Synthetica Read online

  Anais and Dalla sprinted across the quad, arriving at the glass doors just as the gentle tune of the bell rang out, signalling the hour. Anais stepped into one of the full body scanners that lined the inside of the hall. She touched her fingertip to the small white pad in front of her, while a beam of blue light scanned her left eye. She also knew, though she couldn't see or feel it, that the ID chip behind her ear was being read by another scanner. A green light flashed and Anais stepped through the security booth, allowing the person behind her to take her place. Dalla appeared next to her. All around them, students from their year group were sitting or standing in groups, the air full of nervous chatter and laughter as they waited to be called. The Academy was the only school in the whole city; in Anais' class alone there were sixty students, Dalla's had more than eighty.

  Dalla pulled Anais off to a space at the side of the white tiled reception area.

  "God, look at half these people. They look as though they haven't bought any new clothes since last year," Dalla gave a nervous little laugh and pulled out her compact again, checking her hair.

  "Relax, Dal," Anais said, even though now that she was here, surrounded by other students, the nervous energy was beginning to get to her too. Perhaps Dalla had been right to be so worried about their career's advice. It had only just occurred to Anais that every person in the room was a potential candidate for the job that she wanted. It was a sobering thought. She suddenly wished she'd paid more attention in school. But it was too late now - she'd just have to hope for the best. Surreptitiously, she reached up and tried to pat her own pink curls into submission, wincing as she pulled her fingers through the tangles.

  She heard a ping and an image bearing the city's crest of arms flashed up on her RetCom. She opened it and it simply read:

  MISS ANAIS FINCH

  ID: 901219

  REPORT TO ROOM 316

  She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.

  "I've been called up," she said to Dalla, trying not to let her nervousness show through her voice. Dalla reached out and gave her a quick hug.

  "Good luck, babe. You'll do fine," she said, as Anais pulled away.

  "Meet you in the quad after?" Anais asked and Dalla nodded.

  Anais turned and walked away, sidestepping the throngs of people that had now congregated in the reception area. The softly illuminated signs hanging down from the ceiling directed her up three flights of stairs. As she reached the top of the third set of stairs, a set of double doors slid smoothly back to reveal long, sterile corridor with soft mood lights glowing in the ceiling. Anais counted down the numbers as she passed each uniform grey door, before finally arriving at the one marked 316. She knocked and a woman's voice trilled, “Come in!”

  Cautiously, Anais opened the door. It was a bright, airy room; there was no computer desk and two large, cushy purple chairs occupied most of the space. A green fern waved cheerily from the corner. Morning sunlight spilled in through the far wall which was made completely of glass; the view over the square and the fountain was simply spectacular. A short, rather plump, woman with midnight blue hair, curled closely to her head and sprinkled with what looked like silver glitter, stood up from where she was sitting in one of the purple chairs and bustled over to close the door behind Anais.

  “You must be Anais. My, what a pretty hair colour you have! Is it natural?” she asked in a high, breathy voice that immediately set Anais' teeth on edge. Anais nodded, mesmerised by the woman's hair. Was that silvery stuff actually real, or had she sprayed it on?

  “How lovely! If you could just stand still for a minute -” The woman delicately brushed Anais' hair forward as she held a small wireless scanner up to the ID chip implanted behind Anais' right ear. Anais thought she imagined a tiny tingling sensation as the scanner's invisible beam passed over her chip.

  “Lovely. I'm Mrs Persimmon and I'll be advising you today,” the woman trilled, as she went to sit back down, gesturing for Anais to join her. Anais sat down in the chair opposite, still taking in her surroundings. Mrs Persimmon held out her left arm, and began calling up Anais' files that she'd just received from Anais' ID chip, onto the small silver wrist screen she wore. She nodded very so often, muttering as she glanced through the information. Finally, she looked up, her moss green eyes boring into Anais'. Anais didn't fail to notice the tiny flick of Mrs Persimmon's gaze, as she took in what Anais was wearing. Perhaps it was just Anais' imagination but she could've sworn she saw the other woman's lip curl every so slightly.

  “So,” Mrs Persimmon simpered, smiling brightly. “Miss Finch, I see that you've applied to the Institute of Architecture, is that correct?”

  Anais nodded, her heart beginning to thump in her chest.

  “And may I ask what made you want to apply to be an architect?” There was something in her tone that Anais didn't like – there was just a hint of derision in there which Anais thought was a little strange.

  “Well, I've always liked drawing,” Anais started. “I'm not very good with computers so -”

  “So you thought you'd make a career out of your hobby, not out of your academic strengths?”

  Anais blinked, lost for an answer, while Mrs Persimmon continued to smile blandly at her. She struggled for a few seconds, trying to think of something to say that wasn't sarcastic, but when nothing came, she remained silent.

  “Well, I do have some rather good news for you, Miss Finch” Mrs Persimmon continued, leaning forward in her seat. Despite herself, Anais couldn't help leaning forward too. This was it. This was the moment that she'd find out what vocation she was most suited for. She held her breath as Mrs Persimmon glanced back down at her holographic screen.

  “We've received your exam results and have taken all three of your career choices into consideration. And I'm very pleased to tell you Miss Finch that -”

  Anais looked at her eagerly, waiting with bated breath.

  “ - we've enrolled you in a training course at the picochip factory!”

  It took a minute for Mrs Persimmon's words to sink in. Mrs Persimmon beamed at Anais, who could only sit there in shock.

  “I'm sorry,” she finally managed to get out. “What did you say?”

  “The picochip factory. You've been assigned to work at the picochip factory,” Mrs Persimmon pronounced the last three words slowly and clearly, as though Anais was some kind of imbecile. Anais could only stare at her, horror beginning to rise in her chest, as Mrs Persimmon began talking about her working hours and her wage.

  “ - of course, that is subject to your performance level, and will reviewed once every five years -”

  Anais had stopped listening. All she could think about was the very last words she had wanted to hear – the picochip factory. The place where her parents worked themselves to the bone every day for barely any money; the hot, stuffy factory floor; the stifling air that choked your lungs and made your eyes and skin dry and itchy, the acrid smell of hot metal. This was to be her life for the next fifty years until she could retire or, as was much more likely, she died from exposure to the fumes that the factory produced. She wasn't stupid – she knew why her parents had never moved from their own jobs at the factory. Those who were deemed unworthy enough to start at the bottom, stayed at the bottom. There was no hope of getting a new job, no hope of getting out. The thought made her want to scream in Mrs Persimmon's stupid, flabby face.

  It took a good few moments for Anais to realise that Mrs Persimmon had fallen silent, and was now looking at her expectantly.

  “What?” Anais said.

  “I said, you'll start work on Monday and you'll have every Saturday off. Are you quite sure you're alright dear?” Mrs Persimmon was looking rather perplexed, as though she couldn't understand why Anais wasn't jumping for joy at her announcement. “Do you have any questions at all?”

  “Y
es,” Anais said, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. “I have a question. Why bother going through the motions of asking us to choose what we'd like to be, if you're just going to disregard everything we say? I didn't even list the factory as an option.”

  Mrs Persimmon shook her head in derision and Anais immediately knew the answer to her earlier thought – the silver flakes were actually a part of Mrs Persimmon' hair.

  “Miss Finch, surely you must've realise that someone of your -”

  “What?' Anais asked, rather aggressively. “Someone of my what?”

  Mrs Persimmon gave a small, patronising smile.

  “Someone of your social position,” she continued in her sweet voice. “Surely you understand that as a daughter of -” here, she glanced briefly back down at Anais' file that was still being beamed into the air. “a picochip factory worker - no excuse me - two picochip factory workers, it just wouldn't be feasible for you to train as an architect. There's the cost of training for one. And that's not to mention that your school grades simply aren't, well, adequate, for such a job.” She shrugged as though there was nothing she could do and gave Anais a pitying smile. Anais stared at her in disbelief. Thanks for breaking it to me gently, you old witch, she thought bitterly.

  “I do wish things could be different, dear,” Mrs Persimmon continued in what was clearly supposed to be an understanding tone. “But the fact is, unless you're a top student, the Institute of Architecture simply won't accept you. Whereas you have perfectly good grades to be accepted at the factory.”

  She shrugged again as though that was the end of the matter.

  “Thanks for your advice,” Anais said through clenched teeth. “And what if I don't want to work at the factory? What about my second and third choices?”

  Mrs Persimmon made a fluttering gesture with her hands, her blue curls bobbing in time with her head. Her eyes flicked down to the holographic screen where Anais could see a tiny photo of herself floating in the air.

  “Well, as I'm sure you're aware, the graphic design field is highly competitive. And all the available teaching positions filled up months ago. If it's any consolation, dear, teaching will be a redundant career in a few years anyway, once the SLPs take off! So really, you're in the best position with a secure career at the picochip factory.”

  She looked up expectantly, as though expecting Anais to fall to her knees in gratitude. Anais gave her a stony look.

  “The picochip factory,” she repeated tonelessly. Mrs Persimmon nodded enthusiastically.

  “That's right, dear. Now, I'll message you all the details, just in case there's anything else you'd like to know” she punched a few keys on her wrist screen with a flourish and almost immediately, an icon appeared in the top right of Anais' vision, informing her that she had a new message. She blinked and deleted it without bothering to open it.

  “Oh goodness, I didn't realise the time,” Mrs Persimmon gave another tinkling laugh and Anais had to remind herself that the punishment for punching someone was wearing an electronic tag for six months. “Well, let's leave it there then shall we, Miss Finch? You don't have to do anything else. And may I just say, congratulations! I know you'll just love working in your new career!”

  Mrs Persimmon stood up and Anais rose slowly after her. Mrs Persimmon bustled to the door and opened it, looking at Anais expectantly. Anais stayed where she was.

  “So that's it then? I don't get to ask any more questions?” She struggled to keep the anger out of her voice. Mrs Persimmon' perfect smile wavered. “I just have to accept my job and that's that?”

  “Well,” she glanced out of the door as though wanting someone to walk by and rescue her. “Of course you don't have to follow my recommendations, but as we do go through all the trouble, not to mention the expense, of signing you up for training and making sure you have a guaranteed job for life, it would be a little silly to throw all that effort away. Should you chose to reject your given career, I do think you'll find it very hard to get another position, especially this late on in the year. And as your chosen job is based on your personal data, it follows naturally that you should pursue the career to which the information finds you most suitable, does it not?”

  Her hundred-watt smile returned, and Anais gave up. She stalked past Mrs Persimmon, ignoring her as best as she could. But she couldn't resist a parting remark.

  “By the way,” she said turning around, just as Mrs Persimmon was closing the door. “Is your hair natural?”

  Mrs Persimmon looked surprised.

  “Why, yes it is,” she said looking rather pleased as she patted her stiff curls. “My father chose it.”

  Anais gave her best impression of the patronising smile Mrs Persimmon had treated her to.

  “Pity,” she said sweetly. “But there's always a way to fix it. I'll message you the details.”

  And feeling an immense satisfaction at the look on Mrs Persimmon' face, Anais leant forward and closed the door between them.

  He stopped in the middle of his work and slowly turned to the old TV in the corner of the dingy room. His grey eyes gleamed as the camera panned around and showed a black body bag on a hover stretcher being taken away from the scene of the crime. On the other half of the screen, a photo of the murder suspect flashed up – the man was slightly scruffy looking, highly unusual for citizens of the city, his mauve hair was greasy, and his eyes were curiously blank. The photo vanished and the golden haired newsreader who set his teeth on edge reappeared, smiling her silly, vapid smile.

  A slow smile curled across his own lips. The test had worked.

  He reached over the clutter of wires and pieces of plastic that littered his desk, and picked up an extremely battered mobile phone. Once again, old technology proved to have the upper hand in this modern world that these despicable people had built for themselves - mobile phone signals were no longer monitored. He punched in a number with his gloved hand and raised it his ear.

  Time for phase two.

  Three

  Anais sat under the shade of one of the neatly cut trees that lined the edge of the quad, watching as students continued to flow in and out of the City Hall. Those going in had looks of varying degrees of nervousness on their faces; while those coming out were either smiling and laughing happily, or dragging their feet across the ground, looking dejected. Anais knew which camp she belonged to.

  Despite the warmth of the day, Anais was cold inside. She had been so furious with Mrs Persimmon, that it had taken all her willpower not to wrench the door back open and shout at her some more. Instead, she'd forced herself to walk away, back down to the reception area. After a quick glance around to confirm that Dalla wasn't there, she'd decided to get a drink from the vending machine and wait for her outside. It did nothing to improve her mood when the machine read her biometrics from her ID chip and refused to give her a bottle of lemonade, instead choosing to dispense a lumpy looking grey protein shake.

  Anais took another sip of the shake, grimacing at the lemongrass flavour. It did nothing to dispel the hard knot that had formed in her gut. She still found it hard to believe that she was destined to work in the picochip factory until the end of her days. She wanted to march back into that room and scream, shout, plead and beg Mrs Persimmon not to send her to the factory – but she also knew that it was far too late. She had a horrible suspicion that even if she hadn't applied for a position that was so obviously beyond her means, they would've taken one look at her parent's backgrounds and they would've done the same thing anyway. For one wild moment, she had considered simply not turning up to her new job on Monday, but she knew what would happen she did that. For every hour she didn't show up, her parents would be fined an exorbitant amount, both their jobs would be at risk and they'd most likely end up in prison, along with her, for breaking the law.

  Her dream
of saving up and buying her own SLP was in tatters as well. There was no way during this lifetime that she'd be able to save up enough credits to buy one on her wage from the factory. So there was no hope of progression and no hope of buying her way out. No matter which way she looked at it, she couldn't escape her fate.

  Just across from her, a couple had just walked out of the building, the girl sobbing uncontrollably as her boyfriend tried in vain to console her. Although the boy was making soothing noises, it was obvious from his slight smug expression that he hadn't received bad news at all. Anais was tempted to throw her half empty bottle at him.

  Her RetCom bleeped and she opened a new message from Xander without her usual spark of excitement.

  How did it go?? Will we be work buddies too ;)? X

  Anais didn't have the heart to reply. She'd already received several messages from her parents, asking her how she'd got on, and she hadn't replied to them either. She deleted it and sat back against the smooth tree trunk, closing her eyes and wishing she could come up with just one brilliant idea which meant she wouldn't have to go to her new job.

  “Anais!”

  Anais opened her eyes to see Dalla walking across the grass towards her with a spring in her step. Anais' heart fell further. She knew immediately what Dalla was going to tell her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.

  Dalla flopped down on the grass beside her, pulling out two bottles of lemonade from her bag and handing one to Anais.

  “So how'd yours go?” Dalla asked. Anais, who was taking a long drink, shrugged.

  “Alright,” Anais said finally, as she lowered her bottle. “How about yours?”

  “Well,” Dalla looked as though she'd burst with excitement if she had to keep it to herself a moment longer. “I've been accepted on Civitas' Program Development internship! Isn't that great? Apparently it was between me and this guy who's dad works for the company, and he's some kind of genius at computing, but he got ninety five percent on his exam and I got ninety seven! So they gave the job to me! Isn't it fantastic?!”