Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Chapter Six. The Mentor

The locker room was the warmest place in the whole club. Frank sat on a bench next to an oil heater and drank the tea made by his coach. Max distrusted coffee and always made his own tea adding his own secret choice of herbs.

Lockers lined the walls. Frank’s wet raincoat hung on an open locker door opposite Max. The coach sat on a bench next to Frank’s. He still looked fit and strong in his shabby cotton tracksuit. He lowered his gray crew-cut head as he listened to Frank, examining the dead Kathleen’s posted device.

“That’s it, basically,” Frank helped himself to some hot tea and glanced at his coach. “I’ve got nothing else to tell you. That’s all I know.”

Max put the device down onto the bench. He removed his glasses and rubbed his swollen eyes.

“I see,” he glanced through the open door into the dimly-lit gym and nodded. “I need to make a phone call.” He rose and motioned Frank to remain seated. “One phone call. You wait here. I’ll be back and we’ll talk about it.”

He left the locker room. Frank sipped the tea and felt the hem of his raincoat. Still wet. Most of all he’d love to lie down on the bench, wrap himself in something warm and fall asleep for a few hours at least. He gave the bench a longing look, forced himself up and did a few bends and flexes to get the blood going.

His left side and shoulder echoed with pain. He had to admit he’d got a good whack in the ribs in the post office. Plus the old arm injury had manifested itself when he’d grabbed at the train’s safety bar trying not to fall onto the subway tracks. Frank rubbed his wrist and flexed his hand. His shaking fingers, hurting and strained, refused to obey.

Never mind. He’d have to ask his coach for something to bandage it with, that’s all. No bones broken, and a couple of sprains he could deal with.

He walked into the gym. The wind bellowed through cracks in the window frames despite the thick curtains covering them. The light from the locker room fell on part of the boxing ring, a few gym machines and punch bags hanging on chains from the ceiling. To the left of the ring, a closed door led to the coach’s room. There, Max kept his trophies and champion’s belts. The room was wallpapered with the pictures of his students.

Hand on the boxing ring rope, Frank walked along the ring. He walked past the punch bag, hit it once or twice and stopped, eyeing the machines with regret. It had been over twenty years since he’d first entered the club’s locker room and met his coach.

The gym grew lighter. Frank turned around. Max closed the door and walked toward him.

“I’ve arranged for an expert to come and have a look at this thingy of yours,” Max said walking around the ring. “He’s on his way. In the meantime,” the coach pulled up his track pants and sank onto a gym machine bench, “I need to tell you something about your father, the war and myself.”

Frank’s drowsiness was gone. He forgot about his sprained arm and sat on the floor, resting his back against the apron of the boxing ring, his hands on his knees.

“His name was James Shelby,” the coach started, looking Frank in the eye. “He was with Bellville’s army. Oh yes, he fought against us, your Dad did. But that’s none of your fault. And once the war was over and done with, James took the migrants’ side. Campaigning for their rights, he was, and he did it good.”

His words came as a complete surprise. Frank had no idea Dad had been a migrant himself. He’d died from old war wounds a mere month before Frank was born. Max couldn’t have met Dad during the war, but his job at General Hopper’s HQ reconnaissance unit — training saboteurs and venturing on rather successful missions — allowed him to glimpse into things. Max must have been good otherwise Hopper’s men would have never overpowered Bellville’s.

Frank’s mother, wary that her husband’s past could hurt her boy’s future, had one day brought the nine-year-old boy to Max’s and told him their story. In return, Max promised that he’d grow a man out of the Shelby boy without letting anyone know whose son he was.

Max had kept his word. He had a good memory for the war and a lot of respect for his enemies. Frank had started his training. He’d inherited his father’s competitive nature and wanted to excel at everything he tried. And excelled he had.

Once again, his coach removed his glasses, pretending to wipe the already clean lenses. Giving his story the time to sink in.

“Now the important bit,” Max put his glasses back on and continued.

He didn’t sound like himself. Frank had never seen his usually reserved coach so excited. But now the subject was too delicate and too dangerous for comfort: apparently, everyone’s duty to visit Memoria hadn’t been an immediate post-war decision. It had taken the President ten years to introduce obligatory memory cleanups as he’d decided to put an end to the migrants’ unwillingness to reject their past.

The only category of population allowed to preserve their memories were Hopper’s veterans, indispensable in case of a reserve call-up. The rest of the population was offered the easy choice between either preserving their agonizing memories or acquiring citizenship. This was when the color-tagging had come about: blue, green and orange bracelet lights.

Although migrants were also obliged to wear the bracelets, theirs came with neither citizenship nor electronic banking access. Their bracelets were basic tracking tools. Their rights and movements restricted, migrants were driven together into camps where they were watched like some pre-war criminal convicts had been by means of radio collars.

“ Your father was one of its most vigorous opponents,” Max put the glasses back into a leather case, adding, “I have to admit I’ve learned a lot from him. But it took me years.”

He raised his eyes to Frank. “So, what do you think about it all?”

“I really can’t judge,” Frank pressed his fist against his chin. “It was so long ago.” He tapped two fingers on his temple. “I just don’t get it, sorry. How come that you — a veteran, a sports coach — you speak as if you don’t blame the migrants or my father. It’s as if you’re on their side.”

“I want you to remember one thing,” Max stood straight, his shoulders wide, his chin up. He looked down at Frank. “Only our memory can make us human.”

“What are you getting at?”

“It took me too long to understand a great many things. I don’t want you to repeat my mistakes. Had the President made all the veterans have their memories erased there and then, the whole country would have revolted. They would have regarded such a step as betraying them and their ideals. So he’d chosen a soft approach. Those who fought for Hopper got the right to preserve their memories plus the President’s support once he was elected. Plus all the aid and other perks that went with it. I have to admit the latter worked best,” Max grinned and patted the lifting bench. “I got this little shop thanks to their aid. Because I’m good at this war business… was. All my life I’ve been training fighters.

“The rest of the population was of two kinds,” he went on. “Those born after the war automatically became citizens by birthright. They were not exempt from Memoria’s visits even though they were voluntary. The second were the migrants: these visits were forced onto them if they chose to leave their camps. The only difference between the two is the color code of their bracelet signal. As for the veterans, most of us are either dead or on our last legs.” The corners of his eyes curled down in a sad grin. “Our cities have risen from ruins but millions of people still live below the poverty line. One-quarter of all the population is crowded into migrant camps.”

Max’s glazed stare scanned the gym. “What did the authorities try to achieve? You tell me, Frank.”

“To bring back order,” Frank started and frowned.

“And? Go on.”

Frank shifted in his seat stretching his numbed muscles and trying to guess what his old coach was driving at.

“They wanted to allow people to forget about the war. Shift their priorities.” He looked up at Max. “Give them a sense of security.”

“Closer, but not quite,” Max leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve always been the competitive kind. You used to work for the government, dealing with migrant camps. Until today, that is.”

“How do you know that? It’s classified information.”

“Intelligence work leaves its stamp, you know. I can still analyze media messages. You read a few interviews, compare the facts and draw your conclusions accordingly. Okay, so in the case of the Bronx you’ve all failed big time. The migrants refused to surrender it to the city. I wonder why?”

“The Vaccination.”

“Pardon me?”

“During our DC meeting the migrants’ representatives demanded we provide information on the Vaccination program,” Frank closed his hands and rested his face in them.

“And?”

“It didn’t go the way we planned.”

“Which is what?”

Frank looked up at him.

“The DC meeting didn’t proceed as expected. Things went awry right from the start. The migrant leaders refused to discuss anything until we gave them information on the Vaccination. They demanded its technology from Memoria.”

“You know what it’s all about?”

“No idea. First time I heard about it.”

“Who spoke of the migrants’ leaders?”

“Anna Gautier. When her demand was rejected she told them to go stuff themselves.”

“The Steel Lady has bared her teeth,” the coach chuckled. “Sounds like her. She’s the one who wears the trousers in their little shop.”

“Exactly! Had she not been head of the Presiding Council, I’m pretty sure the whole migrant situation would have long been resolved. Gautier’s well-known for it. She fears no one, she despises authority, and is next to impossible to convince about anything at all.”

Max raised a protesting hand. “She knows her decisions’ worth. Shows off her strong will.” He paused. “The Presiding Council, what’s that about now? Is Gautier in charge of something else?”

“She is. Every migrants’ camp is managed by a Leading Council. And they in turn are united by the Presiding Council.”

“I see,” Max fell silent. “All right. Let’s give the Vaccination gig a miss for a while. You tell me what the authorities tried to achieve.”

Frank felt angry with himself for dwelling too much on the DC meeting. He really should keep their conversation in check. He shrugged.

“You know what the authorities are like. They need to be in control.”

“There!” Max rose. Behind the front door, an arriving car honked twice. Max turned to the door and added, “Still, there are three hundred thousand migrants in the New York camp alone. And you can’t control them. Gautier is the only person who can. And if you take the whole country… They are a force to be reckoned with.” Max traced ring side and headed for the door.

Frank nodded mechanically and mumbled, thoughtful,

“Sure. The migrants are self-sufficient all right. They grow their own vegetables, they even have corn fields to the North of the Bronx. They produce their own electricity, they have wind farms and tidal power. They even sell surplus electricity to the city. Their whole infrastructure aims for New York to depend upon the camp. In this respect, the Bronx is a choice morsel for the authorities. But Gautier will never part with it.”

For the first time, he thought about the lay of the land. Now he understood the reasons behind the concrete fence and the roadblocks surrounding the camp. And the fact that New York still boasted the largest police force in the country. The migrants threatened stability because in actual fact, they were a state unto themselves.

So those were the reasons behind the government’s year-old secret agreement with the Presiding Council.

Frank was just about to tell his coach about it when Max headed for the front door. He turned the key in the lock, and the door opened, letting in the large shape of a man.