by Terry Tyler
"Oh, nothing—I don't know." He didn't, either. He'd thought about it a lot, and decided it was something about her eyes that reminded him of his gran smiling at him before she kissed him goodnight.
Jerome nodded. "It happens, mate. It happens."
Fucking Bettencourt had started doing that 'mate' thing a bit too much, like the red caps. Made Radar feel like he was being patronised all over again. What with the discovery that his actual fucking eyesight wasn't private, his fabulous new life felt tarnished.
"Like I said before," Jerome continued, "you remembered your training, and did your job. And I'm keeping my eye on you!" He laughed. "That's all good, too!"
Now, on this August morning, Radar and nine others receive notification that Jerome Bettencourt has arrived, and wishes to see them in the meeting room.
He stands at one end of the long table, hands in jeans pockets, and grins at them.
"Congratulations! Each one of you here has been chosen for my carefully selected elite force—and your first assignment will take place tomorrow. Are you ready?"
The assignment is not as Radar expected; they will not be flying out to a tropical paradise to act as personal security for the rich and famous. Instead, the ten are bundled aboard a small army plane on the military base. The entrance to the cockpit is shut, and there are no windows in the plane, a great disappointment as this is the first time any of them have flown.
"It's like being sealed into a bloody tin can," Cahill complains.
On arrival at their destination, a private airfield with no distinguishing features, they follow a guard to a waiting vehicle, where they are told that their iSyncs will be turned dark for the duration of the journey.
One of their two escorts turns them all blind with a touch of her com, and every one of them cries out; Radar bashes his fist against his forehead, in the hope that this might dislodge the chip. It doesn't. He's taking the damn thing out, and soon. It's only just under the skin; shouldn't be hard.
"Normal service will be resumed in half an hour, as soon as we get to where you're going," says the escort.
"Isn't this illegal, or against human rights, or something?" asks Woodrow.
She laughs. "Don't worry, it'll be over soon. I suggest you either shut your eyes and try to forget about it, or if you like, I can alter your vision to a scenic walk. Mountains, lakeside, woodland, beach—take your pick."
Most of them take the beach, but Radar goes for mountains. He likes the idea of that; climbing up high, all alone and away from the world.
"You're not missing anything," the woman says. "It's started to piss down, and it's just overgrown fields and a few broken down buildings."
The other escort, a man, says, "There's an off-grid over there. Shit hole of a place."
An off-grid? The woman mutters to him to say no more, but Radar heard. He shuts his eyes, shuts out the mountain, and starts counting, drawing a picture in his mind of the direction in which they're travelling, each time he feels the vehicle turn with the road. The escort's voice, when he pointed it out, came from the right—like he'd just seen it out of the window.
Twenty minutes later, they come to a stop. An image of the route is engraved onto Radar's brain; he's rather hoping that in their free time he might get to visit that off-grid. See if there's a bike lying around that he can 'borrow', maybe.
He could just go. Disappear.
Because this 'special assignment' troubles the fuck out of him.
No, he'll do the job first. Get paid. See how he feels when he actually does it.
When Jerome Bettencourt revealed the nature of the assignment the day before, not one of them spoke, or looked at each other.
"If anyone wants to opt out now, you can. But know this: you've been chosen for my elite force because you're the best. If you leave, you'll be turning your back on travel and big financial reward. You'll be coming into contact with billionaires, the winners who make the world go round. Any one of them might offer you a contract for the sort of pay cheque that says you're at the top of your game. But it's up to you."
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
Their sight is returned, and they get out of the vehicle.
"Jesus," says Woodrow. "We've fucking arrived."
They stand on a wide, gravelled forecourt in front of a mansion, set in glorious grounds. Jerome told them this house cannot be found on Earth Maps; to the public, it appears as no-access farmland.
Radar doesn't even know whereabouts in the country he is. Whether once they left MC5, they flew southwest, southeast, or up north; he was too preoccupied to take note of the direction.
Oh, but this house—he's never seen anything like it, except on TV. Jerome said it has over sixty rooms. An immaculate garden as big as a football pitch leads to dense woods, and the section of these woods belonging to the house stretches for more than a square mile.
Radar knows how impressive they must look: a force to be reckoned with. Beards have been trimmed, all piercings removed. They wear a uniform of black bomber jacket, black jeans, black turtleneck, black boots. They are all in peak condition, having been drug-, tobacco- and alcohol-free for months now, nourished with decent food, their strength built up on the training ground and in the gym.
"I'm waiting for some fucker to take my headset off," says Cahill. "Like, 'sorry, mate, that was VR.' And there I'll be, still sitting in Hope-fucking-10."
Their shared laughter relieves the tension that has been present since they learned what they have been employed to do—and now here is Jerome, dressed like an aristo, even down to the cravat. He smiles broadly, and claps his hands.
"Good to see you, gentlemen! Come on, this way—we've got the west wing ready, just for you, where you can order up a massage, meals and drinks—non-alcoholic, of course—watch TV, or play pool."
They walk round to the side of the house and enter via a back door, taking them up a narrow staircase. On reaching a narrow hallway with rooms on either side, Jerome stops.
"Here we are; you have a communal room at the end with all facilities, and your names are on the bedroom doors. Two to a room. By each of your beds you will find a blue pill, which you are required to take at nine-thirty p.m. Don't worry, it's nothing dangerous; it's a deluxe form of blitz that will give you the edge you may need for your first time out. At nine-forty p.m. you will leave through the side exit and travel by golf cart to your entrance point, as discussed. When you return afterwards, you will take the white pill, also by your bed, to ensure a good night's sleep. Breakfast will arrive at eight a.m, and you will leave shortly after. Enjoy your stay, and do the job you're being paid to do; you won't be sorry."
The first thing Radar does is to try the handle that leads out of the west wing into the rest of the house. It's locked.
The next morning, he isn't sure how he feels. Bettencourt was right about one thing; the 'deluxe blitz' made him feel invincible. That one blue pill made the blitz that was available in Hopes and prisons seem like a cup of coffee. If that stuff was as easy to get as the regular, he'd be in serious danger of developing a habit.
The come-down makes him feel pleasant, floating; he can remember the events of the night before, but they're like a dream. The other men echo his thoughts. All agree that the blue pill was spectacular; they laugh about it, comparing it with past blitz experiences.
None of them talk about what they actually did. About what went down.
According to Jerome, they all performed well.
"And if you take a look at your coms, you'll see that you've been amply rewarded."
He tells them that the next event will take place in late September.
None of them look each other in the eye. Not quite; if they do so by accident, they quickly look away.
Chapter 25
Xav
Lake Lodge Approved Private Homestead
Sunday, September 17th, 2062
I've been called an idealistic fool—at best—for believing that we could increase in number and one
day rise up against the megacities. Guess I was. I can only imagine what some of my friends may be going through now, those who didn't get away, who ended up in those trucks. If those demons would herd innocent people into a hut to be murdered, I don't rate the chances of the others.
We're in a war between good and evil, and we lost this battle.
Everyone has heard that quote, 'the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing'. The 2062 version is 'the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men not to care as long as they can share iSync streams and holochat with some guy in California.'
My world went dark for months after they cleared the wasteland; I couldn't find out if there was anyone left, but we're starting to stick our heads above the parapet now, and at last we have Molenet. Jago is at the new off-grid in the Netherlands with King and his friends; after their escape last year, a section of abandoned land was allocated to them. It's been extremely hard going, but they've made it work.
I had greater hopes for humanity; with all the resources we have at our disposal, those in power use them to turn the world into this, rather than the utopia it could be. I don't see this as idealism. You've got to try. I've been trying since my mother painted my four-year-old face with the freedom sign when we went on marches against vaccine passports during the pandemics of the 2020s.
Mum was shot when they came for us on the council estate where we lived; she threw a petrol bomb, setting light to one of the buses that was supposed to transport us to a Hope Village. My elder brother, Viktor, received the same fate, for laying into the one who murdered Mum. I was seventeen, and that was in 2035. As he lay dying I heard Viktor shouting at me to run, and I ran. I melted into the wasteland, and I've been fighting against them ever since. Since the wasteland clearances last year, though, I've just been waiting. To see what I must do next. I will be needed, somewhere.
I saw what they did. I saw them lead people into huts, then take out their dead bodies. I told the world. Jago wanted me to flee with him, but I had to stay. Link was crushed, but seedlings remained here and there, and now it is growing back.
I hid for two months in the late autumn and early winter, because I suspected I was a wanted man. All my energy went into keeping myself warm and fed, and it was hard. I got ill, and I thought I was going to die. I knew I had to be somewhere else, or one day I would just not wake up.
I went to Sunrise off-grid, in North Yorkshire. Good people. They took me in, fixed up a cellar so it was warm and dry enough for me to sleep in, and showed me a space under their goat shed where I could hide, in an emergency. Said I could stay as long as I wanted, but I was always waiting.
Of course, they came.
Billy arrived at my bedside one morning; I was just waking up. "You gotta go, man. We just had a visitor. Showed us that vid you posted on the dark net about their gas chambers, and offered us all manner of megacity shit to give you up to them if we see you."
I sat up, wide awake.
"What did you say?"
"Whaddya think? I said I'd never heard of you; problem is I can't guarantee that a couple of our newer residents won't think it's worth handing you over in exchange for said megacity shit." He grinned at me in the lamplight. "Not me, even though I've been heard to say that I'd sacrifice an arm for a family pack of Snickers. Serious chocolate cravings since the drop-ins closed!"
I got out of bed and pulled on my jeans. "I’d best be on my way, then."
"Where will you go?"
I thought for a moment. It was early April, still cold sometimes, too early in the year to find much to eat, and staying unseen was hard, with all the reforestation and nature reserve work going on. "Lake Lodge," I decided.
Billy nodded. "Good folks. Now that Steve prick's gone."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. The son runs it now. Kendall buggered off to New Zealand, left the whole place to Nick. Steve was so hacked off that he packed his bags. Working in the Department of Agriculture now. Beats me how anyone can go from being free to chaining themselves to megacity servitude. Then again, he always was a prick."
"I vowed to Mum that I would always help out anyone who was in genuine need," Nick Gregory told me. "You're welcome, Xav. Long as you don't mind sleeping in the storeroom up in the attic; it's the safest place, if they're looking for you. We have a secret enclosure up there, for this very purpose, our priest hole."
They'd already been there, looking for me, but we knew they would come back.
Lake Lodge is much more organised than Sunrise; Nick interviewed each resident individually to ensure that they wouldn't give me up, reminding them that if any were tempted by all that the megacity gestapo had to offer, it would be paid for by my very painful death.
In the meantime, I have stayed mostly indoors. I've grown a beard, dyed my hair black, and now wear glasses with plain lenses. I make myself useful teaching Nick's people how to make vehicles and better biofuel. I hear from Jago on Molenet. It is growing in Europe, and I keep my old com on me at all times. He still urges me to join them, and I might, if there are no options left, but I sense that I can still do some good here.
The other day, one of Nick's people found a micro surveillance device in the woods outside the main entrance to this place. It looked like a large fly, and she would not have noticed it had the sun not highlighted it on a tree; it was a bit bigger and shinier than a real insect of its type. She crushed it underfoot, but there must be more, though they haven't been found.
They want me. They want to know what else I recorded, what else I've seen. Who I've told.
I am not used to staying in one place, or being surrounded by so many people. Now and again I take a trip out, for my sanity, just to be alone, and to keep moving. I cycle for miles at night and sleep in the day, hiding anywhere I can. I need to see what I can see, to know what is going on in the country. The stuff they don't tell anyone about.
Last month I went out for over a week because the weather was so good, and one night I saw something that disturbed me a great deal. I reached some woods, and was enjoying that sense of calm that always overcomes me when surrounded by trees. I smelled that scent of approaching autumn; beautiful.
Then I saw that, further on, a part of the woods was fenced off. I was intrigued, so I climbed a tree to have a look. I heard rustling that I assumed must be wild animals, and looked through my night binoculars, hoping to see a deer or a fox.
There was no wild animal. What I saw made my blood run cold.
It was a girl, running; occasionally she stumbled. I watched her looking over her shoulder, hiding behind a tree, like she was trying to escape someone or something, and I was just considering making my way over to her, climbing the fence, when a streak of light shot out, and she fell.
I waited for her to get up, but she didn't. I saw someone approach her, all in black; he or she seemed to be examining her. A moment or so later I heard the sound of bikes, a man calling out. I heard two of them laughing, saw one picking up the girl, hoisting her over his shoulder like a rolled-up rug.
I got the hell out of there.
I've been thinking about it ever since.
Chapter 26
Tara
Tuesday, September 19th, 2062
Karena has to go to the orthodontist to get her braces adjusted, which means she must be accompanied by a member of staff. She wants me to go with her.
"You're my favourite," she says, "'cause you don't treat me like a crazy person. I'm going to ask the nurse to put you down as my companion."
She's looking forward to an outing with me, and it'll be a welcome change in routine for both of us. The orthodontist is in Care Village, but it's a nice walk across a park. I tell her we can go to the café and feed the ducks on the pond, and she's as excited as a child. Sweet.
The nurse has to complete a consent form, on which she gives the reason for the visit and the name of Karena's nominated companion. Alas, this form must go to Dawn Whittle for signing off.
>
I'm in the day room playing cards with Sapphire when Karena rushes in, in tears.
"That bitch Dawn Shittle says you can't go with me to get my braces done!"
Oh dear; I called her 'Shittle' the other day, Sapphire heard me and it's begun to catch on. Karena flops down beside me, and I give her hand a surreptitious squeeze; recently, Whittle called a meeting in which she instructed us not to have any physical contact with the clients in case they become too attached.
I ask, in as gentle, calm a voice as possible, "Did she say why not?"
"No, but she never does, does she? I know why, it's 'cause she wants me to be unhappy so I'll stay here for ever and my parents will keep paying the bill, and Mum doesn't mind because she's ashamed of me!"
"Who does she say you've got to go with?"
"Paulie, and I can't stand him!"
Nor can I. Paulie's awful; he did about six months of a psych degree so looks down on the rest of us, does everything by the book, and can often be seen with his arse in the air as he kneels to kiss Whittle's feet.
"He talks to me like I'm five years old, and when we get there he'll say in a loud voice that he's a nurse from Aubrey House Psychiatric Clinic, so everyone in the waiting room will be waiting for me to start wailing and throwing stuff at them. And last time he said we had to take segs home because it's quicker, and I got in a panic because I don't like them, and he just told me to do deep breathing!"
I hate segs, too, but that's mostly because the people on them always look such divs.
As Sapphire and I try to comfort Karena, tinkling music heralds the warm, female-type, robotic voice that informs us dinner is now being served in the restaurant. Mass exodus; meals punctuate the day here. Dinner means it's five forty-five. Karena's appointment is tomorrow morning, so I need to catch Whittle before she leaves for the day, which she does shortly after six.
