When he bursts into the arena, though, he is awestruck for a moment. The place is empty, but, in silence, the threat of its magnitude is vivid. This is where they play student rugby? Through the prism of this great vault, metallic and pregnant, he imagines the scale of the arena they call Twickenham, or Trafford, or Headingley. Already he has heard talk of these places. If the White City Arena is a humble antechamber in the hierarchy of English stadiums, he is impatient to make it his own, on the way through.
His teammates follow shortly and trot onto the immaculate turf. Ivon crouches down to inspect it. The grass is short and thick, unnaturally so, and it protrudes through what looks like soil. It is firm, but there is give. He tugs at the grass, and it comes away in his hand.
‘Is this stuff real?’ he says to a passing player.
The player looks at him scornfully. ‘Well, it’s not a simulation. Of course it’s real.’
‘Yes, but does it grow?’
As the player runs off to take up position, Ivon notices a smaller man approach. His eyes are bright. ‘It replenishes itself every six months,’ he says, offering his hand. ‘But, no, it’s not alive, if that’s what you mean. I’m Tim. I’ll be your scrum-half.’
Ivon is relieved to meet him. ‘You seem practically normal.’
‘Don’t worry about them. They’re bred to be hostile to the unknown. But they’ll run into walls for you once you’ve proven yourself. As a scrum-half, I have a more active prefrontal cortex.’
Suddenly, a voice cuts through Ivon’s head. He recognises it as his chip at work, but usually there is a repetitive beep to signal an incoming call; here, the voice is inside his head without warning. It is Coach Davis’s.
‘We have to win this next match. Aberdeen are having almost as bad a season as we are, but they won’t be much worse than the South East, and we all know what happened there. Let’s make this a good team run. Tim, Ivon, we’re working the corners. Everyone else, we’re hard and disciplined.’
Ivon shakes his head and turns to Tim. ‘Where is he?’
Tim points to a spot high in the stand. On a raised platform over the halfway line, protruding from the serried rows of seats and levers, sit Coach Davis and two other men.
‘Is he going to be blabbing in our ears all day?’
‘Yes I am, Ivon. You’re not in Wales now. This is not a game. There is precious energy to be earned.’
‘It is a game,’ says Ivon.
‘It’s a match,’ says another voice, which Ivon recognises as that of the tallest guy in the team. ‘It’s a contest. It’s survival. We stand together and follow orders, or we lose.’
Ivon looks across to the lock forward. He stands menacingly, full square in front of him, 20 metres away, staring him down. And his mouth does not move.
‘Jesus,’ says Ivon, ‘are you all going to be in my head for this?’
‘You will hear my voice throughout,’ says Coach Davis. ‘Inter-athlete communication is vocal, unless there is a pressing need for a priority comm not to be vocalised.’
‘Fucking hell,’ thinks Ivon.
While they’ve been talking, onto the field have slipped fifteen padded humanoids on circular bases, gliding across the surface as if on wheels. They move in formation and assume position in the other half of the field. A ball, which Ivon had not noticed, is sent skywards from one of them somehow. The tall lock forward rises to take it, and the other forwards gather round to secure the ball.
It is a semi-opposed session, but Ivon is enthralled by these mobile humanoid tackle pads providing the resistance. He lines up outside Tim in a position flat against the gain line with the tackle pad opposite him only a few metres away.
‘Ivon!’ says Coach Davis in his head. ‘Deeper! I want you deeper! You’re kicking for touch, D long!’
Ivon remembers from his pitch-quadrant tutorial earlier in the week what this means. Coach Davis wants him to kick for the right touchline, as deep into opposition territory as he can. Ivon does not appreciate being dictated to like this, but, even if he did, he is too fascinated by the overgrown pawns ranged against them to pay any attention.
‘I’m flat, Tim!’ he shouts. ‘I’m flat!’
As soon as the ball leaves Tim’s hands, the tackle pads advance, and Ivon can’t wait to try his luck. The pass from Tim is good. A tackle pad is up on him quickly, but surely a sidestep would do for it. As he takes the pass, Ivon feints inside. In a flash, the rubber man changes tack and bumps him towards the pads inside, who swarm round. Ivon accepts defeat and turns to present the ball to his forwards.
The session breaks up, as Coach Davis cries out in his head with astonishment. ‘Ivon! Ivon! I told you I wanted you to drop deep and kick!’
Ivon stoops to inspect the base of one of the tackle pads, trying to discover what could make them so agile beneath their wide flat bases. He can make out nothing, and when he tries to tilt one of them it moves away from him, as if indignant.
‘Ivon!’ says Coach Davis again. ‘You didn’t do as I told you. What happened?’
Ivon looks up at him in the stand. ‘I just wanted to test out these giant pawns. They’re quick, aren’t they?’
‘We’ve set the droids to GSL7, so, yes, they’ll give you a good workout. Why didn’t you drop deep and kick?’
‘A good player responds to what’s in front of him. I saw we were playing against a load of Subbuteo figures. I thought they might be weak on the inside shoulder.’
‘You ignored my instruction! That’s Misalignment!’
‘Are you really going to be giving me instructions all session?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘And tomorrow? In the match?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what if I disagree with one of them?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, I might not think it’s right to kick. I might feel something else is on.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘I have instincts. My instincts are strong.’
There is a pause. Ivon can see Coach Davis confer with his colleagues. Their words are not transmitted. Coach Davis breaks off and turns to Ivon again. ‘Think of us as your instincts,’ he says, gesturing to the two men either side of him. ‘Think of us as your eyes and ears.’
‘Who’s playing this game? You or me?’
‘Why would you think you are better placed to know what’s best for the team than we are up here? You are operating in the heart of the action. We are in the stadium eye. Of course we can see things more clearly than you. So we make the decisions. This is standard practice. We have the technology here, so we use it. You’re not in Wales.’
‘But I have the ball. I’m best placed to decide what to do with it.’
‘We’re not talking about this any more. This is how it is. You and your comrades are the ones trained in Technique and Execution. We are trained in Strategy and Direction. We tell you what we want you to do, how we want you to proceed. You follow. If not, the whole thing breaks down. Let’s go from the scrum!’
Just do what they want, Ivon tells himself. His priority is to get onto the field, to play. Against real people. Then they’ll see.
Three years, seven months, thirteen days. Juno’s stasis looms ever larger. Dusty is beginning to feel its approach as keenly as if it were his own. Juno considers the stasis countdown clock she has had installed on the wall above her desk a sublime cosmic joke. But to Dusty, who sees it on an almost-daily basis, it hangs heavy like an omen.
‘I was wondering if you could help me with something,’ he says to the woman seated beneath it.
‘Of course!’
‘We have a filing culture here at ReSure. The record of our people is preserved for…well, for a long time, is it not?’
Juno grins widely. Her neck powers her head backwards and forwards in short jabs.
‘So, it occurred to me that this practice might be repeated across society. I mean, in terms of keeping a record of things. I know that
scores and statistics from matches are kept on file – I’ve even seen some of them – but what about the registering of, I don’t know, events…and attendances? Enrolment. Medical records. For example.’
She studies him from above fingers that interlock like gear teeth. ‘It can be hard working here, can’t it?’ she says. ‘There’s something about being around people at the end of their active lives that encourages us to turn away from the future. To look backwards. It makes you feel quite abnormal, doesn’t it? As if there’s something wrong with you.’
The grin remains set across her face like a sprung mantrap. Dusty knows better than to say anything.
‘It’s perfectly normal, Dusty. And if you want to see somebody about it there is an adjustment course available to us. I haven’t taken it myself, but I have considered it. Otherwise, in answer to your question – yes, absolutely. There is a record of practically everything that happens or has ever happened in London.’
‘And are these records available to anyone?’
‘Anyone?’
‘Well, me.’
Juno blows out her cheeks and stretches back into her chair. She makes obvious the power of her arms, her shoulders, her neck. ‘The morning is such a latent time of day, don’t you think? We are at our most coiled. Potential energy courses through our limbs, as yet unwound.’
Dusty smiles dutifully. The time has come, he concedes. Juno bustles round from her side of the desk. ‘A morning constitutional,’ she says, ‘I always find the most gratifying of all. Shall we?’
‘I’m sure we shall.’
The cots at ReSure are first-generation, hard and ungiving, but it lends one’s exertions upon them a certain purity. Every thrust and grind is accentuated, the transmission of energy without mediation. Not for a moment does the cot feel as if it is helping; rather, it offers itself as a kind of board against which to thrash. There is something bracing about it. And the more so when joined by a woman as powerful as Juno. She is a vigorous partner, louder and more momentous than any he can recall, despite her advanced years. At the height of their exertions she roars and pounds her fists upon his chest, as if summoning her own past as a champion wrestler, as if trying to force another submission. Dusty is invigorated and quite bruised, another megajoule banked, and it not yet 10 a.m.
‘So,’ he says with a big breath on the way back to their offices, ‘I think you were going to tell me how to gain access to London’s records.’
‘Oh, Dusty,’ laughs Juno. ‘They’re available to anyone!’
‘To anyone! But I’ve always imagined them to be inaccessible.’
‘Of course you have. We are conditioned from emergence not to consider the Past. So no one ever thinks to look there. But in theory your humblest primary could walk straight in here and ask to see one of our vaults. If they did, we should show them whatever they want. But, of course, they don’t. And if they did, well, we would make a record of it. Alarm bells would ring. So there would be repercussions for a primary. But for a man of your standing, Dusty…you could look up anything you wanted, I’m sure.’
Dusty nods his head with interest. And surprise.
‘What is it you’re after, anyway?’ she asks.
His confidence on the question of his past is growing, and the inclination towards candour that has lately gnawed at Dusty in the wake of coitus has him again here. He chooses to be honest with her. ‘I was among the first batch of Academy students to undergo TMS therapy. I want to learn more about it.’
Juno shrugs. ‘They’d retain that information at the Institute of Improvement. Have you met the registrar there yet? Martha Havelock. Obviously not. She comes here from time to time.’
‘And what about us? Do we retain details of prem deps here?’
‘Of course! Have we really not had one since you’ve been here? There was one the other day. A secondary in handball. Hit by an aero.’
‘Don’t remember it.’
‘Maybe you were away.’
The Institute of Improvement has faculties in each of the many academies across the country, but its headquarters are pleasantly appointed on the banks of the River Thames at Millbank. Dusty joins the river at Blackfriars and cycles south along the flyover, enjoying the sweep of river, parks and gleaming panels. Soon he is on the descent past Parliament, its billowing domes homely yet weighty, an anchor to the proud tower that rises up beside it. He enjoys the perfect synchronisation between the clock on his central chip and that of Great Chronos, from whom they all take their time, the seconds flitting so elegantly from one digit to the next on his mighty face.
At Millbank, he parks his bike and pauses. The Eye-Eye is one of the taller buildings in London, perhaps as many as twenty-five storeys high. More immediately, he is confronted by a courtyard framed by the crescent configuration of the lower, wider proportion of the building. He approaches it from the concave north side, his progress reflected off successive panels of tinted glass, as they watch him make his way to the entrance at the centre of the curve.
In the foyer he is met by Martha Havelock. She wears the navy of the primary class and greets him with a pleasant, gentle smile. Her own stasis is surely imminent, for she looks at least as old as he does, even if she can’t be. He cannot imagine London draws much in the way of energy from her limbs, which are slender and hesitant.
‘I’m no good at sport,’ she explains on the way up to her office. ‘Never progressed beyond primary. What I do have is a head for figures. And nimble fingers for inputting.’ She laughs modestly, as they pass a descending group of tertiaries, pounding in perfect unison down the stairwell’s training lanes. ‘Just another flight. They’ve moved my office down to the fifth floor. I’m in diminishment now, as you can see.’
She takes a seat behind her desk and pulls up the home on her computer. ‘Let me put it in the round for you,’ she says, and the projection on her desk morphs to throw up a replica interface on Dusty’s side.
‘So what are we looking for?’ says Martha.
‘Transmigration of the Skill therapy.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, I can certainly help there. We keep a record of every procedure.’
‘This one was in 2111.’ He hesitates to mention a date so long ago, but Martha is an archivist, he reminds himself. The Past does not faze her. ‘I was part of it.’
‘OK. Let’s see.’
Dusty watches as a succession of menus and figures flashes across the interface at dizzying speed. He is mesmerised. Through the shifting mist of data, the silhouette of Martha beyond is perfectly still but for her hands that skim across the console.
‘Well, well – 2111 makes you one of the very first. There was a batch of footballers the day before, but you were pioneers of the procedure.’
Dusty sees his name, the fifth in a list, but he is impatient. He sees Ricky’s name, too, just below his. And, there, third on the list is Dee’s. A chill runs through him. She was part of the batch, too? This means something, he is sure of it. If only he could remember.
‘Can we find out about the others?’
‘There were seven of you, as you can see, four boys, three girls, all of you fifteen or sixteen years of age. The transmigrated skill was the cover drive.’
Dusty nods. ‘But who were they? Where are they now?’
‘Oh dear,’ says Martha, from behind the veil.
‘What is it?’
Each name on the list is highlighted for a second and flashes as Martha tries to call up the profile. But no profile appears. She clicks on Dusty’s name, and a projection of Dusty materialises on the desk.
‘Well, you’re there in all your glory, but that’s it. There are no profiles for any of the others. Daniel Attention,’ she says, highlighting the first name on the list, ‘nothing. Chad Meninga, nothing. Enrico Tribute. Same with the girls: Angela Hunter, Delilah Januarie, Leanda Wellington; nothing, nothing, nothing.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means they are no longer with us.’
&
nbsp; Dusty pores over the unresponsive names on the list. Ricky and Dee he knows about. He can’t remember Angela Hunter or Leanda Wellington. Daniel Attention. Chad Meninga. He thinks the names mean something to him, but is that because he realises they should? He must have known them.
‘You mean they’re all premature departures?’
‘I do, Dusty. You would appear to be the only one left.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘I don’t have that information here, as you can see. But you should have it at ReSure.’
‘Who was the skill host?’
‘For your treatment? Let’s have a look. Oh! That’s unusual.’
Dusty sees the highlighter labouring on the interface again, this time over the field
‘Nothing’s coming up. I don’t know what to say. It won’t tell me.’
‘And who was the presiding technician?’
The question is immaterial. He knows the answer before it appears on the interface.
‘Syracuse Garbo,’ Martha says.
‘Do you know him?’
‘I do. He’s a…shall we say, he’s an intense man. Not always the easiest to serve under. But we don’t see much of him these days. He’s an Exempt. They rarely show their faces, for obvious reasons.’
‘Where can I find him?’
Through the interfaces between them, Dusty can see the silhouette of Martha’s shoulders tighten. A moment later, the projections between them dissolve into her desk, leaving the woman exposed before him. Her face is drawn – and paler, thinks Dusty, than the cheery one that greeted him earlier.
‘The truth is, I don’t know where you’d find Garbo. He only ever deals with those he needs to. He’s an Exempt. I don’t know when I last saw him.’
‘Thank you, Martha.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. Let me show you out.’
But Dusty has already left.
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