This Other Eden (11 page)

As
Geraldine was giving Max the details of the meeting, Rosalie and the terrorists
arrived. Not at the table; they landed on the translucent BioDome roof of the
commissary with a loud thudding. Everybody looked up at the shadowy figures
moving about on the dark blue tinted filter-shield. Most people, including
Geraldine, were rather scared, but Max loved any kind of excitement and found
the scene exhilarating.

‘Look
at those guys,’ he said. ‘They certainly know their stuff.’

‘The
security people should shoot them,’ Geraldine replied. Max watched, fascinated,
as above him the five masked figures in green fatigues mined the BioShield
with well-rehearsed efficiency. They laid the charges at five-metre intervals
across the great domed canopy whilst their helicopter clattered above them.

‘What
are they doing!’ asked Geraldine.

‘I
think they’re going to blow a lot of holes in the roof.’

And
before Geraldine could respond to Max’s calm observation, there was a series
of bangs as Rosalie detonated the charges and fragments of BioShield rained
down on the screaming diners below.

‘What
are they doing!’

‘I
guess we’ll find out in a minute,’ said Max excitedly.

And of
course they did. Rosalie attached a grappling iron to the largest hole in the
roof, and then she and the rest of the team climbed back into the helicopter.

‘I
think they’re going to try and pull the roof off,’ observed Max. They could see
the shadowy blue shape of the terrorist craft pulling slowly away from the
canopy. Thirty feet above the roof, however, the helicopter stopped, hovering
in mid-air, tethered firmly by the grappling rope stretched taut below. The
mighty engines roared and tugged, but the roof was tougher than the terrorists
had allowed for in their otherwise flawless planning.

Downstairs
Geraldine laughed. They all laughed. They could see that what was clearly a
plot to expose their pristine epidermises to killer Ultra Violet sunshine had
gone wrong.

‘Roof’s
too strong, huh?’ they shouted upwards. ‘Fuck you, green assholes.’

Up in
the Mother Earth craft there was consternation.

‘We’ll
have to cut her free,’ the pilot shouted above the scream of the labouring
engines. ‘I give the cops another two minutes.’

But
Rosalie was having no such defeatest nonsense. This was the DigiMac Studio, a
world famous location in the middle of the most public town on the planet.
Mother Earth could not be exposed as incompetent fools in such a dazzlingly
high-profile arena. Grabbing her bag of detonators, Rosalie launched herself
down the straining grappling rope and back on to the commissary roof. Quickly she
laid a second line of charges close to the gaping holes. Down below, people did
not know whether to scatter or stay put; most opted for cowering under their
tables. Only Max remained calmly seated, although his heart was pumping. He was
trying to make out the face of the woman crouching high above him.

Rosalie
finished laying the new charges and ran back over the blue-grey dome to the
straining rope which attached the roof to the helicopter. Grabbing it, she
activated the detonator. Her idea was that as the terrorist chopper rose into
the air, taking with it that detested symbol of eco-complacency, the BioShield,
she would be hanging on to the tow rope. She would then be whisked away to the
comparative safety of a life of international terrorism. Unfortunately, the
roof came away with such a jerk and the helicopter lurched upwards with such
violence, that Rosalie lost her grip on the rope and she was thrown through the
great jagged hole in the BioShield, of which she was the principal creator. She
fell fifty feet into the dining-room below, landing with great good fortune in
Rupert’s cake.

Chapter
Nine

The dream factory and the dead sea

Rupert’s
Calie
.

Fortunately for Rosalie,
even in such elevated surroundings as the commissary of DigiMac Pictures, the
dreaded birthday interruption could occur. As hazards of dining out go, the
birthday interruption is not the worst. It is not as bad as being poisoned by
the seafood or getting a table next to fifteen blokes on a stag night, but it’s
still a pain. One is in the middle of one’s meal, in the middle of a
conversation, maybe even in the middle of suggesting that coffee be skipped in
favour of screwing all night like crazed rabbits. What is more, rabbits who
have grown tired of life and lettuce and decided to fuck each other to death
instead. Then suddenly the lights dim, ‘Happy Birthday’ (or one of the groovier
pop options) is cranked up on the sound system and a mound of whipped cream and
sparkiers is brought in and plonked in front of whoever’s birthday it is. This
is always a pretty gruesome affair. The self-conscious smiles of the recipient
and pals; the scarcely veiled hostility of the other diners; the show-off
waiter letting it all go on a bit too long. The occasion at the DigiMac
commissary was rendered even more horrid by the fact that the birthday person
was a child star. Hence everybody had to profess themselves absolutely
delighted that this youngster, who had everything, had got just a little bit
more.

Rupert,
who was only eleven, accepted the ten-foot-tall cake with the practised grace
of a true professional. He was a wonderful actor, one of the studio’s hottest
properties, and he had been a huge hit in the
Child Star
Virtual Reality
games. In these incredibly popular entertainments, the player is faced with a
fictitious juvenile Hollywood super-celebrity, played by Rupert. The player is
then allowed to punch, throttle and, if he can, run over the Child Star with a
truck.

The
game was already in its twelfth mutation:
Child Star 12:

The
Première.
In this version, the player inside the VR
helmet encounters the Child Star at the opening of
Smirk,
the Star’s
latest kiddy picture. The Star does an interview, in which he goes on about how
his mom only gives him ordinary pocket money like the other kids and how neat
it is to get to meet all those big stars, etc. At the point at which the Child
Star says, ‘I’m just a regular kid. I guess I like to do what all kids do,’ the
player has fifteen seconds to throttle him before the minders arrive. The
player must kill the Child Star immediately, because with each throttling the
Child Star survives, the more obnoxious the interview gets: ‘I’m just a regular
kid, I eat pizza, go to movies and hang out with the guys in the mall. Girls
are cool but I don’t have a regular date.’ Eventually, if the player has
failed, the Child Star, still grinning his endearing grin, gets awarded a
special juvenile Oscar by Mickey Mouse.

Surprisingly,
Rupert himself was popular in actual reality as well as Virtual Reality because
he was, in fact, a nice child. Whilst the trend for many decades had been for
pint-sized little shits to play witty, decent, inventive boys and girls,
Rupert, who was actually a fairly well-adjusted young person, had made a hit
playing a pint-sized little shit.

Cross-dressing.

As she fell, Rosalie
caught a momentary glimpse of the terrible pandemonium she had created.
Sunlight was pouring in! Pure, unscreened, naked sunlight! Not one square inch
of flawless white skin in the room had felt such a harsh glare in years. It was
a beautiful bit of terrorism. The sort of witty, brutal protest for which
Mother Earth was justly notorious. To pour sunlight on the beautiful people of
the Golden State and watch them run screaming for their BioShield parasols was
to remind the world yet again just how far people had drifted into simply
accepting eco-degradation.

Rosalie
was in and out of the cake in a moment. It was as if she’d been falling into
and leaping out of cakes all her life. However, one glance showed her that it was
out of the frying pan and into the fire. Or in this case, out of the cake and
into the arms of the studio security officers. Five of them were closing in on
her, although they were making heavy going amongst the upturned tables and
panicking beautiful people. Rosalie scanned the room for a means of escape. The
ladies’ room was only yards away; she made for it. Rushing in, she surprised a
beautiful young starlet at the basin. The starlet had no idea what had been
happening, having been re-stapling a chin tuck whilst all the excitement was
going on.

‘Get
your dress off!’ shouted Rosalie, already stepping out of her cake-covered
green dungarees.

The
starlet wondered. This could be her big break. True, the casting couch was a
coin to be spent sparingly. If you dropped your drawers every time anyone with
a two-picture development deal on the outer edges of the lot suggested it, you
might as well leave them off altogether. On the other hand, this woman in
dungarees had a pretty commanding presence. A lot of gay girls made pictures
these days; a couple were even production heads. The starlet thought that
perhaps now was the time to swallow her pride.

‘Hey,
listen, you’re real nice, I like you,’ she said, trying to hedge her bets.
‘But, you know, I don’t want you to think I get it on with just anyone, you
know?’

‘Get
your dress off now, you repulsive little bitch or I’ll kill you.’ The
wire-strippers Rosalie found in her belt gleamed inches from the girl’s face.

The
starlet was thrilled. This woman had power attitude. In Hollywood, the more
powerful you are, the ruder you can afford to be, and this lady was rude enough
to be a production head, maybe even a studio chief. The wire-strippers were a
bit of a worry but nobody ever said a career in movies would be easy.

‘OK,
but you can’t hurt me, all right? Like, I don’t do that at all, OK?’ the girl
said, slipping out of her dress. ‘No pain, just fun stuff, right? Are we going
in a cubicle?’

‘Gimme
the shoes,’ said Rosalie, kicking off her own boots.

‘My
name’s Tori Doherty. I’m an actress.’ The starlet said, feeling that she really
ought to get the business side of the transaction sorted out, but not really
knowing what the procedure was. ‘Uhm, maybe you can help me, I don’t know, some
advice perhaps or. .

‘My
advice is separate all your garbage, avoid plastic containers and insulate
your loft.’

Rosalie
pulled off her woollen hat, letting her hair fall to her shoulders. Then,
dressed in Tori’s frock and high-heels, she ran out of the toilet screaming.
The security people had only just arrived at the ladies’ lavatory and Rosalie
pushed past them, shouting, ‘There’s a weirdo in the rest-room.’

As the
guards ran into the room, Rosalie dived into the panicking crowd. Within
moments she was out of the commissary and trying to find a way off the studio
lot.

Lost
in Development.

Rosalie was running along
the little sun-drenched lanes looking for an exit. The UV was ferocious and the
skimpy dress she had taken from the starlet was specifically designed to let
just about anything through. Rosalie could feel her skin burning, but she could
not afford to get trapped in a sidewalk BioTube. She blessed the fact that she
had only recently had her pores reblocked. They’d hold for an hour at least,
and if she wasn’t out in an hour, she wasn’t going to get out. On she ran
through the blinding sun, between rows and rows of little pale bungalows. She
turned one way… there were little pale bungalows. She turned another …
there were little pale bungalows. She was in a maze of little pale bungalows.

‘Where’s
the exit?’ she said to a strange, distracted-looking fellow in glasses who was
loitering beneath a kerbside shade.

‘Why?’
he replied, a weird tinge of panic in his high voice. ‘Is something happening
at the exit? Do you have a
deal
at the exit?’

Rosalie
had no time to confer with weirdos. She ran on. Two people, a man and a woman,
were emerging from a little pale bungalow. Rosalie accosted them before they
could get into the BioTube.

‘I need
the exit,’ Rosalie demanded.

‘We can
give you that,’ said the woman with a desperately ingratiating smile. ‘In fact,
we have a whole bunch of ideas around the theme of exiting. Death, departure,
decay. We have a treatment right here.’

‘But
funny,’ the man chipped in. ‘Death meets funny. It’s about what’s happening
now, today.’

The two
dazed people wandered off into the sunlight together. Rosalie feared that she
had stumbled into an insane asylum, but she was actually somewhere far more
confused and paranoid. She burst into the bungalow which the two people had
just left.

‘Where’s
the exit?’ she blurted to the lady behind the desk, a forceful looking woman of
about fifty, cut up to a fairly convincing thirty-five. Her name was Shannon.