Megacity: Operation Galton Book 3

by Terry Tyler

Tuesday, September 19th, 2062

  I'm over the moon! I've been chosen for the Rise programme!

  Sixteen-year-olds are always being asked what they're going to study at college, and I feel so dumb because nothing interests me that much. I just say, oh, I haven't made my mind up yet, and hope they don't ask anything else. I'm not that keen on studying, full stop, but it's what's expected, isn't it? School till eighteen, college till at least twenty-one.

  Yawn!

  Then back in January, this important businessman called Clinton Bettencourt and his son Jerome came to talk to us about a fabulous new 'initiative' called Rise, for sixteen-year-olds like me who want to get on with living instead of spending years and years cramming facts into our heads.

  "It won't suit everyone," Clinton told us. "The academically-minded amongst you will become doctors, lawyers, scientists, or help carve out the future in Tech Village, while others will enter teaching or the caring professions. You're at that wonderful age, and I envy you; I want you to give yourselves a round of applause, just for being sixteen and having your whole lives in front of you!"

  I'd never thought about it like that. Being sixteen, I mean. It's an exciting thought. Our whole lives, an open book with blank pages waiting to be filled.

  Next, Clinton stood back to let Jerome explain more, as he's running the programme.

  He said that the first intake of 'Rise Guys' would take place in April. Those accepted will move into the Rise Academy in MC5, attend a week's induction then be given an internship at a department of Nutricorp, where we'll be mentored by a high achiever to help discover and develop our talents.

  "It's hard work, and not all will make the grade, but even if we find that you don't quite have what it takes to be a high-flyer, the experience will be so valuable. And for those who do make it—well, I'm talking a C grade starting salary, unheard of for a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old—plus opportunities for promotion, travel, and the sort of contacts college students only dream of making."

  Then he sat on the side of the desk and told us how his dad recognised the ambition in him.

  "You're lucky, here in NPU," he told us, "because most birth parents aren't like Clinton; they get fixated on college and qualifications instead of considering what you want—you the individual. That's why NPU is so great, because you get to be who you want to be."

  Jerome is lovely, like a young, cool uncle (he's thirty-seven), and we all adore him. Skylar and I have a secret fantasy about being real sisters and living in one of the massive houses in this gated community, with a glamorous mother, where our handsome father's fun younger brother, Uncle Jerome, comes to stay and takes us to celebrity parties.

  We aren't supposed to even think about being part of a traditional family, but some of us do.

  At NPU, we learn that birth parents are donors who give the sperm and egg so that we can be born, and that's all; our 'family' is our primary carers and all the other kids. My birth mother gave me up when I was only eighteen months old—her husband left her as soon as I was born and she couldn't cope because she had mental health problems—and I can honestly say I never minded. I was totally happy all through my childhood. I had a great primary carer called Kayla when I was little, and then there was Alfie and Maisie, too, and they all made me feel so safe and loved. And now Skylar and Clark, Sansa and Tommy and all my other friends, they're my brothers and sisters.

  All the same, I can't help wondering what it would be like to live with people who look and talk like me.

  I don't think about it all the time, just now and again.

  I have vague memory flashes about a kind lady called Aileen visiting me when I was very young, and I used to think she must have been my birth mother, but Kayla said she was one of the people from Social Care, and that my mother was called Janine.

  When I was thirteen I asked if I could be put in contact with her, but was told that she'd developed a drug problem and had gone to live in a Hope Village. She died only a few weeks later. I felt sad but not too much, because I'd never known her. Neither of my birth parents cared enough about me to come and visit me, so why should I care about them?

  By then I'd moved to NPU Teens, which used to be run by a lovely lady called Valerie, but six months ago it was taken over by Quinn Matheson. Skylar and I were wary of her at first 'cause she's nothing like Valerie; she's younger, and dead skinny, with jet black hair and a bit of a scary face, but it turned out that she's lovely too—she used to work at Missing Persons, which shows she cares about people.

  I couldn't apply to Rise straight away because I wasn't old enough—we had to wait until two months before our sixteenth birthday. Clark and Skylar's birthdays are in late May and early July respectively, but they very kindly waited until June so we could all apply together (my birthday is in August).

  We had to do a three-minute presentation saying why we thought we were Rise Guy material. Skylar scripted hers, but Clark and I thought it would come across better if it was spontaneous, so we just practised a couple of times. Then we had a group hug, and all pressed 'submit' at the same time.

  When we went downstairs for tea, the dining room was buzzing because we had a visitor, Ntombi, who’d set off for the Rise Academy two months before, the only one accepted from MC12 for the April intake. She looked so polished, in her trouser suit and super-high heels, and her hair was a centimetre long all over; she seemed older, somehow. She said it was brilliant working at Wisp, the teens-to-twenties clothing outlet. She's training to be a buyer of clothes from African countries—updated versions of traditional styles, for young people of colour over here. Which means she actually gets to go to Africa—what a fabulous job, can you imagine? She showed us lots of pics of her on tour at what she called artisanal dressmakers, and with her mentor, Laurel, who looked like a model.

  "And next week Laurel and me are off to New York, to a fashion show!"

  New York!

  Skylar, Clark and I clutched each other, praying we'd get accepted for October. We knew we wouldn't hear for a while, but I've had this bubbling up feeling in my chest from the moment we waved Ntombi goodbye. It's nice, but it keeps me awake because I lie there having fantasies about going to New York and living at the Rise Academy.

  Anyway, to cut a long story short, we heard this week!

  Quinn sent the lucky ones a connect request, one at a time, without telling us why; when Clark got his he was seriously worried because he'd posted shirtless pictures of himself on Heart (he is ripped!), and thought he was in trouble.

  At NPU Teens, we're not allowed to have coms until we're sixteen—this is so that we can become our own people instead of being influenced by trends. It's also so that troublesome birth parents can't find us; there have been horrible threats in other megacities, and one girl was abducted. We can't tell anyone where NPU Teens is, either, when we go out. We completely understand that these measures are to keep us safe, but it's still a big day when we join the rest of the world.

  One of the first people I looked up on Heart was Janine Phillips. You may ask why, as she's dead, but it was something Skylar said. She told me that this weirdo girl, Edwina, who we don't talk to much, thinks our birth parents are kept from us. Skylar thinks it might be true, though Edwina is always talking about scary conspiracy theories to get attention. I totally trust Quinn, and all our other carers—they wouldn't do this sort of job if they weren't decent people.

  All the same, though, I did look up Janine. And there it was: a picture of a woman who looked a bit like me, with her birth date and Hope Village location and the 'deceased' marker, with floaty clouds and rainbows. It also said something about one birth daughter, Leah, father unnamed. Seeing my name made me tear up a bit.

  I suppose she put 'unnamed' because he left her and she was emotionally unstable, but it's weird to think that somewhere out there is my birth father. The man who made me. I can't get my head round it. I wonder if I look like him?

  But back to Rise—Clark got in and so did I! This is brill
iant! We're just hoping that Skylar gets accepted, too.

  Quinn says someone from the Rise Academy will come to speak to us very soon.

  "Congratulations," she said to me, "you're on your way!"

  Skylar hasn't been accepted.

  I'm torn. It's hard. On the one hand I'm gutted for Skylar—she's so upset, crying her eyes out. She keeps saying, "You two will be starting this exciting new life and I'll be left here, all alone," which is starting to get on my nerves, 'cause it's like she's trying to make me feel guilty. Once or twice she's gone totally airborne, almost in hysterics. I don't know if she expects me to say I won't go. She's tried it with Clark too, and the first time he gave her big hugs and said he was so sorry and they would always be friends, but now he's getting tired of it.

  On the other hand, I'll have Clark to myself.

  Skylar and I have both fancied him for, like, ever, but we agreed that neither of us would try anything because it would upset the other one. I do feel guilty, because Clark has told me that he likes me too, and he knows Skylar likes him but he doesn't fancy her; she's absolutely my sister but if she ever sees Clark and me talking alone she comes over and thrusts herself between us.

  I was feeling bad about all this, this morning, so I went to talk to Quinn. She was great, she clutched my hand across the table and said, "This is a hard world, and you have to think about yourself, and what you need to do for you. It may not always be the easy thing. Skylar will be fine. I promise."

  Anyone who says NPU isn't a real family doesn't know what they're talking about!

  Chapter 29

  Tara and Aileen

  Lake Lodge Approved Private Homestead.

  19th ~ 30th September, 2062

  Tara

  I have never been so cold in my life as I was on that journey, and I sincerely hope I never will be again. At one point I seriously thought I was going to die.

  Marek told us afterwards that he would normally have liberated us once we were out of MC12, but the little matter of me having possibly killed someone meant that he couldn't take the risk.

  As he'd predicted, the lorry was searched at the perimeter gates. I heard them open the freezer, but that was all.

  Huddled into a thermal sleeping bag, covered in boxes of frozen delights bound for Hope Village, I found myself drowning in bad thoughts. Dawn Whittle was one of my least favourite human beings ever, but I didn't want her dead. I didn't wish anyone dead except Clinton Bettencourt, and whoever took Ned. I don't know if I believe in a higher power, but I prayed for her, anyway. And poor dear Karena. Shit, I felt bad about abandoning her. And Sapphire. Really bad.

  As the minutes passed, I felt shittier and shittier.

  Nothing like being locked up in sub-zero temperatures for making you examine your life. Until then I'd been racing on adrenalin, focused only on not getting caught, but now I faced up to what I'd done—maybe killed a woman, and abandoned a vulnerable girl who thought I cared about her. And roped Aileen into my fuck-up.

  As the cold seeped in though, shame was replaced by fear of ending up with black toes and fingers, like people who get trapped up mountains. Next, fear was dwarfed by the effort not to have a panic attack so severe that I really would stop breathing, and that panic merged into a sort of delirium as I imagined Karena crying, Dawn dying on the floor, Aileen slowly freezing to death on the other side of the truck.

  Then it ended, Marek was helping me out, and we stepped into the night.

  He led us into a small, dilapidated building, and made a fire in the hearth.

  I asked, "What if someone comes?"

  He said, "If they do, you'll just have to hide. But this part of the wasteland is miles from any of the areas being developed. We've used this house a few times over the past year."

  We had oaty bars and water, but that was all. Aileen and I talked a little, but not about anything of significance; I think she felt the same as I did. Lost, scared, in a daze, still chilled to the bone, exhausted.

  We slept.

  And then someone was shaking me awake, a man with black hair, blue eyes, a beard and an angular face, and for a moment I thought it was Ned in a wig, but as soon as that joyous moment melted away, I discovered it was the man called Xav who'd saved my life.

  Aileen

  Lake Lodge is paradise. I can't believe it. What a wonderful place. I just wish we could live here properly, take part in community life, but of course we can't. Most of the residents have not been told why we're here, and they respect our privacy by not asking. I love that.

  In the daytime we do jobs in the house; whoever is on watch alerts us if they see drones, and we head back up to the attic. There is limited internet access here, and Xav has told Nick Gregory, who runs the place, that he shouldn't try to find anything out about Dawn because it could give us away; he shouldn't look at any sites he doesn't normally visit. On his regular news site he read that the manager of a care home in MC12 was assaulted and left for dead, but is now in Care Village hospital's ICU (thank goodness), condition stable, and for legal reasons her attacker has not been named.

  Tara and Xav both think this is because of her connection to the Bettencourts.

  "Won't go down well at Marilee's dinner parties if the world knows that her former foster kid is wanted for serious assault," said Tara.

  However, we are under no illusions—they'll be looking for us. I've coloured my hair dark burgundy, with henna. I hate it; I always liked being blonde. Tara was about to cut her waist-length braids off and bleach what was left, but Xav said there was no need to do anything that drastic, so she shoves it all into a beanie or this big daft cap and wears glasses with plain lenses, like he does. She still looks great, though; the other day I noticed how, even though she’s wearing the cap, a huge faded army shirt and scruffy old work boots, Xav's eyes flit her way a bit too often to be accidental.

  Lucky her, I say. I feel shy in his presence, because he's such a legend. Charismatic people never know how magnetic they are; all he thinks about is what he considers to be his life's work, as he described it with a slightly apologetic smile when I asked him about himself.

  "You have to make a stand against evil people," he said. "I can't imagine living any other way. I believe it's what I was put on this earth to do."

  Must be wonderful to have principles and actually live by them. Like everyone else, I am totally in awe of him.

  It took me a few days to pluck up the courage to ask him if there was any way, with the contacts he has, that he could find out where Leah is, and he told me that he no longer has a contact in MC12's NPU, but he would put the word out.

  He didn't act like he was doing me a great favour, or make me feel I had a cheek to ask when he's already done so much for us; he just nodded, and said, "Sure." Later that day he told me he'd put out feelers, and I thanked him so effusively that I felt embarrassed afterwards.

  He said, "No sweat, it's what I do," and went off to peel potatoes.

  If I could just find out where she is, it would be a start. Xav said there is a very slight possibility that, at some point, I might be able to get a message to her. Yes, I've already started writing it. They have paper here. Reams of it, and pens. Like when I was a child.

  Sometimes, when I'm standing in the kitchen making a big pan of soup, or in the utility room doing a massive pile of ironing, watching Gwen feeding the pigs or old Leo collecting eggs, I imagine this is my home. That it isn't only temporary, that we are not in danger. It's a proper old house with the countryside all around, which makes me think of our home in Derbyshire. Happiness and freedom. Before everything changed. Before the Great Shift.

  I've heard all about Jaffa, who owned the house originally and left it to Nick's mother Kendall, now in New Zealand with her friend Lita, a famous whistleblower who discovered that they were sterilising people via the medication in Hope Villages. I hadn't heard of her, of which I am ashamed, as she too is something of a legend around these parts. When I was told, over a jolly communal dinner
, that Nick's mother had gone to live with the Lita Stone, who actually lived here for a few months, I said, wow, really? I've since confessed to Tara, who filled me in. Nick is very proud of being named after Lita's friend, who made the original discovery and lost his life because he blew the whistle too soon.

  I am happier here than I have been since Leah was with me, but I know it's not a safe option, long term. Xav's been in touch with friends who live off-grid in the Netherlands, to see if they can send a boat. I panicked when he first said that.

  "I'm sorry, I hate asking, but can we see if your contacts can find out where Leah is, first?"

  "We'll do all we can in the time we have," he said, "but Tara and I are both living on borrowed time as it is."

  "I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. I understand."

  Tara said, "Couldn't Aileen stay here, if we go?"

  I liked that idea, but Xav said no, because if Dawn Whittle dies or has brain damage they might up the stakes in the search for Tara, and if they find me they may be 'relentless' in their persuasion to make me give up her location.

  "And I expect them at the gate any day now. I'm surprised they haven't turned up already, to be honest."

  Sometimes Xav's old com rings and my heart leaps, in the hope that it might be news about Leah, but it never is. He walks off into another room; I think he's discussing our journey to the Netherlands, and doesn't want me to hear.

  Tara

  They come, today. A government vehicle with license to search. Fuckers.

  Once we get the alert we must drop everything, whatever we're doing, and make for our priest hole. Today I’m on the loo.

  Minutes later the three of us sit in pitch darkness, holding hands and our breath, as we hear them tearing through the storeroom. One shouts, 'Nothing up here,' and we squeeze each other’s hands, but we don't come out until they've driven away.