Future Hobbies by Adam Ninnis - HTML preview

Future Hobbies

 

The sun's still somewhere east of here and already the streets are packed. The hobby hardcore are out in force, covering Centre Park Square like kids at a fair as they run, cycle and crab-walk their ways around the Designated Areas of Fun. Through the transparent walls of my apartment block's foyer, I watch my neighbours bustle about, desperate to up their social standing by getting up early and braving the rain.

 

I know I'm gonna be late for the meet if I stand here judging people, but I need a few seconds to ready myself before entering this figurative field of sheep. As I massage my temples and breathe through my nose an out of breath fella stumbles in through the doors. He spots me trying to hide behind a giant plant pot and the discomfort on his face at being wet and wheezy lasts less than a second before his instincts kicks in. He looks down at the floor to ready himself before levelling his head with his best ever smile.

 

“Lovely morning to be out and about eh?” he asks, his face now looking like the male lead in the last few seconds of a porno. I tilt my head up at the still-dark sky and struggle to hold back a scowl. A lovely morning? Compared to what? It's dark and rainy, like every morning, each day sticking to the schedule. The nights and days still grow and shrink in synch with the passing seasons, but the rain? That's run by the government. It kicks in at three, drops a measured amount before buggering off till tomorrow.

 

It's been a while since I've been up this early so I carry on staring up at the darkness above, scanning the skies for some man-made device, some pump or balloon or floating robot that waters the world like a green-fingered giant. I'm sure it's a simple enough process, something I can get my head around but nobody round here really knows how it works. Only the smartest 1% are told stuff like that and it's not like they hang around to share. They're plucked from school in their final year and given a government post, one of the last few meaningful jobs that comes with prestige, perks and a future that severs their pasts.

 

It bothers me to be out of the loop, to not know such simple things as how the weather works, but what bothers me more is that nobody else cares. At what point did specialist knowledge become a taboo? When did curiosity get confused with dissatisfaction? People are too busy trying to seem happy to bother asking questions anymore, too scared of turning their white wool black with a show of discontent. A lovely morning to be out and about? Yeah, maybe if you're a bloody mushroom.

 

I take a few deep breaths and tell myself the guy was just being polite. His was a throwaway line, a rhetorical question, no more than a line in a script. But that's the problem as far as I'm concerned – the script. The one the fakers read with glee, so happy to have lines to learn instead of thoughts to struggle with. After years of living like an outsider, a wolf in a fluffy white coat, today's the day I take a solid step towards leaving this island behind; hopping the fence and rejoining the world, getting far away from these bleating sheep, self-herding their way through hopes and hoops round a maze of their own creation.

 

I step out into the morning drizzle and make my way through the park. The four apartment blocks that house the town's single people loom large from each point of the compass, blocking out light from the moon and stars, turning the rain invisible till it reaches ground-level where the street-lights pump out their gloom. A random group of solo joggers move into a single line, a conga-column of conformity, their footfall syncing for a couple of steps before going their separate ways. Surely the world can't have always been full of such pathetic, keen-to-please people? If it had then how have we made it this far? Maybe this is what our species needed - worker bees buzzing about, desperate to please their fat, greedy queens.

 

A nearby woman catches my eye as she struggles with a yoga pose. She sees me seeing her and strengthens her stance like I'm judging her in a contest, her supple muscles straining till she slips and topples arse over tit, off of her mat and into the mud. Honestly, why aren't these wankers still asleep? How desperate do you have to be to display your well-being that you're willing to do yoga in the rain?

 

I try and tune them all out, ignoring the jugglers and the middle-aged man that's sliding about on skates. Eventually, I leave the freak-show behind and walk up a family street, the well-trimmed gardens and fresh-painted facades hiding buried dreams and relationship doubts. The road loops around so I cut through the golf course, hoping to make up some of the time I've lost but when I reach the clubhouse the contact is already there waiting.

 

“You're late,” says the woman from her spot on the bench. I take a seat and sneak a sideways peek to ensure I've not stumbled into the wrong shady encounter. She looks too old for this town. Must have herself a tourist pass. She definitely looks like a criminal though. You can always spot them nowadays - it's the lack of a constant smile. I recognise her resting bitch-face from my own miserable reflection.

 

“Sorry,” I say without offering an excuse.

 

“Do you know why we're here today?” she asks, skipping the small talk. Good for her.

 

“No. Mr. Rees messaged me last night, said he had a job. He didn't say what, only that It'd be worth my while”.

 

“And what are you hoping to receive in return?”

 

“Um, no offence, but what's that got to do with you?”

 

She shakes her head and lets out a sigh that flavours the air with coffee. “Gil, you're not making this any easier”.

 

“Well lady whose name I don't know, you're not making me want to. Is this the job? To give answers to a survey? 'Cause we could've done this at a more reasonable hour”. A rubot glides by on its tracks, a non-hover model that's practically antique. It scans the ground for rubbish and leaves and other unwanted, out of place things, pauses for a second at my real leather boots then rolls along on it's way. The woman holds her silence and the seconds spin out till the moment starts making me feel queasy.

 

“Okay,” I say with a sigh of my own and over-the-top tut and eye-roll. “He said he'd pay me in drugs. Recreational ones, without the mandatory doctor face-time.

 

“I'm afraid that's not the answer I have on the card”.

 

“What? What card? You should be afraid, talking bullshit riddles before the sun's even up. Look, you clearly know who I am so what's with the security checks?”

 

She offers no answer and I try and wait her out but I know she's got me beat just from looking at her, sitting there all serene like a lump of stone or some master of quiet time chicken.

 

“Okay, I want out alright? Over the barriers and back to the mainland”.

 

She finally turns and raises a brow. “Back, to the mainland?”

 

“Alright, to the mainland”.

 

“Why? You know it's all gone, right?”

 

“I don't know shit. How would I? Nobody ever talks about it. They just pretend like there's nothing outside this perfect little bubble we call Britain. Oh what, you wanna talk about it? You got something real to say?”

 

“It's a wasteland young man. A diseased, radioactive wasteland that lost its ability to sustain life half a century ago. Britain is all that remains now”.

 

“How do you know that? Are you sharing the standard rumours or do you actually know some truth?”

 

“Hmm. I wonder where this unhealthy obsession with the past comes from?”

 

“Oh my word. What are you, my psychologist? Now is not the time for a deep and meaningful. You're not my psychologist okay? How's about we skip the motherly concern and you tell me what we're here to do.”

 

Her thoughts hit me like a brick dipped in vinegar. Words force their way into my mind, making me forget who and where I am for a second that feels like years.

 

(Ignorant little shit. Welcome to the monitoring list)

 

Her brainwaves send mine a tumbling, forcing entry and evicting my own. The pain's both mental and physical, like bad news and a belly ache all rolled into one. It's always been this way for me, ever since I can remember. You'd think it'd be a blessing being able to read minds, and maybe it would be if I only heard thoughts that were positive, or even painfully mundane, but it's never been like that for me. Only people's angriest thoughts are strong enough to invade my own. That's why I'm still here in a starter town; single and wished a good morning by every passer-by but fundamentally without friends. It's too hard hearing all the horrible thoughts that hide behind smiling lips.

 

The woman's words on their own don't seem all that bad but as I pay them more mind I realise it was the 'you're not my mother' comment that earned me her ire. Did she lose a child at some point? Maybe she was one of those that couldn't conceive and didn't qualify for adoption. I feel like I could push further and find out more. That rare feeling of untapped capacity is there and begging to be sated, but it's dangerous. I never know what state it'll leave me in. It's been a long time since I've had an insight that's more than just the surface words. She must be proper fuming, though you wouldn't know it to look at her. And what's this monitoring shit about? Who's list would that be now?

 

“Let's go,” she says, standing up and walking to the green.

 

“Go where?” I ask, still sitting and struggling to act normal as my brain and muscles spasm in tandem. This is starting to worry me now. I mean, what's with all the secrecy? Why couldn't the old man clue me in last night? And why is this nosey old bird so interested in my future intentions? I run to catch her up and just as I'm about to grab her shoulder, spin her around and demand some answers she says something that sends ice down my back and my balls shrivel up into hiding.

 

“We received an anonymous tip about the location of an elder”.

 

The word elder hits me like a brick, the second one in a minute only this one's got a sugar-coating. My heart starts pounding, not faster or slower but harder, so's I can feel it in my toes. An elder? After all these years? If I can make contact then maybe I can get answers to my questions: like what was life like before the fall when the world was full of people; what caused the fall to come about and where did the elders fit in? The chance to get some answers from those in the know, some info from people with first-hand knowledge instead of gossip shared behind tiny cupped hands, the talk of parks and school playgrounds, whispered stories of mind-reading grannies told between tales of gods and ghosts; my excitement at the prospect makes the grey clouds glow like shiny things in the sun. The good feeling lasts for a second or two before I realise the danger I'm in. The burst of fear makes my feet throb.

 

“The contact has arranged to meet us on the 15^th green. From there they will escort us to the location. Once we have confirmed the elder's whereabouts, we call in Central and collect the bounty.”

 

So many questions come to mind and I grope through them one at a time, trying to put them in order, sort them into ones to ask and ones to wonder. “Why doesn't this contact just inform Central themselves?” I ask this in a voice that's way too loud, the added volume meant to power through suspicious wobbles sounding forced and false to my ears.

 

“I'm not sure” says the woman without turning round. “I have an item to pass on. I assume it has something to do with it.”

 

“Well, what about defences? They must have protection? Someone looking after it?”

 

“I don't know”.

 

“And why are we meeting at sunrise? Is that important? Not midday when people are around and not early morning when they'd all be asleep. I mean, that's weird, right? It's not just me? That's gotta be significant somehow”.

 

The woman stops at the edge of a fairway and spins round to face me, anger now plain on her face. Her drawn down brow almost touches the cheeks forced upwards by snarling teeth. “At this point I know no more than you, and as you pointed out, I am neither your mother nor your psychologist. So how about we cut out the chit chat, yes?

 

She turns on her heels and cuts through the woods, flicking branches into my face as she follows her phone towards the green on hole fifteen. Her thoughts were there if I wanted them, like some treasure in a safe for which I have the code. It's strange having so much control. Must be the drama hyping me up. Maybe that's the key to greater perception. Hang around the townies in a constant state of panic, one brought on by dodgy meds and a desperate need to pee. What am I saying? I want to bury the beast, not awaken it. I'd take ignorant bliss over enlightened anxiety any day of the week.

 

I follow the woman through the woody patch and think about what lies ahead. A real live, surviving elder - someone like me. It might be one of my grandparents, even one of my parents for all I know. I think back to what I know about them, what my foster-father told me before I was removed from his care. The official story, if you can find one, is that the elders were the victims of a final assault from the rest of the world's bad guys and gals, a final fuck you before we developed the tech to cut ourselves off completely. Some kind of virus that would spread across the country and doom us all to extinction. For whatever reason, It only killed those aged forty and over. 1% survived the virus and took on powers no science could explain - telepathy. The government said they were infected with a plague that could mutate and end mankind. Others said they were botched experiments, an attempt to create long-range spies to keep eyes on those across the seas. There were lots of different theories from what I can gather, each one different enough to scare each section of society into turning them in on mass. Hundreds of thousands were offered up by frightened families, foolish patriots or people greedy for money, back when money meant something. The last one was found over ten years ago which pretty much disproved the infectious theory but by then, nobody cared. The threat was gone and any elders that managed to slip the net were too old to procreate, their threat rendered inert. Of course, I'm living proof that that was never the case.

 

As we pace up another fairway I mull over the scary questions, the ones that make my feet throb and my palms go slick and sticky. First and foremost, top of the tree, won't someone with the power to read minds know I've got those powers too? You've gotta go with yes there. I mean, from what little I've learnt about the elders, their powers dwarf mine. I'm guessing only one of my parents had the virus and the other diluted it before it was passed down but it's a pretty safe assumption that he or she is gonna know what I know the second we arrive, if we even make contact that is. I can think something normal or hum a tune but surely that'd just attract unwanted attention. No, they'll know soon enough and they'll expose me for sure, me being the bad guy looking to kill his own kind. I should make my excuses, say I'm too scared or bail out on moral grounds, say my teacher was an elder or something like that. But then, the chance to find out the truth... screw it, It's too great an opportunity. I tell myself I wanna hop the wall and run away to Europe, get away from the phonies, go exploring, adventuring and fun shit like that. But really, I suppose I just want some answers.

 

I walk into the back of the woman whose name I never asked and mumble my apologies. “This is the place” she says, standing next to a wall so covered in green that it looks like a hedge. She pockets her phone and pulls out a gun, an illegally home printed one by the looks of it.

 

“Don't I get one of those?” I ask.

 

“No”.

 

“Then how am I supposed to back you up?”

 

“You don't. I back you up”.

 

“Oh,” I say, a little insulted to learn I've been recruited as a human shield. We stand there in silence and the odd combination of fear and excitement sends me scanning the shrubbery for loo roll-sized leaves. The green wall shudders and a door swings out. A man's head appears at the crack. I recognise him straight away. No surprise there – it's a small town and we all get around but he's something of a celebrity, him and his sister. I heard they were born here in Frimley and their dad had contacts at Central, managed to get permission to let his kids grow up in a 5/20/50 town, the only residents between ages five and twenty. What I know of them probably comes from the same playground gossipers as the elder stories but apparently their dad home-schooled them both whilst he looked after his wife. They say her parents were Central somebodies and that's why they were allowed to remain after she fell sick from some mystery illness, something they couldn't cure or chop out of her genes, but I'm guessing now that's all total bollocks. They've been hiding an elder all along. The story goes the daughter turned up in the square one day and signed up for clubs and classes like any other new arrival. She never talked about her childhood and everyone was too polite to ask. This guy, her brother, arrived a few years later. He loves his football. Can't play for shit. Not so much two left feet as he is running on uneven stumps.

 

He stands there eyeing us both, his gaze switching between me and my partner-in-crime in such quick succession that I worry he's having a seizure. Then, after giving us both several once overs he steps through the gap in the wall.

 

“Who do you work for?” he asks, eyes locked on mine, the assumption that I'm in charge giving me an odd burst of pride.

 

“An intermediary with contacts at Central” responds the lady, stealing both my moment and his attention.

 

“The amnesty is still in place yeah? Me, my dad and sister won't be punished?”

 

“Correct,” says the lady, sliding an AR ring off her finger and handing it to him. He puts it on his finger, waits a few seconds and then stuffs it in his pocket. Must be a new model. I always wondered if it was possible to reach an end point with tech, a time where we know everything there is to know and it seemed that that time had come, at least as far as Augmented Reality goes 'cause there's not been a new model in years. Some people still use the old palm tablets but most of us prefer our data projected directly onto our vision, routed through the chip inside a ring, all the news and entertainment one could need overlapping your vision or in the peripheries. Apparently the AR chips used to be embedded in your body, but people got paranoid that their movements were tracked, started second guessing their interactions. It fostered mistrust so it was agreed that our chips should stay external, removable, and that's why they were built into jewellery that you could leave at home if you wanted. This guy - Hogan his name is – is ready to give up his adopted grandparent for a bit of the latest kit, some new shiny new tech with modest upgrades. What a greedy, selfish prick.

 

”Once Central has secured the elder and the bounty has been claimed, your share of the credits will be deposited,” says the woman.

 

“I don't care about the credits” says Hogan, spitting out the word 'credit' like it's a bone in a lump of dog food. “I just want it to be over. I want them gone”.

 

“Them?” asks the woman with another eyebrow lift.

 

“Yeah. There's three of them. Been down there longer than I've been alive. My dad says they're special, that me and my sister are lucky to have them around but he's wrong. He's always wrong, and he never sees it. How is that possible when he's spent his life looking after three telepaths? Why did they let him make so many mistakes?”

 

His cheeks flush and his eyes widen as the long-rotten secrets spill out. An emotional stew made from guilt and resentment bubbles over his brain pot till his thoughts merge with mine. Again my insight dips deeper than the simple surface stuff and it catches me by surprise. I pretend to rub dust from my eyes as a knowledge fills me in an instant, like a smell that breaks an internal dam and brings on a flood of memories.

 

It's not about revenge. He wants what's left of his immediate family to live a normal life. He wants his dad to move to another town, to leave behind the stigma of home-ownership and rejoin the dating pool. He wants his sister to open up to others, to live free of the worry of keeping fugitives safe. He wants this more than anything and he knows the price is his family's love. After a life of doing his daily duty he's making one final sacrifice for his immediate family at the cost of all future contact, or at least that's what he thinks. The AR ring contains a residency permit for another, less sought after town. Farnborough. It's not far away, and I wanna tell him it'll be okay, reassure him that his dad and sister will forgive him but I can't so I don't.

 

The thumb and forefinger I've got jammed in my eyes grow wet with tears as all the negative emotions that've lead him to this point storm through my mind. I pull back in case I burst into an uncontrollable sob from being pummelled by his concentrated sadness. There was more there, so much more if I wanted it, all of his interactions with the elders, all their wisdom and knowledge but I had to get out. He's a good man - I know that now - and to peek at the good stuff means suffering the bad, the intimate, the embarrassing thoughts and feelings we all have when we're sure we're alone in our heads. The little that I saw made me feel creepy and wrong, like I've spied on a relative whilst they're getting undressed. Also, I don't want a home-made bullet in the head whilst I'm fitting on the floor as I reel through his entire life.

 

“