Megacity: Operation Galton Book 3 Page 20

  I feel compelled to speak up against the official megacity line, dangerous though it can be. "One, the drop-ins have stopped, two, donations were given willingly, and they made up only a very small part of what they lived on. Most of them were more or less self-sufficient. I know, I used to work for one of the charities."

  "Yeah, but if you want to live in a country you gotta be a part of its health and wealth, haven't you? You can't just go your own way."

  "But that's the whole point: they opted out of society, they're not taking anything from it. As long as you're not hurting anyone, what does it matter if you want to make your home in a house no one wants or a bit of unused land?"

  He pulls a face. "Dirty freeloaders. Want rounding up and putting to work. Do something useful with their sad lives."

  Aileen glances at me and rolls her eyes, but says nothing.

  After the documentary, Lester starts flicking around for something else to watch; I'm thinking of retiring to my room when he says, "Look at this guy. Fucking awesome. Oh to be a Bettencourt, eh?"

  And there he is.

  Clinton Bettencourt, talking about the opportunities open to NPU teenagers in a new mentoring programme called Rise, some bullshit set-up to prepare youngsters for the working world.

  "It was my son Jerome who gave me the idea," he tells the camera, white teeth sparkling. "He could have gone to the best college in the land, but he said, 'Dad, I want to be out there, earning my own living.' Well, I'm not going to boast about how well he's doing, but watch this space—you'll be hearing the name Jerome Bettencourt everywhere, in years to come!"

  The camera follows him as he walks over to a group of teenagers. "Some young people are so eager to make their mark on the world that even two years studying for HCEs is two years too long; they want to learn about life by living and working at the heart of our great megacities. Study is not for them—which is why I've established Rise." He slides an arm around a pretty girl with short, dark hair, his other hand on the shoulder of a young lad. They're aged about fifteen or sixteen.

  "These are some of the kids who can't wait to get out there and make it happen! The Rise Academy offers mentoring and a motivational programme, leading to a high-flying jobs, travel abroad; the sky's the limit! Hayden and Jonah here are among those hoping to impress my selection board." He gives Hayden a little squeeze. "Not only that, but some of the most promising Rise Guys will be invited to my private country hideaway for assessment and team-building."

  He didn't have a private country hideaway when I knew him, and I wonder if 'most promising' means 'most attractive'. I wouldn't put anything past that sleaze-bag—and the sight of him takes me right back to my bedroom, all those years ago.

  Oh, come on. You kept giving me the eye. Don't pretend otherwise.

  I'd never hurt you. I'm crazy about you.

  We can have a lot of fun, you and me.

  I shudder.

  And then I hear a little whimper, hardly audible.

  I turn, and I look at Aileen.

  She has tears running down her cheeks.

  Chapter 20

  Radar

  March ~ April 2062

  Living in Megacity 5 is like walking into the sunshine.

  He and the other POPs are housed in MC5's enormous Military Village; he still sleeps in a room with others, but he doesn't mind now that he's being treated like a man with a job to do.

  Some of his new colleagues complain about the NuSens chips, but Radar likes his, because the very fact that his every action is monitored means that he matters.

  He's got another chip called an iSync in his eyebrow, that records what you see, so you can play it back. He can't get his head around that.

  In between training sessions, his time is his own.

  "Go where you want, explore," Jerome tells them. "But remember—no alcohol, no drugs, no tobacco, and don't think you can sneak a little something in without us knowing, because your NuSens will grass you up, and it's a zero tolerance situation. One sniff of beer, and you're gone. Go into the city centre, visit the bars, drink whatever you like as long as it's alcohol-free, don't do blitz, and don't even think about getting into a fight."

  Going into a bar is such a fucking rush that Radar doesn't care what he drinks. Twenty-nine years old, and he's never been to one before. Now, with the wages paid into his credit account that he keeps track of via his brand new smartcom, he is like everyone else in Lasso—his favourite bar, American Wild West themed—where the bartender tells him about alcohol-free beers that really do taste just like the real thing, and give you a little alcohol-like hit.

  The bartender also tells him about this new form of blitz that bypasses NuSens by mimicking the body's reaction to a gym workout. He has some to sell; for a moment Radar is tempted, but payment in cryptocurrency is required and Radar isn't about to admit that he hasn't got a clue how to go about getting any.

  Instead he says, "Thanks, mate, but it ain't worth the risk. I'm Special Forces, and if my chip shows owt, I'm gone." The respect on the bartender's face gives him a bigger high than any drink, snort, tablet or gel capsule, ever.

  As for the women—well, Radar has never seen anything like them. Smart, slim chicks who go to the gym and beauty salons and wear cool clothes. When he’s out for the night with Faulkner and Reardon, the three of them make jokes about Bettencourt not saying anything about no sex, and he ends up in the bed of a girl whose friend Reardon has copped off with.

  Her name is Callie, and she says 'outlaw biker' is her favourite look on a man.

  "I know it's not trending right now, but I say if a look suits you, why not stick with it? The guys I usually meet are techies, which means either nerd chic or Mojo narcissists, know what I mean?"

  Not exactly, but he gets the gist.

  Later on, while she's asleep, he creeps out of the bedroom and sits on the sofa. The flat is almost at the top of the stack, so Callie leaves the blinds up; he looks out at the night sky and imagines having a flat like this. His own front door. If he gets onto Jerome Bettencourt's elite force, this might become a reality. Fuck, if he gets his own place, he'll be happy just to sit in it, knowing that no one can come in unless he invites them.

  He's smiling; he smiles a lot these days.

  Then he thinks about next week, when he's gotta do it for real. Go into a Hope Village, and haul a couple of hundred of 'em out.

  Is it wrong to be looking forward to it? To be putting all he's learned into practice? Fuck it; he's living proof that you can get out of the Hope Village system if you keep your wits about you. This world ain't for the weak.

  "Radar, you still here?" Callie's voice, sleepy and a little bit husky, from the bedroom.

  He grins to himself. Oh yeah, he's still here. He's the fucking man.

  He smiles once more at the dark sky, flexes his muscles, admires the fact that his dick is already rising to the occasion, and heads back to Callie's bedroom for round four.

  His first outing in his new role as a POP operative goes as smoothly as the cream poured over the strawberries he ate the night before. Radar loves every minute. He has authority. His victims' fear makes them respect him. From the moment he boards the army truck—along with nine other POPs—he feels so good it's hard to contain himself. Wants to punch the air and give it a 'Hoo-ah!' or two. The military guys, who in his former life would have been shouting orders and pushing him around, now chat to him like he's one of them.

  They drive all the way down to Hope 42 near Bristol, where many 'problem' individuals are housed. Radar's first job is to call out the names of those selected for 'assessment'.

  As soon as he walks in, he shudders. Being back in Hope—one is much the same as another, give or take the calibre of the inmates—is beyond depressing. He will do anything to ensure he never has to live in one of these shit-holes ever again. Fucking anything.

  Today, as the residents gather in front of him, Radar wonders how humanity manages to get it so wrong. Violent fuckers with dead eye
s, bruiser mums with junk food guts busting out of tight clothes. Pasty, pikey-looking kids, mouthing off and starting fights. Junkies and drunks.

  After he's called all the names out, the trouble starts. Those selected don't want to get into the trucks. Course they don't. He wouldn't have got into them without a fight, either. The soldiers' firearms help, even though they're under strict instructions that no shots are to be fired, not at this stage. Those who still resist are dragged into the vehicles by the POPs.

  Radar wishes he could have a gun.

  The backs of the trucks locked up, the sixty-mile trip to the nearest assessment centre commences.

  "That's where the fun starts," says Faulkner, with a grin that tells Radar he can't wait to spill some blood.

  As the former residents of Hope 42 climb out of the trucks, Radar can't believe how accepting most of them are; their only protest is shouting. The few kids, who remind him of the Manning gang back in that first Hope, are not so full of themselves now.

  Matlock jumps onto the bonnet of the truck and shouts out instructions. Hut A for assessment, Hut B for toilet, Hut C for food. The sorry masses troop into Hut A, and wait.

  "There's not much for you to do for the next few hours," Sergeant Clancy tells the POPs. "The process is quicker than it was with the wastelanders, because these are already on the system; we just do tests for physical and mental strength to decide who goes where. Just hang around and look menacing, in case any of them kick off."

  Radar observes the process with great interest. Over the next couple of hours, the hard cases are sent to Hut G to be tested for their physical resilience—muscle strength, blood pressure, heart, that sort of thing, explains Clancy—and following this, a group is selected for transport.

  Which is when the trouble starts.

  The men are told they must get into one of the trucks for relocation. Employment in Europe, they are told, but they don't want to go.

  Radar and his men get the nod, and in they steam. Arms twisted behind backs. Hysterical wives and girlfriends pushed back into Hut A.

  Clancy calls for quiet, and makes a final speech. "You're being given the chance to do an honest day's work and give back something to the world, earn a bit of self-respect, instead of spending your whole lives loafing around in Hope Village."

  "When am I going to see him again?" screeches a red-faced young woman.

  Clancy smiles at her kindly. "He'll be back, don't you worry, fitter and happier for having done a few months' work. You'll be reunited before you know it."

  She drags a dirty sleeve across her eyes. "Y'promise?"

  Clancy pats her on the shoulder, somewhat tentatively. "I promise."

  "So where they going?" Radar asks, as the vehicles rumble off.

  "Oil field in Kazakhstan. There have been some nasty viral epidemics in Russia and Eastern Europe in the past couple of years, and the industries that still use them are low on manual workers. Now—stage two."

  Radar draws in his breath. This is it, then.

  Later, after the second group have departed for the research centres and the final stage of the process draws near, Radar notices that the usual banter between Matlock, Blake, Reardon and even Nazi Faulkner has all but ceased.

  Clancy gives Matlock the nod. Matlock gives the command: everyone to line up and head for Hut K, where they will 'await transport to their new destination'.

  Radar pulls down that invisible screen in front of his eyes, as he has practised so many times over the past couple of months. The one that separates him, just enough to do his job. These are the bottom feeders, the useless eaters, the drain on the earth's resources. You make your choices in life, and they chose to be living, breathing garbage.

  As he herds them towards Hut K, he doesn't even look at them. If one speaks to him, he doesn't hear. Faulkner and Reardon shut the doors and slide the airtight locks into place. The five of them, and Clancy and his two remaining men, stand outside, waiting.

  Silently.

  There is no sound in the dark, warm night. Nothing at all. Until Faulkner says, "Anyone fancy a pint?"

  Radar can feel the release in the air as Clancy says, "I reckon we've all earned one. I'll clear it with Bettencourt. Special circumstances."

  A light goes on above the door of Hut K. Three short buzzing sounds.

  "That's us, then," says Clancy, and the doors are opened.

  As Radar loads up the truck, he doesn't think of his cargo as people. They're just warm, heavy things to be carried out and driven to the processing plant, where all flesh and bone will dissolve into nothing. Among them is the red-faced young woman whom Clancy promised would see her boyfriend again before she knew it.

  Radar and four other POPs clean Hut K. Lock it up, ready for next time.

  He drinks more beers than he means to that night, and tells himself it's because he's in good company, and happy to be free of Hope Village.

  Next day, at his psychiatric assessment, he is given the readings from his NuSens, which measured his levels of anxiety, his heartbeat and blood pressure while the operation was taking place, and he is told that in every area he sat well within the acceptable zone, so is fit to continue. After his oral assessment with Jerome Bettencourt, he does even better.

  "Ice man," says Jerome. "You get the job done."

  Radar says nothing, but responds with a brief smile and a nod.

  He wants to get on that elite force. He will be chosen. He is fucking determined.

  They don't discuss it. They talk about anything but. They've been told that if they want to offload there will be counselling on offer back at HQ, but Radar's not stupid. Needing to talk about it shows you up as a soft wanker. He supposes that when it's all done, they'll be like soldiers after a war. They won't talk about it, because there would be no point. The most important thing right now is to keep doing his job well, to take the initiative when a problem arises, and keep impressing Bettencourt.

  The more he thinks about the elite force, the more he wants it. He pictures himself as a bodyguard. Florida or some place like that, wherever rich bastards go for their holidays.

  Everything is working out just fine; he just needs to keep walking in the same direction.

  On a dull, grey day in late April, Radar and his group are en route to their fourth Hope Village cull. That's what they've started to call it, between themselves. The cull. Phonetically, only one vowel sound away from what it actually means; Reardon taught them the word 'phonetically', and some of them had a low-key laugh about how their term is nearer to the truth than the official 'treatment'. Like, at least they're not kidding themselves.

  As for the A and B groups, fuck 'em. Any one of those pricks who gets sent to Siberia or Kazakhstan, wherever that is, could be where he, Radar, is right now. Any one of those druggies could have got clean; they have programmes for that in Hope. The slag mums could've brought their kids up right. Clancy says that many Hope residents are ex-megacity. Women who had one more kid than they were supposed to and insisted on keeping it. Others who did shit that wasn't criminal but was against megacity rules, so lost their jobs, and then their flats.

  Lame-brains, the lot of them. You make your choices in life; Radar knows he's made some bad ones, but that's all behind him now.

  As he reflects later, though, it is easy when your will is not being tested.

  He didn't notice her when they were rounding up at Hope 52. She's small, glides along with her head down; must've got lost in the crowd. He sees her for the first time after the strong men have been shipped out.

  As the trucks rolls off, he walks back into Hut A, and there she is.

  She's pretty, with long, fair hair. When she looks at him Radar can see that she's older than he first thought, maybe sixteen, seventeen; from a distance, she looks like a kid.

  She smiles at him, and for a moment he is drawn in.

  Nah, pack it in. She ain't smiling, like, nice smiling. She's hoping to get round him so he'll send her somewhere safe. Or to get someth
ing off him. Gear, most like; he can tell by looking at her that she's a blitzer. Staring eyes, skinny, quick movements. Probably offer him a blowy if she thought he had some gear on him.

  But that face—

  She wears a pale blue, stringy jumper that's way too big for her. Dark grey, half-mast leggings on skinny legs. Scruffy trainers. It's warm in here; she takes off the jumper to show an undernourished body in a white vest.

  Her face is hard, like so many girls in Hope, with hollow eyes and cheeks, 'cause of the blitz and whatever else she takes, but when her eyes meet his he can see what she used to be, before life ruined her. What she might have been. Is she one of them that Clancy mentioned, a one-too-many child of a megacity mum?

  What if he has to send her to Hut K?

  Fucking hell.

  No. Stop it.

  Stop it now.

  Bring the screen down. Come on, man. They talked about this in training. But he thought it would be an old lady, like his gran. They all had to confess possible weaknesses, and Stu, the training guy, said it would be unusual to see old people because they let them live out their lives in peace; they'll be gone soon, anyway. "And old people aren't troublemakers, generally. If you do see anyone over sixty, they'll be right nasty bastards."

  The calling of numbers has begun. Same procedure as usual. This time, those called will end up in Hut K. Radar feels his anxiety levels going through the roof, which means his raised blood pressure and his heart rate will be on record. Bettencourt will think he ain't up to the job.

  He breathes in for four, out for four. It helps. Stu taught them that, too.

  With each number called, he thinks, don't let it be her. Don't let it be her. If she doesn't get called, she'll go to one of the research centres. That's gotta be the best option of the three. Even if you get tested with some dodgy new medicine and it goes tits up, there are doctors to sort you out. She'll be safe, fed, clean, and off blitz.