7 North City I

The sweet scent of eucalyptus washed into the carriage as the mag-lev train glided to a silent stop.

"North City," chanted a smooth feminine voice, the amplified sound reaching all corners of the station. "This is North City station. All passengers for New Newcastle please disembark. Your connecting train will be arriving in fifteen minutes. I repeat..."

I stood to one side of the doorway, my legs still stiff after the two-hour journey, and allowed the New London fans who'd shared my carriage to pile past. They turned to me and bid me farewell, their black and gold robes neatly matching their painted, black and gold faces. "Be seeing you citizen!"

I nodded, smiling, and followed them off the train.

"At the game maybe?" queried one, before they merged into the black and gold throng streaming off both this train and the twin that stood at the next platform. There must have been a couple of thousand New London fans milling around the station. I stepped through the doorway and joined the crowd shuffling down the platform. The doors on the other train slid shut, and after a few seconds it began to move, accelerating slowly and silently out of the station into the airlock, its magnetic field floating it a couple of centimetres above the track.

After about thirty seconds of confused shuffling, treading on toes, accidental shoves in the back and profuse, good-natured apologies, we reached a flight of steps leading to the station's central concourse above. The concourse was much roomier than the narrow platform, and the crush eased as the crowds poured out of the stair-wells. I found a long plastic bench facing the central fountains and sat down, waiting for the fans to depart.

"Nowhere to go?" asked a soft, lilting voice from behind me. I sat up in surprise and turned to face her.

"Erm... no," I stuttered, transfixed by the perfect coffee-coloured skin which stretched over sharp, high cheekbones; a face framed by the shiny black hair that fell straight to her bare shoulders. "I'm just waiting for the crush to clear."

"Sorry!" she sung, walking round the end of the bench, "I didn't mean to spook you." She glanced casually around the area, seeing the identically clad fans pouring between the colourful flower-displays. "You're not here for the match?"

I took an exaggerated glance at my neatly tailored red robes. "How could you tell?"

She sat down beside me, silently shaking as she tried not to laugh. Finally she composed herself. "Lucky guess I suppose. You are a visitor though?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have anywhere to stay?"

"I'm sorry?" I queried gently.

She looked down smiling. "I guess that sounded like a pick-up line..?"

I leant forward and looked into her deep brown eyes. "Was it?"

She licked her lips nervously, the delicate pointed tip darting over the perfect lips. "No. Not like that. My name's Vicki Sandhu. I'm with an agency called WaveX."

WaveX. A coincidence? She sat back against the plastic grill of the seat.

"We run a kind of hostel for anyone who needs a place to stay, or to eat. That's why I'm here - we try to have someone at the station whenever a train comes in. You looked like you didn't have any where in particular to go."

"No - I mean I do need somewhere to stay."

"Good," she crooned, taking my hand. "Let's go."

North City was a child of the Reconstruction. Less than two decades old, it had been built on a new site in the heart of what had been Yorkshire. In that brief period of time, during which it grown into one of the largest cities in the country, it had been the site of a flowering of culture unseen since the pre-Chaos times. Everything about it was beautiful. The wide spotless corridors were thickly lined with wonderfully scented flowers and shrubs. The building units were attractive and ultra-modern, constructed from large expanses of steel-framed glass.

And the people...

The beautiful people they called themselves, and not without reason. It was a young vibrant city, full of young vibrant people. It was a growing city, and a city to grow in. All cities of the early twenty-second century were safe and friendly havens, but North City was different. Young people from all over the country headed here, wanting to experience its unique atmosphere - a mix of youth, optimism, friendliness, fashion, music and love.

The area within the city's single huge main-dome was informally divided into two areas - Downtown and Uptown. Downtown contained the residential units, whilst Uptown was filled with agencies: commercial, entertainment, office and light industrial. The commercial heart of Uptown was McDonnell Waye - named after the last Emergency Governor during the Chaos - which arced along the southern edge of uptown, running from the north-eastern quarter of the dome to the north-western.

WaveX was situated in a large, open-plan unit on the southern side of McDonnell Waye. Mounted along its entire frontage, above the large gently frosted windows, was a holo caption, multicoloured letters swirling and writhing as though alive.

"WaveX: We are here for you, we will always be here for you," I read, allowing Vicki to lead me through the holo-doorway into the room beyond.

"This is the cafe area," she explained.

The room was bizarre - like an old English conservatory on speed. The scattered items of furniture - the chairs, tables and flower boxes, were all of a wicker style, intricately woven strands of thin plasti-wood forming their structure. The room itself was full of flowers and shrubs, occupying not only the many large free-standing flower boxes, but also the many boxes mounted upon the walls, or hanging from the ceiling. However, it was the mirrors that gave the room its final strange twist. The floor, the ceiling, and three of the walls were completely covered with almost seamless mirrors. Only the frosted glass of the front was exempt. The effect was to make the relatively small room look almost infinitely large. I glanced around, and a thousand versions of myself glanced back. It was lucky that at this time in the afternoon the cafe was only lightly occupied. Even so there appeared to be a couple of hundred people in the infinite room, making it almost impossible to avoid looking at someone.

I followed after her, still glancing around, and stumbled slightly when my foot trailed into a chair leg. The effect of looking down at the floor was terrifying, as though I was floating, the floor appearing to be made of totally transparent glass with another room below that, and another below that, and another... I stared down at the room below, seeing an inverted me clinging to the under-surface of the floor, our feet touching, flower boxes and lights hanging up from the floor below. I shook my head, and peeked up at the apparently transparent ceiling. Above was another room, with yet another me staring straight into my eyes whilst hanging upside down from his ceiling. An upside-down version of Vicki walked up to my counterpart and placed a hand on his shoulder, a hand simultaneously touching mine. I turned my gaze back to the real Vicki.

"Weird huh!" she laughed.

"Is this supposed to be relaxing?" I asked, fighting the irrational urge to grab hold of her for support.

"Well, I guess Steve thought so..." she muttered, distracted, her smooth-as-honey voice trailing away at the end of the sentence.

"Steve?"

She looked away. "Our chairman."

I sensed that I'd somehow touched a nerve and shut up, trailing after her as she led me towards the rear doors. A scent reached me, and I sniffed, feeling an unrequested wave of relaxation spreading though me.

"Happy-scent?" I queried.

"Yeah," she replied, unconcerned. "There's a couple of air-dispensers somewhere in the ceiling. Pumps out a basic mix of euphorics and anti-depressants. Why? Don't you like it?"

I smiled though gritted teeth. "Problem is, I always get pissed off when someone makes me relaxed without asking permission."

"You want a coffee or something?" she asked, stopping by one of the central tables.

"Coffee would be fine," I replied, and indicated the table that we had stopped by. "Shall I erm..."

She smiled. "Oh yeah, sit down. Milk, sugar?"

"Milk no sugar."

"Right, I'll just be thirty seconds," She promised, gliding away. I pulled my cloak off, dumped my small travelling bag, and slumped into one of the free-standing wicker chairs, pulling it close to the table. Thankfully the table was flanked on three sides by large, two-metre long flower boxes, each containing thick ivy that wound its way up a dozen bamboo poles to a point well above head-height. I gripped the sides of the table and focussed on the smooth plasti-wood strands.

A slim hand waved a steaming mug in front of me. "How's that!"

I took the mug from her, and took a sip of the hot aromatic liquid, feeling it roll smoothly down my throat. "It's great, thanks."

She slid into the chair opposite me, her hands wrapped round the other narrow plastic mug. "So what brings you to North City?"

I took another sip. "WaveX actually."

She raised an eyebrow. "You came to see us?"

"'Fraid so."

"And there was me thinking it was fate that bought us together!"

"Maybe it was," I ventured as our eyes locked together, "just working in a different way!"

"What sign are you?" she asked suddenly.

"Taurus" I answered, looking at the broach she had pinned to the breast of her dress, a faceted piece of violet amethyst locked into a gold setting. "And from the broach, I guess you're an Aries."

"Yeah! You know charms?"

"A bit," I conceded, "and I know a bit of what they protect against."

"So what does amethyst protect an Aries against?" she asked provocatively, in a tone that made it clear that she knew the answer.

"It helps to maintain faithfulness, and it helps ward off drunkenness," I replied neutrally, then added - a cheeky impulse taking hold of me: "Which one did you need help with?"

She took another sip of coffee and peeked at me over the rim. "Have you considered that I might have needed help with both?"

"The thought had occurred to me."

"So you're Taurus, which is Earth - making you sensible and ambitious, and happiest when you're settled. And ----"

"---- you're Aries, which is Fire - making you forward-looking, playful and very, very sexy."

"Fire and Earth, excitement and security." She smiled slyly. "Well, I suppose you know what you being Earth and me being Fire means?"

"I know what it could mean."

She clicked her tongue a few times, sizing me up, then leaned forward on her elbows. "Anyway, you still haven't told me why you came to see us?"

"You didn't give me a chance!" I gently mocked.

She reached slowly over and lightly slapped my hand, putting on a pretended, angry face. "What d'you mean, I didn't give you a chance!" She left her hand resting on mine for a few seconds, then drew it slowly away, her fingertips running across the back of my hand, the skin tingling as though a charge was running through us. "So why did you come to see us? You can trust me."

I looked into her wide, sparkling eyes and knew that she spoke the truth - knew that I could trust her. "I'm looking for someone - my sister, Jenny. About three years ago she left New London and came to North City. Apparently she joined this agency, then left it a little while later to form a new agency called Northern Action."

Sadness flooded her dark features. "That was a long time ago, when we founded the agency."

"We? You were here then?"

"I was one of the founder members."

"How many of there were you?"

"Seven initially. Another girl joined after a few months." She jerked back slightly as she recalled what I had said. "She'd be your sister. She left with some others after a couple of months - to found Northern Action. That must be her - no!" She paused, pinching her lip. "You said your sister's name was Jenny?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head. "No it wasn't her then; this girl was called Shannon. Are you sure that it was WaveX that she -"

"She might not have called herself Jenny." I reached inside my robes, pulled out my wallet, flipped it open, and eased out the small holo-portrait I always kept there. "This is what she looked like."

"That's her," she declared, confused, "but she called herself Shannon. I'm certain of it."

"She might have done, but it wasn't her name."

"But it must have been. She had to put in her citizen's shares to join us. You can't just fake those."

It was a common misconception. In the new society capitalism had been abolished. Companies of any sort were illegal, as was employing someone, while money was largely obsolete. The new system was termed agency economics. Every citizen was given - when they reached the age of fourteen - a thousand citizen's shares. These shares represented a citizen's right to certain resources and utilities: such as land, any sort of building, minerals, raw materials, basic foodstuffs, energy and long-distance transport. All of these were owned by the people, and administered on their behalf by the government.

Money, that is credits, could not be used to purchase any of those items, for that you needed citizen's shares. Land and housing could not be owned or purchased, but they could be rented by allocating shares to them. Shares could never be spent, for they were simply a monthly entitlement. Those thousand shares were enough to entitle a citizen to a small, basic apartment and give a reasonable amount of credits for food and other items.

Alternatively a citizen could form an agency, either alone, or by combining with others. Each member of the agency allocated a certain number of their shares to the agency, which retained them until the citizen left or died. The agency could then use the combined shares to rent premises, purchase raw materials and so on. Any credits earned were handed back to the government, who in turn allocated more citizen's shares to the members.

The system thus enabled free enterprise, with market competition, but prevented the abuses of capitalism. Unemployment was unheard of, since shares made each citizen valued. Shares could not be inherited, resulting in an equal, classless society. Agencies had only as much shares as their members possessed, and therefore did not take on a life of their own as the old corporations had. And creativity was encouraged, since good ideas did not die through lack of start-up capital. It was this system that enabled an alternative agency like WaveX to operate. It also made creating a false identity difficult, since the government kept a very firm track of who had citizen's shares, and how many they had. It made it difficult, but not impossible.

I looked back at the girl. "It can be done, if you know the right people."

"And she did?"

"Yeah. But the less you know about that the better."

"What?" she protested.

I laid my hand on hers. "I'm serious, believe me. The less you know about this the better. Just take it from me. It can be done, and she did. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed hesitantly.

I released her hand and put the holo-portrait away. "I know she moved on to Northern Action. But I also know it doesn't exist any more - at least I can't find any records of it. I need to know who she went with, and where they went to, after Northern Action."

"Why?"

"Like I said, I want to find her."

She nodded understandingly.

"So what can you remember about her?" I asked.

"To be honest, not much. It was a long time ago."

"It was only three years!"

"This is North City, and things here happen very quickly. Round here, three years is an eternity."

"Point taken," I conceded. "Okay. You said that seven of you formed the agency. Who were the others? Are they still here?"

A far-away look came into her eyes while she thought back. "Most of them have gone. We're the kind of agency where people come and go. There's only one founder member still here - besides me... There were seven of us: me, Steve Richards, Dan Ellis, Paul Evans, Allison Holt, Penny Jarrot, and Jack Parker."

"Go on," I urged, sensing the undercurrents within her words.

"It all went well, at first. We found a place, much smaller than this of course, and moved in. Back then we didn't have much idea of what we wanted to do, just that we wanted to help people."

"You say it all went well, at first. What happened?"

"We elected Steve Richards and Dan Ellis as co-chairs. It was okay for a month or so, but then they started to argue about the direction we should be taking. Steve had a pretty laid back attitude. He said that we should just wait for problems to come to us. Dan was much more committed. He used to go on about how society was sick, and accuse Steve of just wanting to hang around and have a good time."

"Who did you agree with?" I probed. "Did you think that society's sick? Do you?"

"Well no, not really. I mean look around you. Look at this city. Look at the people. Feel the happiness, the warmth, the love. Does it seem sick to you?"

"It depends on your perspective."

She narrowed her eyes and studied me intently. "You're starting to sound a lot like Dan."

I threw up my hands in mock horror. "Sorry. Didn't mean to preach."

"It's okay," she purred, "I'll forgive you."

"This Dan, what did he look like?"

She described him. It was the Rook.

"So what happened when they started to disagree? Had Jenny, sorry Shannon, joined by this point?"

"Yeah, she joined just after the rows started. So I suppose I can't really blame her for them."

"Why would you blame her?" I asked, then placed my hand on hers, sensing her discomfort. "It's okay. I don't mind, I just want to know."

She hesitated for an additional moment, then answered. "Because... she took sides very quickly."

"With Dan?"

"Yeah. She thought the same as him, about how we should get out and change things."

"Was that why you didn't get on?"

"Who said that we didn't get on?"

"Did you?"

"Not particularly," she conceded with a smile. "She always seemed a little standoffish where I was concerned."

"Was it just her views?"

"No. More the way she expressed them."

"How was that?"

"She was the kind of girl who manipulates people, especially men. It was like she was trying to get somewhere, and the friendliness was just an act. Well men just love that sort of thing of course, they lap it all up. But women..."

"You see through it."

"Something like that. I think maybe she was just insecure. But it meant that you always felt she wasn't being completely straight. If she had views on something, she'd never just come out and say it. Instead she'd flutter her eyelashes at Dan, whisper in his ear, and get him to say it."

I could just see it. A frightened young girl being asked to play a role totally alien to her, and fastening onto the person who seemed the best candidate for the mission she was following. But one thing would scare her: feminine intuition, and women who could see through her fragile defences. Another question formed in my mind.

"So who left to form Northern Action? I suppose it was because of these rows?"

"Yeah. Eventually things got really bad between Dan and Steve, so Dan left, taking Shannon and Penny with him."

"Do you know what happened to them after that?"

"Haven't a clue I'm afraid. Like I said - I didn't get on with Shannon, and I was pretty pissed off about what had happened. I mean things were rough here. For a while it was touch and go as to whether we'd be able to continue. If it hadn't have been for Steve we wouldn't have done; he really pulled things around. So keeping track of them wasn't exactly my highest priority."

"So you've got no idea where they went?"

"I think they'd stayed in the city for a month of so, then left." She took a last slurp of her now lukewarm coffee. "You could try talking to some of the others. They might be able to tell you more."

"So what happened to those others then? Where are they now?"

She pushed the empty mug away. "Steve's still here, and he's still the chair, but you might find talking to him a bit tricky."

"Why?"

"He's had a kind of breakdown. He could get help, but he won't. And since we can't make him, there isn't much we can do. I'll have a talk to him sometime, and see what kind of state he's in."

"If he's out of things, then who runs the agency?"

She shrugged. "Mostly it just runs itself. It's not as though we're one of these highly efficient, commercial outfits. Beyond that the two deputy-chairs are in charge."

"Who are they?"

"Mark Jones and Ben Francombe - but they joined well after Shannon left, so they wouldn't be able to help you."

"Got it. You said that including you, there were only two founder members still here. Do you know what happened to any of the others?"

"Yeah, I'm still loosely in touch will all of them - except for the ones that formed Northern Action of course. Ally - Allison Holt - she's a glass dancer with Harmonic Light."

"Are they based in this city?"

She nodded. "Jack Parker left to found DreamSoft. They develop household utility software. Apparently they're hugely successful."

"I've heard of them."

"And then there's Paul - Paul Evans." She paused waiting for a reaction.

"Paul Evans?"

"You haven't heard of Paul Evans!" she exploded. "Aren't you into hover-disc?"

"I played a bit when I was younger, but I've never been into watching it."

She shook her head in exasperation. "He's only the North City Crusaders' star player."

"Can you set up a meeting with him?" I asked, unimpressed.

The tips of her mouth turned up. "I can try."

The noise was deafening. There must have been well over ten thousand people packed into the circular arena, most of whom were chanting in support of the local team, their team robes and flags creating a dazzling montage of white and blue. "North City, North City, North City..." they chanted ecstatically, lighting blue flare sticks which they threw into the arena's water-filled playing area. At the far end of the arena, the two thousand black and gold New London fans were giving a good account of themselves, almost matching the home team support in volume and fanaticism. Vicki nudged me in the ribs, shouting to make herself heard above the chanting.

"New London are top of the Bretennek League," she hollered, leaning over to bring her mouth close to my ear, "but we're only one point behind. If we beat them we go ahead!" That explained the fervent atmosphere. I gently pulled her head close to mine.

"What's this we? I'm from New London!"

She smiled back, and then the lights dimmed, plunging the seated terraces into darkness. A large door slid open at one end of the playing area, the opening about a foot above the water surface. A rectangular jet-black slab began to extend from just below the door, the slow movement continuing for a few moments, until it formed a slim jetty extending into the water. The announcer's amplified tones echoed around us. "Citizens! Give a cheer for the brave team of the North City Crusaders. Number one - Dave Patterson!" A huge cheer rang around the enclosed arena when the player stepped out of the doorway from the darkened corridor beyond, and strode forward onto the jetty, accepting the applause of the crowd.

He had a typical disk-rider's build, standing just under six feet tall with a light, but powerful frame, his bulk exaggerated by the bulky blue and white body armour he wore. Mounted upon his back was a large, white disk, about eighty centimetres across and about five centimetres thick. He reached up over his left shoulder, and in a single fluid movement whipped the disk around him, laying it onto the sleek, shiny surface of the jetty. His hands ranged over and around the object for a few seconds, giving it a final check, before he stepped onto it, the catches on his boots locking into the sculpted footwells on the upper face of the disk.

A low hum of anticipation circled around the crowded arena, as he reached down to the squat cylinder affixed to the disc between his feet, and switched on the motor, the horizontal lift-fan encased within the body of the disc beginning to spin. The low hum turned into a cheering roar of approval when the disk rose into the air, wobbling slightly as it's crouching rider shifted his body weight forward, diverting some of the thrust from the fan to the rear and sending him shooting across the arena, quickly accelerating to a speed of nearly seventy kilometres per hour. He saluted the crowd like an aviator of old, then elegantly decelerated, swinging behind the goal and coming to a landing on the home team's balcony - which for some reason was known as the bench.

"Number two - Rick Pauling!" Another player appeared through the doorway. His confident swagger took me back to the days when I had played a little amateur hover-disc. The game had been invented a little over thirty years ago by the Teutonic Knights, and had quickly spread around most of the world. It was played over four hectic quarters of fifteen minutes each. The playing area, which was usually covered by a metre of water, was oval in shape, with a short axis of one hundred metres, and a long axis of two hundred metres.

Each team consisted of five riders, from a total squad of ten, with unlimited substitutions both allowed and needed. Each rider rode a hover-disk, a small vehicle consisting of not much more than a shielded fan that sucked in air from above and expelled it out below, generating enough lift to support it and the human being who stood upon it. The power of the disc's thrust was computer controlled, the on-board software always endeavouring to keep the disk at an altitude of one metre.

The player controlled both the direction of the disc, and the speed, by shifting his weight and tipping the disk. This directed the jet-thrust to the side, propelling the disk in the opposite direction. By applying more weight and steepening the angle of tilt, the horizontal thrust was increased. Since the disc's software automatically increased power to make-up the loss of vertical thrust, increasing the angle of the disc resulted in an increase in speed with no change in altitude. The system of control had been succinctly described by a legendary, and now retired player, who had declared: "The damn things flies itself - all you've got to do is stay on!"

The focus of the game was the ring, which replaced the ball used in older sports. It was, as the name suggested a thin, flattened ring, about thirty centimetres across, painted a fluorescent orange, and aerodynamically sculpted so as to generate lift when spun through the air. To score a point the ring had to be thrown though the opposition's goal; this was a red metre-square frame suspended just above the water at either end of the arena. As a final complication, a player was only allowed to hold the ring for five seconds before he had to pass or shoot for goal.

"Which number's Evans?" I asked, nudging Vicki. She shouted back.

"Number seven. He'll be the next one out!"

I turned my attention back to the entrance door, ignoring the Crusader's number six as he glided across the waters on his brief warm-up flight. My reward was to see a tall, powerful figure stride arrogantly out of the tunnel and onto the jetty, his disc already hanging from his right hand. An even louder roar erupted from the watching throng, the rider shuffling slowly round in a circle, waving to all corners of the arena. Upon his back was the number seven, and his name: Evans. He tossed his disk onto the jetty, stepped aboard, flicked on the motor and took off - all in one smooth, flowing movement. A murmur of appreciation echoed around the concrete ceiling as he set off on a fast, lazy, weaving path towards the bench, thrilling the crowd with sharp, slashing turns, carving through the air and pushing the disc to its limits of controllability.

He's not bad, I admitted to myself, sitting back to watch the remaining Crusaders make their appearances, followed by their visitors, who were welcomed with a friendly chorus of boos.

Then an uneasy silence. Ten players hovering silently within their halves as they waited for the hooter to sound. A moment's pause, then the sound echoed round the arena, and the ring catapulted out from an opening on the arena's left hand wall, flying straight and true along the centre line. The crowd roared.

Being in the right position when the ring was fired was largely a matter of guess-work, since it's initial speed differed slightly each time. On this occasion, it was the New London number eight who had guessed right, accelerating forward to the centre line to snatch the ring from the air as it shot past him, then holding it to his chest while he sped into the Crusaders half.

Across the arena one of the two giant score-boards changed status, the nil-nil score being joined by a bright green bar, indicating that the ring was being held, a similar bar appearing on the head-up display on the visor of the rider's helmet. Three seconds after his catch he began to turn inward, and the bar turned amber, indicating that he had just two seconds left. Silence settled again upon the arena, the crowd holding their breath, and feeling the seconds drift away. The New London right-striker held his nerve, continuing his inward curve away from the outside wall, twisting upon the disc to face back down the arena, then finally whipping the ring past his chest, releasing a split second before his time would have run out and sending it sailing in a smooth rising arc towards the central area of the oval. An anti-climatic sigh oozed from the Crusader's fans, the right-strike meanwhile recovering his balance and forcing his hover-disc back to the level, to arc back toward the goal, continuing his foray into North City territory.

The spinning ring cleared the centre line's red laser beam and began to fall, oscillating as its speed dropped away and the gyroscopic effect lessened. A huge cheer erupted from the New London fans at the arena's far end when their centre-man snatched the ring from the air, waving it once for balance then clutching it to his chest while he hurtled through the red beam. He crouched down, tipping his hover-disc to the maximum angle possible, and accelerating within seconds to its maximum speed of seventy kilometres per hour, all the time scanning the zone before him. He tipped the disc up, decelerating sharply, turned slightly, then flicked the ring away with a smooth snap of his arm.

It shot forward, staying level for a moment, then climbing sharply, its curved surfaces generating enough lift to send it sailing over the head of the Crusader's stranded right-strike and down into the clutches of the New London left-strike streaking along the side-wall.

"What the hell's that moron of a right-strike doing," snarled someone behind me.

The North City right-back accelerated forward, the left-back moving to cover him. Meanwhile Evans, the North City centre, was moving on an intercepting course towards his advancing opposite number. The New London left-strike swerved sharply as the Crusader's right-back flashed past him in an aggressive, but ineffective, approach that bordered on illegality. The New Londoner cut inside his hapless opponent and continued along the edge of the oval.

"Tosser," muttered the unwanted commentator behind me as the right-back threw his disc skyward in a desperate attempt to avoid colliding with the padded wall. A ghoulish thrill gripped the crowd when he lost control, the disc shearing past him and pulling his legs from under him. Then the catches on his boots released as the force reached the preset safety level, sending him splashing noisily into the water, and sending the disk flipping towards the roof .

The New London left-strike took advantage of the North City team's momentary confusion to cut inside and launch a long, flat pass across the arena. The ring banked, arcing just past the outstretched hands of the North City left-back, then levelled out, shooting straight to the New London right-strike, who'd continued his curving run to a point ten metres in front of the North City goal. He pulled the ring from the air, spun his hover-disc through ninety degrees and smoothly whipped the ring in the direction of the goal.

The red rectangle turned green as the ring sailed through its centre point, an enormous roar of celebration breaking out amongst the New London fans, while a stunned silence cloaked the rest of the arena. I looked up at the score-board - just as the score clicked up - and read the time it displayed. Nineteen seconds. I looked down smugly at Vicki.

"Defence never was our strong point," she protested.

This time, when the hooter sounded and the game restarted, the ring was catapulted from the right-hand side, swooping high into the air above the riders, then spiralling down toward the centre-line, where it was caught by Evans, accelerating out of his own half. He reached up with his right hand, dragged the ring down to him, whipped it to his left side, then with a smooth flick of the wrist launched it across and into the New London half. As he did so his right-strike pushed forward, calculating his velocity perfectly, his course intersecting the ring's at just the moment when it started to settle. He smoothly reached up and clasped the ring, arcing away from the catch with barely a wobble. He waited until the New London riders moved to intercept. Then a sharp cross-body flick and the ring was released, slashing horizontally across the oval.

Excitement mounted within the crowd when Evans caught the return pass, corrected the resulting swerve and powered toward the goal, the opposing centre shadowing him on a parallel course. Around him the New London team were falling back and forming up, the two strikers gliding back as fast as their discs could carry them. The left-strike broke to the right, moving to block a pass to the North City right-strike. The New London right-strike began to edge to the right, towards his own wall - then swung inside in a long arcing turn, accelerating to maximum speed.

"Watch him Paul!" warned Vicki.

Evans pushed into a hard, deceleration turn in preparation for a pass, winding up for the throw, but aborting when the New London right-strike flashed only inches past him on a near collision-course. He swerved instinctively, pulling his disk round in an extreme bank that rapidly slid beyond the vertical as he pushed his body-weight too far out of balance. He was still moving at over forty kilometres per hour when he tumbled shoulder-first into the water, a long plume of spray rising up as his smooth armour tobogganed along the surface. Above him, his hover-disc regained equilibrium and landed gently on the water beside him. He waved a thanks to the remote-controller sat in the referee's booth to the side, and climbed aboard, still clutching the ring.

"Foul!" screamed the fans around me.

"Dirty bastards!" said Vicki, adding: "They're going to kill someone one of these days!"

I might have been a loyal New Londoner, but I had to admit that she did have a point. Hover-disc was not a contact sport. With closing speeds sometimes exceeding one hundred and forty kilometres per hour, it couldn't afford to be.

The referee's amplified voice bounced around the stadium. "Foul awarded against New London. Illegal and dangerous approach. Direct free throw." Subdued cheering broke out for a few seconds, ending when both sets of riders started to form up, the North City team around Evans, their opponents lining up between him and the goal. The hooter blew to indicate that play could begin, and an expectant hush spread slowly around the crowd.

He paused, the disc rocking slightly from side to side as he held the hover, weighing the ring in his hand.

"He's going to go for a shot," whispered Vicki, although I wasn't sure if it was a suggestion or a prophecy. He looked around at his four fellow riders, making some kind of hand signal, then returned his gaze to the goal, ripping the ring forward with a powerful lever action that released it at an inclined angle. The ring hurtled away from him, heading for a point about six or seven metres to the left of the goal. It rose slightly, and began to curve to the right, sliding down the slope created when it was released at a slant. The opposing centre, who had been directly between Evans and the goal, frantically gunned his disk to his right in a desperate attempt to block the ring, but arrived a split second too late, the ring sailing only inches past his fingertips.

"Come on!" cried Vicki as the ring continued to slide to the right, its course getting closer to the goal as each second went by. But it was not quite enough, and the still-arcing ring swept past the goal's left-hand strut and spiralled down into the water. The crowd groaned in disappointment.

It was often said that to win a game of hover-disc you needed more that skill; that you needed to do more than simply outplay your opponents. You needed luck. If this was true, then it was obviously not the North City Crusaders' day.

Time and time again the Crusaders tore into the New London half, weaving intricate patterns of play that repeatedly ripped their opponents' formation apart. Time and time again they earned themselves scoring opportunities, then failed to finish the job. It began to seem as though the New London goal must be protected by a force-field, after we yet again watched the ring just fail to pass through the red frame. Finally, with just forty seconds remaining on the clock the North City left-back intercepted a weak pass near the back of the oval and began to blast forward.

He held the ring for four seconds, then flicked it across to his right-back. Around me I could feel the crowd willing their team on. The right-back hurtled forward for a few seconds then floated a long, high pass across the arena towards Evans, who was idling just forward of the centre line. He ripped it away from its glide path and gunned his disk forward, borne along on a wave of his home fan's cheers. Ahead, the opposing centre was closing. Evans fired a low, backhand shot to his right-strike, then sailed lazily past the New London centre.

The right-strike took the ring, saw the opposing left-strike closing on a suicidal interception course, and snapped the ring back across the arena. The New London left-strike saw the ring skidding away, and so attempted to stop, tipping his disc to an extreme rearward angle. For a moment it seemed that he might succeed, until a frantic whirring of his arms indicated that his weight was too far out of balance. He fell backwards, his mass driving his feet forwards and upwards, snapping his bindings, and allowing the unencumbered - and out of control - disc to surge upwards.

The North City right-strike had twisted to the side to made the pass, so had only a split second to avoid the collision. He pushed his disc hard to the left, but in vain, the tumbling New London disc crashing into his upper chest at a combined speed of well over one hundred kilometres per hour and ripping him from his mount. A cry of fury and fear echoed round the stadium as the wounded rider arced high into the air and slammed into the water, a long, ugly dent showing clearly across his blue and white armour. He surfaced, floating limply on his back, kept afloat only by the armour's plastic honey-combed structure.

Meanwhile, as medic-divers surfaced beside the stricken player, Evans continued, the non-sounding of the hooter indicating that the referee was playing advantage. He jinked past the New London right-back, increased speed to the maximum, angled to the right to avoid the left-back and fired a steep, angled shot. The disk banked in toward the goal, avoided the despairing left-back, thudded into the goal's left side-struct, and wobbled away to the side. The final hooter sounded, barely audible over the noise of the home supporters' despair.

"Bastards!" he screamed to no-one in particular, his barely-controlled fury blazing across his face, arrogance colouring every movement he made as he stalked randomly round the changing room.

"Don't say a word!" warned Vicki unnecessarily.

"What's he like?" I'd asked her as we waited outside. "How should I treat him?" She'd avoided the question, edged away under the shield of a nervous laugh. "Go with the flow", she'd told me, her worried eyes contradicting her reassuring smile.

He turned round, after hurling yet another piece of body-armour into the concrete wall, and noticed us for the first time. "Hi Vick!" he growled, adding sarcastically, "enjoy the game?"

"They were lucky!" she told him in a soothing tone.

"Yeah, they were," he admitted, then turned to gaze at his team-mates who were sitting dejectedly on the benches that lined the room, still wearing their body armour. "But these wankers were crap!"

I waited for them to defend themselves, but they simply hung their heads and said nothing, waiting for his anger to subside. Finally he slumped onto one of the benches and began to wearily strip away his leg plates. Vicki walked across the tiled floor to him and gently brushed his cheek.

"You okay Paul?"

The tension eased out of his frame. "Yeah, I'm okay. Who's the bloke?" There was a touch of suspicion in his voice.

"His name's Jon. He's interested in WaveX, how it was formed?"

"Well how the fuck would I know?"

She giggled, and sat down beside him. "Because you were there."

"I might have been... But I didn't give a shit."

"I know," she admitted with an affectionate grin.

"There must be something you can remember?" I asked.

"Fuck off arsehole!" he snarled.

I fucked off, retreating to the other side of the room. One of his team-members slapped me on the back. "Ignore him man! He's always in a shitty mood when we lose!"

"You mean there's a good side?"

"Oh yeah," the player whispered back, "sometimes he can be quite a laugh. Still a cunt, but a funny one. Anyway citizen," he added, pushing his aching body from the bench, "I'm going to go find me a groupie. Peace to you!"

"And to you," I replied, instinctively supplying the formal answer as he shuffled across the tiles. A few minutes later Vicki returned, taking me by the arm and leading me out of the room.

"Any luck?" I asked her.

She shook her head. "He's not really talking. But I don't think he knows anything. Like he said - he wasn't bothered."

I reached down to her face, and brushed away a stray hair. "Thanks for trying. Let's get out of this place."

The corridor lights were gradually switching from evening to night settings when we reached WaveX and paused outside. A tumbling, multi-layered melody spilled out from the open doorway, the haunting Gaelic vocals accompanying the backing synths hanging wonderfully on the still, cold air.

"They're good," Vicki told me, her arm linked around mine, "really good."

I listened for a few seconds to the soft, lilting voice of the singer swooping elegantly around the music, the emotions of the song wrapping around me. Then I spun round to face Vicki and took hold of her elbows.

"I can't face all that just now. You want to go for a walk?"

She looked up at me, a smile on her face. "Okay. How about I show you some of the city." She broke free from my semi-embrace and skipped across the wide corridor. "Come on!"

I jogged after her, pursuing her into a narrower side-corridor. "Where are we going?"

She turned, and shouted back. "To a shop run by a friend of mine. I want to catch her before she closes."

I followed her round another corner, and found her standing in front of a darkened shop unit, shouting through the open doorway. "Hey 'Lisabeth, you open."

"If you're quick," was the grudging but affectionate response.

"Wait here," instructed Vicki, diving into the unlit building. I sat down against the plasti-glass windows and waited, until she emerged after a couple of minutes.

"For you," she crooned, handing over a small plastic bag.

"What is it?" I asked, shuffling to my feet.

"Open it and see," she scolded. I reached inside, pulled out a small black box, and snapped it open. Inside was a small broach, a tiny but perfect emerald nestling within the intricate metalwork. I lifted it to the dim light, noting the incredible brightness of the green stone.

"What's this for?" I inquired happily.

"It's not for anything. I just saw that you weren't wearing a charm, and it worried me."

I took hold of her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek, my lips touching her cool skin for an instant. "Thanks." I took a step back and pinned the charm onto my cloak, wondering what the significance of the gift was. Emerald was suitable for those born under the signs of Taurus, Cancer and Pices, but what was its purpose?. It was said to be good for the eyes. Was that why she had given it to me? Or when worn by a man, it would help him attract him a loving wife. Was that the reason? Or was there another reason? It was said that if an emerald was given by one lover to another, it would be bright in colour. But if the love between them were to grow cold, then the colour of the stone would dull.

"Are we allowed in?" I asked. She ran her hand across the light switches, flooding the partitioned unit with light.

"Sure! I know the three members who run this place. They leave it open the whole time, so that anyone can just drop in and have a look."

"At what?" I asked, looking around the blank grey walls that zig-zagged across the unit, forming a maze of corridors and alcoves.

"Wait and see," she chided, reaching into a side-cupboard and pulling out two sets of head-phones. I took one and put it on, copying her movements. Then she lightly took my hand and led me forward into the maze, halting before the first of the alcoves.

"We have to wait a couple of seconds," she informed me, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze. I concentrated on the bare open area, preparing myself for something. But I was still taken by surprise when the whole area quite literally burst into life.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?" she breathed, her voice light with wonder. I could only nod in reply. In an area that only moments before had contained nothing but grey carpet and blank walls, a thick lush tropical forest now stood, a small clearing facing us. The chirps, screams and calls of the forest filled the air around me - the headphones, I realised. It was perfect, only the way in which it abruptly ended a metre in front of us giving any indication that it was not real.

"It's a holo?" I asked incredulously. It had to be, but the quality, width and depth of the image was like nothing I'd ever seen.

A resigned smile settled upon her face, presumably because I insisted on questioning how the magic worked. "It's a linked network of holo-projecters, kept perfectly in sync."

"So that's why there's no flicker, or ghosting. And why it seems to go on forever."

"I guess," she shrugged with a smile, returning her gaze to the scene. "Anyway, there's more."

"And what's ----" I began, stopping when she laid a warning hand on my arm and pointed at the thick foliage. A wide paw emerged from the shadows, followed by a huge cat-like animal that padded into the clearing and paused, blindly viewing the area where we stood, the muscles along its huge body rippling with unconcealed power.

"It's beautiful, isn't it," said Vicki, admiring the natural wonder of its silky coat, the short golden-yellow fur marked with contrasting dark stripes.

"The Bengal Tiger," informed a smooth, feminine voice from the headphones. "It was found in south-eastern Asia, and in central and southern India. Including its tail, it measured about three metres in length, and weighed well over two hundred kilograms. The tiger was a solitary hunter, with a rich, varied diet, which ranged from deer and cattle to snakes and termites. The final member of the species is believed to have died around the year 2017."

The tiger lifted its head high, and roared, the spine-tingling cry seeming to fill the air around us. Then it twisted, and ran, moving out of the holo-area in a long, mighty leap. The scene stayed before us for a few seconds, then vanished, along with the background sounds from the headphones.

"What is this place?" I asked, still amazed by the quality of what I had seen.

"The agency's called Lost Worlds, and they call this place a holo-zoo."

"A holo-zoo! I've read about them, but I never dreamed the display would be of this quality."

"It has to be," she said wistfully, wiping away a tear. "They didn't want it to be like watching a documentary on the vid. It had to be real, as though you were there. As though those worlds still existed. To make people realise what we've lost, what was stolen from us before we were born."

"It upsets you?"

"How could it not?" she asked. "To think about what was destroyed. But it's wonderful as well; to see what the world once was, to see how alive it was! It's like it's my most, and least, favourite place."

"It's special to you?"

"Yeah, it's special," she replied, leading me along the corridor to the next display.

"I love this city," she whispered, as we looked down upon the glory of Perimeter Park. "I love everything about it. I loved it the moment I set foot in it - and I have done ever since."

I edged along the railing of the viewing point until our shoulders were nearly touching. "When we were at the arena, and I asked what Paul Evans was like... It felt like I'd touched a raw nerve."

She said nothing, but turned her back to the park and leant against the railings.

"If it's painful..?"

"No, it's not painful," she replied, "just a bit awkward. Before he left WaveX, me and Paul had a bit of a thing going."

"Was it serious?"

She smiled sadly. "On my side perhaps. I don't know about him."

"Do you still feel that way?" I asked, having to work very hard to keep my voice steady.

"No," she replied, a wave of relief flooding through me as a barrier between us dissolved.

"And did it hurt?"

"At the time, for a while. Until I got rid of it."

"Got rid of it?"

"That's the thing I love about this city," she told me, avoiding the question. "You never have to be sad. You never have to be anything you don't want to be. You can do anything you ever wanted to. You can be anyone you ever wanted to be."

I danced around her and took her into my arms, feeling her head move against my chest, her arms reaching up to my shoulders. "But you were sad? You said it hurt?" I needed to know, needed to understand what had made her, had formed her.

"It did hurt. It really hurt. When he left, when he said that he didn't love me anymore - it was as though someone had torn away part of my soul. I functioned, I did my job, I laughed at the right place when someone told a joke. But something was gone, was missing. And when I saw him, that was the worse thing. He was so nice about it, tried so hard to help me - and that made it worse. He didn't even allow me the luxury of hating him!"

"And you needed to hate him?"

"I needed to feel something, anything other than that terrible, cold void within me. I thought it would get better, but it didn't. It just got worse. I'd given everything, tried everything, and I had nothing left. And it was still there, still eating away at me. I needed it gone. I loved him like nothing else on earth, but I hated that love even more. So I went to NuRealities."

"Who are they?" I prompted gently.

She looked up at me, her sculpted chin nudging against my chest. "They call themselves personality remodellers. They use hypnosis, drugs and shock therapy to reprogram you. You tell them who you want to be and they make you into that person. If you don't like being an introvert, then they can make you into an extrovert. If you've got a quick temper, they can take it away. With their help, you can be anyone you want to be. So when I realised I couldn't cope anymore, I went to them. I told them that I was in love with Paul, and that I didn't want to be. So they took the love away.

"Just like that?" I asked, stroking her hair.

"Just like that. When I went in, I was so in love with him it was driving me out of my mind. When I came out - there was nothing. When I thought of him, I was thinking of someone I knew, but I felt nothing towards him, not even friendship. The memories were there, but it was as though they were something I'd read in a book, or seen in a vid. They weren't mine."

"And didn't that bother you?"

"It did a bit. But by then I had no pride left, no honour, and no self-respect. I only had the pain, and the feeling that I no longer controlled my life, that it controlled me. Afterwards the pain was gone, and the fear of it as well. That fear had been controlling me, dictating my life. It was gone, and my life was mine again. I could be happy again. And I was happy - like I am now."

She tilted her face, and lifted her lips to mine, in a long, loving kiss that banished all the doubts.

She paused as we reached the doorway to the visitor's quarters.

"Sleep well," she wished me, a hint of a question in her voice.

"You too," I told her, giving her a final kiss.

"You could..?" she suggested, resting her head against my chest, leaving her face out of sight. I slowly lifted her chin, bringing her almond eyes into sight.

"Are you sure that's a good -----"

A door crashed open at the end of the corridor, and two angry figures spilled out, fingers stabbing the air as they shouted at each other.

"We have a responsibility!" screamed one, a short, bespectacled individual with cropped, sandy hair.

"Why?" thundered the other, prodding his smaller companion in the chest. "To whom?"

Vicki pushed me gently through the doorway, into the visitor's quarters and out of sight. I tipped my head and whispered in her ear. "Who the hell are they?"

She slumped angrily against the plastic-surfaced wall. "Mark and Ben..."

I mouthed the words to myself for a few moments until I remembered where I'd heard the names. "The deputy chairmen?"

"Yeah."

"And they're the ones who run this place?"

"Supposedly," she whispered, shushing me as the voices came nearer.

"In case you've forgotten," said one of the men sarcastically, a voice I recognised as the shorter man's, "our guiding principle has always been that we exist to help people."

"We can't help everyone!"

"We've never tried to. We've helped everyone who's asked us for help. There's a difference."

"People who've asked for help - who the hell are you trying to fool? I know what you and your followers have been doing!"

"We're all equal here. There's no factions and no followers."

"Bollocks! Have you or have you not been sending people down to the mag-lev station to pick people up?"

"We've simply gone there to see if anyone needs help."

"Wouldn't you consider that a change of policy? Something that ought to be discussed at the monthly executive meeting? Something that perhaps you should have told your fellow deputy-chair about?"

"I didn't think it was important."

"Very convenient!"

The voices seemed to have halted just outside the open door.

"Look, I don't think Steve would have any objections."

"Steve! What the fuck's he got to do with it?"

"He is still the chairman!"

"Well that's a sick joke! The bloke's totally lost it and you know it. He's gone! He just sits up in his room all day, stoned. He has absolutely nothing to do with the operation of this agency. I haven't even seen him for over a month. Sooner he's replaced the better."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other man. "Steve founded this agency. He built it from nothing. To think of replacing him..."

"Crap. You'd call an election to replace him tomorrow if you thought you could win!"

"That's not true. Steve's going through a difficult time right now, and he deserves support from his friends."

"Steve's a figurehead. Nothing more. You and your people have been blocking any discussion on his post for months now. Solely to protect your position. The truth is you're scared that the rest of the members support me and my views."

"They do not. This agency was set up to help people, not it's members."

"I don't dispute that. What I do dispute is that it is some kind of virtue to go about helping people in an amateurish fashion. Our suppliers ----"

"---- Our suppliers are new agencies who are trying to establish themselves, and who deserve some help and understanding from us."

"Our suppliers are ripping us off left, right and centre!"

"I think that's very harsh."

"Really? Well let me say some more harsh things. One of these days Steve is going to get his head together for long enough to realise that he no longer deserves to lead WaveX, and he'll resign. And when that happens you won't be able to hide behind him for any longer. Because I'll be in charge then."

"I won't stand for that. We won't stand for that."

"You won't have any choice. All agency members have to accept any decision that's democratically decided by the other members. It's the law!"

"What are you saying?"

"It's very simple," threatened the tall man, his voice rising to a snarl. "When I'm elected chair, and the policies I support are voted in, you will have to accept that decision. If you yourself, or any of your followers, pursue policies that violate those democratically decided principles you will be breaking the principles of agency membership. I will therefore call a vote to have you expelled."

"You wouldn't!"

"Watch me," growled the tall man, backing down the corridor and sweeping past the doorway. I took a peek round the door frame and saw the shorter man slinking back into one of the side-rooms. The taller man was already nowhere to be seen. I stepped back into the dormitory and pulled Vicki to me.

"All's well in utopia?"

"People are still people. That's one thing you can't change."

We looked into each other's eyes, but the magic of the evening had gone.

"I'll see you in the morning then?" she asked, unable to keep the vulnerability from her voice.

"Yeah. I'll buy you breakfast."

She gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then slid out of my arms and into the corridor.

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