by O M Faure
‘Thank you, we appreciate your support,’ Olivia says cheerfully, but she’s chewing her lip.
‘I’m arranging for the various specialists to brief you, so that you’ll have all the relevant information before you leave.’ His answers are frustrating. Seemingly informative but also vague… ‘Relevant information’: does that mean he’ll leave some of it out if it doesn’t suit him for us to know it?
‘Is there anything specifically that we should know or a message you wish to convey to our leaders in 2016?’ Olivia chimes in.
For the first time, he hesitates. He stops, pensive for a few moments.
‘Thank you for the offer. I’ll think about it and revert back to you before your departure.’
Then he resumes the easy flow of the remarks that betray the fact he’s prepared practically every word he’s saying to us. This man should be powerful enough to improvise. Why does he feel like a puppet reciting pre-written lines?
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’re logistical details to arrange, as you can imagine.’
We both get up and thank him. I extend my hand to shake his but he just lets it hang there. Puzzled, I take it back.
‘I’ve arranged for you to stay here at headquarters with our other agents until you leave for the first half of your trip.’
In other words, he’s arranged to keep an eye on us.
‘Thank you.’
He moves his mouth silently, holding a finger to a plastic collar around his throat and then he turns back to the window, ending the interview.
The PA comes back in and guides us briskly through a maze of corridors. ‘Well, you both look a right state, don’t you? What have you done in Cambridge? Wiped the floor with your faces? I guess there’s not much sense in expecting hygiene and decorum from people who lived practically in the dark ages, is there?’
She throws a side-glance at Olivia and I can’t say that she’s wrong exactly. Snow White’s hair is matted, her skin is stained with dirt and sweat, and the uniform isn’t exactly a good look on her; she’s had to leave some of the buttons open to accommodate her curves and the boxer shorts are too tight and too short. We take the elevator and the PA calls out, ‘Level five.’
This floor feels more residential; Programme employees and children are mingling, going about their day. Breakfast smells waft through the air and the hubbub of conversations now serves as background to the PA’s chatter, whose name we learn is Blossom. Despite her age and flabbiness, she’s not self-conscious about wearing her leggings, but the style is unflattering, her flat, wrinkled buttocks wobbling as she walks.
People are starting to notice us and stop to stare at our trio, whispering to each other and pointing, fascinated. It seems the news of our arrival has travelled fast. Olivia tugs on the bottom of Stuart’s jacket, hugging her in all the wrong places, and walks close to the wall, staring at her grimy feet; but I tuck a braid behind my ear and lift my chin up.
Blossom continues at a brisk pace until we get to a metal door, flush with the wall. She waves her wrist against a blue panel and the door opens with a whoosh of released air.
We step into a dark gray corridor so narrow that Olivia’s shoulders and hips are touching the walls, so she has to turn to get through. There are ridges and alcoves along both walls; in fact, it looks like the corridor is lined with cupboards, the size of fridges, stacked lengthwise on top of each other up to the ceiling. Soon, we reach a minuscule living room, the size of a parking space, where there’s a small boxy sofa, cushions on the floor and the usual detritus that roommates leave behind when they congregate – empty bottles, wrappers and gadgets.
‘This is where you’ll be staying for the next few days,’ says Blossom.
She shows us a bathroom on the left, which is like a cube of plastic with the molded shapes of a shower, a sink and a toilet. About a dozen people’s toiletries and towels are strewn about and it’s not exactly clean.
Blossom goes back to the corridor, absorbed in something on her clear plastic wristband; she checks the writing on the stacked cupboards against her bracelet and stops in front of two of the long rectangular boxes, one at floor level and the one above it at eye level. She swipes her bracelet against an oval shape in the plastic molding. With a small click, the oval recedes and slides open to reveal a capsule with a thin mattress and pillow that take up the entire space inside. There are white plastic molded shelves on the walls that run the length of the coffin-like interior. I stick a head in mine. It smells of disinfectant with a faint hint of new car. Olivia gets on all fours and has a look at hers.
‘Don’t know what you did to deserve the VIP treatment but there you have it: lots of common space, an en-suite bathroom and even state-of-the art pods with privacy doors and everything. You’re very lucky.’
‘Thank you so much, Blossom, we appreciate it.’ Olivia gets back on her feet with a wavering smile on her lips.
‘Now if you’d like to change into something more...’ she searches for the right words, looking us up and down with pursed lips, ‘... more 2081, perhaps. Take an hour to get ready and then you’ll have breakfast in the mess hall.’
I should leave as soon as the opportunity presents itself. But when I look at the door, I realize there are no handles.
‘How will we get out?’
‘Oh right,’ she titters, ‘I nearly forgot to give you your iModes.’
‘Our what?’ Olivia asks, tugging at the jacket again.
‘iMode, love.’ Blossom shakes her hand under Olivia’s nose, showing her the bracelet on her wrist. Hers is about three inches wide, shiny and rainbow-hued. The shriveled-up PA opens a pocket in her magenta jacket and pulls out two small boxes the size of a CD case but thicker. She hands a box to each one of us.
The packaging is minimal but extremely well made and fits the devices perfectly. The boxes contain a sort of collar, a bracelet and an ear bud each. All three devices are made of transparent hard plastic, arranged in concentric circles, like ripples on a pond. There is nothing inside, no instructions, nothing at all. The devices are identical; they shine faintly, emitting a diffuse white light against the black packaging. The ear buds look like the pea-sized hearing aids that older people wear in our era. I shrug and put the ear bud on. The device starts to buzz and I feel a pinprick in my ear.
‘Ow!’ Olivia yelps. Same thing happened with hers, then.
‘Oh bless,’ Blossom chuckles condescendingly. ‘Your iMode has just taken a drop of your DNA to ensure it’s completely customized to you. No one else can wear it now.’
Blossom helps us clasp the collar around our throats; I slide a finger in to try to release its hold but end up making it feel tighter. I take a big breath and fiddle with the clasp but can’t get it to loosen. I hate the thing already.
‘Give it a command, go on,’ Blossom says.
‘iMode, open the door.’ The collar is so tight against my throat that it moves with my skin as I speak. But it works; the door behind me opens with a whoosh.
‘Perfect. You’ll learn more uses for it later. Just stay here and I’ll arrange for someone to come and collect you in an hour.’
She leaves the narrow corridor, walking sideways like a crab, and the door closes behind her, sending the scent of her sugary sweet perfume wafting toward us.
‘Did you see how she was dressed? Wow, I really hope that’s not fashion now. It was so revealing.’
Of all the things Olivia could be thinking about right now, she opts for fashion. She’s so irritating.
Climbing the small ladder on the side of her coffin, I slide into my pod. There’s a TV on the ceiling, above the pillow, and the sides are lined with shelves and cupboards. On one of the shelves, there is a set of towels, a bag of toiletries and a black version of Blossom’s outfit – tight leggings and a waist-length jacket. The only small mercy is that there are flat shoes instead of the high heels she was wearing. They look like surfing boots.
‘Head to toe spandex it is, then,’ I sigh.
Olivia pops her head in my capsule, making me flinch. ‘Our tastes are probably old-fashioned here. Think about it – if a fifties person came to 2016, they’d probably find our clothes hideously tarty.’
‘I guess so.’ I shut the porthole.
We take turns showering. As I approach the mirror, I suck my breath in at the sight of my hair, stripped of its weave. Apparently, only our bodies made the trip to 2081, along with any smeared organic matter on our skin, nothing else. I wonder if maybe the chip is the only foreign object that travels forward because it’s inside us? In any case, I’ll have to make do with my own hair. I haven’t seen it properly in months. It’s grown quite long, actually, under the weave, but it’s graying, damaged and way too frizzy. I try my best to re-braid it and tuck in a few strands but it’s a waste of time. And the inadequate shampoo and conditioner aren’t going to help, I sigh.
The bathroom’s thin plastic flooring ripples precariously under my bare feet. Holding out my arms to keep my balance, I make my way to the showerhead in a corner of the bathroom, wincing at the grimy floor. The drain is clogged with hair and there are soap traces on the flesh-colored plastic walls.
As I’m trying to find a way to turn on the water, I grumble to myself: ‘How do I turn on this goddamn shower?’ and just as I finish the sentence, the shower turns on and I jump back, startled.
Voice activated of course. That’s idiotic. Why not just use faucets? My iMode lights up with blue flashes in response to my commands. Probably registering my preferences or maybe billing me for the water, who knows?
The water gets everywhere, but there is a drain in the middle of the plastic room and all the water swirls out through it. The spray of water is very faint. It’s more a mist than a proper flow. I try to crank up the water but nothing happens. I do my best and finally exit the plastic cubicle, frustrated not to feel completely clean.
I step out, grab a towel and go dry myself in my pod while Olivia showers.
‘DeAnn,’ she calls out, ‘did you use up all the water?’
‘No, it was like that for me too,’ I yell back.
I struggle to get dressed horizontally, as I can’t stand in the pod and can barely sit upright. The leggings are actually quite comfortable, they seem to encase the leg and also shape it. It’s as if they react to my body and adapt. The jacket is alright as well; it’s zipped on the side with multiple inner and outer pockets and a hoodie. It’s made of a material I’ve never seen before; it looks warm, breathable and water-proof. The closest 2016 material I can think of is the neoprene of a diving suit. I caught a glimpse of Olivia’s outfit; it’s nearly identical, with tight leggings and a short jacket but in a different cut and colored beige.
I rummage through the drawers and find nothing, no hairbrush, no pen and paper, no water bottle. Nothing.
Olivia gets ready while I search, then I jump out of the pod and we both stand in the cramped corridor, trying to find how to lock our ‘rooms.’
‘Can you believe it? Sixty-five years?’ she says.
‘Yeah. Everyone we know is probably dead by now.’
‘You really ought to be more positive, you know.’
I roll my eyes.
‘What I don’t understand is why they didn’t know we were coming. I mean, if it happened sixty-five years ago, they must have had ample warning,’ Olivia wonders aloud.
‘Maybe our emergency jump didn’t count as a proper mission and didn’t get logged by whoever took over.’ I don’t add out loud, or maybe McArthur destroyed the facility and everyone in it after we left.
‘Maybe there’s a security mechanism to erase all data in case of a breach, or this is so far into the future that they forgot all about us.’ She looks hopeful.
‘Yeah, maybe.’
I keep quiet about another possibility too: We never made it back so we didn’t write a report about ever coming here. That would also explain why they didn’t know about us in advance.
Just as we reach the door, there’s a knock and when I say, ‘Come in,’ it opens automatically.
A blonde pregnant woman is standing outside our door, smiling and looking ditzy.
‘Hi there, ready for your tour?’ She sounds like an overzealous waitress.
An intense-looking man in his forties is standing behind her, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, observing us from a few steps away. He’s looking right past me, at Olivia. She’s turned away from us, pulling on her top and freeing her mass of curly red hair from the collar with both hands in a practiced, fluid motion.
The blonde is gushing in a slight Canadian accent, ‘Wow! I… I studied history… and you’re from there... or rather then. How soop!’
Ignoring her, I get out of the cramped corridor and brush past them into the main hallway.
‘Oh silly me,’ she continues, ‘I didn’t even introduce us yet. This is Captain Burke, he’s a senior Programme agent, and I’m Madison, I’m an analyst; we’re here to show you around.’
‘Madison, it’s nice to meet you, I’m Olivia,’ Snow White says, extending a hand, maybe hoping to stem the flow, but it has the reverse effect.
‘Oh wow! Yes, of course. I read up about you before I came here. Was your father really Alastair Sagewright? One of the founding members? That’s so galactic!’
The man behind her smiles imperceptibly and lowers his head. When he looks up, his expression is neutral again.
We get out of the room and follow Madison who keeps chatting, her face animated with enthusiasm. She isn’t actually asking us real questions or waiting for answers, so I tune her out.
We follow the hum of conversation to a large mess hall where people are eating at long tables, sitting side by side. The smell of a breakfast fry-up hits my nostrils and my stomach gives a growl.
Madison gets served on a prison-style tray and when it’s my turn, I get the same uninspiring fare: one egg, one piece of bacon, one sausage, one toast, a small glass of orange juice and a tea. Eyeing the disgusting-looking food, I try my luck with the woman in a hairnet who is serving us, while assessing the dubious cleanliness of her apron.
‘Could I have an extra egg, some more toast and three more rashers of bacon? Oh, and where is the coffee? I can’t find any?’ I ask, feeling my stomach rumble again.
There’s sweat on her upper lip and hairs protruding from it. She stares at me without answering, and exchanges a look with the next person in line, rising her eyebrows and muttering something that sounds like ‘bloody foreigners’. The person behind me pushes me out of the way and gets her tray. Startled, I move along and, like everyone else, swipe my bracelet on a pad, receiving a ping and a blue flash in response.
We pick a table, sit down and dig in but when I take a sip of the ‘orange juice’ I nearly spit it out. It’s disgusting: A thin, watery drink that’s obviously chemical and has nothing in common with an orange except maybe its color. Trying to remove the awful taste, I get started on the fried egg and the bacon. The egg tastes normal but the bacon is vile, more like soy paste dyed with pink and white streaks. I gingerly try the bread. Normal.
Captain Burke observes us in silence. I notice the tips of a tattoo barely protruding from under his rolled-up sleeve. I remember Snow White’s drawing of the Helenus symbol and wonder what the Captain’s tattoos look like exactly. I guess I must be staring because our eyes meet and we evaluate each other for a long moment. There are deep lines on his forehead and his intense green eyes speak of a cold, calculating intelligence. Otherwise his handsome face betrays nothing.
I break eye contact, letting him have this small victory, and throw a glance over my shoulder at the queue, trying to decide whether to go talk to that woman again.
‘Don’t bother, she won’t give you any,’ he says.
‘Why?’
He shrugs and wipes his plastic tray with the remaining bread, hunching over it slightly, as if to protect the food. ‘You’ve used up your breakfast ration already. That’s it, no seconds.’
‘Your food allocation is assigned on the iMode, so no cheating,’ the pregnant woman laughs, shaking her wrist. Under the stark neon lighting, suddenly the device doesn’t look like a bracelet so much as a shackle.
I frown. ‘Rations? You can’t be serious.’
‘For the last four years.’ Burke pushes his tray away and leans back in his chair.
‘But why are you rationing? I don’t get it,’ Olivia asks.
‘Because we started to run out of food, of course.’
‘Famine?’ Olivia exclaims.
‘Yup. You’re not going to eat this?’ Burke grabs the bacon on her plate and eats it.
‘This isn’t bacon, is it?’ Olivia asks.
‘No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’ Burke laughs, a big throaty guffaw. He’s one of those guys who hides his ruthlessness behind charm. He smiles a perfect white-toothed grin at Olivia, looking at her fondly like she said something cute.
‘But how is this possible? Don’t you have productive agricultural methods by now?’ I ask. ‘I mean, your technology must be miles ahead of ours. Don’t you have high-yield crops and…’
‘Technology can’t always fix everything. There is food, of course there is. Just not enough for everyone.’
‘Why?’ Olivia asks.
Madison shrugs. ‘Take your pick: climate change affecting farming, lack of GMO seed resilience, antibiotics resistance leading to mass livestock die-offs…’
Olivia and I look at each other as Madison continues to list the issues. Around us, the Programme staff are milling about, getting breakfast, chatting to colleagues, reading their iModes. It all looks so normal.
‘I try not to think too much about these things. What can we do about it anyway, right?’ Madison reaches for Olivia’s glass of orange juice. ‘You’re not going to drink that, are you?’
Olivia shakes her head and we watch Madison down the whole thing, while rubbing her distended belly.