by O M Faure
‘You have to promise to save my family. When you go back.’ Madison sounds distressed. ‘I will help you, I swear… but only if my children…’ Her voice breaks. ‘You have to promise you’ll make sure they’re born.’
I try to get closer and miss a part of the whispered conversation: ‘…a number to call,’ I hear Madison say.
‘Is it the woman we met yesterday?’ Olivia asks.
What the hell is going on?
‘Shh…’ She unclasps Olivia’s iMode and dictates a phone number to it but just as she starts to say the name ‘A—’, I make a noise and they both flinch and fall silent.
‘I was just walking Olivia through my vegetable garden and showing her how to take a photo of it on her iMode.’ Madison gives an embarrassed little chuckle.
She returns Olivia’s iMode and pretends to give us a tour of the minuscule gardening plot, and I let her rattle on as I try to work through what I just heard. The day is overcast but warm and muggy and the summery temperature throws me off. I keep forgetting we’re in November, it’s at least 68°F. Something else is nagging me but I can’t really put my finger on it. Then it hits me: the garden is completely silent.
There are no flying, buzzing insects, no birds chirping, no sound of barking dogs in the neighborhood. Nothing. Frowning, I get back to the conversation.
‘Do you grow any fruits?’ I ask.
‘No, of course not, that’s impossible,’ Madison says, distracted.
‘Is it because we’re in November?’
Madison throws a glance inside, checking on her son; no one else is back in the living room yet. ‘Sorry? Oh no, no, it’s because the bees died.’
‘What, all the bees?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘That’s… wow.’ Olivia’s eyebrows rise.
‘What happened?’ I ask, somewhat more eloquently.
‘Climate change? Pesticides? Who knows? They were such a fragile species, it was bound to happen sooner or later, I guess.’ Madison shrugs. ‘Anyway, here we all are: all bees are extinct and pretty much all fruits and vegetables have disappeared.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, no more pollination means no more apples, tomatoes, oranges – well, the list is so long, let’s just say we’re out of vegetables and fruits. We don’t have things like cotton anymore either, or cocoa, coffee and vanilla...’
‘You mean no more chocolate!’ Olivia exclaims, while I think about a world without wine.
Madison seems distracted. She leads us back to the living room and tousles her son’s blonde hair as she sits on the sofa. Just as Olivia and I settle down next to her, a TV turns itself on of its own accord with the words ‘Breaking News’ pulsating against a red backdrop. The screen is enormous and takes up pretty much the whole wall; actually, it looks like the wall is a TV.
The sound of machine guns erupts in the living room, scenes of blood splattered over walls, people being shot as they try to run away. The images are disturbingly clear and close-up.
The news commentator intones, ‘A group of Alphas opened fire in an immigration center in Schistou, Greece just a few minutes ago. The attack is still under way, as you can see. There are forty-five casualties so far and one hundred and twenty-three injured. We’re flying our reporter to the scene and will know more soon. At the moment, from the live surveillance footage, it looks like the attackers may have holed up in the East wing of the center.’
The sound subsides and I look away, nauseated. The boy is completely unfazed and goes back to the story he was reading, as if nothing had happened.
Madison says ‘iMode, mute,’ and the carnage continues in silence.
‘What happened?’ Darren calls from the kitchen.
‘Nothing sweetheart, just migrants killed by Alphas.’
‘Oh, OK,’ he shouts back and we hear the sounds of cooking resume.
‘What do you mean, “nothing”?’ Olivia asks.
‘Is this normal?’ I ask, appalled.
‘Well, it happens regularly, if that’s what you mean.’
Before I have time to think of a question, Madison looks behind me with a smile for her husband. There’s a confident sway in his step as he brings us drinks. Burke comes back as well, sits down on the carpet and starts playing with the boy.
We each take a glass of the bright blue drink. I hesitate to drink it, sneaking a glance at Darren, then take a tentative sip of the cocktail. Something chemical but strong. Olivia half chokes on hers as I relish the warmth spreading through my throat.
Darren sits next to Madison and kisses the side of her neck. ‘I hope you haven’t been boring them silly with politics, hon.’
Madison looks smitten with him. ‘No, no, I was just showing them the gard—’ Madison trills but I interrupt, annoyed by the fake pleasantries. I’m not here for the fucking canapés. I need to understand this time as soon as possible.
‘So what just happened in Greece? Which terrorist group did this?’
‘Oh, they’re not terrorists, they’re just Alphas.’ Darren dismisses it with a wave of a hand. ‘These things happen, boys will be boys.’
‘It’s not only boys anymore sweetheart, but yes they’re just kids,’ Madison adds, ‘they go to immigration and refugee camps and kill as many applicants as they can to prevent them from getting into the USE.’
My shock is reflected on Olivia’s face, but the others’ absence of surprise betrays the number of times this has happened.
‘You know how it is,’ Burke says. ‘Young hot heads get their hands on guns and take action.’
‘What do you mean, take action? They just killed forty-five people. That doesn’t sound like action to me, it sounds like mass murder.’
‘Well, they have little say over the immigration policy of their bureaucracy over in Europe, so who could blame them for taking matters into their own hands? It’s understandable. But they hardly kill any white people, so…’ Darren stops mid-shrug, probably realizing that he’s talking to me.
‘So… what, Darren? So it doesn’t matter as much, is that what you mean?’
Darren has the good grace to look uncomfortable. Madison is staring out the window at the garden plunged in darkness, running her fingers through the blond curls of her son, lost in her own thoughts.
‘So Darren, what have you cooked? It smells delicious,’ Olivia says.
Ignoring her awkward attempt to lighten the mood, I press on: ‘Is immigration a big problem here?’
‘Not here. But on the Continent, yes, they have several thousands arriving from Africa and the Middle East by boat practically every day,’ Burke says. ‘It’s a huge security risk and a drain on their economy.’ He shakes his head. ‘Even with the best will in the world, Europe can’t continue letting them all in. It’s impossible, there are billions of them.’
‘That’s not the main issue,’ Darren says, leaning back, both arms spreading on the sofa as he crosses his legs. ‘The main problem is that the invasion has artificially inflated the Continent’s fertility rates.’
‘Wouldn’t immigrants’ fertility naturally lower after a generation or so in developed countries?’ I ask, trying to get more information and pushing down my anger, for now.
‘You might think so, but no, it didn’t. They continued to have consistently higher fertility rates than white Europeans,’ Burke answers, it takes at least two generations for their birth rates to lower to the host country’s level.
Darren adds unpleasantly, ‘And now, not only are they proliferating among themselves but they’re also mixing with the general population. Whites made up about sixty percent of the population in Europe back in the noughties, but now with mixed marriages, there are fewer than twenty percent of pure whites on the Continent.’ Darren shakes his head, disgusted.
‘You always exaggerate, sweetheart. Anyway, shall we eat?’ Madison interjects.
Throwing a glance at his wife, Darren presses his lips together and says, ‘What we have has taken generations to build,
we need to protect our way of life and our values. Our genetic heritage isn’t just something we can lightly throw away.’
‘Immigrants aren’t polluting your bloodlines, they’re enriching them,’ I say, unable to keep quiet.
Darren snorts. ‘When we visit Europe nowadays, it doesn’t feel much like Europe anymore, does it? Everybody’s brown. No offense, Diana.’
Olivia winces and throws a worried glance at me. ‘As long as the culture is preserved, does it matter what color skin people are?’ she says.
‘Of course it does!’ Darren blurts, getting heated. ‘The culture is changing as well. It’s influenced by what each migrant population brings with it. Can you believe that couscous, a North African dish, is now considered French cuisine? Or that Turkish words are in the German dictionary?’
‘You make it sound like it’s a bad thing. Evolution is good,’ I say, stubbornly. ‘Each minority enriches the host country with their diversity. Europe’s sclerosis is obvious to me. Your countries should change and embrace the immigrants’ cultures, not try to erase immigrants’ backgrounds and assimilate them.’
‘Oh yeah? Should we let them impose their religions and their backwardness too? Criminality has soared on the Continent. The immigrants have no idea what it’s like to behave in our advanced society. They veil their women and rape ours simply because they wear normal clothes. The rates of theft, murder and interracial confrontations have skyrocketed in the USE. More and more folks are adhering to parties similar to the one in power here. We have networks of people helping us to spread the message in occupied Europe. Resist. Come to England. We can rebuild our civilization from here.’
Madison chuckles. ‘Oh sweetie, you’re so dramatic. You make it sound like the Continent is overrun by savages. It’s hardly the case. They’re doing just fine. They’ve chosen a different path to us, that’s all.’
‘Well, we’re safe here. To curb the fertility issue, we deported all foreigners. They had no right to be here and were just stealing our benefits and polluting our way of life anyway.’
His wife tries to calm things down. ‘We’re an island, hon; we had the option to keep immigrants out, but the USE is an open continent; you know they had to make the best of it and open their borders to immigration. What else were they going to do, build a wall?’ she adds jokingly.
‘At least we’re preserving our culture and only admitting immigrants from white countries.’ Darren finishes his drink, looking annoyed.
‘Thank God they did or we never would have met,’ Madison laughs uncomfortably. ‘He’s Irish, you see, and I’m Canadian.’ She turns to us. ‘The main attraction about coming to England for white foreigners is that the KEW allows you to have as many children as you want, as long as you’re white.’
The small living room is crackling with tension.
‘Darling,’ Madison says, patting Darren’s knee and looking pointedly in the direction of the children, ‘shall we get dinner started? It’s getting late for the children.’
They’re playing on the carpet, oblivious. Suddenly they both seem awfully white, with their blond curls and blue eyes.
The rest of the evening passes in lackluster conversation and uneasy small talk.
23
Olivia
Conurbation of London, November 2081
* * *
The next morning, I wake up and hit my head against the top of my coffin bed. Rubbing the bump, I lie back down and open the porthole as DeAnn comes out of the shower, naked. Of course, her body is completely hairless and perfect. Her midriff is flat as a board and her buttocks are tight and high. She gets dressed, unaware of the stab she’s just inflicted to my self-confidence.
I open my mouth and close it again, hesitating to tell her about the Cassandra Resistance, but I couldn’t do it here anyway, so I say nothing.
I bought some supplies during our downtime yesterday, so at least this morning we have shampoo and makeup, and I’ve ordered myself extra clothes and a pair of trousers that don’t make me look like an overstuffed sausage.
We’re ready to go at 5.30 a.m. Colonel Groebler picks us up and Anthony whistles as he takes my bag and opens the van door for me. ‘Wow, Olivia, you look nice.’
‘Thank you, Anthony.’ I giggle and blush as I climb into the van with them. Well, I might as well get started acting like the airhead idiot they think I am. It comes rather naturally, as he’s buff and handsome, just my type, really. It was so cute the way he played with the boy yesterday and kept his calm while Darren and DeAnn were at each other’s throats. He seems quiet and moderate. I play the part and shelve my thoughts for later.
DeAnn looks at us, her lips pressed together, frowning.
A few hours later, we finally make it through all the security and controls and board our plane. We find our seats and, feeling flustered and relieved, I turn on the air con. The dial is sticky and the seat has large, dark stains; rubbish is strewn on the floor.
Two passengers are sitting across the alley, chatting about doing business in Africa.
‘Yeah, I sell furniture there. It’s alright, I guess. Pays the bills.’ The man has a Dutch accent.
Sitting on my left, a woman is dictating something into her iMode, it sounds like she’s preparing a report for an NGO or something. She completely ignores me, holding a finger pressed on her iMode collar as she continues her whispered dictation.
There’s a commotion at the front and a handful of policemen wearing bright yellow vests come into view, walking up the alley towards us. They’re escorting a dozen Africans, leading them to the back of the plane. The prisoners’ hands are bound, even those of the three young children among them. Someone bumps into me.
‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t see you there.’ The English policeman who knocked my elbow off the armrest stops to apologise to me with a really nice smile. Then he roughly pulls the woman and her children by their handcuffs. They sit down and the policemen stand around the group of prisoners, blocking visibility and preventing access. A man starts screaming somewhere in the rear rows.
‘I don’t want to go back, don’t make me, you can’t make me go back, Aaaaaah! Stop breaking my arm! Somebody help me! I don’t want to go back, don’t make me, you can’t make me go back, Aaaaaah! Stop breaking my arm! Somebody help me!’ he screams in a loop at the top of his lungs.
Alarmed, I look for a stewardess to ask what’s going on.
DeAnn gets up to help.
‘Sit down. Now!’ Groebler orders her between gritted teeth.
‘But this is unacceptable!’ she says. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Nothing, they’re deportees. They’re escorting them back to their countries,’ Anthony says apologetically.
‘But they’re hurting them.’ I get up as well.
The Dutch man shifts in his seat and whispers viciously, ‘Sit down. Protesting is illegal, you should get arrested for what you’re doing right now. Just let the police do their job.’
The Australian next to him chimes in, ‘Well, it’s the law and it’s not a fun job but someone’s got to do it.’
Two policemen come over. ‘ID and ticket,’ one of them asks DeAnn gruffly.
DeAnn looks like she wants to give him a piece of her mind but Burke lays a hand on her arm.
‘It’s alright, she’s with me, officer.’ Burke flips a badge open.
‘Well, if she doesn’t sit, I’ll arrest her.’
Groebler smiles nastily, but lets Anthony sort it out with the policeman. The other officer who jostled me earlier, smiles at me.
‘Miss, you need to sit down too please.’
‘But what are you doing to these people? Is the man really being hurt?’
He laughs. ‘No, of course not. He was behaving completely normally when we were escorting him to the airport. He’s just trying to attract people’s attention now.’
I crane my neck towards the screaming man but it’s impossible to see what they’re doing to him, as he’s being held down by h
alf a dozen policemen.
I hesitate, wanting to do the right thing. But what is the right thing here? ‘Who are these people?’ I ask. ‘Why are you removing them against their will? Are they criminals?’
‘No, just illegal immigrants, nothing to worry about.’ He smiles again. It’s hard to concentrate on what he’s saying over the man’s screams.
‘But why don’t they want to go back? Are they going to be in danger in their home country?’
‘No, of course not.’ Another smile. ‘Please have a seat, miss. We need to take off.’
He leaves and I sit down, worried now that we’re attracting too much attention to ourselves. Do I really need any more trouble at this point? If I try to intervene on behalf of these people, I could be kicked off the flight. What would that accomplish? I don’t know what to do.
The shouting continues. ‘I don’t want to go back, don’t make me, you can’t make me go back. Aaaaaah! Stop breaking my arm! Somebody help me…!’
The Australian says, ‘Well, this flight’s not going to be much fun, is it?’
His neighbour chuckles and cracks another joke.
A fat woman a few rows down is arguing with the stewardess to be moved away from all the noise. ‘I paid to be on this flight, I refuse to travel under these conditions, upgrade me to a seat away from this ruckus!’
‘I’m really sorry, madam, but the plane is full.’
As the plane takes off DeAnn is subdued and pensive, and she keeps fiddling with the plaster on her forehead. I asked her what happened yesterday but she won’t say.
Colonel Groebler’s arms are crossed, his legs sticking out into the emergency aisle and he looks asleep behind the dark, smoky glass of his iBubble. I’ve never seen one so opaque; it looks vaguely sinister, as if he’d been made prisoner and his head had been forced into a black hood.
Anthony is reading something so I look at the other passengers; the NGO woman is still absorbed in her dictation, assiduously ignoring everyone. The deportee keeps shouting, but his voice is hoarse now, and, to my shame, a part of me is annoyed with him. Surely, he realises that no one will do anything to help him?