YLO

Part I: Search and Rescue

One: The Rescuer

Eight three. The woman drew back her racket to unleash another vicious serve against the front wall of the court. Damn if she wasn’t good. Totally tireless too. Jen nodded to confirm the score, brushing an errant strand of brown hair out of her eyes and back under her sweatband. She just about returned the Orange ranker’s serve this time, but was immediately on the defensive in the rally and having to cover about twice the distance her taller opponent was running.

Nice shot, Jen conceded with forced good grace. She disliked how one-sided the match was getting, but her technique would never improve unless she played people who could beat her. She loathed early-morning sports with a passion bordering on raw hate, although she knew it would help her keep fit. All too often over recent months, family duties had meant she’d been unable to find time for more than jogging around the park. Or exercising with the free weights that her current cohab partner had installed in the room that was supposed to be her office.

Nine three.

Another unreturnable serve followed, but the racquetball centre’s priestess mercifully dimmed the lights to interrupt play. Paging ylo-Jen Czerny, said a smooth female voice. Sorry about your game, ladies, but this is a priority call-out from FedSec Dispatch.

Undecided whether to be relieved at the interruption sparing her a severe hammering, or annoyed at another failure to record a completed game on the ladder, Jen shrugged apologetically.

No worries, Citizen Yellow. The athletic black girl may have been ready to destroy Jen mercilessly on court, but was looking at her with renewed respect now. Dispatch? Duty calls; you can’t help it. Way to go. She lowered her voice. We both wanted this match on the books, right? I’ll register it as thirteen six. Always drop a few points I shouldn’t against left-handers. Fair enough, ylo-Jen?

More than. Jen nodded her thanks as the youngster left. Okay, priestess, patch it through.

A holo-window popped up, as if Jen was looking into a room behind the wall. There were usually four different dispatchers at the city’s Search and Rescue centre, three Greys plus one Citizen controlling them. Today she saw others in the background too, including two officers. This was serious.

Jen outranked them, so etiquette dictated that the controller spoke first. Good morning, Lieutenant.

Morning, red-Kendal. What’s up?

General call-out, Citizen Yellow. Your entire squad. Report to base as soon as possible. What’s your current location?

Sports hall round the corner, she said. Don’t send anyone to pick me up. I’ll be with you in five. What’s the emergency?

Another tremor, ma’am. In Bowcock this time. A hick town half an hour away by aircar. Half a million residents at most, but populous enough to have its own FedSec forces. Minor quake, but severe enough that they need your team for underground search and rescue.

Infrastructure damage the locals can’t handle? she asked. Or did people get caught in it? Not predicted?

Yes ma’am, it sounds like they didn’t see it coming, said the dispatcher. From what we’ve heard so far, people are panicking because loads of power lines are down.

Search and Rescue were familiar with that issue. Darkness and dwindling air supplies soon made residents caught underground nervous and claustrophobic. It was one of the rare times Jen found herself praying assiduously to Gaia too, wanting everything about her to be up to date in the Afterlife. In case today was the day her physical body met its end.

Is it stable? Have there been aftershocks?

No, ma’am. But they think it’s likely.

Shit. This could be horrendously dangerous. Our role?

Kendal checked his notes. A report that a tubeway train came off the rails. Caught fire too. They’re afraid it’ll be a right mess and they want the experts in there to back up the paramedics.

A packed commuter train. This could be a bloody business. Hers wouldn’t be the only team they’d called: every spare FedSec grunt within a hundred klicks would be summoned. She braced herself for the worst.

Nasty. Right: squirt the details to my pad and I’ll read them on the way in.

Roger that, Lieutenant.

Less than ten minutes later, still sticky and sweaty, Jen met her team on the roof of the FedSec tower. There’d been no time to shower, so she’d thrown on her uniform again and sprinted the few hundred yards to HQ. A FedSec aircar was taking them straight to the town that had been hit. They stayed tuned in to Dispatch and the newsfeeds during the short flight. Jen had enough experience to know that every snippet of information they could gather might be crucial, so there was no bantering and joshing on the way. Hers was a tight-knit team with an unusual calling: there weren’t enough rescue operations for a full-time squad, so they generally doubled up on other police matters like the drugs trade too. But now it was time to do what they were trained for, and she was pleased to note that they went about it professionally. Despite the obvious hazard of a further quake, they’d all go underground to help, even if the silently moving lips suggested that most of them were praying. It had sounded potentially disastrous, and the initial panicked reports had presaged a calamity on a considerable scale. But before they had even landed, red-Jonas had analysed the incoming streams and it had become clear that hassled junior staff had over-reacted and called in the same events multiple times. Jen’s training told her that was positive, cause for cautious relief. It was starting to look as if the fuss was as much due to a lack of communications as any reality on the ground. It had been a low-energy quake, doing limited structural damage apart from the one tube train. That, on the other hand, still sounded ominous, so she redirected the firefighters and paramedics there and instructed the aircar pilot to set them down at the nearest access point to the tubeway tunnels.

As a result, her own team was second on the scene, struggling to put on respirators as they rushed against the flow of sooty smoke into the entrance. Her responsibility was coordination, getting them to help with the fire-fighting equipment and emergency lighting. She ran ahead to see exactly what else was needed, only to be told by an over-excited corporal who looked barely old enough to be out of school that quick-thinking passengers had stayed calm, operated the extinguishers and got the worst of the blaze under control.

A lot of filthy smoke, the girl said. Horrid. It’s blackened the whole shooting match and everything stinks of singed plastics.

Acrid and greasy; Jen smelled it too. Atmosphere?

If the gas concentrations were safe, they’d dispense with the bulky and uncomfortable respirators.

Readouts say oxygen and carbon monoxide are fine.

No PPE needed?

Unpleasant but breathable, ma’am.

Okay, she said with relief, her experience telling her already that this was going to be relatively controllable. Thank Gaia for that.

Other teams from further away arrived shortly afterwards, which meant they had enough numbers. Soon it became a question of liaising with the other lieutenants while the individual rescue party workers – Red-ranked guards accompanying ditto FedMed paramedics and nurses – guided shocked and severely shaken commuters from the wrecked train out along the dark tunnels. They were being idented one by one as they came out, a junior guardsman holding a scanner up to their wrist tattoos. On Jen’s instructions, he was checking them off against a list of passengers compiled as they boarded the train. Should be enough to make sure they didn’t leave anybody unconscious inside.

The vast majority were Grey commuters, although the concrete dust and sooty smoke over everyone meant it was hard to discern the ranks, with harsh halogen floodlights leaching the colours out of the nightmarish scene even more.

She recognized the solidly-built figure of one of her team and beckoned him over. Situation report, red-Harrison, she said. How many still in there?

As he started speaking, an Orange corporal from one of the other teams came over to report, an ungainly young giant of a woman who towered six inches over Jen. Harrison carried on blithely. Sit-rep: walking wounded all out safely, ylo-Jen, and the…

The higher-status officer was giving him a sour look for not letting her speak first, so Jen raised a hand to shut Harrison up. Time was of the essence: she wanted everyone topside as soon as possible if aftershocks were likely.

Later, Citizen Red. What’ve you got, Corporal?

Driver’s initial report, ma’am.

I’m listening.

Unhurt and already questioned. Says he’d begun slowing down for the next station when he saw the lights up ahead go out. So he hit the brakes.

And the black box backs him up on that?

Blushing at not having that important detail available, the corporal flipped her visor down to check. A smirking Harrison did the same. Gaia, the man was annoying at times.

Er, yes ma’am.

No reason to hold him then, is there? Unhurt, you said? Ask the paramedics if he needs treatment for shock first and then release him.

The corporal nodded. Roger that.

And squirt that report across before you go.

She scanned it quickly. The tube train had not been going as fast as feared – Jen had once witnessed the meaty carnage of a high-speed accident and it was a memory she could have well done without – and so most of the injuries were no more than banged heads and bruises. The exceptions were a handful with broken limbs who needed hauling out on stretchers. And two asthmatics affected by smoke inhalation, but no long-term effects. Zero fatalities, for which she was grateful. Not only was it satisfying to have rescued everyone (where else was that kick a daily perk of the job?), but there was also less paperwork, fewer interviews and no evidence to inquests.

All in all, it had been a smooth operation, without outside interference for once: one of the few positives of subterranean scenarios was being able to keep the baying newshounds at arm’s length until it was over and she was ready to give them their soundbites.

A trickle of sand from the roof sent gritty dust down the back of her neck. Gaia, just how stable was the tunnel? Time to wrap this one up. Harrison had probably stewed long enough. She beckoned him over and saw him looking upwards uncertainly too.

Your report backs this up? she asked. Not as bad as it looked?

Walking wounded evacuated, ylo-Jen, he said, and the last half dozen stretcher cases are being brought out now.

And you can confirm zero casualties?

Yes, ma’am. Gaia knows, it could have been a lot worse.

Gaia knows. It certainly could. She nodded in agreement. Right, thanks. So let’s get out of here before the ceiling comes down on us. Go and help Miko there. The smallest member of her team, a diminutive red-ranked woman of Asian extraction, was acting as a makeshift stretcher bearer. Misbalanced with a muscular-looking robocop type holding the other end as they struggled along carrying an obese woman with blood all over her face. Another group was struggling with a powerfully-built older guy who had lost it completely, screaming and lashing out. Not surprising: Jen was borderline terrified herself. Her training could prepare her for blood and injuries, but tons of unstable rock above their heads was altogether more visceral. The FedMeds had calmed the older man down when a distant juddering rumble and slight vibration set him off again. The trickle of sand was ominously faster now. She decided that Harrison’s imposing musculature could be better utilized elsewhere.

No, you help pacify the guy with the heebie-jeebies. I’ll give red-Miko a hand.

Team leaders were supposed to coordinate rather than get involved, but there were about four others here already. She’d seen green epaulettes on one and was happy to let the more senior officer handle the media and the local priests and politicos. Her Search and Rescue team numbered only eight – all Reds, two full strata below her with no Oranges in between – and some of the older hands inevitably found that unusual status gap uncomfortable. Being pressed into service as an emergency stretcher bearer might help Jen seem more human to her team. The squaddie at the other end of the stretcher wasn’t one of hers and he seemed astounded to see a lieutenant hop down onto the tracks. But Miko would be glad of the help, at any rate. They had put the stretcher down for a moment and she was now down on one knee getting her breath back. Her slight build was uncommon for a Red with an active job that required a high score on the physical pillar of the ranking assessments. Sporting skills based on reaction speed, Jen remembered. She didn’t know the younger guardswoman socially, but they’d chatted often enough. Miko was heavily into some kind of virtual reality gaming she excelled at. A genuine expert. Even had one of those visual ports implanted that the top players used. In fact, standing behind her now, Jen could just see the socket above the nape of her neck, glinting through the short and thick, jet-black hair. Miko turned to look at Jen, surprised for a second, before giving her a friendly smile of thanks.

Good to see you, Lieutenant.

No point me standing about doing nothing, is there? And we all need to get out pronto. So, what’ve we got here?

Cut to the scalp and a broken ankle, ma’am. Conscious and FedMed said no major damage, but the bang on the head’s left her too woozy to walk out with just a crutch and an arm around her.

And you, Citizen Red, didn’t think you could catch me if I fell, added their weighty passenger, heavy-duty pain relievers perhaps making her unusually chatty for a non-citizen in the presence of FedSecs. She added, with an unexpected chuckle, Too right. Don’t reckon you would’ve caught me neither, lookin’ at the size of you.

Almost there now, Rose, said Miko gently as the three of them manoeuvred their hefty burden up onto the platform where a wheeled gurney waited.

Thank you, Corporal, Jen said, dismissing the other guardsman. We can handle it from here.

Miko turned to the victim. There’s an elevator fifty yards away, Rose. That’ll take us to an ambulance; FedMed will look after you from there.

Two minutes later, they were handing her over to the paramedics. Being back at the surface had never felt so good. Jen straightened up, relieved to be rid of the substantial load. Miko did the same, albeit more slowly. Jen gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder. Great work, kid.

Thanks, ylo-Jen. Miko raised a hand to wave farewell to their erstwhile passenger.

Thank you, Citizens, thank you all. Jen looked across at Rose, who seemed unsure what to say now; after all, there weren’t many situations in which a Grey would find herself being actively helped by two full members of the Federal hierarchy. I reckoned my time had come down there, you know, I honestly did. By Gaia. Like the end of the world. I was watchin’ that crazy old prof on the viewscreen. You know, the one who’s always sayin’ he’s got proof the world’s about to come to an end. The big woman shuddered. Then bang! Darkness and hollerin’. For a moment I thought he might be right.

Two: The Lieutenant

The groundcar’s smooth engine purred as it surged off the arterial tunnel onto the city centre slipway and up three levels to the terminal under the main square. Asking Jen’s destination had been a formality.

FedSec HQ, ma’am?

One glance at the FedSec lieutenant’s black uniform had told the taxi chauffeur where his passenger was headed. Jen had seen him surreptitiously summing her up: late twenties, wavy brown hair and large grey-blue eyes in a pale, freckled face. On the thin side – no shorter than the swarthy cabbie, but barely half his weight. Immaculately turned out: de rigueur for upper-strata citizenry. Jen found it a right pain conforming to the picture of pristine perfection, but it was expected. Never a spot on the dark outfit, nor a chestnut curl out of place or a button left undone.

Executive elevator, ma’am? he enquired as they approached the complex, pre-emptively merging into the appropriate lane.

Yup. She put one hassled hand up to her forehead, not caring if the gesture revealed she had a blinding headache.

The car came to a silent stop and his hairy hand with its sausage-like fingers held a payment terminal out to her. Accompanied by a wash of unsuccessfully masked body odour. She held her left wrist too briefly to the device; the terminal beeped and flashed red instead of confirming it had read her ident tattoo. Muttering something less than ladylike, she tried again. She remembered her bad humour wasn’t the driver’s fault, though, and thanked him politely enough.

Jen was simmering. Her heroic high from having handled the Bowcock tremor yesterday had come right down to earth. The damn day had hardly started, and it was already going pear-shaped. She wouldn’t normally have taken a taxi to the office, but she’d have been late otherwise. And she resented that fact that she would have to pay for it herself too; the jerks in personnel wouldn’t accept it as expenses. That idiot of a man she was living with had refused adamantly to help her out.

It’s your turn to take your own kid to the damned crèche.

Oh come on, just this once.

Once? Once! Jen, I’ve covered for you three times this week already. Why don’t you hire someone?

Swap, then. I’ll make it up next week.

No, I’ve got a meeting. A key meeting that I’m not going to miss.

So she’d not had time for breakfast while getting Mattie ready. Hence her rumbling stomach. Her small son had inevitably picked up on the tension and cross words in that annoyingly perceptive way kids have, so he’d been in a strop all the way. Hence her moodiness and migraine (or maybe that was because of last night). Followed by the kid acting all clingy at the crèche so that it took her five minutes to extricate herself, nicely in time to miss the tube back by a few seconds. Hence the cab.

Jen did fortunately get behind her desk by the designated start of her shift. She’d earmarked it for catching up on at least one of several mountains of pointless paperwork, but that plan was doomed from the start. Almost before she’d sat down, she heard a knock on the door and red-Kay walked in. Morning, ma’am. Got a minute?

Thankfully, the older woman had the good sense to bring the first of what would undoubtedly be many borderline unpalatable cups of ersatz coffee that day. At least it had a vague, coffee-like aroma; anything had to be better than the reek of that cabbie’s crappy cologne.

Bearing gifts, I see. Thanks. Jen took the plastic cup from her technical officer, sniffed it with a grimace and risked a cautious sip; HQ’s catering was justifiably notorious. Ah, mud with a hint of nail varnish remover today.

"You should try the tea one day, ma’am. Actually tastes better after a cigarette’s been put out in it."

Jen liked red-Kay, a somewhat matronly and efficient figure who wouldn’t stand any nonsense. Not that anybody with half a brain would dare give her any trouble in the first place, to be honest. Jen had once seen the spitting image of Kay in some costume drama set in the distant past, in the role of a castle’s malevolent cook, with a well-floured rolling pin in her meaty mitts. She’d hardly been able to look at Kay since without that incongruous image crossing her mind.

Jen gestured that she should take the seat opposite and was about to ask red-Kay what she wanted – presumably not a chat about how desperate the beverage options were – when a message from her own manager popped up on the intercom. ‘Captain Walker for Lieutenant Czerny.’

Jen shrugged apologetically, but Kay didn’t seem fussed. No bother, ma’am. All-ranks rally called by the priests. Wanted to know if you knew anything.

Jen switched the comm on and her superior officer’s handsome, blue-eyed face appeared on the screen.

My office, Citizen Yellow, came the peremptory instruction. The entire section’s been summoned for a public presentation in the square in thirty minutes, so there’s just time to update you with the few fragments I know.

I thought that was tomorrow?

That’s the technical briefing. This is a general policing pep-talk about some new initiative.

The screen went blank with no further pleasantries, so Jen realized there was no time to hang about. She gulped down half the coffee (inwardly cursing the fact that Murphy’s Law dictated that this happened to be the one time the damned drink was hot), trotted up two flights of stairs and walked briskly down the brightly lit corridor. A management level, with luxurious carpeting, colour-coordinated in blue and green, instead of poured plastic flooring. One diligent Grey tending the potted plants growing every few metres, another wheeling a coffee trolley along. Smelled far better than what was available downstairs, too.

Uncoordinatedly lanky and annoyingly smarmy, a personal assistant showed Jen in straight away. Lieutenant Czerny for you, Captain.

Thank you. That will be all, red-Ulrich. Take a seat, ylo-Jen.

Jen took a chair opposite the solid desk. Facing the window, with the light in her eyes. Inevitable psychology.

It’s some new ministerial edict, a general anti-drugs push. Sessions for everyone in every two-bit town, said the senior bureaucrat. Unlike the tech brainstorming tomorrow; they asked specifically for your team. Well, for you, anyway. And I don’t refuse orders from on high.

That meant way high. To Jen, the azure epaulettes and insignia on Eve Walker’s uniform were already a rarefied rank. Destined without doubt to become a top apparatchik. There had to be more to the statuesque woman than long legs and a flawless face; nobody qualified as Blue without serious smarts. As for rumours of Eve screwing her way up the ranks… well, Jen presumed that was jealous scandalmongering. Despite her instinctive resentment against anyone who’d had better breaks in life, Jen liked the younger woman and saw no reason to believe scurrilous scuttlebutt.

Understood. What’s this morning about then, ma’am?

The Policy Unit are talking to a whole bunch of people about the pasithea problem. The entire department.

Why the Policy wonks, ma’am? I’d have expected Policing and FedMed for a drugs info session, not priests.

Precisely, agreed Eve, lips pursed. For the media, I’d presume. We’ll learn more from tomorrow’s briefing. Though the reporting on the Bowcock incident takes priority. But for now, ylo-Jen, get yourself and your team out on the parade square. Dismissed.

Jen saluted and left on the double.

Search and Rescue were already waiting for Jen in their squad room on the third floor. The office block’s monumental design failed to allow for such small teams and so their home base was spacious – room for twenty desks instead of seven. Gave it a nice relaxed atmosphere that even red-Harrison’s potent aftershave couldn’t overpower.

Will this tell us anything new, Lieutenant? he asked as they headed for the lifts.

She shrugged. Dunno. A general session given by priests can’t add much that we don’t know already.

Drugs have always been around, agreed red-Miko. So why are the top brass getting their knickers in a twist now?

Theocracy edict, apparently. I guess we’ll soon see.

Yeah well, came another voice. The new youngster, Markus. It’ll be better than back to the grind with whatever grn-Hayward and the admins will actually be expecting us to do. Resigned shrugs from most of the group; Jen wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the Search and Rescue role more than humdrum policing.

Right, she said as they joined the flow of black-uniformed officers heading for the front exit. Questions?

Kay gestured momentarily. Clerics will have naff all to say that’s new, right, Lieutenant? I mean, everyone’s known what the drug does for years.

Allegedly, interjected a sardonic voice, but Jen took no notice. Pasithea was endemic and there were bound to be clandestine users… but not Kay, not in a month of Sundays. Too straight-laced.

This’ll just be about the overall picture, said Miko. Outside our scope. Generalities for analysts, no use to us grunts at the coal face.

And they still haven’t found out where it’s being made, ma’am?

Nope, far as I know. Weird. What does that suggest, red-Jonas? About whoever’s synthesizing it?

He considered it. You can’t hide that kind of operation, ylo-Jen. Plenty of people must know exactly where it is, and loads of drug money bribes them to keep it secret.

She nodded. A cynic after my own heart. But that’s not our job, and there are top people on it already. But we can keep our eyes peeled. Do something on a smaller scale for our own patch. I’m sure the head honchos here would like a nice victory to get their smiling faces on the newscasts.

When they strode outside into the chill morning air, she looked around for ylo-Vince. There weren’t many yellow insignias, even in such a large crowd, so she hoped she might spot her younger FedMed colleague. Get a chance to persuade a handsome man to take her out after work. No sign, though. Shame – people on her wavelength were few and far between.

As for the Priesthood? They wouldn’t know what a wavelength meant. It never ceased to amaze her how little some otherwise bright people knew. Old wrinkle-features leather-face himself, Prester Udo, had typified it at school.

But, young lady, you must concede that there is no necessity to understand the quantum mechanics of lasers in order to know that a tattoo scanner works. Wagging a long, bony finger at her. Driving an aircar is easy without the slightest knowledge of aerodynamics. Understanding refractive indices makes rainbows no more beautiful, nor their natural spectrum of colours any less crucial as the template for Federal society.

He’d elevated technical ignorance to an art form: Gaian orthodoxy dictated that life was all about interactions, seeing society and the world more as some meta-organism. The global view, looking outwards and upwards in scale rather than down to the nitty-gritty details that Jen found fascinating, far more so than the endless sports competitions and mindless popular entertainment shows to find the best manicurist or seeing how master chefs would cope on the budget of an average Red. Or quiz shows about sports or Federal history. (Why not one about pre-Federal history? She’d enjoy that – the cyclical rises and falls over ten millennia or more.) There was even a quiz show about other quiz shows; the obnoxious live-in partner she was currently saddled with and his teenage brat positively lapped that garbage up.

Anyway, cloaked figures were coming out onto the balcony and the show was about to get going. She strode off to join her team and stood to attention.

Gaia bless you.

A murmur ran around the square as the audience, both the regimented rows of FedSecs and other onlookers, responded with the formulaic answer. Gaia bless us all.

The holoscreen erected on the wall above the balcony was currently showing the face of a Gaian priest standing by the lectern. No sooner had the last stragglers taken their positions than the man of the cloth stepped up to the microphone, adjusted his bright green cape and started speaking with no preamble whatsoever beyond that cursory benediction.

Pasithea is burgeoning. There have always been recreational drugs, with plant-derived opiates and other narcotics persisting throughout thousands of years and numerous regimes. But now, thirty centuries into the Federation, we are seeing a new drug, turning an unthreatening undercurrent into a dangerous trend.

Damn right. Teams in every Northmerican city worth the name were tackling the issue, arguing about responsibilities and jurisdictions. Eve was welcome to that: exactly the kind of politicized atmosphere that Jen accepted she was never going to thrive in. Too many people too far up the tree, all playing rat-race poker.

A spate of high-profile overdoses means we’re all aware of pasithea, he continued. Jen could think of four deaths in the sports world and three in the media over recent months. The popularity of the Big P, the dream juice, is growing fast. So much so that many of you will already have come across it in your work. Seen it traded on the streets. Been accosted by addicts. Arrested or prosecuted people. So the Ministry has mandated information sessions to ensure FedSec officers everywhere are up to speed. He paused and sipped his water. It’s the drug of choice across a wide spectrum of society. Pricey when it first appeared, but now almost affordable for Reds. Even some Greys. Gaia knows, this is a major social evil.

He paused for effect, and the more religious listeners responded with a muted Gaia knows.

We now face major increases in criminality, something the Federation has never seen before. The police agencies are obviously working hard, but they can’t find the sources and can’t stop the demand. Let me tell you, though, Citizens, that they will not be able to hide this evil for ever. Gaia knows the culprits.

He waited and was duly obliged: Gaia knows.

"Breakthroughs have been made in other countries, thanks be to Gaia. The Priesthood has decided to spread that information in order to increase awareness."

A sotto voce chorus of Thanks be to Gaia ran around the square. Jen was losing patience; she’d expected information, not some prayer meeting. She preferred to keep her religious beliefs separate from her work. The speech dragged on in the same rabble-rousing vein, with increasing numbers joining the ingrained responses to his standard phrases. Even Jen.

"Globally, your enforcement colleagues have learned little about pasithea. But let me kill a few rumours. It’s not only Northmerica that’s affected – it’s most definitely worldwide. Statistical analysis suggests it comes from Nihon-Japan, but their authorities insist it’s manufactured by gaijin from Southmerica. Whereas the Europeans are adamant it’s somewhere in East Africa. To put it in the vernacular, we don’t know squat. Occasional breakthroughs, but never a sign of manufacturing facilities. The Policy Unit has decided that this situation poses a threat to stability: taskforces are therefore being convened in cities throughout the world to tackle the problem at a local level. He turned to the crowd. You have all been chosen to be part of ours."

Brief applause rippled through the plaza, albeit more out of politeness than any real enthusiasm. Everyone had been waiting for new revelations that would justify the Priesthood’s push, but they were starting to realize that there was no substance behind it. Nothing more than keeping the issue top of mind. Attention wavered and waned. After half an hour, Jen’s growling stomach was reminding her she’d missed breakfast. Aching muscles too, after standing to attention for ages. And she was cold. Worst of all, she was none the wiser. Pasithea 101 – boring background, no new details whatsoever. No use to her trained rescue squad. With luck, she thought, tomorrow’s technical low-down would be targeting people with IQs bigger than their shoe sizes.

Intermezzo: The Dealer

Hi. A construction worker in dust-grey boots and overalls sidled over to the low wall by the mall entrance where Randall was sitting nonchalantly. Business good?

He recognized the burly figure, a regular buyer who was always pitifully cash-strapped. A heavyweight hammer in the man’s utility belt today put Randall on instant alert, though he played it cool.

Sure, Hal. Business had been too sluggish for his liking, with only half a dozen sales. What ya looking for? Fresh straws straight from the lab, or the injectable stuff in vials?

Depends, said the guy, shifty-eyed. Randall groaned inwardly, experience telling him the builder would act friendly before haggling over the price. Sure enough: Gaia knows, man, it can’t be much fun hanging around here all day.

Moping about on the fringes of some soulless, brutalist shopping mall wouldn’t be anybody’s idea of a good time. Doing nothing most of the day with plastic-tainted air in your nostrils and the dehumidifier whining away. Hoping some jerk with a ball-peen or crowbar wouldn’t try to mug you.

Beats going to FedEd, he replied. Gaia sure knows that.

Federal schools were only ever going to teach him propaganda crap about accepting his lot, not about how to get on in life. School sucked. Let’s cut to the chase. Only got five minutes. What’ll it be?

I got eighty. Will that get me a straw?

Come on, Hal, you know they’re a hundred.

Typical. People down here were always purchasing such small quantities of heavily diluted merchandise that it made Randall feel like a petty criminal. Not at all right for his self-image.

The builder burrowed in his overalls for a cash card. Just asking, man, just asking. Two vials. Forty creds, right?

Randall fished the tiny ampoules of blue liquid out of a thigh pocket. Enjoy.

What a waste of time – there was no money in deals like that. At least his next couple of contacts were proper punters, dutiful Citizens whose eight-hour day slaving away for the greater good would soon finish. He casually flipped the cheap visor down from the rim of his sports cap. Its visual overlay informed him it was ten long minutes until knocking-off time, when the Federal office workers would start heading home. Drones with well-paid jobs and smart suits were the clients he wanted, not grey-garbed good-for-nothings like Hal who were roaming the streets in the middle of the day. This corner that the sergeant had allocated him by the underground commercial complex was fine for less lucrative labourers and low-lifes; a man could scrape a living dealing with them, but there had to be less tedious ways of earning a crust. He was at home here though, far below the surface levels, amid the hustle and bustle where it was always warm enough and there weren’t loads of security stiffs looking to bust him. Or trying to get free hits of his wares in return for turning a blind eye. Gaia-forsaken bastards…

Anyway, it was time to get moving, so he pinged Lou and Tammy. The streetwise youngsters were already scoping out his next deal, checking for suspicious cops or gang members hanging around. The girls were a useful asset. He hoped nobody would ever twig that he liked dealing late in the afternoon because junior school was out by then.

Hiya. It’s me. Anybody look out of place?

Tammy answered almost at once.

Hi Randall. All clear: no FedSec, no tongs.

Good news. Thanks.

No hassle. That’s four green lights you owe us for now, right?

Nobody ever took any notice of two girls aged nine and eleven, but their eyes were as sharp as any adult’s. He’d started out the same way himself at a similar age, running minor errands for older kids for a few creds. He flipped the visor back up again and hopped onto the next transport tube that came rattling past.

Five minutes later, Randall K874G836 Fenwick was in a much more salubrious mall at Jamison and Twelfth. Walkways swept clean, pine-scented air, an undercurrent of inoffensive and unexciting muzak. Bright lighting, the concrete painted a variety of pastel shades. He took the elevator to the top, feeling an unaccustomed blustery breeze against his skin up here in the outdoors. No walls: he could see for miles over the city, across all the buildings with their rooftop gardens where the lucky few grew carefully cherished and ferociously guarded vegetables to sell. Expensive items he’d begun to acquire a liking for over the last year or two, now that he had a steady source of income. And the view – well, it was great for people who liked that kind of thing, but he’d never understood it. He preferred a roof over his head. However, nothing above meant there was no ceiling where security cameras could be hidden, making it a good place to deal from as far as he was concerned. But no roof was still scary. Unnatural. Citizens seemed to love it, though. Maybe that was another reason why he’d always known he would never qualify.

He couldn’t see his customer yet. There were too many people milling around up here, having a drink or a snack or a walk before heading home. Dark suits or overalls or uniforms, with a few bright blazes of trim. Red dominant, with only a smattering of higher colours. Plus a fair few worker-class Greys like himself as well, so at least he didn’t stand out.

He eased his discomfort by fingering the cash cards in his pocket. Well, he had the credit and the rooftop terrace’s various open-air eateries and coffee bars had no ranking restrictions, so he joined the orderly queue. He wasn’t stupid enough to sample his own wares, not after seeing what else went into those vials. But since he’d turned eighteen and could buy caffeine, he’d developed a taste for a different luxury.

An espresso, please.

Will you be identing for that?

Nah. Cash. How much?

Two point eighty.

He tapped a cash card against the terminal. Done.

It was a pretty good espresso at that.

At last, he spotted his contact. Over to his right, alone on a bench (who’d dare sit next to a Yellow?) facing out over the smoggy cityscape. Trying to look casual. He recognized the mass of flyaway blonde hair, relieved that it was someone familiar. A newbie might draw unwelcome attention, or could even be a sting to trap him. This woman clearly bought the goods for personal use. It was about her tenth buy from him, and she hadn’t been a first-timer to start with. Heavily hooked.

He savoured the last of the espresso for a moment longer and put the cup down on the counter.

Another, mate?

It’s good, but no thanks.

Half price refills…?

Man, I’d be high as a kite. I’ll pass.

He walked over. She was older than him, but still the right side of thirty, he reckoned. Tall and slender, with skin that even an avowed troglodyte disliker of the sun such as himself thought was unhealthy and pale. Athletic though – a looker, to be honest. At least she wasn’t wearing her damn uniform this time, thank Gaia. The first time, she’d come along blithely sporting a black FedSec jacket and he’d have scarpered if there’d been anywhere to go. But she’d turned out to be genuine. And a Citizen, which was why he had to come up here. Cheap pasithea hits were available on the seedy streets of city sectors where the proles lived, but his profitable punters were Citizens of one rank or another. It would have looked suspicious if they kept coming to Randall’s lower-class neighbourhood, and they’d be reluctant to make the trip anyway. Most rankers were scared of the supposed lawlessness of the outlying zones he called his home. Whereas he liked the fact that there weren’t many ID checkpoints – it was a place where he could relax and be himself. He was doing fine, with a tidy markup from selling the narcotic. And the special kits for administering it, if the punter wanted a top-quality hit. So the last thing he needed was to have some Officer Dimwit asking how he could afford such nice accommodation and clothes and shit. The absence of snooping social service staff suited him just fine too. He only came up here to deal: a busy public area where anybody could legitimately come and go.

It had been vials so far today, cheapo street-corner stuff. Gaia alone knew what it was cut with, but a Grey could get a tiny screw-top vial containing physiological saline plus a few microlitres of the blue liquid. Costing about a day’s salary. Inject into the arm for a nice but addictive buzz and intense dreams. And it was popular. Not for the first time, Randall tried to work out how many millions of hits a day were being mainlined in the workers’ districts alone. He shook his head after a moment; his maths wasn’t too great, but it was certainly a hell of a lot.

Selling straws was more profitable. He’d spent ages the night before, carefully unscrewing inexpensive pens and concealing the fragile glass tubes inside. They were about two millimetres in width and as long as your little finger, with a hologrammatic seal proving they came straight from the manufacturer. Citizens could afford the real stuff. Some still mainlined, although undoubtedly using merchandise a lot less diluted than his vials, but anyone who could afford it (such as ranking elite who weren’t on the bottom rung of the Federal ladder) preferred straws. It would set a red-ranker back close on a week’s spare cash, but a user could get ten hits from one straw if they weren’t greedy. Or too addicted yet. The markup on the half dozen straws he hoped to sell up here today would keep Randall’s mom and sisters fed for a month or more. He reckoned this woman should be good for two. He’d soon have enough to pay off the FedSec sergeant and the Priest to keep them quiet for a bit. Life was looking up.

He walked around in front of her secluded bench, pretending to be gazing out over the parapet and down onto the frighteningly vast sea of glass and concrete, punctuated by green gardens on every available roof. The sunset haze made him uncomfortable – those smoky pinks and peaches, the disorienting way colours and shadows changed over the course of a few minutes. He’d be glad to get back down to the tunnels, but first he had a sale to make.

Good evening, Citizen Yellow, he said without looking at her. In a quiet sotto voce that nobody else would hear. How many do you need? Three for the price of two today.

Just the one, mister. A world-weary sigh. Do you want credit paid over to the sports club account, again? I’m running out of excuses to get hard cash.

A strange phrase for untraceable electronic money. Randall had learned at school that people used physical tokens and precious metals in the past. He guessed that must have something to do with it.

You know there’s a premium if auditable transactions have to be cleaned up, miz, he reminded her. Fifty per cent.

That’s steep, isn’t it?

Take it or leave it. Cash is always handier.

You just had a special offer: pay for two, take home three. By my counting, those cancel each other out.

Playing smart, was she? Randall peered over the precipitous edge to gain a moment to work that one out and decided he couldn’t be bothered. What do you want, miz, and what are you offering?

She shrugged and flashed a cash card for a second before pocketing it again.