Pollen
Chapter one

Twenty-four hours earlier, New Hanoi

“Don’t be so humble. You’re not that great.” Mae rolled out of the bed and hopped around, half in a rage and half trying to put her socks on.

“Look, if I was two-faced, would I be wearing this one?” Rome said, rubbing his eyes.

She walked out with her clothes bundled in her arms and slammed the bedroom door. That was very much the end of that, he thought. The stifled cursing from the living room was much more colorful than usual. Rome clenched his teeth and fought back the desire to continue the “conversation.” He threw his head back against the pillow but whacked his crown on the antique wooden headboard. He didn’t yelp. He didn’t need the attention, but he was angry and embarrassed. Annoyingly, arguments always reminded him how much he loved her.

A pale sunlight crept into the bedroom through the semi-closed blinds, casting dim shadows over yesterday’s clothes and the unmade bed. He wished, every day, that upon opening the blinds he’d see something new, something different. That somehow while he’d slept a revolution had brewed, that advancement had been made, that the streets would reveal a new path to him. They never did. He opened the blinds and reached for his rolling-tobacco ration, but to his surprise, he changed his mind—for now. The day wasn’t that bad yet. The sun was up, but the little window in his tiny fifth-floor flat was still in the shade of Tower Four.

He stood silently, rubbing his sore head and staring at the scaffolding that littered New Hanoi. He wondered if he’d ever know anyplace other than home, this giant sprawl of mud-brick houses with terracotta roofs, tinged the color of cracked wheat at sunrise. The buildings were compressed dangerously inside the boundaries of the district walls. White smoke wheezed up through the tangle of tight streets from early-bird market stalls and open-air food courts.

Yawning, he scrutinized the locations of the smoke and tried to guess who was already up preparing for the day. He’d come to understand that this was life: a routine that you had to make the most of. He watched from his high vantage point as the new batch of lilies started to emerge on his street, and the road below began to queue with people walking to work.

The front door slammed shut—Mae making her exit as dramatic as possible. Rome sighed. He wished he understood her better. He wanted her to move in, but he hadn’t found the right moment to ask her. Then he felt a twist in his stomach, the acid bubble inside. Heat radiated from his cheeks. “Aw, fuck,” he said aloud.

The pang in his stomach was guilt, and the shame of suddenly realizing he was in the wrong. He rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. He almost picked up his Net-pad to call her and apologize, but she’d still be in a rage for a while. It was a stupid argument about nothing, more of a tone-of-voice betrayal than a full-fledged, shit-hurling match. He hadn’t been able to hide his envy of her promotion and the recognition that came with it. Although he was genuinely excited for her, he was genuinely jealous too. He had known the conversation, doomed by that fatal mix of hangover and Mae’s fiery fuse, wasn’t going to go well. “Aw, fucking fuck,” he said, as embarrassment set in.

The morning sun climbed steadily in the bare-bone sky. It was already warm as Rome set off into the busy street. The heat instantly sank its teeth through his shirt and into his skin, a tingle he loved. Stepping into the barrage of thousands of people on the same dirt road, all trying to make their way to the center of the district, sapped that positive energy. The sun singed his skin, the constant punch of light added to the noise.

Yet the buzz in the air—friends bumping into each other and conversations sparking up between strangers—seemed to bring the good qualities out in people. Despite the routine, he actually enjoyed the walk once he’d woken up a little. It was one moment of the day he felt connected to the bigger picture, and no matter how much time he spent on the Network, it still felt like a bright screen in a dark room.

Everyone walked in New Hanoi. The last bikes and tuk-tuks were recycled years ago. There were simply too many people to allow for such space luxuries as bikes and cars. Flickering conversations created a melodic din, and the heaving, collective sound of inhales and exhales lingered in the air.

Only the nimble could navigate in the torrent of people. The dust kicked up by a thousand shoes, boots, heels, and spring feet mods created a blanket of air so thick that Rome coughed as he shuffled along in the slow lane. The street was organized into loose lanes, slow at the edges and a fast lane toward the center. He dodged his way through the traffic to the center to build some speed and get some breathing room. He desperately wanted to talk to Mae, but he knew she needed space herself. Damn logic. He remembered the days of impulsiveness, the trouble it bought and the heart-pounding moments of uncontrollable events and feelings. It seemed age had cooled him down too much.

He tried to think about how he’d apologize to Mae. There was the romantic apology, a candlelit dinner, but if the apology didn’t go well then they’d be stuck in silence. He might try something extravagant and take her out to a show, probably a comedy, and at least that way they’d get some laughs in. The ideas hurried through his head, but nothing seemed quite right. He knew he had gotten lucky with Mae, and he also understood he knew very little about the subtleties of a relationship. The way he saw it, a relationship was like the Network. There were a billion things that you could discover at any moment, but you usually saw the same stuff most days. However, every once in a while something truly sensational came along that kept you buzzing for weeks, sometimes months.

Rome didn’t do well with guilt. As a child he had trapped a spider in a glass and left it outside, too terrified to lift the glass up and let it out. It sat there for hours. As night came he worried it might get cold so he brought the trapped spider in and placed it in the warmest spot in the flat, the gasification unit. The shield came down, and Rome watched in horror as the spider and glass were broken down under intense heat and steam and converted into energy, syngas. Rome’s nostalgia was about to take full flight when he heard someone shouting his name.

“Hey, Rome!” came a call from his left. He turned to see his friend, Michel, decelerating and negotiating through the lanes.

“Hi,” Rome said, and a full grin took his face. “Long time.” He enjoyed this about the walk. Every day you’d bump into someone else, always a brief and happy conversation on the move, and a guarantee of something new. “How’s tricks?”

“Good, good. Big day for you, though?”

“Thanks for reminding me.” Rome rolled his eyes.

“So what’s new?”

“Got my ice-cream-eating competition on tomorrow at the café. It’s going to be a fun one. What’s new with you?”

It was no coincidence that Rome had organized a big fun event for tomorrow because he knew today would be a tough day. The past always seemed to be present for him.

“Got to level eighty-two on the nChart and the trophies flooded in,” Michel said triumphantly.

“The nChart, that’s impressive. You must have logged some serious hours to get the promotion. What are you, like, a gaming legend now?”

“Nah, a smudge short. I’m a gaming hero, but legend is next. Oh, I don’t suppose you’ve got any copper cable, cement, or wood at your shop?”

“Afraid not. I heard from a good source there’s no more cement for the next three weeks. All the remaining suppliers have sent their prices through the roof.”

“I wish just one week in the year we didn’t run out of materials. What can you do?”

Rome looked at the dirt road and shrugged his shoulders.

“How’s the lady friend?” Rome shifted the conversation forward. He and Mae had played matchmaker a few months ago.

“She’s fine, still ahead of me on the game charts so she’s happy! I think she’s a bigger geek than I am. How’s Mae?”

“Fine. As combative as ever.” Rome looked back at the ground.

“You wouldn’t take her any other way. Oh hey, I got some inside info for ya. There’s gonna be a Christian riot down the Wilkins Bypass in about ten minutes, so it’s gonna get pretty congested.”

“Bloody hell.” Rome took a deep breath and sighed up at the sky. “Will they ever give it a rest?”

“Might be getting bored. It’s been almost five days since they had a riot, and even I’m bored waiting for them to do something.”

“Getting crazy is more like it. I’m sick of them,” Rome grumbled. “You can’t do a god’s honest trade with that lot these days. I had to pass a sin test last week.”

“A sin test?”

“They were banging their drum about gays, non-believers, you know the line.”

“Did they determine you were a sinner?”

“You could say that. They said I’d have to be purged one day, but they still need food, water, and materials so we did the trade anyway. Said they’d make a special exception for me.”

“Christ.”

“That’s what I said. They asked me to leave.”

Michel laughed, and Rome’s droll expression gave way to calm.

“Listen, my friend,” Michel said and placed his hand on Rome’s shoulder. Physical contact always made Rome feel a little uneasy; he liked his personal space. “We need to organize some game time soon, and maybe a drink in the real world.”

“Absolutely. I’ll get in touch. Oh, and if you can pull yourself away from the screen, come to the ice cream eating tomorrow. There’s a whole day of events: music, artists, even booked a magician.”

“Great. I’ll see what the lady says,” Michel said, and with his spring feet mods he pulled away in the fast lane. Rome tried not to stare, but spring feet were at the top of his shopping list and he watched Michel break into a sprint without breaking a sweat.

As Rome moved closer to the heart of the city, the dirt tracks of the “’burbs” were replaced with plates of light concrete, interlaced for maximum impact from footsteps. The vibrations pushed pistons and created low-level power that kept the street lights and traffic lights on. Rome picked up some speed and zipped through the thinning crowds to approach the central market: the Phsar Chas, the epicenter of New Hanoi.

The shadow cast by Tower Four couldn’t hide the excitement on the street. The fresh batch of lilies from the Flower Factory was in full bloom, the air thick with pollen spiraling up in the breeze.

All roads led to the Phsar Chas, the biggest entity in the district. It took an hour to walk from one end to the other if you didn’t get lost in the warren of shacks, stalls, wires, and smoke. The “biggest market in the world,” an ironic local title embraced by everyone, including the various raconteurs and loan sharks looking to skim profit from the weak.

Rome walked under the southern entrance, a two-story-high mud-brick arch with a beautifully carved relief of flowers and patterns. At its crest was a three-meter square OLED bulletproof screen, pulsing out ad after ad on new deals and constantly reminding people of stock updates on medicine and raw materials. Of course, all these were imported into Phsar Chas from the City Center, those gleaming skyscrapers of the modern world towering high above the city and far beyond New Hanoi’s walls. Food was imported daily through the trading tunnels, pumped in from the City Center like a life-support drip.

Every main artery through the Phsar Chas had screens dotted at regular intervals, reporting on the news of the recent gangs of militia expanding their influence. The reporters said, “They’ve been repelled again,” or “Recent attacks are due to religious misunderstandings.” They never mentioned the food security. They never mentioned starving people rioting out of pure madness and desperation. Rome shook his head as he passed.

Rumors had already spread that a major riot had broken out at the Wilkins Bypass as Rome bought a banana from a street-cart vendor heading toward the Eastern Tangle of Phsar Chas.

“Killed ten guards, I heard,” said one man in a low, tobacco-ravaged voice.

The vendor laughed “That bunch, nah. I reckon ten of them got their skulls cracked.”

Rome smiled, stooped for a second under a hand-crank fan, felt the gentle breeze tingle on his neck, and moved on.

He maneuvered through the cramped stalls and shops and interwoven, narrow lanes that snaked their way toward the Eastern Tangle. Rome braced himself for an awkward day. The Eastern Tangle, famous for curiosities, cafés, and a relaxed bohemian vibe, was where Rome had chosen to set up his business. The Black List was both a café and an entertainment space filled with antiques. He entered the Tangle through an archway that also marked the start of the “Scurry System.”

The Scurry System could be seen and heard as soon as you passed into the Tangle. Shop roofs and walls twitched with the a few thousand Siamese rhinoceros beetles, all hurried and scattered, climbing over each other in all directions. It was a scuttling curse, but essential to any business deal. The beetles held encrypted data on chips implanted in their abdomens. Micro pulses through their muscular system guided them from comm port to comm port.

Rome referred to the beetles as “the black plague.” It was the sound of their legs tapping on the tin roofs of the market shacks that he hated. He felt like they were dancing on his spine. As he moved into the east court, hundreds of thousands of beetles scampered above his head.

The morning influx of flowers was being unpacked; giant calla lilies like air-exhaust vents lined the sides of shops, and foxtail lilies smudged like watercolors against the haze of commotion. He made his way quickly through the warren of wooden shacks into a mud-brick shopping area, where the shops were up to three crumbling stories high with commerce. The streets widened, cafés popped up, and a relaxed vibe whispered through his area. The high-impact plastic protection at The Black List had already been lifted and rolled up to create an awning, casting a cool shadow over the front window.

For eight years he’d built his personality into The Black List, and today it was widely known as the best place to buy books, oddities, and antiques. He didn’t have vast numbers of buyers, but those who came spent big. Mostly it was window wishers wanting to have a poke around. Rome didn’t mind, and he liked that people were still curious for storytelling when there was so much entertainment to consume on the district Network.

He’d had to employ some extra hands as his shop expanded; he had bought up the empty shops on either side of him and knocked down the walls to increase his trading space significantly. He owned the biggest collection of books in New Hanoi, and he finally had a place to show them all. He served good, simple food and coffee, no frills, but it was the entertainment that brought the customers in. The café had a big reputation, and it had earned it.

“Danny,” Rome said, and breathed on the lock for the safe.

“Hello Mr. Rome. How are you today?”

“Not bad.” The safe clicked open, and Rome reached in to grab a small sugar packet.

“Needing the boost to get the day started?” Danny placed some tiger lilies in the front window.

“Yes, a stressful morning at home. Did she pop in yet?” Rome closed the safe, and with a quick rip he shot down the sugar.

“No, Sir,” Danny stuttered and watched, almost drooling with envy. Sugar was an expensive item and in low supply. Danny was only fifteen and was so grateful for his job that he was the perfect employee. He had been working in the shop for only three months, but he was a fast learner, and Rome liked having a young man’s opinion around. It made him feel slightly less cynical.

“How do you get a hold of them, if you don’t mind me asking?” Danny looked shyly at his feet.

“It’s tricky, I’ll tell you that much,” Rome joked. “Since the FFA banned sugar, I’ve had to go through some imaginative channels.”

The Flower Factory Authority controlled all genetically enhanced substances in and out of New Hanoi, and last month it had declared sugar illegal, adding it to a long list without reason or explanation. Rome suspected that their margins for profit had decreased, but for now there was enough on the black market. Still, it was giving Rome nightmares that perhaps the day might come when he would never get another sugar fix again.

”Oh, and Hazel left a message. She’s running late,” Danny added.

“No problems,” Rome looked about the shop, almost all set up to start the day. “Nice one. You did this all yourself?”

“Yup!”

“Looks good.”

“Did you see the piece on Enterprise News this morning? There’s a whole section on you.” Danny asked.

“Right.” Rome shuffled though some receipts.

“It’s ten years today since you tried to scale the walls.”

“Huh, I didn’t realize.” Rome was a terrible liar. He knew it.

“What was it like, being famous?”

If an adult had asked him this question he would not have answered, but the curious, fresh face disarmed him. Danny was a good kid and a huge help around the shop.

Rome decided to answer. It had been a long time since he’d spoken about it.

“Fame is all about a big explosion of unsustainable success and then a slow sink into mediocrity, topped off by paranoia,” he said. “It was both the greatest idea in the world and the biggest mistake I could have ever made.”

Rome had felt the adrenaline of the crowd pulsing through him. It was a onetime hotheaded moment of youth that had left him with a limp, but gained him a reputation large enough to be able to live the life he did.

“But I mean, what was it like? All those people watching, and you climbing the wall, actually climbing the wall,” Danny said.

“It started out as a teenage ‘fuck you’ to the walls, those unmoving faceless boundaries. I couldn’t believe no one had tried to climb them publicly. You hear all these half-legends and urban myths. We all know tunneling is out of the question, so I wanted hard evidence one way or another: that we either could or could not escape over the walls. I wanted to see if my life was to be spent inside this city. It was supposed to be a few friends and me with an adapted rope gun. But word spread real fast. When I was ready to go, there were so many people it had turned into a festival. It was never meant to be like that.”

“What did it feel like when you were actually climbing up?”

“I’d never felt more alone. Everyone got scared as soon as I started to climb. There was just dumb silence, like they were a bunch of naughty school kids watching the headmaster walking toward them, catching them red-handed. Everyone was filming and watching, and every single one of them was ready to bolt if something went wrong. I was only about thirty feet up when I saw that flash at the top. It severed the bolt attached to my rope like a fire through string. That was it. I knew then, as I fell, that whoever was in control of the walls was always going to be more powerful than us. They’d always be one step ahead, and I’d have a limp for the rest of my life.” Rome rubbed his knee.

“Is that why you think no one has tried again?”

“Kid, no one has tried again in public.”

“Oh,” Danny said and laughed.

“You wanna open up?”

“Okay, great.” Danny beamed—he’d never opened the shop front to customers on his own before. Feeling like a real adult, he double checked everything as Rome left him to it.

He entered his office, shuddering with the sugar buzz, unrolled his OLED Network screen on his desk, and punched in his password. The screen’s emissive electroluminescent layer was composed of a film of organic compounds; it was so thin it could be wrapped around a needle and still show a moving image. News flashed up immediately, set to his preferences: local news first, then sports, entertainment, and district-wide news in a real-time, events-revolving slideshow. Rome took it everywhere with him. It was his instant access to the New Hanoi Network.

The New Hanoi Network was digital, an archaic testament to the past, but it had been hacked years ago. It was used like an open diary, where everyone shared everything. Primarily it was used to play games and sports, like giant shooting competitions that had a thousand players in a single game. Music was created and shared along with films and art. In addition, any form of self-promotion was acceptable, and anyone could earn bonuses and trophies for certain achievements: hours logged, views on your various pages, or competition wins.

In a city where no one could leave their district, the little things became important. Creatures of habit quickly turned into creatures of obsession. People focused almost solely on following how they were doing against their neighbors. The network logged vast amounts of data about people from a chip implanted in their forearms. The chip recorded things like your daily heartbeat, how many steps you took in a day, and your body fat index. It kept tabs on every aspect of a human body and uploaded the stats to the Network for all to see.

Rome had a good lead in organic steps taken against his friends, partly because his electricity-generating kinetic leg attachments meant he didn’t have to spend time slogging it out on the running mills. However, they did mean he was at the bottom of the pile on miles logged on a mill. He checked up on Mae’s stats. Her hand gestures were up 212 percent from yesterday. She must have been really moaning to her friends this time. Peeking at Hazel’s stats, Rome saw that her heart rate was through the roof. She was either putting in some serious distance on the mills or running for work. His door swung open without a knock, and Hazel stood there, hands on her knees, panting.

“Sorry,” she gasped.

“Take your time,” Rome scratched the back of his head. This was a well-rehearsed routine.

“Bloody riots.”

“Where this time?”

“Wilkins Bypass. Some Skinheads wanted back some drinking hole that had fallen into the Narcos’ hands. The bloody Christians got involved, and it was chaos! Look at this.”

Hazel put a comic book on his desk. On the cover, Christians with flame-throwers were standing around the burning sinners, praying. Rome laughed, holding the book up to the light.

“They really are stepping up the propaganda aren’t they?”

“I can’t avoid them in my district anymore. They are taking over the northwest, I swear.” Hazel said.

“There’s not enough room and too many people, same old problem.”

“You’re forgetting they got guns.”

“Well we’ve got really, really hot cups of coffee,” Rome said.

“Well, thanks, Boss. I feel better already. How are you?”

“People say I’m taking it one day at a time. You know what? So is everybody. That’s how time works.” Rome smiled, but Hazel stared back at him with a blank expression.

“Hazel. Ever have one of those days where even though you are being sincere, everything you say is sarcastic?”

Again she stared back at him vacantly until a slow, confused looked crept over her. The expression suggested that rather than thinking of an answer, she was trying to think why her boss was asking her a semi-personal question.

“Never mind,” Rome said.

“Is it because of the anniversary that you are being weird? You want a coffee or something?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“I think they are running editorials. There were a lot of eyewitness interviews this morning. It’s been really exciting.” Hazel’s excitement irritated him. “Oh, come on, cheer up. It’s been ten years.”

“Yes, and every year I try to forget it.” Rome had used up all his goodwill on the subject with Danny.

“Well,” Hazel said slowly. “I better get to work, no toe stepping today.”

“Good idea.”

She left quickly, and Rome cast his eye across his Network pad. Once a year the Network buzzed with opinions about Rome’s escape attempt. He’d largely been credited with the formation of the factions currently at war with each other. The realization that there was no more land to expand upon and no escape had set in motion a mind-set that had defined the next decade. It had brought much acceptance and peace, but also violence. Rome had seen one picture on his way in. It was of a man holding a gun in the air with one hand and making a peace sign with the other.

The comm port rang out. A beetle had arrived. A tube ran from the outside to a secure holding cell, where the beetle was scanned and the data uploaded to a private coding machine. Network emails had been hacked years ago, so all information sent electronically was open to everyone. For anything confidential, you used the beetles. Piecing together the code took a few minutes, and Rome always took these seconds to guess what it could be. He loved the mystery of waiting—the thrill of a change in the day. Most of his off-the-books business was conducted this way.

He returned to his Net-pad and took a look at the latest riot reports. Four this morning, including the three-way fight Hazel had got held up in. The war for land and space in this big prison raged constantly. Thankfully, their aggression seemed to be aimed at each other. With no figurehead to vent frustration and grievances to. New Hanoi was slowly imploding, street by street.

The message decrypted and popped up on his screen. It was one he’d been waiting for. A month ago, Rome had attended a fairy tale fancy-dress party, where most people had turned up with fairy wings and a tail. Rome had felt awkward all night. Mae had had a function at the art gallery, but he had gone without her, to meet some contacts. Dressed in rags and clutching a synthetic beanstalk, he’d felt too embarrassed to talk, so he’d sat in the corner most of the night, until he’d seen a Trader woman dressed as a princess, with one see-through slipper. Today’s message from this Cinderella read, “Howdy Jack, you want to trade? Meet me at the Anther at 10 p.m.”

Rome hadn’t told Mae yet about his encounter with Cinderella—it was only business. Still, he couldn’t help but get excited. He knew he should keep his wits about him. He’d done some dodgy deals with strange Traders in the past that had put him at a loss. Any dips into the red were major upsets for his Network stats. It was worth the risk, however, for the thrill of creating new stories in this city where your day was usually the same. It was invigorating to embrace the new.

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