by Terry Tyler
They smile, first at their Prime Minister, then at each other. One person stands and applauds, and the rest of them follow suit. Each face shines with satisfaction; two have been active in Operation Galton since the first Hope Village was opened, thirty-seven years ago. It has been a long road indeed.
Freya Wilson allows them this moment, indicates that they should sit, and continues.
"Construction of dedicated research complexes and internment camps will begin tomorrow, along with the manufacturing works; all sites will remain 'dark' as far as public satellite images, maps, radio and phone signals are concerned. Agreements have been made with relevant countries in the East; relocation of selected units will begin later this year."
More applause. For Ezra, this is a proud moment; it was he who dreamed up the four-pronged solution, shortly after Uncle Caleb told him he was being considered for the post of Director of Operations.
"Procedures will occur one at a time, quickly, quietly, with no media coverage."
Ezra smiles. He knows. He learned well from the master: his uncle.
"Phase 10 has Total Dark status; no one apart from the people in this room and those involved in its orchestration will be aware of its existence. The necessary military operatives are to be housed in a secure location during the final two weeks; they have already been selected and will be handsomely remunerated for agreeing to undergo a memory erasure procedure afterwards."
She smiles at her husband, and sits down; Caleb Bettencourt stands. He is nearing seventy years old, but the fight still sparkles in his eyes.
"Our work is almost done." He leans gnarled hands on the table. "In two decades' time, almost every adult from Phase 8 relocation will be either dead or in a Senior Village. The movers, shakers and influencers of today grew up in the megacities, and the generation after them will have no experience, not even second-hand, of any other way of life. It's still a long haul, ladies and gentlemen, but this is an important stage, for it will sweep away the last resistance, and push us nearer to our target of a standardised, ecologically sound and―most importantly!―profitable future." Applause and laughter. "I only wish my Uncle Paul was still around to see his vision's endgame―however, I shall be visiting Mona this evening, to tell her the good news."
The Home Secretary and the Minister for Social Care ask to be remembered to the former Prime Minister, and Ezra sneers at them, inwardly; bloody sycophants.
Caleb Bettencourt clasps his hands together and gives them the benefit of his still beguiling, almost boyish chuckle. "Now I've just got to work on staying alive myself, so I can see it through!"
More laughter. Caleb isn't about to drop dead any time soon; Freya's nutritional experts keep him on a strict, plant-based diet, his trainer putting him through his paces for an hour every day. Ezra automatically reaches up to touch his own soft, over-padded stomach, shamed by the fact that his uncle, twenty-five years his senior, is in better shape than he is.
Caleb beckons to the handsome waiter, who steps forward and circles the table, filling each of the thirteen glasses with Dom Pérignon 2008. Ezra watches him, admiring the taut buttocks beneath the tight black trousers. Does the young man return his interested glances? No. He's kidding himself. He drags his eyes away and, instead, catches his uncle's eye; he is rewarded with an almost affectionate nod, as if to say, 'Well done, son'.
Caleb raises his glass. "By the end of the year, Phase 10 will be complete. Let us drink to Operation Galton, and all who have been functional in her success―and remember that to the victors go the spoils!"
Part One
UK Megacity 12
Year 2061
Chapter One
Rae
Late August, 2061
Until three months ago I was a proper megacity robot, taking everything I saw, read or heard at face value. I questioned nothing.
I grew up in the NPU (Non-Parental Upbringing) system, and believed that my mother was some faceless female who popped me out and handed me over for a small fee, as soon as she'd closed her legs and pulled down her gown.
Then Ginevra told me about my real family, and I woke up.
My eyes opened, and I asked myself what sort of government would lie to children in their care about where they come from―and then I got to wondering what else they lie about.
When you've been subtly brainwashed since birth you don't think about this stuff, but now I question every damn thing. Only in my head, though. In MC12, it's not safe to voice controversial thoughts.
I have to find my family, though, while I can still think for myself.
Today I get home from work to find Nash in my apartment. We have each other's IDs (irises and handprints) programmed into our front door entry pads, which is normal when you've been with someone for four years―I suppose―but I wish he wouldn't turn up without letting me know. A quick message to say 'Is it okay if I go straight to yours after work?' wouldn't hurt, would it?
He has his petulant face on, because, he tells me, he's been awarded yet another social demerit. This one takes his SAS (social acceptability score) down to seven-point-two, which is in the danger zone. All D-grade jobs (like ours) require a maintained minimum of seven.
Nash's eyes are fixed on his smartcom, like he thinks staring at it will make the demerit go away.
I ask, "What did you do this time?"
Usually it's something dumb like telling a joke that could be construed as sexist, racist, homophobic, transphobic, offensive to tall people; whatever. Such offences cost just one point, but they do add up. You have to be so careful; even a joke told between friends in a bar can lead to that dreaded demerit alert, because there's always someone ready to touch the 'Report' icon. Might be a barista or bartender, or the guy in your group that you don't really know, who turns out to be one of those toe-rags who click on their iSync the minute they step out of their front door, so as not to miss a trick.
Ten reports earn you one SAS point, you see, as long as you have a recording as proof.
"It's nothing serious. Socially inappropriate behaviour."
I laugh; I can't help it. "You didn't get your dick out on the ziprail again?"
He's not in the mood for jokes. "Some tosspot bumped into me in the corridor and he didn't even say sorry, so I gave him a quick on-the-spot course in basic manners. Got a bit hectic, I said two naughty words very loudly. Well, it was the same one twice, actually, and it began with 'C'. Douche got the whole exchange on iSync and reported it." He waggles his com at me. "Two points down, and 'We have debited your account with all your beer money for the next month'. Bastards."
Yes, demerits hurt financially, too. Straight out of your account.
I flop down beside him and take a look, though I've seen this all too often. On his com, I hasten to add, not mine. I'm careful, because losing your job is one of the scariest things that can happen to you in the megacity. Nash is a spoilt little rich boy who can go running back to Mummy and Daddy's gated community if he finds himself unemployed, but for most of us there is always the fear of not being rehired, not even for an E- or F-grade job; if you can't pay your way, Hope Village looms ever closer.
Nash takes his com from me and chucks it onto the table. "Fear not, my love; I'll visit some terminals and disabled. I'll do four, then I'll be well up."
Social demerit points can be counteracted by activities like visiting hospital patients, or those in the Senior or Care Villages. I doubt very much that Nash will manage four; I know his limitations.
"Do old folks, not terminals or Care. You can just ask them about their lives, then all you have to do is sit and listen, and smile in the right places."
He gets up, stretches, and yawns. "Save me! Not more glory of the pre-megacity days, puh-lease!"
"Why not? You might learn something."
"I might, but I don't care."
"You could try. It's fascinating, hearing what the country used to be like."
"So they tell me. Anyway, fuck that; I'm hungry. Let's see wha
t we've got."
Nash is an analyst for NuSens, the biometric sensor that, amongst many other functions, tells us what nutrients our bodies are lacking on any particular day.
A detailed analysis of your vitamin and mineral deficiencies, delivered to your com on a daily basis.
"Dark leafy greens and slow release carbs tonight. Bor-ring. Fats are in the danger zone. That'll be the tacos and ice cream, then. What about you?"
I take a look. "Low on protein and need a B12 boost."
"Sweet potato, bean and spinach curry it is, then, and a supplement for you. You got stuff in?"
"Yeah." I get up and open the freezer door. "Ooh―hell-o, banoffee ice cream cheesecake."
"Don't. We'd best do at least two days of good stuff before we have another blow-out."
I get two deluxe Smartmeals out of the freezer. All our vits and minerals in a handy Nutricorp package. When Nash said the cheesecake wasn't worth it, he wasn't joking. Our job security depends on our health maintenance score (HMS) as well as our SAS; if your nutritional levels reach a certain level of imbalance, NuSens lets your employers know. One junk meal or vodka binge too many, and your boss's com receives an alert.
Your NuSens chip, inserted as soon as you receive your first offer of employment, also alerts your employer to use of tobacco, prescription and recreational drugs, excessive alcohol consumption, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I'm sure we don't know the half of it.
I work as a counsellor at Balance, in MC12 South's Wellness Centre. Therapeutic advice dispensed as per the modules on my Psych and Social degree course. It's all totally standardised; before meeting each client, we consult an approved programme for appropriate questions and responses. Research shows that the troubled benefit from and prefer the human interaction aspect, but to be honest my sessions could just as easily be delivered via app.
I didn't used to mind, but then I woke up. Now, I wonder why the hell I bothered with all that studying, if I'm not allowed to draw my own conclusions. If I could afford a Rae cyborg I could pack it off to Balance whenever I fancy a day off, and no one would notice. I'm constantly stopping myself from telling my clients what I really think, but I have to control my frustration, too, because information about my heart rate, blood pressure and brain activity during my working day is delivered to my boss via NuSens, too. The brain activity bit freaks me out; feels like one step away from the fearsome Lydia Halsey actually being able to read my mind.
Nash thinks NuSens is brilliant. He says things like, 'You wouldn't complain if it gave you an early warning about diabetes or a heart problem, would you?' But I resent not being able to mainline cupcakes without Lydia being informed. The diabetes crisis of a couple of decades back is not going to happen again, not with the nutrition police out in force, so will it really damage my ability to do my job if I go rogue with the chocolate sprinkles once too often?
I actually said this at the last Share―that's our monthly Balance staff meeting. Lydia froze me out with a sub-zero smile, and said that on the contrary, should I step carelessly onto the fluctuating sugar level rollercoaster, it was inevitable that my clients would be the ones to suffer from my subsequent mood swings. Was I really that selfish?
The last prosecution for nutritional child abuse―a parent who'd allowed her eight-year-old to chomp himself into morbid obesity―was in 2042. Now, some opt to have their children NuSensed up as soon as they get their first com, at the age of ten.
I told Nash about that exchange with Lydia, and he said I was stupid to draw attention to myself.
"Smile nicely and keep it zipped," said Mr Social Demerit. "If you end up in a fucking Hope Village 'cause you've mouthed your way out of a job, don't blame me!" He gave me a cheeky punch in the gut. "You've been super-argumentative lately; what's got into you?"
Oh, nothing. Just a little matter of my primary carers opting not to tell me that I have a real mother who cared for me in the family home for two whole years. A brother and a sister.
Discovering shit like that changes your outlook on life, for some reason.
Nash and I met during our final terms at MC12 University. He wanted us to cohabit as soon as we graduated, but I didn't; growing up in an NPU house means sleeping in dormitories and never being alone―I needed my own private space. My tiny apartment in Stack 217 on Walkway 5544, Sector 19 is heaven to me. Nash shares with two workmates. Pair of similarly privileged jackwagons called Keir and Davide who he's known since school. They live in Stack 218, next door.
It's been three years since college. I did six months' in-house training at Balance before I was let loose on a client list of my own, mostly younger men and women who suffer from relationship issues and general dysphoria, sometimes personal, often connected to the restrictions of megacity life.
Some days I feel hopelessly ill-equipped to be of any use, not least of all because, lately, I want to say, 'I hear you. Shall we break out?'
Last week Ginevra, in her role as my Counsellor Support Giver (CSG), said my current confusion will help me to empathise with my clients. Some of them were brought up in NPU, too, and they struggle with the same issues as I do: the sense of always looking for something, though we don't know what.
Then she added, "But take care. For both our sakes." I don't know how much trouble she would get into if Lydia found out she'd told me the truth about my family.
My family. I love those two words. Martine, Lilyn and John Farrer. Ginevra couldn't show me pictures of them―for reasons I will explain shortly―but I think about them all the time.
She says my generation suffers more than the usual inner conflict because we're the second 'transitional generation'―those who brought us up still remember and talk about life before, which makes us curious about it, and about those brave enough to remain outside the safe walls of the megacities: the wastelanders.
"But by the time your children reach adulthood, pre-megacity life will be as irrelevant as pre-internet is to you and Nash."
During sessions with clients I am required to cast a positive light on all areas of megacity life. As I grew up without thoughts of adolescent rebellion, gained a good degree and a coveted job, I am an example of how well the NPU system can work, and my job is to point the restless and inquisitive in the right direction before their thoughts get out of hand―before I have no option but to refer them to Pre-Med, elsewhere in the Wellness Centre. That's where clients are assessed to see if they need pharmaceutical 'support' for their 'difficulties'.
"This is what Balance is all about," Lydia Halsey reminds us at every Share meeting. "We give clients the opportunity to sort their heads out with talking therapy, which is always preferable to the alternatives."
And therein lies the responsibility. I don't want to be the one who got Joe or Jodie sent off to be pumped full of medication because I couldn't set them on the 'right' track. I get it. My job is to make sure troubled souls toe the line, which isn't easy because I don't want to toe it, either.
Not any more.
Sometimes I feel I'm in the wrong job, but I took it because I wanted to help people. I still do. I just wish I was allowed to.
Balance. That's what megacity life is all about, but not the way Lydia Halsey thinks. The reality is this: if you keep your outside-the-box thoughts and desires to a minimum, you get to keep your good job and nice flat. Weigh up the luxury of free speech against what you'd lose. No one wants to end up in a Hope Village.
NPU kids belong to three categories. Most are the result of unwanted pregnancies―in other words, their biological mother sold the child to the scheme rather than have an expensive termination. Since 2045, lower income families have been prohibited from having more than one child, but even back when I was born, in 2037, child benefit for all but the first-born had ceased. Then there's the occasional orphan, and, thirdly, those left behind―parents sent to a Hope Village (unemployment, antisocial behaviour) are given the option to leave behind any child under five years old. Some take it, to give them a better sta
rt in life.
I grew up assuming I belonged to the first group because no one told me any different. When you're a child you don't question your own 'normal', and the unimportance of whoever donated the egg and sperm to give us life was drummed into us on a regular basis. Dwelling on biological irrelevancies was unhealthy, and could cause us problems in adulthood. Of course, none of us wanted that. We all wanted to be good, emotionally balanced megacity citizens.
Then Ginevra told me I was one of those left behind. For the first twenty-two months of my life I lived as part of a family, with my parents, brother and sister.
I went airborne when I discovered this―I felt like I didn't know who I was, for several weeks. Then came the anger, with my mother for leaving me, with myself for not demanding to know who'd given birth to me, but mostly with my primary carers at NPU for not telling me the truth.
Okay, so my father killed someone. But didn't I have a right to know about it?
Ginevra told me at a one-on-one session that all Balance counsellors have with their CSGs. We get to offload about difficult clients, discuss how best to help them, talk through any personal concerns. On that particular day in May, Ginevra suggested we talk outside, in the Wellness Centre gardens, which I welcomed. We discussed my case work and then she stopped by the fountain, and asked me to sit down because she had something to tell me.
She'd waited until what she considered to be the right time―the week before, I'd mentioned that Nash assumes we'll get married at some point in the not too distant future, and have our child before I'm thirty.
She asked me if that was what I wanted, and I lied and said yes; I don't know if she believed me. Since then, though, my world has turned upside down and inside out.
Ginevra was friends with my dad. My father. Leo Farrer. I was brought into this world planned and loved. Ginevra thought my own child would want to know about its grandparents, aunt and uncle, and that my dad would have wanted me to know about him.