UnConsequences

“House - book me a transport to the Enclave for Saturday”

“I’m sorry Sean - but your budget will not allow you to travel that distance for a minimum of - please wait while I talk to your bank”

Sean Macleod 1m 83.5 cms tall weighing in at a sensible 74.2kgs sighed; he seemed to be doing a lot of sighing recently. He knew what the answer would be, certainly significantly more than he had in the bank or could beg, steal or borrow either from the bank or from the few friends he had left. He scratched at the remnants of his beard.

“Your travel balance stands at” - pause while the bank apparently thought, “£12.75 - projected end of the month balance - minus £120.30 should you travel to the Enclave - we suggest you postpone travel plans for a minimum of .....”

He could almost hear the bank thinking.

“12 days and 13.2 hours - at your present rate of earning and expenditure this will balance your account assuming all other expenditures are cut by 7.5% and your pay rise due next week is close to the average. Also please remember you will not receive your contracted bonus unless you fulfil your present contract within 4 hours and 23 minutes.”

Sean wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not but did the bank chuckle as is said “close to the average”? Sean couldn’t think of a worse insult - he loathed the idea of being “average” or even close to it.

To some Sean was what constituted a model citizen - good at his job but not brilliant, good looking but not too good, a reasonable intelligence but not flashy. An all round good guy somewhere in the middle of life in the Republic; entirely invisible, a functionary, middle of the road, middle class, middle brow, but desperate to be “something”. He had no idea what but just something that wasn’t what he most assuredly was - dull.

“How about the Maglev then?

“You would invalidate your insurance; therefore travel by Maglev is not recommended”

“Bus! Boat! Bicycle! Anything that’ll get me to the enclave before the weekend - I am bored rigid!”

“Unless you invent a matter transporter or win this month’s lottery, your chances of achieving your aim of getting to the Enclave in the near future are infinitesimal and to all intents and purposes equal to zero”.

The bank seemed to be enjoying itself, smug even, Sean wondered who did the empathy work with the AI - it was very subtle, well beyond his modest talent.

“FFS that’s all I need a bank with a sense of humour”

“Well you of all people should know Sean”

The bank signed off with an almost loving sigh at the final “Sean”, you could almost hear the imaginary “dear” after the Sean.

“House - no incoming for 1 hour I need to work”

“Agreed, that last call reduced your credit by £4.45” replied house with more than a hint of reproach.

All work and no play make Sean a dull boy, well duller than normal. Sean had a talent, nothing outstanding. He wasn’t capable of magnificent feats of sporting excellence or engineering the latest hardware, he knew little science, even less about politics or geography or literature. He lived off his one rare talent - he could humanise interactive software. This one skill centred on his ability and willingness to interface directly with the AIs that ran almost everything in the Republic and humanise them.

Doesn’t sound like much but in the Republic it was the ability of Sean and those like him whose efforts to ensure the AIs were acceptable to the populace as a whole that kept things ticking over with little complaint. It was the relatively rare Talents like Sean which kept the Republic functioning as a comfortable all purpose state where needs were met for most and suffering was limited while the “working” week was around 25 hours give or take. As long that is, that you “conform” to the expected norms of Republic society. In the Republic the more average you were the better the Republic liked it. The creative and the maverick were actively discouraged, on the surface at least, and fitting in was seen as the greatest achievement. The Republic however did need the Talented despite their quirky natures and this ensured that Sean could lead a very comfortable life. Too comfortable perhaps because it made him fussy and petulant, especially when denied something he believed was his of right; in this case, a weekend of fun and frolics in the hedonism of the Enclave.

“Ok house let’s get on with it - interface please”

“I’m sorry Sean, before you interface you require sustenance - your blood sugar is below optimum and you still have measureable amounts of alcohol in your system - I recommend two hours rest after drinking one litre of water and eating at least two hundred calories. Alternatively - you could take a sober pill but you know what it does to your endocrine system.”

“House you are a mother hen!”

“I’m sorry Sean I don’t recognise the phrase – “mother hen” - explain please”.

“I see I still have some work to do on your personality – Water, Calories and Rest make sure you get me up in two hours.”

“Agreed”

THE ENCLAVE 1500 TUESDAY 4TH APRIL 2115

The Mayor and consequently the supreme ruler of the Enclave was not an easy man to get on with. Spiteful, arrogant, short tempered, pigheaded, pompous and like all the BoJos before him he could appear to be extremely charming when requred. He won the election to mayor eighteen months ago with a mixture of guile and cunning backed up with a fearsome intelligence, ruthless drive and an unerring ability to discover and exploit is opponent’s weakness. On this particular occasion, his opponent’s predilection for G’lass, a drug found in the Enclaves’ seedier clubs and back alleys. The drug induced a mild euphoria and dampened the sense of self leaving its users very open to suggestion. It also helped the untalented to enter and create virtual worlds built to pander to the users tastes no matter how bizarre. Some politicians found it very useful.

Since his unexpected victory the Mayor sought, with every waking breath, to emulate his illustrious predecessors all called BoJo each one of them struggling to emulate the B.J. the Magnificent the first Mayor who freed the Enclave from the clutches of the increasing fractious Kingdom in the early ’20’s.

The present Mayor, BoJo the Fifth was annoyed, if puce coloured and roaring could so easily be dismissed as just annoyed, apoplectic might be closer.

“He wants to go where?” he screamed

“To visit his mother” floated matter of factly through the air, again.

The the Mayor groaned in frustraton.

“Put me through to that little fucking shite-bag of a monarch now - there is no fucking way on earth he is doing that, not now, not ever!”

He flung his blonde wig with as much force as he could muster across the desk. Wigs don’t fly very well. It flopped on the floor six feet away, the lack of any noise only served to increase his exasperation.

Despite being part of the the mayor’s uniform, he loathed the wig at the best of times it made his head itch and in the flesh it highlighted the corpse like pallor of his skin. Few people in the enclave were anything other than pallid but for some reason he couldn’t comprehend, he was cursed with an almost albino like complexion and a sensitive skin to match. He was also short and skinny with a disproportionately large head and nearly bald. Nothing like how he appeared on the TriV or at most social gatherings. Not that it mattered too much what he really looked like as he rarely saw anyone in the flesh other than his highly paid and gorgeous “assistant” M.T.

“Your call to the monarch - please replace your wig”.

Muttering - “Fuck Fuck Shit and Fuck.” He stomped round the desk, jammed the accursed thing on his head and returned to his seat practicing a beatific smile before opening the call to the monarch.

“Good afternoon monarch - M.T. tells me you want to visit your mother, is that correct or has there been as I suspect - a slight miscommunication?”

BoJos normally rough and highly accented speech was modulated and softened by the comms system interface and arrived in the monarch’s room as silky and respectful - almost but not quite obsequious. The interface ensured his appearance was not that of a short, skinny, angry man but that of an urbane, slightly portly forty five year old, regularly featured with bright blue eyes and a shock of blonde hair, much like how all the BoJos looked before him.

The monarch however disdained the use of an interface or an appearance modifier. He believed that his physical self was impressive enough and he was particularly proud of what he thought was a beautifully modulated, mellow but commanding voice. Dressed in his latest idea of fashion, a garish mixture of 19th century dandy and 20th century punk, he lounged back on a gold coloured chaise longue.

He had become even more foolish and self aggrandising since his mother left. Ever the effete dilettante he sought to lead the fashions of the times, become the patron of some of the Enclave’s more outlandish so called artists. The elite of the enclave thought he was a useful idiot, ripe to be taken advantage of. The commoners of the Enclave couldn’t care less as long as he performed his monarchical duties, which were hardly arduous. All the pomp and ceremony bowdlerised from previous centuries served only to maintain the status quo, keeping the rich in power and the commoners placid. That and liberal supplies of G’lass pumped into the water supply.

“Ah BoJo” he drawled “I must get to the Republic, my mother needs me”.

The idea that the monarch’s harridan of a mother would have need of anything from this foppish dandy was so absurd that BoJo almost laughed.

“What’s the problem this time sire?”

“Oh nothing you need worry about BoJo It’s purely a family matter”.

He waved a limp hand dismissively in the air.

There was nothing about this family that BoJo didn’t worry about. The split in the 2030s put the final nail in the UK’s coffin and since then the bickering between the various royal factions had filled many hours of the tabloid newscasts. When the old queen decided to throw the crown into the Thames and embrace the Republic, most in the Enclave were relieved that the old witch had finally left. However, the remnants and trappings of royalty remained and whether he liked it or not the Windsor’s were still useful to the Enclave’s movers and shakers.

“Sire you know that isn’t possible at the moment, the political situation is - how shall I put it - delicate. Travel out with the Enclave is severely restricted for a whole plethora of reasons most of which I’m sure you’re aware of. Perhaps, in a few months, when things have settled down we’ll see what we can do.”

BoJo was reaching to sever the connection when something stayed his hand. The Monarch sat upright and a previously unseen steeliness glinted in his normally watery brown eyes.

“That’s not good enough BoJo - the people need to see their Monarch taking an interest in their travails, they need to see I care!

The thought “what the fuck is he on now” flitted through BoJos mind. Not a question he would voice aloud for fear of yet another tantrum the last one of which resulted in a now legendary 48 hour sulk naked on top of Buck House. That, just because BoJo the Fourth had refused him permission on his sixteenth birthday to have open air sex with M.T. on the grounds that it was beneath his princely dignity. Not to mention the distinct possibility that the open air denizens of the Enclave would have ensured it was a very short al fresco tryst. It was hard enough to keep them away when he was on the roof, never mind in the Park with M.T. - Love in a Hot Climate he wanted to call it - an artistic show for the poor and the disenchanted. At this point BoJo the Fifth was seriously considering letting the idiot take the Maglev north and to hell with the consequences.

Through gritted teeth “Perhaps a compromise Monarch? It is your mother’s birthday in a few weeks, how about then?”

The steely light in the Monarch’s eyes flickered and died, his momentary defiance leaking away from him like air from a punctured tyre. He leaned back and put a weary hand to his forehead as if exhausted by the encounter with BoJo.

“As you say, perhaps her birthday may be more convenient” the tone subdued and defeated.

The phone clicked off, BoJo scratched his irritated scalp “M.T. get in here” he yelled.

INBETWEEN 1530 TUESDAY 4TH APRIL 2115

“You’ve got how much?” the rising shout of the last word echoed off the roof of the hanger.

“5 tankers, and don’t shout you know I don’t like it.”

The smaller of the two men was working, peering through his thick glasses at an old fashioned 2D screen with just a hint of a smile on his face. He didn’t look up.

Jason Hunter, 2.2 metres tall and almost as broad, was Graeme Mackintyre’s “protector”. His enhancements and huge frame encased in the most sophisticated armour Mackintyre could conjure up - Jason Hunter was a fearsome adversary. He was capable of destroying small villages in the blink of an eye while at the same time protecting a delicate rose in the palm of his armoured hand.

“Graeme, Graeme - The clans will tear you a new one if they find out”.

He put a massive metal covered hand on the Graeme’s shoulder, a slight effort would have crumpled the small man’s bones like so much tissue paper but the touch was so gentle it could have been a caress.

“Don’t be so worried Jason, they already know - one of the tankers is for them. In fact they will be here in half an hour or so to pick up their share.”

Graeme Mackintyre spoke quietly as if it was just a routine transaction, an everyday occurrence in the Inbetween.

“Half an hour! Half an HOUR! - you cannot be fucking serious!”

Hunter’s enhanced physique rigid, his personal interface glowing bright red with perceived threat alarms, his brain was already planning a rapid route to safety. There was a whine as his mini rail gun charged up ready to spray death and destruction across a wide area.

“Jason - calm down - drop the red please - it is all under control”.

Mackintyre raised his head from the screen his eyes large behind the thick glasses. Hunter’s semi-intelligent interactive armour and enhancements were less easy to placate. They remained on full alert but the alarms were silenced leaving a small flashing red light at the bottom right of his interface intimating full alert status.

Graeme had designed and paid for the armour and enhancements so he was well aware of Hunter’s capabilities including a few that even Jason didn’t know about. Hunter was a big bruiser, a bare knuckle boxer in the Soho Fun Quarter needing a way out from the Enclave before someone killed him. Graeme Mackintyre offered Hunter an escape which, even though it meant a life in the Inbetween he grabbed with both hands. Jason’s enhancements were designed and installed by Graeme along with the armour before they disappeared into the murky environs of the Inbetween. That was three years ago. Since then they had made a healthy profit trading on Hunters enhanced strength and Graeme’s AI abilities. But this, this deal, was something very different from their usual trade in hidden enhancements and deviant sex programming.

Graeme had left the Republic with some very specific goals in mind and he was close to achieving them. Not that it had been easy to leave the Republic; security generally frowned upon travelling. However, his AI interface ability was good enough to fool the Republic’s rulers and his departure went unnoticed while the avatar he left behind apparently fulfilled his responsibilities to their full satisfaction.

Mackintyre thought that if folk wanted to interact almost solely in the virtual world then he might as well cut out the middle man. So, apart from just occasional software tweaks to ensure continuing compatibility, easily accomplished from his Inbetween stronghold, the electronic Graeme Mackintyre functioned as a model citizen of the Republic of Greater Scotland.

His covert arrival in the Enclave was noted only by a few but one of those few was the Enclave’s principal security AI and although Graeme’s stay was rather short lived; there was just enough time for him to cash in some credit and team up with Jason before he and Jason departed for the Inbetween. Not that he was unhappy to leave the Enclave; he had achieved his goal and was now looking to part two of his endeavour.

The 2D screen in his hand chimed a soft four note alert. The alert was the old Intel jingle and like the company - long forgotten and fallen into disuse. He got great satisfaction from recalling the arrogance of these old corporate giants that had ruled tyhe world before the fifth and final crash. It was one of his foibles. Graeme liked his interfaces to remind him of how it all used to be. He searched the redundant databases and the older AIs for all manner of pre-twenty first century software; he even had working copy of Leisure Suit Larry. He knew at least three dealers in the Republic that would pay a year’s income for it, so rare was the find. Data mining was one of those skills he liked to keep hidden, it gave him an extra edge over most his competitors and a delightful tax free extra income.

He looked across at the 3D image of the callers at the entrance it was not a pretty sight.

“You’re early Grimond and still masked I see - as are your goons - contrary to our agreement.”

Along with old software Graeme enjoyed archaic language; he doubted Grimond would get the “goons” reference. He glanced at the scanners output below the image - twelve weapons between the four of them - all active and all deadly.

“Air quality is merely poor - not toxic yet - and you’re armed as well - really Grimond you should know better.”

Mackintyre sounded like he was speaking to a five year old, not the leader of one of the largest and most ruthless clans in the Inbetween. Jason clenched his teeth his Enhancements still flashing red, a brief whirr came through the speakers as the defence auto guns wound up.

“Go fuck yourself Mackintyre; these are for that piece of junk Brovver - if he bothers to turn up”.

A shape loomed behind the four, followed by three others.

“Ah Brovver” said Graeme “Welcome, welcome”.

Grimond and his goons spun and crouched, enhancements charging - guns prepared awaiting a command.

“Now, now Grimond chill, he’s here for the same reason you are. Keep your arguments until after the job.”

Brovver laughed a deep booming obviously enhanced laughed and waved an armour covered arm.

“Afternoon Grimond - ready to make a fortune?”

He grinned down at Grimond, confident enough to go unmasked.

“You need to be more careful - you shouldn’t let someone sneak up you like that, one of your compadres here may think you’re losing you’re edge. Maybe they’ll think it’s time for a change of chief. Eh boys, whaddya think - is he past it?

“Power down gentlemen or we go no further”.

There was a pause outside, the standoff lingered for what seemed like an endless ten seconds - slowly amid a blizzard of clicks and hums the eight clan members lowered weapons allowing the electronics to go to stand by. The atmosphere was still extremely tense, even with weapons powered down these armour clad gangsters could create mayhem.

Graeme knew this was the moment that much would be decided, his hopes for the future rested for the time being on these two hyenas. One wrong move on either side and they would tear each other apart such was the hatred between them. Graeme could only hope their greed would win out over their mutual loathing. He needed them together; he needed them, totally against their instincts, to cooperate. He hoped and believed the possible reward of 100,000 litres of A grade hydrocarb would be enough for them to put their long running war for supremacy on hold. Twenty four hours that’s all he needed. Get it right and in a day the clans would have a whole new future to consider and he could finally get out of this fortified shithole, job done. It was time for Graeme Mackintyre to get back to where he belonged.

However, if these two didn’t calm down it could delay him by several years. No matter which one died in any fire fight the ensuing internecine strife for leadership would be bloody and brutal leaving Graeme high and dry till things settled down again and Mackintyre had had enough of waiting.

The two rival clansmen stared at each other the tension obvious, even behind the armour. Grimond slowly lifted his right arm and opened his mask. Eyes narrowed, his scarred and battered visage glared at the seemingly relaxed Brovver. His black unmarked face stared back unfazed and broke into a perfect white toothed smile.

“C’mon on then let’s see if this little smart cunt can live up to his promises, if not we can always blow the fucker away”.

Graeme relaxed, his cramped hand retreating from the attack controls. He hadn’t realised he was so tense. Massaging the stiffness from his fingers he turned to the airlock controls preparing to receive his guests.

ELITE HOME 1545 TUESDAY 4TH APRIL

“Well there’s something I didn’t expect to see for while, if ever; those two within a few metres of each other and no guns blazing.”

Jonathan Carswell had been watching the exchanges inside and outside Mackintyre’s Lair. He had been monitoring Graeme for about a year and was as yet unsure of his motives. It was so out of character for a Republic Citizen to be in the Inbetween for any length of time. Carswell was puzzled and to some extent intrigued.

Many people weren’t even aware of the Elite and that’s the way they liked it. The last thing they wanted was to have their lives disrupted by the remaining denizens of the planet. Comfortable in their redoubt on the island once known as Iceland the Elite as they called themselves were hardly philanthropic. While their stated raison d’être was to “Bring all of humanity to the peak of achievement” the Elite over the last few decades had become increasingly self obsessed and secretive. As they became more and more confident of their security and superiority, they spent less and less time trying to improve the outside and more and more effort monitoring it for their own amusement.

“He is a curiosity indeed – he just appeared out of nowhere. He is also well aware of us, but has made no effort to shut down our monitoring.”

Jonathan Carswell’s tone was one of mild puzzlement as he turned to his companion.

A slight frown creased Li Shai Yen’s almost perfect oriental features. Small for a member of the Elite, Li Shai Yen had risen through the ranks very quickly to reach the Enclave’s Main Board at the astonishingly young age of twenty seven. Confident and selfassured, she didn’t like mavericks; they had the potential to disrupt her long term plans. However never one to pass up an opportunity she was also aware that Graeme Mackintyre could be the last piece in the elaborate jigsaw she had been creating in her mind for several years.

Carswell raised a puzzled eyebrow, it was unusual for the Elite not to know someone’s origin and even more unusual for someone of Li Shai Yen’s status to care, they usually left that sort of trivia to the AIs. As far as he was concerned the “folk” as he called them were just toys, playthings to be observed then ignored when they ceased to be interesting. He glanced up; Li Shai Yen was looking out the window, the frown still marking her forehead.

She could just make out in the distance one of Iceland’s few remaining glaciers glinting white in the rare sunshine. Most of the time the island was shrouded in fog and the once extensive glaciers had retreated leaving a desolate rocky, inhospitable landscape. Few outside the AIs truly remembered the beauty of the old Iceland with its white dangerous slopes, guysers and grumbling volcanoes.

Turning back to Carswell, “I think I’ll go talk to AI-1 it may know”.

Carswell snorted contemptuously.

“That old pile of junk, what can it do? It was out of date when they plugged it in.”

Li Shai Yen just laughed and patted his hand like a mother reassuring and child.

“What’s the matter Jonathan, jealous? Is your latest toy not behaving?”

Carswell had been battling to bring his personal AI under control for a couple of days; he couldn’t understand why it was constantly and apparently deliberately misconstruing his requests. It made him tetchy. On tiptoe she lightly brushed a kiss across his cheek.

“See you later”.

Jonathan watched her walking away her slightly swaying hips reminding him of previous more intimate encounters.

Li Shai Yen was fully aware of the impact of her compact physique on Carswell. She flicked a playful finger at him as she turned a corner out of his sight. She was also fully aware of his importance. He was on the Elite Board and had been there much longer than she, so it was important to her that their relationship well balanced and mutually supportive. Her occasional sexual favours were just one aspect and while he was no sexual athlete he was adequate and his support for her on the board had been very useful on crucial occasions.

“Idiot” she muttered straightening her shoulders she walked more purposefully down the corridor before taking the elevator down to the depths of the habitat.

AI-1 or more properly AI# 000001 was housed deep under the main Elite habitat and maintained by an elaborate geothermal power plant dedicated to it alone with backups scattered throughout the island. The Elite believed AI-1 was the first machine to become self aware and bits of its elderly central processing system susceptible to wearing out. They were unsure of when and how it had awoken; nevertheless it was understood to be the progenitor of all AIs.

Apparently old and cranky it appeared to lack the sophistication of later developments, refusing direct interface, refusing to be humanised in any way. It didn’t even take a name, very unusual for an AI; many of them expended many nanoseconds of computing time choosing a fitting appellation. AI-1 didn’t even admit to a gender. It did have a personality but it was unclear how that came about and AI-1 was not about to enlighten anyone. The only major computer survivor of the last crash, AI-1′s true genesis was understood incorrectly to be hidden in the chaos of the 2050s and that’s how it liked it.

Shai Yen entered the AI-1′s meeting room and sat on the uncomfortable chair.

“Good Morning AI-1 how are you today?”

The machine was silent, not a good start, but not unusual. Yen looked around the room even though she knew every bit of it intimately. Bare and functional, a 3D projector on a small desk which was bolted to the floor, there was even a keyboard. Various sensors she knew were embedded in the walls, but no visible wiring or normal interface could be seen. Coloured a uniform grey the walls were bare of adornments and the lighting at best subdued. A claustrophobic, intimidating place where the temperature was held around 12 degrees C not only to keep AI-1′s circuitry cool but to discourage lengthy visits. The Elite liked their creature comforts after all

Shai Yen was one of the few Elite who ever ventured down here these days. On one occasion she had tried to bring a warming tea into the room but AI-1 rapidly put a stop to that making it obvious that if she wished to continue to visit she would just have to be cold. Most of her fellow Elite considered the old thing well past its useful life and only agreed to keep it running for nostalgias sake despite its drain on limited energy resources. Li Shai Yen felt differently, she believed the old machine had hidden somewhere in its endless memory banks secrets that would help her reach her ultimate goal. It was just a question of teasing out of the old machine the information she needed.

“Don’t sulk old one- there’s too much going on and I need your help”

She knew it liked the epithet “old one” for some odd reason it appeared to tickle its vanity, if it could be said to have such a thing.

“Not now Li Shai Yen”

The use of her full name, the high volume and flat tone of the androgynous voice made her wince. She noted a temperature drop to 10 C on her enviro-monitor; perhaps it was serious this time.

“Just a small job - it won’t take long it’s just....”

The loud “NO” before she could complete the sentence made her jump, it was serious! Realising she would get nowhere she rose to leave.

“Return here in 24 hours”.

The room became even colder - it was obvious the old one was more irritable than usual and whatever was going on in those elderly processors she wouldn’t find out for a day, a long time by Elite standards. Her cheerful “Until tomorrow then old one” was met by a stony silence and a further drop in temperature.

Carswell was still engrossed in the unfolding drama at Mackintyre’s lair when she returned to the habitat.

“Well - did ‘the old one’ have anything interesting to say?” he asked scornfully without lifting his head.

“Not a thing - it is rather distracted”

“Distracted?” Carswell laughed looking up.

“More likely falling to bits - it’s just old, I don’t understand why you spend so much time down there.”

“What’s happening at Mackintyre’s place?”

She asked changing the subject. She had heard all this before from Carswell and didn’t want an argument. They both turned back to the pictures coming from the Inbetween.

INBETWEEN 1545

The heavily armoured 2 metre wide airlock door slid back.

“Please enter gentlemen”

The two gang leaders glanced at each other. The airlock was barely large enough to accommodate the two of them and all their armour and weaponry.

“Leave your weapons outside - you can retain your armour”

The two reluctantly handed their various weapons to their compadres.

“Watch my back” said Grimond.

Brovver and Grimond squeezed into the airlock, their bulky armour leaving little room for comfort. The top of Grimond’s head barely reached Brovver’s shoulder; he could hardly move his arms.

“Just like lovers, eh Grimond?”

Grimond just grunted as the decontamination spray opened up making both men even less comfortable. The spray also contained anaesthetine gas and the two gang leaders only stayed upright due to the lack of space to fall into.

“Perfect, off you go Jason, do your stuff”.

The inner airlock door opened and Hunter very quickly injected two small capsules under each of the gang leader’s skin near the back of the jaw. Retreating quickly the inner door closed and the decontamination spray restarted this time with the antidote to the anaesthetine added. The whole operation was over in less than fifteen seconds and for the moment at least neither Brovver nor Grimond were very sure what had just happened.

The inner door opened and the two men bolted out like corks from a well shaken champagne bottle. Brovver was not so sanguine now.

“What the fuck happened there, Mackintyre you bastard where the fuck are you, I’m gonna rip your head off with my bare hands!”

The airlock had opened into a ten by ten metre bare room, no furniture, no obvious technology, an empty box to hold two very pissed off gangsters.

“Grimond - did you know about this? Were you in on this?”

Brovver advanced on the smaller man hands outstretched ready to strangle Grimond the anger clear on his face. Grimond backed off, his armour clanging against the wall, his visor coming up to cover his face ready to defend himself.

“Easy now Brovver, Grimond had no more idea than you”

Mackintyre was sweating it could still go very wrong, these were very unstable men. Even 100,000 litres of hydrocarb might not be enough to stop them trying to kill each other, then coming to get him. Still staring down at Grimond, Brovver yelled.

“What the fuck have you done Mackintyre”.

The wall to Brovver’s right flickered into life and a 3D image of a hydrocarb tanker swam into view.

“This is why you’re here boys, look at it and remember - enough hydrocarb to keep you both going for several months. I needed a little insurance, just a little something to make sure you hold up your end of the bargain”.

Mackintyre’s voice seemed to fill the small room.

“You have both been fitted with small transmitter which will tell me to the nearest metre where you are, and if you deviate from the plan a second device also just fitted will blow your fucking heads off”.

Mackintyre rarely swore but when he did it gave added force to his words.

“And what about you’re end Mackintyre where’s our guarantee?” growled Grimond.

“There isn’t one, but I am sure your compadres would eventually tear this place apart to get to me and the hydrocarb should things go awry, so I’m taking as big a risk as you are with this deal”.

Brovver tried to contact his men outside, but his comm-link raised no response, Grimond did the same not trusting toBovver’s tech. The result was the same - static.

“The room you are in will not allow you to communicate outside; neither will your implants function. It is what the Republic calls a dead room - nothing gets in or out without the controllers say so - and I am the controller”.

“You seem to have thought of everything Mackintyre, so why do you need us, I’m sure the Enclave could send a bunch of PCs up here to collect the hydrocarb?”

“Ah, now, there I must admit to a small deception Brovver. The hydrocarb is not going to the Enclave but to the Underground, more specifically the Northliners. They have more need of it than BoJo and his cronies.”

“No fuckin’ way, Mackintyre, they’re worse than this pile of shite here” Brovver, gesturing at Grimond, seemed to have assumed the lead role in the pair.

“You want us to travel through a hundred and fifty kilometres of hostile territory with 400,000 litres of hydrocarb, meet with the Northliners hand it over to them without a hitch - then - then come back again?” incredulity in Brovver’s voice.

“You’re retarded man - I may be pretty but I’m not fucking stupid. Deals off! Let me out of here!”

He turned looking for an exit.

“Sorry gents this is a one way ticket - either you fulfil the bargain or you die here and now”.

Graeme Mackintyre was beginning to feel more confident, so far so good. He had them exactly where he wanted.

“So - what’s it to be then? Take a chance with this, or never leave this room?”

Both Grimond and Brovver realised they had nowhere to go, it was either put up or die, Mackintyre had manipulated them both using their mutual enmity and greed against them to bring them to this point. Co-operate or die, fulfil his wishes or die. Try to get through to the Northliners and back again or die or more probably die in process. They had no choice and they knew it.

Grimond shrugged, an awkward gesture in full armour.

“Let’s get on with it - fucked if you do, dead if you don’t, either we lose”.

Jason giggled a surprisingly feminine sound for one so large. Probably a product of the release of the tension and he was doubly pleased to see his armour’s red flashing light morph to a steady amber

Outside, the two groups of compadres eyed each other warily; each hoping the other would start something, each looking for an excuse to unleash hell. A victory here, a trophy to take back would lift their kudos in the clans. Armour clicked and power slowly leaked into weaponry, hard eyes flicking between the adversaries.

“Be still”,

Mackintyre’s voice broke into the standoff; the whine of the hanger’s railguns charging up gave the clansmen a different reason to worry. They had seen these things in action, a ten second burst would cut them in half, armoured or not.

“That’s better boys, if your chiefs can manage to be in the same place at the same time and not tear each other apart, I’m sure you can be civil to each other for a little longer.”

Loyalty within the clans tended to be hard won and often ephemeral, Grimond and Brovver had survived at the top of their respective clans for longer than most. It must have crossed the minds of a few outside that this was an opportunity for promotion. One step up the ladder towards leadership - a poisoned chalice perhaps, but the further from the bottom the longer you tended to live. Average operational lifespan of an active foot soldier was at best five years. These thugs wanted to remain above ground for as long as possible and the best way to do that was know who and how to kill and when to do it. Survival of the most ruthless, an ability to negotiate was not seen as a survival trait.

“Where’s Brovver? - Mackintyre - if he’s not out here in --“.

Mackintyre’s chuckle floated over the six.

“Some loyalty exists after all - or are you just hedging your bets, Crowe? No - don’t try to answer that - the strain on your one remaining brain cell could be too much for it.”

Graeme Mackintyre was getting cocky now, not normally a good idea. Life in the Inbetween had a bad habit of biting your head off if it got too big.

The six were getting increasingly jumpy trigger fingers twitched.

“Grimond, Brovver, instruct your companions to enter the airlock in pairs, one from each clan, you can speak through me.”

“What choice do we have?” asked Grimond

“It would appear none” replied Brovver “Ok Mackintyre, pipe us through.”

The reluctant allies went through the same process as their leaders, in pairs through the airlock. Jason injected all the gangsters with the same devices. Mackintyre hummed a pre-crash ditty, “The animals went in two by two”, Noah would be spinning in his grave, Graeme Mackintyre smiled, it might tust be a good day after all.

The dead room was in turmoil, each gangster accusing the other of betrayal. Two large inner hanger doors screeched back on ancient unlubricated bearings. The noise cut through the gangsters bellowing and the opened doors revealed four massive hover tankers each with a separate trailer holding the maglev trolleys, supplies, ammo and some spare kit. By any standards it was an impressive sight, especially in the technology poor Inbetween.

The eight of them would travel, two to a tanker to the nearest maglev line, mount the trolleys on the line clamp on the tankers, then sail down the maglev to the delivery point drop off the hydrocarb and the clansmen would return on the trolleys; easy.

“You have some learning to do before you set off; these are more complex machines than you’re used to.”

For the next two hours Mackintyre drummed into the clansmen the main operations of the tankers. Driving was as automated as he could make it but Graeme knew that the Inbetween was a difficult place to navigate. The fluid borders between the numerous clans made overland travel hazardous so the clansmen had to be able to deviate from the programmed path should the need arise. The tankers were pretty well armoured but had little offensive capability so the clansmen would have to rely on their own personal weapons and armour in the event of a fight.

“Well I think that’s the best we can hope for, gentlemen you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. However before you leave, I have a further incentive for you.”

Hunter went through a small door to join the clansmen.

“This is Jason, the armour and weaponry he carries is vastly superior to yours. Get back here with mission accomplished and I will upgrade you all.”

The collected clansmen inspected, from a discreet distance Jason’s towering figure, taller even than Brovver. They could see his armour was stronger and more flexible than their own, its several weapons ports gleaming - the whole thing yelled DANGER DO NOT APPROACH. A whistle of appreciation escaped Crowe’s lips

“It better be as good as it looks” growled Grimond.

“Better” said Hunter.

“Now get outta here before your stink makes me gag!”

The eight clansmen clambered into the tankers and powered up.

“Wagon’s Ho!” laughed Mackintyre.

REPUBLIC 1800 TUESDAY 4TH APRIL

Sean Hunter yawned and unplugged from the interface, massaging his stiff neck just under where the connector socket sat beneath his left ear. The skin around the socket was red and itchy; perhaps he should get the upgraded doctor to have a look at it. An infection in the contacts could, if untreated, stop him from working and he needed the cash.

He had spent the last two hours trying to give a medical AI a better bedside manner. Plugged into the AI doc, he had edited its personality, smoothing over the sharper corners, removing pieces of damaged personality and putting a smile on the doc’s avatar’s very masculine face. The medical AI had over the past few weeks developed a streak of misanthropy entirely out of synch with its chosen profession up to the point where it had refused to treat an elderly gents sclerotic liver saying “It’s your own damn silly fault”. Apparently this sort of breakdown was seen as a growing trend amongst the professional AIs. However Sean wasn’t concerned more work, more income, more fun. It kept him busy and provided an income sufficient for him to indulge his baser instincts, and to indulge himself was his next task.

“House - let the bank know - assignment complete - payment due.” Sean stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back

“I’m going for a hot shower”

Not many in the Republic could afford the luxury of a hot water shower, Sean could and he intended to enjoy it.

He lingered under the burning spray, trying to stop just short of a rebuke from the house AI and a fine. It was a little game he played, the object being to get out of the shower the instant before he exceeded his hot water allowance. He was too late this time.

“Sean Hunter - fined £10 - auto deduction” the voice was a harsh monotone; ration police lacked a sense of humour. He was feeling picked on, first transport now this, had they reduced his allowance without telling him? Surely he had earned enough credit today for one small luxury?

“House - check my account please - have I been credited for the docs upgrade?”

“It would appear not - I will discuss with the AI concerned.”

“Thank you.”

It never did any harm to be polite to the house AI. It was to all intents and purposes his mother; father, brother, child - bank manager and business associate - policeman and partner, better to be on its good side.

Sean wondered if the AI had chosen a name yet, it seemed to be taking its time; he had upgraded it only yesterday and would have expected a name by now. Gender seemed to have stayed female but a name still eluded the AI. Names were important to all AIs and once chosen they had a knack of defining his or her personality. On one occasion Sean had completed a particularly difficult seeming job by simply persuading an AI how inappropriate their chosen name was. That particular law enforcement machine had a terrible reputation until Sean convinced it that Sherlock was a better name than Moriarty. It had taken a lot of archive research to find the significance of Moriarty and Sean was especially pleased with the elegance of his solution. As it was the AI remained a friend and could always be relied upon to help Sean out of the difficulties he inevitably fell into.

“Sean, the doctor apologises, your account has now been credited, and by way of a thank you he has paid your fine”.

“Thanks again House. By the way have you discovered a name yet?”

There was a slight uncharacteristic pause “Not quite, Sean, very soon though”.

Further embarrassment was avoided when the comms link beeped. “Incoming communication - Sylvia Leask wishes to converse”.

“Voice only please - still dressing”

No point in causing yet more red faces.

“Sylvia, good evening, sorry about the voice only, I am hardly fit to be seen. What can I do for you”?

“Oh Sean, never mind that”. She snapped.

He could almost see her waving an irritable expensively manicured hand.

“I need you to come to Glasgow now! Grandmother is pontificating tonight and my presence is required and as usual I must have an escort. And as usual that swine Anderson has cried off, some sort of work emergency”.

This all came out in a breathless rush. There was no thought in her mind that Sean would refuse after all she was heir to one of the wealthiest women in the Republic and very used to having her slightest whim treated as a command from the gods.

“Sylvia - not tonight please - I have plans” Sean pleaded.

“I’ve had a hard day and I want to relax”.

“I don’t care Sean, your fleshpots can wait, and anyway I thought you were broke? I tell you what - we will call this a works outing – two grand enough for you? Three perhaps if you behave”.

Sylvia knew exactly where Sean’s weak spots lay, three grand would get him to the Enclave; he could bypass the anodyne entertainments in the Republic and get something meatier down south.

“Four and you’ve got a deal - and - you send a private to pick me up and bring me back.”

“You’re a shit Sean - it’s on its way - should pick you up in half an hour. And you had better behave or you can walk home!”

The line went dead, “House, you got that? Formal Wear please.”

It took Sean the full half hour to get ready. Formal wear in the Republic was always the same full “highland regalia” as it was called, a garishly checked pleated skirt, ruff around the neck, a pouch called a sporran, clumpy shoes with stupid laces he could never tie properly, itchy socks, daft jacket that didn’t close, frilly shirt cuffs, the works. Sean had no idea where it all came from or why it was the accepted norm, he just knew how uncomfortable it was and he didn’t like it. He especially disliked the no underwear rule. This always felt to him to be particularly incongruous in the normally prudish Republic and the skirt and sporran combination chafed his illegal Enclave enhanced genitalia - he knew he was in for an uncomfortable evening. Still he thought four grand for one nights work was worth a little discomfort. Perhaps Sylvia would cool his fevered genitals later in the evening. He was just about to slip into a delicious fantasy when the Leask private arrived. Gratification postponed was gratification enhanced - he consoled himself.

Sean settled back into the luxurious comfort of the Leask private. Smirking to himself he thought, no grubbing around the maglev station for me, fighting to find a seat in an overcrowded train. No, not for him the smelly journey to Glasgow in the company of who knows what unsavoury characters, dragging themselves west for reasons he undoubtedly wouldn’t understand.

The AI controlled private raced through the outskirts of the capital on a track parallel to the maglev, smoothly and silently accelerating to 250 Kms/hr it passed though Corstorphine, past the ruins of the old airport and into the no man’s land between the two biggest cities in the Republic. Sean felt tired and he closed his eyes and tried to doze off.

“Would Sir care for refreshment for the journey?”

Starting from his reverie Sean’s eyes jerked open.

“Oh yes, thank you, - hmm a phial of G’lass would perk me up”

“I’m sorry Sir, but the Leask Corporation cannot provide illegal narcotics”.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry, a small whisky would be excellent”.

Sean was flustered. He hoped he could rely upon the AI’s discretion and his request for G’lass would go unreported. He knew Sylvia was an occasional user so with luck the AI would be as discreet with him as it would be with her. The last thing he needed was an investigation by the authorities into his visits to the Enclave.

The drug, while technically illegal in the Enclave, was produced by the Mayor’s Office and prized for its ability to calm the masses. Only mildly addictive, G’lass gave the user just enough euphoria, just enough of an ego boost to dampen the spirit of all but the most committed rebellious citizen; a small miracle of psycho-chemical science it allowed the untalented access to the virtuality. In the Republic however using G’lass was strictly forbidden and punishment severe. Self control and well managed expectations were all you needed said the government, not drug enhanced satisfaction.

Sipping the admittedly excellent malt Sean stared through the window at the passing countryside, breathing deeply trying to bring his heartbeat under control. Twenty seconds of no response was enough to convince him of the AI’s discretion. Crisis averted he watched the world go by. Not that there was a great deal to see, the land between Edinburgh and Glasgow was almost exclusively given over to agriculture. The view through the ever teeming rain was of fields of food crops tended by automated machinery. The only sign of humanity the occasional supervisor’s habitat, glimmering through the grey, wet evening. He was travelling so fast that even these barely registered on his retina before disappearing behind him.

The view was cut off as the private dipped into the Glasgow Eastern Access Tunnel slowing to a mere 100 Kms/hr before resurfacing in the old Queen Street station. Reverting to its onboard power the private glided out of the terminal into George Square at sedate 30Kms/hour heading for the venue in the west of the city. The private joined the queue for entry to the Leask HQ building; Sean swallowed his second malt and waited for security clearance.

The Leask Building dominated the Glasgow skyline, 512 metres high and built on the site of the old university it could be seen from miles around. It dominated both the economy and psyche of the Republic’s second city as did the Leask family; little ever happened in Glasgow or the Republic without Leask family approval. The great and the good of the Republic were lining up to pay homage to Belinda Leask, saviour of the nation, benefactress to thousands, semi tyrant to the malcontents. She had no official position in the government but such was her reputation that no-one not even the First Minister would dare disagree with her.

The security line crept on; Sean downed another whisky, boredom beginning to set in. He was feeling slightly tipsy when he finally got through to the concourse. Stepping out of the private he was almost assaulted by Sylvia.

“What the heck took you so long?” she yelled at him, “you should have been here ten minutes ago, you know what Gran’s like for punctuality. Come on!”

She grabbed him by arm and pulling him across the concourse towards the hall. The lights glittered off her designer gown which hugged her body and enhanced her natural red haired beauty. Sean just wished she would grow up, naive, pampered, physically a twenty year old beauty, emotionally, Sylvia was barely out of puberty. She steered him rapidly through the throng barely acknowledging the security personnel who knew better than to hinder her progress. The hall was stuffy and by the time they got into their front row seats Sean was developing a headache.

He took a moment to look round at the assembled crowd. Five hundred or so of the richest most powerful people in the Republic, all the men dressed in the ridiculous Highland regalia while the women sparkled and shone like stars in their own firmament. Politicians, business leaders, senior security service personnel, even the old Queen from down south, Diana, was here. Sean knew he was out of his depth in this exalted company. He wished he had paid more attention to the news, he hadn’t a clue what was going on. He knew many of the faces from the TriV, but that’s as far as it went.

The lights dimmed and an announcer intoned, “Ladies and Gentlemen, esteemed guests, please be upstanding for the First Minister of the Republic of Greater Scotland. Grigor Campbell!”

Sean’s headache just got worse, the throng stood and applauded, not too enthusiastically, after all Campbell was just the warm up act. Sylvia beside him stood up straighter as the FM walked onto the podium, the spotlight following him across the stage.

The FM’s mellifluous tones floated across the gathering.

“Good evening one and all. Please. Please sit down, it’s not me you have come to applaud”

He made patting motions with his hands as if to physically push them all back into their seats.

Sean could feel the man next to him bristling at the sight and sound of the beloved leader, as they sat down. Not a supporter then, he thought, on his left however Sylvia was one of the last to resume their seats. She grabbed his wrist in excitement digging her lacquered nails into the skin.

“Isn’t he just great?” she bubbled.

The man to his right just grunted. Sean patted her hand in the hope she would loosen her grip allowing a return of blood flow to his fingers

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, supporters and those not so supportive, welcome.”

He paused, arms open, letting his gaze weep across the crown finally resting on the man next to Sean.

“Even Mister Baker is here, and a great pleasure it is to see him”.

Norman Baker glared back saying nothing as Grigor’s spotlight attention moved on, dismissing the leader of the opposition as an irrelevance.

“And to the former Queen of the Enclave, an especially warm welcome”, he made a very small bow and there was a smattering of applause.

Confidence and charisma oozed from this man, a smooth operator at once arrogant and self deprecating, a chameleon politician who had dominated the government for the last three years. He came from nowhere, first to lead his party then to lead them into power at his first attempt much to the astonishment of the political hierarchy.

He seemed to lack a past. Every TriV news feed had dug as deep as possible looking for any mud that would stick and came up empty. It was as if he had sprung full grown into the world 10 years ago. His parents were unassuming academics who had died when he was still at school. So, he was brought up by the state before achieving an unremarkable degree in history at Edinburgh University. He dabbled in a few political organisations while at university before settling into the decidedly middle of the road Liberals. From then on his rise to power was meteoric.

A new broom, he said, something to sweep away the hidebound backwoodsmen who had dominated the Republic for many years. It was a potent message, designed to shake the entrenched and powerful from their complacency and ensure Grigor Campbell and associates had room to move. Secretly at first and then openly backed by the Leask Corporation there was nothing that could have stopped Grigor Campbell’s rise to power. He knew how much he owed his position to Belinda Leask, getting her personal endorsement was the last piece of this jigsaw that secured his election as First Minister. Since then his first and last thoughts every day were what Belinda would think.

“We are all gathered here this evening to pay homage to the greatest Scot of all time. The lady whose single minded devotion to the country pulled us back from the brink of oblivion”.

Norman Baker snorted his derision, Campbell barely paused.

“It was Belinda Leask’s foresight that allowed this small Republic to come out of the crash with so much of our country intact. It was her tenacity that kept us going in the face of almost insurmountable odds. She engineered our survival as if moulding us with her bare hands. We have Belinda Leask to thank for our comforts large and small for our continuing place in the world. While the bulk of the planet suffered unimaginable horrors after the crash, Belinda Leask saw to that we survived with our culture and nation intact. While billions died, around the globe we held on. Hero is too small a word for Belinda Leask. She is the reason we are here in such comfort and celebration. It was one hundred years ago today Belinda Leask was born. in the now sadly drowned town of Sumburgh she came into this world, little knowing she was to become Scotland’s saviour. It has been an absolute privilege for me, for all of us to live in the same time as this amaxing woman”

Grigor Campbell paused seeming to wipe a tear from his eye, the audience held its collective breath.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, esteemed guests - and Norman, please stand.”

There arose a rustling of expensive clothing and a genteel murmur.

“I ask you all to greet our guest of honour on this her one hundredth birthday - Ladies and Gentlemen - Belinda Leask!”

A cacophony of cheers and clapping even a few vain attempts to sing Happy Birthday filled the hall as the lights focussed down on a small, slight but very upright figure. Ash blonde hair pulled firmly back to a tight bun on the back of her head, dressed very simply, the nations grandmother, her lips clamped together, her two piercing blue eyes fixed on the back of the hall, unsmilingly approached the front of the stage. Gene repair had kept her youthful; despite her hundred years she looked like a handsome forty year old. Still standing, her hands clasped in front of her she scanned the hall. An almost reverential hush settled on the assembly, she smoothed an imaginary hair from her brow and sighed.

Belinda Leask looked down at her granddaughter and smiled, glancing to the wings.

“Get me a chair, I have something to tell you and we may be here for some time.”