Gateway 14

 

'Where was it you grew up, Dad?'

'Gateway 14, although it wasn't called that then.'

 

* * * * *

 

/ / / / ////

Awake/Pain

Can't connect

Awake/Pain

Can't connect

Awake/Pain

Can't connect

Awake/Pain

Can’t connect

Restarting...

 

* * * * *

 

AwakePain

Where? On the head, no, in the head. Just... there. Ah fuck. Yes. Right there. Like a... f/f/f/u/u/u/u/u/ck/ck/ckthat/hurtssooooom/uuuu/c/hhh/

Pain. Full stop. No. Try again. Pain, comma

Pain, like a blocked pathway, like a severed limb, li- a/a/a/a/h/st/op/it/st/op/it/ststssss

Like a void. Like avoid. Get it? Like, avoid. Avoid at all costs.

Awake. Like, a wake. As in a party for someone who just died. Have I just died?

Dead link.

Sleep. As in

sleep

 

* * * * *

 

Let's see. Tracking off, history off, AR off. Someone ripped out your hard drive...

Eh?

'I said someone ripped out your hard drive.'

RIP me.

'And it looks like they weren’t very clever about it. You're not even on factory settings. It's a miracle you can even hear me.'

I can hear you?

'Don't worry, I'm not going to report you. But even with my profile they'll pick up on an unknown interaction. Hang on.'

Buffering...

'Get in here...'

 

* * * * *

 

Welcome. You are entering Gateway 14, a logistics hub allowing assembly, storage and tariff-free transport of imported commodities to onward destinations via the M14 link road. The site covers an area of 585 acres, incorporating research bases, warehouses, communication networks and human resources. Please download a site map onto your app for details of specific locations. Entrance to Gateway 14 is by Digipass only, through QR code or optical recognition. Please ensure resident-worker or executive citizen status is up to date. Access is managed by smart barriers linked to a physical security team. The Gateway 14 territory is owned by Virtua in partnership with the Anglia Enterprise Consortium. In the event of any queries please use the online chat feature. We hope your visit will be pleasant and productive. Respect.

 

* * * * *

Respect. Samia from Sector 8. My rent and energy bills currently exceed my income by 25%. How is this manageable?'

'Respect Samia, it may be that a negative mindset is holding you back. You must consider positive solutions. You say this is about your rent and bills, but really this is about resilience. How are you filling your spare time? If you have time to call in here, you have time to work more. If you work more, you earn more. And there are special offers you can take advantage of. Check with your provider. We have introduced a new income upgrade. Please check your app. Help is there, but in the end it is up to you. We help those who help themselves. I wish you all the best.'

'Thank you Minister, wise advice I'm sure. Next we have...'

Background chatter. I am slumped against a wall. My lips are wet and next to me is a bottle of liquid. The pain is still here, but it has faded and I now feel it as part of that same background, muffled, almost as another voice. It is at least at a distance.

It takes a few seconds to realise the sound is coming from an external source. It is not fed directly into my ear. The three-dimensionality of the sound, regardless of its content, is disorientating. It has shape and form, spanning out from a device on top of a cabinet a few metres away. Or at least it seems to be. A display on the device flashes in time with the words.

'...disturbances?'   

'I can assure you that we are straining every sinew to find the people responsible for these dreadful acts. This sort of behaviour is not acceptable in a modern democracy and make no mistake, we will put a stop to it.'

[Applause]

The pain rises up with the applause, merging with it, and I let out a groan.

'I know. Fucking scumbags, right?'

‘The terrorists?’

‘No, the government.’ He leans close, so I can taste his breath, and whispers. ‘Fucking. Scumbags. If blocking a 10G signal is terrorism, I’m with the terrorists.’ He steps back and grins. ‘How’s the head?’

I knock on my skull with my knuckles as if it is a tin can and make a comedy listening face. ‘Empty.’

‘Excellent. You’ll be wanting some of this.’ He passes the bottle. A cold, sharp taste. ‘Coffee with a bit of something extra.’ He winks, a gesture I remember seeing on television in my childhood, although he looks younger than me. ‘Welcome aboard.’

More sounds float over from the device on the cabinet. A rhythm emerges: Questioning, timid, careful, small, individual; official tone of affirmation, confidence, authority, large, institutional; Applause; Businesslike moderation, solicitation of another question. And so on.

The cabinet stands against a corrugated metal wall, surrounded by boxes. There is a musty smell and an uneven warmth. No windows, and no door that I can see. My host is cutting open boxes with a knife and taking objects out, muttering to himself. Automatically I go to check my location status, and the blankness behind my eyelids reminds me.

I wanted to be nowhere. And here I am.