44. The Tech
The Tech
Isaak
At an old, worn-down bus stop, Isaak and Dylan sat on the grey, barely there bench and waited for their auto-car.
They were alone, but there was a stale smell of someone else’s perfume.
It stuck to the air like a bad piece of gum, its taste long gone, but you keep chewing, because what else are you going to do? Spit it out?
There was a conspiratorial note to the way she eyed him now, her legs touching his. Last night was… It did a whole lot to fill him with confidence that they could do this. They would figure out where Cardinal Row was and rescue all those people. And, in the process, find Talia.
But last night was more than that. She made him feel things he’d never felt, emotions he didn’t think were accessible to his damaged self.
Waking up next to her that morning, not in the Tapeworld or in a trap, reality felt like it made sense.
They had struggled to get out of bed, giving in to their desires once more before meeting up with Elodie and Sacha.
Elodie had put the plan in simple terms. Time was running out for Talia. Prodding Isaak’s mind at Jeff’s was essential. Finish any pending business IRL. Attack the warehouse in Cardinal Row.
Dylan had helped resolve his guilt last night.
About the security guard and the sleptigrades he’d killed.
That he’d had to kill. She helped him find a way to make peace with himself.
They might have been innocent people, forced to act out Astrid’s will, but there was no other way.
They’d threatened their lives, and the lives of their friends.
He thought of what Dylan had given him the courage to do over the past couple of weeks. Rejecting Astrid and their time together, the manipulation and mind games his ex-boss had put him through.
Finally, the car arrived and they climbed inside.
The streets they passed were covered with the usual for this part of London: discarded energy drink cans, snack wrappers, random disgusting unrecognisable foodstuff, empty synthtubes and condom wrappers, all bouncing around in the wind like a disco for litter pickings.
Jeff lived in Canary Wharf, the once proud hub of international banking, its forty-floor towers glittering odes to the accomplishments of rampant capitalism.
At one point the buildings were fully realised mini-towns with their own gyms, cantinas, shops, deliveries, supply chains, offices, living quarters, and security force.
People could live their whole lives there without stepping out of their mirrored vertical palaces.
Their arrogance was such that you wouldn’t find a building called Dollar Tower out of place.
Now the dilapidated towers were home to squatters and graffiti.
After the Brexit dividends didn’t pay off, and the banks made a swift exit to other countries, Canary Wharf was left to its confused residents, unused to relying on local community.
The decay came around the Dark Year, when the riots made it to the Wharf.
It was in one of these hollowed-out towers that Jeff made his home. He wasn’t a squatter. He would say he was a principled renter who had paid his rent more than enough times to be allowed to simply reside.
The man had a massive hard-on for movies – particular, authorial efforts.
Movies weren’t Isaak’s thing. Recent films were a waste of time, mostly just feature-length adverts for all kinds of nonsense.
People had lost their sense of taste. It was all vegan propaganda now, and despite agreeing with the sentiment, Isaak missed the truth of old movies.
The good ones were all made pre-Dark Year.
Shit, maybe he was starting to sound like Jeff…
They got out of the car outside his building, and the car sped off into the Isle of Dogs, its sinuous curves ever closer to the encircling rising river.
They walked down the concrete path to Tower 57, a tall white building with a blocky appearance. It always reminded Isaak of one of the most popular games ever made, where you had to escape zombies by night and build up your home in an apocalyptic wasteland by day.
There were no lifts. Or, at least, they didn’t work anymore. So they were forced to climb the stairs, and his knee ached. He was used to it. But it forced him to slow down.
Standing further up the steps than him, Dylan traced back. Then she knelt down, her knee touching the wooden slats, only the fabric of her white dress preventing full contact.
“No, it’s okay, leave it—” he protested.
“Shh… Does this help?” She made circular motions with her hand beneath the bony structure of his knee, warmth radiating through his jeans. She blushed, eyes darting away from staring up at him while kneeling on the floor.
Isaak closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. “That… that’s actually very nice,” his cheeks warmed. “I…”
Dylan kept going, gently massaging around where it hurt, prodding and pushing his muscles.
He released the tension in his leg, and put his weight on the other one. He looked down at her, catching her looking at him.
She stopped massaging him, simply holding his leg with both hands.
“That’s so much better.”
She had soothed his pain with a smile on her face, giving him all the strength he needed to carry on.
“I should warn you,” he said as they approached the door, “he’s nowhere near as nice as Sacha.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
He pressed the doorbell for Jeff’s place.
The sound rang dull and kept going. No face appeared at the door. Soon, Isaak started pounding with full-fisted knocks, Dylan staring at him wide-eyed.
But it worked.
“Hey, hey!” Jeff said as he opened it. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”
There was something about Jeff that brought out this basic disgust in Isaak. It’s not that Jeff didn’t keep up with good hygiene – he did. But there was an air of unpleasantness that wouldn’t leave him.
Deep breath. “I need a favour.”
“I charge for those. You should know that, dude.” Jeff pushed back his frayed hair from his eyes.
Isaak still had a small amount of credits in his account, for a rainy day, and the weather forecast was looking pretty damn wet right now. But he could barely pay his bills, let alone bribe Jeff to help them. He didn’t really have a choice though.
Just as he went to flash the payment implant on his wrist, Dylan pushed on the door. “Let us in. We’re in a hurry.”
“Who’s the chick?”
Dylan’s brows pinched together as she gave him a death stare. “The ‘chick’ will kick your ass if you’re not careful.” Threat in her voice. That was new.
“Feisty one, aren’t you?” Jeff said without batting an eye. He gave her a once-over, his gaze following her curves, stopping to take note of her bare arms and legs. Isaak was ready to punch him himself if he didn’t behave. “Got a name?”
“Dylan.” She pushed on the door again. “Remember it. Now let us in.”
To Isaak’s surprise, Jeff unchained the door. “I’m just kidding with you guys. Come on in. Let’s hope your knocking woke up the neighbours!” he said, with a flash of his white teeth. He banged on his wall. “Wake up!”
Jeff was wearing a bright-green robe over cream pyjama bottoms and a white-and-black striped t-shirt, printed with the poster art for an animated movie from before the revolution, an ecological piece from a famous studio.
Jeff was portly, but confidently so. He was puffing on a synthtube, the flavour impossible to discern.
It was unclear how many of his screws had come loose over the years.
From their previous encounters, what Isaak remembered most was that Jeff was really only concerned with one thing: Jeff.
They walked into a kitchen-cum-living room.
There were lots of these in London’s flats, space being at a premium back in the day, when the population level was still growing.
Isaak’s own place was a studio, but this was different, less comfortable.
This room barely served as a kitchen, much less as a space for entertaining, and there’d be a cramped bedroom down a hallway, plus a shower and toilet.
The place was dimly lit and smelled of mould.
Bad, barely tolerable. You wouldn’t want to live there, but visiting was okay if you kept it short.
The flat looked otherwise fine. You wouldn’t be able to tell this was a squat in one of the tallest towers of East London.
That was until you looked out the window and saw the decrepit streets.
Poverty, abandonment, no town services of any kind.
Chaos spread like a virus in these parts, outside the City walls.
Jeff caught him looking out the window.
“Beautiful, right?” His expression of absolute joy betrayed no sarcasm, no irony. “Always dreamed of living here, my folks did.” He turned to Dylan with a wide grin. “Glad I can live the dream!”
Both Isaak and Dylan simply stared at him, unsure what to say.
“Cool, cool. So, anyway, what can I get you? I got milk – not from a cow, but I can get some of that if you really wanted it… I know a guy who knows a guy, if you know what I mean.”
Isaak shook his head, expecting Dylan’s reaction.
“I’m going to forget you just said that,” she said, her tone firm.
“Uh… okay. I’ve got beer – the real kind, none of that synth-shit – cranberry juice, and… some leftover eggnog, believe it or not.”
Eugh… eggnog…
“Just water,” Isaak pleaded. “You want anything?”
“I’m fine,” Dylan replied, arms crossed.
Gyrating the one hundred and eighty degrees to the sink, Jeff repeated the word “Fine” and started the tap into an old-looking glass. It might have been washed but Isaak wouldn’t have been able to tell. And he’d rather not think about it too deeply.
“Here you go, buddy.”
Jeff put the glass in front of Isaak, on top of a faded action-movie-branded coaster. Isaak wasn’t feeling very brave right now, so he didn’t take an immediate swig.
“So, the fuck do you want from me?” Jeff hunched his shoulders, a quizzed look on his face.
“Need you to peek into my head. Analyse my latest tape ride. Elodie said you have the tech.”