by Debbie Moon
Beck and Hinke nodded wisely, exactly on cue.
Jude was thinking of her mother, emerging from yet another benefits office with some browbeaten clerk yelling after her, ‘If you won’t consider the work available, Ms DiMortimer, then you’re deliberately removing yourself from the system. Well, if that’s your choice…’
‘C’mon,’ she said, forcing herself to head directly for the densest concentration of bodies. ‘Let’s party. Do you think they sell candy-floss?’
Schrader’s furious stare burned into the back of her neck as she walked away.
Lighten up, tight-arse. Compared to the mess I’m trying to sort out, you don’t even know what a problem is…
She hadn’t always been scared of crowds. She hadn’t been used to them, growing up in the creeping depopulation of the Bankside, every year another building sliding into disrepair, home to stray cats perpetually locked in single combat with rats half their size. But she hadn’t been scared. Not until the day of the Migration.
The shift out to the Hursts had happened quite gradually, for obvious reasons. There simply wasn’t enough room on the roads to move sixty-three million people to isolated communities in the middle of nowhere all at once.
But somewhere along the way, the Government decided it needed a landmark, and designated one Saturday as Migration Day. Pushed the system parameters a little, shifted two million on the one day, mostly from the major cities. Carefully chosen people, of course. Smiling, photogenic people in designer clothes, with meek children and cuddly pets.
Confined to the apartment by her mother, who seemed oddly scared by the whole operation, Jude had spent the morning perched in the window seat, watching the chaos.
About a quarter of their block were leaving. She watched them lining up two by two, their bags on the ground between their feet for protection, as the wind raced screwed-up newspaper along the SideRide track and kids hung out of windows to spit ineffectually at them or call them traitors.
Considering all the stuff she’d seen on TV – gardens and rooftop pools and big soft beds with satin pillows – they didn’t look that eager to leave. They were young couples, mostly, without children, so she didn’t know them. Maybe her mother did, but she didn’t seem interested in saying goodbye. Just clattered pans in the kitchen area and scowled at the TV reports as if they were some sort of personal threat to her.
Nobody in the Bankside had a car, of course. The permit alone cost a decade’s wages. So the Government sent buses, big green or yellow buses driven by smiling fatherly men with neatly trimmed beards. And while the stupidly grinning couples were loading their patched and polished suitcases, and the cameras played across the crumbling concrete they were leaving behind, the riot started.
A lot of the Bankside residents had just never applied. They liked living somewhere where the police rarely ventured and all the shops still accepted easy-to-steal cash.
But some had filled in the forms and got back cheery letters saying there was no room for them just yet, or they were a little too far down the waiting list, and maybe they’d like to try again next year?
Looking back, she could see why. The Cowleys, whose kids wore police monitoring tags as a proud badge of criminality; the Syals, who ran illegal technology out of the disused Tube station, hawking anti-surveillance and top class encryption to anyone rich and paranoid enough to need it. Their next-door neighbour, Maya Keeley, supporting a tribe of loosely related children by cooking up a new variant on PCP in the shower cubicle. Not at all the kind of citizens the wage-slaves wanted in their brave new world.
It started with squabbles in the bus doorways, raised fists and shouted threats. Her mother had told her to close the curtains, but only in the quiet, automatic way she gave any order she was too tired to enforce. Jude, who knew the rules back to front by that stage, yelled back some garbled assent, and kept watching.
The bus drivers didn’t want them on board, not without the right paperwork. The knives came out. The drivers started waving their anti-riot aerosols and pretending they had some idea what to do with them. Then the families and friends and whichever gang they’d been buying protection from barged in, and from there it was downhill all the way.
It wasn’t a bad riot, for its time. Twelve dead, couple of hundred injuries. Couple of shiny new buses used for barbecues. The remaining children had wrung a summer’s worth of fun playing among the charred bodywork. Too old for spaceship and pirate ships, Jude and her friends had colonised the smallest bus, gossiping and swapping pills stolen from their parents’ medicine cabinets.
But on that day, three stories up, nose pressed to the glass, Jude had come to the conclusion that crowds were a bad thing, and it was probably just as well that, with the Migration and all, there weren’t going to be any more of them.
Until now.
There were broad paths between the stalls, marked out with painstaking rows of white stones; but they were solid already, people dodging and squirming and sliding round each other. Clumsy, not used to it, and falling against each other by accident and design, trailing arms and legs and clutching hands. It was like Club Andro on the worst night of the year, but without any walls or corners to retreat to.
Schrader grinned down at her as she turned automatically away, and she had to pretend to be admiring the tat on the nearest stall, a scattering of beadwork bracelets and bottles of oils marked DO NOT INGEST.
‘Aura crystals,’ someone yelled, inches away. ‘Guaranteed to see through false exteriors to the soul within. Read the inside, not the false flesh.’
She wondered about buying one and turning it on Warner. What was going on in there, under the jokes and the gentle hints? How come he kept sending her for those testing programs? She’d been twice as often as most people and he still insisted that names just came up at random.
Maybe she should have stayed and grilled Warner for a while. Literally, if necessary. Trap his fingers in his damn espresso machine. He was the key to all this. She must have been on an official mission when the, erm, accident happened. If she could only remember what she’d been doing in that building to get her defenestrated…
An elbow hit her in the back and someone coming from the side caught on her jacket, almost spinning her round. The air was thick with incense from the next stall, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see, but she had to keep going.
Twenty yards from the first impassable knot of bodies, a failed contra flow between two stalls groaning with brass candlesticks and lamp-stands, Jude lost her nerve completely, and dived through the flapping canopies of the nearest stall into the quiet space behind it.
The grass was churned to mud here, and hours of preparation had trodden layers of evidence into the soil: candy wrappers, used rubbers, scraps of metal and paper and plastic. She imagined an archaeologist digging it up in a thousand years time and trying to decide what kind of arcane religious ritual had been performed here. The honouring of the almost-lost gods Gaia and Mammon, often believed implacable enemies, but getting on very well here, thank you very much.
Even muffled by the stall draperies, the sheer noise of the place shook her. Voices, bells, drums, howling children, sex-noises from the gaudiest tents. She should never have come here, that much was obvious. Maybe she really had made a mistake, corrected the wrong element of today. Maybe she should go back and talk to Warner, or not talk to Warner, or not go into the building –
The possibilities made her head spin.
Or maybe that was just the brazier smoke. Whatever they were burning in there was having a weird effect on the customers. Those two necking over there: well, one of them was dressed as a member of the Order of Chastity, and the other was hardly dressed at all.
And like it or not, she was right in the middle of the festival now. Which meant that whichever route she took out of here, she’d have to walk through a crowd again at some point.
Peering cautiously out between two stalls, Jude caught a glimpse of the glittering steel curves of the M
illennium Bridge, and knew that was her means of escape.
Over the bridge to the other side of the Serpentine – open lawns, just a scattering of escapees who already found the drugs or the trinkets or the partner they’d come to snap up. Then skirt round the mess, and back to the car. She might even walk back to GenoBond. That would give time to cool down. A substantial change of plan, that was what her present-time crisis needed – a whole new approach to the day.
She edged along behind the stalls as far as she could, ignoring the curious stares of traders loitering in the gaps between tables. Mud clogged her heels, slowing her. Parted curtains offered glimpses of the heaving mass of bodies, transformed by distance into one amorphous creature, all flailing limbs and laughing, shouting mouths.
Finally, her channel of safety ran out: blocked by a trio of fortune tellers’ booths, all made up in the same threadbare brown velvet.
Time to face her fears.
Sucking air like a drowning woman, Jude pushed her way between stalls, back onto the lank, trampled grass of the official path.
Where Schrader was waiting for her.
‘Thought we’d lost you,’ he said, in a voice more disappointed than worried.
This seemed to be the quiet end of the festival; mostly thin, earnest-looking men with handfuls of leaflets offering Heaven On Earth Here And Now. They weren’t making much of an effort to entrap even the few foolhardy souls drawn down here by the fortune tellers and a noisy machine-weaving display. They just sat there, staring into the crowd, leaflets fanned in their outstretched hands. Waiting for the fish to bite.
‘I took the short cut.’
‘Hmmm. Right.’
He didn’t seem to be making much effort to blend in. No shopping, none of the rusty-pinned badges or printed sashes the campaigners and cultists were handing out. She tried to imagine Sour-face Schrader draped in pink silk declaring ‘Save Hunting Hounds’ or ‘Ban The Combustion Engine’, and found her imagination wasn’t up to the task.
‘What have you done with your Germans?’
‘Don’t call them that,’ Schrader growled.
‘So what am I supposed to call them? Italians?’
‘Well, “our guests” would do nicely.’
‘Guests, Germans, whatever. Where are they?’
Schrader nodded at the two furthest booths. Under the neatly drawn curtains, she could see the turn-ups of their immaculate trousers, already splattered with mud.
‘Right. I could have told their fortunes. They’ll buy up whatever they came here for, dirt cheap, and go home rich men. Because – any country, any commodity – their sort always do.’
Schrader’s scowl deepened. It suited him. He never looked quite right smiling.
‘They came here,’ he said, ‘to research the Hurst system. With a view to emptying their country towns. If that works, the cities follow.’
Them too. Then France, maybe, and Switzerland – they’re halfway there already. The Scandinavians next…
Until there are no more cities left. Anywhere.
Jude shrugged, aware of how forced the gesture looked. ‘That’s their business. I’m just here for the local colour, remember?’
‘I think not,’ the third fortune teller said.
She leant forward into the light: a young woman, her thin face and roughly-cropped auburn hair giving her the appearance of a Victorian street urchin. Deliberate, Jude decided. All calculated to gain sympathy. But hell, it works. It’s working on me, anyway. I always did have a soft spot for redheads.
‘I don’t need my fortune told. I don’t believe all that mumbo-jumbo. I make my own fortune.’
‘You make your own past, ReTracer. That’s all.’
Jude looked to Schrader, to see if he’d said something that had given them away. He just looked uneasy, like he expected the crowd to round on them any second.
‘I’m willing,’ the redhead said, ‘to tell you how to make your own fortune.’
Sighing defeat, Jude fished a coin from her pocket and laid it on the table.
‘Let me see your hand.’
Jude extended it slowly. Left hand; always keep your right free for emergencies. The girl’s fingers closed around hers, squeezing. Hot fingers, greasy with sweat. Probably on something. Like everyone else within a quarter mile. Beautifully manicured nails, though. A coat of lightly tinted polish, pink, smoothed to a neat curve, so unlike Fitch’s –
A shudder ran through her, and she pulled her hand free.
‘She loves you,’ the redhead said, as if it was obvious. ‘Ask yourself: does the difference between you really matter?’
Aware of Schrader right behind her, Jude realised she’d made a terrible mistake. Swallowing, dry-mouthed, she managed, ‘Aren’t all telepaths supposed to be state registered?’
The girl laughed briefly. ‘I’m not a telepath. I can’t read your mind. I see what the powers chose for me to see. The powers, and you.’
‘All right, fine. I’m not here for a love life consultation –’
Schrader sniggered deliberately, as if he felt it was expected of him.
‘Just tell me my future. If you can.’
Turning her hand over, the girl studied her palm for a moment. ‘You’re an autumn person, Jude.’
Schrader laughed aloud. ‘Yeah, orange and brown are so in. But it’s going to take a miracle to Colour you Perfect.’
‘A passing person,’ the girl continued, as if she hadn’t heard. ‘One who finds beauty in defeat. One who loves the city because it’s dying.’
‘The city’s always been dying,’ Jude murmured, unsure what else to say.
‘It’s time you realised that there’s beauty in victory too.’
‘I don’t plan to fight any wars.’
‘Life rarely goes as we plan. You asked for your future; now you have it, accept it.’
Jerking her hand free, Jude snapped, ‘Some future. Platitudes and generalisations. You haven’t told me anything.’
‘Your future lies in your past. You can only go forward by going backwards.’
Which is exactly what I’m doing. ReTracing. Looking for the key act to undo.
Both hands on the table, Jude leant into the booth until their faces almost touched. ‘How far?’ she whispered. ‘How far back do I have to go?’
‘The scale starts at zero.’
Year Zero?
‘Bullshit,’ Jude snarled, and turned away.
‘What’s the problem, Jude?’ Schrader sniggered, tailing along behind her as she shoved her way through the lines of dealers at the foot of the Millennium Bridge. ‘Didn’t you get your money’s worth?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on your bloody VIPs?’
‘They can take care of themselves for a moment. It’s not like they’re stupid. Or American.’ A final sprint, and he fell into step beside her. The bridge was busy and most of the crowd flow against them, but people shrank away from them, leaving them plenty of room to pass.
Shrank away from him, Jude corrected. From the man in the suit and the sunglasses and the wage-slave scowl. From the one who takes such delight in dressing different, acting different, proving he doesn’t belong.
Why is he following me?
‘Jude, wait. Let’s talk.’
He actually sounded apologetic, which was a first. The few times she’d shared an assignment with him, he’d spent the whole time throwing his weight around and angling for the credit. Maybe the vibe here was rubbing off.
She slowed, a little.
‘Look. Warner told me. That you’re not operational. And I thought, well, if there’s anything you want to tell me –’
Oh, this is all I need…
Jude looked away. At the main expanse of the park, and beyond; at the Serpentine, a few inches of clear water shimmering over a solid crust of mud and heavy metals.
‘Schrader, are you trying to break the Recommendation?’
He looked sharply at her – the way someone would if
they thought you were mocking them, which puzzled her for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, ‘I can change my life any time I feel like it, Jude. I don’t need the gory details of your future to do that. I just wondered if I could help, that’s all.’
Wonderful. Ice-box Schrader gets overcome with emotion. Just to complete her day.
‘The fact is, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a long time.’ He drew breath, looking so much like a teenager about to proposition some impossible dream date that she almost laughed. ‘I’ve always felt we have a lot in common. Much more than you realise. But let’s start with, oh, the same determined outlook on life, the same drive –’
‘Schrader, if you’re trying to get inside my pants, forget it.’
Utterly unembarrassed, Schrader smiled. ‘Get with the technology, Jude. I can always have the same operation your girlfriend had.’
He was a tall man and well built; it took all her strength to swing him round and slam him against the bridge railings. But he wasn’t ready and, before he could react, Jude had his wrists pinned against the handrail and was screaming into his face, ‘You heap of shit, Schrader, you keep your nose out of my –’
On the banks of the Serpentine, clearly visible through the metalwork, a tragedy was three seconds away from happening.
‘– business.’
Three steps from the edge of the river, a woman was running. There were people running after her; two, perhaps three, using the loose and scattered groups of bystanders as cover. Another domestic incident, and there had probably been a dozen far worse already. Any minute now, some stallholder’s bodyguard would intervene. Violence had a way of escalating and violence was bad for business. There’d be some shouting, the auburn-haired woman would flounce off in a fury, yelling that it was all a misunderstanding, they’d fade back into the crowd and everyone would go back to buying and selling and stealing –
Only this time, it wasn’t going to happen.
Jude could feel it. The way you did sometimes when you went back to a major crisis point; the death of a great leader, the small print of a vital promise, one of those rare and tiny moments that makes or unmakes a world. The way you did when the world split in two and on one side, the future you remembered, on the other, a future you never imagined possible. A future as easy and familiar where everything is new and strange as your own breathing a future where this never happened, where this terrible running stranger is a Woman of Importance No Importance At All if only I could just remember that.