The Radical (Unity Vol.1) (2 page)

A
pril 3, 2063
 

It could have been just another ordinary day.
The previous night, I’d been staking a whorehouse where a depraved senator was thought to be spending his Friday nights. My head hit the pillow at the ungodly hour of 3am ‒ so I groaned when the din of a call began vibrating through my sloshy brains before it was even dawn. I imagined it would be my boss Francesca, who never seemed to sleep and had superhuman strengths above even mine.

I fought with the sheets and rolled o
ver to snatch my xGen from the nightstand and snap it open. I accepted the vis-call and heard some muffled noises before an image appeared and an unfamiliar voice echoed down the line.

‘Oh, hello, Seraph
? This is Camille, your aunt’s colleague.’

The woman was middle-aged but her tied-back, light-brown hair was without grey. She had a thin mouth and large hazel eyes set wide apart between a small dainty nose. She had quite a strong English accent, but a French twang crept in as her spee
ch rose and fell. It took me a few moments to process what I’d heard.

‘Yeah? What’s this about?
’ I responded nervously.

Shit
. I knew what this was. Why else would she call?

Camille
cleared her throat and continually looked away from the screen, unable to hold my stupefied stare.

E
very ounce of me refused to let it be true.

‘I have some sad news to impart. Eve passed away early this morning in her sleep. The doctor says her heart finally gave out. I’m so sorry.’

I couldn’t process that information. My mind went blank. The device I held slipped out of my hand and the voice on the other end of the line seemed even more of an echo.

‘Are you still there? I understand this might have come as a bit of a shock.’

‘Sorry, yeah, I’m still here,’ I replied, shifting my xGen back onto my lap so Camille could see my face. ‘I just feel terrible I wasn’t… I mean, I knew she was… but I just didn’t take it seriously I guess.’

‘Yes, she seemed like the sort of person who would live forever
…’ Camille trailed off and looked into the distance, continuing, ‘…well, the funeral will take place within the next couple of days. I thought it only right to get in touch in case you wanted to attend.’

The thought of
missing just one day, a weekend day even, made me anxious. I feared if I left the city, the opportunity I’d been waiting so long for might pass me by.

‘Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate you calling Camille, but I have so many commit
ments here. I’ll see if‒’

‘Of course, but I know
Eve would have wanted you here,’ Camille insisted gently, staring down her nose.

‘
I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise, but…’

My thoughts
escalated.
I really don’t need this. Why is she looking at me like that? There is something unsettling about her stare
…

‘Okay, well, we’ll hopefully see you here
, Seraph. We’d all love to meet you. I’d better get going now, things to do. Call me anytime, I mean it.
Anytime.
Night or day.
Au revoir
.’

Eve Maddon was my father’s aunt and though unmarried herself, had dedicated her life to the cause of marriage. She produced couture gowns at her bridal house in York, England – a walled city founded by the Romans two millennia ago. Eve’s low-key, almost cottage industry, brought thousands of people through her doors, over a 50-year career that saw her build up an international clientele. Her niche business remained, despite this new world of mass-production and few marriages.

F
or some reason, Eve’s little industry had become a mainstay in an extremely limited market. The success of her business had always seemed bizarre to me, and in fact Eve herself was quite extraordinary, yet she’d stayed in that minor, backward city her entire life.

She’d been calling me from her sickbed for some time but I thought she’d snap out of it and get over whatever ailment it was that she refused to discuss
. Though the fact she wasn’t working was certain evidence she was succumbing to something fatal, I failed to make that trip across the Atlantic that I had been promising and then putting off for so long. To say I felt deeply regretful in the immediate aftermath of her death was an understatement.

That morning, my usual gym session was out of the question
. No amount of pounding the treadmill or racing uphill was going to cut it. Not even the punch bag seemed tempting. My perpetual anger had subsided and I felt frail. It was official – I didn’t have anybody left in the world. One thought bothered me the most, swirled in my head like a bad headache.
What could have been…

Eve and I should have had more time together. The unfair nature of
that was ripping my guts apart and Camille’s words rang in my ears.

S
he would have wanted you here
.

Memories slipped into my periphery and I shook with remorse.
My last living relative was dead. It hit me like nothing else. I convulsed with tears and buried my head under my pillow for the next hour, ignoring my xGen ringing and the crashing against my door outside. I’d no doubt missed Francesca’s cursory morning call and she was worried I was dead or something and had sent some lackeys over to check. It was a worry for her that I would one day get caught, hauled in with not a thing to back me up (the way I worked put me in danger). Yet I continually put myself up against the proverbial firing squad, every day.

A
fter I got my shit together I sent her a quick message: ‘
Eve dead. Need time off.
’ My uncharacteristic use of few words would engage her otherwise hidden sensitivities.

I could almost hear her Aussie voice as she sent a reply:
‘
Phew, I can call off the search party! And, sorry, I really am. Take some time. Call me later
?’

I dragged myself
out of bed and into the en suite to shower. It seemed clear to me what I had to do. There was no other option but to get over to England as quickly as possible. The tight knot of angst and remorse that had formed in my gut made me realize I owed it to Eve. For the first time in years, work didn’t seem to matter so much.

After washing
, I pulled on whatever my hand touched in the closet and tied back my hair. I could smell coffee wafting in from the kitchen ‒ and was comforted by that in some small amount. For the first time in years I’d have to switch off the timer so the machine didn’t produce while I was gone.

I filled
my mug and went to the window. Every morning I stood staring down on Central Park, that yellowish eyesore gradually reducing in size. I saw office workers purchasing various breakfast items from automated food carts on their way to work and for once, I envied those regimented souls. My burdens were suddenly so heavy that the view my Dakota pad offered was an unwelcome perspectiv
e
‒ I had no community to call on for solace, living the way I did made me an outcast.

I checked
the latest flight schedules on my xGen and saw there was one jet leaving for the UK within the hour – and nothing else for hours after that. I ran round snatching stuff from the bathroom, along with a few items of clothing, before getting ridiculously burnt by the drink sliding down my throat at light speed.

I felt nauseous as I stood by my
apartment door preparing to go, checking my jacket pockets and bag to ensure I had everything I would need. I cursed my itinerary for that day, which I would have to cancel. I had a hotel room booked at the Four Seasons, right next door to that of an NYPD commissioner who would be there to close some very shady foreign business deal.
He would keep
, I supposed.

I scanned the living area
, one last check for nothing left lying around. I had already incinerated my trash in the custom-built, self-extinguishing furnace I’d had erected in the middle of my lounge. I never left a trace, never left anything important where it might be found. It was not beyond them to use a tampon to get my DNA on file for use at a later date. DNA tampering, or rather
replicating
, had become a big thing but was never acknowledged. The enemy were good at planting “evidence” at the scene of a crime to get someone jailed. I had dozens of cases stacked up on my desk ‒ people who had contacted me from the pen claiming they were innocent. They passed the SAFs (Speech Analysis & Filtration Systems)
,
but their DNA had been their undoing. Most of course were ex-employees of Officium who were a threat of some sort. Why these people hadn’t been blown away on a street corner, I didn’t know. That was Officium’s usual style.

That is why I ensured e
verything I needed was right upstairs or on the xGen my hacker friend had given me. 

I
set the apartment security system on high alert and slammed the huge, solid metal door behind me. It clunked shut with a sharp thud, various locking mechanisms slotting into place. Striding out into the lush, wood-paneled, carpeted corridor outside, I headed to the elevator that would take me down to street level.

W
72
nd
was a perpetual nightmare and was no different that morning. City sounds hit my ears; horns tooting, distant protestors yelling, eco-friendly vehicles skidding by and traipsing vagrants echoing their vitriol around the tall housing blocks. I wished I had the time to shout along with them, it might have helped me that day.

The Dakota
still had the look of some sort of grand residence, but only because of a thick electric fence around its perimeter, plus a number of other high-security measures that had been implemented to protect its period magnificence. Many other prewar apartment buildings in the vicinity could easily be misplaced as dosshouses, crack dens, makeshift 24/7s or simply an opportunity for one of the city’s numerous graffiti artists
.

I
wanted to call Francesca and ask to borrow her driver but there was no time. I would brave an automated, bulky yellow hover-cab. I just hoped it didn’t stink of piss. I loaded my Cab GPS app and called for one, seeing on the screen that I was in a queue. I contemplated my boss’s car again but then, I watched as the queue gradually decreased and bumped me up the ladder.

I
realized my impatience had something to do with the fact I was leaving behind my natural habitat. I was nervous. As much as I despised the city sometimes, it was my world. My dominion. I knew it like nowhere else. Ignorance is bliss? I wondered what might await me in England. The country my aunt had spent her whole life living in was also the place my parents had left decades ago ‒ and they never talked about it. I was going in blind. It had to be civilized, right? They would surely have cabs, trains and perhaps even bicycles?
Shut the fuck up, Seraph
, I told myself. My mind was racing with thoughts. Truth was, I had not left NYC in over 20 years and nowhere else existed, to me. I decided I would have to change my outlook, and, quick. I was a tourist all of a sudden, not just a grieving relative, but an explorer venturing to another continent. The possibilities that awaited me made my mouth twitch. Funeral and grieving, aside, I contemplated a way I could make the trip worthwhile in other ways…

Stood on the sidewalk on the corner
of Central Park West, I eventually got a cab and keyed my destination into the cabbie computer. Heading across town, I watched unkempt tower blocks pass by – structures that had deteriorated with the battering elements of frequent storms, dust and pollution. I cringed (as I always did) at the sight of the 60ft concrete wall that surrounded the entire city. If it was built to prevent flood damage, I was Mary fucking Poppins. Many parks, streets, houses and public buildings were crudely swept out of the way to make way for the terrible Manhattan Dam, as it had become known. In reality it was just another barrier to escape. Its actual purpose was to enable greater population control – and surveillance. So many flooded the city in the wake of 2023’s tragedy and the place exploded into a hotbed for crime. New York had become Officium’s main sphere of business and was now their HQ, from which they felt they could run the world.

T
hrough the colossal iron gates of the U-Card checkpoint on Manhattan Bridge, and across to Brooklyn, there were some sorry sights to see out of the window. Busloads of citizens were transported out to New Jersey to continue their lives of drudgery in the various factories and power stations struggling to keep the city alive. With families and marriage a thing of the past, few really cared about putting down roots, and dozens upon dozens of hobos still slept on the sidewalks – those who lay their hat wherever they found themselves come nightfall.

At the gigantic, automated reception of the airport, I scanned my U-Card above the ticket machine and the computerized voice of the self-serve kiosk rang out: ‘
Good morning Seraph Maddon. Would you like to travel today?
’