Anna was more into this than Matt, yet Matt had decided that she was either too young or too careless to notice the stuff that needed to be noticed. He was good at people watching, had been doing a lot of it since he lost both his jobs, sometimes felt like he could read their minds – he’d hear an anxious wife think to herself as she strode past, ‘Better get home and put the dinner on for Lard-Ass’, or a man in a suit would say to himself, ‘Who does that prick on the bench think he’s looking at?’ Once, a homeless lady had even looked at him directly as she wheeled her trolley through the park and said ‘Hi Matt’ without moving her lips. It was bullshit, he knew that, just another ‘delusion’ – but he could read people on a more basic level, could get a sense of their inner natures simply by observing. Anna was too much of a tornado to take the time to observe; this was her mission and she was determined to unravel the whole thing in that bar, like the answers were going to fall into her lap in the shape of a coded document.

That was probably why she didn’t clock the table at the back and Matt did. The men seated around it were half-obscured by shadows, laying down a game of Dominoes – but they weren’t Dominoes-playing kind of guys; the casual game was a farce, belied by their tailored suits, restless eyes and the constant fingering of inside jacket pockets, the way some men absently touch their crotch when watching TV: checking that their [Godcocks] dicks haven’t dropped off. Matt dropped his head so he could focus on them without being noticed, but Anna suddenly jerked him forward by the arm, dragging him towards an older guy sitting at the bar.

“He’s not one, Anna,” Matt hissed, but she took no notice. The man on the bar stool, with his crow lines and paint-spattered sleeves, appeared too interesting to Matt to be mixed in with the faceless corporate plots that Anna had spoken of out in the alley.

Both the artist – if that’s even what he was – and the journalist they met treated Matt like Anna’s sidekick. Matt wasn’t sure how he felt about that; he was accustomed to people assuming he was too young to frequent bars, but he figured Anna was around fifteen, and however scrawny or baby-faced he might be, couldn’t see how someone would mistake him as being the same age as a school-kid. And yet to pipe up with ‘I’m twenty-six’ would likely have caused Anna and the men to glance at him in that pitying, bemused way reserved for the immature and socially inadequate. The situation made him awkward, and he downed the whisky proffered by the artist’s paint-streaked hand quicker than he normally would have.

“Anna,” Matt said as they sat down, “what do you expect to find in here?”

“Someone who can indicate the next step I need to take in. Someone with answers, or a clue at least.”

“We’re in a dive. The next step anyone here will be taking will be towards something greasy, followed by the toilet bowl. Except for maybe those -”

“Shut up, someone’s coming.”

They ended up walking out just as the atmosphere became too claustrophobic for Matt to take; the entire place seemed to be drawing tighter and tighter around them, like a blanket in the competent hands of a stern psychiatric nurse. It wasn’t exactly hate that was oozing from the pores of every single patron in there, but nor was it as harmless a thing as mild curiosity – and its creeping danger was acrid enough to corrode holes in Matt’s courage.

They kept up their fast-paced walk, almost a trot, until they rounded a corner. The journalist came panting after them a few moments later.

“My name’s Trent,” he gasped out, “and I think we left just in time.”

“What about the painter-guy?” asked Matt. “Is he still in there?”

“Let me see those credentials now,” Anna demanded.

Trent showed them to her and she nodded, apparently satisfied. Turning to Matt he said, “Bruford? Oh, you don’t need to worry about Bruford – he’s cracked, nobody will touch him.”

“Cracked?” Matt echoed.

“Yeah, you know, Loony Tunes. Well, not crazy exactly, but weird. You ever been to one of his exhibitions? I don’t get any of his shit, it’s all playing around with mathematics and wormholes or some shit like that.”

“Maybe Eschaton’s influence has seeped into him,” Anna suggested.

“Kid, you can’t excuse every weirdo around with the theory of Eschaton rubbing off on them.”

“Look, what is it that you know about Eschaton? You share your information and we’ll share ours.”

Trent chuckled . “Nice try kid, but you already gave yourself away. I know you don’t have any answers. You came to ME and asked ME what the story was!”

Anna was clearly irritated by the journalist’s laughter. “This is serious! We don’t have time to go back and forth over who knows what. You need us, and we need answers!”

Matt settled back into the comfort of his head while Anna persisted with her line of bartering. “Did anyone else notice the table at the back? Too dark…they couldn’t see the spots. All lies.”

He realised he’d spoken aloud when the other two stared at him in confused silence.

“Oh great,” Anna said, rolling her eyes. “My back-up consists of Drinky McPisshead here – and Rain Man.”

Churches used to be a place for sanctuary, but no more. Some of the buildings still stood, but were used for commerce. The Pope declared that God had a plan, and regardless of whether or not we tithed or worshiped, his plan would be put forth into action.

If people still practiced their rituals it was in small groups, and it was only to ensure that there was still some faith to be had, and that it was on an intimate level. After the Treaty, most large organizations of churches could no longer be trusted in the eyes of the individual.

Being humble no longer applied. People still felt a connection to something, but it was more on a personal basis, after all, who could you really trust with a revelation? Thomas Paine’s The Age of Reason was one of the most read files in the archives. It just made sense, finally.

Tribal life was back in force, but with a newer edge. People stuck to the things they could trust. Survival was the most important thing. Your work was your tribe, and your friends and family usually had some connection to that work. If you fraternized with people outside of your circle, people worried. People watched. People protected their stakes, by any means necessary.

There was no more law. In the eyes of the people, the government was a farce, and could no longer hold weight. People just stopped obeying the laws, and it was good. There was not enough force to hold anyone in captivity anymore. The prisoners had become too smart, the guards and police had become to complacent, the Military too soft to ever have a chance against these groups of disappointed, disgruntled people.

The big corporations were too strong to fail against any rebellion, and the people were tired, so the Treaty was agreed upon by the representatives of all parties involved. Those who dared cross anyone’s particular line could, and usually would, be shot.

The Tru Believers lived in a place where few went. They rarely came out of the shadows, and all that was known of them was that they were dangerous, had strict belief systems, and could not be easily eradicated. They were the only threat to Momentum. They knew about the Treaty and the evolution before anyone else did. They preached and wrote and blogged for all to fall on deaf ears.

They were valuable, viable, and untouchable. Because of the truth of their prophesy, and the mistrust of the media companies, they were the only source of news that could be relied upon. They were the keepers of the news feeds.

They never left their quarters. It was unsafe. Their menials, the Borderliners, could cross over into any social group to obtain data to bring back to the Tru Believers. Once a Borderliner obtained a certain status, he was no longer a citizen of the world, he went underground and learned the secrets. But that was a long time of servitude and then apprenticeship before anyone could break into the life.

Michael had made strong connections, but was careful not to jeopardize his status with the archives. The whole life of the True Believers, or Prophets as they were sometimes called, was fascinating to him. The truth, if anyone knew it at all, was held by these people, and he, being an advocate for truth, could not help but feel a deep sense of love for, and empathy for those untouchable, faithful, dangerous few.

“Another day, another dollar,” she mumbled.

The courtyard was a convincing Eden. That was the idea. The workday needed a momentary break from it’s sterility. It seemed the world was mostly in the sky or boxed in cold steel. Momentum could afford such grandiose break rooms.

Heilen looked around at the Private Service Agents. She wondered how they went from eating boxed lunches to breaking someone’s face moments later.

“Dicks!” she heard someone grumble.

Heilen glanced over her shoulder in time to see the petite agent kick the metal recycle bin.

“Great boots,” she whispered, peering at the black vinyl knee highs on the agent. The agent seemed infuriated over what appeared to be a malfunctioning lighter. She had a cigarette hanging from a pouty bottom lip, her asymmetrical bangs hung like black curtains sloping over one violet eye. She flicked and flicked with a fury.

“No smoking, I’m afraid.” Heilen piped up.

“Excuse me?” The agent turned.

“Sorry,” Heilen flushed, “The courtyard has an embedded humidity oxidation reduction system that renders anything that produces a flame practically useless.”

“Dicks,” the agent replied.

The archives were owned and protected by a private company called Nobles. Nobles had the biggest stake in preserving history, and in keeping the written word something in demand.

All hard copy literature and news had been deemed useless in this fast paced society, so on demand news and entertainment were vitally important to keeping people informed enough to stay alive. Nobles would have suffered a great loss, being the largest distributor of media in the world, had they not undergone a massive project to convert everything print, everything with an ISBN or equivalent serial number, into data files and store them on the massive servers that have become the archives.

The archives were kept underground in miles of tunnels that used to be a subway system. They were under surveillance at all times. Nobles had their own security, but occasionally sub-contracted from Momentum if there was a need. There was no excuse for a lack of security, ever.

The part of the archives that was available to the public was in an old above ground terminal. The outside architecture remained fairly original, to keep some sort of link to the past for the geeks that still frequented the archives for entertainment purposes. The general public didn’t need to be chipped for permission to view the archives, but they were only permitted to view entertainment media and news blogs.

Nobles had strict rules for the bloggers. You must meet security requirements, and have to undergo extensive testing before you can get chipped to access the news feeds. The bloggers were not permitted to blog in the public rooms either, for fear that the news feeds would be hacked. Nobles had the monopoly on the media, and if the rules were broken, they were within their rights in a lawless society to kill you on the spot, and no one would blink.

For the most part people were morons. They were literate, and they knew what had caused the evolution, but their apathy, caused by years of indoctrination to find out that it was all a lie, made them want to be blissfully ignorant. People were faithful servants of the way of life. They needed the routine to keep them sane. The routine, and the tranqs.

Michael sat down at his station, the smell of coffee accosting him. He stuck his finger into the chip reader.

The liquid Wi-Fi screen glowed black. “Must’ve been an update,” He thought

Enter Username: Curfile Enter Password: ******

“Welcome back Michael, you’ve got messages,” said a sweet voice.

3 messages in his inbox. He eyed the subject lines, “Want a larger p3nis?” “Re: Re: Hey” “pick up bread”

The first was spam, the last was from Heilen, but the second . . .

June 6 2016 6:33 AM

Re: Re: Hey

Sorry it took so long to reply. I haven’t been well and Pierre doesn’t permit me to over exert myself. I have only this chance to sneak onto the Wi while he’s away. The doctor says that I need an operation. Nothing too serious, do not worry, I’ll be right as rain in no time.

I wonder why you haven’t called, my darling, have you been busy? Do you no longer think of me at all? I’m sure you have your reasons. I hope you are well.

I want you to know that I still love you, and that as soon as I am able to care for myself we can meet. At the moment, I am at the mercy of Pierre for my very existence. I wonder why the chivalrous are never so fortunate.

Yours always,

Lizzy Bea

XOXO

Michael sat there for a moment, not sure of how to respond, or if to respond at all. He had loved her, hadn’t he? And if so, would he be questioning it at all?

He thought about Heilen, and how smooth her skin felt between the grip of his small hands. He thought about the softness of her lips as they parted and closed down on his flesh. How she moved like water flowing down his body. He thought about how it felt to walk away from her in the morning at the threat of the coffee pot alarm.

He thought about the sweet taste of her snatch and felt the discomfort of his cock. he thought about Jimmy’s funeral.

He thought about Jimmy. He thought about chances. He had to get out of there. He needed some fresh air.

“Does she know she’s going to die?” He thought to himself. “So elegant . . . delicate . . . and yet fierce . . . so . . . so . . . dead in her boots.”

“You!!!!” She shouted.

A bit startled, he turned, took the coffee, and almost made eye contact. “No,” he thought, “too much for her to bear yet.”

Momentum was the largest privately owned company in the world. They specialized in security, but also controlled the transit systems and a large portion of the health industry.

Momentum was seen as a life saver by some and as a problem by others, considering they owned a great deal, and to own in this day and age meant power.

No one was quite sure about the founder of the company. Just that she was one of the most powerful and elusive women in the world. Her idea to corner the market on security was probably what had people considering her the genius of the century.

Security was big business, because to survive after the Treaty, you had to have it. There was no longer a government or police force to protect you. Protection was privately owned. Momentum meant there was someone on your side, as long as you could pay, and security was affordable enough for the common survivor of the Treaty because of the size of Momentum.

There were still places in the world that you just didn’t go. Places where survivors with no practical means of security, or some diversion to the New World Order and the Treaty, had managed to survive past the need for evolution into the new way of life.

These types were almost extinct, but there were a few resilient groups who, before the Treaty, had already become familiar with self defense, militia style protection, and tribal life.

These people were called the Tru Believers, or Prophets. They were the ones who had warned people years before of the New World Order. The conspiracy theorists, the new agers, the naturalists, and the survivalists. They were also the radical.

They new, they saw, they prophesied, and yet they were practically extinct because of their inability to conform or agree with the state of the world. They remained anonymous, and yet they were the biggest threat to Momentum.

War had changed at the turn of the century. It was no longer a thing of nationality, after all, what was nationality these days? There was some level of peace obtained by nations when the European Union and the Americas signed the Treaty. Now everything was capitalistic and that meant corporate war was the only war left.

Might seem like a fairly harmless battleground, but when you hand over militarization rights to private sectors it becomes something close to tribal.

The old churches didn’t have much power anymore, save a few that had always had capital. Or that was the way it was depicted in the media. That’s where Michael came in. He was in the business of debunking rumor, and letting cats out of bags.

He was a blogger, and that meant something in today’s world. People quit trusting in traditional media when the prophecies proved to be true. There was some big conspiracy, and there were secret societies, and the New World Order was in fact in power.

It wasn’t so bad, though. Once the rest of the world caught wind of what was going on, it was too late to refuse membership. So there was a Big Brother watching your every move, so what? It made people feel safe, and those who didn’t got a nice dose of tranqs to calm their nerves. The world was happy.

Of course you had to go along with the ideas of a far more intellectual group than yourself, but it was worth it to keep your life, wasn’t it?

The world leaders were no longer governments. Corporations held the power. They had their own security, and it was survival of the fittest. You had things because you knew how to earn them. Those who didn’t became extinct.

Sat there with a pen in his hand waiting for an idea something happened that never happened much now – that had never happened much in the past: a story walked in and sat down opposite him. He was worse for wear but he recognised it for what it was: a lead.

A young girl dressed in some approximation of punk with a spaced out kid following her. And then who should they go over and talk to but Bruford? Bruford, the weirdest guy on the local art scene that there had ever been (everyone agreed on that point). That had to represent a story didn’t it? And one that stretched beyond the limit of an under age drinking story? Surely he deserved that kind of break.

He watched them intently. Were they here for the same reason that he was? Not the drinking but the rumours that this place was connected to something illicit that was eating at the heart of Eschaton like a maggot? He hadn’t noticed anything though. The only thing out of the ordinary was the kid and the girl, and apart from Bruford and himself no one seemed to be really paying them any attention at all. What was it all about?

He got up and he walked over to them, slid into the seat on the other side of their booth. They moved to get up but he placed his hand on hers to stop her and then withdrew it quickly. From the look on her face she could have been all kinds of dangerous. The pause in her movement though gave him long enough to flash his press credentials.

‘Are those real?’

‘Sure, I’ll let you get a closer look when we get out of here. Doesn’t pay to draw too much attention to yourself in that regards in here.’

‘Ok, so what’s the story?’ said Anna.

‘I’m the one who should be asking that – two kids waltz into a place like this and no one bats an eyelid and the only people that seem to notice are a pisshead journalist and a weirdo artist.’

‘So you’re a pisshead? Nice. So the credentials are about as much good as a bratwurst at a Bar Mitzvah, then?’

‘My, you have smart mouth. Why not ditch the attitude and perhaps we can help each other out.’

‘Ok, give me your card and we’ll arrange a meet up. People are now starting to turn in out direction and I think we should leave.’

‘I think you’re right.’

Anna and Matt left first being followed by the eyes of Trent and Bruford and now every other denizen of the bar. Trent was getting a bad feeling – he tossed back the dregs of his drink and got up to go. Someone stepped in front of him. An olive hit the guy on the back of the head. As Trent lef the bar at a sprint, something he was going to pay for later, Bruford winked at him. The guy had to have been the one who threw the olive.

He had decided to go for a walk – stretch out physically to allow himself the mental space to unfold his ideas in. He passed an alley and saw two youngsters talking. Man, did thinking of them as youngsters mean that he was old? He stood there and watched them – there seemed to be a contained energy there; it was fascinating to him. In the displays of energy the geometric shapes that their bodies naturally fell into were surely some codified system that affected the world around them. He saw intent in their body language; saw so much being communicated that was on a non-verbal level. How many people paused to take in this kind of detail? How many people were aware it even existed? He was sure that the majority were only interested in a surface read.

He decided to follow them because what they were doing was feeding into his theories: their physical structures were telling him something about the underlying systems that governed the universe … he was sure of it. They started at the back of the pub, looking in through the window, and now they were entering through the front door – traversing not only a physical space but a notional space too; one that encompassed social and psychological ideas of a place’s geography. They were pushing some part of themselves forward in time in order to unlock the acceptance of the men on the door. His journey into that place was far more simple – he looked presentable, was of a certain age, and had money; the number of barriers he had to surmount were minimal to the point of non-existence.

He decided to help them. He went and sat at the bar, beckoned to the girl, and watched as she floated over, the boy dragged in her wake like something caught in her slipstream.

‘Would you like a drink, miss?’ he offered.

She stared him down like he was some kind of pervert.

‘Sit for a second – your safe, you have you friend with you. Call me a curious bystander – a student of humanity. I know you shouldn’t be here yet I watched you cast a glamour on the bouncers and waltz in; I watched you bend time around yourself. So, I just wanted to ask, and you don’t have to answer … what exactly are you looking for here?’

‘Answers,’ she said, smiling, strangely satisfied with the simple answer.

‘Ah, another pilgrim; another seeker knight. And your friend?’

‘A tag-along.’

‘Anna,’ said Matt ‘Why are you even talking to this guy?’

‘Thanks for giving him my name, Matt. How perfectly suited you are to this undercover work.’

‘Undercover work?’ said Bruford, a smile creasing the corners of his mouth ‘What do you suspect is going on?’

‘Someone is doing something strange here in Eschaton. This whole place seems to be built on something bad.’

‘Ah, the transcendent geometry of a space. It is built in the hearts and minds of all who dwell here.’

‘Okay, really must be going.’

‘A drink might help with the undercover work,’ he offered.

She asked him for a rum and coke. Matt took a whiskey. She offered a sincerely unfelt thank you up to this stranger and then she dragged Matt away so they could find somewhere to sit down. Bruford smiled, he could watch them watching whoever and he knew he would learn something.

She looked at him and wondered if it was even worth the bother of explaining what she thought might be going on in there. He mentioned medication, something to with schizophrenia – weren’t they genereally paranoid and into the whole conspiracy theory thing? She might have an attentive audience for once. Fuck it, why the hell not give him a chance? How could it hurt?

‘People have been going missing. Something strange is going on in this town. I think that this place has a lot to do with it. Well, the people inside have a lot to do with it.’

‘Are you a journalist? I have a friend who’s a journalist.’

‘No, more like an interested party with nothing better to do.’

‘So, why don’t you just walk in there? Walk in and start looking around.’

‘You think it’s that simple? That I can just walk in and start talking to people and it’s all going to fall in my lap?’

‘Yeah, why not? I mean, they’re hiding in plain sight, aren’t they? Most people don’t acknowledge the kind of things that they’re supposed to doing because they think they’re dangerous and they don’t want to be in danger; so consensus reality makes their activities invisible. If there’s one thing that I know about it’s being invisible – most people can cut me out of their existence as soon as they have the excuse of my mental illness.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘Of course. I don’t have anything better to do either. What song is your thingy playing?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Go on, tell me.’

‘Straight To Hell.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

And in they went.