Only Forward

Darv kicked off the meeting by grassing on the elevator, which had moved on to insinuating damaging things about the sexual proclivities of the building’s interior designers. Royn made a call and somewhere in the basement a SWAT team of elevator engineers and hydraulic psychotherapists went into action.

‘Now, Mr Stark,’ he continued, swivelling his head on his thick neck to face me, ‘I’m sure you realise that someone like you wouldn’t be my first choice for a Thing That Needs Doing like this. I want it put on record that I think this could be a mistake.’

I looked at him for a while, and the others waited for me to say something. I blew out some smoke, and thought of something.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘until you give me some idea of what the job is, it’s very difficult for me to tell whether you have a point or if you’re just being a dickhead.’

Both Zenda and Royn rolled their eyes at this, and Darv clearly thought very seriously about punching me in the face. I detected the faintest whisper of a smile on C’s face, however, and that was far more important. Though Darv was apparently the designated talker, the power in the room lay with C. I raised my eyebrows at Darv and after a heavy pause, he continued.

‘The situation is fundamentally quite simple, and very serious. A senior Actioneer, Fell Alkland by name, has disappeared. Alkland was a much-valued member of the Central Planning Department, involved in groundbreaking work in the furtherment of Really Getting to the Heart of Things.’

Darv stood up and started to pace round the perimeter of the desk, with his hands behind his back. I couldn’t be bothered to keep swivelling round to keep him in vision, so I just listened to the drone of his voice and kept a check on Zenda’s facial reactions.

‘Alkland left his Department at 6.59 three days ago, and entered the nearby Strive! mono station at 7.01 p.m. We know this because a mono attendant remembers him clearly. Alkland gave him a useful tip on how to keep used ticket stubs really tidy. He then boarded the mono. As you may know, Mr Stark, seven until eight is leisure time here in the Centre, and Alkland’s chosen regular form of relaxation was to make his way to the swimming baths in the Results Are What Counts sub-section of the Neighbourhood. There he would work extremely hard whilst wearing a bathing costume. On that day, however, he never made it to the baths.’

He paused dramatically before concluding, ‘No one has seen him since he boarded that mono.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I said, reeling under the impact of so much bad film dialogue, ‘so put a trace on him.’

Darv sighed theatrically, as I knew he would. Every Actioneer has a tracer compound inserted into their left arm, so that they can be located within the Centre at all times and have their phone calls redirected. If ACIA were talking to me, it meant they’d already tried that and come up a blank. I knew that. But sometimes it doesn’t pay to let everyone know everything you know. See? I have hidden depths.

‘Obviously we’ve tried that, Stark, obviously.’

‘Oh,’ I said, grinning. Zenda smirked covertly at me. ‘So?’

‘Attention! Attention!’ Darv nearly fell off the desk as he jumped at the sound of the intercom’s voice. ‘Ms Renn, your Visitor is due to explode in two minutes.’

‘Jesus wept,’ muttered Darv, as he made his way under the table. Clearly a cautious man. I held my wrist out to Zenda and she waved her Extender over it, giving me another half hour. C remained calm at all times.

‘Darv?’ I said gently, as he re-emerged, ‘Are you saying that you suspect Alkland has been taken to another Neighbourhood?’

‘No, I don’t suspect that,’ he replied coldly, taking his seat again and leaning across to be cutting directly to my face, ‘I know it. Alkland is not in the Centre, we’re sure of that. He was involved in very important and highly classified work. He has clearly been kidnapped, and we want him back.’

‘Surely even a class 43 mono attendant at the Portals would have noticed something? How could anyone have got him out without his consent?’

‘That,’ said C, slowly turning his impassive face towards me, ‘is what we want you to discover.’

I left the Department ten minutes later, in plenty of time to get out of the Centre in one piece. Rather than go directly to the mono I headed across The Buck Stops Everywhere Park and Recreation Area, a little patch of green in amongst the towers of excellence. The park was pretty packed, unfortunately, full of people holding impromptu al fresco meetings and starting affairs with people who might be useful to them, so I cut out again and headed for the B line mono on the other side. Remind me to take you to a Centre bar sometime. It’ll be the least fun you’ve ever had.

There hadn’t been much more to the meeting. C had outlined the brief, and it was pretty straightforward. Find out who’d snatched Alkland, find out where they’d taken him, and bring him back alive. There was also an unspoken sub-brief: don’t let anyone know what you’re up to. The Actioneers don’t like it to be known that they’re not on top of absolutely everything, and ACIA has no jurisdiction outside the Centre itself. Their thinking was that whoever the guys in the black hats were, chances were they’d be holed up in Red Neighbourhood, which borders on the Centre’s eastern side. I wasn’t so sure, but I had to go there anyway, so it would do as a place to start.

I had a CV cube on Alkland, with his likeness and various other pieces of information about him, and I had twenty-four hours before I made an initial report back to Zenda. A standard, run-of-the-mill, normal thing. Something to do.

I took the mono to Action Portal 3, and as I had five minutes to spare I found Hely, the attendant who’d last seen Alkland. He’d been reassigned from the inner mono, and Royn told me where to find him. He was eager to help, but couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already.

Before I boarded the mono Hely showed me his used tickets. I could see why they were so keen to get Alkland back. The pile really was very, very tidy.

Two (#ulink_d81dda2e-e203-500c-821f-7052b7604039)

I boarded Red Line One at 8.30 p.m., and as always immediately wished that I hadn’t.

Red Neighbourhood isn’t like the Centre. It isn’t like Colour, either. It isn’t like anywhere. The chief reason the Centre has a fucking great wall around it is to keep Red Neighbourhood out.

Let me explain a bit about the Neighbourhoods. A long, long time ago, the old deal about cities being divided by race and creed simply went down the pan. I think basically everybody got bored with the idea and lost interest: spending all day hating your neighbours was just too damn tiring. At the same time, the whole concept of cities started to change. When a nation’s main city begins to cover over seventy per cent of the whole country, clearly things need to be organised a little differently.

What happened is that neighbourhoods became Neighbourhoods, self-governing and regulating states, each free to do what the hell they liked. The people that live in a given Neighbourhood are the people who like what the Neighbourhood likes. If you don’t like the Neighbourhood, you get the hell out and find one that’s more your sort of thing. Unless you come from a bad Neighbourhood, in which case you’re pretty much stuck where you are. Some things change, some things stay the same. So far, so what.

With time things began to get a little weird, and that’s kind of how they’ve stayed. Everything is compacting, accelerating, solidifying, but not all of it in the same direction. There’s a loose collection of Neighbourhoods that are pretty much on the same planet, and if any country-wide decisions need to be made, they get together and have a crack at it. Everybody else? Well, who knows, basically. I’ve seen a lot of The City, I’ve been around. But there’s a lot of places I haven’t been, places where no one’s been in a hundred years, no one except the people who live there. Some places you don’t go because it’s too dangerous, and some places don’t let outsiders in. Believe me: there are some Neighbourhoods out there where there is some very weird shit going on.

Red Neighbourhood doesn’t fall into that category. It’s not that bad. It’s just kind of intense. I was in Red because I needed to buy a gun, and you can’t buy guns in the Centre or Colour. In Red you can buy what the hell you like. At a discount.

There’s no good or bad time to get on a Red mono. They don’t have hours where you do certain things, or days even. You just pay your money and take your chances. Actually, by Red standards the carriage I boarded was fairly civilised. True, there was both vomit and a human turd on the seat next to mine, but I’ve seen worse. The prostitutes were mainly too stoned to be doing serious business, the fight down the end was over very quickly, and there were never more than two dead bodies in the carriage at any one time.

Zenda thinks I’m very brave for going into Red by myself. Partly, she’s right. But partly you just have to know how to fit in, how not to be fazed. If Darv or any of those ACIA suits poked their head in here they’d get the crap beaten out of them before they sat down, because they’d look like they didn’t belong.

Look at me. Okay, so I’m wearing good clothes, but that’s not the point. Clothes are not an issue. Clothes cost nothing. It’s in the face. I don’t look like I’m dying for this mono journey to end, like I’m about to wet myself in fear. I don’t look like I’m disgusted with what I see. I look like the kind of guy who’d have a knife in your throat before you got halfway through giving him a hard time. I look like the kind of guy whose mother died in the street choking up Dopaz vomit. I look like the kind of guy who pimps his sister not just for the money, but because he hates her.

I can look like a guy who belongs.

I got off at Fuck Station Zero and weaved down a few backstreets. In Red they can’t be bothered to move the garbage around, never mind the buildings. In the real depths of Red, places like Hu district, there is garbage that has literally fossilised. Finding your way around is not a problem, assuming you know your way to start off with: there aren’t any maps. If you don’t know where you’re going you want to get the hell out of Red immediately, before something demoralising and possibly fatal happens to you.

It had been a couple of months since I was last in Red, and I was relieved to see that BarJi was still functioning. The turnover of recreational establishments in Red is kind of high, what with gang war, arson and random napalming. BarJi has been running for almost six years now, which I suspect may be some kind of record. The reason is very simple. The reason is Ji.

It’s always kind of a tense moment, sticking your head into a bar in Red Neighbourhood. You can take it as a given that there’ll be a fight in progress, but it’s less easy to predict what kind. Will it be fists, guns or chemical weapons that are involved? Is it a personal battle or a complete free-for-all? The fight in Ji’s was a very minor one of the knife variety, which made it feel like a church in spite of the grotesquely loud trash rock exploding out of the speakers.

The reason? Ji.

Ji is an old, well, friend, I guess. We met a long time ago when we were both involved in something. I may tell you about it sometime, if it’s relevant. He wasn’t living in Red then: he was living in Turn Again Neighbourhood, which is the second weirdest Neighbourhood I have ever set foot in. I have been in Turn twice, and there is no fucking way I am ever going there again.

I’m not even going to talk about the weirdest Neighbourhood I’ve seen.

Ji was a hard bastard even by Turn standards: in Red he is a king. Doped-up gangs in surrounding areas while away the hours tearing up and down streets in armoured cars, blasting the shit out of each other with anti-tank weapons and flamethrowing the pedestrians. When they get to Ji’s domain, they put the guns down and observe the speed limit until they’re safely out the other side. Through a series of carefully planned and hideously successful atrocities Ji has firmly established himself as someone you under no circumstances even think about fucking with. This makes him kind of a good contact to have in Red, especially as he owes me a few favours. I owe him a few too, but the kind of favours we owe each other aren’t complementary, and so they don’t cancel each other out. At least we don’t think they do: we’ve never really got to the bottom of the whole thing.

I sat down at a table near the side and ordered some alcohol. This didn’t go down well with the barman, but I coped with his disapproval. I knew that Ji’s assistants monitored everyone who came into the bar through closed circuit vidiscreens, and that Ji would send word down as soon as he could be bothered. I took a sip of my drink, set my face for ‘Reasonably Dangerous’, and soaked up the local colour.

The local colour was predominantly orange. The decor was orange, the drinks were orange, the lights were orange, and the bodies of the women performing languorous gynaecological examinations of each other on the orange-lit stage were painted orange too. Ji’s Bar is a Dopaz bar, and as any Dopaz-drone will tell you, orange is like, the colour, of, like, orange is, you know, orange, orange is, like, orange.

Dopaz is two things in Red Neighbourhood. It is the primary recreational drug. It is also the most common cause of death. Is Dopaz strong? Let me put it this way. Drugs are often diluted or ‘cut’ with other substances, either to swindle buyers or just to lower the dosage. A lot of drugs are cut with baking powder. When they cut Dopaz, they cut it with Crack.

Most of the drones in BarJi were out there in the main bar, watching the biology lesson and drinking very low dosage Dopaz drinks, about four of which will leave you unconscious for forty-eight hours. The heavy hitters would have made their way to the rooms at the back, and tomorrow would find half of them in the piles of garbage in the street, their corpses waiting to fossilise like everything else. There’s no safety net in Red Neighbourhood: if you fall, you fall. You can’t leave Red for a better Neighbourhood: they’ve all got standards, criteria, exams or fees. If you were born Red, or end up in Red, you’re not going to make it out into the light. The only way out of Red is down.

While I waited for Ji I worked my way through Alkland’s cube. The Actioneer was sixty-two years old, born and bred in the Centre. His father had been B at the Department of Hauling Ass for seven years, and then A for a record further thirteen. His mother had revolutionised the theory and practice of internal memoranda. Alkland’s career leapt off the CV like an arrow or some other very straight thing: he wasn’t just a man who was very good at doing things, but the perfect product of the Centre, a hundred per cent can-do person. His work during the last five years was classified, and I didn’t have a high enough rating to break the code, but I knew that it must be very diligent stuff. The Department of Really Getting to the Heart of Things is the core department in the Centre. Everybody reports to them in the end, and the A there is effectively Chief Actioneer.

The cube told you everything you needed to know about Alkland unless you weren’t an Actioneer. To them, what you did in office time was what you were. But I needed to know why whoever had kidnapped him had chosen him, and not someone else. I didn’t want to know what Alkland was: I needed to know who he was. I had to understand the man.

Eventually, frustrated, I switched the setting to Portrait and a 10 x 8 x 8 hologram of Alkland popped onto the table. It showed a bony face, with grey thinning hair and a thinner nose. The eyes behind his glasses were intelligent but gentle, and the lines round the mouth told a history of wry smiles. He looked rather gentle for an Actioneer. That was all. There was nothing else to learn from the cube, and I had no more to go on.

‘Stark, you fuck, how the fuck are you, fucker?’