2084

John Legion

Description

In 1977, a TV play entitled 'The None Optional Extra' was submitted to the BBC. Nothing happened for weeks, but suddenly the young unknown playwright received a surprising letter. The quotes were encouraging: 'Kept your play a long time... Not for lack of interest - The reverse actually! Thought well enough of it to send it to two different producers with a strong recommendation that they consider it seriously for production' etc. What went wrong later the unknown writer does not know. He suspects, but has no proof, that eventually it was considered too politically and morally hot for the BBC of those days. Anyway it saw not the light of the cathode tube and the disappointed, but not surprised, author decided to shelve it. (It was offered to no other media's or agents) until England edged nearer to the situation imagined and foretold in his play. He believes that time is fast approaching and has rewritten and rearranged the standard plot into a modern book. Its new title is '2084', and the seriously disgruntled population of England have, in a fit of frustration, elected the super radical Reality Party to power. Billy Billington is a student at the RP's college. Religion is the party's bte noir and Billy is its blue eyed boy favourite. He meets Anna, the Russian girl, who is a regular at London's last and only just allowed Orthodox Church. They jovially vow not to attempt to convert each other but, of course, their Montague-Capulet BG's intrude to violent effect. The book's essential question is: will England, like Nazi Germany of old and Stalin Russia, survive its sudden brainstorm?When 'the Genii,' the Reality leader that looks like something out of Alladin's lamp, reads a book by 'some bloke named Mackivelli' and decides to try some great statesman-like, world changing moves, the world begins to really worry. The first masterstroke is a brotherly 'also seen the none light' pact with Africa's self-proclaimed "First Democratic - Atheist" State. Oh dear. It really is an interesting read.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 27 mars 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781784629366
• Langue: English

Extrait

2084
John Legion

Copyright © 2015 John Legion
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1784629 366
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Matador ® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

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Contents

Cover


Preamble


2084
Preamble
A few years after the twenty-first century had limped gamely past its halfway mark yet another exotic edifice appeared on the skyline of the city of London. It was stiff finger shaped and W J Wentworth, the construction group’s leading architect, had decreed that it should be clothed in a variety of coloured and eccentrically shaped tiles. Transparent ones were used to cover the windows so that the finished building resembled a monster digit sheathed in pound shop costume jewellery. W J had told the planning commission that he wished to create “A glistening salute from a vibrant city, a modern gesture up to the now proven to be non-existent God”, but the completed effect was disappointingly naff. In bright weather London’s latest showstopper glittered obligingly, but under the capitol’s often dull skies it looked as sad as a fairground ride in midwinter. Some backward-looking individuals even voiced the opinion that it was spiritually ‘depressing.’ On hearing of this unasked for judgement WJ remarked that it was heartbreaking that ‘such pockets of ignorance existed in our fair land.’ On the EBC (English Broadcasting System) he added that people who proclaimed such ‘faith fantasies’ should be encouraged to attend one of the new Modern Life courses.
The building’s top floor (its fingertip) was occupied by Starlight Funerals, and their idea of a calm ‘Reception and Attendance to all your Needs’ area was to lay down a great circle of gleaming black plastic. At first glance it resembled a skating rink of frozen ink and, although it was guaranteed slip-proof, nervous clients often asked for an attendant to support them to one of the square white armchairs that sailed the midnight sea like miniature icebergs. The dome was space-black and thousands of tiny pin lights were scattered across it to give a startlingly realistic imitation of the cosmos. In the resultant gloom two large cats, one jet the other icing white, were the last whimsy of the interior designers; silent and ceaselessly, they prowled the circumference walls like lost souls seeking the exit from a low-lit hell.
One autumn day in 2058, Walter, ‘Starlight Funerals’ chief negotiator, stood in the ‘Attendance to all your Needs’ area of the great open-plan paying such sympathetic subservience to two men. One, the husband of the deceased, was Russian and Walter’s sales close sheet had stated that he was the manager of a Muscovite bank; to be precise, the first one to be opened in Birmingham.
At first, this information had surprised him. Although a bank manager would, he surmised, draw a decent enough salary, it would certainly not be enough to pay for a service that was designed for people making millions. Politicians from small and corrupt ex-colonial states were the company’s first league clients; criminal lawyers comprised its second, but the fresh widower had not seemed to be connected to any such groups in the files that Starlight Funerals had been able to scan.
Upon further delving it had been established that the funeral was in fact being funded by his friend, the tall American, but it had been impossible to discover from whence his funds originated. Only that they were available.
They were a bizarre couple. The overweight sad eyed new widower seemed too traumatised to enter into the negotiations but his friend and supporter, whilst also genuinely saddened, was still well in control of himself. Tall and slender, he spoke with a New York big business man’s accent and Walter sensed that initiating final cost negotiations with him would be a delicate task.
Starlight Funerals’ top negotiator was something of an expert on the age of bodies, both vertical and horizontal, and he had decided that the Russian was no older than forty-three…forty-five maximum. It was the grief, the thunderbolt of a sudden violent death, that had released the skeleton-bracing supportive muscles and let the stomach bulge yet further and the shoulders collapse.
Walter thought the widower’s friend was about ten years younger. He was loose-jointed and the geometrically odd way he had arisen from the deep square armchair had momentarily reminded Walter of a cartoon giraffe, but the way the figure then snapped into an erect posture was more military than Disney. The man’s axe-blade cheeks matched his sharp eyes and the mouth was as straight as a bricklayer’s level.
As Starlight Funerals’ England manager Walter had handled shoals of weeping relatives and had formed the firm opinion that his clients were often in a condition that bordered on the psychotic, but the fresh widower’s supporter was stranger than average. He always expected some quirky behaviour from people who could spend a fortune – the basic cost was a cool million – on a ‘journey through the stars’ but this ice-calm negotiator was in a trouble-hunting class of his own. To start with he was American and Americans, in Walters opinion, could be charming until the talk switched to business; then, the steel under the velvet glove could be felt with a suddenness that drained the colour from English faces. So he was not overly surprised when the supporter broke into the ‘loved one into space’ spiel with a rudeness that would have had set the ice in any City man’s drink rattling.
“Yes,” he suddenly rasped, “I have absorbed your presentation sir, but let’s leave the journey through the stars stuff now and come down to earth. Mr Popov would like to know what are the chances of the rocket exploding on take- off?”
Although the interruption was harsh Walter was not really concerned by the actual question. He could field that one easily. ‘Safety’ (a stupid thought when the deceased was dead) was a common objection.
“A good question sir. And many people ask it.”
“Do they?” said the supporter. “Well I have been viewing some old museum movies of the Nazi rocket bombs. Many of them seem to go bang on take-off and I am wondering if yours are manufactured in the same cheapo way.”
Oh shit, thought Walter, this bird is a genuine shrewdy. The old Peedamund site, the secret base from which the Nazis launched their crude, last throw of the dice V-weapon at London, was not often referred to in sales interviews, but when it was it was a sign that the enquirer had instructed his organisation to investigate the ‘safety’ of rocket funerals before he committed to a contract.
“Yes sir, indeed the old films do show some of those old weapons misfiring on take-off,” he countered. “But sir, those German military test recordings were taken in the 1940s and that is well over a hundred years ago. Fantastic strides in propulsion, guidance systems and absolute safety have been made since those pioneering days. There is no chance that your loved one will suffer any kind of…” He almost said, “harm”, but checked himself in time to say, “Irreverence.”
The negotiator turned to his friend, “Have you any questions Anatol” he very gently enquired, but the new widower shook his head.
“No Michael. You talk to him. I got to sit. I had enough.”
“Sure. OK. Don’t worry,” said his friend. To Walter he said “‘Kay. Continue.”
The rep’s relief that he had countered the sharp man’s question emboldened him to move in to close the deal. The upping of the original estimate was the first move.
“I have been glancing over the paper stuff sir,” he said casually. “And I am pleased to say we can certainly complete all your instructions, but there is of course a revised final figure.”
“Never mind that,” said the American. “I have more orders.”
Walter pulled out his electronic note slate. “At your service sir.”
“Absolute privacy. No public announcement. I especially do not want my name printed anywhere.”
“We already have that instruction sir.”
“Well underline it if you don’t want to end up in court.”
There was no answer to that beyond a quick ‘I understand’ nod.
“Also, the funeral will be at your Australian site and we wish to speak only to you. We don’t want to be seen by or speak to anyone else there or anywhere else.”
The rep gasped – even loud-suited Mafia types had never demanded such absolute secrecy and this man was certainly not of that variety. The information sheet had declared that the pair of them were quite kosher. There had been no hint of dirty work. No ideas of putting the corpse beyond later forensics. Everything authenticated and the body definitely legally signed off for extra-terrestrial disposal. Absolutely nothing to hide.
“You wish to use our Australian facility sir. Not the much closer Californian?”
“That’s what I said, we definitely do not want to go to the States. .”
“We will obey your every order of course but I would be remiss if I did not mention that this would incur a conveyance of the deceased by a private permit below suborbital flying method, and such vehicles now incur punitive taxes and—”
“No arithmetic today,” interrupted the cl