The Radical (Unity Vol.1) (3 page)

That impatience was still gurgling when I shouted, ‘Yes!
’

‘
What is your destination?
’

‘
Manchester, England.’

‘
Please choose a ticket from the following options.
’

On the screen, I
saw one seat left on a flight about to leave in 15 minutes’ time. I selected that journey, not willing to wait around for hours to hop on the next one.

‘
This ticket will require us to take 3,545 E-Dollars from your available funds of 6,348 E-Dollars, do you wish to proceed?
’

A
lmost four months’ salary – yet negligible – I needed to do Eve’s memory justice.

‘Proceed.’

Fuck, though, that was a lot of money. I rubbed my forehead.

Then I saw the funds drain from my account, almost forgetting to grab my U-Card back from the top of the machine as I went.

I
ran to the security point and chucked my baggage on the conveyer belt, before stepping through the X-ray machine. I then passed through the decontamination chamber, standing in it for half a minute while it dry-blasted tiny particles of antibacterial matter all over me.

I scanned
my U-Card at the International Embarkation Vector and barely heard the greeting, ‘
Good day Seraph Maddon, your identity has been verified, have a pleasant journey to Manchester
’.

I ran
through the turnstile, down a tunnel and toward the plane.

Having made it just i
n time, 30 minutes later I was flying 45,000 feet somewhere above the Atlantic. I got out my xGen and began canceling the various meetings I had set up for that day with colleagues, snitches and undercovers, hoping to avoid any small-talk with fellow passengers as I put on a busy demeanor. I needn’t have worried about washing that morning ‒ sat in that shitty tin can with sweaty businessman was going to undo my fresh scent.

I rested my eyes
but refused to give in to deep sleep, though I desperately ached for it. I was Seraph Maddon. Everybody knew what I stood for, what I represented.

Not
even the pristine air stewards, in their red and white uniforms, with their perfect smiles and helpful advances, could be trusted. Nobody could. You either joined the enemy or died trying to evade them.

T
wo hours later. Sweaty, irritable and oxygen-deprived, I disembarked the jet and was hurled into a not-so-different world. Navigating my way through the vast, heavily populated corridors of Manchester Airport, all I saw were blurry outlines and masses of people.

Some kind of unreal exhaustio
n, or something, hit me. My head felt heavy and I was disoriented. I was edging closer to my aunt and the truth: she was dead. Maybe that was the only reason I was there ‒ to make it all real.

A
bsorbed by the masses streaming their way along a suspended bridge walkway, I somehow reached a packed, glass-roofed train station. The bitter stench of public toilets and greasy food outlets nearly made me dry-heave, having skipped breakfast and the plastic airline food.

Everything was automated and
computerized, just like back home, with commuters scrambling to get on their way. It was the middle of the day but this world had no schedule. Shift patterns had no regard for day or night, human needs or what once might have been considered unlawful operational hours. I knew I wasn’t home, far from it, but the familiarity of similar systems in England made me less tense. I contemplated that I could be up and running soon, seeing what I could get from the people. Yet even thousands of miles from my place of origin, those inhabitants seemed wary of me, too. Perhaps my reputation preceded me, even in England.

I
boarded a double-decker train on the speedline from Manchester to York, and as the journey got underway, I saw sheltered farms – miles upon miles of clustered white poly-tunnels – covering whatever fertile land was left in an attempt to protect crops from weather damage. Elsewhere, wind turbines had been squeezed in wherever possible. My eye also clocked what appeared to be endless numbers of recycling plants and power stations dotted across the landscape of Lancashire and then Yorkshire.

I
spotted many small towns and villages, completely abandoned and left to decay. Amongst the few possessions I treasured, I had some photographs that my grandmother had developed from negatives, chronicling family holidays in the countryside and days out in some of England’s oldest cities. It seemed like sacrilege to transfer the images to digital format and I had kept the archive shots. What I vividly remembered of York centre was its narrow, cobbled streets burgeoning with obscure shops, the ancient Roman wall, market stalls, tearooms, throngs of tourists, and green riverbanks littered with families enjoying precious days out. It made me anxious thinking about how it might have degenerated; how its changed appearance might break my heart knowing Eve had seen it crumble round her.

Halfway through the train journey, the Global Health
Council’s daily announcement infiltrated every screen in the carriage. It was nearing three o’clock in the afternoon. A representative for GHC appeared on the screen – a woman with almost unbelievably perfect skin, hair and teeth. She spoke in a cosmopolitan European accent, ‘Good day citizens. Please ensure you make frequent use of anti-bacterial detergents, hand wash, sprays, wipes and decontamination chambers. Perform regular deep-cleans in your homes. Avoid unprotected sex at all costs, and keep your distance from anyone you believe might be falling ill. Have a safe and pleasant day.’

I
ignored every word of the patronizing, imbecilic message, having heard the same warnings several hundred times before.
Why wouldn’t people already know these things?
There hadn’t been an outbreak for some decades – but these brainwashing techniques kept the threat of another attack at the forefront of people’s minds.

I stepped off the train in York and was disappointed to see the Victorian building that once housed the platforms had been replaced by a gigantic, hideous plastic, see-through cube with escalators crisscrossing over themselves with one purpose – to see masses of bodies as efficiently as possible on their journey. Even that grey monster back home, with its 21 million inhabitants, had bore witness to thousands of protestors camping out on the streets to protect Grand Central, ensuring the station retained its original features. To developers it probably seemed easier to dispose of old buildings and start over, rather than transpose anachronistic structures into an age of overpopulation, high demand and low culture. Square-pegs, round holes.

Once ou
t of York Railway Station, high-rise apartment blocks and office buildings dominated the view. I imagined workers crammed into tiny cubicles, laboring over renewable energy research and marketing. The world was panicky about resources running out and many were employed under the heavy-duty contracts of Officium to make headway in developing alternative fuels. If you asked me I would have made a guess and said that Officium had so much invested in technology ‒ that this was why energy was so important to them
.
The invention of the all-encompassing xGen in the 2030s meant computing, communication, navigation, Internet use – various multi-media – could all be handled by these relatively small devices with gigantic amounts of RAM. Made to the owner’s exact specifications, the unit could be ordered in varying colors, designs and size of processing capability. The gadget was guaranteed to last a lifetime and could be hooked up to the Internet anywhere, or charged up in any Mercy Inn, Sanctuary or 24/7. The pinnacle of information technology had been achieved. Nothing would surpass it.

The streets of
York were disturbingly quiet, with lone citizens shuffling around, the entire city centre pedestrianized and only the clunking of trains moving in the distance breaking the silence. As I reached Low Ousegate, I noticed the river hidden beneath gigantic, thick concrete tunnels, presumably to protect the city from the swelling waters.

I walked
further into the conurbation and saw crude extensions had been added to many of the old buildings. Nearly all the boutique shops of the past had been eradicated to make way for huge apartment blocks ‒ and grey concrete, glass and black metal obliterated the once architecturally diverse city, no longer the tourist hotspot of old.

It was undeniable
‒ the power of the recycling industry was great. A cylindrical grey-green plant lurked furtively in the distance, rising up from the mound on which used to stand Clifford’s Tower. The rise and fall of an arm allowed vapors and steam to escape from a hatch in the roof, perhaps some 15 floors up. That was the only other sound that invaded my ears, otherwise the silence was deafening, and it made my skin crawl. It seemed unholy, somehow. Inhuman. Unedifying.

I
felt totally out of place as I wound my way through the streets. With my leathers on (jacket, boots and fingerless gloves), no doubt people could tell I had some money, while they wandered around in their worn-out canvas plimsolls, boiler suits and other assorted rags.

I strode at
full height, assessing everyone with a critical eye. I somehow felt a fraud and a phoney and was pre-empting an attack from some poor low-level worker who wanted to educate me on what the real world was like. Maybe I was doing these people an injustice by not getting on with my investigations back home.

And so I
followed the rusting signs for the Shambles, seeking its curious, overhanging buildings. After picking my way between various people sat or sleeping on the narrow side streets, I arrived at the antiquated cobbled lane and my jaw dropped. I had never seen anything like it and had not realized my aunt’s place of business was so vast. It was the last remaining Tudor-era building on the street and looked as though three or four units had been melded together somehow to create the large bridal house. Situated on the corner of an extremely narrow lane which had been renamed
Eve’s Place
a long time ago, the bridal house dominated the view. It was immense.

Its medieval black beams remained and the wooden frames of the main front windows were paint
ed a romantic off-white, surrounded by dainty fairy lights, beckoning visitors in. Meanwhile tiny windows of the numerous rooms upstairs retained their misty plate glass. The whole façade was shining, welcoming and magical, offering solace amongst the madness, just as Eve had done for me. The three-storey bridal house also still held on to its slight tilt.

I
stood outside the main window admiring a dress on display. Hanging on a lifelike mannequin, the gown was delicate and had not an inch of fabric untouched by Eve’s magic. It was pristine, glistening, and showcased high workmanship – and looked so extraordinary against the background of this mad alley of various fast-food stations, virtual cafés, express nail bars and self-service salons.

There were people inside the shop, but a notice warned:

“
Due to bereavement, we are closed for the foreseeable future. We hope you are not too inconvenienced. Our re-opening will be announced within due course.
”

I
knocked nevertheless and hoped someone inside would answer. Within a flash, Camille opened up and began to gesticulate with an air of annoyance. She pointed at the sign, barely looking me in the face.

‘I’m sorry, but as you can see, we are closed.’

I knew there was something about this woman. When she called me I was suspicious, and then, even more so. Perhaps she was unable to lie because she could barely look me in the eye. She was French alright, waving her delicate hand like I was a mere trifle for her to deal with that day. It didn’t fool me. She knew who I was, no doubt.

I
was clearly not of that city, nor was she. She was packed with muscle beneath her clothes, more than me even. I could see the way her neck resembled that of an Olympian. That said something, in this backwater town. The woman was more bodyguard than assistant.

She
wore a long, grey belted cardigan, white shirt, skinny black jeans and grey suede ankle boots. Camille must have been 50 years old and yet, carried herself in such a way to make her seem younger. She was as graceful as a ballerina.

Jetlag
ged and ratty, I could feel myself bursting with the impulse to shout my fucking name at her, especially with the woman already closing the door on my face.

‘I’m Seraph, Eve’s great-niece!’

Camille’s pronounced cheekbones and small pointed nose came to life and she stopped in her tracks, changing appearance instantaneously.

‘Oh, well, of course you are! I’m Camille. I didn’t expect you so soon!’

Course you didn’t…

The woman’s height almo
st equaled my own, while her high forehead seemed to suggest a quiet intelligence. As Camille peered over her slim reading glasses, I definitely spotted something hiding behind the woman’s enquiring, unwavering stare – a vibrant spirit that seemed distinctly out of place.

My instincts
always proved right
.

The Frenchwoman exclaimed,
‘I should have known who you are, look at you, you’re so much like her! Please, come in.’

I
had to duck to enter the front door, the supporting beam was so low. The décor inside was a subtle pink and a custom-made digital picture-board covered an entire wall, shining with an abundance of customers’ constantly smiling faces. Soon a swarm of predominantly middle-aged employees dressed in black surrounded me. I feigned smiles when they asked if I wanted any tea, whether I’d had a good journey and how nice it was to finally meet someone actually related to Eve. And an American… they hadn’t had one round those parts for a while. I was soon feeling overwhelmed and claustrophobic. Through the chatter, it became clear that Eve had been idolized and worshipped by her employees, and by many who knew her.

The
ir niceness unsettled me. I was accustomed to dealing with harangued professionals, nefarious characters and assorted rogues. I didn’t trust these people, this place. There was something not right. My journalistic mind knew it, though my heart was too heavy to shout these people out and demand Camille explain why the hell she was built like a featherweight boxer. She was clearly the only person I would find affinity with in this quaint environ. The rest were happy with their situations; we were amongst the few warriors trying to break the hold that Officium held over the world.

What resistance fighters there were, we were few. Some had allegiance, while others like me fought Officium unofficially though publicly. Singularly and ruthlessly. You could separate us from the masses. Most of us were like Camille and I, built for combat. We existed amongst the masses, doing jobs, while secretly
moonlighting to undermine everything Officium had corrupted. Case in point, I was only alive because I had my failsafe xGen and its hidden secrets. I decided there and then that Camille was most definitely a resistance fighter, probably a known one too looking and acting the way she did – so unashamedly free of the soulless grip they held over most inhabitants.

The staff were eventually
dismissed by Camille and I took a moment to assess the ornate, oak reception desk, another piece of furniture built for purpose in that place.
So, Eve had some money
. I smoothed my hands along the craftsmanship and decided Eve had very good taste. It was handmade and reminded me of my own penchant for carpentry. However, a large chenille sofa opposite screamed out for my weary body to sink into it and I moaned as my limbs took succor, finally.