Brett versus the Economy

I've decided to sacrifice this story to the blog. I like it. It's had a few polishes but its been rejected out of hand everywhere I've sent it, no feedback at all. Yep, I'm feeling self-righteous this afternoon. Also, a note, Brett and Jermaine are not the Brett and Jermaine. The picture is Brett, this Brett's nemisis, Old Economy Steve.

With the Manager

"Thank you for coming..." said the Manager. Brett almost said 'you asked me here' but he smiled:

"Thank you for having me..." Stay positive.

The Manager continued: "You have been a valued member of our team this past month…” Pause. “You have done yourself proud."

"I'm just grateful for the opportunity, Sir, to prove myself" said Brett.

The Manager sat forward in his chair, "and you have. You're an intelligent and hard-working young man, a good team player too. No, we've really enjoyed having you here.” He pushed a small envelope across the table toward Brett. “Please accept this as a token of appreciation from all of us at Bravos Summerisle..." Brett picked the envelope up. This was not going well. He opened it. "Book tokens" said the Manager, "thirty pounds; a little bird told me you like to read so..." The Manager sat back again, palms open, he smiled as if to say 'ta-da.'

Brett beamed. This was not going well at all. The Manager had been dodging the question for a week. Still, Brett smiled like he meant it. "Thank you, Sir, that's so kind of you."

"Not at all" said the Manager, eyes to the ceiling, slightly nervous now. "We had a whip round. It just goes to show that..."

"Sir" Brett interrupted. 

"Ian, please..." said the Manager to Brett again, mock-diffident.

"Ian... Sir... I was wondering..." The Manager's face started to freeze. Here it comes. "I was wondering" said Brett, "if there were any openings at the firm, after all..." The Manager looked away with a sharp intake of breath. "That I might..."

"I'm sorry" said the Manager to the table, "but we're fully booked at the moment." He looked up at Brett. "But we would very much like to keep in touch. Rest assured you will be contacted in the event of any vacancies arising..."

"And references...?" Brett asked. 

"Of course" said the Manager, "though I hope we will be the ones to eventually employ you. I really do." He stood to shake Brett's hand from across the desk. "Well done and... good luck."

"Thank you" said Brett, still smiling through the sinking feeling. 

"Take the afternoon off" said the Manager, letting go. "Enjoy yourself."

"I will...Thank you..." said Brett to the office door. "Bye."

"Goodbye."

Through the door.

Pub chat

"Here you go..." Jermaine was back from the bar, a half of lager for him, pint of stout for his younger brother. "I don't know how you can drink that stuff."

"I guess I'm just bitter" Brett said with a thin smile, “or stout… I don’t know…” He took the pint, had a quick sip and sighed. "Thanks" he said.

"No worries" said Jermaine. He sat down at the table with Brett.

"How much was it?" asked Brett.

"Its fine" said Brett.

"No, seriously..."

"Seriously, little bro, it's fine..."

"No, I can..." Brett tried to push a five pound note across the table.

"No" said Jermaine, holding his hands out. "You need to save your pennies." Brett eventually relented, putting the money back in his pocket. “So, How did it go?”

“It's gone...” said Brett

“Oh... well it's...”

“No, well, I spoke to the manager, Ian; they're keeping my details though and...

“That's something” said Jermaine, brightly.

Brett sighed, “it's been a month working for nothing.”

“But they're keeping your details...”

“And the Manager said he might give me a reference” said Brett.

“See, that's not so bad” said Jermaine. He took a sip of his half.

“It's not a job, though” said Brett with suppressed anguish. “I need a job. I've spent a month working for free. How many more bloody unpaid internships do I...?

“I don't know Brett” said Jermaine flatly.

“Your... generation, you got a ten-year headstart. You just walked into your jobs. It...”

“Sorry, Son, but times have changed...”

“It's not fair!”

Now Jermaine sighed. “Life's not fair, snd that attitude's not going to get you a job either... Is it...?

Brett, resigned: “I know.”

“Are you going to drink that?” said Jermaine. Chastened, his brother took a sip of his pint. “You've got to stay positive” Jermaine added, “project confidence. That's what employers are looking for.”

“I know” said Brett, a little narky.

“You've got to sell yourself” said Jermaine.

Brett thought about objecting but fell silent. The brothers each took a swig of their drink.

"Anyway" Jermaine added, "enjoy it while you can.”

“Enjoy what?

“The free booze” said Jermaine. “I'm thinking of quitting my job."

"Quitting, why?"

"Well, I'm not just going to walk out like that" said Jermaine.

"Fifty grand a year" said Brett, astonished, "I should think not."

"I'm thinking of turning gamekeeper" said Jermaine. He took a sip of his half-lager then explained. "Advertising's just so cut throat, dog-eat dog. Now, if I joined a marketing department, well, the money's just as good, the position's secure and I'd get to fuck over ad-execs to my heart's content... well, a little bit anyway."

"Are you sure about this?" Brett asked.

"I don't see why not?" said Jermaine. "I've got the portfolio and the experience."

"Yeah" said Brett, glumly, "it's all about the experience."

They each took a sip in silent unison.

“You’ve got a new book” Jermaine observed. He picked it up from off the table, read the title “’Get the Job You Really Want…’ that’s not your usual” and put it down again.

“No” Said Brett. “They gave me a going away gift, all the people at Bravos Summerisle… some of them anyway. Book tokens…”

“You got that with book tokens?”

“I know” said Brett.

They took another silent sip.

Opening emails

OK, let's. Email. Open. Here goes. Nothing? Three. Oh, O... K... Travel agency position. Dear Brett, personal, informal, regret that on this occasion. Same old. Thank for interest. Person of more experience. All right. Long pause. Next one. University support. That'd be nice. Didn't think it would come in. Nope. They're looking for someone with more appropriate qualification. What? This is a paper-sifting job. Last one. NHS. Dear Candidate, blah, position will now be filled... internally. What was the point in that? It doesn't matter what I... No, don't think like that. Project. Like the book said. Maybe if I just. I mustn't let this. Stay positive.

Interview

“Why do you want this job, Brett?”

Brett opened his mouth, a moment too long because:

“You're not sure, are you?” The Interviewer sighed a deep breath. He renewed, “I want motivated, confident people that are going places, Brett. Are you one of those people?” The Interviewer had a soft voice.

Brett, slowly, “I feel that I am motivated and I am confident. I am getting myself out there and...”

“And now you're here” the Interviewer interrupted. 'Here' was an office in a lane off Liverpool Street. “Turnover is quite high here” said the Interviewer, whose name was Nigel Stiffly-Barrage QC. He sat forward across the table between him and Brett. “This is a pressured environment...” small fist bumps for emphasis, “how do you cope with pressure, Brett?” He sat back.

“I like to plan” said Brett. “I take the long view, get to know the rhythms of the office and try to anticipate...”

“No, Brett” Mr Stiffly-Barrage QC leaned forward again. “That's how you avoid pressure. I was asking how you cope with pressure.” His expression hardened. “How would you cope if I gave you a hundred pages of notes to be typed, proofed and allocated in three hours. How would you cope, Brett?”

“Well” said Brett, “I would try to prioritise...”

Mr Stiffly-Barrage QC shook his head. “That's not answering my question, not by a long chalk, no, no, no.” Now his voice was hardening as well. Mr Stiffly-Barage QC sat back and crossed his fingers, archly.  Silence. “How old are you?” he eventually asked.

“Twenty three” said Brett.

“And what do you want out of life?”

“I... want to be... happy...”

“Happy? Mr Stiffly-Barrage QC almost snorted. He then stood up and offered Brett his hand to shake. “Thank you for coming.” Brett rose to reciprocate. “But I don't think you'll be hearing from us” he added and shook Brett's hand very hard. “Good luck with ‘being happy’” he said.

“Thank you” said Brett, feeling equal parts humiliated and relieved.

Outside

Brett was waiting for a bus out on Liverpool Street when he saw a woman. She was wearing a branded T-shirt and handing out fliers. Brett was intrigued. She was attractive, but after the interview he just had Brett didn't want to talk and, anyway, she was probably out of his league. He thought about it again, then went back, then bottled it again. He took a flier though. It was for something called The Job Laboratory, a website and a hotline. It promised applicants work within twenty-four hours. Brett thought it was too good to be true, worth a try though, it was an agency after all. What did he have to lose and where was the Woman? Stay positive. Brett turned to look. Where'd she go? That was odd. Still, Brett had the flier at least.

Two days later

Brett was back in East London. It has taken some finding but there it was, in a side street just off Brick Lane. From the outside the The Job Laboratory office might not have looked like much to a passer-by, a small logo above a solid green door on the side of a barely recovered industrial site, but Brett felt optimistic, almost buoyant. Talking to Bella of course helped.

A phone call

Minutes after he submitted his CV online he got a call from an Unknown Number.

“Hello?”

“Hi” said a bright, twee voice, trilling “is that Brett?”

“It is” said Brett neutrally.

“Fantastic” said the Voice. “My name’s Bella. I’m calling from The Job Laboratory. I’m calling because we really like your CV and reckon we could get you fixed up?”

“You do?” said Brett, uncertain but with anticipation emerging. Bella was the first person to speak to him in months who didn’t sound mournful, embarrassed or belligerent.

“Sure” said Bella, audibly smiling. “It’s not every day we get a philosophy graduate on our books.”

“No” said Brett, almost smiling back, “I suppose not.”

“What was your dissertation in?” Bella asked.

Brett had to think about it for a second, it had been so long, or felt like it. “'Existentialism and the Ontology of Time' he remembered.”

“Oh right” said Bella, “like Nietzsche?”

“More sort of Heidegger into Sartre” said Brett. He was pleased to elaborate, “but Nietzsche is considered one of the pioneers of existentialist…” then he remembered himself, “sorry.”

“Fascinating” said Bella. She left a pause before adding. “We must get you in for a formal interview and some testing.”

“Thanks” said Brett, now elated.

“Of course” said Beth, “most of the jobs we have aren’t specifically related to philosophy.”

“Of course” said Brett, echoing.

“But I see you’ve got some good experience” said Bella.

“People don’t often say that” said Brett.

“Nonsense” said Bella, “let’s see, three months intern in corporate insurance, some temping in data entry, bar work, shop work and you’ve got a driving licence. There is lots to be going on with here” she concluded. “Can you come in tomorrow, say, eleven?”

“I can” said Brett.

“Then it’s a date” said Bella. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

‘A date…’ Brett almost blushed.

The Job Laboratory

Inside was not what Brett expected. Once through the entrance he found a cold, bare, door-less, palpably damp corridor, part whitewashed part bare-brick, at the end of which was somehow installed a lift. Still, he was here now. Stay positive.

The lift itself old-looking though the ride up soft and silent, Brett could barely tell it was moving. He got out on the first floor. There was a reception area, a woman behind a desk, a tall ceiling, a table with a pile of magazines and a couch and beyond that a line of temporary partition panels.

“Brett McKenzie” he said to the Receptionist, a young-looking woman, younger than Brett, “eleven o'clock...” he smiled. “I'm here to see Bella... I'm a bit early....”

The Receptionist held up a finger. She was tapping away with expert intensity at her keyboard, staring a huge, ancient-looking monitor. “There” she said and looked up at Brett. “Sorry, I was just, um... Bella, let’s see...” and she started tapping away again. “Oh” her face fell, “I'm sorry, Bella has had to take a day...” Brett’s face also fell. Pause. The Receptionist perked up again. “Not to worry” she said, “you'll be seeing Anna instead. Please, take a seat” with a professional, iron smile.

“Well” said Brett, pulling himself together, “thank you... It's...”

“Hmm?”

“It's quite… informal here” he observed. Not really the word he was looking for but the Receptionist quickly replied:

“Yes, yes it is” still smiling.

Nothing else to say, Brett sat.

Anna

“Hello Brett.”

Brett jumped. He had been flicking through a men’s style magazine, about a decade old. Here was Anna. She held out her hand, she was tall, professionally androgynous, wearing a smart, dark suit, unsmiling, neither kind nor rude. Brett, who had been sitting on the reception couch stood to shake. “This way” said Anna, adding a stern slap on the shoulder. She led Brett through the office.

The Job Laboratory HQ was open plan and alive with hubbub, about half of it perhaps to do with work, but what kind of work? There was typical office equipment, more computer terminals, old-looking PCs glowing, shredding machines buzzing, filing cabinets clanking, coffee machines humming a franking station the size of a small car and office staff. Further on though were sections, cubicles filled with strange, electronic equipment that Brett could not place, tubes and wires and aerials and men and women in white coats, almost like a laboratory.

Anna took Brett to a panelled cubicle it felt very quiet and secluded. She sat him down at a computer terminal. “Here you go” said Anna. She logged him into a programme. “It’s a short aptitude test” she said. She at Brett smiled thinly, towering over him. “There’s nothing to worry about” she said, “no right or wrong answers just... do your best… back in a moment.”

The test

The test began. It was simple enough to begin with, the usual kind of personality/aptitude test. But then the questions began to change:

State your understanding of Einstein’s theory of general relatively as best you can in 100 words or less?

 They went on:

Have you ever worked with a particle accelerator?

Give one solution to the Grandfather Paradox.

Describe the causal mechanisms of the Back to the Future trilogy as best you can in 100 words or less.

No right or wrong answers? Brett did the best he could with the questionnaire. Literally just as he was done Anna returned.

“Finished?”

“I think I have” said Brett. “The questions were a little…”

“Unusual?” said Anna. “There’s a reason for that.” She leant over Brett. “Let me…” She pressed a few buttons. “I’ll be back with the print out.”

Back with the print outs and an extra chair Anna sat with Brett and glanced through it briefly. “Good” she eventually said. “I think The Job Laboratory would very much like to have you on its books.”

“Thank you” said Brett, smiling.

“I’ll give you this” said Anna. Beneath the printout was a document. “It’s a contract” she said, holding it in both hands. “We’d like you to sign.”

“Certainly” said Brett, reaching for the contract, but Anna did not yield:

“First” said Anna, “I strongly suggest you read it. It’s not your usual…”

“Your usual what…?”

“Yours usual agency contract” said Anna. “We can find you work” she added, “but we’re going to have to send you somewhen?”

“What do you mean, 'somewhen?'” Brett asked. There was a long pause. Anna seemed to be weighing up how to explain. Eventually she said:

“Young people like you have a lot of problems in this current job market.” She gave Brett the contract. He started flicking through. Anna continued, “you’re overqualified for basic jobs and underqualified for good jobs. The stuff you do go for usually for requires experience, even at entry-level. It’s crazy I know but that’s why we have things like the Temporal Confidentiality Clause” she said, indicating to Brett where it came on the contract. As she spoke a man in a white coat wheeled in a strange device, a piece of electronic equipment wrapped in tubes and wires and aerials. “Thank you, Dave... See, it ensures that while you are on our books you do nothing to dangerously skew the timeline of the current universe.”

Brett half-whispered half-mouthed the word “what?”

“This is not the usual contract and we are not your usual agency. We try to do the best by all our clients and the way the current job market is the best we can do for you Brett is send you back in time to 2007.”

Brexit means Brexit

"Since the EU referendum it's clear that we have to listen to people's concerns about immigration, after all Brexit means Brexit."

"What are they concerned about?"

"Meeting foreigners, talking to foreigners, having foreigners take their jobs, that sort of thing."

"What should we do about it?"

"The course is clear, we should send back all immigrants."

"What about all the immigrants that are in work at the moment?"

"They will have to be replaced. Is there a way to make more people so that they can be replaced?"

"Sure but..."

"But what...?"

"It takes a little time..."

"How long, days, weeks... months...?"

"It takes about twenty years for a newly made person to find paid work."

"Why?"

"Well, they're quite small to begin with. They need bringing up. They also need educating."

"And how do these people pay for all this without jobs?"

"They don't."

"They don't?"

"They get everything for free."

"You're joking, surely?"

"I'm not."

"Who are these people?"

"They're called children."

"Well, then the course is clear. We must ban all children. From now on everyone must be a grown adult!"

"I'm not sure that..."

"I'm sorry but Brexit means Brexit!"

Picture from...

The Prime Minister is electable

"There you are Prime Minister" said the Permanent Secretary, bright and breezy while choking down his horror. The PM was sat alone at a round table in a meeting room. It shifted in its chair to acknowledge the PS, who was standing in the doorway clutching a set of briefs. The Prime Minister smiled. "Is that a new fang?" the Permanent Secretary asked. It was. The Prime Minister extended a limb in a fluid, boneless, indicating where the PS should sit, three seats away it seemed. 

The Prime Minister was a political bioweapon, a politician genetically altered to be permanently electable. No one knew its original name or identity, which was Very Above Top Secret, a category made up for this experiment. The PM's sex had long been indeterminate. These days its shape was pretty malleable too. 

The Permanent Secretary sat carefully. "Why are you here, Prime Minister?" the PS asked in his best concerned voice. "I've been looking all over for you. You've missed two meetings so far this morning."

The Prime Minister shook what was still probably its head. The PS waited. There was a gurgling sound, a voice rose up from within the Prime Minister. "Me... no like... Foreign Secretary... make flavours taste for chicken and Brexit not Brexit anymore" it said and shook it's 'head' once more. It's voice was tinny, echoing and distant.

"Well" said the PS, "you could reshuffle your cabinet, get a new person in at the FCO..."

The Prime Minister made a mournful mooing sound and covered four of its eyes. "Poisoned vector" it said "stand still challenge unable no flavours..." The Prime Minister glowed a little and seemed truly anguished. The Permanent Secretary let it stew in its sadness for a moment, resisting the urge to hug it, before sliding some papers across the table toward the PM.

"I have some news" said the PS, "something you might like to hear..."

"Hamster...?" said the Prime Minister, looking up again, hopeful.

"No, the President hasn't returned your call" said the Permanent Secretary, "but something good has happened. Operation Quantum Orange is underway" he whispered the last part reverently. Tides of muscle shifted up the PM's face:

"Selective violence?"

"Selective violence indeed" said the PS, also smiling. "Our friends in the south have moved into action."

"Query the visage and enumeration of traitors?" asked the Prime Minister as it pawed through the documents.

"Page four" said the Permanent Secretary, "there's a list of them, seven students and one lecturer... from the University of London..." The PM seemed pleased. "I know" said the PS, "it's an interesting place to start. This is all entirely the Friends initiative mind you, though we have agents tracking and gently guiding them if needs be but do not worry Sir... Madam... It, whatever happens your hands are clean." They were. The Prime Minister looked at the Permanent Secretary, beaming with delight. It thrust out its arms, fingers purple and engorged, and grabbed the PS by the shoulders, extended its tongue and licked the PS's face up and down. "Thank you" said the Permanent Secretary, trying not to gag on the slime, "it's much appreciated."

The Prime Minister then let go, sat back in its chair and let off a blubbery howl. "Brexit means Brexit!" It was heard all the way across in Number Eleven where the Chancellor of the Exchequer had hidden himself in the toilet to masturbate over pictures from the BaE Weapons Catalogue. 

The Parliament of House is in session.

Given I'm now properly trying to turn this into a novel this might be the last I post of this (like you're bothered). With "Now..." or whatever it becomes, I'm going to try to make it a series of short episodes written in a pseudo-dramatic style, i.e. with no internal monologue and the minimum direct author intervention. Anyhoo, let's see how this turns out... Also, yes, it's meant to be silly.

"We have to face facts, the Spirit of Fascism has moved..."

"We don't know that" said a Dissenting Voice, "we don't know anything at this at this moment in time and what we do know doesn't make much sense. 

The Original Speaker tried to respond. "It doesn't..." But:

"I mean, why a physics lecture...?"

"It's doesn't have to..."

"Just kids that..." the Dissenting Voice was exasperated. The Chair held up a hand to say enough. The Original Speaker resumed:

"It's doesn't have to make sense, Dave..." He realised his mistake instant. "Sorry..."

The Dissenting Voice sighed. "It's too late now I suppose" he said and shrugged, irritation. His name was Dave, everyone present knew but but his codename was Wrecked Train. 

"We're all friends here..." said another delegate, AKA The One Man Crowd, "comrades..."

"We don't know that" said the Chair, the Disco Bison, stern as a mid-week comedown. He was the oldest and most experienced of the group. He spoke slowly and surely. "There are many, we can be sure, who would like to infiltrate our organisation, and not just the Fuzz." Silence reigned across the table for a moment. The Disco Bison nodded to the Original Speaker, known to the group as The Sheriff, to continue.

"We have to up our game" said The Sheriff.

"Really?" said a woman known as Many Tentacles. She was the long-standing Promotions and Intelligence delegate, practically the Disco Bison's second in command.

"Enough!" barked the Disco Bison. It was quite a harsh comedown. The office-warehouse reverberated. "Go through the chair" he said to everyone. "We're not here to barney."

"Sometimes" said the Sheriff, resuming, a little bashful, "you have to state the obvious to start with." The One Man Crowd nodded ostentatiously to this. He was seconding the Sheriff's motion. "The Spirit is on the move" said the Sheriff. "Look at the reaction to this attack in the press or on the streets. We've been expecting something like this for months" he said, looking directly at the Wrecked Train, then around the room. "Now it has finally come... what...? Nine people are dead, like you say 'kids.' What's been the reaction? Shrug the shoulders, it's so sad but can't be helped. That's the public response anyway" he shrugged. "Behind closed doors" the Sheriff glanced around meaningfully, "you can bet someone authorised this, someone in power had to" he could sense he was losing the room at this. "I can't prove it, no one can but we must assume it, even if we're wrong. This is big!"

"Are the police involved or have the DoM been brought in?" the Disco Bison asked.

"Sources suggest" said the Many Tentacles, "though I've yet to speak directly to my chief contact I'm pretty sure DCI Lightfoot is on the case." There were sighs and frowns across the table.

"Well" the Sheriff shrugged, "maybe the state has been caught on the hop but that's all the more reason for us to take the fight. If we don't move now we could find the ground disappearing beneath our feet."

"You have a plan I take it?" said the Wrecked Train.

"Of course" said the Sheriff, seemingly no longer embarrassed. He handed out sheets of A4 holdings lists, maps and schematics.

"These are not the full details I take it?" said the Disco Bison.

"Of course not" said the Sheriff. "With your permission though I will take this forward to Ops and Acquisitions to take forward." He ploughed on before any of the delegate could object. "The Parliament of House has been underground for too long. We need to take a space, publicly, a high-profile space that cannot be ignored, there's a non-definitive list of potential targets included but, uh... the point is we need to take a space and hold it for as long as we can. If the Spirit of Fascism wants to take this city we have to take it first. Sure it's going to take a lot, we're going to be calling in all sorts of favours but... if not now... when?"

Seven Eleven Stories - Volume Two

Seven Eleven Stories, Volume 2: “A Very Convenient Christmas” is the reason for the season—your virtual Christmas stocking stuffer package of bittersweet holiday shards. Amber Burke’s black and white film colored candy cane of surrealism, “Transfer,” will dance in your mouth and leave you wondering where you left your belongings. Adam Marks' blood-sausage breakfast of a hootenanny, “A Thousand Flaws,” will have you counting on fingers and toes with a British accent, running out of digits and giving up. Then let Mia Sparrow’s “Bite Me” melt in your mouth and clog your rotten Scrooge heart until it bursts with Christmas spirit and whatever other internal organs remain intact this time of year. 

Now... continued

"How do we know time exists?" asked Professor Kimber. No response. "What is time?" He'd have to explain. "Time is the progress of entropy." He looked away. Wasn't the Alt-Right supposed to be cleverer than this? Professor Kimber paced a little. "You can know time is passing without a clock, without any visual reference at all." He stopped, turned and looked at his subject. "We exist..." he corrected himself, "we have been forced to exist in an impure universe, a motive universe..." His pedagogical instinct kicked in. Professor Kimber dragged a flip-chart across the room and took up a pen. "We are moving from a point of pure, concentrated energy..." He illustrated this with a pristine asterisk. He drew an arrow left to right, "to a point of absolute, undifferentiated, dispersed matter." He showed this using a scatter of infidel dots.

"But" said the Young Man tied to the chair in Kimber's padded laboratory, "if the original state was pure how could it degenerate?"

This was something. "A good question" said Kimber. He put the pen away and started pacing again. "This is why..."

"I mean" the Young Man continued, smiling "don't pictures of the young universe show fluctuations in in background radiation?"

He was smart, this boy, bright, if a little placid. It was almost a shame, Kimber thought, that they sent him along. Still, you needed an Avatar to contact the Spirit. "This is why" said Kimber, "we are at war with the Quantum Marxists and other celebrants of the mongrel reality. This universe is ruled by probability, change and motion. There is no frame of reference. This underpins the dialectic, the source of their heinous theories of tolerance and progress..." the words seeped out of his mouth like acid. Kimber fetched a device, a silver helmet decorated with symbols and with cables and lights protruding. "Our movement will prevail" he said. "We will halt the march of time and entropy, that is why we do what we do" he said, putting the helmet on the Young man's head. "Quantity shall no longer become quality and we shall be titans..." he adjusted a set of dials on a console, halfway across the room. He looked back at the Young Man who seemed suddenly afraid. "Our powers will be unlimited." Kimber smiled a saggy old leer.

The Young Man asked plaintively, "will it hurt?" There was a short pause.

"Your sacrifice will be noted" said Kimber. He flipped the master-switch before the Young Man could say anything else. The Spirit was invoked.

A Reality Manager's Work is Never Done

I'm currently in a phase of finishing, altering and recovering stories. This is something I like but I suspect won't stand much of a chance with any anthology or magazine quite soon so enjoy, or don't.

I am merely a psychologist, a professional psychologist with a practice of my own, but when I’m seconded to the Agency That Cannot Be Named¹ I become the Reality Manager. The job of the Agency That Cannot Be Named is to parse world news, political gossip and internet traffic on behalf of the government. Given the amount of information out there, not to mention the urgent, competitive ethos at the Agency, it’s not surprising that a few manias develop every now and then and when they do I am called up.

             Don’t be fooled, these are not petty rows among grey, passive bureaucrats. Not so long ago an agent was working late at a facility in Stanmore when for no good reason he chopped himself into several pieces, threw his body parts into a utility room and locked himself in from the outside. There were no clues as to what happened, aside from the fingerprints and human hair found on the scene, not to mention the security video of five hooded figures hacking the agent to death. It was a mystery.

The Agent had been working on data showing a correlation between global warming and Islamic fundamentalism. This angered not a few in the Agency who had been briefing sources over a number of years that climate change was invented in 1975 by a conspiracy between the Green Party, the London School of Economics and the BBC Natural History Unit. If he found a causal link between the two factors the Agent would have knocked the bottom out of several long-term infiltration projects.

No one could prove anything though, and disbandment or prosecution would be dangerous for morale, not to mention the time and effort it would take developing new identities so the agents could reintegrate into civilian society, so my second job was invented. My role is to alleviate operational manias and if possible reconcile them with reality. I am the Reality Manager. Where there are opposing delusions I have to reconcile them as well.

A good example would be the Case of the Leader of the Opposition. The Leader of the Opposition was a dangerous man, a dark horse. He was made party leader unexpectedly. Despite being a cabinet minister in a previous government his background, his past was dangerously unfactored.

He was the son of a refugee socialist foreigner. He once attended a demonstration where other socialists were present. He was on the record as praising Clement Atlee. Despite having children he was unmarried. All this aroused interest and concern in the Agency. Then came his policy announcements: a modest increase in the minimum wage, utility price freezes, Venezuelan rent controls, Monster Munch to be nationalised, the BBC to be broadcast into every home, bacon sandwiches to be made illegal, bananas to be made straight, a free swan for every asylum seeker, Baa-Baa Green-Sheep as the national anthem and the abolition of slavery.

Two theories arose in the Agency That Cannot Be Named to explain the Case of the Leader of the Opposition:

1. He is a Russian Communist Spy sent forward in time to overthrow British Capitalism.

1. The USSR still exists.

The second ruminescence was easy to grasp: “You can’t trust Ivan,” I remember one particular Agent saying. The agents who followed this line were largely veterans. Operational inertia was at play here. Once you’ve spent half your adult life chasing Russians round Central London it was hard to stop. That said the faction did recruit a number of younger agents, often ambitious but lazy and prematurely nostalgic. The first theory was a bit more complicated however. I spoke to one of its prime movers, Field Agent Andy Bilson (not his real name²). He told me:

“It’s really very simple. What happened to the space race? It got to 1973 then it stalled. Why, because they brought more than just rocks and dust back from the Moon. Einstein’s Theory of Relativity says the faster you travel the slower time passes. The Leader of the Opposition was not born in the 1960s, he was from the 1960s. That’s why the Russians had all those long-duration missions on their space stations, they were creating sleeper cells.”

If Einstein heard this he would be spinning in his grave³. I asked Bilson how he linked this to the Leader of the Opposition? He told me he’d been working recently in Eastern Europe. They were at a top-secret rendition facility when his partner, Agent Fissure, had a Ukrainian taxi-driver, a frustrating hold-out who claimed he knew nothing, in a stress-hold. After ten minutes the taxi-driver started shouting: “Miliband! Miliband!”

Two hours later they had the whole story down. The taxi driver used to be a rocket engineer during the Soviet era. He was busted down for objecting to the prolonged missions, the deleterious effects of microgravity and radiation⁴. That’s why he was a taxi driver and Ed Miliband, a commissar at the laboratory where the taxi driver used to work, real name Eduard Mikoyan⁵, was a Soviet spy.

How to resolve this? One side, the Future Perfect faction, preferred to arrange assassination. Their opponents, the Structuralists, favoured the long-view. If the USSR still existed then it was an institutional, not a personal problem. Preparations were being made for an army coup if the opposition party won⁶.

The arguments were furious. The future of the nation was in the balance after all. Something had to be done. This had to be nipped in the bud before agency staff started breaking windows, cutting brakes or slipping polonium 210 into the coffee machine.

It was too late to point out this was a likely Department of Misinformation ruse gone too far. That would just escalate matters, full on inter-agency war. Instead, after several months shuttling between factions⁷, I managed to broker a compromise solution, accepting that Russia’s natural elevation⁸ and multiple time zones would likely cause some temporal distortion that could lead either to the USSR still existing or Ed Miliband/Eduard Mikoyan being thrown forward in time to 2010 and accidentally made the leader of the Labour Party. We eventually all agreed would be better not to prejudge the result of the election but instead activate agents within the opposition party, the media and the International Space Station to monitor the situation. Both factions agreed to de-escalate their respective plots. There was even a little document, a form signed by both sides. We called it the Canteen Covenant.

That was six years ago. Of course it all went out the window when Labour lost the 2015 election. Now we have a new Leader of the Opposition who actually is a socialist, and the faction fights broke out again. I could tell you all about the manias I have to deal with now but then I’d have to erase your memory with a magnetic brain-wipe and, trust me, you wouldn’t want that. A reality manager’s work is never done.

...

1 You know the one I mean though. It’s based in the big building we all work in on Vauxhall round-a-about that doesn’t have a postcode or photo on Google Maps.

2 It is his real name.

3 If his brain hadn’t been preserved in a secret laboratory under the Pentagon

4 Apparently, due to some property of coronal mass ejections, a few cosmonauts developed counter revolutionary superpowers, I asked what powers but Bilson did not elaborate on this to me.

5 Not his real name.

6 With Prince Harry elevated to King, Nigel Farage as Prime Minister, Jeremy Clarkson Director General of the BBC and Gary Barlow as Head of Entertainment at Butlins Death Camps.

7 Literally, the rival groups occupied opposite ends of the canteen at lunchtimes, refusing to speak to each other and occasionally flicking food at each other.

8 I made that bit up. Russia is in fact mostly swamp and grassland.