couple of other blitzers. They're not talking much. Just looking at the floor. Ditch Boy takes a giant spliff out of his pocket and lights it; Matlock shoots Radar a look, and Radar shakes his head. What's the harm, now? The guy passes it round, and the girl takes a long, hard draw. He hopes it's heavy skunk, that she gets good and stoned.

  Radar wants to talk to her. To think of any excuse to go over, but he can't, he mustn't; if he does, she will become a person, not a unit, and he'll have to try to save her, he won't be able to help it.

  Fucking get a grip, man.

  He shuts his eyes. Does his breathing exercises. Brings down the screen. Matlock makes the call. Time to go.

  This is it, then.

  The sun edges through dark clouds, which open up as they step outside. In a puddle Radar sees colours. He looks up; it reflects a rainbow. The sky is dark and bright, both at the same time. Kind of eerie, with that awesome smell of rain on dry ground. Hut K looms large, some forty yards away.

  That sky. It's like the world is about to end. He can imagine it, right now. Something falling out of the sky and wiping them all out.

  Shut the fuck up, man. Stop being a pussy.

  He stands near, watching her walking between Acne Girl and Ditch Boy. They're ambling, chatting.

  She looks as though her voice would be harsh, rough, but it's not. She doesn't sound like a Hope girl. She's not a Hope girl, but Hope has ruined her.

  He moves forward, quickening his step; he doesn't know why, he just has to see her face, one more time. Will her to meet his eyes.

  Fucking hell. He can't do anything. If he pulls her out, it'll start a major panic. The whole group will sense danger, make a run for it, then Clancy and his men will start firing at them and it'll be chaos, fucking chaos, people will get shot trying to escape. Bettencourt will send him back to Hope Village, and that will be it for the rest of his life, no more Megacity 5, no elite ops, no more being a real person, just Hope until he dies—oh, no, but they won't let him live, will they, 'cause he knows about the cull. If he tries to save her, he won't see tomorrow.

  He looks at her again. It's me or you. I choose me. The screen comes down. She's just some useless blitz-head. Probably sells it to kids to fund her own habit. There's a reason why she was selected for assessment. A reason why she didn't make the grade for the research labs. More than one, most likely. Her choice. She didn't have to start taking that poison, did she?

  Faulkner and Blake open the doors of Hut K, and in they walk. The door bangs shut, and Faulkner flicks the locks.

  Radar shuts his eyes and lifts his head to breathe in the damp air, feel the rain on his face. Slow breath in, slow breath out. He's done it. She's gone.

  He glimpses her body as he walks in, and turns his back; let someone else carry her out.

  Back at MC5, he gets a call from the man himself. Jerome Bettencourt.

  "You had a dodgy moment yesterday, then, mate."

  Radar tenses, heart thudding. "How d'you mean?"

  "The group selected for treatment. Your anxiety levels looked like they were riding the fucking Ultra Speed at Great Outdoors."

  "Oh. Yeah. Sorry 'bout that." He's got to ask. "Will it go against me?"

  "The opposite. Something or someone got to you, but you used your training and shut your emotions down, without fuss. You did the job you're being paid to do. We've had a freak-out with another POP group—had to let two go—but you showed me what you were made of. Well done, Radar. I'm proud of you."

  That night, he dreams about his gran. He doesn't know why, but she's really pissed at him.

  Chapter 21

  Tara

  May ~ June 2062

  I can't imagine how Aileen is still sane, after all she's been through. I am in awe of her.

  That night we learned about Clinton and his Rise bullshit, she broke down, and it all came out. Slime-bag Lester took a few steps back and said, "Whoa—female crying alert—time I wasn't here!" and winked at me, like I was supposed to think it was funny. Arsewipe.

  It was the sight of those kids from NPU Teens that set Aileen off. Knowing that her daughter, Leah, is the same age.

  "Except I don't know if she's likely to sign up for a project like this, if she wants to go to college—I don't know much about her at all. I get monthly reports, but they make it worse, in a way; sometimes I can't bear to look at them, because they remind me that I've missed her entire childhood, and she's been taught that I'm of no importance."

  I said, "Come on, she must think of you," but she cut me off.

  "They're encouraged not to; they call us 'birth parents', in other words, the sperm and egg donors, nothing more. When she was thirteen she could have asked to get in touch with me—I don't know if she did or not, but mostly they don't allow it. I've talked to people in the same situation on Heart2Heart, loads of them, over the years." She wiped her eyes. "She won't even remember me, because she was only eighteen months old when I handed her over. Stupid idiot that I was."

  "You weren't stupid. You were lied to. They gave you the impression that NPU was a temporary solution; you weren't to know."

  She managed a smile and reached out for my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. "Thanks. It's hard not to blame myself, though. Anyway, she's sixteen in August, at which time she can ask for my contact details without needing permission. That's why I've hung on to my flat—so she can see I have a home for her." A tear rolled down her face. "It's so damn lonely there, though. And depressing. I feel like I'm waiting for a fantasy, half the time. I shut that door at night and I see no one, because just keeping the flat on takes most of my money."

  That explained a lot. "Wouldn't you be better off living here?"

  "Why? I need to be able to offer her a home, I—"

  "But you said it's lonely and depressing. Wouldn't you rather be around people? Save some money?" I thought. "When I was in Hope—if someone had said I could see my mum again, I wouldn't have cared if she was living in a tent. I mean, she was dead, that's why I was there, but if I could have seen her—"

  "How did she die, if you don't mind me asking?"

  And so, I told her about my life, too. I'd just got to the bit about never seeing Radar again after I was adopted by Marilee and Clinton when she said, "I wish we had some alcohol. It's beyond my budget, unfortunately."

  "Not mine." I smiled. "There, you could afford it if you lived in! Come on, it's on me."

  I ordered three bottles of wine from Grape & Grain, and we sat on my bed and talked until the early hours about Leah and the Department of Social Care, about Radar and Tallulah, Marilee, Clinton, Zia and Jerome, about her husband Eric and my Ned. />
  That evening made us close. Like, proper friends. I told her what Clinton did, but not about Link. Not yet. Because you never know. Thus, explaining Ned's disappearance was a problem; I had to suffer the careful suggestions that he'd left me, because who wouldn't assume that? People don't just disappear in a puff of smoke. Do they?

  I like my job. Helping other people with their problems helps me. I volunteer for extra shifts, so I don't sit in my room brooding.

  I'm working on Aileen, trying to get her to give up her flat. I think she would be happier here and, for purely selfish reasons, I'd love to have her just down the corridor.

  The only problem with Aubrey House is about seventy per cent of the staff. Ms Dawn Whittle is a total bitch and I keep out of her way; whenever I hear her heels click-click-clicking down the corridor, I lurch through random doors or make like a wall, so she doesn't see me. As for the nursing staff, too many of them treat the clients as if they're a) mentally subnormal, b) lucky bastards who don't have the right to complain about anything because they have parents rich enough to put them in here in the first place, or c) acting up for attention, and must therefore be treated like naughty children.

  They have little instinct about human nature, but have ticked all the right boxes to get their psych degrees. They know that Patient A has b, c and d symptoms, so therefore must have such-and-such a syndrome, and should be treated by doing e, f and g. There's zero thought for the individual, because they don't think of them as people, but cases. If you make a suggestion, or question anything, they say, 'Do you have a degree in psych?' to which I say, 'No, but I only have to look at her to know that this is making her unhappy.'

  Goodness knows why Aubrey House has got such a great reputation. If anything, I think it's the socmos like Aileen and me who actually help the patients, because we talk to them like human beings.

  Today, the 8th of June, I've been working at Aub House for seven months, and I celebrate this by getting two employment demerits and making an enemy of Dawn Whittle.

  My first crime was totally unforgiveable. I used my skill and judgement to do the best for a resident I cared about, despite this meaning I had to inch my toe over the approved line.

  Karena, aged sixteen, is of a chronically nervous disposition, and yesterday she had a particularly bad day because someone called her fat. She's slightly overweight, the amount that would make a balanced person just put on a looser top, but her head's totally fucked because of the neuroses of her mother.

  She'd taken her daily meds, the ones that are supposed to stop her looking for handy bits of sharp stuff to slice her skin up with, but she still seemed overwrought. Clients under eighteen years of age are required to go to bed as per their individual programmes, but she told me she wasn't tired and didn't want to be in her bedroom by herself; she was scared of her own thoughts. She likes being with me, so I said, "How about we stay up and watch some stuff together?"

  She was delighted at the suggestion and we snuggled up to watch a movie. I put my arm around her and I could feel her relax.

  She said, "You're my friend, aren't you? You understand."

  And I said, because I didn't want her to become too attached while still letting her know that I cared, "Well, this is my job, and I don't know what's happened to you or why you're here, but yes, of course I'm your friend."

  This happy situation lasted all of half an hour before Officious Bitch (Dawn Whittle's night secretary) caught us on the monitor, and poor Karena was dragged away, kicking and screaming. Literally—and Needle Fiend (a nurse with a particular fondness for giving injections) pounced on the opportunity to fill her veins with lobotomy juice.

  This morning I was told to report to Whittle, to explain myself.

  "Karena was happy and calm," I said. "She'd had a difficult day; I wanted to make it better for her."

  Whittle's eyes seared into me from behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "You allowed her to flout the rules. What sort of example is that setting?"

  I shrugged. "She wasn't tired and she didn't want to be alone. I thought she needed a bit of human contact with someone who cares how she feels."

  "You did, did you?"

  "Yes."

  Whittle blew steam out of her nose. "Do you have a degree in psychology?"

  "You know I don't."

  "I designed her programme myself," she said. "What she wants isn't necessarily what she needs. If you wish me to consider proposals for modifications to her programme, obtain a relevant qualification."

  See what I mean?

  Thus my first employment demerit.

  This morning I have a minor rant in the staffroom about getting a demerit for making a troubled client feel calm and secure, and the next thing I know I've got another two-pointer for slagging off Whittle. I'm pretty sure which one of my co-workers told on me.

  The good news is that after I've finished my moan to Aileen, she tells me that she's decided to do as I suggested, and give up her flat. From tomorrow, she will be three doors down from me, in staff accommodation.

  "I've let NPU Teens know my new address, on the million to one chance that Leah might actually want to get in touch with me, come August."

  "What made you change your mind?"

  "You did. I couldn't stand the silence any more. And being broke all the time. Come on, it's a lovely evening; let's go to Lark's Pond and have a celebratory walk."

  I can't go to Lark's Pond without thinking about that last weekend with Ned.

  I can't believe I won't see him again.

  I won't believe it.

  On the zip, I watch the good megacity citizens returning home to their nice little boxes in the stacks, most of them scrolling through their coms, others with that glazed look, indicating that their iSync is in virtual reality mode. I've never been tempted by VR. I'd rather be in the real world, however shitty it is, than escape into fantasy. Because while you're in a make-believe world, you're not dealing with stuff.

  "It's so good to get out," Aileen says. "If Leah does get in touch, I could take her to Lark's Pond. Better than sitting in the flat."

  "It's best to be outside, anyway. You never know who's listening to what, when you're inside, or where any cameras or audio stuff might be." I keep my voice down, of course. You never know who might be a bug.

  "Oh yes, Eric used to talk about that but I thought he was just being paranoid. Then someone on Heart2Heart told me they monitor you via your wallscreen." She shudders. "What an awful thought."

  "It's not constant, but I'm told the AI picks up on certain keywords and phrases. Or, if you've done anything against the system, you might be under surveillance. Which includes alerts via facial recog every time you walk past a street camera."

  "Whew." She blew out. "Bloody hell. How do you know?"

  "Someone who knows this stuff told me."

  "Can I ask who?"

  I think so, now. "Wait until we get to the pond."

  Five minutes later, we make our way from the zip connect to the little stile over a stream that leads to Lark's Pond. It's another of those lovely relics from pre-Great Shift days, a section of the countryside that I believe was once in Leicestershire. The pond is a natural lake with a path all round, and an area of woodland. No picnic areas and cafés like in Wildacre; it seems more real.

  There is nobody nearby; we choose a spot where we can sit on the grass and enjoy the last of the day's rays, and the words tumble out of me as I tell Aileen about Link. About Ned, Milo and Cosmo, and the man who told me I would not see them again. About the one tenuous connection I still have: Milo's com, to call Xav.

  At last, someone else knows what's been going on in my head for the past eight months. She listens in silence, until I've finished. "You poor thing, you've had all this to deal with, on your own. I'm so sorry—those things I said about Ned having left you—"

  "It's okay. I'd have thought the same."

  "I wish you'd told me sooner."

  "I had to be careful." I smile at her. "I wish you
'd told me about Leah straight away, too—it's hard, though, isn't it?"

  She nods. "You see everyone living what appear to be normal lives, and you can't imagine telling them about all this awful stuff you've got going on."

  "That's it. That's exactly it."

  We sit without talking for a moment, looking out across the water at the sky, now turning a pinkish-yellow.

  Then Aileen says slowly, "You said Link—they help people find their families?"

  "Yes, but it seems to have broken down now, what with the wasteland being regenerated and so many being arrested. This Xav guy, though, their superhero—Milo seemed to think he's still around."

  "Might he have contacts in the megacities? Who could find out where Leah is?"

  "Maybe. But I don't know what's going on. Don't get your hopes up, you know?"

  "Yeah, I know." She starts tearing up tufts of grass. "I've had people imply to me that I'm a bad mother; they say, oh, I'd never give my child up, even if it meant going into Hope—as if I sacrificed her for megacity comfort. But they've never been put in the situation."

  "And they've never lived in Hope." I sit up. "Come on, I need coffee. You been to Double Shot? Ned and I always used to go when we'd been here." And I think again about that last weekend we were together. And again and again and again.

  "I haven't; haven't had anyone to go to cafés with for ages." She stands up, brushes down the seat of her trousers, and laughs. "How sad is that?"

  And how sad am I for never having realised what Double Shot is: another Link contact place. I find out by accident when I go to the loo.

  On the wall by the window is a tiny picture, no more than four inches square, intricately drawn and painted.

  It is a picture of a cartoon mole, peeking out of his hole in the ground, glancing up at a butterfly net that's about to capture him.

  Molenet.

  To the casual eye, it would mean nothing.