2079- Beyond the Blue

by Florence Watson

  ‘I know you used my daughter Jo. You lied to get her on board. Hero told me everything.’

  ‘Did he?’ I turn to my friend with baffled amazement, but he makes no apology - verbally or otherwise. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ I utter, with as much remorse as I can muster on demand.

  ‘Sorry would be a good start.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m so sorry for.…’

  ‘These things are best out in the open. Otherwise, it’s just lies on top of lies.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I reply, as a vision of Starla falling to the floor of the yacht flashes through my mind.

  ‘Being a team means coming clean about everything that's gone on. You're not a journalist any more Jo. You're a freedom fighter now.’ He declares, with emphasis on my new title. ‘Trust is the only way this is going to work.’

  An agonising few seconds pass in which he appears to reflect deeply on the situation before finally speaking again.

  ‘But I don’t blame you for what you did.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘If I’m honest, I can’t say in your position I wouldn’t have done the same. You had to get to the truth and my daughter was a means to that end. You had an instinct about what was happening and you were right to trust it. What they did to her mother…’ He stops talking. His fingers slowly curl into a fist. Eventually the anger subsides and he’s able to continue. ‘What they're still doing to people. It’s just a pity she didn’t wake up to it sooner; that she didn’t believe you about Health Farms. Would have saved a lot of messing around.’

  ‘Yes, it would.’ I answer softly.

  ‘And you'd have got to the bottom of it quicker perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He takes a swig of port then staring down into his glass: ‘I’m a little disappointed, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Disappointed? How could you possibly be? Her bravery re-entering Greenlees got us the evidence we need.’

  ‘I know she came good in the end. She’s done me very proud; no two ways about it. But it took her a long time to come to her senses. Knowing everything I went through, I thought she’d have trusted a man who tells her that he doesn’t trust the government.’

  ‘But you taught her to not trust journalists.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And she’s a product of her generation.’

  ‘I suppose she is.’ He answers, mulling it over. ‘Why are you not a product of yours?’

  I take a moment to think, considering that this is possibly the most important question I have ever been asked. ‘Well, it’s in part down to Hero.’ I say, turning to him. ‘And to my grandfather. We were very close. He ignited a passion in me for social justice and Hero continued that education.’

  ‘Did he tell you to write about LOSERs?’

  ‘No, that was born out of frustration years later. I’d qualified in journalism, I was doing what I’d always wanted to do but I felt… ineffective. I knew there was a section of society struggling in the system but silenced by their fears over speaking out, only I couldn’t reach them. So I decided to write about those who commit suicide and the reasons why. It was investigating Elaine Steele’s story that led to the governments crimes.’

  ‘But no one reads your column.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘People don’t care about people. If a man gets ill, loses his job, ends up on the street then takes his own life, no one bats an eyelid. They say he failed. But if a dog is found abandoned, scavenging on the street, that’s a different matter. That’s a cause people will get behind. Why is that?’

  ‘It's because you can’t assign any measure of blame to animals.’ Says Hero.

  ‘It’s because humanity is dead.’ He says ardently. ‘Our species is a disgrace and always has been. Was your grandfather a supporter?’

  ‘Of the MDBF? Yes he was.’ I reply. ‘He didn’t like the way that members were treated by reporters and the authorities. He opened my eyes to the press’s impartiality. In his view, the industry had lost integrity. He believed in…. honest journalism. But back then people were blind to what was happening....’

  ‘They weren’t blind to anything.’ He says indignantly. ‘They just stopped caring.’ He adds with a bitterness strangely reminiscent of how my grandfather sounded at times. ‘Fake news, real news, press being paid off - it was all one big mess. Let me tell you something.’ He continues, leaning in a little and refocusing. ‘I grew up in a time of fractured politics, corruption and greed and headlines so shocking, we ought not to have been able to sleep at night. But we did sleep at night because there was nothing we could do about it. We got used to it; it became the norm. We just carried on with our lives the best we could.’

  ‘My grandfather always said that apathy is the death of democracy.’

  ‘He wasn’t wrong.’

  ‘But Myers united the people. What made you think you could change things after he’d won his first election? Why rebel against the tax on bads?’

  ‘Because a few of us decided that we couldn’t just do nothing. We had to try to protect what was left of our freedom. Controlling what we ate was the thin end of the wedge as far we were concerned; the start of the government controlling everything we did. And we would never have forgiven ourselves if we hadn't tried to stop it happening.’

  I look up at Hero. His head is down listening carefully to the conversation. I suspect he’s already had this discussion or similar.

  ‘Myers came along and offered something different.’ he continues. ‘And I don’t blame those who were sick of prohibition for voting for him. But thirty years down the line, what we always knew would happen, has. We knew that one day the government would know our every move; that we’d be locked into a system that meant having to comply - not so we could have a better life but just to survive.’

  He stops to top up his glass. ‘Chips and Genie.’ he continues, waving the glass around as he speaks. ‘They’re not designed to keep us safe; they’re designed to keep them safe. You see, if a few of us decided to stand up and say ‘hang on a minute; this isn’t right, this isn’t fair ‘they’d have a fight on their hands. An uprising. But with Chips, they can keep us right where they want us. Stop it from happening before it’s even started because they can see everything we do. But the thing is, they’ve realised they don’t need us anymore. There’s nothing we humans can do that Bugs and robots can’t do better. So Myers II came up with a plan to get rid of nobodies in a way that he hoped wouldn’t get noticed. And now, we’re dropping like flies. In the end, only the rich will survive.’

  ‘A nationwide initiative to end lives that don’t matter.’ I say.

  ‘Exactly.’ He replies, holding his glass up higher as if to toast my summary.

  Evelyn comes to stand by his chair. ‘Don’t get yourself all worked up again Adam.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He insists with a slight slur. ‘We’ve got to talk about it. It’s happening.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She says, putting her arm around his shoulder.

  ‘We’ve been following the news, Evie and I.’ He says, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘Seems we had a lucky escape. Got out just in time before the flu jab. We both would have had it. Death toll’s up to fifteen thousand now, and counting.’

  ‘Those poor souls.’ says Evelyn, frowning empathetically. ‘I can’t bear to think about it. I have to keep busy otherwise I get so angry. I feel so helpless. How are we going to prove that it’s happening?’

  ‘We’ll find a way.’ He says sternly. ‘We have to.’ Then looking up suddenly enthused he exclaims: ‘There she is!’

  I turn to see Starla as she comes to stand by her father.

  ‘Gracious, what on earth have you got on?’ he asks, looking his daughter up and down.

  She’s dressed in black drainpipe jeans, a black t shirt with a purple diamond studded skull on the front and a dark, wool old cardigan.

  ‘Evelyn lent them to me. I have nothing else to wear.’
<
br />   ‘Good lord, have you not got anything that’s not black Evie?’ He remarks, frowning up at her.

  ‘Oh, she looks lovely!’ Replies Evelyn, admiring the outfit on Starla.

  ‘She looks like my aunt Lucy.’ says Adam. ‘She was Goth too. All that’s missing is black lipstick.’

  Starla laughs lightly and pecks her father on the cheek. Then addressing Evelyn: ‘I’m very grateful for clean, dry clothes.’

  ‘No problem.’ She replies. ‘I think you look very nice.’

  I watch as she takes the seat beside me then delight in catching her fragrance which I quickly determine to be shampoo. It’s extraordinarily to be enthralled by the lightest breeze of soapy air. In this moment, everything is absolutely perfect. She’s perfect...

  ‘Are you alright Jo?’ She asks, catching me staring at her.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I reply, picking up my glass to hide the possibility that my cheeks are now red. I can’t remember the last time I felt genuinely embarrassed. It’s a ghastly feeling.

  ‘Aren’t you hot in that cardigan?’ Says Adam, frowning at his daughter.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ She replies, undaunted.

  He looks at me and shrugs. I raise my eyebrows to convey that I’m just as clueless as to why she’s wearing wool on this very warm night. I do of course know the reason; it’s covering the artificial skin pad on her arm.

  Hero smiles reassuringly across the table and Starla smiles back, seeming to light up the entire room. She looks happy for the first time since we met. Hero too has a gleam in his eye, as if he’s finally at ease. But he can’t possibly be. We still have so much to do. We’re nowhere near the point where we can beam at one another across the table. What has caused this contentment in them both? I think back over the last thirty six hours and it dawns on me that the only time I saw either of them smile was at each other. A wave of jealousy ripples through me as I consider the possibility that they are looking at one another favourably. Could it be that somewhere along the line, Starla developed feelings for Hero? Are those feelings reciprocated? Where does that leave me?

  ‘Port?’ Adam asks, looking at his daughter and gesturing at the bottle.

  ‘Oh, no thanks Dad. I’m fine with water.’

  ‘A glass of red wine then?’ He says, putting his hand on top of hers. ‘It’s okay, you’re abroad now. No more Manual. That in itself is worth cracking open a bottle for, surely?’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’ Says Evelyn. ‘She wants to keep a clear head, don’t you Starla? Glass of water was it?’

  ‘Great, thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow then?’ Says Adam.

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘We’ll celebrate properly.’

  ‘Yes Dad.’ She says, lifting his hand and gently squeezing it.

  ‘Right, I think that stew is just about ready.’ Says Evelyn. ‘Adam, come and help.’

  Chapter 16

  I find Hero sitting on one of the benches on the front porch nursing a hot drink. He stares ahead from under his cap at the tall palms along the front wall of the villa.

  ‘It’s 6.30am.’ He says without turning.

  ‘I know. I couldn’t sleep.’ I reply, folding my arms to conserve body heat.

  ‘Me neither.’

  Daylight is creeping over the mountains but it’s quite cold still. I take a seat beside him and notice the apple core in the bowl by his boot, and dregs of last night’s stew. He puts the cup he’s holding to his lips then passes it to me. I take a sip of black tea then hand it back to him. We sit for a while listening to the birds; their dawn song amplified by the stillness. The rest of the house is dormant. Starla stayed up late last night talking with her father. About halfway through the meal, it became apparent from the nature of his questioning that Adam had missed most of the last few years with his daughter. The Starla he remembers most reliably is the teenager left to work and pay the bills after his wife died. Mindful of their need for privacy, the rest of us left the table when he stopped drinking and started asking more about their lives together after Daphne passed away. Hero had been the first to stand, explaining that he needed to recharge after hours of driving without sleep.

  Evelyn and I had taken a stroll up to the village. She’d told me that she doesn’t mind the dark. It reminds her of the early years - England in the thirties before twenty four hour, day-like, street lighting. We’d reminisced about my childhood, talked about my mother, the house, and the dogs. She’d tried not to look surprised when I told her about P400 but I could sense her dismay once the bad news had sunk in. ‘I suppose it was inevitable’ she’d concluded, after explaining the aims of ‘The Grapevine’ and her reasons for having been a member for most of her working life. I know what ‘The Grapevine’s’ objectives are - if it still even exists. To ensure a human labour force wherever possible in the face of increasingly capable machines. The government has been closing in on it for years. It might go underground, but it’s unlikely. I think she needed to rant and get it all off her chest; reaffirm her values in spite of the ‘inevitable’.

  We’d remarked on the beauty of our surroundings and agreed that of all the places in the world to be forced to flee to and hide, the Mediterranean has to be top of the list. She said that she walks to the village most days to buy milk, eggs and meat and that she made the duvet covers on our beds from cotton bought at the market. She also intends to crochet cushion covers for the living room chairs out of locally spun yarn she purchased last week. She confided that she’d had to keep herself busy with projects, not knowing if we’d ever make it here and I realised what a terrible ordeal this had been for all of us.

  ‘You seem on edge.’ Says Hero, still facing the front.

  I look down and see that my leg is shaking and immediately put a stop to it. I thought I had rid myself of this revealing tendency. ‘It’s hardly surprising.’ I answer, thinking fast. ‘We’re now chipless refugees in a foreign land and we don’t exactly blend in. How can we be certain that agents haven’t tracked us down and are just waiting to pounce?’

  ‘What would they wait for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I reply after reconsidering my statement, knowing full well he’s not even slightly convinced by the reason I’ve given him for feeling tense. There is a lot to be worried about right now - not least like how to proceed without getting ourselves killed. But it doesn’t warrant quaking in one’s boots - not yet. This is what we’d hoped would happen; that we’d make it to a place of safety then begin finding a way to deal with this political, human rights catastrophe. So the mission is not the reason I’m on edge. The truth is that ever since dinner last night, I’ve been tormented by the thought that Starla and Hero have

  fallen for one another. Soon after settling down to sleep, a vision of their happy union formed in my head, then played over and over on a loop like some nauseatingly cliché stock video clip of a perfect couple. Would they make the perfect couple? I tried to convince myself otherwise as I wrestled with the bed covers and familiarised myself with every knot in the wooden chest of draws so I didn’t have to see their faces on the inside of my eyelids. I couldn’t escape the fixation. The idea of them being together gnawed at me until eventually I gave it credence. As the early hours gave way to dawn, I realised that slowly but surely I’d lost control. I’d become obsessed. Convinced that it’s happening and incapable of fathoming how to deal with it. When I heard Hero get up, I pretended to be asleep. I lay there until I could no longer bear it then found my watch, strapped it to my wrist and went to find him.

  ‘It’s not the fear of being tracked down that’s stressing me out.’ I say, ignoring my true thoughts and feelings. ‘It’s that I still don't know what you found out from Luvel. You know how impatient I am.’

  ‘It’s easier if I explain when we’re all together.’ He answers.

  ‘Fine.’ I say with a sigh. ‘I trust there’s a good reason for waiting until we’re all gathered?’

  ‘It�
��s a matter of practicality.’

  ‘I see.’ I reply, not seeing at all.

  He moves on quickly: ‘Starla told me about the conversation you had with Heather before I intervened.’

  ‘You spoke to her last night?’

  ‘I met her on her way to bed.’

  ‘What were you doing up?’ I ask, wondering if he’d waited for me to finally fall asleep before creeping out of the room for a secret rendezvous.

  ‘Getting a glass of water.’ He answers, questioning my scrutiny of his night time activity with a puzzled frown. ‘I checked her arm.’

  ‘How is it?’

  ‘Almost healed. It’ll be two small marks no bigger than chicken pox scars.’

  'I’ve never seen a chicken pox scar.’

  ‘It's a tiny crater on the epidermis. I doubt Adam will ever notice it.’

  ‘That’s a relief. But are we sure she's doing the right thing? I mean, it’s her choice to hide it from her father. But what about everything he said last night, about honesty and trust from now on...’

  ‘She doesn’t want to cause unnecessary upset. She knows the big picture is more important.’

  I begin to wonder how long the conversation between them lasted. After he’d checked her wound, did they return to the kitchen, make tea then sit chatting? Is last night when it started? I must have picked up the vibes at the dinner table. Or has it been going on much longer? Did something happen around the time he gave her the diary, or on Hero’s return to Holloway to tell her the plan? Perhaps they realised then that they were destined to be together. For the sake of not flipping out, I pull my scattered thoughts together and return to his original question: ‘I couldn’t get much out of Heather. But we now know there are over 700 agents.’

  ‘The majority won’t be field agents. They’ll be behind desks – remote surveillance - and in labs. We already have the location of one of the facilities.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘I escaped from the unit where you and Starla were CIA’d, remember?’