Adaptive Consequences Page 4

  ‘Don’t walk away! You owe me an explanation,’ Jun said after him.

  Before going through the doors, he turned, smiled slyly, and said, ‘Interrogate Dr Wei. He changed the schedule.’

  Jun left the lab late for her anti-PSA meeting, quietly annoyed. She’d never crack the Dr Wei and Markov nut; why did she let them get to her? As she got into her Intuimoto, despite herself, Markov swooped amongst her thoughts. A crow circling his prey, with his dark eyes and angular body. Yet, something about the study had unsettled him. No, not something; someone.

  * * *

  Not being connected to the home-comp hyperframe was both a blessing and a curse. The supposed blessing being there was little danger of tagging devices nearby, or their conversation being overheard and recorded. The curse was going without the industrious rigour of an air-conditioner, and instead, making do with the cold-ish intermittent sighs from two portable ones.

  The anti-PSA group were silent, as if safeguarding themselves against the walls having ears. That was why they were sat on top of one another in Adalbert’s growing shed in the Chun Plantations; to avoid precisely that. Unless his okra and tomatoes had switched allegiances, they were safe.

  The plantations were the most Southerly part of the Chun CMCD. Made up by eight-mile-long streets, indistinguishable from one another, they formed a perfect geometric grid – a Compact Multi-Community Development. The plantations were a parallel width of the grid, and solely for CMCD residents’ use. Covered with shaded canopies to protect the crops from the intense heat, it reminded Jun of an archaeological excavation site. Crop and harvesting machines had only been designed to work under certain conditions and weren’t able to perform in the intense heat in which they now lived. With the world thrown into dissolution by the fast-changing meteorology, they couldn’t produce new machines quickly enough, so everyone was made responsible for supplying their own food. Only dependants, like children and the elderly, were prioritised with state-supplies. Being able to grow your own crops on the plantations meant you survived. Jun cast her mind to the latest UA base development in progress, and the whispers she’d overheard – that the UA might phase out people growing their own crops. Though she’d never been one for outdoors-life, most people enjoyed the self-sufficiency.

  Jun was melting into the pygmy stool in the shed and knotted her arms and legs together so as to prevent her clammy skin brushing against anyone else. Her skin might well have been clammy regardless of the heat – the reality of what they were doing sunk in.

  They only had a few weeks before presenting their petition to the UA and Global Governance team, intending to take it to the Province and beyond. As, arguably, one of the most important CMCDs in the thirty-strong Province network, supporting a number of the UA hub workers, Chun was recognised as the most powerful district. With most UA initiatives trialling in Chun before anywhere else, it had earned respect from the Province and the globe, for navigating the new-world roadmap. Jun and the team still needed to finalise their petition, as well as agree on the content and supporting materials. They had talked for long enough; soon, it would be the time for action.

  They had found one another in March after one of the CMCD quarterly domestic meetings, when a nameless, faceless, UA-er responded to the results of the governance satisfaction survey. A Global Governance Alliance bureaucrat stood behind him, her arms folded, there for show more than anything else. The Province’s response to the PSAs was part of the agenda. The UA glossed over the so-called minority of residents’ concerns, and instead, gave an impassioned speech proselytising why the PSAs would remain. ‘They had, after all, been proven to save lives, and in these often-uncertain times, as we continue to move towards a global, singular culture and way of living, the PSAs are completely necessary for the continuation and enhancement of that goal. Besides, most agreed with keeping them.’

  With only a handful of the residents bothering to turn up, the supposed minority had detected their like-minded counterparts with ease. Like dogs sniffing each other’s scents, they’d circled one another and exchanged information.

  Jun had rushed from work – she was always rushing – to be on time for the meeting. As she took in a deep breath and tried to exhale her day at the lab, she drew in the irresistible smell of tomato plants. Their fresh tang reminded her of her favourite dish by her grandmother, a humble gift of love, always served with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Another week we’ve not been pounced upon,’ Jonquil said. ‘I’m almost tempted to trust you,’ she said breezily, and inspected her nails. They were as perfect as sugared almonds, incongruent to her working the land, since ‘she was four and still at forty.’ Jun looked at her own nails. They had just enough stub in them to lift optascope slides and the lids off specimen jars.

  ‘You might, for once, consider who’s putting themselves at greater risk by being here,’ Jun said, looking at Jonquil dead in the eye.

  If it were up to Jonquil, Jun wouldn’t have been part of the group at all. She’d all but staged a mutiny against her inclusion. Jun had made her case. She was a scientist first and foremost and didn’t consider herself a UA employee, not really. She was committed to evolving humanity, not confining it. That had satisfied the others, but not Jonquil. Like an insistent grub feasting on the Plantation crops, Jonquil had feasted on Jun.

  Mikhail’s eyes darted between them; perhaps he sensed an argument. He drummed his fingers on his caramel calf like he was practising scales on the piano. He scratched his premature salt and pepper beard, a wiry bassline, with his others. His hands made sounds where his mouth dared not.

  Opposite Jun sat a newbie. His hair was tightly rolled on top of his head, which pulled his eyes feline. Adalbert had yet to live up to his promise of introducing him. It was strange to have another addition, at this late stage. Where had Adalbert plucked him from?

  ‘Sorry,’ Adalbert said rushing back in, his doughy-stomach quivered underneath his light-cotton shirt. He put down the jug of water from the communal source, and the table wobbled beneath it; it had seen better days. ‘Didn’t think I’d be so long. I didn’t let the cold air out, did I?’ Looking at their wilted faces, he found his answer. Dimples formed on his cheeks, cushioning his soft smile. Adalbert by name, teddy bear by nature. You couldn’t stay mad at him for long.

  He brought out the foldaway whiteboard – they were back to basics – where last week’s notes had been scribbled inelegantly. ‘Has everyone left their phones, watches etcetera at home?’ Jun scanned the headings, which were underlined on the board:

  ACTION SUPPORTING MATERIAL CMCD/PROVINCE CONSEQUENCE

  They each had extensive notes beneath the titles, except Supporting Material, which was sparse. They didn’t have long to go until they were to put forward their petiton. There was a United Adaptive governance satisfaction survey scheduled next week, one more petition meeting, and then it was the quarterly Province summit where, they hoped, their petition would be announced. They needed more evidence to beef up their claims.

  ‘Before picking up from where we left last time, I wanted to introduce you to…we’ll call him Desai – he’s another supporter to end the controlling and corruptive Public Service Announcements.’ Adalbert squeezed Desai’s shoulder and left his hand there. ‘I don’t want to speak for you, Desai…’ If that was Adalbert handing over the reins to him, Desai wasn’t keen on taking them yet.

  Adalbert continued. ‘Desai is close to the PSAs. Closer than he’d like. But he’s agreed to help us with Project Ford.’

  ‘Wait a minute…’ Jonquil said, unplaiting her arms. ‘Don’t tell me. Not another functioning United Adaptive cog? Isn’t it enough we have one?’ Her eyes ran over Jun.

  ‘I don’t understand why you insist on weakening our position. I’ve chosen to interact with the UA as little as possible in my life, even cutting ties with the one and only person I can call family.’ Jonquil all but stamped her foot. It was true, Jonquil had sacrificed her relationship with her sister. Their
parents – farmers – had died when they were both eighteen. As twins and without any other family, they had been each other’s everything, but their lives took different directions. While Jonquil watched the homogenised world unfold with horror and tried to do something, her sister Renee had just wanted to get by, and took a post at one of the UA’s transport networks. Renee had no legislative power; she wasn’t a bureaucrat or administrator. She had needed a job to pay the bills and put food on the table, but it was enough for Jonquil to cut her out of her life with a surgeon’s precision. It was that precision, an instrument of iron will and determination, that she so frequently turned on Jun.

  ‘Mikhail?’

  Mikhail took a glass from the table and drank it, his mouth eager to be otherwise engaged. He had grown up in the Ghetto West, one of the four borderline Ghettoes of the Russo-Chin Province. Ghettoes had sprung up twenty years ago, maybe even earlier. Jun remembered seeing them on the news as a teenager. Her parents had tut-tutted at their rebellion. They couldn’t understand anyone’s rebuttal of the solace and security that the UA provided. When homes had been decimated, lives destroyed, why would they reject collaboration and global solutions? Jun had agreed with her parents at the time, but now she understood the layers of consequence, seen its monopoly, and its increasing lack of accountability, she had found herself questioning it.

  Mikhail’s parents were founding members of a global anti-United Adaptive network, called the Autonarmy. Since he was sixteen, Mikhail had been involved in the ochlocratic uprisings – attempts to reclaim cultural landmarks post migrations and protesting against the UA’s monopoly of services and contracts.

  His parents died when he was fifteen. The Intuimoto they were travelling in veered off the road into a rock face. Mikhail maintained the UA corrupted the autopilot, the Police and manufacturer called it a unique accident. That was before the Policing and security services had been contracted to the UA, perhaps a foreshadow towards the inevitable future. Since the ceasestrike a few years ago, he’d tried to ‘go it civilised’, and ingratiate himself into society. By his own admission, the intent was more successful than the reality. He didn’t know how to lay low.

  She hadn’t told Fan about Mikhail. He didn’t encourage her attending the meetings, and she knew what he would have said – that Mikhail was a big signal of intent – and he was right.

  ‘Mikhail?’ Jonquil said and tapped her foot insistently on the floor. The table wobbled, and Adalbert’s dimples wobbled too.

  ‘I know what the UA is capable of,’ Mikhail said with a quiet reflection, his sad, sloping eyes had seen too much. ‘Jun isn’t one of those people. I don’t know you, Desai, but if you’re as Adalbert says, I know you’re taking a huge risk being here. Both of you.’

  Desai nodded and stretched his hand out to shake Mikhail’s.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Jonquil, but I can vouch for him,’ Adalbert’s lips brushed Desai’s cheek tenderly. ‘Besides, he can offer us something we all agreed is vital to support the petition.’ Adalbert stood up and underlined Supporting Material on the vintage office whiteboard.

  Desai finally took his prompt and gave Adalbert a bashful nod. He spoke slowly and considered. ‘You’re right to be concerned. The UA exploits the systems it constructed for the PSAs, where circumstances ‘deem it necessary’. That may include some of you, given the nature of some of your conversations.’

  For once Jonquil was quiet and plaited her arms tightly around her body.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Mikhail said.

  Desai leaned forward and sighed. ‘I designed the system that allowed them to do it. I bug the Province on their behalf. Whoever’s name is on the list, it’s not a matter of if, but when.’

  ‘When, what?’ Jun asked.

  ‘They’re deemed and dealt with, as public enemy number one.’

  CHAPTER 3

  7th May 2062

  The sun had arched to its central crescent, layering blankets of heat mercilessly below. The cloudless sky let it reign. Vast plains of cashew-coloured grass textured the landscape as far as the eyes could see. Jun wasn’t accustomed to a backdrop without the familiar mountainous peaks, like teeth biting into the sky, but then she couldn’t remember the last time she’d headed this far West of the Province. She had everything she usually needed and wanted close enough – the University and Kau. But this wasn’t a mission of want or need.

  Two lines of Jacarandas framed the highway, their purple trumpet-shaped flowers wilted and limp, dividing the vista. Fan and Jun’s Intuimoto persisted on the road in between them, scrambling like a beetle up a hill. They were heading towards the Province borders an hour away, leaving behind the order and structure of the CMCD, hurtling headfirst to the anarchistic chaos of Ghetto West.

  Jun had deliberated over Solo’s mail for five days, her paralysis over deciding what to do, had mutated into a silent panic. It played in the back of her mind as she’d talked through lectures and ruminated while she marked at home. It gnawed away at her while she and Fan ate dinner. ‘It was for the best,’ he had said, ‘leave it alone’. She tried to distract herself, worrying about Kau’s new job, but as much as she willed it away, it sliced through her conscious like a blade on her skin. On the fourth day, an external source committed the incision.

  She had returned home from a faculty meeting to Qin preparing supper, and two messages waiting for her. One was a Face-comm message from Delphine from her old lab. Jun played the message, and as Delphine appeared in front of her, she was reminded how much time had passed between them. There were lines on Delphine’s face where it had once been smooth, and her skin had thinned out like an Ai-ssistant’s skynthetic. The voice was more profound than she remembered, but still held that optimistic lilt, despite the news she bore.

  ‘I know it’s been a long time since we’ve connected – too long – but I’m calling about something rather peculiar,’ Delphine said. ‘A woman claiming to be Odgerel Zaye’s daughter…you remember Subject Zaye? Died by suicide, just before you left the department?’

  Jun panicked; what had Solo done?

  ‘She came to the lab this afternoon…about forty-five minutes ago, saying how no one would give her answers about her mother and she asked for you. She had to be physically restrained by security, and only agreed to leave when we threatened to summon the Police.’

  Delphine smiled apologetically. ‘I wanted to let you know as I’m not sure of her intentions. Obviously, it’s an awful business and poor woman! There’s nothing, we, I, can do – policy as you know. I don’t want to alarm you, and there’s no reason to believe she knows where you live, but I’m happy to send one of our security guards to your home if you’d like?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have not been in touch sooner. Relative to this case, while I remember, I still have that file you asked me to keep-’ Delphine’s face turned behind her. Jun heard a man’s voice in the background. He sounded as though he was from the Euro Provinces, Swedish maybe.

  ‘Sorry, I have to go, but please let’s talk again. Let me know on security, happy to oblige. Speak soon, Jun, I hope.’

  Jun had tried the other message, but nothing was left, and there was no number or source to who had called. That was odd; the UA had made it impossible and illegal to withhold identifying information. To Jun, the call could have only come from one person.

  When Fan had come home later that day, in between pickled vegetables and mooncake, and as calmly as she could, Jun explained Delphine’s message, and the withheld one. He’d responded in the way she’d expected – concerned, resistant to her involvement – but, thankfully, accepted that something needed to be done. She didn’t need Fan’s acceptance; she needed his support.

  But as they were journeying to meet Solo in Ghetto West, a place disassociated from United Adaptive ruling and legislation, he’d forgotten his assurances of last night. He’d talked for ten minutes straight about how he thought it was a bad idea. His caution was fair, and Jun had a strange r
epulsion around the whole thing. It felt like rifling through Odgerel’s things and finding strands of her hair snagged in a comb. But what could Jun do? Out of respect for her old Subject, she had to meet her daughter.

  ‘You’ll be to blame – that’s the reason for this meeting. To find someone to point the finger at,’ Fan said, his dumpling cheeks lurched furiously as she shook his head. ‘I wish you’d let me come with you. Then at least I’ll be there, should things get nasty.’

  ‘Just please,’ she begged, ‘stay in the car and let me speak to her alone.’ Her chest tightened, and her fingers found a loose strand that she wound around her finger, wincing with pleasure at its pull against her skin. What did Solo expect her to say? It had been so long since Jun had thought about Odgerel Zaye and her work for the UA. Her research had been everything to her – pioneering neurological developments, helping people – no, she was still helping people, just in a different way. Training the neuroscientists of the future had as much value as if she were still pioneering herself. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  The Intuimoto confirmed their arrival at the Ghetto. Jun stepped out of the safe shade of the car, and into the intensity of the sun. Sweat instantly gathered on her forehead and in the arch of her back – how did Ghettoites stand it, being so exposed? Did they have UA-regulation air-conditioners, or water filtration? Most likely not. Behind her, voices spoke in languages she didn’t understand. Maybe they were from the Afro-Eastern Province? Someone began to play chords on a guitar, a cacophonous sound which rattled in her ears. It reminded her of the first-wave migrations when she was a child. Different faces, vivid colours and fabrics. Her generation had grown up with the world’s refugees; the blending of cultures had seemed exotic and awe-inspiring at the time. After the third stage, it had become standardised. It had been the sixth stage migration that had alerted them to Odgerel. Under Provincial jurisdiction, all new migrants received personalised health-monitoring systems. It had been that legislation which enabled Odgerel’s data to be monitored and flagged as extraordinary.