Jones

1

It was the third power cut in a week, so Furnace Valley (Jones' town) was close to shut-down. this was a pain, because Jones had to get his assignment in and, without electricity, it meant doing it on paper. The well-off had constant access to ThinkYammer (the tele-thought app) so just had to 'think' their assignment to their tutors, but link-up was a bit of a patchy affair where Jones lived.

The scruffy lad felt in a threadbare pocket for a pen (he'd already taken his mum’s and had it broken in a scuffle). It was going to be days before she found or begged another one, as they’d got pretty scarce by 2056 and were generally only found in elderly people’s drawers. If he didn’t get the work done this week, he would be going down a grade.

He could always go into school and, if lucky, pick one up, but Justin would be waiting.

Somewhere.

Jones opened up a grubby sheet of paper and looked at his skinny finger as it passed over the words. My, he was thin!

Right now, the only thing that mattered was a pen. He went to his mother's room and looked in her drawer. He wouldn't look in her Secret Box, because that was the only place in their tiny flat that was hers alone.

It had been a little game since he was a toddler; he had his Secret Box and she had hers (they weren't very big, as every time Whisper caught up with them they had to pick everything up quickly and move onto the next address). Jones' was a patched-up shoe box decorated with downloaded pictures and paint, but it was vital to him, because His Life was in it.

He had taken it into school one day because he'd had a tip-off (correct, as it happened) that their flat was going to be 'done over' by Whisper, the huge gang that seemed to rule everyone and everything. His art teacher looked at the faded, badly-glued pictures of the Celeball (Celebrity Football) team with pity. Craft wasn't Jones' strong hand in life.

That was when Jones made a discovery. He could tell by the way the teacher looked around sneakily and filled the box with gluesticks and coloured pens that his poverty must have been so obvious. Yes, it was an act of kindness, but Ms. Hendry was actually saying "No-Hoper". He didn't blame her, as nobody (even at Furnace Valley School) looked as poor as he did.

He checked his pockets for a pen one last time, even though he knew the answer. Along with a dead battery (an antique he'd dug up - he knew a collector) was a piece of used gum, an interesting stone and an Alpine Cream Bar.

His mother must have bartered something for the chocolate. It's what she did, day in, day out - that, and cleaning.

There was no judgement in his thought, just a simple observation a bit like "Oh, she must have got it when she went out shopping this morning". He sniffed the sweet smell of the pristine wrapper which had somehow avoided being infected with The Poverty Virus that, sooner or later, managed to taint all things in his pockets. He would open it once he had a pen and had started his homework. To make it last longer, he would eat one precious square for every question he completed.

He went down the six flights of stairs to sit inside 'his' 'Thinking Car'. Torched during the riots, it then became the victim of many a drunken pee in the dark and stank of urine, but it was still better than the cold, damp flat. Jones had found some red plastic roses and attached them to the rusty skeleton. Alma, the lady from the flat next door, had found him some fabric to cushion the seat. It was cream with purple tulips. Jones quite liked it, but you ‘didn’t like flowers’ if you were a boy... Not in Furnace valley and especially not in the Iron View Estate.

But he liked flowers. He was, according to Alma, 'weird' and that meant he could do anything he liked. Except be normal. And who wanted that? Actually, he did - not all the time, but the ability to blend in would be nice now and then.

Jones was a quiet boy, but he still got noticed enough to be bullied. He felt he should put it on his profile under 'Other Hobbies : Collecting weird-shaped stones, petty crime, victim'. He looked round at the squalor.

Ah, right... a pen on the ground.

Thwack.

Jones lay on the ground and stared up at the sky.

And Justin.

Justin’s shaved head was framed by the rough dark grey of the tower blocks, giving him a big square halo of light. He was going to grind Jones’s Alpine Cream Bar under his boot, but thought better of it as it gave him a chance to put it in his own mouth, groan a sarcastic ‘Mmmm!” and spit the brown sludge onto Jones’ face with a mock look of disgust. Justin picked up the boy’s precious piece of paper and wiped his mouth on it.

“You still trying, Jonesy? We’re bottom of the heap, baby. Better get used to it!” Justin put his boot on Jones’s neck. A merely precautionary measure, as Jones could be hard to persuade sometimes.

“Got a job for you, Jonesy!”

“But I don’t think-“

“Oh, but you do, Jonesy.” Justin pushed his boot down on Jones’s throat.

“Six o’clock, Furnace Valley Central, Platform Eight.”

“Sorry, Justin. Can’t do!” Jones would have loved to say those four little words but Justin was SO evil. Two days before, Justin had come round to their tiny flat, smashed his way in and held Jones’s head down the toilet. This time he had flushed it first, a considerate gesture... But then, a good day of violence and robbery always put him in a good mood.

“V-Ville d'Or again?” said Jones, trying to sound casual.

“Just be there!”

It was a short walk from Iron View Estate to Furnace Valley Central, and the trip from there to Ville d'Or was Poverty to Luxury in twenty-three stops. Furnace Valley, then Bronzetown, d'Argent and finally Ville d'Or for them.

You knew where you were by the adverts. The ones in Iron Valley (Iron Zone) were for internet gambling where, if you had nothing, you could bet with your future corpse. If you signed an agreement to die before you were forty, a fresh, generally sound body would get you a couple of million; they were always looking for spare parts in the cosmetics industry. People in Bronzetown (Bronze Zone) were better off and the adverts were for used cars and flats with a larger balcony.

It wasn’t until D'Argent (Silver Zone) that Jones and Justin received strange looks. Immaculately dressed mothers looked kindly at Jones but put protective arms around their children when they noticed Justin. He tried smiling but that only made them more scared. The people were well-groomed and the police weren’t dressed in quite so much armour: at least, it wasn't as obvious. D'Argent was for the fairly successful and arrival there only seemed to breed thoughts of that one last step to…

“Ville d'Or” (Gold Zone). The flat voice on the speaker announced that “Ville d'Or Central is only one point seven six minutes away. Please remove all belongings. For security reasons, we regret to inform you that any property left behind will be destroyed and the owner traced. Due to conditions beyond our control, it will unfortunately be necessary to release a revised gift rate from the client’s account to assist with administration, legal and disposal expenses. Have a nice day!”

Jones and Justin carried builders’ bags. This gave a couple of scruffy Iron Boys a reason to be in Ville d'Or. The tools inside them would be used for the burglary, dumped and replaced with stolen goods.

They walked out of the station and turned into a wide, tree-lined street where every other shop was a fashion house or a restaurant. Justin took a short cut through an arcade. He seemed to know the area well. A bit too well, thought Jones.

The elegant shops were guarded by large ‘Hospitality Wardens’ with immaculate make-up, beautifully tailored uniforms and muscle. One of them was an African girl, Clara. She lived nearby and was often round Jones’s for the latest gossip, but when their eyes met in Ville d'Or she couldn’t even risk a smile.

Jones smelt the sweet aroma of leather and orchids jetting from ducts as he walked self-consciously down the air-conditioned street. Mozart wafted from speakers to soothe the ears of sports stars, politicians and actors, those permitted to use the carpeted lanes of a pavement.

But it was the houses that fed Jones’ fantasies and each wore this month’s most fashionable colours. Jones peered through a laser fence and could just make out a mansion with a Victoria de Cheung label in retro neon on the roof.

Money to burn.

Jones watched as Justin ducked a hair-thin filament of light in front of a mansion. The thug located the gate’s sensor chip and attached a bug. A green light flickered on Justin’s com as the devices talked to each other. A code came up on the screen. Justin whispered the numbers at a post and the gates opened. They crept up the vast gravel drive. Just why was this one so easy?

Bronzetown was different and a shop’s security could be zapped by a simple wristcom beam. The first time you were caught you got little more than a slap on the wrist.

This was Ville d'Or, though... Do that here and you got five years in a prison container ship moored in the bay. Jones looked out for guards from Zen Assured Platinum Security. ‘ZAPS’ were mean: polite, but very, very mean and were a ruthless elite crack squad, or as the adverts said perversely, ‘Exclusive Holistic Guardians of Your Peace and Tranquillity’. In reality they were a private army of ex-commandos and former Government Assassins.

Justin ducked to avoid a ZAP and got some tools out. So far so good. He told Jones to guard the tools.

“After all, Jonesy, there are some dishonest people about!” Even in the dark, Jones caught the sarcastic grimace sported by a set of surprisingly white teeth.

Justin shot a line and he was soon hanging from the eaves of a mansion, high above the ground. He looked down at Jones as he watched for guards. Justin aimed at Jones’s head and spat. Jones was the local wet boy, a daddy-got-shot-boo-hoo little runt.

Justin looked big and he acted big but he was having stress, too: he was under orders from his boss. He worked for Whisper, the biggest gang around, a gang that had seen off the Mafia and the Russian crime syndicates and even sent Chinese drug barons away with a flea in their ear.

But Justin had made a couple of big mistakes recently and he couldn’t afford to fluff this one.

Take him with you, said Whisper. Make sure he gets caught, said Whisper, or we cut out your heart while you’re still alive, said Whisper. Justin reckoned he was hard but he never liked witnessing an execution.

And he particularly didn’t want to watch his own.

He fixed a cable to a statue and lowered himself to an upstairs window (nice gold-plated frame, expensive, laser-resistant glass). Justin fumbled nervously. A lot was riding on that evening, especially after Barney his area manager had mailed him the annual crime figures.

“Growth is good overall, Justin”, Barney had said. “However, you personally have been under-performing… not that you’re to feel pressurised in any way. It’s just that if you don’t get this one right your mummy will be joining your daddy. Get my meaning?”

Justin knew where she’d end up. As he had fed “Canine Catering Solutions” to Bazzer his Doberman that evening, he reckoned there was a good chance of him squeezing at least a few grams of his father into the dog’s bowl.

“You still looking out, Jonesy?”

A guard was at the gate. He had night vision. He’d be looking their way again soon. Jones watched Justin. The ape could hardly spell his own name, but he could figure out how to get into any house. The thug in the grubby vest had fingers that could snap a neck but he could also disable a lock with a delicate sliver of foil and a laser pen.

In, out. Justin was quick. Jones saw a helicopter appear from nowhere. Justin snapped on a toggle and was hauled up on a line. What the heck was going on?

“Thief! Down there!” Justin swung a heavy boot and, yelling, kicked the roof vigorously until a cluster of tiles fell and clattered on the ground. One caught Jones on the side of the head. In a moment, alarms were going off, followed by half a dozen lights bursting into life over the unconscious boy as if pinning him down.

2

It was two hours before Jones came round.

He moved his head slightly. Man, it hurt. If he lifted it from the pillow and peered through the tubes and wires, he could see the uniform of a Public Security Guardian (like a light-weight ZAP and without the firearms). His mother sat next to his head. If he looked the other way, he could see a handcuff holding him to the bedrail.

He’d been arrested.

“You can’t question him now,” pleaded Jones’s mother as the guard slapped her son’s face. “He’s hardly conscious!”

“Best time, missus!” The guard pushed her back. He clipped a microphone to a wire in front of Jones’s pale face and yanked him round by his spiky hair. Steeling himself to confront the monumental challenge of basic technology, the guard switched on a screen above the bed.

He scanned the channels and swore under his breath. Finding a judge this time of night was tricky. Then he grinned.

“Got one. Channel 475.”

Jones looked up at the screen. He saw an advert, a picture of a judge patting a small child on its head. The next clip showed a Public Security Guardian sharing a joke with a bunch of teenagers on a street corner. The legend “Firm And Fair, We Always Care” scrolled across as a PSG stopped the traffic for an elderly lady in a hoverchair.

Then it gave a list of options. The Guard pressed “Turbo Trial: The Professional’s Choice For Reliable And Rapid Retribution” and spoke to the screen.

“Scene of crime: The Honourable Judge Dooza’s House. Date: fifteenth of the sixth. Crime: Burglary.” Jones and his mother were so scared they could hardly breathe, but the Guard just fiddled with his com and hummed to himself. Piped music played as they waited for the outcome. No answer. The Guard frowned.

“Oh, yeah. I always forget this bit.” He grabbed Jones’s hand and pressed the index finger against a flashing red spot on the screen. Jones’s name, number and Dwelling Location Code appeared.

The screen went blank. Jones was barely conscious, but he recognised Judge Dooza’s voice anywhere. The man was always shouting his mouth off on the television. Jones’s mother gasped. Tried by the crime victim?

“But he’s an interested party!”

“Yes,” said the Guard. “Very.”

The words “GUILTY. SENTENCING DELAYED.” flashed on the screen above the bed. Jones’s mother stared as a bright orange flashing wrist band was held up to the screen. The Guard waited for a bleep and peeled off the backing. He grabbed Jones’s arm and held it firm as the glue set. Jones had been tagged.

“You take this off you little jerk and you are as good as dead!” Jones was yanked off the bed, hustled down corridors and bundled into a lift. He winced at his mother’s wet, anguished face.

A woman in uniform escorted them to the monorail stop on the hospital roof. Blocking the elevator camera with her helmet, she pressed a pack of tissues into Jones’s hand.

“For you and your mum. I think you might need them.” Jones looked the other way and caught glimpses of the city as it flashed into view at each floor. With its orange sky and millions of lights, it looked strangely beautiful, even at this moment in his life.

Jones stepped on to the roof platform and looked warily at the other people. One of them was a man in purple velvet trousers and a gold jacket. Unusual clothes were popular with members of the gang called Whisper. They made people look. Then they got beaten up for staring. A simple idea, but it worked.

Jones looked at the man’s knuckles. The ‘W’ shaped scars meant he was a member of Whisper and would get him into any club in town. Any clubs foolish enough to refuse entry were usually firebombed o their accounts emptied by hackers. The Location Termination Team (Incendiary Division) was good at its job and often cited by Whisper Senior Management as an example of how an effective department should be run. Members of Incendiary could earn a little on the side from clubs by charging protection money. This was money well spent, especially as the contract would often include little extras such as the burning down of rival clubs.

A member of Whisper turning up at a club was always a tricky one for a club: refuse him entry and he might torch the place... Let him in and you might have given a rival free access to plant an incendiary device - usually hidden in something like a com device.

Whisper now ruled the city, and that included the monorail waiting room. Jones watched the man swagger in and urinate on the seats, leaving himself enough dry ones to sprawl out on. The passengers out in the cold tried hard not to stare.

Jones wished he could be alone, too. He was desperate to know what his sentence was. He reckoned he wouldn’t go to prison for a first offence. It wasn’t fair, though: he had only done it because he was scared of what Justin would do to his mother. Shivering, he went to the anti-suicide mesh at the edge of the roof and looked out over New City.

New City had been a new project but the whole thing went seriously wrong, right from the start. Corruption was even there at the planning stage. Gangs ended up controlling the building contracts, the workforce, everything.

The gangs all got on fine to begin with, but then the quarrels started. By the time the city was finished, there was only one outfit: Whisper ruled the roost, and the roost was now the whole city.

Jones looked at the map on the wall. Ville d'Or was exciting. In a different life he could have seen himself working in fashion, creating wonderful dishes in restaurants or overseeing the complete refurbishment of a billionaire’s house.

Not now, though. He’d blown that one.

He touched the Ville d'Or. The map read his tag and flashed back ‘Access Forbidden’. That was nothing unusual. You could only travel to Ville d'Or from Iron Valley Estate if on authorised business. So how come Justin had managed it?

Jones could always go to Silver and Bronze, though. The only people who weren’t allowed were convicted prisoners. He touched the station in d'Argent where he washed up in the cafe on Saturdays.

‘Access Forbidden’.

He touched the station in Bronzetown near his aunt’s.

‘Access Forbidden’.

Jones and his mother looked at each other.

He was going to prison.

3

Getting out at the other end, his wrist tag knocked the carriage door. A woman turned to look and Jones’s mother hurriedly pulled his sleeve down. Of course, he thought. He was a branded criminal now. No point looking for a taxi: the tag would show on every cab’s scanner.

It was a long, dangerous walk home, and all of it through gang territory. The refuse hadn’t been collected for three weeks and rotting waste was piled up at the bottom of the towerblock stairs. Bags had been thrown down and they’d burst open. If you stood still too long, a rat would run up your body and bury itself in your clothing.

Jones’s mother shut the door to the flat. She squeezed the tissue in her hand. Keep calm, Margaret. Take stock. Just read the message screen logically and slowly.

CATEGORY B PRISONER: 2 YEAR SENTENCE

They were stunned. Two years? Surely not? Jones would be sixteen when he was released. They sat down and tried to take it in. They checked the screen again. It was still there. They read on.

CONVICT PROCEDURE

DEPARTURE TIME: 0600 HRS

LUGGAGE ALLOWANCE: 1KG IN STANDARD BAKPAK

NO KNIVES, WEAPONS, COMS, VALUABLES, JEWELLERY

Jones had no idea what he would take with him. He kept thinking about the thugs, the convicts on the prison ship. He looked in the mirror. He was a convict.

A small part of him needed childish comforts like his teddy bear, but people would laugh. No, Mr. Mint the Alien Green Bear had to stay.

Jones cried. He was saying goodbye to his childhood: he would never see any of this again. He stroked the old wallpaper with the cartoon characters on and smiled at the patch by his bed where he’d scribbled as a little boy. Then there was the photo of him being handled a hovercycle certificate by a Public Security Guardian.

Huh, thought Jones. Public Security Guardian. The skin on his wrist pulled as he ripped the picture off the wall. The glue on the band had really set now. They could have put a discreet little chip under his skin, but where was the humiliation in that?

He was still packing when his mother tapped on the door.

“I’ve mended your shirt, dear.” They knew his clothes would be burnt on arrival, but she wanted to show she loved him. He managed to hold back the tears until he saw the careful, neat sewing on the pocket. It was another kindness for a waster. His mother deserved a whole lot more.

He played his messages.

“Sorry, Jones. I’ve just remembered I have to do an assignment.”

“Hi, Jones, Alma here. Um… my mum says I have to stay in tonight.”

People stayed away from a criminal. Everyone on his mailing list would have been contacted by the authorities. So would the youth club, his work, the neighbours… everyone. People didn’t have a convict for a friend if they knew what was good for them.

The Convict Boy hardly dared look his mother in the eye.

“Mum, it’s at times like this you find out who your friends are.”

“Yes, dear, it is.” They pulled a duvet over, held each other and waited for the morning.

4

An old, dented personnel carrier swung round the bottom of the tower block. Jones counted the steps as the guards’ boots clipped on the stairs. Jones’s mother opened the door to two faceless visors and sobbed as her son was handcuffed and led down to the waiting transporter.

The world was still asleep. All the world, that is, apart from Mrs. Briar across the corridor behind her net curtain. It would be round the whole block before lunchtime. Jones and his mother had done many kindnesses, so their neighbours were going to be sympathetic. Before long, food would be appearing at the door and offers of practical help would be issuing from hesitant men who had been dragged away from sport on the multiscreen and sent to knock on the door of Flat 28081B.

In a deserted, derelict part of the city an Army shuttle waited to take Jones and nineteen other boys to a cold, dark container ship orbiting the Earth. Jones, who as far as he knew had never left New City, would be in space by evening.

There were scores of containers drifting around in space and they were mainly used as lock-ups for surplus satellites, as morgues and as prison hulks. The prisons were half-way houses between Earth and the convict colonies. They were freezing, rusty chambers the size of warehouses and given the bland name of ‘Transition Centres’.

Jones got to the Transition Centre at about five in the evening. On arrival he was pushed through x-ray gates into a tunnel. He saw a blur in the corner of his eye. The boy in front of him had fallen to the floor. A man’s voice echoed.

“So sorry, young sir. I seem to ‘ave haccidentally tripped you up. I swear that this was a herror on my ‘umble part!” He turned to the guard beside him.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sarge. I thought ‘e was concealing a weapon about ‘is person and I was takin’ necessary safety precautions. You must be questioning my professional judgement in such and related matters.”

“You are indeed a naughty boy, Trooper. Don’t let it happen again!”

“Indeed I won’t, Sarge. Next time I’ll kill ‘im properly!” Coarse laughter followed Jones as he peeled off his clothing and walked into the cold shower.

“GET IN!” shouted a voice above the hiss. Chill disinfectant stung Jones’s eyes. Out the other side, he felt a bundle pushed into his chest. He climbed into the worn, faded overalls and was shoved, shivering, towards the main cavern.

It was cluttered with service pipes and rusty girders, a neglected jumble of spindly, corroded veins and skeletal supports in the container’s large iron stomach. The cavernous monster was unforgiving and had spat into space the countless corpses of those not strong enough to take the punishing regime of its keepers. Jones looked up and saw layer upon layers of metal shelving.

“These,” said the guard showing them round, “are where you sleep. Smaller boys at the top because they make less noise when they hit the deck.” he looked at the group of petrified boys and smirked. “Darned right, losers... It happens.”

Next morning was scrubbing and Jones was paired up with an oriental boy called Chen. Jones summed him up. Big? You could say that. His hands had never seen a day’s work, though. The tattooed golden triangle on his neck meant that he came from one of the richest parts of Europe. The ponytail and the muscle? Martial arts. Had to be. Jones waited until the guard had turned. He mumbled a question.

“Where you from?”

“Europe.”

“How old?”

“Don’t know. Adopted. Found after a drone strike in the East.” Jones waited for the guard to turn away again.

“Parents alive?”

“Probably not.”

Chen asked some questions and then Jones. The guard appeared from nowhere and hit Chen across the shoulders.

“Ok, freak, shut it!”

That must have hurt. Chen just smiled.

Chen. Jones’s neighbours would have called him a privileged parasite, no use at all. Jones watched his new acquaintance as they worked together.

He soon learnt that Chen always tried to live in the here and now. He didn’t seem to wish his life away or long for what wasn’t there. He even managed to find goodness in the greasy, cold slop they had to eat. Jones saw how Chen was aware of every footstep he took, seemingly aware of every muscle in his toned body.

Two days later, Jones and Chen were standing on ledges near the top of the container. They were high up, but they volunteered for the risky work because it got them away from the muck and filth below. Jones heard a shout and saw a fitter, suspended in a harness, brandishing a laser cutter at him. Jones dodged because he knew that one swipe could cut him in half.

The fitter lunged and the ledge that Jones stood on was half cut through. It sagged under his weight.

Jones fell and gashed his cheek open on the jagged stump of the platform. A crowd clammered around him as he lay on the floor. Chen patted his new friend’s face. Why didn’t he wake up?

5

Blip. Blip. Jones opened his eyes. Where the heck was he? A neatly pressed white sleeve brushed against his cheek as another wire was taped to his chest. Breathing deep was painful. Even talking made him ache.

“Must have cracked a few ribs when I hit the deck”.

“Sorry, Sunshine, nothing so heroic. Just a bit of bruising.” The voice was soft and reassuring in his ear. “Before I forget, the Chief Warden was in the main chamber. He saw everything. He’s coming to see you personally.”

Jones looked at the Medic. She raised her eyes and allowed herself the faintest of smiles. “And he doesn’t do that for every Rust Monkey, believe you me.”

Jones knew ‘Rust Monkey’ was an insult but he didn’t mind it from Roosha. He hadn’t been there five minutes and he already knew of her reputation and her expertise belied her age of a mere sixteen years old. She had arrived two years before for hitting a senior politician: he had molested her friend, but it would have been awkward for him to be found guilty of indecent assault, especially with a war on. “Bad for morale” they said. It was thought better to put Roosha and her friend out of the way rather than incriminate one of the country’s highest officials.

The Chief Warden came in and sat awkwardly on a stool. He returned her warm smile with one that felt clumsy.

Poor guy, thought Roosha. He was always finding some excuse to visit the sick bay: he liked the peace and cleanliness after the noise and filth of the rest of the ship.

The Chief looked at Jones. The boy appeared insignificant but this one was to be looked after. Help this one and he was returning a big, big favour.

He watched Roosha take a sample of Jones’s blood. The tiny lights in her hair glittered among the dreadlocks and the beads. She was a strange case, alright: a tribal warrior and scientist, a rebel and a saint. Although a Medical Cadet, she had been given the responsibilities of a Medic, something that normally only happened after four years of intense training.

The Chief looked at himself. He fingered the badges of honour on his chest. He had done well. He’d done very well, in fact, but it had cost him his marriage and his health. He had mailed a Holographic Blood Simulation to his doctor back on Earth and the news was not good. The Chief was scared, very scared.

He knew how he looked to Roosha. He reckoned she saw him as forty, balding and out of touch. Inside, he was fifteen again, back on the barricade outside the President’s palace. Reckless and young, he had fought for his own idea of how the world should be. He remembered the shame of failure as his side lost and his expulsion from school meant no job was available to him. It was because of this that he spent two years begging in the market place.

The Chief was given a leg-up by a benefactor and taken the chance to enter the Prison Service to put something right, to save others from making the same mistakes as him. Now, many years on, he watched the guards with weary contempt, fear, even. Some were OK but most were brutal. They were probably scared themselves, scared that any moment could bring havoc and rebellion.

But that was no excuse.

Roosha tapped the blood-chemical solution and held it up to the light. No infection. Jones looked at her tattooed fingers and realised his hunch was correct: she had been a member of Bomb Bomb Mixer. There were, however, no red crosses. A red cross meant a dead Public Security Guardian and some girls in Jones’s neighbourhood had three or four.

“Tell me, Roosha,” said the Chief, “Is that what I think it is?” He pointed to a minute glass bottle with a red flashing light in the lid.

“Probably, sir. Ditoxine Ethinol Anahydric Dexalophine. One of those would wipe out a herd of elephants… Or even a herd of ZAPS!” The Chief looked at it as if in a trance. He snapped back to reality and smiled weakly.

“Right,” said the Chief. “Haven’t seen a bottle of DEADs in years. There’s a few people round her who’d benefit from-“ He broke off, suddenly remembering that Jones was in the room. Blushing awkwardly, he got up to go.

Roosha watched the Chief go and called after him. “Bye, sir. Thank you for visiting.” All she got back was a tired, resigned wave of a hand. When he was gone, Roosha turned back to Jones and noticed a minute hole just visible through the top of Jones’s ear. It was a square hole for a surgical steel wire. Why hadn’t she seen that before? It sure put a whole different complexion on things.

“Bet the Chief hasn’t seen that yet. And I thought Wire Boys were supposed to be smart. Least, that’s what they’re always whining. So how come you’re dumb enough to end up here, then?”

“I shouldn’t be. I was made to do it because I was afraid and-“

“What a poor, poor boy,” she cooed. She suddenly grabbed his ear and pulled his head towards her.

“Now you listen, Wire Boy, and you listen well. If you get a chance to leave this hulk, you take it, right?” Agitated, she went to a stainless steel wall with compartments. She grunted as she pulled out a mortuary drawer. An icy mist cascaded from a body bag.

“Look, Buster, the fitter who had a swipe at you fell as well. He’s in the wrapper. I don’t know what this is about, and I don’t want to.” She stared hard at him. “I’ve had it up to here with cruelty, stupidity and heck knows what else.” She paused and looked thoughtful. “What I do know, is that the Chief wants to see you.” Roosha saw Jones’s tears and punched his arm.

“Sorry. Look Wire Boy, get to the bridge! For a crook you are, for some reason, getting pretty good treatment and don’t you forget it.” She turned away and pretended to tidy a drugs shelf.

“No, Ma’am, I won’t forget!” Jones limped towards the door. Looking back, he could see Roosha staring at shelf and followed her gaze: there was no flashing light on the shelf. The DEADs weren’t there anymore.

Jones tapped nervously on the Chief’s door. Entering when bidden, he sat on a wonky metal chair on his side of the dented aluminium desk. The Chief looked at a screen in front of him.

“You’re good, Jones, but I’m not just talking about your work - Rust Monkey is not a career I can really recommend.” The Chief stared blankly at the metal wall of his control room, desperately trying to find inspiration in the banks of instruments and monitors. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Er-“

“Good. You will report to the main guardroom at six tomorrow morning.”

“Am I allowed to know what-“

“Goodbye, Jones!”

The hatch to the corridor whirred shut and the Chief was on his own again. He leant on the desk and put his head in his hands. He had helped the good ones and, as far as he was concerned, that was the one saving grace of his career. He always reckoned that getting them a good deal made it ok to bend the rules. He turned his back to the security camera and looked in his pocket. The way things were, the flashing red chip was the only light at the end of his long, dark tunnel.

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