Too Short

by G R Matthews

  4.

  WEDNESDAY 8th JULY 2212

  The alarm screeched into his ears, making his aching head feel ten times worse.

  “Off,” he mumbled from his bed.

  The noise stopped and silence returned. He raised his head and noted, as expected, it was still dark.

  “Time,” he instructed and green numbers appeared on the opposite wall. He groaned and let his head slump back into the pillow.

  The alarm shrieked again, delivering a fresh stab of pain.

  “Off, off, off,” he sat up and swung his legs off the side of the sleeping slab, throwing the stained cover into a pile on the grubby floor.

 

  “I know, I know. I’m up, ok?” Light crept down the walls from a strip, near the ceiling, that encircled the small room. The walls were a uniform off-white and unadorned. The only furniture was the sleeping slab, a long bench with an anorexic mattress, a table with the chair built into its frame and an old wedding photograph in a tarnished frame.

  <…and that your employment will be terminated upon an eighth such occurrence.>

  He ran a bony hand through the straw-coloured haystack he called hair, pausing to have a determined scratch near the crown of his head.

  “Bloody lice.” He stood, joints creaking, made a weak gesture towards the opposite wall and gave a command, “Basin.”

  A section of bare wall rotated outwards revealing a washbasin. The murky chrome, spotted with lime scale, distorted his reflection, transforming his famine-ribbed chest, slim hips and matchstick legs from a merely unpleasant sight into that of a hideously deformed monster. Sparingly, he washed his face, armpits and groin before pulling the plug and watching the dirty water disappear down the dark hole in the centre.

 

  “Fuckers,” he grimaced. “News.”

  The washbasin slotted back into the wall and a screen above the sleeping slab flickered to life, died, and then came back on again.

  ‘… just yesterday the President of the English Republic announced a clampdown on the sale of over-the-counter life extending nano-drugs, the so-called “Part-Lifes”. Experts claim the drugs were causing irreparable harm to the users.

  Dr. Gurdeep Singh, founding director of Bio-Life Ltd, spoke today of his pleasure at ruling by saying, “Those drugs damage brain function to a degree where Full-Life extension treatments are no longer viable. We have been concerned, for a long time, about the addictive nature of these imitation treatments. At Bio-Life Ltd we guarantee; one treatment – one Full-Life.”

  In other news…’

  “Off.” Silence returned to the room for few seconds before he began muttering to himself. “Bastards. Fulls get richer, Parts get shafted, and the Deads… we stay Deads.”

 

  “Bastards! State sponsored population control,” he muttered as he finished getting dressed.

  He stepped into the small lift that was the entrance and exit to his room. He gripped the handrail as it began to descend faster and faster. At last it began to slow and, as the door opened, the dank, rotten smell of outdoors washed in.

  Very little light reached the ground in this area of town. The tall residential towers stabbed upwards, needle-like, into the blue sky and blocked the sunlight. Only at mid-day when the sun was almost directly overhead for a few short minutes was the black tarmac warmed, but now, in the early morning, it was a dark and cold walk punctuated by the regularly spaced sickly green glow of street lamps. A few minutes later, he turned into the monorail station to discover, for once, it was on time. He pushed his way onto the train, squashed in with all the others, and gripped the overhead rail with one thin-fingered hand.

  From the monorail station, it was a bare five-minute slow walk to his place of work. At the gates, he showed his pass and the guard waved him inside. Using the same pass, he clocked in for the day’s work and, as always, the standard message played.

 

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…” but he knew the message had to play in full before the door in front of him would open. He also knew that highly sensitive instruments set to detect infections, diseases, guns and explosives were scanning him right now. Anything that could damage the product, or delay production, would be identified in seconds and he would be yanked out of the queue to be searched, cleansed, disinfected or arrested. He was clean, as always.

  Only when he was inside did he speak to anyone. A security guard called him into the security office and closed the door behind him.

  “Jacob,” the guard spoke in a quiet voice, “are you ready? It’s today, you know. Did you get the go-code last night?”

  “I got it. ‘Bout bloody time too.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me. I’m not the one in charge. Anyway, I’m sure they had their reasons,” the guard explained. “It hasn’t just been tough for you. I’ve had to work damn hard to keep the random searches away from your locker. One whiff of what we have planned and it’ll be a death sentence and there won’t be a damn thing we can do about it. So don’t go complaining at me. We’re in this together.”

  “Together, yeah,” Jacob responded.

  “You see the news today? Damn President has just outlawed Part-Lifes. I’d just got enough credits together for another batch, enough for a ten year treatment. What the fuck am I going to do now? Wife bought hers two weeks ago, she’ll look thirty and I’ll look like her granddad within the next five years. Once you stop taking it, you know, you age quicker. If nothing changes, I’ll be one of them Deads…” he stopped with a guilty look. “No offence, Jacob. But, I mean, what am I going to do now, you know?”

  “Always the lottery,” Jacob said with sneer. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Good luck, Jacob. I mean it, man. Good luck.”

  “Not luck,” he whispered. “Justice.”

  The morning’s work passed slowly. Sat a workstation, Jacob’s job was to monitor sixteen vats of slowly mixing amber fluid. Every so often, he would adjust a setting to make the mix in one of the vats warmer or cooler, or add a little more liquid to the mix. Every thirty minutes he would run a quality test on the fluids, one imperfection or bad reading and the whole vat would be dumped, costing the corporation millions and him his job.

  At lunchtime, Jacob stood up on shaky legs. There was a flutter of nerves in his stomach. In the canteen, he selected a plate of food, pressed his thumb against the scanner to authorise payment and found a seat on his own. All around him, the chatter of friendly conversation filled the room but even after eleven months of working with the same shift of people he had made no friends. At the last swallow, he stood and made his unnoticed way to the waste chute were he deposited his plate.

  While the rest of his shift carried on socialising and eating their lunch, Jacob headed to the locker rooms. As he walked along the rows of lockers he could feel an itch between his shoulder blades. Contorting a stick-like arm, he scratched at the spot with splintered fingernails. Infuriatingly, the itch remained and it took him a moment to realise it was not a physical ailment but entirely in his mind. He took a furtive glance over his shoulder to check the camera nodule located just above the door to the locker room. His nervous imagination told him that it was watching his every move, every step, and that behind the camer
a was someone who knew exactly what he was up to, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  At locker 198, he stopped. On his first day, the same security guard he had spoken to this morning had issued him with a key-code for this locker. He used that code to open the locker today. On the narrow shelf at the top was a small-unmarked metal canister. The canister had been there on his first morning. He had never moved it, examined it or even touched it. He had made a regular routine of coming to this locker every day at lunchtime, usually on the pretence of putting something in the locker or taking something out. On the lower shelf was a collection of useless, miscellaneous items that bore silent evidence to those trips. For the first time, he reached out and grasped the canister.

  It was incredibly cold. He gasped with the unexpected pain. Before the pain could change his mind, he stuffed his clenched fist, enclosing the canister, into his trouser pocket. Closing the locker, he made his way back down the now endless room and passed underneath the watchful camera.

  The pain was intensifying and he battled it with a constant litany of muttered profanity as he walked, as fast as possible, back to his workstation. The cover worker, who had been looking after the vats whilst Jacob ate, nodded at him and then walked away returning to his other duties. Jacob took a calming breath and removed the canister from his pocket and, twisting the lid with his other hand, opened it. A cascade of cold air fell across his hand evaporating in the warm air. Between two careful fingers, he lifted the small grey pellet that was the only object the canister contained.

  “For you, my love,” he whispered sadly, and then flicked the pellet into the amber fluid. “It’s done.”

  5.

  INDEPENDENT NEWS AGENCY: SUNDAY 12th JULY 2212

  Initial reports seem to confirm the death of over thirty Full-Life™ guests at a party hosted by Dr. Singh last night. Republic police are investigating, public and news agencies have been barred from the area. There has been no word on the current location or health of Dr. Singh himself.

  6.

  ENGLISH REPUBLIC BROADCASTING: FRIDAY 17th JULY 2212

  Bio-Life Ltd have issued a statement refuting claims that their immortality procedure, the so-called Full-Life treatment, does not work. Dr. Singh appeared on the news networks as living proof of its efficacy. He confirmed that all of the unexplained deaths of the past week, now numbering over twenty five thousand, had been recipients of his Full-Life™ treatment but added no causal link had been established. He added that he was working closely with the police and homeland security to isolate the cause.

  7.

  NEWSFLASH – OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF ENGLAND, FRANCIS D WATSON: MONDAY 20th JULY 2212

  My fellow Englishmen and women, I have no recourse but to order a state of emergency in our great nation. Many of our most intelligent, influential, and dearest citizens have lost their lives in the past week and still we have no cause, reason or rhyme to explain this. Reports are now coming in from other nations of similar epidemics. Our borders are closed and I advise all Full-Life members of society to remain indoors until this crisis has passed.

  8.

  NEWSFLASH – BIO-LIFE LTD, DR. SINGH: FRIDAY 4th SEPTEMBER 2212

  Our remaining scientists have isolated the cause of the Full-Life™ deaths over the past three months. Unfortunately, the introduction of a self-replicating nano-bacterium into a desalinisation plant near Gravesend, Kent, by an unknown terrorist has led to the deaths of over three million people worldwide. We are working hard on a cure and counter to the nano-bacterium.

  9.

  PRESS RELEASE – OLD WORLD ORDER: THURSDAY 5th NOVEMBER 2212

  Today, the last of the Full-Life humans died. Dr. Gurdeep Singh, the creator of our twisted society where the rich could live forever and the poor were their slaves, was the last of them. Now, the power to rule this world is back in the hands of the people and history will remember our courageous action with pride and exultation. We can build a fairer society where we are judged, not on wealth or longevity but on how we live. Our deeds will determine our worth to society. We can create society fairer for all, no more division of Fulls, Parts and Deads. We are all one people, same life, same choices, and same opportunities.

  TEA, DEATH AND BISCUITS

  I hear that same ‘bing’ at least a hundred times a day. Another new email. I don’t read them all. I haven’t got time. The senders name on this one caught my attention, Daniel Swanton. I stabbed the print button and waited, chewing on my thumbnail, for the hard copy to emerge from the clunky old machine. I ripped the paper from the printer’s maw and ran to Simon’s office. The other reporters and admin staff dived out of my way.

  “Simon, read this.” I forced the paper into his hands. “Tell me I am not dreaming, then call transport and get me tickets on the earliest train.”

  I paced the small office as he adjusted his glasses and started reading.

  “Well, I’ll be…” Simon muttered. He gave me a look over the top of his glasses, “You’re sure this is genuine?”

  “Pretty sure, the tech-lot can do an IP trace to confirm but, yes, I’d say it’s genuine.”

  “And you’re going?”

  “Of course I am. Didn’t you hear me? Earliest train.” I stopped pacing and stared hard at him. “Come on, Simon, you know he hasn’t given an interview in years. Not since the last court case. I have to go.”

  “On your own?”

  “Too right, I’m not giving anyone else a by-line,” I snapped at him.

  “Jess, be careful. He may be the world’s richest man but he has been on trial for murder three times in the last twenty years. And the timing? How far are you from publishing your biography?” Simon took the glasses from his nose, folded them neatly and placed them in the open case on his desk.

  “I’ve been working on that for years. He knows I have. At least, he should do. I’ve sent him an interview request every week for the past three years. And, he’s had biographies and articles written about him before.”

  “But none written by you, Jess. You stirred up a lot of trouble during his last trial. He even got the Director of Justice to stop us from publishing your stories.” Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know I can’t stop you from going but, for Christ’s sake, be careful. Message me before you go in and the minute you get out.”

  “Yes, Simon.” I’d been short with him to get the ok so I rewarded him with a little smile and a flutter of my eyelashes.

  “Don’t do that, Jess,” he smiled back. “You make me wish I was ten years younger. Now, get out.”

  I opened the door and then looked back over my shoulder at him. “I don’t know, Simon, I’ve always liked older men.”

  I let the door close before he could respond. I grabbed my overnight bag, already packed and ready to go – every reporter has one – and headed off to the train station. Then, two hours and two Rennie’s later I was being ushered into his presence by a very respectful butler.

  The private room of the richest murderer in the world wasn’t as I’d imagined. For a start, there were no windows. The only sources of illumination were lamps, standing and table, which created pools of light and shadow. In the far corner was a single bed, made up all neat and tidy. In the centre, a table and two chairs that, even at first glance, were unmistakably made of real wood. Apart from those, the room was empty.

  “Welcome, Miss Courtenay. How do you like my room?” Daniel Swanton sat in one of the wooden chairs. The glow from a tablet picked out the grey in his beard and the deep brown of his eyes. Throughout the trials, and in all the pictures I could find, I’d never seen him smile. Actually, that’s not true. There were pictures of him during his school days when he was never without a smile. His old friends had kept the pictures they just hadn’t kept in touch.

  “Not what I had in mind, if I’m honest,” I replied as I seated myself opposite him.

  “I’d appreciate it if you were. Honest, I mean.” His voice was the same soft velvet it had been at the t
rial.

  “Well, I’d expected to see photographs of your victims hanging on the wall.” I stared straight into his eyes as I said it.

  He blinked then tapped the tablet screen. One of the previously dark walls started to glow and I realised what I had taken for simple wallpaper was actually a collection of screens. On each one, a picture. I recognised his victims straightaway and also some of the people I’d spoken to during my research. “I could remind you that on each occasion I was brought to trial I was found innocent by a majority jury decision but I know you don’t believe that. Can I offer you drink? A cup of tea perhaps, I usually indulge about now.”

  “Tea, thanks.” I pulled a digital voice recorder, a notebook and pencil out of my handbag. Simon had been trying to get me to use one of those electronic notebooks or the new pens that recorded everything you wrote. I’d tried both but my handwriting was so bad that they couldn’t translate it into type. Anyway, there is something about pen and paper that just feels right.

  The Butler placed a solid silver tray on the table. A teapot, two cups, a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes with tongs, and a small plate of biscuits.

  “Very civilised,” I said noting that the biscuits were Bourbons, my favourite.

  “It always tastes better out of a pot, I think. Sometimes the old ways are the best.” Daniel’s gaze wandered over my notepad and pen. “Let’s leave it to brew a bit, shall we. Ask your questions?”

  “How long do we have?”

  “As long as you need or want, Miss Courtenay. However, I am going to guess that you don’t want to know about my early life, how my business got started, or indeed how I became so rich. Your research will have covered most of that. I do know that you’ll have missed some important facts. We will certainly talk about those.”