Play or Die

by Jen Cole

  “Let’s have a look at them.”

  Andrew led her to a corner of strange specimens. Their wheels were tiny and some had rearing frames like giraffe necks. Jo sighed. She needed to merge with the cyclists and those bikes were head-turners.

  “We do have one folder that looks normal,” said Andrew. “It’s more expensive, but beautifully built.”

  He reached in and pulled out an attractive bicycle. “This is the Montague SwissBike TX Commuter. It has a pivot joint rather than hinges, which makes it stronger, more stable and comfortable. Let me show you how it folds.”

  Andrew demonstrated and Jo had a try.

  “The folding seems easy enough,” she said. But I’m a bit worried about the carrying.”

  Andrew pulled a vinyl bag from one of the shelves. “This is our store’s own bike carry bag. See the two wheels in the base? As long as you’re on a fairly smooth surface, you can pull it along rather than carry.”

  Jo nodded. “You’ve sold me. I’ll take the bike and the wheeled carry bag.”

  “Are you planning to cycle after sunset? If so the law requires you to fit front and rear lights. You’d also be wise to attach a water bottle cage and pump, and if you intend to carry anything, you’ll need a rear rack and a pannier.”

  He pointed to a set of pannier bags pinned out in display on a wall. “That’s my favorite. It has Velcro straps to attach to the bike rack and when you take it off, the bags fold into a backpack, so it’s a breeze to carry your gear when you’re walking.”

  “Won’t all that stuff impede the folding of the bike?”

  “Only the pannier, which is why you should get one that’s easy to remove and carry.”

  Jo felt herself tensing. This was all taking too long. She spoke quickly. “Okay, I’ll buy that pannier and the other items you mentioned. Can you fit them while I try on some cycling gear?”

  She left the bemused but happy salesman and headed over to the racks of clothing, where she grabbed cycling pants, a T-shirt and a lightweight yellow rain resistant jacket.

  In the changing cubicle Jo dropped the clothing onto the ledge and pulled out her wallet. It had nearly fourteen hundred dollars. From her money belt she added a further six hundred. The padding around the belt was now quite irregular, with some pockets still stuffed and others empty or nearly depleted. Rapidly she redistributed the notes and clipped the belt back on. It was lighter and more comfortable, but this she calculated with a sinking feeling, was because she’d spent nearly half of her twenty thousand.

  And I’m not even through day two, she thought grimly. I hope this purchase will be worth it. Her watch read 10.40 a.m. No time to try things on. Gathering bag and cycling gear, she stepped from the cubicle and saw that Andrew had already fitted the rear rack, and was in the process of attaching the lights. The pump and water bottle cage lay on the floor beside him.

  “Can I pay for all this now and come back for the bike in fifteen minutes?” she asked.

  Andrew stood up and dusted himself off. “Sure, that’ll give me enough time to finish.”

  He led the way to the counter, scanned and bagged the clothing and began adding in the other items on the computer.

  “Did you get a helmet?” he asked.

  “Oh, I forgot.”

  “I’d also recommend riding glasses,” he said, waving towards some racks. “Don’t want to risk eye injuries.”

  Jo raced across and grabbed a silver and black helmet. Glasses were a good idea. They’d help hide her face. She pulled a yellow-tinted pair from a nearby rack.

  Andrew added them in and announced a grand total of $1,879.

  “I’ll take the gear with me,” she said, counting out the cash.

  “No problem. Your bike will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  Jo picked up the plastic bag containing her new clothes, tucked the straw bag under one arm and the pannier and bike carry case under the other and left, feeling like a packhorse.

  Around the end of the next corridor she found a public restroom and locked herself in a cubicle. Now moving as fast as the small space allowed, she stripped off her tracksuit and pulled on the Lycra leggings, cycling shirt and thin yellow jacket. Then she re-donned the track pants and hoodie to cover it all.

  Maybe I should stay here for the broadcast, Jo thought. No, I still need to pick up my bike. I don’t want them coming into the shopping center looking for me. Better to make them think I’ve caught a bus out.

  Jo left the blonde wig in the straw bag and transferred everything else to the pannier bags. Then she edged out of the cubicle. At the basin she washed her hands, folded the pannier into a backpack and slipped it on. Five to eleven – time to go. Large exit doors opened at the end of a corridor and Jo strode towards them. Outside, some of the shoppers were crossing to the car park, while others strolled with plastic bags to various sheltered bus stops. Jo picked a bus stop with no people waiting and pushed her backpack well under the seat until it touched the wall behind. Then sitting with her legs demurely together to hide the backpack from view, she folded her hands over the straw bag on her lap.

  When her watch alarm sounded its two-minute warning, she pulled off the black wig and dropped it into the straw bag before reluctantly putting on the blonde. The agents would all be on the roads searching for the Lexus, wouldn’t they? But what if they’d already found the Lexus and discovered she’d left it? This was a place they might well predict she’d come.

  Jo was already regretting her decision to sit in such an open spot. She pushed herself back in the seat, willing the seconds to pass. Finally eleven o’clock appeared on her dial. Now she had to wait for a safety margin. She set a new alarm for three minutes to two, dismayed this action had used up less than thirty seconds. At 11.01, unable to hold still any longer, she raised a hand to pull off the blonde wig.

  That was when she saw the man coming from the car park. He was staring intently at her and dragging something from his pocket as he came. Jo lowered her hand and reached under the seat to yank out the backpack. Then she turned and ran back into the building, straw bag and backpack clutched to her chest. A yell from behind gave her legs an added spurt she didn’t know was in them and at the end of the corridor she rounded the corner and flew into the ladies’ room.

  In the cubicle Jo cursed under her breath as her hands shook and fumbled. Blonde wig, track pants and hoodie were shoved into one of the pannier bags. Black wig and riding glasses went on. She’d been out of the agent’s sight when she’d ducked into the ladies’ room. Would he have run past and now be checking shops and other corridors, or would he have guessed she’d come in here and be waiting outside? There was only one way to find out.

  Jo hung the empty straw bag over the hook on the back of the door, grabbed the backpack and stepped into the washroom. Her hopes lifted a little when she saw her image – the generic cyclist. She drew a deep breath and pulled the zipped yellow jacket further down over the money belt. If the Hunter’s man was waiting outside, she had to hope he was expecting a blonde in a grey tracksuit to emerge. Jo shouldered the backpack and walked casually out into the corridor and down to the bicycle shop. No one stopped her, and as she entered the shop, Andrew approached, wheeling her bike.

  She handed him the pannier and he strapped it onto the rack and helped her adjust the seat height and steering. As he passed Jo the helmet, she asked him the best way to the station.

  He pointed. “Take the exit near the Gloria Susan cafe, turn left and keep going till you reach Ross Smith Avenue, then turn left again. The road goes straight to the station.”

  Jo put the helmet on and wheeled the bike from the shopping center. Still no one stopped her. At the road she mounted and cycled a little unsteadily to the intersection. She turned left and continued down the avenue, gaining speed and confidence. Both dipped sharply when she saw the traffic jam ahead.

  A double-parked car was blocking the left lane. Vehicles queued up behind were being forced to wait for breaks in the oncoming tr
affic before they could pull out and go around it. There was a fair bit of horn tooting and as Jo got closer, she could see why. The driver of the blocking car was sitting at the wheel, making no attempt to move. Instead he was leaning over conversing with a couple of beefy types in the car he’d drawn up beside. It wasn’t the blatantly inconsiderate behavior that got Jo’s pulse racing, but the fact his vehicle was a silver Ford Falcon and his head was hairless.

  She slowed in fright and at a loud ringing behind her, nearly wobbled over. A cyclist sailed past, bent over his handlebars, tight muscles moving under his Lycra shorts. He seemed unfazed by the problem ahead and on impulse Jo stood on her pedals and cycled hard to catch up with him. As they closed in on the blockage, the cyclist coasted past the line of queuing cars and followed the red Fiat at their head, which was pulling out around the Falcon.

  Jo followed the cyclist and the three of them just made it back into the left lane before a group of cars bearing towards them swept past. The Fiat sped off and the cyclist also accelerated, leaving Jo trailing, but still putting a good distance behind her. Her cycling disguise had enabled her to pass right by the Hunter and his henchmen. She was going to make it!

  The street ended in a roundabout and Jo stopped to get her bearings. She could see the station’s entrance on her right, a little way down. Remounting, she noticed across the road, just before the roundabout, two cars were slowing and parking, one behind the other. Two men leapt from the first, and a man and a woman emerged from the second. The four quickly consulted and then hastened along the footpath toward the station’s entrance.

  She was too late. The Hunter’s agents were here. Jo turned left, riding away from the entrance with blood pounding in her ears, but the hurrying agents on the opposite footpath were intent on reaching the station and never glanced her way.

  At the next street Jo turned left again, cycling up towards Nepean Highway.

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER 25

  Deep within the blurred area of Fitani’s Safe Place, Secretary Melvin Briggs woke to a new day. A ray of sunlight, having found a gap in the curtains, was bringing out highlights in his wife’s hair as she lay beside him in their king-sized bed. She was so much more peaceful, asleep. Not that he could fault Elizabeth’s energy. As she always said, just because the Briggs family had been in charge of employee morale for five generations, didn’t mean they should neglect to maintain their standing with the other Secretaries. For Elizabeth that meant keeping up a constant round of social engagements and networking.

  Melvin sighed. He’d rather boil in oil than attend those dreadful parties. Usually he managed to get out of them with the work excuse – he hoped his wife never learnt how little work he really did. Unfortunately today’s event was one he’d been unable to wriggle out of – a luncheon at Howard and Patricia Smythe’s Estate. Howard was a Secretary in a neighboring Safe Place, just a thousand kilometers away. By fast tube, the trip would take less than two hours.

  Elizabeth woke, stretched, and reached for the remote on the bedside console. She pressed a button and the bots went to work. One rolled in with a tray bearing cups and a coffee pot. Another pulled the curtains wide and exited to run the bath. A third inquired what Sir and Madam would like for breakfast. The day had begun.

  Later that afternoon, as they lounged around the Smythe’s sparkling pool, Melvin decided that perhaps some social engagements weren’t so bad after all. He snaffled a fresh martini from the tray of a passing mini-bot and was nodding in the pretense of paying attention to the conversation, when one word penetrated – employees.

  It had come from Carla, Howard’s daughter, and Melvin sat up, sloshing his drink. Employee morale was his domain. What was Carla saying?

  “Do you watch Play or Die?” she was speaking to Elizabeth. “I find some of their shows quite entertaining.”

  Melvin knew Elizabeth under her calm demeanor, would be flustered. She had no interest in employee entertainment. Her social calendar took up most of her time. But her response was smooth.

  “I haven’t caught up with the latest,” she said. “Should I take a look?”

  “Absolutely,” said Carla. “The current Hunt is fascinating. The girl they’ve selected as Prey is different from the others. She’s actually interested in the silo dwellers and how they live. And she’s been criticizing The Company.”

  Carla’s parents glanced at Briggs in mild alarm.

  “Disconcerting,” he admitted, “but the Hunter’s probably caught her by now. Prey never last long in these games.”

  “She’s not dead yet.” Carla was tuning in on her portable viewer. “And her strategies so far have been sound. I wouldn’t be surprised if she lasted the whole distance.”

  Carla’s mother turned anxiously to Melvin. “Your people should be looking into this. Morale in the silos is your family’s responsibility.”

  He responded automatically. “Not to worry Patricia, the employees love their Company. Criticism from an Ancestor will backfire, making them madder at her.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Carla fanned the flames. “Jo’s been skillful, which people admire, and her interest in their lives has to count in her favor. Did you know she suggested that on Relocation Day they use all the reclaimed land to make themselves a holiday reserve?”

  “What!” Her father choked. “Melvin, this is too much.”

  Melvin prickled. “Well, Howard, if you’ll recall, I’ve been sending memos to Secretaries at all the Safe Places for some time now advocating setting aside a little land for the employees. Tension in the silos has risen steeply in the last decade and the usual entertainments haven’t been doing enough to lower it.”

  Howard exploded. “Well letting them wander outside can never be the answer! I’d get hell from my Director if I dared bring him such a proposal, which I most certainly will not. His family is already planning a new pleasure garden complex with the forty square kilometers they’ll be receiving on our employees’ Relocation Day, and no doubt the CEO’s family is likewise looking forward to expanding their grounds on yours. And what about our Secretarial allocations? Everyone gets to expand every thirty years and we need to. Our families are all growing. Do you know anyone willing to give up their allocation? Would you?”

  Briggs kept his tone mild. “It’s not a matter of giving it up. If everyone donated just one percent of their allocation, each Safe Place could set up a nice park for the employees to enjoy some outdoor time. That would keep them happy until the next Relocation, when we could add a bit more.”

  Elizabeth chimed in loyally, “One percent doesn’t seem too much to ask, for a little peace of mind.”

  “Howard is correct,” Patricia said coldly. “Executive families need their entire allocations and no one should be expected to give up anything. Allowing the employees out of their silos would be a disaster. Do you think they’d be content with a small park? One taste of the open and they’ll be wanting more and more.”

  The afternoon soured somewhat after this, and the Briggs’ departed early. In the tube on the way home, Elizabeth reopened the issue.

  “You know, much as I hate to admit it, Patricia may have a point. Wouldn’t it be risky giving the silo dwellers a taste of the open?”

  “Yes it would,” Melvin agreed. “But it would be riskier not to. It’s been a long time since the silo dwellers were the savage survivors we scooped up and dumped on the fringes of the Safe Places, yet to this day the Families insist on viewing them as little more than amusing pets – this despite the fact that almost all our present comforts are a result of employee science and technology.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “That can’t be right.”

  “Where do you suppose the mole machines that drill and shield the vacuum tubes we’re travelling in came from? How did our production become so efficient that despite the rising populations of the Safe Places, only a small fraction of the ninety square kilometers we receive on Relocation Days is needed for food crops? Where do you think we
get the smart machines that run our industries and maintain our households, allowing us to live in immaculate luxury while barely lifting a finger? It’s all from innovations developed by the employees.”

  Elizabeth protested. “No, surely it’s the Families we have to thank for our current standard of living.”

  “So we like to kid ourselves, but overseeing the transportation of equipment from the silos to our holdings, and then organizing its deployment for our own use, is the limit of what the Families have been willing or able to do, for many years now, and I’m talking Secretarial families. God help us if Directors’ families ever decided to lay down their opium pipes and lend a hand!”

  “Now Melvin,” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “That’s unkind and grossly exaggerated.”

  “Is it? My God Elizabeth, without the employees we’d be the savages. Look at the power we use to run our highly automated society. Do you know where it comes from – the fusion power silos. Each Safe Place has one. Fusion power. The people who lived before The Great Destruction only dreamed about it, and our employees developed it a hundred years ago.”

  “Well if our employees are so clever,” she said tartly, “why do they stay meekly in their silos, when according to you, they so very much want to get out?”

  “Because they still believe the myth – and by extension, the lies.”

  “What myth? What lies?”

  “The myth: that the Almighty Company exists to serve, and so has their best interests at heart. The lies: that the land they clean and hand over every thirty years is used solely to sustain the population; that the hostile areas separating Safe Places prevent recreational travel between them; and that handheld probes are still the most effective method of detecting underground radioactivity, making land reclamation too slow to be used for anything other than food production.”