Jasper Fforde: Early Riser

‘You don’t need to wear the whole dreaming deal as a badge of honour,’ scolded Megan who had joined us.

We all nodded agreement. Most people who were forced to forgo the pharmaceutical means to ease themselves through the Winter stayed quiet. It was like wearing a big hat with ‘3rd Class Citizen’ written all over it.

But Maisie, to her credit, was unabashed.

‘I’m not ashamed,’ she said indignantly, to groans and rolled eyes from all of us, ‘and I won’t be made to feel ashamed. Besides, dreams are fun and random and at least this way I never get to be a nightwalker, lumbering around the Winter, eating beetles and curtains and people and stuff and then ending my days as a spare parts inventory.’

‘If you become a Vacant you don’t know you’re one,’ I pointed out, ‘that’s the tragedy and the blessing – no brain, no torment.’

There were, inevitably, a few downsides to Morphenox: a shocking headache, some fearful hallucinations – and for every two thousand users, one would arise from hibernation as a nightwalker. The 50 per cent of citizens granted Morphenox were the same ones who might end up as drooling subhumans with severe personal hygiene issues and a dismaying penchant for cannibalism. Irrespective, everyone thought it was a risk worth taking.

There was a sudden commotion as the food arrived. We all joined an orderly queue, the conversation rising in pitch with the sense of joyful anticipation. As we waited for the sisters, children and underweight to be fed first, we chatted about what daft idea self-styled ‘sleep extreme’ guru Gaer Brills was promoting to fashionable sleepers, and inevitably, who was going to win Albion’s Got Talent .

‘Sleeping in trees wrapped in hessian smeared in goose fat on BMI minimum,’ said Lucy, in answer to the Gaer Brills question. ‘It’ll be raining hipsters all Winter.’

In answer to the Albion’s Got Talent question, none of us had a clue after last year’s surprise winner – Bertie, a sou’wester-wearing dachshund who could tap dance – so the conversation soon changed to a subject currently in the news: tackling a recent upturn in Winter mortality. Moderates suggested baby drives and cash incentives to tackle the increased wastage, while the hardliners favoured barren-shaming, removing all bearing exemptions and axing Child Offset Schemes. Although the population was holding steady against Winter losses, occasional troughs in the childbearing demographic could still cause panic, and right-wing hardliners loved a good panic.

‘I heard that lowering the minimum childbearing age would cure the wastage issue in a stroke,’ said Megan.

‘It would mean redefining the definition of a child,’ said Lucy, ‘and I’m not so sure that’s either desirable or possible.’

‘We could always boost the gender ratio to 70:30,’ I said.

‘Mucking around any more with the numbers is a seriously bad idea,’ said Lucy. ‘I have enough trouble finding a decent date as it is.’

‘I say freeze the vast government subsidies awarded to HiberTech,’ announced Maisie in her best revolutionary tones, ‘and instead of using it to permit Morphenox for the few, establish a workable strategy to ensure that all citizens attain target BMI come Slumberdown. We shouldn’t embrace Hibernational elitism, we should embrace Uniform Sleep for all – it’s fair and just, would increase survivability, lower wastage – and ultimately release the burden of childbearing.’

We all instantly hushed. It was the central tenet and long-stated aim of the once highly respected opposition but now strictly illegal pressure group the Campaign for Real Sleep. They believed that real sleep was the one true sleep, that a pharmacological solution to wastage was morally and fiscally unsustainable, and that humans needed to dream for long-term health. [9] RealSleep’s unofficial motto was ‘What Dreams May Come’. It was a brave or foolhardy person who publicly espoused their views, or even opened up the question for debate. Maisie, on the face of it, was probably brave rather than foolhardy.

‘The subsidies are spent chiefly on research to ensure that one day all Hibernation is under the protective shell of Morphenox,’ said Lucy defensively. ‘Don Hector was a genius, but even he had limitations – we’ll get there eventually.’

‘We only know that because your chums at HiberTech tell us,’ replied Maisie, ‘it’s a mechanism of social compliance. Don Hector didn’t make us free, he initiated a class distinction between fair sleeping and foul. We should all be a global hibernating village, equal in sleep, equal in dignity.’

There was an intake of breath. It was the mission statement of the Campaign for Real Sleep, a sort of rallying cry.

‘We shouldn’t be having this conversation,’ said Lucy, suddenly becoming a lot more serious. ‘I could get into serious trouble for not reporting you – and Don Hector was a great man who has saved millions through Morphenox.’

‘My dormetologist told me there was a new formulation heading our way,’ said Megan, ‘Morphenox-B. What’s the deal with that?’

‘And I heard something about Project Lazarus,’ I said, my curiosity overcoming my sense of caution.

‘If the HiberTech rumour mill could be harnessed,’ said Lucy after a few moments of exasperated silence, ‘we’d have free power for ever.’

‘You didn’t answer Megan’s question,’ said Maisie.

Lucy and Maisie glared at one another dangerously and Lucy’s eyelid quivered. I liked her a lot, but she was a loyal HiberTech person, through and through. I think it was an employment entry requirement.

‘I don’t have to answer Megan’s question,’ she said, slowly and deliberately.

The exchange was interrupted by some sort of commotion near the door. The guests were parting to let some people through, and that meant one of two things: a celebrity or someone relevant. Or, as it turned out, both.

There were two of them, conversing politely. One was our own Mother Fallopia, tall, elegant, austere, and with a habit so black she looked like a nun-shaped hole in the air. Next to her was a tall man dressed in the white quilted combat fatigues of a Winter Consul. He had a Gold Solstice Star pinned to his lapel that indicated he had seen at least twenty Winters, wore twin walnut-handled Bambis holstered across his chest and carried with him a sense of quiet dignity. He was dark, tall, and had matinee idol good looks. He also looked a little like Euan, Sian, Maisie, Daphne, Billy and Ed Dweezle – but there was a good reason for that.

‘Wow,’ said Lucy, impressed like the rest of us – indeed, possibly everyone there. ‘It’s… Jack Logan.’

Most Consuls sought only anonymity outside the Winter, but a few courted the limelight for one reason or another. ‘Wildcat’ deLuth over in Sector Nine East was renowned for her capacity for capturing nightwalkers alive – four hundred and sixty-two consigned to the redeployment centres, a record unlikely to be beaten; ‘Tangy’ Schneider of Sector Nineteen outraged public decency by living with a Winter Nomad when off-duty, and Chief Consul Toccata of Sector Twelve was suspected of resorting to Winter cannibalism more enthusiastically than was considered acceptable or, indeed, necessary.