Ghetto Read online

  “Sunny wanted to see if she could fight it off on her own first, before resorting to treatment.” I wince at the answer my dad gives, because it seems stupid now, especially with the doctors eyes boring into me.

  Snorting, Dr Wong shakes his head. “Well, at least you’re here now. I’ll add weight loss and paleness to your list of symptoms.” It was said so matter-of-factly that I could almost pretend he hadn’t basically just told me I looked terrible, which I already knew, however, to have someone else say it was like a blow to my ego with a sledgehammer.

  Having taken off the makeup that my stylist had covered me with for this morning’s presentation, I knew from standing in front of the mirror that I was as pale as a ghost, the veins in my neck and hands standing out a stark blue. With my vivid hair I’d always had, and always would have, pale skin, but now with my mess of orange curls framing my face and the freckles on my nose and cheekbones looking as if they had been dotted on with a pen I looked ridiculous. I looked sick. That thought made my stomach twist painfully, because I didn’t want anyone else to know how ill I was, I didn’t want them to know that I was fundamentally damaged, that no matter how many times they tried to fix me I continued to fall apart.

  “Have you experienced any headaches, seizures, vomiting, dizziness or blurred vision?” he continues as if his previous statement hadn’t floored me. Unable to speak around the returning lump in my throat, I just shake my head. “Good, good,” he nods, jotting something down on his tab, “that means the affected cells haven’t yet spread from your bloodstream to your central nervous system.” I nod, as if I haven’t already heard that a million times.

  Once I had asked why it mattered how far my leukaemia had progressed and what my symptoms were, since All-Cure could treat it no matter what. The answer had been simple. Knowledge is power. Dr Wong had explained that the more information they could get on these types of diseases the better, because one day the scientists would be able to come up with something that would stop people getting ill altogether, an immunisation of sorts given to children at birth so that they would never get sick.

  “Alright,” he sets his tab down on the desk, before swivelling his chair around to face me once more and clapping his hands together, “I’ll just take a blood sample and then we’ll get you all better again.”

  Giving blood hurt; they could never find a vein that wanted to give up the blood flowing through it, so, though the process was relatively quick, by the end of it I felt like a pincushion. The inside of my elbow had already started to bruise from where he stuck the needle before he’d even pulled it out. Probing at the expanding bruise with my fingertips, I wriggle up into a sitting position; I hate lying down when both of the rooms other occupants are walking around, it makes me feel awkward and vulnerable having to look up at them.

  “That’ll be gone in a minute,” Dr Wong smiles kindly down at me, patting my shoulder with one gnarled hand. As if a little bruise was the most important thing I had to worry about. Pressing his thumb to a button at the corner of his desk, he summons Darleen, who was in the doorway a moment later, obviously having been hovering nearby. “Label this,” he instructs her, handing over the sample of my blood, “and have it couriered over to the lab.” When she looks like she might stop to chat, he adds, “Immediately.”

  Once she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her, the doctor draws a packaged pressure injector from a draw, along with a vial of gold coloured liquid. Connecting the two parts, he makes his way over to me, gesturing for me to lie back down. Doing so, I pull my hair to one side to bare my neck and turn my face away as he comes closer. There’s a sharp prick against my skin and a second later it’s gone.

  Placing a wad of cotton wool over the injection site, the doctor announces, “All done. Hold this for me.” Lifting my hand to do as instructed, I hold the cotton wool to my neck with tingling fingers.

  By now I’m accustom to the temporary side effects of All-Cure, so the tingling, not only in my fingers but also my toes and lips, doesn’t frighten me; it would be gone in a minute. Crazy as it may sound, I swear I could feel my body healing, patching itself up. Before my eyes the bruise on my arm fades. Lifting the bottom of my top, I look down at the multi-coloured bruise on my hip, which I had got at least two weeks ago when I walked into the corner of the table – it was now half its original size and shrinking further until it was no longer visible. Feeling had now returned to my fingers and I trace them over the unmarked skin in wonder. It never ceased to amaze me, the human body’s capacity to heal with a little assistance. Sitting up, I swing my legs over the side of the chair and pull away the cotton wool. There’s a single spec of red staining it.

  “I feel so much better already,” I smile at Dr Wong for the first time, able to now that the oppressive weight that had blanketed me for the past few weeks has lifted, “thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he takes the cotton wool from my hand and throws it in the bin, “it’s my pleasure.” Leaning in, he lowered his voice to a conspirators whisper, “You’ve always been my favourite patient.”

  Back at the apartment later that evening, my dad hurries off to his office the moment we step out of the elevator, having received an urgent call on the ride home from his advisor. The man had tried to call several times while we were in the clinic, but my dad had switched his ear-piece off so that we wouldn’t be interrupted. I think he regretted that decision now.

  “Hi Ludo,” I say to the robot in the corner as I go to unplug him, now that he’s fully charged. Activated by my voice, his eyes glow green with life and he stands to attention.

  “Hello, Sunny,” his voice is smooth and cultured, his words strung together with barely a hitch, “how can I help you?”

  “Want to come help me fix my typewriter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Follow me.” Turning around, I stride towards my room, hearing Ludo following behind me, his footsteps heavy. Obviously, I understood that he was only a robot and that everything in his metaphorical brain had been put there by either myself or my dad, but still, I liked to think of him as a friend of sorts. I didn’t really have many friends; that was the curse of the cyber-age I guess, I went to school online and then spent most of my free time there as well. The only reason I knew how to actually interact with people was because I’d been forced to learn certain social graces once my dad was elected. Even my online friends had drifted away once my dad became President, probably due to my lack of spare time; I may not have run for the position, but it was still a full time job, and anyone who tried to befriend me after the change had been greeted with wariness, since my dad was always warning me to beware of people who only wanted me because of my social standing. The only people I felt close to anymore were Micah, my stylist and Ludo – one was a robot and the other was employed to be nice to me.

  In this day and age, rank was everything; people had long ago been split into three classes – First, Second and Third. First Class were the elites, the families who came from money; nobody could become an elite, they had to be born into it and marriage with anyone outside of that class was practically unheard of. The Second Class worked for their wealth, they were the lawyers, doctors and scientists, their lifestyle only a step down from that of their superiors. And the vast Third Class were the common, low paid labourers, the unskilled workers who lived pay check to pay check, hand to mouth. Finally there were the Ghetto Folk, as they were widely known, the people who had been cast out of the system because they were criminal. They lived in a gated community where they could be closely monitored, but in large they were left up to their own devises as long as they stayed within their assigned area, which was just outside the city, surrounded on three sides by a man made lake and by a high electronic fence on the fourth.

  And on top of that pyramid was where I balanced alongside my dad.

  In my bedroom, I strip off my jacket and boots, leaving them strewn across the floor. Whereas the rest of the apartment is spotless, thanks to our C
leaning-Bot, my bedroom looks like a bombsite, with clothes, tools, instruction manuals and other odds and ends scattered across the floor, or piled up in the corners. Only the desk is relatively clear of clutter and that was where my latest project sat. An ancient, beat-up typewriter which my dad had given me for my seventieth birthday a few weeks ago, though my fascination with old machinery continued to baffle him, because he didn’t understand why I couldn’t be interested in something a little more useful. However, I don’t really mind that he doesn’t get it, after all I don’t understand his love of politics, though I assume it probably has something to do with the money and status that goes hand in hand with being the President. Sitting at the desk, I scoot my chair in and contemplate what needs to be done next; I have already taken it all apart to figure out how it works and to clean all the pieces. I think I’m now ready to start reassembling. However, after doing some research online there appear to be several key parts missing.

  “Where are we going to get a Typewheel from?” I ponder aloud, biting at my thumb nail, a nasty habit which always gets me severely scolded by my stylist.

  “Searching ‘Typewheel’,” Ludo intones, his head swivelling from side to side as he searches the internet, the screen set into his chest lighting up with a list of results. The head movements are a flaw in his programming, something my dad had wanted to get rid of, but I’d convinced him otherwise because I thought it was endearing.

  “One hundred and fifty-three results found.”

  “Thanks Ludo, can you send them to my Eye-Net?”

  “Of course.” A brief pause. “Information sending.”

  Upon the desk, the pair of glasses pinged from the microscopic speaker set inconspicuously into the arm. Picking them up I put them on and lean back in the chair, wiggling to get comfortable. Scrolling through my options, I select one by looking directly at it and blinking, when it turns out to be of no use I navigate back to the main page and try a different one. I’m on my fifth site when the devise buzzes and the screen goes blank for a moment before an image appears. Disorientated, I jerk back in my seat. For a moment I think I’ve stumbled upon a virus, but then a banner across the bottom of the image announces ‘Breaking News’. Quickly reaching up to my face, I fiddle with the volume buttons beside the speaker in the arm. A woman’s voice sounds in my ear.

  “After the announcement of the re-election of President Peter Beaumont this morning the Ghetto has been rife with violent protests which have begun to spill over into the city as they break out of the Ghetto, supposedly heading towards the Presidential building.” Before my eyes appears a picture of a large crowd of Ghetto Folk rioting, as I watch they push through the gates which are the only portal between the Ghetto and the rest of the city, like a river bursting its banks, despite the line of uniformed men trying to hold them back. “Although the authorities have everything under control, residence are advised to stay inside and anyone living in a ground, or first-floor apartment, should keep their windows and doors locked.”

  That must be what my dad had rushed off to sort out… except it didn’t look very controlled to me, it looked like pandemonium. And the woman had said they were coming here, to the Presidential building. Shivering, I pull off the Eye-Net as the announcement winds to a close, edging towards the glass wall which makes up one of the four sides of the room and affords me an amazing view of the city below. There is now double the amount of policemen at the end of the street, though the hoard of angry protestors hasn’t yet reached us. Craning my head in an attempt to see around the buildings blocking my line of sight, I almost jump out of my skin when there’s a knock on my door.

  Swinging around, I catch Ludo striding over to it. He stops in front of the door and his eyes glow a demonic red, scanning the door and the person on the other side, before stepping back and announcing, “It is safe to grant entrance.”

  Rolling my eyes, I grin, saying, “Come in.” There was only one person it could, realistically, have been this late in the evening. Ludo may be a friend of sorts, but his main purpose is not to entertain me, it is to protect me. We’ve had Ludo since I was little; t first he was just used for little jobs around the house but when my dad had won his first election he’d suggested we get a new robot, one of the fancy ones that looked just like humans except for the glow of their eyes, one that was programmed as a bodyguard, but I’d protested so much that in the end he’d simply gotten Ludo updated.

  Lingering in the doorway, he doesn’t even take his hand off the doorknob, he’s so eager to leave once more. “I assume you’ve seen the News.”

  “Yes,” I nod down at the street, “there’s an increased police presence outside the building. Shouldn’t they be trying to stop the riots before they cause havoc, not waiting idly for them to get here?”

  For a moment he looks mildly surprised, before a wry smile twists his lips upward. “I know you’re better when that smart mouth of your makes an appearance.” Shaking his head slightly, he continues, “But in answer to your question, no. Their job is to protect this building and the people in it, there are plenty of police to handle the ‘havoc’, as you call it.” When I arch an eyebrow in clear disbelief, thinking of the images I’d seen a mere minute ago, he shakes his head again. “Trust me, Sunny, it’s under control. It’s nothing for you to worry about, but just to be safe I’d like you to cancel any plans you have for the rest of the week.”

  I’m a little slow on the uptake and I don’t quite understand what he’s telling me until he strides over to Ludo and lifts his arm to the robots eyes. Immediately the red light flickers out to scan his Brand, before a soft ding announces the opening of the door in Ludo’s torso, just below the screen. Opening the door wider, to reveal a second screen, the programming panel, he reaches in and taps away for several moments, supposedly getting past all the security measures which make sure that Ludo can never be used against us.

  Looking into the robots illuminated eyes, he speaks slowly and clearly so that there will be no misunderstandings, “Don’t let Sunny leave the apartment without my permission.”

  “Command added to inventory.”

  “Hey!” I protest, “That’s not fair. It’s like you’re putting me in a prison.”

  “Don’t be dramatic.” He doesn’t even look at me as he shuts the little door and it automatically locks itself. “It’s just a precaution for the time being, not forever. A couple of days at most.” Dismayed, I watched, open-mouthed, as he leaves the room.

  Chapter 2

  After a long night’s sleep, which banishes any remaining tiredness, I wake up, sunken into the memory-foam mattress, to the sound of voices coming from the living room. Having been sprawled horizontally across the bed, with my pillow tucked under one arm instead of beneath my head, I raise myself blearily up onto one elbow and shove my tangled hair from my face. Groaning, I kick the sheet off and somehow find the willpower to haul myself out of bed, taking tiny shuffling steps over to the door, as I untangle a curl of hair from the row of silver hoops running down my right ear. Still in my pyjamas, I stumble into the living room, rub the sleep from my eyes and take in the familiar scene that confronts me. In the middle of the room, stands my stylist, Micah, beside a foldaway beauty chair, arranging cosmetics and other paraphernalia atop his portable vanity table, as he sings along with the music playing from his Tab. He’s a good looking man, tall and broad shouldered, with dark chocolate skin, gaping flesh-holes in both ears, black dreadlocks pulled back into a thick ponytail and heavy eye make-up which makes his eyes appear to pop out of his face. Too bad he’s gay.

  “There you are, Beautiful,” he exclaims, as he turns and catches sight of me, “ten more minutes and I was going to come get you myself.” I barely manage a grunt in response and he laughs. “Go have a shower, sugar, and I’ll make you a nice cup of coffee to wake you up before we get started.” Again, all I can do is make a vague sound of assent as I shuffle back around and head towards the bathroom. Behind me I hear more laughter. A morning person, I
am not.

  In the bathroom, I strip and step into the shower, lifting my face to the warm spray that rains down on me as soon as I slide the door shut. Immediately, music starts blaring from the speaker overhead and I cringe; my dad likes to listen to music in the morning, but I prefer quiet, at least until I’m fully awake. Turning it off using the waterproof screen set in amongst the tiles, I also alter the water temperature, making it so hot that I can’t bear to remain beneath it for too long. Once I’ve finished I use the air jets set into the cubicle to dry myself off and brush my teeth, before pulling on one of the thick white robes that hang on the back of the door, as if this were a hotel and not a home. Going back out into the living room, drawn by the aromatic scent of coffee, I take the mug gratefully from Micah’s hands and gulp down my first mouthful. It scorches my tongue and burns my throat as it slides down to settle in my stomach, warming me from the inside out.

  “Thanks,” I sigh blissfully. The first few sips taste a little strange because of the minty toothpaste still flavouring my mouth, but it doesn’t bother me enough to stop drinking and it’s soon replaced by the rich, creamy tang of coffee.

  “Yeah, well, I know you can’t function without your morning coffee.” He’s only half kidding as he takes my elbow and guides me over to the chair. “Sit down, we only have two hours before your dad needs to give his speech to reassure the citizens and you need to be right at his side looking pretty as ever.” Grinning into my mug, I roll my eyes as I sit down and shuffle back into the seat, my feet lifting off the floor to curl beneath me. “And don’t be rolling those pretty blue eyes at me either, you’re beautiful on your own, but with my help you’re stunning.”

  “What would I do without you around to inflate my ego?” I toss over my shoulder.

  “Deflate like a balloon,” he answers dryly, gathering up the damp hair that is dripping down the back of my neck, since I couldn’t be bothered to stand under the jets long enough to dry it. Suddenly switching to the professional that he is, Micah says, “We’ll start with the hair.”