by Terry Tyler
Even if they did spill the beans about Laser 62 out there, nobody would care.
Despite Freya and Caleb's extensive damage limitation, the Bettencourt name was irretrievably sullied. Every person with a sleazy tale about any member of the family, however obscure, was eager to tell it, including those who had bought drugs from Ignace Bettencourt, whereabouts unknown, many years before.
Ezra Bettencourt sold his shares in Nutricorp UK to Fareed Hijazi before the price began to plummet. He contacted Marilee, other easy-to-manipulate members of the family, Jeff Blythe and every smaller investor the two of them could drum up, advising them to do the same. Ezra would organise everything; they didn't have to worry about a thing. Within a couple of days, Hijazi owned fifty-one per cent of the organisation.
Ezra sat in his office in Government Building MC5, switched off his com after he'd heard the good news, and breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction. No one but he and Hijazi knew that a new phase in the history of the UK had begun that very evening. Hijazi's views on how to run the company differed vastly from those of the Bettencourts. As a self-made man from lowly beginnings, he liked the idea of free enterprise. He talked about new blood, come the next election; the opinion polls were already showing a swing away from Freya Wilson. The revival of an old rumour about the government sending wastelanders into gas chambers did not do her any favours.
By the time Hijazi scheduled his first Nutricorp board meeting, Ezra had made a decision on whether to pursue a cabinet position or use his new wealth to emigrate to some tropical island, far away. Live out his life in peace, warmth and comfort. The stage was set for a landslide win for the opposition in just eighteen months' time—what price a seat in the shadow cabinet versus cocktails and bronzed young men under the shade of palm trees, with a view of the Pacific Ocean?
He thought of Clinton and Jerome in their cells, and he laughed.
He'd discovered Laser62 a couple of months back, while browsing the murky depths of the dark net; the fact that it was locked up tight, entrance by invitation only, intrigued him. His favourite and most discreet hacker found that a back door had been left ajar, and Ezra was so disgusted by what it revealed that he instigated a thorough investigation.
Clinton should never have let Jerome run the site; the boy thought he was bullet-proof, and smarter than he actually was. In one piece of promotional footage showing a couple of young girls dancing and giggling, there was a mirror in the background. The blink-and-you'd-miss-it view of the cameraman was enough; after one of the DSC's freelance 'do the job and don't ask questions' tech guys cleaned it up, the cameraman's identity was confirmed: Jerome Bettencourt. Just to be sure, Ezra employed his hacker to find out who owned the shell company through which all profits were handled.
Life was strange; he'd been so looking forward to toppling Clinton and Jerome, but the job had been done for him by a little girl called Leah Phillips.
He flicked on his wallscreen and turned to a live news channel.
The young, handsome newscaster wore a look of concern. "As Freya Wilson's popularity drops to an all-time low, is the fall of the House of Bettencourt only months away?"
Not this Bettencourt, thought Ezra, and shut his eyes, dreaming of white beaches, turquoise seas, and a young man looking uncannily like the newscaster walking towards him across the sand, holding two large and very dirty martinis.
Epilogue
Late November, 2062
On a flat, windy plain in Friesland, Leah waves to her mother to indicate that yes, she will be in for lunch in a moment.
It's going to be cold this winter. Liberty Homestead is a world away from the temperature controlled NPU houses in which she lived for sixteen years. It's not homely like Lake Lodge, or laid back like Sunrise. The people are tough: King, Q, Rae, Ace and Lock, who run the place, are not scared of hard work, and don't expect anyone else to be, either.
Rae says it will be homely one day, when they have time to make it so, but right now the priorities are food, keeping warm over the coming winter, and selling enough produce to keep them roadworthy and supplied with necessities they can't make, like coffee and toilet paper.
Around sixty people live here. Leah likes King best, lovely King; she's rather hoping he and her mother might get together. They seek each other out at meal times, and King always seems to be around, even on a homestead this big.
Leah likes Rae, too, and her dreamy sister, Lilyn, who has a little boy—just walking—called Leo, after their father. That's lovely. Leah wishes she could meet her own father, but her mum has told her so much about Eric. It's enough that they've found each other; that alone is more than she would ever have dreamed.
The events of that hellish night haunt her constantly; she has flashbacks, terrible nightmares and trouble sleeping. She jumps, startled, if she hears a loud noise, and is scared to leave the safety of the homestead. Xav says it's PTSD, and her mother, Rae and a Dutch woman called Anna tell her that she must talk about it, because bottling it up will be bad for her.
She can't believe she ever wanted a job at Nutricorp, a glamorous city life. Now, that idea seems like hell on earth. Rae said that when she is ready they can pay a visit to another off-grid, about fifty kilometres away, where they can use the internet and find out what's happening back in the UK, but Leah doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to look on Heart and see her old friends, or anything about the megacities.
"That was how I felt, when I came here," Rae said. "Still do, sometimes. Now I get up, work hard, surround myself with the people I care about, and in the evenings we all get together to relax. That's all. It's enough for me."
Rae was an NPU kid, too. Leah loves to hear about her experiences, and those of the others who lived in the wasteland.
Most of all, she likes hearing about her mum's life.
Today, while they're eating lunch, Leah says, "I was happy, so please don't feel bad. Living in NPU was good." She laughs. "I mean, I know it was actually bad, but the people were lovely."
"I understand." Aileen smiles at her, and Leah thinks how pretty she looks, even though she is super old. Forty-five. She always thought forty-five was mega ancient, but Aileen doesn't seem old at all.
Especially not when King is coming over to join them, as he is now.
Then, Aileen looks almost young, and very happy indeed.
In NPU Teens, MC12, a memorial is held for those who died.
Quinn Matheson joins the managers of other NPUs to give an official statement confirming their shock, horror and complete ignorance of what was going on, and also to confirm that any NPU employees who 'misled' Leah and Aileen have since been dismissed.
The Rise Academy website has disappeared, as has any mention of the scheme. The remaining candidates, the lucky ones who weren't invited to 'assessment weekends', have been given jobs or sent back to NPU.
Skylar is angry to find that she was not talking to Clark and Leah on Heart, but some form of AI. She's angry about the way in which Leah was told lies about her mother—no, not 'misled', told lies—and she wonders if the same happened to her.
When she mentions this to roommates Mila and Izzy, they say that they've been thinking the same.
"We might have parents out there, brothers and sisters," says Izzy. "We need to find a way of contacting kids at other NPUs, and demand to know the truth—it's time to act!"
In a jail cell in an undisclosed location, Clinton Bettencourt lies on his bed staring up at the ceiling, and wonders when his lawyer will get him the hell out.
He is sure that, once the PM has done what she must to appease the public, once the furore has died down and the scandalmongers have moved on, he will be quietly spirited across the Atlantic to live in comfortable obscurity with his US relatives. Might need to have plastic surgery and change his name, but he can deal with that.
Only trouble is, no one is taking his calls. Not his lawyer, not Marilee, not Caleb, Freya or Mona. It's hard, being in isolation. Never seeing anyone except the guards. The
others in the block are sad specimens, paedos and rapists. He shouldn't be with people like them.
Once a day he can go outside. One whole hour, in which he can see the sky. Even this is solitary; the men are allowed out one at a time.
Mostly he reads or stares at the ceiling, plotting. He is thinking of writing a novel based on his life and loves.
Jerome is in an identical situation farther down the block, but he is not handling it so well. He alternates between loud, tearful remorse, and kicking the door of his cell whilst screaming obscenities about the injustice of his incarceration.
Each night is dark, cold and lonely.
With every one that passes, Clinton becomes increasingly frightened.
He would be much more afraid if he knew that three of his 'guests'—Lord Arsehole, Sylvia and Sandrine—are planning for one of the Bettencourts to take his own life in his cell. Leah Phillips' descriptions of the Alaskan, the Texan and the Aussie were enough to have them arrested, but her descriptions of the others were vague. So far they have escaped identification, but time is not on their side.
Sylvia wants to get rid of both, but Sandrine says there might be a real investigation if they both turn up dead, instead of the usual pantomime performed by cronies of those who arrange the 'suicide'.
"We'll go with Jerome," says Lord Arsehole. "He's the type of slippery fish who'll start singing the moment the words 'lighter sentence' are mentioned. As for Clinton, I've got enough sway with people within the prison system to make sure he will never say a word to anyone."
In a primitive hut in Coal Field 4, Kansk-Achinsk, in the Central Siberian Basin, Benjamin 'Radar' Bundock is talking to a man called Arek who has been there for over a year, since the UK wasteland was cleared.
Arek is third generation Polish-British. The muscles in his arms and neck are hard and sinewy, and his face is hollow, cadaverous, after a year of barely sufficient calories, ball-freezing temperatures and back-breaking work.
Radar still has a good layer of fat, for which he is thankful, but he fears he may not last as long as Arek has. Down the walls the names of those who could not go the distance are scratched into the wood; Radar stares at them often, and wonders who those men were.
How they perished.
Somewhere amongst these lists of names are Rocky Storm and Eric Phillips; Radar's eyes may or may not have landed on them as they flicker up and down, but they wouldn't mean anything to him if they did.
Today is a good day, for Arek says he and another man have devised a plan of escape, and Radar has been offered a place. Its orchestration will be difficult and complicated, but their small, carefully chosen group is confident, as long as they all follow it to the letter. Their aim is to reach northern Europe; they have all heard that the Netherlands and Scandinavian countries have a more relaxed attitude towards those who want to live outside the megacity system.
"We will go to the Netherlands," Arek says. "Scandinavia sounds too cold."
Arek offers Radar a sip of the potato whisky they make in the utilities shed out back.
It's disgusting, but as that familiar warmth curls into his stomach he remembers how good it feels not to be sober.
Arek stands up. "Let me take you to see the man who thought up the plan. And let us lot get out of here before we all die of cold, eh?" He slaps Radar on the back. "Come on, let me take you to meet Mr Ned Green."
In the Hadrian Research Centre, Tara Jackson savours every step of her walk down two corridors for 'community time'. She is allowed two sessions a week, each lasting an hour, during which she can socialise with other test subjects.
The rest of the time she remains in her cubicle. A narrow bed, a WC and small basin, and a tablet for entertainment. She runs on the spot, does push-ups and stomach crunches until her muscles scream, just to feel alive.
At any moment, she may be summoned to take part in a medical or psychological experiment.
The psychological type she can deal with, because she is clever enough to understand their aims, and refuses to behave as expected. Now and again she quite enjoys them; at least they mean human contact.
The medical experiments, though, are bad. Her periods have stopped, she has trouble urinating, and her moods swing up and down. Sometimes, the experiments are not so much medical as cerebral. Sensors are attached to her head; she has had many peculiar experiences. Hallucinations, memory loss, paranoia. Each time she receives an alert to attend one of the 'medical research suites', she experiences physical symptoms of extreme anxiety, something she always considered the domain of the weak. Her skin breaks out in spasmodic rashes even during downtime; she doesn't know if this is worry or a bad reaction to a drug.
As she was dragged up from the beach at Crastwick, she managed to feel in her pocket for Milo's com, and dropped it into the long grass—at least she could save the others, and Molenet, from discovery, in case it fell into the wrong hands. She was tied up, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of their megapod with the fishing gear.
She prepared herself to be picked up by the police, then locked up until questioned, at which point she would contact Zia to get her a lawyer. None of this happened. Instead, two black-suited government bods arrived and drove her up to the Hadrian, without a chance to plead her case.
When she spoke, they said, "No talking." She thought it best not to persist.
At the entrance to the Hadrian Research Centre, two heavies in white scrubs took her straight to her room.
She has had no chance to talk to anyone. At first, each time she reported for a test, she asked politely if she could please talk to someone in charge. Each time she was ignored, as if she hadn't spoken. When she made a fuss, she was injected with a sedative.
Now, she just accepts. Or appears to. One day she will escape, and any plan will work best if she appears to be one of the quiet ones, resigned to her fate.
The two sessions of community time are her only hope.
Groups are rotated; she may talk to someone during one session, then not see them again for two or three weeks. To ensure that no bonds are formed, she imagines.
Today, however, as she walks down the corridors, she wants to run.
Today, she woke up with a good feeling.
Tara has a friend.
Some weeks back, on her fourth visit to the community lounge, she scanned the room, seeking someone, anyone who looked like a person she might want to talk to—that hour was so precious, you had to make sure you didn't waste a minute of it—when she saw him.
Milo.
Her heart leapt with joy as her eyes met his, so delighted was she to see a familiar face. He must appear on her records as a past social contact, she knew that, but to seem pleased to see him would be a huge mistake; no doubt they were being watched. Maybe listened to, as well.
She poured coffee, then made her way over to the couch. Milo scarcely looked up.
"It's so good to see you," she said, keeping her voice as low as possible; with luck, anything she said would be drowned out by the chatter in the room. The people who were not as switched on as her, and talked in loud voices about how they might get the hell out.
"You too, mate," said Milo, his head drooping downwards.
She hardly dared ask. "Is Ned here? Cosmo?"
"I've not seen Ned. But Cosmo—he came here with me. Tara—he's dead."
"What? How?"
"Strangled by another inmate during a psych experiment."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Bastards."
"Yeah." He sipped at his coffee. "How did you end up in here? What happened?"
She gave him a brief rundown of the events of the past year, to which he scarcely reacted.
"I'm taking it all in," he said, at the end, "but I'm acting. If you see me with my mouth hanging open, don't be alarmed. It's part of a plan."
"What plan?"
"I'll tell you more next time I see you. Now, go and talk to some others. I'll sit here staring at my feet. Raise your voice when you get up, remind me
that I should be making the most of this hour, then walk off looking a bit annoyed."
She did all he said. Once or twice she looked back at him, but still he sat, staring at his shoes.
Today Milo is sitting on the same sofa, staring at his feet.
She pours coffee, and talks to a couple of others before approaching him.
Her rash is definitely an anxiety symptom; it's been getting worse since she woke up. Never realised she was that much of a pussy.
"If you've got a plan to get out of here, can you hurry it up?" She scratches her arms, yelling in irritation.
"Stop scratching, you'll make it worse."
"Yeah, but it's driving me insane. Fuck!" She sits on her hands. "Have you got any news for me?"
"We're working on it."
"Who's 'we'?"
"Just me, and someone who works here."
Tara's heart leaps, and for a moment she forgets all about her itchy arms. "Really? Who?"
"Don't show excitement. Scratch your arms again and yelp."
"You just told me not to scratch them."
He almost smiles. "Shut the fuck up and do what I said." He waits while she does so. "It's a behavioural analyst brought here during the wasteland clearances last year, but they discovered what she did when she lived in a megacity, and decided to employ her, because she was particularly good at her job. She's kept totally clean until now, so she's fairly sure she's not being monitored aside from the basic routine stuff." Milo shakes his head back, rolls his eyes, makes a yowling noise, then stares back at the floor. "She knows about Link because she used to go to meetings about it in MC12, but she never became an op; once she and her fella escaped they just lived quietly in a small community—so she's not on record as being Link-curious, because it was in its infancy back then. I've told her about Molenet, and she's able to use some of the tech at her disposal to make some contacts."
