Part 1 - Chatter 5

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Through tear marred eyes, Alistair stared up at the brick schoolyard fence and was greeted by the worn New British Education System's emblem; a pair of criss-crossed hammers. It was apt because every day he got hammered and this Monday morning was no different. Monday always spoilt his weekend and Alistair was again pushed down on his grazed knees. He propped up on one hand, slowly wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand and the bully David Cooper and his two thugs spat epithets of British Youth culture whilst they circled their fallen prey.

The vicious leader of the trio was a roly-poly, ginger haired boy whose cheeks were flushed scarlet with rage, and as he fired off one insult after another, steam rose from his head on this chilly morning.

"You're nuffin' but welfie scum Raven, innit," David shouted at Alistair. "Look at you. You're filthy. But you would expect nothing less to crawl from the QP Slums."

Alistair did well to hide his disdain, and knew it was better to remain in a humble, cowering kneel, to be punched or kicked again. Their pattern was predictable, and a nice reminder the weekend was over.

"Hey Charlie," David asked another boy, "Do you think that's a standard issue uniform...or do you think he's wearing rags?"

The other chimps cackled in ridicule.

"They're rags for sure, innit," Charlie replied.

"I think what we have here is a failure to communicate Raven," David surmised. "And you know what that means?"

The two thugs dragged Alistair off his knees to his feet and painfully pinned his arms behind his back as other school children scurried past with heads bowed. Alistair knew there was no saving grace and tried to prepare himself the best he could for what was to come.

David's chubby fist found the mark, punching Alistair right in the guts; it always sucked the wind from him. Alistair's knees buckled, but the thugs held him up, and as he fought for breath, David lifted Alistair's head by pulling at his hair and quietly seethed.

"You are scum Raven. Scum...scum...scum..."

"Look at your uniform," David began listing, running an accusatory eye over Alistair and jotting the indiscretions in to an i-pad. "Your boots are worn and not polished. The stitching on the left lapel is loose. Your IdentiCard is crooked. And it looks like you are wearing pants that haven't seen the washer in weeks."

"And," David paused, leaning in and sniffing, "you stink!"

"Oi, you lot, what's going on there?" a stern voice called out.

David spun around all smiles.

"Nothing, sir," David lied. "My friends and I were just giving Alistair Raven here a quiet talking to about the state of his dress. Nothing too formal, sir, but just a reminder there are standards for a boy to adhere to. And if it's anything Chancellor Malachy would like most from the British Youth of today, it is that the British Youth must maintain its standards."

"Is this true?" the Guard asked.

The bully and the thugs nodded to agree.

Alistair's head remained bloodied and bowed.

"And you?" the guard asked, pointing at Alistair.

The Guard stepped over; his face obscured, the thin slit of his visor replaced his eyes. The bulky black armour topped off with the fearsome helmet/skull combo sent shivers down Alistair's spine. The Guard had shouldered arms, but the Futurist logos twinkled on his uniform and his thick military boots looked like they could kick the guts from a mule. He extended his rhythm stick, shoved it under Alistair's chin and made Alistair's head rise with a snap.

"Well?"

Alistair manufactured a limp, impassive look.

"Yes sir, it is true," he said meekly.

The Guard retracted his rhythm stick. He grabbed Alistair's IdentiCard swiped it and stood over him. Alistair could hear the Guard tutting, reading though his list of misdemeanours against the State.

"You've missed all of your Futurist Youth meetings this quarter," the Guard said with disgust. "What's that all about? Save it," he warned before Alistair could explain. "And I'll be dumbstruck; you haven't even qualified for any of your loyalty proficiency badges...oh wait, two patches pending: electronics and chemistry. Hardly worth boasting over, now is it young Alistair," the Guard tutted. "What a sad state of affairs this has turned out to be."

"Yes sir," Alistair concurred.

"I think you're on the fast track to oblivion," the Guard declared. "And God knows you have no future...no future at all." Extending his rhythm stick again, the cold steel jutted in to Alistair's Adams Apple as the Guard slid the IdentiCard back in to Alistair's top pocket and patted his chest. The last thing Alistair wanted was a zap from the rhythm stick and thankfully, the guard turned his undivided attention back to David.

"Form a fist," the Guard ordered David, and he eagerly responded, clenching his fist.

"See that boy?" the Guard asked Alistair. "Now that is a good fist." The Guard returned to David Cooper.

"Now, just like the Youth meetings, show me how you'd hit him if you just found out he was a traitor or a filthy foreigner. Pound him as if he'd just betrayed New Britain with his hate-thoughts."

"I haven't had..." Alistair blurted but his defence went unheard.

"Shut up you," The Guard responded gruffly.

David Cooper wound up and punched Alistair in the stomach for a second time. Audibly, the air was again sucked out of Alistair and he slumped in the vice-like hold of the thugs, wincing in extreme pain and trying impossibly hard not to cry or to show any other signs of weakness.

The Guard placed a hand on David Cooper's head and cheerily ruffled his hair.

"Excellent work lad," he said. "Be sure this boy is re-read Section 31 and if he doesn't buckle up, dob him in down the cop shop," he advised David Cooper before turning back to Alistair and barking. "And for gawd's sake boy, get up off of your knees and get that kit in order. And if I find out you haven't been attending Youth meetings, I'll come down on you like a tonne of bricks."

The Guard walked away, whistling a chirpy melody, swinging his rhythm stick around his wrist on its strap and as he rounded the corner, David returned to Alistair as his comrades dragged him to his feet.

"There's no future for you Raven," he smirked then slapped him again.

"You are, and will never be, fit to wear the uniform of the British Youth," David proclaimed. "You're nothing but a gozzle, you weak little dump-skipper."

The school bell rang, David Cooper turned and left. The thugs dropped Alistair back to his knees, and walked over him, following David Cooper in to the school yard as sycophantic slugs.

Alistair stifled sobs, as he groaned and rubbed his bruised abdomen and slowly went about picking up his belongings and putting them back in his bag. There were no Samaritans in this day and age.

Alistair knew it was one thing to suspect you were unimportant. It was something entirely different to know it.

**********************

Futurist education was like a sausage factory - a well-oiled production line of ignorance; its modus operandi was to grind out more cannon fodder and gormless bigots. The Education Department's motto was Another Brick In The Wall and the teachers diligently settled in to a daily routine of brain washing.

Alistair sat in the back of the classroom for History lessons, his final class of the day. Disinterested, he etched an idea for a slingshot contraption in the margin of his notebook whilst the Knowledge Navigator bleated monotonously about the Futurist's Ideals of Liberty and Freedom for All.  Alistair drew a stick figure representation of David Cooper and traced a crosshairs target atop the stick figure.

Ping! He imagined firing something from the slingshot and stinging David in to oblivion. Peering up, he watched his classmates yawn and fidget. At his age, Alistair knew the State did not believe in either liberty or freedom. As the propaganda masquerading as education continued, he looked up forlornly and wondered who programmed the History Knowledge Navigator. He always had so many unasked questions about the Civil War era but between Archie and the school system, there seemed to be nothing that happened prior to or during the Civil War and all 'modern history' commenced in 2038.

His inquisitive questioning desisted once the Head Mistress complained to Archie about Alistair's abstract and oblique manner. In turn, Archie reminded Alistair in no uncertain terms to mind his manners and to stop pestering the teachers. Smart enough to know better, yet undeterred, Alistair played the game and parroted along with the rest of his dim classmates, blitzing the tests whilst still yearning for the answers to his questions.

Much preferring mathematics and his science classes, his brain was good with equations, permutations and calculations and he had a sharp mind when it came to retaining his learning, mixing chemicals, brewing mixtures and dissecting rats. In the laboratory with disinterested peers, his mind was free to thrive on his own. His Knowledge Navigators here were pleased with his progress and natural aptitude for numeracy, chemistry, physics and mechanics.

Closing his notebook, Alistair looked up and raised his hand.

"I don't feel well," he lied and the Knowledge Navigator yawned.

"Please seek medical assistance," she said passively. "Please ensure you read Chapter Nine for tomorrow's lesson."

Alistair collected his belongings, and feigning giddiness he slipped from the classroom. Scurrying through the hall, into the foyer and out on to the concrete schoolyard, he dropped his scuffed HyperBoard to his feet and skimmed out in to the street. Aiming for a HyperLift, he wound down to the depths of ground level. Down there, there were no truancy officers or IdentiCard swipes. Finding his usual entry spot, he switched on his goggles and furtively pushed in to the disused Underground station and proceeded down to the platforms. Selecting the northbound tunnel – it had less debris strewn through it - he configured the goggles to infrared night vision.

Gliding down the tunnel, his trip wasn't a long one, however, en route to his destination, he stopped and powered down his HyperBoard. Straining his ears, he swore he could hear voices. Quickly kneeling down, he flipped through various light receptor settings and scanned for life ahead in the tunnel. So faint was the sound, as he listened, he could hear his own blood pumping in his ears.

Scaredy cat he chided himself, and stood back up.

There it was again...the sounds of someone arguing. Alistair tucked his HyperBoard under his arm, and quickly skittled further up the tunnel. Now he could hear a strange rattle then hissing sound. Scrunching up his face, he closed his eyes to heighten his audio senses. He was right, there were voices; measuring his breathing, Alistair kept very quiet. Timidly inching forward, he could hear the chatty voices in the adjoining tunnel then that strange rattle and again the hissing sound. Alistair realised that just above his head was an air duct, so straining on his tippy toes, he eavesdropped.

"I detest these tunnels," a male with an odd, nasal accent bemoaned. "You know all this soot can kill you? Womble says they buried your dead down here too. There's a very good reason why they call these areas dead ends."

Womble Alistair thought, recalling the old man from his brief encounter at Paddington Station.

"Shut up Rocket," an older, more authoritative man countered, whilst a third agreed with the older man by adding: "You doltish ginger Kiwi, they didn't bury the dead down here in the Bakerloo!"

"Could have fooled me," the man sniffed. "It's rank down here alright."

"Is whinging a New Zealand pastime?"

"No, that's a positively English hobby. We prefer Rugby. Look...it's alright for you to knock me Thatcher, but Womble said this crud will coat the alveolus in your lungs and make The Hack look like a picnic on a Bees' Pin Platform."

"Technically, Womble is right," Thatcher replied. "But that little tunnel rat would cry foul on a sunny day. And why do you think we wear the masks?"

"Oh, yeah," Rocket answered, oblivious. "But touching it can't be good for you either, eh?"

"Then don't bloody touch it," the man named Thatcher countered. "Look...are you sure your name isn't Racket?"

"Very funny," Rocket scorned. "Finished fixing your hair Arcadia?"

"Leave it out!" a different lad, the one called Arcadia, scoffed.

"Oh wait. Arcadia, are those nits?" Rocket jibed. Alistair could hear a minor scuffle, before Thatcher separated the bickering men.

"Enough!" he ordered. "Back to work!"

There was a pause, then more rattling and weird spraying sounds. Alistair heard Rocket continue to mutter.

"I'd rather be busting in to a detention centre and cracking heads," Rocket bragged. "Not wasting time with this nonsense."

"Listen you ginger wannabe antidisestablishmentarian, the only head that's going to get cracked is yours. If you're not careful, Col Rose will deliver you up to a detention centre himself. Then we'd really see how you go up against the Goons," Thatcher threatened. "And let's not forget, in the old days, the gingers were always the ones who got it. Perhaps we could do you in here and no one would care. The only thing they would notice would be one less whinging Kiwi."

"Go on.  I'll take yers!" Rocket answered flippantly. "I'm a Fanta-pants...so, what?  Deal with it."

"So what?" Thatcher stammered incredulously. "So WHAT? Now listen you boring little grunt, if I hear any more of that crap gushing out of your gob, I'll leave you here, comfortably numb, and call the Guards myself."

Rocket mumbled under his breath, equally miffed and chastised.

"I still don't know why I have to do this. Pinball, Fish and Dreamer owed me one. Shouldn't they be down here instead?"

"Look Rocket...you got the short straw this time. Pipe down and get that stencil painted and we'll get these crates back to base. Then I'll buy you a lager."

"Warm beer...no thanks," Rocket said sarcastically. "When's Col Rose returning?"

Alistair could hear a crate being dropped and Thatcher sighed. "Rocket, are you completely stupid? Why don't we announce it out loud to the Goons? Let 'em know that we've got something brewing...a Christmas to remember, eh? Why not spray paint the directions to base all over the wall so they can find us?"

"I'm tired of this sneaking around and lurking in the shadows. When I was in the All Black Ops we'd come out, guns blazing and rip 'em down. All this secrecy is counter-productive."

"Counter-productive!" Thatcher seethed incredulously. "Why I ought to..."

Alistair could hear the sounds of scuffling.

"OUCH!" Rocket whimpered.

"Is bringing New London to its knees not a big deal?" Thatcher sizzled. "For goodness sakes, grow up! Shut yer gob and get moving."

"No need to hit me," Rocket whined.

"Yes there is. Now let's get a shuffle along before all of New London knows where we are," Thatcher ordered; Alistair steadfastly waited to exhale.

Fretting, Alistair paused until the men went out of earshot. What do they mean 'Bring New London to its knees? He moved away from the wall and rubbed his hands. For a second he thought his palms were covered with grime, but as he looked, the wall was wet and his hands were coated in a sticky substance. Alistair inspected the wall with his goggles and he could see smudged words daubed on the brickwork, encircling what looked like three lions.

Ich bin ein Englander.

Unsure of what it meant, he frenziedly brushed his hands down the front of his pants to wipe away any lingering doubt. He pretended he'd heard and seen nothing; absolutely nothing. That way, there'd be no trouble, and once the tunnel travellers were out of earshot, he quickly moved along.

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