by O M Faure
‘What about the princess?’
‘Nah, she’s been removed from the line of succession, she married a black guy.’ He shrugs.
Under cover of light banter, he’s observing us. Observing how Olivia misses her target, how I know how to handle a gun but don’t seem to hit the target either. The man is subtle, perceptive and definitely competent. I make a mental note of that and continue to fake my ineptitude.
At length, we make our way back upstairs. Now that I’m more aware of the political situation, I notice that there are very few people of color in the building and I start to feel completely out of place. Olivia and Burke walk ahead of me and as we round a corner, a middle-aged woman bumps into me and says under her breath, ‘Go home, you dirty monkey.’ I barely react and ignore it as I always do. It’s not worth the trouble of responding. But the pang of hurt stabs my gut anyway.
Burke puts a hand on the small of Olivia’s back and she looks up at him, listening attentively. Suddenly, I feel alone and the world seems vast and dark.
19
Olivia
Conurbation of London, November 2081
* * *
I wake up with a start and feel a hand over my mouth. Adrenaline kicks in and I try to take a breath to scream but my eyes adjust to the night and I realise that it’s only Madison. The young woman holds her hand on my mouth until I nod, then she lets go and motions for me to follow her. It’s half past midnight. Puzzled, I quickly put on my trainers and the jacket, wishing I had one of my comfy M&S cardigans to wrap up in instead.
I crawl out of my pod and quietly follow Madison outside the flat, closing the door behind me, as I shiver in the dark corridor.
‘What is g—’
She brings a finger to her lips, shakes her head and starts to walk away.
I hesitate. Why didn’t we wake up DeAnn? Where is she taking me? What do I know about Madison, really? Should I leave behind the only person I know? My only partner?
Madison is ten steps ahead now. She stops and turns back to me, gesturing urgently. Curiosity wins over fear and I follow her through endless corridors. In the dark everything looks eerie and I’m cold. After a good five minutes we reach a lift, Madison waves her wrist and requests the second to last floor.
We ascend in silence. Under the service lift’s neon lights, Madison looks tired and older than this morning; fine lines crisscross underneath her eyes and her mouth has a bitter slant. She’s still completely silent, eyes averted, so I follow her example.
At length, the lift doors open with a ping, revealing a large deserted kitchen where the stainless steel counters and appliances glint dully in the darkness. Madison motions urgently and we climb the last floor using a service staircase. We arrive in a long and narrow service area where a slender woman is already standing motionless in the shadows near a trolley piled up with glasses and china. I hear male voices arguing on the other side of the wall and for a long while, we just stand there, eavesdropping on a conversation that means nothing to me. Whenever I glance at Madison, she places a finger against her lips. The other woman is wrapped in a cloak, her frail silhouette pressed against the wall. She must be peering through a spyhole.
Time passes.
Then, as I’m starting to sway from exhaustion, my ears prick up at the mention of my name.
‘The Sagewright girl is malleable… I … 2016 evaluations … no business being a field agent.’ The voice has a clipped South African cadence and the man sounds derisive. Groebler.
There seem to be five or six people in the room next to ours and we can’t hear everything they say through the wall. But I’m sure I heard my name. I frown and Madison raises her eyebrows, shaking her head in alarm.
‘What about the other one? The nigger.’ A low voice, an American man.
‘She seems harmless.’ Groebler answers again. ‘The 2016 files ranked her well… lower standard… do today… poorly against my man earlier.’
‘We should just secure the… It’s too risky.’ An Australian accent, deep voice, muffled, through the wall.
‘Colonel, do you think… can be contained?’ De Courcy’s voice.
‘Absolutely. They’re amateurs. They should never have become field agents… can keep them under control for a year.’
‘Let’s hope we won’t have to wait a whole year…’
‘I really think my men would be the best choice, it’s easier and they’re…’
Sounds of protest rise and arguments break out.
‘Under no circumstances. The fact that they’re on your territory now doesn’t mean you have the right to…’
‘I’ll have to report this to my superiors, do you hear me?’
‘No, no, that’s not what I’m saying at all. But it’s a big risk to take, just because we can’t agree. It’d be easier to simply extract… keep… safe…’
It sounds like de Courcy’s trying to placate them and restore order. ‘OK, OK, fine. We’ll… All in favour?’
Silence. I assume they’re raising hands. Muffled grumbling.
Madison and the slender woman start towards the exit and I follow them, but as I walk past, I bump into the trolley. The glasses vibrate tentatively against each other; I freeze, holding my breath until the tinkling stops. Feeling like an idiot for nearly toppling it, I blush under their glares. When the sound subsides, they tiptoe away and I hurry after them. We take the stairs quietly and the two women only stop when we’re back in the kitchen, one floor below.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Keep your voice down, Olivia, you never know who might be listening in this building.’ Madison looks grave.
‘What on earth is going on? Will you answer me?’
The woman removes her hood, revealing white hair that gleams in the moonlight. She’s in her nineties or maybe older, frail and very thin. Her pale, wrinkled face breaks into a smile. ‘Olivia, it’s good to see you again.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve never met you before in my life.’
‘It’s not important. There isn’t much time. I need to explain a few things.’
‘You can start by telling me who you are.’
Madison opens her mouth to protest at my tone but the frail old woman holds up a hand.
‘It’s alright.’ She turns her penetrating eyes to me. ‘We are the last members of the Cassandra Resistance. We don’t mean you any harm. I knew your father, you see.’
How can that be? That means she must be at least one hundred years old. I’m busy doing the maths when she continues.
‘We worked on the Cassandra Programme together at its inception. He was a wonderful man. I owe him a lot.’
‘OK, that’s nice but what does it have to do—’
‘Just listen, there’s no time. If I’m caught here, I’ll be executed on sight. You’re in grave danger. The Cassandra Programme was taken over by the Helenus, the year you left. They’re working with the Coalition now.’
I start to ask a question but she holds her hand up, looking over her shoulder towards a noise in the darkness. We wait a few minutes, holding our breath, then she relaxes and continues.
‘They need your microchips in order to go back to 2016 and change the future in their favour. This cannot be allowed to happen.’
‘But what do you mean they need our chips? What about us?’
‘They’ll kill you of course, and send back two Helenus agents in your place.’
Oh shit.
‘We were lucky tonight, their internal divisions played in our favour; they can’t agree yet on who should go back once you’re dead. The Helenus is struggling to maintain control over the Programme, while the governments who sponsor the operations want to take over, militarily if need be.
Meanwhile, none of the Coalition countries trusts the others enough to select two agents to represent all of their interests. They each want the technology for themselves. So they’ve bought themselves a year to decide and while they squabble, you live. But you’ll be unde
r the Programme’s close surveillance at all times, that of Groebler’s men particularly.’
The ground drops under my feet. ‘But what do you mean? Are you saying that I only have a year left to live?’
Madison and the old woman exchange a glance.
‘Well, yes,’ the young woman says. ‘Unless they can reach their decision on whom to send in your place before the year is up, then you’d have less than a year.’
‘What? But, but…’ My chest feels tight and I can’t breathe. Taking long gulps of air, I start to feel dizzy and have to sit down on the kitchen floor. ‘But none of this makes any bloody sense! We’re in a bloody Programme facility. Why don’t they use their own bloody microchips to go back to 2016? What do they bloody want with mine?’
Madison and the old woman frown and glance at each other, then the old woman’s face clears.
‘But of course, I forgot. You’re not…’ she stops. ‘Don’t you remember from your agent training, Olivia?’ She crouches in front of me and glances pointedly at Madison, so only I’ll see it. ‘Calm down and think. You know that the technology only allows forward travel. We can only ever go to the future, Olivia, remember?’
I nod as my stomach drops even further. Am I stuck here, then? But de Courcy said we could go back. My head is spinning.
Madison throws uncertain glances at me, over her shoulder, as she keeps watch over the deserted kitchen. The old woman helps me up, her wrinkled face very close to my ear, she whispers, ‘Microchips are like boomerangs. They only go back to the year they started out from. The only way for the Coalition to go back in time and change the past is to steal yours.’
Back on my feet, I drink a few mouthfuls of air and try to compose myself. ‘Who are these guys anyway?’
‘De Courcy and Groebler works for the Helenus and the rest of them are representing each one of the Coalition’s governments,’ Madison says, frowning at me. ‘We no longer run the Programme, they do. For corporate profit and for the benefit of their governments’ twisted ideology.’ She continues, ‘So if they go back instead of you, they’ll change the last sixty-five years, hunt us down, eradicate the people who don’t fit with their—’
The old woman holds up a hand. ‘Not if we can prevent it. Olivia will not let us down.’
Madison looks at me dubiously.
Shit, shit, shit. This is not good. I am not qualified to do this. I take a shaky breath.
‘OK, what do I do?’
The old woman has been watching my face closely and after a moment of silence she says pensively, ‘The purity of your genetic heritage will appeal to them and your symbolic value as the Sagewright daughter will be a prize, a rallying banner, giving legitimacy to whoever claims you. Even if they take your chip, there’s a chance they might spare you and let you live in this timeline. The Resistance could still use you, if you can infiltrate their ranks.’
I splutter, ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please pay attention, Olivia, I have to go soon. I want you to pretend to agree with the Coalition’s views. Pretend that you’d be interested in staying, in having an affair with one or several of them. Convince them that you’d consider donating your chip to a man, better qualified than you for the return mission. But covertly, I want you to gather as much information as you can on them. Send me actionable intel: their names, their faces, their plans, their weapons, all of it.’
I’m feeling cold. All of this is starting to be a bit much. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. The darkness presses against my chest as I rub the scab on my forearm, feeling the microchip move just under my skin. I want to go home.
Madison strokes her pregnant belly as a flicker of doubt passes across her features but the old woman’s face softens and she puts a hand on my arm.
‘I’m counting on you being your father’s daughter, Olivia. You can do it. You have to do it. Your life depends on it. All our lives depend on it.’
That’s brilliant, no pressure at all then.
‘What about DeAnn?’
‘You cannot tell her anything.’
‘Why not?’
‘This has happened before. Olivia... I… I cannot say more. Just don’t involve her.’
‘How could this have happened already? I’m so confused.’
‘It’s complicated, there’s no time to explain. I jumped forward, I have read the report about your mission. You… Just trust me, Olivia, and don’t tell DeAnn.’
I scoff. ‘Trust you? I don’t even know you.’
‘And you think you know her? Do you think she’d hesitate to sacrifice you to save herself? There is no way to know what she might do. We can’t afford to trust her and have you both killed before you can gather the intel the Resistance needs. You can’t tell her anything.’
‘But what will I do, on my own, if they try to murder me? You heard them, I’m not cut out for this – she can help.’
‘This is not up for discussion, Agent Sagewright. You will work for us and leave DeAnn out of it, or we will take the appropriate measures to terminate your mission and make sure the Resistance prevails. Understood?’
A clanging noise interrupts us.
A man’s voice rings out. ‘Who’s there? Identify yourself.’
We drop to a crouch under the nearby steel-top table and stay very still. Gumshoes squeak on the tiled floor and a torch beam shines as it moves around the room, looking for us.
Madison is struggling, her balance impaired by her bump. She sways and starts to fall but I catch her. Holding our breath, our eyes fixed on the shadows, we strain to hear what the guard is doing. Bending low, the three of us hurry out of the office, while the man checks the far side of the room. We slink out and run to the staircase.
The older woman exchanges a quick hug with Madison, then she squeezes my shoulder and disappears down the stairwell, her cloak billowing behind her in the dark.
Madison and I dash back through the corridors to the normal lift and step into it. As we catch our breaths, she starts an innocuous conversation with me about the midnight snacks one can get on rations. I look at her blankly so she moves her eyes up. I follow her gaze to a camera. She continues talking happily about her favourite biscuits. I play along, thanking her for helping me find some food at this late hour. We part when we reach my floor. She presses my hand warmly in both of hers, her expression grave. The lift doors close and I find myself alone in the deserted hallway. It seems darker and colder than before, as I walk back to bed alone, jumping at every sound.
Rattled, I toss and turn in my coffin bed, unable to go to sleep. How can I not tell DeAnn? She’s the only person I actually know here.
On the other hand, she denounced me when we were in training and thinks I’m an idiot. She’s been cold towards me since the beginning and she said quite clearly that she tried to have me expelled.
But what do I know about the mystery woman? She knew my father, so what? Anyone could lie about that and even if it’s true, it doesn’t mean anything; he might not have liked her. Come to think of it, I’m not at all sure about her either. What did she mean ‘terminate my mission’? Would she kill me too, if I failed to help the Resistance? I chew on my lower lip, as fear tugs at my guts. I didn’t even think to ask her name. I’m an idiot. I’m in way over my head. What the heck have I gotten mixed up in?
20
DeAnn
Conurbation of London, November 2081
* * *
The next day, Olivia and I are allowed off-duty time to do a few last things in London before our departure for Uganda.
The smartest thing to do would be to leave right now and chance it out there for a year, on my own. But it’s not very likely, is it? Colonel Groebler and de Courcy won’t just let me wander off. Even if I could escape them, the iMode has scanned my DNA and everywhere I went, they’d be able to trace me. I can’t really function in this future without an iMode, without money and without any type of network. And there’s the small issue of access to a pyramid. How will I
make my way back to 2016 without access to the Programme’s facilities?
I sigh and shake my head. It looks like I’m going to have to play ball for a while longer. Every instinct in my body is shouting that this is a bad idea. But I can’t see any way around it.
Frustrated by the lack of information and the powerlessness I’m feeling, I decide to do something simple and comforting: fix the catastrophe that is my hair.
It’s a trek to get to the only black hairdresser’s I’ve been able to find for miles around, and when I get nearer, I start having second thoughts about the whole thing. On the way into the neighborhood, two bored policemen in riot gear hardly spare me a glance when my iMode bracelet flashes blue as I cross through a metal gate blocking the street. Frowning, I make my way through the dilapidated neighborhood, noticing the drug addicts and homeless people, the once-white paint flaking off buildings in gray patches, the grimy sidewalks littered with fast food wrappings. There seem to be only people of color around.
I hesitate at the entrance of the busy hair salon, its cheerful yellow walls beckoning as Jamaican music blasts out, drowned by the joyful hubbub of conversations. Half a dozen clients are getting their hair done and one of the hairdressers is dancing, as the others laugh and clap, their colorful, patterned leggings and the wheeze of hairdryers blending with the overall activity and bustle in irresistible chaos.
‘Come in, my love, come in, we don’t bite!’ A smiling, plump woman invites me in as her clients roar with laughter.
A few hours later, having soaked in the gossip and inconspicuously tried to gain some information, I emerge, my hair dyed black, straightened and trimmed, finally looking like myself again. Not as good as a weave but once straightened within an inch of its life, my own hair is reasonably shiny, a good surprise. But on my way out of the neighborhood, I have to wait in line for nearly half an hour and this time, the guards check my iMode, question me about my reason for leaving and frisk me.