Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

I approached HiberTech with, I think, trepidation. It was hard to downplay the importance of Morphenox. Living through the Winter was now expected rather than a welcome bonus. Skill retention, lowered food consumption and the redeployment and transplant benefits were already reaping dividends in our post-gorge economic environment. The naturally slumbering Southern Alliance, once the equals of the Northern Fed, were now lagging behind in every single societal and fiscal measure you cared to mention. Any which way you looked at it, Morphenox was a winner – so long as you could earn the right to its use. If you could, all well and good. And if you couldn’t, well, heck: at least you had something to which you could aspire.

The HiberTech facility was dark and quiet with no sign of anyone about. If it hadn’t been for the parade of gas lights illuminating the road up and out of the town, one might have thought it long abandoned. The sixty-acre complex, I knew, was surrounded on all sides by intentionally open and featureless countryside, and four watchtowers on the corners of the twenty-metre-high wall gave the lookouts a good view in all directions. The large double doors were of banded steel construction, with narrow loopholes to either side. There was a telephone bolted to one side of the entrance, and I picked up the handset, shook off the snow, pressed the ‘call’ button and introduced myself.

‘Deputy Consul Worthing, C, BDA26355F,’ I said, ‘delivering a nightwalker. Tiffen, L, HAB21417F.’

‘Hmm,’ came the voice, ‘we were expecting Logan, J, JHK889521M.’

I told him that Logan had died and that under Continuity of Command Protocol SX-70 I was continuing his duties. There were more questions after this and eventually, seemingly satisfied, a guard unlocked the outer door and let us in. After the surrender of my Bambi we entered a large and expensively decorated reception lobby, with a domed ceiling, a grand staircase behind and several double-width corridors heading off into the complex. Facing the desk was a large stained-glass window of considerable opulence that told the story of HiberTech Industries, and on the wall was a large HiberTech logo that dwarfed the twin portraits of Gwendolyn XXXVIII and Don Hector. Also of note were two golf carts parked up with a nightwalker in each, staring blankly at the floor. This was surprising; driving a golf cart was well beyond the skill level of any redeployed that I’d seen. Incongruously, they had been given name badges. Some wag had named them Chas and Dave.

‘Welcome to HiberTech,’ said the security guard in a cheery manner. His name, I noted from his badge, was Josh. He wore a black uniform with the HiberTech logo stitched on the top pocket, and behind him there were framed certificates of the ‘HiberTech Reception Desk Employee of the Week’, which were all him. Either he was the only one, or he was the only one any good at it.

‘Always happy to have visitors,’ he continued. ‘I’m something of a visitor myself, being from Canada. You should visit. We have one hundred and forty-eight mountain ranges, but somehow we’re mostly known for our trees. Most of the country is trees, actually.’

‘I’d like to go,’ I said, ‘but isn’t it all a little, well, frozen?’

‘Only in a glaciated permanent snow ice-field and tundra-y sort of way. Oh, and let’s get any confusion sorted out: lacrosse, our true national game, is intentionally violent , whereas hockey is incidentally violent , and unless you’ve got time to spare, don’t ask me about counterfeit maple syrup. Goodness, is that a bouzouki?’

‘It is,’ I said, and Mrs Tiffen dutifully began to play ‘Delilah’ . Josh handed me back my documents.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said. ‘Infiltrators from RealSleep are never far away. Ever met one?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘or at least, not that I know of: what do they look like?’

‘They look like everyone else. That’s the whole problem.’

He stared at me for a moment, with his right eyebrow arched just higher than his left.

‘You look as though you’ve recently taken some bad karma.’

‘You could say that.’

‘I simply abhor Weltschmerz . What can I do to cheer you up?’

I thought about Logan.

‘How are you at erasing poor life-changing decisions in a time-travelly sort of way?’

‘I can’t do anything about that, but perhaps I can ameliorate the pain it causes. Stop off on the way out and I’ll fix you one of my creations.’

‘Creations?’

‘Trust me.’

Josh scribbled me out a visitor’s pass, then had me sign a form on a clipboard as I looked about curiously. There were a few people moving around the corridors, but they walked in an unhurried manner, and no one was talking. Although busy, the facility was eerily silent.

‘Is it usually this quiet?’ I asked.

‘Management think that idle chitter-chatter distracts the mind from creative thought,’ he said, while selecting the best lemon out of a dozen he had below the counter and fetching a food mixer from a cupboard. ‘Do you play Scrabble?’

‘I once laid “Bezique” on the triple for two hundred and twenty-eight points.’

I’d stopped playing soon after. You’d have to, really. Every rack I’d pulled from then on was loaded with crushing disappointment.

‘Wow,’ said Josh, ‘you will so take the pants off us. We meet in the Wincarnis most mornings, between ten and midday. Join us.’

I told him I was leaving on the next train.

‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Well, another time. You can wait in that room over there, and holler if you need anything. Don’t forget to stop by on the way out.’

The waiting room was painted in light hospital green, and contained only unbreakable chairs and faded posters on the wall. The largest was published by OffPop and depicted the twelfth Mrs Nesbit, looking winsome and mumsy and proclaiming that there were ‘cash bonuses for baby production beyond lawful allocation’. More welcoming were a couple of Welsh Tourist Board posters. One was advertising the local area with the now-universal slogan ‘Visit Wales – Not Always Raining’ and the second of Rhosilli beach, the wreck of the Argentinian Queen stranded high on the shore, with the inviting and unassailably true slogan:

There will always be the Gower

There was also the smell of hospitals about the place, a mix of paint, bleach and fresh laundry. I fed Mrs Tiffen two gherkins and a packet of stringy cheese and she began playing ‘Delilah’ again, but more quietly, as though the gravity of the surroundings called for it.

About ten minutes later a woman walked around the corner, deeply absorbed in a report. She had short hair and small, pointed features. Very like Lucy Knapp, which was hardly surprising, as it was Lucy Knapp.

‘Lucy—?’

‘Hey, Charlie,’ she said with a grin, ‘heard you were heading our way.’

I got up and gave her a hug.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I’m on placement to the Advanced Redeployment Unit as part of the HiberTech Fast Track Management Scheme. Amazing work they’re doing.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Chief Consul Logan?’

‘He died. Well, sort of killed, actually – by Aurora.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘He was going to kill me.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’

‘It’s a long story, and not one I’m proud of.’

‘Tell me when you’re ready. Is that her trick?’ she asked, pointing to Mrs Tiffen, who was still playing ‘Delilah’.

‘Pretty much.’

‘Impressive. Your Bouzouki Girl will be useful R&D; Project Lazarus involves the enhanced redeployment of nightwalkers to serve the community in far better ways than they do already.’