by Jule Owen
“Of course I am haunted by memories of Hoshi. Her life on a reel flashes through my mind on a loop. They are memories too personal to speak about right now.
“You all know I speak to you through translation software. My English is so broken, my accent so terrible most of you would struggle to understand me if I didn’t use it. Even my grandson. You welcomed me many years ago and from the first moment I set foot here, you made me feel at home, like I was part of your family. I don’t doubt, no matter how bad my English, you would have done the same. And yet my ability to express myself freely and fluently, the way I can now, is due to technology. Many of you, Aiden and his daughter in particular, will know I can be a bit of a Luddite. I was raised in a poor village, and we did not have the things we take for granted now. I have said to many of you, I sometimes think we were happier. But nevertheless, even I cannot deny that technology often improves our lives. But I am concerned that we don’t fully understand the consequences of all we do. I fear my daughter may have been the victim of our haste to push forward with what we call scientific ‘progress’ at the expense of thoughtfulness.
“I’ve spoken to Mathew about what he wanted me to say to you about Hoshi’s death. Many of you were shocked to hear of it. Hoshi was, after all, still a young woman, and had been through many trials in recent years. It seems unfair. I would like to tell you the truth, but only as long as Mathew is happy for me to tell it publicly. Last night I spoke to Mathew and he said he wanted you to know what happened, but he also said you should understand that he doesn’t know what the truth is himself yet and it may be dangerous for him and me. But he thinks the country is crippled by lies and we would both rather speak than live in fear. He wrote this statement for you and asked me to read it.” She unfurls a Paper and reads:
My mother came home from work in the middle of the afternoon. For months she had been working late and it was strange that she came home. Very quickly, I realised she was sick. She was rushed to hospital, but not a normal hospital. Somehow Panacea shut down our connection to our normal medical support and they dealt with her directly. My mother was a research scientist for Panacea. I don’t know what she worked on. She couldn’t tell me. It was not unreasonable for Panacea to step in and help her when she was sick. It was strange the way they did it. My neighbour and her piano student, my friend Clara, had come round to the house to help. We were all taken to the hospital too and put in quarantine until they had run tests on us and decided we were okay. My mother stayed in the hospital and got sicker and sicker. No one could tell us what was wrong with her. They said she had some kind of virus. I asked Lea Fitzackerly to help me (actually I didn’t know who she was at the time). Lea hacked into Panacea’s computers and got hold of my mother’s correspondence. I think she may have been working on biological weapons. I find it hard to believe my mother would work on anything like this, but I think that is what killed her. A virus designed by humans as a weapon of war.
Ju Shen folds her paper. There is total silence in the hall, not even a whisper, but Mathew can feel the heightened tension.
Craig Buchanan says, “As is customary, we will follow the deceased to her burial.”
The congregation stands and files slowly to the open doors. Some of the band that had been playing the other night are assembled at the back. They start to play now, led by a solo violinist, playing something sad and beautiful. Ju Shen ties a long white cloth around the urn, hands the end to Mathew and lifts and carries it out of the church. The people who had gathered assemble behind them and follow slowly, while the violinist continues to play as she walks.
Outside, the sky is blue over the forest, but a bank of cloud is rolling in from the north west. It has started to snow: a frozen sunshower, big white sparkling flakes float down, and stick on people’s coats, on their shoulders and in their hair. One lands on Mathew’s nose and he brushes it off. Isaac stands beside him and Mathew knows he is thinking of his own parents. Craig is trying to organise a memorial service for them, for Isaac’s benefit, but they have yet to be confirmed dead by the authorities.
Now, Hoshi’s funeral procession walks through the town and out onto fields dusted white. There is a foot-worn path leading from the town towards the woods beyond. This is where the Elgol cemetery is. Craig Buchanan carries a young tree in his arms. He walks a few paces behind Mathew.
The air is cold, but there is no wind and the snow is settling on the evergreen trees surrounding them. Despite the cloud, the world seems bright, new and magical.
Mathew walks behind his grandmother, clutching the white cloth in his hand, looking hard at the ground, at the snow, the footprints, aware all the time of the black coats around him, the mass of slow, sad bodies come to mourn his mother. He looks down and tries not to think about it, grinding his teeth to stop the tears. So when he does look at the gap between the trees and sees what is hanging there in the midday sky it catches him completely unawares and is an affront to his own sense of the order of things. A large moon is suspended above them all like a ghost, so close he can make out the lunar “seas” of cold, showers, storms, serenity, tranquillity, crises, islands, clouds and the Tycho and Copernicus craters. Once he has seen it, he cannot look away. No one else is paying it any attention. He looks around at the others. They are all far away in their own thoughts. As he walks, his eyes are drawn magnetically to the moon and he stumbles in the snow. Craig Buchanan is immediately at his side, steadying him.
They trudge to the hill through the deep snow to the area of the forest they call the cemetery. There are no headstones, only small wooden plaques drilled into the soil at the foot of young trees or, if the grave is older, nailed onto the bark of thicker trunks. Up ahead there is a small mound of dug earth that will form Hoshi’s grave. Ju Shen kneels and carefully places the urn in the ground. Mathew lets go of the white cloth and it folds to the floor. Ju Shen gathers the cloth and places it on top of the urn. She takes the spade, standing in the pile of dug earth behind her, and shovels in some soil. Then she passes the shovel to Mathew, who, after watching his grandmother, copies her actions and showers soil on the urn. All the while the strange, low moon bears down on him. It is his herald.
Craig Buchanan says, “We commit our sister, Hoshi Mori to the earth, to be one with the earth, and return her body to nature, where it may nourish other living things as they have nourished her and become part of the cycle of life.” Craig puts the tree down for a moment as he makes sure the urn is covered in sufficient soil and, lifting the tree, he then says, “We place this tree upon Hoshi’s mortal remains, so that, as it grows, she may live in it once again.”
Members of the funeral party queue to help cover the roots of the tree in soil. Lastly, Ju places the little wooden plaque reading:
Hoshi Mori
Wife, mother, daughter
Born Shanghai 2012, died London 2055
‘Life comes from the earth and life returns to the earth.’
They stand in respectful silence for several minutes, and then, one by one, the crowd begins to depart. When they have all gone, Craig Buchanan touches Ju Shen’s arm and leaves, taking Isaac with him. The snow is falling heavily now and the world is hushed. Mathew’s breath mists out of him. He digs his hands further into his pockets. Ju Shen takes his arm and leads him away from the grave. Partway down the hill, she drops his arm and wanders away, slightly ahead. She is crying, he can see her shoulders heaving, and he falls behind, leaving her to her own private grief. He wants to be alone too. The crowd is far ahead now, like black crows in their funeral coats. Watching them retreat, becoming smaller and smaller, he stops. Behind him, a bird is startled in a tree and cries out. It takes flight, its wings flapping noisily in the silence. He turns and looks back at the hill. Standing by the grave is a solitary figure. He is too far away now to see clearly, but it is a man, a tall, bulky man. Something about the way he holds himself reminds Mathew of his father. The man bends down over the grave, stays there for several minutes and then stands and retrea
ts into the trees.
Mathew is running before he even realises it. It is hard going and he slips in the snow and falls and gets to his feet again and runs on.
“Dad!” he yells. He doesn’t know where the voice comes from. “Dad!”
He reaches the grave and scans and looks down. There is an envelope, dotted with wet snow. Mathew bends, snatches it from the ground and opens it. Inside there is a handwritten note. It reads:
Being now forever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass and glory in the flower. We will grieve not, but rather find strength in what remains behind.
“Dad!” he screams. He runs again, searching in the snow for footprints, but they are being covered by the ever heavier snowfall. He looks around frantically. There is no one there. Just trees.
Someone grabs him from behind.
“Mathew!” It is Craig Buchanan. He turns him around. “Mathew, look at me.”
But Mathew can’t see. He is blinded by tears. He collapses to the ground.
“I saw him,” he says. “I saw him.”
20 Swift
DAY THIRTY-THREE: Christmas Eve December 2055
Mathew wakes and gets out of bed. The snow has continued to fall and the world is bright and white outside through his bedroom window. The previous day had been lost to him. Aiden had brought Mathew’s custom printed knock-off X-Eyte and Studz. Mathew hadn’t felt like talking to anyone, and his grandmother had left them on the dresser by the mirror in his room. Now he puts in the new lenses, fits the Studz to his ear, and boots them up. The interface is different and much cooler than the one that came with his old Lenzes.
The system integrates seamlessly with his personal accounts and he sees immediately that he has a number of messages. One is from Nan Absolem, telling him to take his time, and not worry about his work. Everything is on hold and his results will not be affected by his absence. The message is from several days before. He has forgotten all about school. He makes a mental note to write to her and tell her what has happened.
There’s a message from Clara. They haven’t communicated since his short note, when he arrived in Elgol. Her response is surprisingly short and he is equally surprised to realise how much this irks him. She merely says he shouldn’t worry about contacting her. He needs to be with his grandmother and get through the funeral, and she is thinking of him.
There’s also a curious note from Eva Aslanova offering her condolences and saying that she would like to talk to him when he feels up to it. It is unusually solicitous language from Eva, but then, he thinks, even she must be able to be sensitive.
It is Lea who has sent the most messages, urging Mathew to come and visit her at her father’s workshop. He resolves to do so that day.
Over breakfast, Isaac says, “You should come and see my eye today. It is weird. It looks just like my eye, but it’s sitting in a petri dish.”
Mathew smiles, “Alright, I’ll come. When will it be ready?”
“Next week, they say, and I will have better sight than before. Better than everyone.”
“That’s brilliant, Isaac.” Isaac grins as if it’s his own personal triumph. Mathew says, “I’m going to see Lea. Will you come with me? We’re going to talk about what to do about Amach.”
“Lea doesn’t like me.”
“Don’t be an idiot, of course she likes you.”
“She frightens me. She’s angry all the time about everything.”
“So am I.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“My mother’s death. My father’s death. The lies we are told all the time. The fact that if anyone speaks the truth they get arrested. You should be angry too.”
“The leaches didn’t kill my parents,” Isaac insists.
“Maybe not directly.”
“I am angry with the gang that attacked us. No one else.”
Mathew nods. “You don’t think if the government had taken better care of those boys, they wouldn’t have done what they did?”
Isaac frowns. “I don’t know. It’s hard to understand any of it. Can I stay here, Mat?”
“Yeah. Isla and Craig said so, didn’t they?”
“You don’t mind me staying with your grandmother?”
Mathew is surprised. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Some people wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, I don’t mind at all. In fact, I like you being here.”
Isaac smiles a broad, sunny smile. He says, “I never had a brother, but if I did, I reckon I would like one like you.”
“Me too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
Mathew and Isaac are leaning over the petri dish containing Isaac's eye with fascinated, and slightly disgusted looks on their faces.
“It’s real-looking,” Mathew says.
“It is real. That’s why,” Jim Dove says. “Step back a little bit, boys.” He pulls them both back a safe distance from the precious tissue. “We don’t want you damaging anything when we’ve gone to so much trouble to get this far.”
“And his body will accept it?” Mathew asks.
“Of course. It’s his tissue. That is the beauty of growing organs from stem cells.”
“It’s amazing. Just think, Isaac, next week this will be in you, working just like your own eye.”
“Only better,” Isaac insists.
“Only better,” Mathew agrees.
“Have you boys had enough staring now? Can I put it away?”
“Yes, thanks Mr. Dove,” Isaac says. “Can I come and look at it tomorrow?”
“Of course you can. Do you want me to check your dressing?”
Mathew waits while Jim Dove takes a look at Isaac's bad eye. He goes to the window of the clinic and gazes out. The room faces the back of the town centre, looking out onto the big field and the woods beyond. The trees are now frozen white sculptures. The snow glistens like diamonds in the sun. Mathew’s eyes wander up the field to the gap in the trees where they had walked to bury his mother. He thinks about the man he saw, or didn’t see. Craig Buchanan had said he had been through a lot, and it was enough to strain the nerves of grown men. They all said there had been no man. That he had imagined it. But he knows deep down he had not. He wonders who left that note on his mother’s grave.
They stomp through the snow outside across the road to the electronics shack, where Aiden is sitting in the front of the shop working with a 3-D printer and a table-top Canvas.
“Or'rite lads?” he says as they enter the shop. “It's a custy morn'n isn't it?”
Isaac looks at Mathew. Mathew nudges him. “Hi, Mr. Fitzackerly.”
“Call me Aiden.”
“Aiden. Right. Yes. Is Lea in?”
“O' cose. She's in de back.” He pushes the door behind him open slightly and yells, “Lea, thuz ay lads e'yer ter see yous!” Then he turns back to Mathew and Isaac as they hesitate and he urges, “It's sound. Bowl through!”
Mathew makes a mental note to download the Scouse translator his grandmother has, as soon as possible.
Lea is sitting where Mathew saw her the first time he met her, at a table by a large window, working at a Canvas.
“Hi!” she says as she sees Mathew. “So you’re back with us?! Good to see you.”
She eyes Isaac suspiciously. “And you brought a friend. Great.”
“Where he goes, I go.”
Lea raises an eyebrow, but then smiles and beckons Mathew over to the table. “Come and see this.”
Mathew and Isaac crowd around Lea’s Canvas. It’s about the size of a modest wall mounted machine, but it’s set up on something that looks like an old drawing table. Her fingers flash across it, pulling down menus and selecting options. She comes to a series of security gates, which she pauses and works at, but only for a few moments.
“I’m in,” she says. She pulls open a control panel, and a file structure Mathew
has never seen before.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s the BBC’s broadcast control room.” Those files are today’s edition of the six o’clock news.
Mathew’s eyes widen. He turns and looks at her. “No!”
She nods. “It is.”
“Lea. If they find out…”
“They won’t.”
“I don’t understand,” Isaac says.
“Lea wants to hack into the BBC to broadcast what happened to Amach,” Mathew says.
“But we don’t have anything to broadcast.”
“Good point,” Lea says. “I was thinking we should contact Psychopomp, and get them to do a report based on the information you have, or even use the stuff I have from when I recorded you. We could mask the voice.”
Mathew pulls a face. “No one will believe it. It will seem weird.”
“It’s a shame not to use this, now we can,” Lea says, indicating the control room.
“I agree,” Mathew says. He looks out of the window. There’s a bird feeder hanging from a tree outside. A Great Tit hangs on the swinging nut cage with tiny elegant feet, pecking at nuts. The bird is a startling black and yellow. Black and yellow, Mathew thinks. Beebot.
“I have an idea,” he says.
“It’s got to be able to fly over four hundred miles continuously, even in bad weather,” Mathew says, paging through templates. “But it has to be small enough that it won’t be detected easily by military surveillance equipment. The patrol around Amach has a drone flying around. If it’s too big, it will track it down and take it out before it’s had a chance to collect any images.”