Status: This might be the most disturbing book you read this year...
The Blurt of Richard Davies
Chapter Two
April 6th.
It can't be time to get up already! I'd only just gone to sleep. At least one of the perks of my new position is that I'm responsible to myself now. I'll make a point of it that providing everyone does what they're supposed to well and on time I'm not bothered about the minutiae of office life, and yes, that includes me.
Still, I've got a good excuse for running a bit late having crashed in so early this morning. I blurt to let everyone know that I'd be in later and set about making myself presentable. I've finally got the hang of shaving with the new safety cutthroat, but I must remember to take it to FixIt for a resharpening; they do a much better job than I can. A quick splash wash has the water meter telling me if I keep being water wise for another day then I'll have saved enough to indulge in a short warm shower by the weekend. Though taking regular showers is encouraged to remove any low level particles, we're not allocated the Water Credit to do so. That, like everything else these days, is of course an extra expense. It's a bitter irony that even as we paddle our way through one of the wettest periods in our metrological history, we're still being urged; nay forced by rationing by price to economise on our water use.
I should ride into work but I feel drained after yesterday, and with the monthly partial expiry of the TransCreds due it makes sense to use them or lose them, so I maight as well catch the X47 express bus from the 'Ville into Pompey. At least these days it doesn't take long; with limited stops and at the 80kph limit down a clearer M275 you arrive in the city centre quickly enough.
Everyone knows of course, thanks to a massblurt from James; but I call a brief meeting anyway just to let them know everything is fine, and I'm still the same person that they knew the day before yesterday. I won't let my new power go to my head, and any changes will be evolutionary rather than revolutionary. After introducing Lisa Burrows as the sort-of replacement in my old post I have a final announcement.
"Oh, and by the way, Kevin Ford blurted me this morning; news travels fast! He and Rosa are OK and busy setting themselves up near Narberth. Right now they've got their hands full with making the place habitable and getting the smallholding off the ground, but he hopes to be 'casting again within a couple of months, any help we could give him would be welcome. So, if any of our stories have a welsh connection, let him know and try to bring him in on it, any ViewCred is always welcome". There are nods all round: Kevin was popular here; we all owe something to him, and wish him well in his new venture.
"His final lines are... Once I've established myself here, consider yourself free to visit if you get the chance; and if you want to escape England for some relative freedom, either temporarily or permanently, just let me know. Get yourselves across the border before they close it! Rosa says that she doesn't regret moving for a moment, and they'd have to drag her back at gunpoint now; she wants Bron and Marie to grow up where there is room to breathe. So keep in touch and the best of luck to you all: I think you're going to need it!" Again more nods of agreement all round, I look for the telltale look or slight body language of disapproval, seeing nothing. I know that we're all kindred spirits here but these days you never know... Or someone is very good at keeping their true allegiance hidden.
Lisa Burrows and Bippin Swaroop hang back as everyone leaves.
"Trouble?" I ask.
"Sort of" says Lisa, "Dunno if you've had a chance to notice, but the OMS are all over our case about the Pig Club report after our local Connie media monitoring group took exception to it. Christ knows what got their hackles up about a group of allotment commonholders clubbing together to raise a pig on their plot, but they're claiming the tone of the report was mocking and the comparison with World War Two was misleading as there is no such austerity now; or maybe it's the meat eating that they're objecting to..."
"No, it's not that bad," interrupts Bippin "It's far worse now!" We inwardly groan at his humour.
Lisa continues. "Anyway, as you weren't here I replied with the usual pro-forma; only stating the facts, let the viewers make up their own minds, unbiased, impartial reporting, blah blah blah... That should keep them quiet for a while but it's wearing us all down dealing with this constant drizzle of complaint".
"I know!' I reply. "That's why the wankers do it, but we mustn't let them get to us or they're winning. You did the right thing; let's see what they say to that or if they move it to the next level. If they do I'll take it on. James is aware of what we're putting up with, and we hope to be getting the MaggieSist online to deal with it soon".
"OK, well it's all yours now! I've got to go and compile my next bulletin; see you later!"
Bippin looks furtively around. I pull out my old slate and run my finger across the screen in that particular pattern that starts the scanning programme. No warning messages appear.
"All clear!" I say, showing him the screen, "Looks as if we're not that important yet, they can't be bothered to do more than snoop on our feeds."
"You never can be too careful!" He says. 'Anyway I've got these for you to sign-off: Installation of some more stuff. James has really splashed out this time; he must be expecting a lot of traffic! Thing is, we can't fit it all in here... I'd be able to if we didn't have that sealed space, so we'll have to split it between here and Anchorage Park, front end interface here - the works up there".
"No problem!" I reply. "And Bippin; I spoke to James; there's a reason for that sealed space, but keep it to yourself. There's going to be some dark gear in there and a supply cache in case things get really bad".
"Does he-"
"Yes he does, and there's more on the way soon. Can you install it discreetly and keep it off the system register?"
"Of course!"
"I've been meaning to get a duplicate set of keys and codes for you; for here and Anchorage Park, and we'll be the only people with access. So this is strictly between us. As far as everyone else is concerned, and then only if they ask, it's a new Resilient Power Supply and Emergency Memory Core. I'll sort it out soon. When you get them, don't let those keys out of your sight."
"Fair enough! I wondered what was going in there; not even I could hack that code, and you'd need a battle 'bot to break down that door! That is some serious security!"
"I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't tried, and really pissed-off if you'd succeeded! Anything else?"
"No, that'll do it for now".
"OK; and please try to get Maggie online as soon as possible!"
"Trust me; I want her online as badly as you do!" With that he leaves me.
I have the office to myself again. For a moment I can pause and take my newly permanent role in; but only for a moment. Then the responsibilties of it begin to nag at me: I'm barely two hours into the job and I've already done enough to earn myself a very long time filling sandbags on the East Coast Flood Defence Scheme.
The rest of the day passes quickly. A 'Keep up the good work' teleconference with the other local offices; writing my first executive order restating our ban on the use of influential background music and irritating filter effects from all news reports: - "we're repositioning ourselves at the serious news market" - plus the usual admin while keeping an ear on the output occupies me, and then it's time to leave.
I'm glad I took the bus this morning, I don't fancy riding back though the cold, ambush cloudbursts which have been brewing during the afternoon. Yes it is April, but even so...
The standing-only express bus trundles through the spray along the badly surfaced motorway. Strap hanging I can see the new shipyard developments; freshly constructed industrious looking docks; barges, cranes and hanger sized sheds crowding the waterfront. Outside, large primary colour painted parts of offshore aerogenerators ready to be assembled are spread along what was once the derelict tangle of rusty marine scrap around Whale Island and Tipnor.
This is the face of the Federation the Consensus is most proud of; a purposeful, green, industrial autarky newly reclaimed from the silt of the broken nation which had gone before. But soon the illusion passes and we're going past the former Horsea City Park. It was reappropriated for housing, but a token play space and microhabitat wood retained as a reminder of the vision it might have been.
The bus reaches the desperate suburbia to the north. I disembark at the 'Ville, and have a quick shop in the local collective store (no ComCred required), then walk the short distance home to finish my day by cooking myself a good sized baked potato and all the trimmings to celebrate my good fortune.
I'm not expecting Cath to call me, she seems to spend all of her time working in that bloody care home; so once I've had a good tot of Dad's latest hooch I'll turn in for an early night. It's no wonder our relationship has stalled with work keeping us apart, but as everyone is she's too busy trying to keep her head above water. In fact there was some research published recently which claimed we are all getting so tired as a result of our all-consuming grafting that we can't be bothered to get out and search for new partners, or satisfy the ones we have as often as we'd wish. The birth rate is falling despite the effect of all the fecund recent migrants having larger families than we Fedders: Our national libido is drooping. Still the eternal optimists of the Consensus will claim this is a good thing as it reduces promiscuity and sexually transmitted diseases.
I really should just man-up about it, admit it's over and start looking for someone else; but it cuts both ways: They say whatever you do, don't date media people. But I can worry about that some other time; right now I need to catch up on some sleep.
It can't be time to get up already! I'd only just gone to sleep. At least one of the perks of my new position is that I'm responsible to myself now. I'll make a point of it that providing everyone does what they're supposed to well and on time I'm not bothered about the minutiae of office life, and yes, that includes me.
Still, I've got a good excuse for running a bit late having crashed in so early this morning. I blurt to let everyone know that I'd be in later and set about making myself presentable. I've finally got the hang of shaving with the new safety cutthroat, but I must remember to take it to FixIt for a resharpening; they do a much better job than I can. A quick splash wash has the water meter telling me if I keep being water wise for another day then I'll have saved enough to indulge in a short warm shower by the weekend. Though taking regular showers is encouraged to remove any low level particles, we're not allocated the Water Credit to do so. That, like everything else these days, is of course an extra expense. It's a bitter irony that even as we paddle our way through one of the wettest periods in our metrological history, we're still being urged; nay forced by rationing by price to economise on our water use.
I should ride into work but I feel drained after yesterday, and with the monthly partial expiry of the TransCreds due it makes sense to use them or lose them, so I maight as well catch the X47 express bus from the 'Ville into Pompey. At least these days it doesn't take long; with limited stops and at the 80kph limit down a clearer M275 you arrive in the city centre quickly enough.
Everyone knows of course, thanks to a massblurt from James; but I call a brief meeting anyway just to let them know everything is fine, and I'm still the same person that they knew the day before yesterday. I won't let my new power go to my head, and any changes will be evolutionary rather than revolutionary. After introducing Lisa Burrows as the sort-of replacement in my old post I have a final announcement.
"Oh, and by the way, Kevin Ford blurted me this morning; news travels fast! He and Rosa are OK and busy setting themselves up near Narberth. Right now they've got their hands full with making the place habitable and getting the smallholding off the ground, but he hopes to be 'casting again within a couple of months, any help we could give him would be welcome. So, if any of our stories have a welsh connection, let him know and try to bring him in on it, any ViewCred is always welcome". There are nods all round: Kevin was popular here; we all owe something to him, and wish him well in his new venture.
"His final lines are... Once I've established myself here, consider yourself free to visit if you get the chance; and if you want to escape England for some relative freedom, either temporarily or permanently, just let me know. Get yourselves across the border before they close it! Rosa says that she doesn't regret moving for a moment, and they'd have to drag her back at gunpoint now; she wants Bron and Marie to grow up where there is room to breathe. So keep in touch and the best of luck to you all: I think you're going to need it!" Again more nods of agreement all round, I look for the telltale look or slight body language of disapproval, seeing nothing. I know that we're all kindred spirits here but these days you never know... Or someone is very good at keeping their true allegiance hidden.
Lisa Burrows and Bippin Swaroop hang back as everyone leaves.
"Trouble?" I ask.
"Sort of" says Lisa, "Dunno if you've had a chance to notice, but the OMS are all over our case about the Pig Club report after our local Connie media monitoring group took exception to it. Christ knows what got their hackles up about a group of allotment commonholders clubbing together to raise a pig on their plot, but they're claiming the tone of the report was mocking and the comparison with World War Two was misleading as there is no such austerity now; or maybe it's the meat eating that they're objecting to..."
"No, it's not that bad," interrupts Bippin "It's far worse now!" We inwardly groan at his humour.
Lisa continues. "Anyway, as you weren't here I replied with the usual pro-forma; only stating the facts, let the viewers make up their own minds, unbiased, impartial reporting, blah blah blah... That should keep them quiet for a while but it's wearing us all down dealing with this constant drizzle of complaint".
"I know!' I reply. "That's why the wankers do it, but we mustn't let them get to us or they're winning. You did the right thing; let's see what they say to that or if they move it to the next level. If they do I'll take it on. James is aware of what we're putting up with, and we hope to be getting the MaggieSist online to deal with it soon".
"OK, well it's all yours now! I've got to go and compile my next bulletin; see you later!"
Bippin looks furtively around. I pull out my old slate and run my finger across the screen in that particular pattern that starts the scanning programme. No warning messages appear.
"All clear!" I say, showing him the screen, "Looks as if we're not that important yet, they can't be bothered to do more than snoop on our feeds."
"You never can be too careful!" He says. 'Anyway I've got these for you to sign-off: Installation of some more stuff. James has really splashed out this time; he must be expecting a lot of traffic! Thing is, we can't fit it all in here... I'd be able to if we didn't have that sealed space, so we'll have to split it between here and Anchorage Park, front end interface here - the works up there".
"No problem!" I reply. "And Bippin; I spoke to James; there's a reason for that sealed space, but keep it to yourself. There's going to be some dark gear in there and a supply cache in case things get really bad".
"Does he-"
"Yes he does, and there's more on the way soon. Can you install it discreetly and keep it off the system register?"
"Of course!"
"I've been meaning to get a duplicate set of keys and codes for you; for here and Anchorage Park, and we'll be the only people with access. So this is strictly between us. As far as everyone else is concerned, and then only if they ask, it's a new Resilient Power Supply and Emergency Memory Core. I'll sort it out soon. When you get them, don't let those keys out of your sight."
"Fair enough! I wondered what was going in there; not even I could hack that code, and you'd need a battle 'bot to break down that door! That is some serious security!"
"I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't tried, and really pissed-off if you'd succeeded! Anything else?"
"No, that'll do it for now".
"OK; and please try to get Maggie online as soon as possible!"
"Trust me; I want her online as badly as you do!" With that he leaves me.
I have the office to myself again. For a moment I can pause and take my newly permanent role in; but only for a moment. Then the responsibilties of it begin to nag at me: I'm barely two hours into the job and I've already done enough to earn myself a very long time filling sandbags on the East Coast Flood Defence Scheme.
The rest of the day passes quickly. A 'Keep up the good work' teleconference with the other local offices; writing my first executive order restating our ban on the use of influential background music and irritating filter effects from all news reports: - "we're repositioning ourselves at the serious news market" - plus the usual admin while keeping an ear on the output occupies me, and then it's time to leave.
I'm glad I took the bus this morning, I don't fancy riding back though the cold, ambush cloudbursts which have been brewing during the afternoon. Yes it is April, but even so...
The standing-only express bus trundles through the spray along the badly surfaced motorway. Strap hanging I can see the new shipyard developments; freshly constructed industrious looking docks; barges, cranes and hanger sized sheds crowding the waterfront. Outside, large primary colour painted parts of offshore aerogenerators ready to be assembled are spread along what was once the derelict tangle of rusty marine scrap around Whale Island and Tipnor.
This is the face of the Federation the Consensus is most proud of; a purposeful, green, industrial autarky newly reclaimed from the silt of the broken nation which had gone before. But soon the illusion passes and we're going past the former Horsea City Park. It was reappropriated for housing, but a token play space and microhabitat wood retained as a reminder of the vision it might have been.
The bus reaches the desperate suburbia to the north. I disembark at the 'Ville, and have a quick shop in the local collective store (no ComCred required), then walk the short distance home to finish my day by cooking myself a good sized baked potato and all the trimmings to celebrate my good fortune.
I'm not expecting Cath to call me, she seems to spend all of her time working in that bloody care home; so once I've had a good tot of Dad's latest hooch I'll turn in for an early night. It's no wonder our relationship has stalled with work keeping us apart, but as everyone is she's too busy trying to keep her head above water. In fact there was some research published recently which claimed we are all getting so tired as a result of our all-consuming grafting that we can't be bothered to get out and search for new partners, or satisfy the ones we have as often as we'd wish. The birth rate is falling despite the effect of all the fecund recent migrants having larger families than we Fedders: Our national libido is drooping. Still the eternal optimists of the Consensus will claim this is a good thing as it reduces promiscuity and sexually transmitted diseases.
I really should just man-up about it, admit it's over and start looking for someone else; but it cuts both ways: They say whatever you do, don't date media people. But I can worry about that some other time; right now I need to catch up on some sleep.