Redlaw - 01

by James Lovegrove

  “They are scattered nonetheless. This results in logistical and administrative challenges. It makes it hard to keep track of their numbers and meet their needs accordingly. Hence, we believe, the root cause of these so-called bloodlust riots. Maintaining consistent supply when demand is so diverse and disparate has led to issues of resentment and deprivation.

  “Our solution... is this.”

  The image on the screen changed. Now there was an aerial shot of a geodesic dome, a flattened hemisphere made up of hexagonal sections. The metal framework was black, the inset panels made of some gleaming, dark grey material. It nestled in the lee of a hillside, with outcrops of coniferous forest all around. A sense of scale was hard to get from the picture, but the impression given was that the dome was enormous, football stadium size or even larger.

  “It looks not unlike a theme park or a holiday park,” Wax said, “or perhaps a giant greenhouse. Within, however, lies this.”

  From exterior to interior. A kind of open-topped labyrinth now occupied the screen, with the dome forming a darkly opaque, overarching firmament above. The labyrinth was composed of clusters of roofless, single-storey dwellings arranged in a grid pattern. Filling the spaces between were plazas, streets and squares, all radiating from a hub lying directly beneath the apex of the dome. It all had an air of beehive tidiness, a kind of pristine, microcosmic perfection.

  “We are calling it Solarville. To be precise, what you’re looking at is Solarville One. The first of a proposed fifteen such ventures.”

  The chatter from the assembled journalists had started as a hum when the shot of the dome came up. Now it was a rumble, rising to a clamour.

  “Please,” said Wax, “we will answer questions—and I’m sure you have many—once we’re done with the announcement. Until then, if you could quieten down...”

  The noise abated.

  “A man better able than I to explain the workings of Solarville is sitting over there.” All eyes turned to Lambourne. “I’m sure you all recognise Nathaniel Lambourne of Dependable Chemicals. He is, I suppose you could say, the father of the whole project. It is his brainchild. Nathaniel? Over to you.”

  Lambourne beamed beatifically.

  “Solarville is the ultimate SRA,” he said. “It’s the next generation, version two-point-oh. Purpose-built, a safe haven, self-contained, secure, ideal. A good three thousand Sunless will fit comfortably within its environs, each at liberty to roam its streets, occupy one of the berths on offer, enjoy independence and a good quality of living, free from interference and intervention from outside. The dome affords shelter from the elements, hence the lack of a need for roofs within. We feel this arrangement suits the Sunless temperament and social disposition to a T.”

  He held up a finger, as if in objection.

  “‘But isn’t this a form of confinement?’ is what you’re thinking. ‘A glorified prison?’ Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. I concede that admission into and out of Solarville will be closely monitored. There is only a single entrance.”

  A three-dimensional schematic of the dome rotated to show one access point at the base: large double gates that formed two halves of a hexagon.

  “This will be SHADE-guarded. However—and it is a significant however—in return the Sunless will be granted something that has hitherto been denied them. Something we humans regard as essential, even life-giving, but which to them is fatal. Something... wonderful.”

  The sun filled the screen, shimmeringly bright.

  “The dome’s individual panes are made of glass. Darkened, light-inhibiting glass. It’s designed to screen out the worst of the sun’s radiance while allowing some light to penetrate still. Put simply, Solarville is an environment in which Sunless may walk outdoors during the day without fear of being burned to a crisp. We are offering them that which we take for granted and which has been anathema to them throughout all generations ’til today. It’s what’s known in the business sector as a trade-off—or, if you prefer, a damn good deal.”

  Slocock drained his coffee. A hush had fallen in the Pugin Room, everyone intent on the TV, absorbed, mesmerised.

  Alea iacta est, as his Classics teacher used to say, every time the class handed their test answers in. The die is cast. No going back now.

  The questions from the press pack came thick and fast.

  “Mr Lambourne? Mr Lambourne! How do you know it’ll be completely safe for the Sunless under that dome? Have you run tests?”

  “Thank you for asking that,” said Lambourne. “We’ve not actually tested whether the glass will provide perfect immunity from the effects of the sun. There are two reasons for this. First off, were we to do so and the experiment failed, it would be tantamount to committing murder. Second, as in all things Sunless we are dealing with the supernatural—facts which cannot be ascertained or verified by empirical methods. However, what we have done is calculate the rate at which sunlight burns Sunless, based on extensive study of all the available video recordings of Sunless perishing in that manner, which amounts to nearly two and a half hours of footage. It was grim viewing, but all in a good cause.

  “We then,” Lambourne continued, “devised a formula relating speed of cremation, if I may use that word, to level of solar exposure. The pace of the burning process depends on several factors including the time of day, the time of year, thickness of cloud cover and density of atmospheric pollution. Assembling all the data, we were able to extrapolate what an acceptable level of daily exposure would be. We have computer-modelled extensively, and we are confident that we have judged the occlusion rating of the glass—some ninety-six per cent—with absolute accuracy. A Sunless may stand under our dome all day long, in cloudless conditions, with no more ill effect than you or I spending a summer’s day outdoors.”

  “Can you be certain of that?”

  “I’m personally investing a small fortune in this, as are the other two members of my consortium. We are all experienced businesspersons and none of us, I can assure you, is the sort to part with money rashly.”

  “Mr Wax, how do you know that this is something the Sunless themselves want?”

  “You’d have to ask them yourself,” said Wax. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his upper lip. “I can’t see, however, that they could reasonably object. As Mr Lambourne said, Solarville is a better SRA, a marked improvement on their present living conditions. If you arrive at the airport to find you’ve been given a complimentary upgrade from economy to business class, do you say no?”

  “Will they have any choice in the matter? Will this be a compulsory relocation?”

  “There are times when the public good must come first, over and above individual freedoms—times when... when...”

  He faltered. He seemed lost for words. The Prime Minister leapt to his rescue.

  “What Maurice is saying is that the Sunless already understand the terms on which they are permitted to stay in this country, the conditions we expect them to abide by. It is implicit in clause two of the Settlement Act, which, if I can remind you, reads ‘Sunless are entitled to a status commensurate with but not equivalent to full British citizenship, allowing for their unique attributes and distinctive differences, in so far as they remain subject to the laws of the land at all times and submit to sequestration in whatsoever fixed locations as the government shall decree.’ I had a hand in drafting the document, of course, back when I was Home Secretary, so I’m more than familiar with the wording. Now, if I as Prime Minister, with the support of my Cabinet, decide that Solarville should be one of the aforementioned ‘fixed locations,’ then there’s really nothing to argue about. The Sunless can be sent there whether they like it or not—although I have no doubt that it’ll be the former.”

  “Sunless didn’t actually sign the Settlement Act, sir.”

  “Is that a question, young lady?”

  “Did any Sunless sign the Settlement Act? Did they actively consent to its stipulations?”

  “Well, that is now a quest
ion, although it sounds mostly like a rhetorical one. Don’t tell me—childrenofthenight.com, yes?”

  It was a good guess. The woman he was talking to nodded. She had artificially dark hair and Nefertiti eye makeup and was dressed in multiple layers of black and purple clothing, with plenty of crushed velvet, taffeta and corsetry on show.

  “The official website of the People for Ethical Sunless Treatment,” said the Prime Minister.

  “It’s People for Ethical Treatment of the Sunless, actually. PETS.”

  “Of course. Silly mistake. My acronym would spell PEST, wouldn’t it?”

  Several journalists laughed.

  “Well, miz,” the Prime Minister went on, “you tell me how exactly would you go about obtaining their consent and making sure it was unanimous, or even a majority opinion? If there were some sort of Sunless spokesperson, someone elected to represent them, a community leader, that would give us someone to deal with directly. But there isn’t, is there?”

  “Count Dracula?” somebody near the back of the room offered.

  “I said elected, not hereditary peer.”

  Now everybody laughed, apart from the PETS woman.

  “As it is,” the Prime Minster went on, “the Sunless are this amorphous, undemocratic mass, and we’re left with the unsatisfactory but unavoidable compromise of a legal contract that had to be imposed from above rather than bilaterally agreed upon. There was no other way. I know you and everyone in your pressure group believe the Sunless have a voice that deserves to be listened to, and I’m broadly sympathetic to the notion, but where is it, this voice? If it existed, surely we’d have heard from it by now.”

  “Have you really tried? Aren’t you hearing it now, with the riots?”

  “You’ve had your turn. Next question, please. Someone else?”

  “So you’ll be shipping Sunless off to the Solarvilles as soon as they’re built, is that it?” said a television reporter.

  “What makes you think they’re not built already?”

  “Well, that was a computer-generated simulation, wasn’t it? Work hasn’t begun yet.”

  “Mr Lambourne? Perhaps you can enlighten the gentleman from Sky News?”

  “Of course, Prime Minister,” said Lambourne. “That’s no simulation you’re looking at. That is the actual thing, the working prototype, situated on Dep-Chem-owned land in Hertfordshire, near Hitchin. Those hills in the background are the eastern tip of the Chilterns. The venue is ready to receive its first residents right away. As soon as tonight, even.”

  “And tonight,” said the Prime Minister, “is indeed when we’ll commence the task of moving Sunless out of certain SRAs and into Solarville One, in the hope of defusing present tensions. SHADE will be overseeing the operation, with the assistance of the army. It’ll be a mammoth, complex undertaking, but I think you’ll agree that the end-result will make the effort more than worthwhile.”

  The conference was wound up soon after. On the way out each journalist was handed an electronic press kit containing images and easy-to-assimilate information about the Solarville project. Shortly after that, Lambourne summoned Slocock via text message for a debrief.

  “Reckon it went well?” he said as they took a turn together through Victoria Tower Gardens. Traffic grumbled on one side of the small park, the Thames tumbled along on the other.

  “Apart from Wax muffing it, yes.”

  “Yes, he did seem to lose the plot all of a sudden, didn’t he? Weak man. Panicked by tough decisions. Not like you and me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he quits the job soon, maybe even before October. Wax is definitely on the wane.” Lambourne chuckled; Slocock didn’t. “Too corny?”

  “Ever thought of writing headlines for the Sun?”

  “That bad? Anyway, at least we don’t have need of him any more, not now that the proverbial ball is rolling. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that there are no further obstacles facing us. We’re free and clear. The PM’s agreed, in principle, to buy Solarville One and take out an option on the others. He’ll have to okay it with the Chancellor first, but that’s purely a formality.”

  “Really? He likes the idea that much?”

  “Doesn’t like it, as such, but recognises that it’s his least unpalatable option and best hope. I get the impression he senses it could be an election winner, too. It’s the sort of forthright, robust policy decision that might just halt his decline in the polls, perhaps even reverse it.”

  The pathway they were following had led them to a small Gothic monument near the river bank, the Buxton Memorial Fountain. They stopped beside it while the bells of Parliament tolled twelve o’clock. It was the most pleasant day of the year yet, and the buds on the trees were pushing out their leaves like a choir breaking into song.

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” said Slocock. “Labour getting in yet again. You’ll have wasted all that donation money, for one thing.”

  “I told you at the time, a hundred K isn’t a big deal for me.”

  “Two hundred, actually.”

  “Even so. I dropped ten times that much on a Bugatti Veyron last week, and you know what? I’m probably never even going to drive it. I just had to have one—because I can.”

  “You’re honestly saying you don’t care whether there’s a Conservative victory?”

  “I’m above caring,” said Lambourne. “You don’t seem to appreciate, Giles, that for a man in my position, political partisanship is an irrelevance. Left, right, red, blue, it’s all the same to me. What counts is whether I have them in my pocket or not. As I do with our dear leader. We’re best buddies now. I’ve reinvigorated him with Solarville, given him a new lease of life. Brought him back from the dead, even. We’re firmly on track, he and I.”

  “But I thought we were working towards putting the Tories back in charge.”

  “A wise man hedges his bets. When circumstances change, one needs to be sure that one can change with them. The unveiling of the Solarville project was originally scheduled for after the election, but that became, as we know, unfeasible. Long-term was telescoped to short-term. We couldn’t hold off. Net result: Solarville is now a Labour initiative. I don’t see what the problem is. It doesn’t materially affect you.”

  “No, it doesn’t, but... but you had me pressurise Wax into it.”

  “Pressure, not pressurise. To pressurise is to perform a specific physical procedure relating to the atmosphere of an enclosed system. Did they not teach you anything at that school of yours? And yes, I enlisted your aid in twisting his arm. I used an asset I had. What of it?”

  “That’s all I am to you?” said Slocock. “An asset?”

  “And what am I to you, Giles?” Lambourne replied. “A meal ticket. Let’s not pretend we have anything more between us beyond what each of us can get out of the other. Certainly let’s not pretend we’re yoked together by a shared ideology,” he scoffed. “That would be absurd.”

  “I felt we... we had a sort of... understanding?” Slocock was aware how pathetic he sounded, like a girl asking a boy if he loved her.

  Lambourne leaned close. “Let me explain to you something about power, my boy. You think power is being in government? That’s not power. That’s a glorified parish council. Power—true power—is being able to move people around like the pieces on a chessboard, without an opponent to thwart you with counterattacks. Power is getting your own way, all the time, and being answerable to no one. Power is the position I’m in, a position you will never be in. I’m sorry to state it so baldly, but I feel it has to be said and now is as good a time as any. Gaining absolute, unfettered control of others is the only thing that motivates me. My wealth is simply the means to that end, as well as a happy by-product of it. You and your aspirations and those of all the political class are of as much consequence to me as the mewling and squabbling of pre-schoolers.”

  Secretly, in that dark corner of the soul where people stow the things they don’t want to admit to themselves, Slocock had known all along how
little he meant to Lambourne. He had kidded himself that they were fellow-travellers, in order to maintain some self-respect, but deep down he’d understood almost from the beginning that they were—and only ever would be—motorist and hitchhiker.

  Having his nose rubbed in this truth was not a pleasant experience. The urge to break some portion of Lambourne’s anatomy was strong, but happily Slocock had more sense than to give it free rein. He could physically injure Lambourne, but Lambourne, in return, could destroy him.

  He settled for a bit of carefully calibrated snittiness instead.

  “So then,” he said. “You’ve got everything you want. Bully for you. You’ve sold your Solarvilles, complete with built-in failsafe in case things go tits up.”

  “Yes,” said Lambourne curtly, “and I’ll thank you not to speak of that again.”

  “Does the PM even know? Does he realise what he’s signed up for?”

  “He does, as a matter of fact. He’s been fully apprised of what a Solarville is capable of. But it’s not a matter of public knowledge and, save for a crisis, will never have to be. And that, Giles, is the last I’ll hear from you on the matter. We do not mention the failsafe, at all, to anyone, even each other. I’m not sure why I ever told you about it in the first place. It was, perhaps, a lapse of judgement. I saw no harm at the time in letting you in on the game. Don’t make me regret that decision. It would really not go well for you if you did.”

  Slocock nodded, a stiff show of contrition. “It shall not pass my lips again.”

  “It had better not. Same goes for Subject V. You are implicit in that, don’t forget.”

  Slocock could not suppress a small shudder as he recalled the first and only time he had clapped eyes on Subject V. The memory was etched in his brain, repugnant at every level imaginable.