The summer has been a good one. Late August was still warm and the sunny weather was still going strong. I was in my house in a room I had converted into a weight room. Yea, for global warming?
The Grave Chill effects had been gone for three weeks and I was feeling good. I am working through a hammer curl set with a monitor showing the news. I like a distraction while working out, as many people do.
“The impeachment process against President Robertson over the military operation “National Liberty” disaster two years ago is expected to enter the final Congressional vote in the next few days….”
I shake my head, knowing what happens in a Zone Breach. President Robertson fed most of his Zone Operatives and their military support units into several zones. They went in with faulty zone breach closers and were torn to pieces. This has reduced the US's ability to respond to breaches on the mainland. Rumours are that the US authorities are trying to poach Zone Operatives from other countries. That, as you imagine, is not going over well. International tensions were high enough without that.
The Administration tried to cover up the scale of the disaster and claimed that it was an overall success. However, later someone leaked the truth and the shit hit the fan. President Robertson had been elected as a response to the appearance of the Zone Breaches. People panicked worldwide, and the US voted Robertson into office as a radical religious conservative candidate. He and his Government made the old “America First” policies seem tame. The US’s international reputation is terrible at the moment.
“China and Russia are still stalling in the United Nations on their Void Zone Breach figures claiming they are matters of National Security….”
When the Zone Breaches first appeared in China and Russia and we realised the threats, they were locked down hard. Information on what’s happening in those countries is hard to come by. Several countries are mimicking them, but many are more open now. International cooperation, minus these three, has been improving.
“The European Union, the CANZUK Alliance, India and the Pacific Co-operative have announced a new series of information exchange deals to help in containing Void Zone Breaches. This is in light of recently confirmed breach closers here in the United Kingdom. Ministers say that….”
The images on the screen change from the news desk to footage of Henry Griffon. He is a Zone Operative like me and is the public face of our merry band of misfits. From South London from one of the estates around Elephant & Castle way. He is often compared to a young Idris Elba, just slightly taller and bulkier. Many people swoon when he is around smiling. He likes the limelight and a few days ago, he was confirmed to have made the third successful breach closure. He also was part of the team that did the first one. Since then, he’s been dragged onto all the news channels by the Ministry of Defence and Home Office to bolster national support.
I have met him on the job and he is an all-right guy. We have done a few missions together and work well in the field. Friends even. Suppose he wants the dog and pony show well. Good on him. My deal with the Ministry has me classed as an employed contractor with no public relations duties and my privacy protected as much as possible. I really don’t want the press up in my business. I value my privacy.
The news continues with reports of Void Zone activity across the nation. No major alerts are so good for me.
“More time off for me!” I smile at this.
The news continues with the typical stories after the established Void Zone reports section. I have no more interest and will catch up with the rest later. I put the dumbbell down and used the remote to switch the channel to a music one. I use the music to pump me up as I finish my planned workout. Training never ends.
## ## ## ## ##
After the workout, I shower and wipe the mirror of the condensed steam after getting out. The figure looking back at me has changed a lot in the last four years, mainly for the better. At 6’3 and twenty-five, some would say these should be the best years of my life. Over the previous five years, I have been working out extensively and my body shows it is far from the flabby person I was. I have aimed for stamina over strength in my training, as I quickly realised that the missions I am sent on are endurance trials. The soldiers who set up my training regimen agreed.
My black hair is wet and my hazel green eyes are clear. Some stubble, but I cannot be bothered to shave and probably will not for a few more days—a strong jaw and above average nose. The funny thing about me is that my eyebrow line makes it seem like I am nearly always glaring when I am at peace or even happy.
I dry off and change into my usual cheap bulk t-shirt and jeans. I head downstairs and wander towards the kitchen.
“Johnny, can we talk?” Comes from the living room.
I stop at this and my good mood evaporates. I know that tone. A fight is coming. I am about to face again one of the main reasons I don’t want any press in my life. I let out a deep breath and turned towards the doorway. I am on the autism spectrum, but I am a functional adult. I am not good at reading others’ emotional states, but I have learned this tone in my mother’s voice. Far too much experience.
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I enter the living room and there in her chair is the shrunken figure of my mother. The last seven years have not been kind to her. Her woes started when she married my father but kicked into high gear six years ago.
My father was a Royal Marine; this was his last post before retirement. He was out one day with my two younger sisters and they were going around a roundabout when a drunk driver ploughed into them, killing all three. My mother and I did not take it well. She got depressed and quiet, withdrawing into herself. I got angry and lashed out. Grief affects us all differently. My family’s case was a bit stereotypical. My father was liked and respected as a marine, but he was a lousy parent at home. He was an emotionally abusive man who regularly put my mother through hell to feel better. My anger came from the loss of my sisters.
I was his only son but not the one he wanted to get, so it was just as bad in many ways for me as it was for her. Being even a high-function autistic meant that all the things he wanted to do with me, I did not wish to or was able to do. Sports, social clubs and such were not for me, not one bit.
Six years later, after me, my first sister Julie came along and then two years later, Jena. They were much more into the things he liked. He was much better with them but was still abusive to my mother and me. I enter the living room. My mother is sitting in her chair. She is forty-four years old but looks ten years older. Her black hair was streaked with grey, and her blue eyes were dull. Her grief and years of emotional abuse had aged her.
“What’s up, mum?”
“I was looking for a job for you and might have a few options.”
So, it begins the conversation that always leads to the argument.
“Mum, we have done this before. You know I need to get enough money together to ensure we are fine for a time.”
“I know, but what you are doing is so dangerous.”
“I know, but the pay is good and we are almost to the point I can stop.” I knew that was a lie.
Her face indicated that this was just the start of the argument. Reading people's emotional states has always been an issue for me. But having the same argument in the same order of development even, I learned things over time.
My mother did not understand that when it was discovered that I could function in a Zone, the nation was in a panic. I was wandering through a local graveyard when a Zone Breach formed there. It was in the early months after the collider accident. The national government was trying to deal with a new threat they had never encountered before, and the world was having power grid issues.
I saved two council workers working on the trees from an attack by two skeletons. They were severely affected by the experience and exposure to the zone but ultimately recovered.
The Government was seriously looking at drafting all those who would become Zone Operatives and throwing us at the problem. We early operatives realised what was happening, dug our heels in, and said Hell No! This led to several ugly months of detentions and threats against us. Hints of reprisals against friends and family were made as part of an intimidation game. For those who would think that this could not happen in a democracy, my answer is to get real. History has shown us that any government is at its most dangerous when it thinks it is under attack and could fall.
I later learned that there were a lot of threats and political trading to reach this agreement. Eventually, a compromise was reached when the Zone Operatives department was formed as part of a joint Ministry of Défense and Home Office response to the zones. We Zone Operatives were to be listed as Governmental contractors and organised into regional and national responders. Officially we were free to quit when we wanted to, but in reality, we were stuck until we could not continue the job. Each of our contracts had personal terms that both sides had to follow. The system was not good, but for now, it was working.
During this time, my personal tormentor was now assigned as my overseer from the Government. Hence the dislike.
My mother did not understand this by choice or not understanding the situation. I was in this until we closed all the breaches, broken or killed. The only plus side was the pay; we had plenty of time between operations to recover. Yea, life sucks at the moment.
I feed her the lie that I could stop to try to placate her.
“I know this, but you should leave before something bad happens.” She continued.
“Ma, you know I can’t right now, so let’s leave it be.”
“No! It’s too dangerous. You should quit. I know I will talk to that nice Mr Harley-Grenville to have you at least reassigned to a different role.” That was a new approach for her.
“No, they won’t, Ma. I am one of the few people who can tolerate a zone.”
“But surely you have done enough. Can’t they send someone else?” She was getting louder.
“Who?”
“I don’t know one of the new people they have discovered” She was getting more agitated.
“The number of zones is also increasing faster than they are finding new operatives.” I was getting angry at this time because we had been over this too many times. To me, the argument was mute to her. She believes that I can be won over. I am driven by the logic of the situation we are in. At the same time, she is focused on her emotions. I cannot get her to see the issue. It’s like many people in their thirties and forties today. You ask why they are so angry. They give you reasons, but they really cannot say in the end.
I do not add that the attrition rate amongst Zone Operatives is terrible, with nearly as many deaths each year as new operatives being found. That would not go over well as my mother always obsessed over the reports of Zone Operatives dying.
“Right, I am off back upstairs with things to do!” I turned and left, beating a fast retreat from the room before my mother could build up any more steam for the argument. As I went upstairs, I knew we would fight again soon.
It was then that I got a call from National control. I answered. Commitments. Code phases were exchanged.
“Operative Harrington be advised you have been activated for a Level 3 Alert. You will be collected tomorrow at 5 am. Briefing at the site. That is all.”