The Radical (Unity Vol.1) Read Free Page B

airport, I scanned my U-Card above the ticket machine and the computerized voice of the self-serve kiosk rang out: ‘ Good morning Seraph Maddon. Would you like to travel today? ’
    That impatience was still gurgling when I shouted, ‘Yes! ’
    ‘ What is your destination? ’
    ‘ Manchester, England.’
    ‘ Please choose a ticket from the following options. ’
    On the screen, I saw one seat left on a flight about to leave in 15 minutes’ time. I selected that journey, not willing to wait around for hours to hop on the next one.
    ‘ This ticket will require us to take 3,545 E-Dollars from your available funds of 6,348 E-Dollars, do you wish to proceed? ’
    A lmost four months’ salary – yet negligible – I needed to do Eve’s memory justice.
    ‘Proceed.’
    Fuck, though, that was a lot of money. I rubbed my forehead.
    Then I saw the funds drain from my account, almost forgetting to grab my U-Card back from the top of the machine as I went.
    I ran to the security point and chucked my baggage on the conveyer belt, before stepping through the X-ray machine. I then passed through the decontamination chamber, standing in it for half a minute while it dry-blasted tiny particles of antibacterial matter all over me.
    I scanned my U-Card at the International Embarkation Vector and barely heard the greeting, ‘ Good day Seraph Maddon, your identity has been verified, have a pleasant journey to Manchester ’.
    I ran through the turnstile, down a tunnel and toward the plane.
    Having made it just i n time, 30 minutes later I was flying 45,000 feet somewhere above the Atlantic. I got out my xGen and began canceling the various meetings I had set up for that day with colleagues, snitches and undercovers, hoping to avoid any small-talk with fellow passengers as I put on a busy demeanor. I needn’t have worried about washing that morning ‒ sat in that shitty tin can with sweaty businessman was going to undo my fresh scent.
    I rested my eyes but refused to give in to deep sleep, though I desperately ached for it. I was Seraph Maddon. Everybody knew what I stood for, what I represented.
    Not even the pristine air stewards, in their red and white uniforms, with their perfect smiles and helpful advances, could be trusted. Nobody could. You either joined the enemy or died trying to evade them.

C HAPTER 3
     
     
    T wo hours later. Sweaty, irritable and oxygen-deprived, I disembarked the jet and was hurled into a not-so-different world. Navigating my way through the vast, heavily populated corridors of Manchester Airport, all I saw were blurry outlines and masses of people.
    Some kind of unreal exhaustio n, or something, hit me. My head felt heavy and I was disoriented. I was edging closer to my aunt and the truth: she was dead. Maybe that was the only reason I was there ‒ to make it all real.
    A bsorbed by the masses streaming their way along a suspended bridge walkway, I somehow reached a packed, glass-roofed train station. The bitter stench of public toilets and greasy food outlets nearly made me dry-heave, having skipped breakfast and the plastic airline food.
    Everything was automated and computerized, just like back home, with commuters scrambling to get on their way. It was the middle of the day but this world had no schedule. Shift patterns had no regard for day or night, human needs or what once might have been considered unlawful operational hours. I knew I wasn’t home, far from it, but the familiarity of similar systems in England made me less tense. I contemplated that I could be up and running soon, seeing what I could get from the people. Yet even thousands of miles from my place of origin, those inhabitants seemed wary of me, too. Perhaps my reputation preceded me, even in England.
    I boarded a double-decker train on the speedline from Manchester to York, and as the journey got underway, I saw sheltered farms – miles upon miles of clustered white poly-tunnels – covering whatever fertile land was left in