Keepers of eden, p.1
Keepers of Eden, page 1
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
As scheduled by the central processor, Gadder’s neural network sparked alive. A hundred trillion simulated synapses pulsed with a level of precision and coordination that those in the olden days would have argued only God might have been capable of. The system plundered a lifetime for inspiration – tens of thousands of what had been Paul’s memories. In the time it took an electron to cross a few nanometres of copper infused silicon, a thought emerged. A picosecond later, a word, then another, and another until in a crescendo of neural fireworks, a message formed deep within the machine - a profitable homage to the dead man. Gadder’s Broca module converted it from an unintelligible cloud of binary code into the English language then launched it towards a distant transmission tower, then onwards through the crowded airwaves.
Ida’s head swayed as the whiskey from earlier in the evening sloshed from one side of her skull to the other. She hunched over the display nestled between her legs. Closing an eye to avoid the doubling of the screen, she squinted at the words before her. Forty million pixels bathed her in an electric glow that accented her soft features and the deep lines which encircled her pale blue eyes and thin lips. A message from Ander arrived at the edge of her screen.
“If they bother you so much, just end it. I’ll help you.”
She lifted her head. Strands of silver-grey hair fell from where she had hooked them behind her ear. Between her hair and through the streams of rainwater on her window, she focused on the low clouds sailing by on the high winds. The glow of the city kissed them pink and green and tangerine. A red flash from a fulfilment blimp’s navigation beacon dazzled her. The bloated, floating warehouses were battling the wind. Their engines whined, their mooring cables whipped through the falling rain. The blimps had once been bright and cheerful but were now muddied by particles of smog that had fallen from the suspension of overly acidic raindrops. Beneath the sun-bleached advertisement banners, an endless swarm of drones buzzed in and out of portholes dotted along the behemoths’ flanks like worker bees at the hive. Tireless machines would fill them with bread and milk and other sundries, then prepare them for delivery to balcony boxes, ready for the city’s twenty million breakfast subscriptions.
Ida tapped at the remote at her bedside. The blinds closed. After conceding defeat to the whiskey, she returned to the conversation with Ander for a final misspelled goodnight. She slipped under in front of a Gaddervid of a crackling fireplace and the sounds of the rain at her window. The video ended. The room darkened as the computer slipped from the bed to the carpet with a soft thud. The muddy skies cleared. The wind settled, leaving only the faint buzzing of the drones as they went about their endless business.
The notification punctuated the silence of the night. A single, bright blue LED blinked in the corner of Ida’s phone. The groaning bookshelves cast monolithic shadows against the electric glow of the wall, but only for one second at a time, every three seconds. Dark mountain ranges rose then eroded back into the darkness behind mounds of dirty laundry.
Ida buried herself deeper under her duvet. The warm hum of the air purifier produced an overtone that took her back to the womb - cosy, listening to her mother’s blood coursing around her. She slept until the thickness of the blinds no longer held back the light. It trickled into the room from the narrow gaps between the bottom of the purple fabric and the beige walls.
The sun swung through the morning sky until a shaft of light landed on Ida’s face. For a moment, she thought she might have somehow, miraculously, gotten away with it - that the hangover would not be so bad. She opened her eyes, the moment passed. She was wrong. She rolled to her side, picked up her phone and through bloodshot eyes examined the notifications. She expected thinly veiled breaking news stories about the latest menu items at McDonald’s, almost certainly fake news stories too bleak to bother with at this time of day, weather updates, traffic information - the usual inconsequential bullshit. It was all there, plus a Gadder message from her late husband, Paul. She winced, wishing she hadn’t seen it but failed to fight the compulsion to tap.
“Morning my love. Hope you had a good night. Must be baby’s birthday soon. Make sure you get it something nice. I hear ToyZone on Pine Street has a great selection at the lowest prices.”
She placed her hands over her finely wrinkled face and rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. She pulled the edges wide attempting to clear the crusty sleep. Cradling the phone in her lap, she stared hard at the dust motes - dead skin and insect shit floating in the shaft of light that split the room in half. She held her breath until the carbon dioxide in her burning lungs forced her to part her lips and gasp. I can’t keep doing this. It’s crippling me.
“Gadder. Good morning.”
Light strips swelled to a dazzling white which was clinical and had a faint blue tint not unlike the light of an operating theatre. Classikz Radio was her station of choice. Gadder knew this, she had never had to ask. The system already knew when Ida had first signed into her apartment with her Gadder account. The account contained information gleaned from over five decades of internet usage, since the time her father had gifted her a tablet on which to watch her favourite Gaddervid child stars. David Bowie’s ‘Rebel Rebel’ had begun twenty seconds before Gadder loaded the station. She mumbled the opening lines.
“You’ve got your mother in a whirl…”
She sang without opening her mouth wide enough to properly form the words.
“Rebel Rebel, you’ve torn your dress…”
As she placed the phone back on the nightstand, age stabbed her in the back, freezing her solid. The knife withdrew. The tension gradually eased with each firm rub. She heaved her legs over the edge of her bed then planted her feet on the floor. She stretched towards the ceiling to the sound of her cracking spine. Relieved, she fetched her favourite green hoodie from the crib with its painted roses still visible on the headboard under the decade of dust. She buried her face into the fabric. Musty, but clean enough for a Sunday. It’s all gone this week. I swear.
The coffee capsules were the strongest of the range. Gadder had chemically treated the blend to release an aroma of roasted Columbian Huila beans. The contents of the capsules had never been anywhere near Columbia, possibly not even a real bean. Bowie’s classic reached its conclusion. In the moment’s silence before the next song, the phone once again pinged its harp-like notification tone. She tiptoed between the piles of laundry and unopened packets of children’s clothing. The same Gadder notification icon, but from Ander this time.
“How’s your head this morning?”
Her fingers flitted over the keyboard as her reply appeared in bold text.
“Like hammered shit. Got another message last night. Needs to stop.”
Before she could toss the phone onto the crumpled blanket, Ander replied.
“We’ll take a look at stopping it tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”
Ida followed the shaft of light to the crib. Photons that had travelled ninety-two million miles ended their journey on the dusty roses. Her fingers moved over the screen again.
“Sounds good.”
Ander’s keen response arrived seconds later.
“Alright. Good night last night though.”
Through the thunderclouds in her head, a murky picture of the previous evening emerged. A group of her teammates at the BOJA Planetary Engineering works had invited her out to celebrate a thirtieth birthday. She had accepted, but only after confirming that she could drag Ander out from BOJA’s workshop to join her. After a pleasant enough evening peppered with cultural references far too hip to be understood by the ageing friends, the younger group had moved on into the night to find a place to dance to obnoxious music and spray their eyeballs full of the latest party drug. Ida and Ander had politely declined their drunken invitation to join them, instead deciding to make their way to the Swan & Barrel for a nightcap.
The old building housing the Swan and Barrel was the freak of the neighbourhood. It sat squat among the surrounding jungle of glass and steel skyscrapers. It was a mere eight stories of three-hundred-year-old red brick, oak panelling, and overflowing potted plants that balanced on each of the narrow balconies beneath arched window frames. The lanterns set either side of the single door flickered. The electric flames danced inside their glass and iron box.
Ander ducked the splintered lintel before passing under the first of the collection of dusty electric guitars and torn 1990s band posters that concealed the nicotine stained walls. Worn leather suitcases covered the ceiling. Their previous owners’ names and addresses had been daubed over their front panel with what had once been white paint. A previous owner had painted a mural of Kurt Kobain above the bar. Kurt, with his iconic red sunglasses and
“This is more like it. Did not fancy heading out with those kids,” she said.
Ander sat opposite on his plastic school chair with a split running the length of its back.
“Those days are long behind me.”
‘Under the bridge’ by the Red Hot Chili Peppers played from the reproduction Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner. With her right hand, Ida plucked at the air in front of her belly, the glass in her left raised to where she would have pretended to play the chords.
“I spent hours with my old man listening to this stuff. Every Saturday night. Bag of crap weed, cheap whiskey, old iPod full of classics. Good times.”
Ander kept his hands in his pockets.
“My father would’ve killed me if he knew what I was listening to back then. Electronic stuff. You wouldn’t have approved.”
The first verse began. Ida strummed along to the tune.
“I don’t think we would have been friends in our younger days, you know.”
She winked as she raised her glass above her invisible guitar. Ander sunk a mouthful of bitter.
“You’re probably right,” he said, wiping his lips.
“I miss the good music. The stuff of today is tripe.”
“Remember when music was the thing? The driving force behind pop culture.”
Ida leaned into the table.
“Nah. That was a little before our time. What happened, man?” she said.
“Streaming. Fractured the industry, killed off the rock stars.”
“And what do they have today?”
“Gadder. All they ever see is these stupid bloody vloggers and Gadderite celebs.”
Ida raised her eyebrows. She nodded.
“I wish I’d been around when music was right there, front and centre,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“At least I’ve got my dad’s old vinyl.”
“You ever play it?”
“Whenever I feel like a blast of nostalgia.”
Ander studied the bottom of his glass over the few remaining dregs. Ida’s phone pinged. It vibrated on the hard surface and rattled against her glass of Jack n’ Coke. Ander, glancing down, recognized the icon. He excused himself, headed to the toilet. Paul was known to message on Friday evenings. As he passed the bar, he ordered his final half before heading home to his lonely bed. The pub was quieter now and the dull, neon grey smog of the city had been suppressed by heavy rain. The rain sprinted in chaotic veins over the greasy window behind Ida. She was absorbed by her phone, her face turned down, lit up by the screen.
The cracked urinal had also been sourced from the late twentieth century. A ceramic trough ran the length of the wall and made the room stink of stale piss. The regulars liked it that way. Ander finished his business, collected his drink from the bar then headed back to the table where Ida was gnawing at her thumb. She wiped her free palm on her bouncing knee then sipped at her glass. Ander folded his arms.
“When Gadder Together first came out, I was devastated that my love died too early to have been part of it.”
Ida’s glass rattled to the table.
“You mean Thom. You can use his name, Ander. I’ve told you before, your parents are dead. Fuck whatever they thought.”
“Sorry… You’re right.”
A runnel of rainwater had forced its way between the brittle putty and the single pane of glass. It was building towards the edge of the windowsill. Ander leaned over Ida then placed a beermat ahead of the water. He brought his pint to his chest as he sat.
“I’m glad Thom was too early now though. After seeing the shit you’ve had with Paul.”
“It’s cost me,” said Ida.
Her thumb traced the line of an old swastika, carved into the table.
“How many years?”
“Nine years, three months since the first message.”
“That’s a long to time to have sacrificed.”
“Too long. And not just time.”
“Was it worth it.”
Ida sank the contents of her glass. She wiped the condensed water on her faded jeans.
“It helped to pretend he was still around at first. But now, it’s horrible.”
“If you wanna stop it, I’ll help.”
“I think it’s time.”
Ander left a quarter of his drink unfinished. He slid the glass to the centre of the table then slapped his thighs.
“Okay. I’d best be off. We’ll take a look on Monday.”
“Right”
Outside, under pouring eaves, they hugged, said their goodbyes and then went their separate ways. Upon arriving back at her apartment, Ida stumbled from the taxi and staggered to the nearest shelter to avoid the cold torrents. The rain had calmed to a drizzle. She stepped out from the transit stop, leaned backward and raised her eyes. Her building rose like a featureless cliff from the neon reflections in the wet roads towards the night sky. The electric light from uncountable sources in the streets and suspended walkways below coloured the clouds a disgusting orange. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The last message was still open when it unlocked.
“Hey my love, noticed you are out tonight. Hope you have a good time. There’s a great late-night Vietnamese place around the corner called Zen Hanoi btw. Check it out. Love you.”
Ida scowled at the screen.
“I’m cancelling this crap. I don’t need this anymore.”
She slid the phone back into her pocket and tottered the short distance to the front door of the tower. For such an imposing building the entrance was an unassuming set of double doors leading to a hall with eight elevators, four on each side. The polished concrete, high ceiling, and ornate floral tilework suggested that this building had once been intended for more affluent residents. The fact that the great, crystal chandelier was missing around forty percent of its bulbs and had not worked since before Ida had moved there suggested that those lofty ambitions were now long forgotten. That and the faint stench of human shit coming from the stairwell.
Ida pressed her phone against the pad on the wall. The first lift to arrive was the one furthest from her. She entered and leaned against the filthy, graffitied mirror as she rode the long journey to her floor. She arrived at her apartment seconds after disembarking. Her door, it was identical to the eight other beige, steel doors on her floor, distinguished only by a number – 45/8. The door unlatched. She entered, slammed the door behind, then wobbled the two meters to the foot of her bed. She fell onto the mattress, opened her computer then hooked her silvery-grey hair behind her ear.
~~
The bastard behind her eyes was encouraged to continue his raging by the intensity of the new morning’s light.
“Yeah, pretty good night apart from the messages.”
Ander was waiting, his reply came only moments later.
“Just end it. Move on.”
Ida weaved between the mounds of musty laundry, piled high above plastic packets of baby clothes and unopened boxes of rattles and other toys. He’s right. Today’s the day. It’s all going.
From the creaking drawer in the kitchenette, she pulled a large black bag from the roll. Hoodies, t-shirts, and stained jeans tumbled onto the linoleum floor as she lifted the supporting packets then unceremoniously stuffed them into the bag. After digging through the contents of the wooden cot, she filled another two bags with what lined the mattress that had never felt the warmth of a child’s body. With three bags full and a decade of disturbed dust in the air, she straightened her aching back and contemplated the free space she had created. The black bags rustled as their contents settled against the wall near the door. The cot can wait. I’ll stick in on Gadder Market later.
