by Adam Steel
She glared back at him. Informed, she thought. Not dragged down here to your personal horror show you bastard.
His expressionless face made her feel uncomfortable. She figured he needed to remain like that in order to do the job he did. He seemed to her to be more like a piece of equipment than a man. He was cold and emotionless.
Ellie nodded.
‘We'll have F.R.E.D take a look then,’ he asserted, and took hold of the end of the steel trolley and started to push it out of the morgue.
Mr Mackenzie pushed the trolley through a pair of doors that opened automatically on his approach. Ellie followed him into the inner morgue. He had not given her leave to go yet. It irritated her that he drew out his horror performance as long as he could get away with it.
The inner morgue was a large white room with bright lights and a lot of equipment. The floor hummed with a vibration that made her feet tickle.
They stopped in front of a large capsule-shaped machine and on the side of the machine were the letters:
F.R.E.D.
It stood for, Forensic, Reconstructive, Endo-Scanning, Device or “My assistant Fred,” as Mr Mackenzie referred to it.
F.R.E.D was a remarkable piece of equipment. It had been invented specifically for the purpose of forensic investigation and replaced the need for an autopsy. F.R.E.D was capable of doing almost every task that a team of forensic scientists would have done in the past. F.R.E.D would perform the post mortems efficiently and quickly a virtual mechanical grim reaper. It would scan the body or remains placed inside it. Then it would reconstruct a complete perfect digital three dimensional image that could be viewed and explored digitally from any angle by an operator without disturbing the corpse. Everything from an X-Ray to a D.N.A sample would be extracted. F.R.E.D was capable of imaging every part inside and out of the body until a complete autopsy and forensic diagnosis was reached.
The machine would collect all of the data from the body and send it back to the mainframe computer back at in the vault at Fin-Sen headquarters for analysis. Cause of death would be confirmed without doubt, relevant files would be dispatched to the Crime Investigation Unit at the CURE, if necessary, and the subject’s Utopian file would be updated as ‘deceased.’ The process removed the possibility of human error. When the analysis had been completed, it was possible for the machine to extrapolate from the bone structure and surrounding tissues to reconstruct the person as they had been in real life (before any damage) as was the case with Mrs Drake. This way, the bereaved family could be given a photograph, or a hologram, of their loved ones to treasure. It was this excuse that Mackenzie was using to keep Ellie waiting.
Mr Mackenzie waited for the door of the capsule to close.
He pressed the button to start F.R.E.D.
‘Come on up to the viewing area,’ he said.
He hurried along in front of her ‘gesturing’ towards a viewing platform.
Ellie followed him out of the opposite door and up to a viewing area above the room that housed F.R.E.D. She stared out of the solid glass wall down at F.R.E.D. The humming noise got louder, and within seconds F.R.E.D came to life. Huge robotic arms passed under and over the capsule inserting and probing every part of Mrs Drake’s corpse. The screen came to life with the data as each sample was taken. A huge screen behind F.R.E.D was building up a three dimensional picture of the body. Every piece of glass and every broken bone were evident in the image.
Ellie noticed that the piece of metal that she had seen sticking out of Mrs Drakes shoulder had been removed by a robotic pincer. Pictures of faces ran across a computer display, as the DNA search was instigated back at Fin-Sen from the database of Utopian citizens: searching for a match to the sample which it had retrieved from the body. Within seconds her DNA had been confirmed and a picture of Mrs Drake (as she used to look when she was a beautiful woman) was displayed next to F.R.E.D.
‘It’s her,’ was all that Ellie could say.
‘F.R.E.D never fails,’ remarked Mr Mackenzie. ‘It can tell us things you never knew existed,’ he said smugly. ‘That’s it then. Anything else?’ he said waiting impatiently, ‘only I have to put the other through now.’
The other one, he means her little child, Ellie thought.
‘Where will she go from here? Is that it?’ Ellie asked.
She was eager to get out of the room, and its robotic coffins.
‘For disposal – of course. They will be collected at the end of the day, just like they always do,’ he replied impatiently.
Ellie did not want to ask any more questions. Mr Mackenzie was difficult at the best of times, and she was feeling nauseous. Her only thoughts were to get out of the morgue and get the horrid business of telling Mr Drake about the death of his loved ones as fast as possible. It was not her job to inform him, but the news would either have to come from her, or Mr Mackenzie, and she couldn’t face herself knowing that she had let the cold, robotic, Mr Mackenzie deliver the bad news to the bereaved husband. He would put it across as flatly as possible and seemed to enjoy giving bad news.
They stepped down from the viewing area and walked back through the inner morgue past F.R.E.D. F.R.E.D had stopped. The robotic arms stuck out at angles waiting expectantly for the next case. On the end of one of them was a large hypodermic needle which was smeared with blood. Mackenzie leaned in with a sterile cloth and wiped it clean.
‘They will add that info…to the data recovered from the scene of accident and auto-analyse the cause of death. Makes our job and that of the Crime Investigation Unit’s down at CURE nice and quick,’ he said proudly.
‘Yes. It’s very efficient Mr Mackenzie. You are right about that,’ Ellie replied.
She was thinking about her own death, and it occurred to her that the last thing she would ever want was to be inside of F.R.E.D. The idea that if she was not quite dead, and by some accident got put inside F.R.E.D, was nightmarish.
‘Will you take this to him? Thus husband? He’s waiting up in F-Wing.’ Mr Mackenzie asked, taking the photograph of Mrs Drake that had been ejected from F.R.E.D as though it was a picture for a passport.
‘Yes. I’ll take it,’ Ellie answered sourly.
‘And you’ll tell him?’ he prompted.
His expression was cold and his eyes devoid of compassion.
‘I’ll tell him,’ Ellie asserted, taking the photograph before Mr Mackenzie could retrieve it, as though it would be contaminated if he touched it.
Mr Mackenzie leaned back on the steel mortuary table on which the small child lay covered only by a thin green cloth. He had his arms crossed.
He gave her a cynical smile.
‘Do you want to see the other one go through F.R.E.D?’ he asked, uncrossing his arms and lifting the green cover by one corner so as to reveal a lock of curly blonde hair.
Ellie shook her head from side to side and hurried out of the double doors and down the corridor. She didn’t take a breath in until she was clear of the smell and then she gasped hard.
There were no more funerals in Utopia since the Day of Reckoning.
It was agreed. No more sadness.
The double doors swung shut on the scene as she made her way up to E-Wing.
Ten minutes to compose herself before she had to face Mr Drake.
Ten minutes to think about F.R.E.D.
Chapter 3: Trouble in Paradise
Residential District: Sector Four
Friday 1st June
‘How could you do this?’ Aya cried to her mother who was stood at the sink across the spotless apartment.
Mada continued wiping the small porcelain saucer in her hand ignoring her daughter’s outburst with practised ease.
Aya strode across the front room brandishing a photograph of a man. She shoved it under her mother’s nose. ‘Aarif Pashazade? I’ve never even met him! You can’t do this to me!’ she stormed.
Mada raised her eyebrows as she continued to polish the delicate plate in her hands. She had been polishing it for the
last half hour.
It gleamed.
Aya stamped her foot in frustration. The argument had been going on for twenty minutes and her mother’s silent defence and stubborn refusal to discuss it infuriated her. The day had started so well. It was Aya’s twenty-first birthday. Eight years after she and her mother had come to Utopia. They had been lucky; arriving before the border was tightened along with many other successful or hopeful people out to make their fortunes in the new nation.
Very lucky – or so she had thought.
Mada had no particular skills that were in demand and Aya had only been thirteen years old when they had come. Aya had never understood how Mada had got them in. It felt like winning some fantastical life lottery.
They had been given a brand new apartment in Sector Four of Coney City. It was compact (verging on small) but beautiful. Mada had flawlessly decorated it inside and out and despite its size. It held many lavish decorations that Mada had acquired, or brought with her. Everything had seemed too perfect.
Her mother had bought her a stunning traditional dress from their home country of India for her birthday. It was a mass of gold folds of silk with azure blue embroidered detail. Aya had realised it must have been an import, and hellishly expensive because Indian dresses were not available in Utopia.
Aya was a very pretty young woman. Her face was delicate and her eyes were a warm dark brown. She had waist length, jet black wavy hair that had a sheen like a raven’s wings. Her figure was petite but perfectly proportioned. Mada would often say, “Aya Kaleem, you are the image of your handsome father.”
Aya had been enrolled within the CURE system to work in the Crime Investigation Unit at one of the main CURE stations in Sector Two. The station would have been the equivalent of what was once a police station.
She worked as a personal secretary and data manager for Commander Betts, who was in charge of that station. The money was good, but the pressure to keep Mada in her self-appointed luxury was ever present.
The day off for her birthday had been very welcome news. Everything had been good, that was, until Mada had revealed her second present.
Aya stamped her foot again causing some of the dishes on the racks to rattle.
‘Mother! I can’t marry him! I don’t even know the man. MOTHER!’ she protested.
Her voice was turning into a whine and her face was flushed with anger.
Mada turned briefly as she wiped the side of the dish for the twentieth time.
‘Aya. I’m not discussing this. You’ll do as you’re told. Aarif is a good man, a respected man. We will do well with him as your husband,’ she stated firmly.
Aya waved the photograph under her mother’s nose again.
‘But I DON'T KNOW HIM!’
Her frustration had her on the point of tears.
Mada sniffed a response. ‘You will meet him later today, he’s on his way right now and you will be nice to him when he arrives.’
Aya gawped in shock. Colour flared across her cheeks. She gestured to the dress in the front room which was draped across the luxurious sofa.
‘Is THAT why you got me the dress? To look nice for him? He bought it didn’t he?’ she said in desperation. Her eyes were welling with tears.
Mada didn’t respond as she reached for another dab of polish.
Aya shrank back and looked at the floor.
‘I won’t do it,’ she whispered faintly.
Mada slammed the plate down and turned on her daughter. The fine glass shattered as it hit the counter. Mada’s expression was hard and fierce.
‘You selfish girl!’ she cried. ‘Your family has always had your best interests at heart and this is how you repay us?’
Aya didn’t look up as her mother continued the rant.
‘After all we’ve done for you! Think of your family! Don’t you love me? You’d bring down dishonour on all of us with your selfish behaviour?’
Mada was standing in front of Aya. She had one hand on her ample hip and with the other she was pointing at her with one spiteful finger. Aya said nothing. She closed her eyes tightly. She knew that it was pointless to protest any further because Mada was impossible when she got into this kind of mood.
‘Why do you think we are here girl? Who do you think paid for us to come? Aarif has given you everything you silly little girl! This is how you would repay his kindness?’
Aya mumbled as she squirmed under her mother’s blazing eyes.
‘But…I don’t love him…’
Mada slapped her hard across her face leaving a red handprint across her pretty features.
‘Aya Kaleem. How dare you! What would your father say if he were here? You shame his memory! He only wanted the best for you. You trample on his dreams! And Sara. What would she say if she could see how you’re hurting us?’
Aya flinched. Her mother had used the ultimate weapon; the one from which there was no defence. Tears sprang to her deep brown eyes as the thought of her father and sister.
Mada smirked to herself, satisfied as she watched Aya cave in under the assault. Mentioning Sara or Kaleem would always break the girl if she started any nonsense and Mada wielded her weapon expertly.
Aya couldn’t take any more. ‘I’m…going out for a while. I…I have to go mother. I’m sorry,’ she stammered.
Mada squared up to her. ‘Don’t you dare be late for Aarif!’ she threatened. ‘He will be here this afternoon and you had better be here waiting for him and be happy to see him.’
Aya choked back tears as she fled the apartment. Her heeled shoes left a small trial of footprints across her mother’s exquisite Indian rug. The door quivered in its frame as Aya slammed it shut behind her. She stood out on the balcony looking out over the streets of Sector Four. Other designer apartment blocks spread out in front of her. They all looked immaculate. Some were more personalised than others, but the whole area retained a uniformed look, unspoiled by the occasional discrepancy. Mada’s carefully maintained flower display, dominated the balcony. It was in full bloom with a marvellous display of striking, exclusive flowers. The local flower stores were supplied with genetically modified plants from the CUB. Mada had commented on how they were able to create the most beautiful hybrids. Aya had merely nodded as she had watched her mother drain her hard earned salary on acquiring the very best plants for her display.
Aya sniffed and blinked the tears from her eyes. The flowers brought her no pleasure today. She hadn’t felt a great deal for them anyway, but Mada had loved them and that counted for something. Aya’s heart struggled over her ambivalent emotions towards her domineering mother. Her face still ached from the stinging blow Mada had dealt her. She sighed and made her way down the metal stairway that led onto the street. She felt lonely. Mada’s suffocating presence had stopped her from having any close friends. She was expected home promptly after work each day and her mother constantly reminded her “the only person you need is your good old mother who looks after you.”
Her rows with Mada were getting worse lately and they seemed to be at each other’s throats constantly over everything. Aya cringed as her mother’s words echoed in her ears, “What would your father say if he were here?”
The words hurt much harder than the throbbing in her face.
Kaleem (her father) had been her idol. He had adored her as a little princess and had doted on her. He had been killed along with Sara right in front of her when she was only seven years old. The terrible memory brought tears anew. She hated Mada for using their memory against her. It awakened awful feelings of guilt because she knew there was some truth in Mada’s spiteful words. Aya felt a stab of resentment towards her. An arranged marriage was the last straw. She could never have foreseen that Mada would plan something like this in the background without saying a word. Aya had begun to value her emerging independence, and to have her hopes for it shattered so suddenly, shook her to the core.
Aya clenched her hands into fists and marched defiantly up the pavement.
A serie
s of musical chimes emanated from a large screen which was built into the wall of one of the apartment blocks.
It caught her attention.
A brief flash of light in her eyes caused her to blink as the tiny scanner built into the screen scanned her irises. A spinning silver key was in the centre of the screen and under it were displayed the words: ‘Info-Com.’ Screens, such as this one, were all over Utopia and acted like large public televisions.
The masons and the centrally owned news station ‘The Daily Utopic,’ broadcasted the latest news, updates and latest achievements of Utopia through them.
The masons themselves were almost never seen in public. It was deemed that the risk was too great. The Information Terminals (Info-Coms) also served as a public go-between. Any citizen, at any time, could post suggestions on how to improve things through the Info-Coms that were liberally scattered through the districts. The announcements were always quick to jump on examples of where this citizen interaction had been a success and the things that had been implemented as a result of it. Aya paused to watch the upcoming broadcast. Rather than running the generic broadcasts this one was tailored just for her. The systems at Fin-Sen digested her identity from her eyes and determined that she was the only person watching that particular screen and it matched her to a broadcast. She was young, single and female.
The computer had digested the information available and decided upon:
“Isn’t it about to time to plan for children?”
Aya watched: oblivious to the tailoring of the broadcast and the computer that was secretly planning her future much like a giant, scheming, robotic mother. It was about the new education system that Mason Henri Batide had been working on, while Mason De-Barr had been running ISIAH.
‘Welcome fellow Utopians, to ‘Edikitt,’ it stated proudly.
Images of hundreds of lines of students, in neat uniforms, filled the screen along with lush, spacious classrooms. The video showed the new facilities that were under construction and the new university complex that was being constructed in Eden City to the north. The image switched to a kindly looking man who was sitting at his desk in an old library. He was surrounded by piles of papers. He sat beside a traditional roaring fire as he poured tirelessly over a mountain of books making notes with an old fashioned pen. The image looked like an old Father Christmas going through the present lists. Wise and kind. Aya recognised him instantly as being Mason Batide, the Psychologist.