by Terry Tyler
Radar says, "What happened to them?"
Jerome turns to face his audience, and touches his com once more; the lights dim. "We have a global problem peculiar to this century. The automation of so many industries means that, all over the world, millions have become nothing but useless eaters, draining our valuable and sadly ever-dwindling resources while contributing nothing. The lazy, the antisocial; rather than contribute to society, they escaped into the areas of their country where they could continue their selfish, lawless existence. Some, we could provide with employment, others were too far gone. Those, we moved to Hut K."
Nobody says a word. Jerome lets the video play on; the people are locked into the hut. "Hut K is the final destination for those who have rejected every opportunity to live a useful, productive life. The useless eaters." He pauses the video as the red light above the door shines out in the darkness, and turns to them. "Quick, quiet, painless."
Silence reigns. He brings up the lights and changes the recording once more; there is no need to get too graphic. Soldiers instrumental in the success of Phase 10 appear on the screen, chatting and laughing in their mess room, taking part in physical training.
"These brave men who took part in the operation were left in no doubt as to what was required of them, and what would happen to those selected for Hut K. As an incentive, we offered a generous financial bonus. As a balm, we offered the MEP—a post-operation memory erasure procedure. This was the brainchild of my distant relative Ezra Bettencourt, an Under Secretary in the Department of Social Care. I'm afraid the aftermath has been a disaster. MEP was rushed through; yes, it did what it said on the tin, but the side effects have included depression, possible schizophrenia, agoraphobia, paranoia, bizarre hallucinations—you name it."
"Fuck that," says a voice from the back.
"Precisely. Only a few have been able to return to service; some may have long-term, severe psychological problems. So I suggested that, going forward, we should think outside the box. Choose a task force with the balls to get the job done, full stop, who don't need to fuck about with MEP, because they're mentally equipped to cope with the job they're paid to do." He opens his arms, palms facing upwards. "Strong as iron, both physically and mentally."
Faulkner claps his hands. "Too fucking right!"
Jerome smiles. Thirty-eight men, twelve women. "You are the POPs. My hand-picked team. Be proud. Be fucking proud."
He stands back, bows his head and claps his audience, and within a moment most have joined in.
He has them. They are his.
As the clapping dies down, a female Hope 3 orderly called Woodrow asks the question he was waiting for. "So what's this 'going forward', then? What next?"
Quiet.
Another sharp one, Woodrow. A sadistic witch. Another possible for Laser62.
Jerome shoves his hands in his pockets and speaks in a mild, casual tone. "Same process, but this time we'll be assessing the residents of Hope Villages."
The quiet becomes stunned silence.
"Before you say anything else—if you have family and friends in a Hope, let me know their names, and they will be exempt. Anyone you nominate will stay where they are, no questions asked. You all happy with that?" They look around at each other, nodding and muttering. More pictures appear on the screen: a comm lounge in one of the worst Hope Villages, in all its bleak and dreary glory. Yobbos playing pool, slappers screeching, out of control kids running around. Jerome shudders; truly the dregs of society.
"Those taken to the assessment centres will be the violent, the thieves, the druggies, the drunks, the sadistic and the shirkers. Bet you've all come across those dirty bastards in Hope who are too bone idle to clean the toilets properly, haven't you? Lowlifes who aren't fit to be around decent people. You will, at some point, have to escort the mouldiest of these bad apples to Hut K. I can assure you that the treatment lasts a maximum of two minutes and is completely pain-free; it provides a sensation of drifting off to sleep."
"I can think of some you'd be doing a favour," says Daz Faulkner, folding his arms.
Jerome nods. "That's one way of looking at it, certainly. Now, if you're up for the job, good—that's why I chose you. If you're not, you can leave now, and my men will take you back to whichever institution you came from. No hard feelings, no reprisals."
In truth, anyone who asks to leave will be shot in the head. No way are any of them taking this information back to Hope Villages.
Nobody moves.
"Good. Tomorrow you will be taken to your new home, a facility in the Government Village of MC5. Yes, you can smile—you'll be living in a megacity! This evening you will stay here, where you will be provided with dinner; I'm afraid the accomodation is a bit basic, but it's only one night. One proviso of your new employment is that you do not drink alcohol or take any sort of recreational drug; you will each be fitted with a NuSens chip, which will be monitored every day. Tonight you can watch some of the psych experiments from the Hadrian, Thurso and Dartmouth research centres, and I will answer as many of your questions as possible, but obviously much of the process is classified information. Then, tomorrow, you start your new life."
A ruffian called Cahill starts the applause; already they are becoming a team. Jerome smiles inwardly. The process is fascinating to watch. And now all that's left is the final lure that will persuade even those with private, lingering doubts.
"I haven't finished yet." He smiles, being careful to make direct eye contact with as many as possible. "Those who show themselves to be the most adaptable and able to follow orders will be chosen as enforcers for special projects."
Radar asks, "What like?"
Jerome points a finger at him, as he is already on the list. Benjamin Bundock is intelligent as well as fearless. As far as Jerome can tell from the records, he’d followed the orders of the gang bosses in both Hope and prison without complaint, and had a mutually respectful relationship with Warden Bush.
"I'm glad you asked that, Radar. Elsewhere, there are certain events lined up that require a special calibre of protection, and for these I will select the very best of my task force. That's all I'll say for now, but for those chosen, the rewards will be great. And not just financially."
Matlock laughs. "That's a point—we never asked about wages!"
Jerome smiles. "You won't be disappointed. Fear not—you are no longer Hope Villagers or prison inmates, or even run-of-the-mill megacity citizens, scraping by and living in the stacks. You are now employees of the UK Government, and answerable only to me and those to whom I willingly bend the knee."
For as long as he needs them, anyway.
"We're good to go. The period of training and acclimatisation will take us up to the Phase 11 start date."
"Great."
On the top floor of a high security building in Government Village, MC5, Ezra Bettencourt ends the call from Jerome, and growls to himself.
Manipulative little bastard. Sly little shit. He's not even a real Bettencourt.
Both Freya and Caleb were highly displeased about the utter fuck-up of the memory erasure procedure, and Ezra has paid the price; the position of Minister for Social Care remains out of reach. Instead, he is stuck in the Department as an Under Secretary, watching that Kavanagh bitch taking the credit for his hard work.
The creation of the MEP had weathered many setbacks, but he'd been assured that five test subjects suffered no ill effects. Then he crossed his fingers and hoped for the best. At first all seemed well, but on the same day that one of the test subjects committed suicide, the wife of a young soldier phoned the doctor to say that her husband was curled up in the wardrobe, crying about the lights in his eyes and the pain in his head. Everything went downhill after that.
Caleb was 'deeply disappointed'.
More salt was rubbed into the festering wound when pushy Jerome came up with the idea of using selected thugs from Hope Villages themselves, and a few from the prisons, to take care of Phase 11.
Jerome had the gall to in
troduce his plan at his very first official dinner, no less. Caleb actually gave him a round of applause, half an hour after rejecting Ezra's suggestion to go with robots.
"Hell, no. Those things still need refining; I hear from the Hadrian Research Centre that the lab rats work out who's human and who's not without too much difficulty." He laughed. "Can you imagine? Hard enough for those poor buggers to be herded into the huts, without being escorted by robots—we're supposed to be making them feel calm, not scared shitless." He tapped his head. "Think first, speak later, Ezra."
And of course everyone laughed, and Ezra felt his face burn. Shortly afterwards, Jerome tapped a silver spoon on his glass, gave a modest cough, and put forth his plan.
"Jerome, that is genius," Caleb said. "Men—and women—made hard by life itself, who won't baulk at such a task. Not good little soldiers who spend each leave in their happy homes. Ezra, why didn't you think of that?"
By that time, Ezra was shovelling a large spoonful of strawberry tart into his mouth; unfortunately he choked on it when he heard his name, and had to be slapped on the back—that little snake Jerome leapt up to do the honours—which led to him regurgitating it all down his front.
He hadn't felt so foolish since his schooldays.
Ezra hated Jerome Bettencourt. The NPU kid who'd got lucky, with the face of an angel and the soul of a fucking black mamba.
The NPU kid who'd lied to him.
Ezra hated him. Hated him.
Chapter 19
Tara
November 2061 ~ January 2062
"Most of the clients come from well-off backgrounds," says the woman who shows me around. This is after my initial meeting with Aubrey House's head consultant, a Ms Dawn Whittle, who I disliked on sight. One of those bosses who enjoy making you feel like a naughty schoolgirl. Five feet nothing with a spiky do, spiky five-inch heels, square glasses and buck teeth. What she lacks in inches she makes up for in Being Scary. I'm sure you know the type.
The woman showing me the ropes is another social motivator: Aileen. Early forties, thin, delicate features and attractively messy blonde hair. She looks tired but smiles a lot, and seems genuine. I like her.
"I don't suppose normal people can afford to be treated here," I say, as we walk down the corridor to the day room. "If you live in the stacks and have suicidal tendencies, you either go get happy pills from the Wellness Centre or jump off the roof."
Aileen laughs. "Yeah, that's about right. From what I can tell, the girls' heads have been turned inside out by their rich but rubbish parents or the demands of society; they have talking therapy at Balance, then graduate to meds, and if they're still drinking, starving themselves, self-harming or displaying violent or abusive behaviour, they end up in here."
"Do we get their case notes?"
Aileen smiles. "You've heard about 'need-to-know bubbles'?"
"No. What's one of them?"
Aileen produces her com. "It's all over Heart, has been for a couple of days. It's some new government thingy, which basically means that they now decide what information each individual is allowed to have. If I go on the Aubrey House internal site and look up a client's history, I get a big daft face on the screen, saying, 'Sorry, Aileen, this is outside your need-to-know bubble.'
"Jesus."
"Try it."
I get my com out and ask for the ratio of black versus white people in Hope Villages. A second later this grinning twerp appears on my screen. Sorry, Tara, this is outside your need-to-know bubble.
I can't believe it. "Why don't they just bring in mandatory lobotomies, and have done with it? This is shit."
"Isn't it? Talk about keeping us as dumbed down as possible. As far as this place is concerned, Dawn Whittle says that socmos—us—shouldn't know about the clients' backgrounds in case it prejudices us against them. I suppose that's fair enough."
"Yeah, it is, but they're probably protecting the rich parents, too. Like, if there's been abuse of some sort."
"Uh-huh. It's good to know we're on the same page. Unlike this chap I showed round the other week who was a hundred per cent megacity. Lester; you'll meet him soon."
"Can't wait."
"I'll point him out to you at lunch. Anyway, sometimes the nursing staff will tell you bits and bobs; one or two of the clients would be in prison if their parents weren't rich. A couple of others, I don't think have mental health problems at all. I think they're just in here because they're an embarrassment to their families."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, a couple are particularly critical of the megacity way of life. Anti-NuSens protests, dark net conspiracy theory groups about the agenda behind the Great Shift. That sort of thing."
I think of the young man called Ignace Bettencourt, who I'd met just once.
"And there are those who've enjoyed one blitz session too many."
I nod. "Mashed heads."
"That's right."
"I can understand the anti-NuSens protests. I hate the bloody thing." Shit, what did I say that for? What if Aileen is a plant to spy on me? Encouraging me, to see what I know?
Cosmo called it Link Paranoia.
Cosmo. Where are you?
We reach our destination, and she opens the double doors to a large, light room with plate glass windows, into which the late autumn sun shines. Everywhere is white. Young women flop around in pyjamas and dressing gowns. Soft music plays in the background. A few people dressed in scrubs like me are playing games with the residents. It doesn't look too bad. Better than being stuck behind the bar in Nerve, or wearing a Nucrop sash.
But not as good as driving a van in the wasteland and going home to Ned—
Aileen touches my arm. "This is it, then. Welcome to Female Psych B."
I find myself able to switch off while at work. Female Psych B is its own little world; clients are not allowed coms, and we aren't allowed to have ours with us on shift, which feels oddly liberating; I haven't been without mine since I was ten years old. We have an emergency assistance badge called a 'blink'—similar to the staff in Hope—in case any of the clients attack us, start breaking windows or try to kill the baby rabbits in Pet Village, which is shared by several care homes in the vicinity. Pet Village has a transparent dome over it, so you feel like you're outside. I love being with the animals. Around them, everything feels pure, simple and good. I've never had a pet. They're not allowed in stacks, and are discouraged, generally, because of the possibility of zoonotic disease.
I drift through my days, and concentrate only on what I have to do. The hard part is when I close the door of my little room, and long for Ned. Harder still is that I can't do anything to look for him. Every day I look at Milo's old com and think about Molenet and Xav's number that I must only ring in desperate circumstances.
How desperate do I have to be?
Some nights when I lie awake, lonely and shell-shocked about how my life disintegrated in one day, wondering how I can live for much longer under MC12's all-seeing eye, I feel pretty fucking desperate. But Milo said 'if I need a way out', and I don't, not yet. I'm not in danger, as long as I keep my head down and do my job.
I'm tired, emotionally. Right now, I can't deal with anything other than this.
I rarely use the staff room, because the conversation there is all about the clients, and some of my colleagues talk about them as though they're lunatics to be kept quiet by whatever means possible. Sometimes in the evening I wander down to the tech room, just to get out of my little box and be where other people are. One guy is writing a novel, another two are doing online tech courses. There are no wallscreens in our rooms, so we can only watch shows and movies on our tablets. Many use the staff 'watch hub', but it requires iSync. So you're sitting next to someone, both of you wearing headsets, but you're watching different movies. That weirds me out. I'd rather go old school and sit at a monitor in the tech room, headphones on, feet up on the desk.
One night last week a new documentary popped up on my suggested viewing: W
hat's Going On In The Wasteland? That I did want to know about, so I leapt on it, and saw that big changes are occurring. Remaining towns and villages are being demolished, and reforestation has begun. There are 'nature bubbles' (what is it with this 'bubble' shit?) on once neglected land, some with protective domes, like Pet Village; in the spring the open areas will burst into glorious riots of flowers to encourage the bees. There are fresh water streams, places for wildlife to thrive. It all looks wonderful, a paradise. But there's no sign of human life, not like there used to be. What's happened to the wastelanders? Maybe they're in the same place as Ned, Cosmo and Milo.
Wherever that is.
The weird thing was that they weren't even mentioned. Like they never existed, like the wasteland has never been inhabited. I kept expecting the narrator to show a little community, but there was just … nothing. Two off-grids were shown, but the attitude was, 'look at these quaint, eccentric rich folk in their hippie communes'. Oddities, their lifestyle existing only because the Department of Regeneration permits it.
But Dior, who recruited me, talked about the forty or so people she lived with, and the radio contact they had with other communities. What's happened to them all?
Tonight I watch the documentary again, with Aileen and Lester. Aileen hangs around after her shift ends, sometimes; she has a flat, rather than living in like the rest of us, and I think she gets lonely.
There's no one else in the tech room, so we can watch without headphones. As we do so, I mention the lack of wastelanders, and ask if they can shed any light on where they all are.
Aileen says, "Dunno, don't care—my husband cleared off out there with his girlfriend, years ago."
Lester says, "That sucks."
Aileen shrugs. "Long time ago, now."
Lester says, "They've probably thrown 'em all into Hope Villages. Best place for them."
I say, "Why's that?"
He brings up one of the 'nature bubble' gardens in 3D, so it hovers over the desk. "Load of freeloaders, aren't they? Live off charity donations, don't contribute to the economy."