Eazee Life: A Stunning YA Dystopian

Novel Billie Hill

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/eazee-life-a-stunning-ya-dystopian-novel-billie-hill/
Eazee Life
BILLIE HILL
SPELLBOUND BOOKS
 First Published by in 2023 by SpellBound Books
Copyright © 2023 Billie Hill

The moral right of the author to be identified as the owner of this Work has been
asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of
the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, locations and events in this
publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or any actual places, business
establishments, locations or events is purely coincidental.

PRINT ISBN:
 Contents

1. Benedict - What is our reality?

2. Tish - Cross my heart
3. Ketty - New Girl
4. Benny - You’ve got mail
5. Ketty - The Blackwood franchise
6. Benny - The death
7. Tish - Snagged
8. Benny - Pathways crossing
9. Tish - Beautiful?
10. Tish - Don’t tell him anything
11. Benny - No way back
12. Tish - Incongruous
13. Ketty - Never one of you
14. Benny - The future is now
15. Ketty - Human Rights?
16. Benedict - Human or not human?
17. Ketty - Opening doors
18. Benny - Role Play
19. Ketty - It’s all about the money
20. Benedict - Who am I again?
21. Benny - Punishment
22. Benedict - Frack the Poor!
23. Ketty - A glimpse
24. Benny - Caught
25. Ketty - The ‘other’ Benny
26. Benedict - Emotions
27. Benny - Complicit
28. Benedict - Only a pawn in the game?
29. Tish - A mad twin?
30. Benedict - Ooopsy!
31. Ketty - Family?
32. Tish - Targets
33. Benedict - Billy-banana-head!
34. Benedict - Main protocol
35. Ketty - So close…
36. Benedict - Not his twin
37. Benedict - Identity
38. Benedict - Live your life…
Chapter 1
 Benedict - What is our reality?

O pening his eyes , B enedict shied away from a scalding light that
hurt. It was the softest blue, he knew, although a blind man just
moments before. But not natural. Not sky. An electric light above
him.
The slime from the containment tank was towelled from his skin,
now prickling with goosebumps. He stared at the proud, standing
hairs on his arm.
‘Welcome to Eazee Life, Benedict,’ said a voice.
Again, as if awakened from a soundless sleep, he recognised
words. Focusing on the being beside him, he took in the
characteristics, deep voice, stubble on his chin and cheeks, flat
chest. Man.
‘It’ll be a bit of a jump of consciousness for a while, but I’ll be
with you every step of the way to your full rehabilitation.’ The man
handed Benedict a pile of coloured objects. He fingered them,
feeling softness, warmth, textures. Opening them, he scrutinised
each one. They were strangely shaped.
‘Clothes?’ Yes, must be. Benedict heard his own voice for the first
time.
The man peered intently at him. ‘Do you need help to get them
on?’
Was he assessing his reactions? He was, after all, programmed to
respond, to assimilate. ‘No. I’m fine.’ He paused. ‘Thank you.’
 Glorious words, rolling like a dropped basket of ripe fruit; round,
burgundy glossy cherries, purple blackberries, strawberries that
made you want to bite into them; all those shapes that meant
something; all the nuances and textures; all the juicy mango words,
the sharp and tart lime words, the fuzzy peach words. Benedict
could see them, taste them, savour each expression. How incredible
that man had the capacity to communicate in such deep layers.
‘Well done,’ said the man. ‘Yes indeed, you are fine. I’m Jonah.’ A
loud sound erupted out of his mouth, which made Benedict jump.
‘My mother was really into Biblical stories.’ Again, he stared at
Benedict.
‘Jonah and the whale.’ Benedict accessed his memories,
untouched until this very second but opening up to him as if it was a
vault. ‘The Lord God told Jonah to preach repentance to the wicked
city of Nineveh, although Jonah didn’t want to as they were enemies
of Israel. He ran away from the Lord and boarded a boat going in
the opposite direction. God conjured a terrible storm, and the crew
sacrificed Jonah to save themselves. God sent a whale, and Jonah
sat in its belly for three days until it vomited him safely onto land.
He then went and preached to the Ninevites, who all repented…’
‘That’s very good, Benedict.’
‘There’s more—'
‘No, that’s fine.’
Humans can speak. Myriad languages. A thought formed.
‘Do animals speak in their own, secret, furry language?’ He felt
the delight of the words rolling off his tongue. ‘Did the whale
complain that he had a terrible stomach ache because he’d eaten
something nasty?’
Jonah nodded a couple of times. ‘That’s called wit, Benedict. Well
done.’ He did a strange thing with his mouth as it expanded
sideways. A smile.
‘How do you feel about this story?’ said Jonah.
Benedict looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes. He knew
he had to access a different vault, could see it glowing brightly in his
mind. It had his name on it.
 ‘It’s a load of Billy-banana-head stuff. God doesn’t exist. He was
made up by clever men to keep the masses in their place with tales
of hell.’ He looked deeper into the place that was only his. ‘And what
kind of numbskull believes a man could survive inside of a whale for
three days?’
‘A religious one.’ Jonah’s eyes narrowed. Benedict sensed that
what he’d said had caused an effect. Coupled with the words was
the body; a raised eyebrow, a shrug, or a turn of the head, pursing
of the lips, smiles that reached the eyes and especially smiles that
didn’t, that threatened you.
‘Have I said something wrong?’
‘Not you, Benedict, not you.’
‘Which of the memory banks should I access?’ So much to learn.
‘Both, as you’ve just done. You did well, and I’m not angry. I can
never be angry with you.’
Benedict pulled on the clothes, marvelling at the dexterity of his
fingers, his opposable thumbs that could grip and manoeuvre. Jonah
didn’t offer to help again.
‘You’re doing very well, Benedict.’
Benedict stopped moving. ‘What is Eazee Life, Jonah? Why am I
here?’
Jonah made a curious sucking sound and licked his lips. ‘Eazee
Life is where some people try to make their dreams come true. And
as to why you’re here, well Benedict, I’m expecting a call about you.’
‘From whom?’ Benedict’s hands were still held unmoving before
him. He already knew.
‘From you.’
The laces were tied, but Benedict kept his head lowered. ‘I see.’
‘Do you?’ said Jonah.
‘Yes. I think I do.’ He looked up. Met the man’s gaze. ‘Will I be
like him?’ The thought of the other ‘him’ wasn’t something he
relished.
‘Not entirely. You will, hopefully, be more like you.’
Somehow that sounded better, though he wasn’t sure. ‘Is that a
good thing?’
 ‘I believe it is.’ What could he detect in Jonah’s voice? What was
this word that had formed unbidden in his mind? Exultation. He had
a part to play in this new game. He understood that intrinsically but
what that meant was as dark as the moment of his birth.
Benedict stood and waited.
‘What do you think comes next?’ said Jonah.
‘I can look at all the new data in my head and start to process it.’
Benedict thought for a moment. ‘If I have not been commissioned
yet, how will you get away with creating me?’
‘I am going to make another… you, but with nothing inside-’
‘You won’t give it a soul?’
‘If you want to put it that way. It will not be you, or him. It will
be just the outer casing, a husk, nothing more.’
‘And then you will dispose of … it?’
‘This is a complicated matter, Benedict and I don’t need you
worrying over it. Listen, we have time to do everything you want to,’
Jonah guided Benedict out the door, ‘until he calls.’
‘How are you so certain he will?’
‘Because he can’t help himself.’ Jonah smiled, and it made tiny
hairs on the back of Benedict’s neck stand up on end. ‘And I haven’t
made it easy for him to find us. Things normally just fall into his lap,
as they say. Faced with a challenge, I believe he won’t be able to
stop until he has found out what Eazee Life is all about and then it’ll
be too late.’
‘And what if he ignores us?’
‘Then I think of something else to draw him in.’
Chapter 2
 Tish - Cross my heart

L etitia ‘T ish ’ B arnes knew volunteering to help her brother C ody

distribute this month’s ‘cache’ in Outside Four was always fun,
except it could be dangerous if they crossed the paths of the wrong
people. And the wrong people in Four were very, very wrong. Not to
mention if the Guardians chose that day for a raid. They’d got the
idea that the Macchia had a stronghold in Four. They weren’t wrong.
Once a year, give or take, they slammed in, guns and badges a-
waving. Just to make the news, big themselves up and make them
look as if they were dealing with shit. People always got hurt on
both sides.
‘Eyes in the back of your head and hearing sharp,’ Cody always
joked, but he’d had some scrapes in his time. Some near killed him.
‘Oh, and don’t forget the mask and gloves.’
Working for the Macchia meant hiding your identity. The first
time she’d gone out with him, he’d pulled her face close to his.
‘No fingerprints and definitely no images of your face,’ said Cody.
‘Mobiles might’ve been banned for years, yet we’ve been told there
are some who have them, ready to snap and snag us. All for a pitiful
reward from the Government. If the people we help don’t know
what we look like, then they can’t identify us.’
‘We help everyone,’ said Tish. ‘All colours, all faiths. Why would
anyone betray us?’
‘If the people you helped didn’t think it was enough, then you
have to make it doubly hard for them. For some, it’s never enough.’
He paused, ‘And if the Guardians come, you run, and you don’t
worry about me. I’ll be legging it fast, so look to yourself. Right?’
‘Rotten sweet.’
‘Just remember to pick up your ID tag when we get back. Real
bad luck if you get caught going to school with no ID.’
‘I won’t forget. I’m not stupid.’
As Cody was an apprentice carpenter in Outside Two, these
covert trips had to be after he came back from work and finished
before it got too dark to see. The rickshaw Cody was driving slowed,
bumping across the rutted alley. Tish was squished in the back seat
with random packages and brown paper bags labelled with the
government stamp. A terrible risk, they both knew, if they were ever
caught with it all, but it took too long to cover the symbol up.
Anyway, that red emblem was a badge of honour earned. It stated
to everyone that they weren’t going to go down without a fight.
They wanted the Government to know they were coming for them.
‘Come on,’ Cody scrambled off the bike seat, ‘we’ve still got loads
of stuff to repatriate, and it’ll be dark soon. We don’t want to be
snagged out here then. So, start helping.’
Tish nodded. They were in the poorest sector of Outside Four,
where the old folk with no skinnies to support them were forced to
live. Dearest Lord. Would they end up here too? At least they’d have
each other. That’s if Cody didn’t get himself killed. She looked about
her. Shantytown barely covered it. Huts and lean-tos huddled against
the cold. Some had roofs of corrugated tin, others had slates, some
merely had a tarpaulin and others gaping holes where the bitter
weather howled in and snarled at the old folk clinging to life within.
There were a few wooden doors. Most were blankets pegged closed
or curtains that kept out prying eyes but little else. No one feared
thieves here; there was nothing to steal.
Tish knocked on doors, shouted through blankets and peered
into barely upright sheds stuck on the side of only slightly more solid
neighbours. When the old folk tottered out, she handed them a bag
or a package.
‘A gift from the Macchia,’ she said each time.
 A grizzled old man, walking stiffly with a cane, cataract milky
eyes weeping, held out his hand. ‘God bless you, sweet girl. You and
yours have kept us alive.’
Tish hugged him, aware of his sour tang, unloved, uncared for
but for them. ‘Not us, Mr Ajubi. The Macchia. We’re only the delivery
guys.’
Mr Ajubi opened his mouth wide, revealing two yellowed teeth
and an immensity of gums. ‘And if anyone asks, I’ll say it fell out of
the sky from Heaven.’ He made a wheezy sound as he opened the
package. ‘Ah, pork! It’s not going to last long enough to be found.
There’s going to be nothing left, except its little old squeal.’ He put
his finger over his mouth. ‘I would never tell, don’t you worry.
There’s no one who cares about us elderlies. We could like as die
and they wouldn’t bother with a word for us, just roll our old bones
into the landfill and forget us once more.’
Cody swung round the corner. ‘It’ll change, Mr Ajubi. We’ll make
sure it does.’
‘I hope so for your sakes, for all the people who live like this.’ He
motioned about him. ‘It’s getting dark, and I have pork to cook and
eat while I still have my two good teeth.’
‘Have you fuel tonight?’ Tish pulled a plastic screw top barrel out
of the rickshaw. ‘We can top you up.’ Wrinkling her nose, she poured
some of the thick, reeking oil into a tub inside the doorway.
‘That’d be mighty fine. I might even be warm tonight.’ The old
man, still smiling widely and hugging his slab of pork belly, hobbled
back into his home.
Cody pulled Tish behind him as though she was a puppy on a
short leash. ‘Get moving. We’ll need to get through the centre before
it gets too dark. I don’t want to meet any Lightsters on the route.
We may not have any stuff now, but they might nick the rickshaw
and then we’ll be right stuck.’
‘This Light. It’s killing people.’
‘True, though if a drug makes someone feel better, who’s to say
it’s wrong? You want the Guardians to come in to sort it out? Don’t
want them sniffing around. It’d be the execution squad for us if
we’re caught, remember. This ain’t a game, Tish.’
 Tish covered her mouth with her hand. ‘As if I could forget.’ An
image slid unwanted into her mind. The tail end of the last organised
protests that had swept the country in 2116. A body left in the
centre of Outside Four with a placard nailed to its torso. ‘A Macchia
Freedom Fighter. Or what’s left of one.’
Tish had been only nine years old, yet Aunt Rose took her to see
it. Rose had stood tall and straight. ‘This poor soul hasn’t been left
out of pity, so the bereaved relatives can bury the body with dignity.
There were many others in that group, most likely disposed of the
same as vermin. It’s been left as a warning of what befalls anyone
who goes up against the Sovereign State of England. And what a
truly awful warning that is.’
Tish had looked up at her aunt. ‘Why did they have to die?’
‘They all died because they want NON’s to be free. They want
their children, all you skinnies as they call you, to be equal with the
breeders. They want you to have the same opportunities they had
back in the before time.’
‘Will we get that, Auntie?”
‘I hope so. Maybe not in my lifetime, although I pray it’ll be in
yours.’
Tish kicked the image out. Mustn’t let her heart zig-zag, or she
might never go out again. All it did was push them underground.
Made them harder, meaner, made them sly.
They passed a few grubby looking skinnies, scurrying home, and
a couple snogging down a small alleyway, but Cody managed to park
the rickshaw not far from the municipal dump that catered for
everyone on the Outside. Covering it in rubbish ensured it wouldn’t
lead to incriminations and accusation should the Guardians ever
happen on it. Not that they wanted to come anywhere near it as it
was too close to Four, which they all knew was dangerous and
rambling and filled with tales. Outside Four was not a place you
visited lightly unless forced to.
Tish tapped his shoulder. ‘When’s the next hit?’
‘It’s on the sheet. I’ll check when we get back.’
‘I want to come with you.’
‘It’s too dangerous, and you know Rose wouldn’t ever allow it.’
 ‘I’m not afraid. I’m fit and fast. I can handle myself as well as y
—’ Cody had her arm up behind her back and her face pinned
against the fetid ground before she’d got the final word out.
‘When you can beat me, then I’ll ask Rose.’
‘Fnngh.’ As Cody released her, she rubbed at the welt on her
cheek. ‘I have qualities other than brute strength.’
‘I know, but I’m selfish. I’ve lost so much already, what with
Mum and Dad, that I can’t bear the thought of losing you too.’
‘But you force me to live with that every time you go out. The
fear that the next time, you won’t come back. Or worse, that they’ve
snagged you, boy.’
‘I won’t get caught. Cross-my-heart.’
Tish turned her back on him, knowing that was a promise he
couldn’t keep. She didn’t want him to see the tears sliding greasily
down her cheeks. How could she bear to be left alone?
Chapter 3
 Ketty - New Girl

K etani P atil . ‘T he new girl ’. U gh , that never sounded good . W hat

was the school going to be like? Same as her old one, probably. The
Top Years would’ve already bonded and were in their relevant strata.
The kids with money who’d managed to have the ‘procedure’ were
the apex group. Arrogant and self-satisfied. How she hated the lot of
them. Then it went down in many layers as to how rich you were, in
the same way as the piled on always-winter clothing they wore when
the cold closed in on them like snapping starving dogs. Nowadays,
outside, where she lived, it was either winter or a hard winter.
Nothing else. No fresh spring or blue summer skies. When it got to a
certain point, they were segregated. Some might not be rich enough
to have the procedure, but if they had enough available money, at
least that could buy them their education. And clean air. They could
still aspire to be a doctor or a professor, a businessman or a Member
of Parliament. Not her. Not allowed to have ambition. Not as a NON,
a skinny. Sullen envy smothered her the same as the suffocating
smog that hung, a threat in the muted skies Outside. So unfair. She
watched as the wealthy kids slipped through the electronic portal
into the school Pod, a shielded building equipped with filtered clean
air units. But not for the likes of her, and it was this clean air she
needed and wanted so desperately.
Moving school was never going to be easy, though this late
meant she had to concentrate on achieving the grades she needed
to fight her way, knuckle-to-knuckle, out of a life of servitude. Would
she make any friends here? Or did a long and lonely year stretch
ahead of her? She wasn’t stupid, and that meant she knew she had
to get out. Somehow.
Her new teacher, Mrs Krabowski, handed her a grubby, slightly
fluffy mask as she walked into her designated block. They were
being taught in prefab huts outside of the Pod and its life-sustaining
filtered air. Considered wastes, they were not worthy enough to have
clean air or a decent education. Waste? Waste of breath? But what
about when they’d all gone, these wastes? What would they do
then?
‘Here, Ketani, wear this,’ said Mrs Krabowski. ‘It was kindly
donated by a local charity. It’ll help keep the contaminants from
irritating your lungs.’ She sounded as if she’d read this same litany
from a plaque on the wall a million times. And didn’t believe it either.
‘I prefer to be called Ketty, thanks.’ She slipped the thin piece of
material over her nose and mouth and sucked in a breath. It smelled
musty. How many had already breathed through this? And how
many had died?
‘Whatever. You can sit next to Letitia,’ said Mrs Krabowski. She
had an eastern European accent. Maybe Polish? She pointed at a
space next to a tall, athletic-looking black girl. ‘Letitia will steer you
right round here, won’t you.’ It was a statement of fact.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Letitia. ‘Why not?’
Ketty sat at the battered desk, and as the teacher turned to write
something on the board, Letitia leant over and whispered, ‘You know
these masks do bog all. They’re given to us to make our most
respected superiors feel morally better for killing us all slowly.’ She
sniffed loudly. ‘Don’t think they can even spell moral.’
‘Shh,’ said Mrs Krabowski, eyeing Letitia as if she was covered in
barbs. The class of over forty skinnies of differing hues and ethnicity,
sat in silence. Ketty looked around her. The fact that they were being
taught on whiteboards with whiteboard markers, instead of the all-
singing, all-dancing interactive boards she’d seen on the telly said it
all. Coupled with the faded posters peeling from the walls depicting
the ‘periodic table’ and the ‘genus of mankind’ that had, by the look
of them, probably been there for over a century. The only nod to the
modern world was when a big screen slid down from the ceiling, and
they watched historical clips of films from the twentieth century. So
this was her new life, was it? Same-old, same-old.
She examined the damp black patches crawling towards the
ceiling and the fuzzy grey mould lurking in one corner. At first
glance, she’d mistaken it for some sort of animal. Hang on, if it’d
been an animal, they would’ve eaten it by now. Her stomach
grumbled, and that Letitia girl shook her head and leant in closer.
‘Wonder what it’s like,’ she whispered, pulling the mask down
slightly, ‘to feel full-up?’
‘Wish I knew,’ said Ketty.
That first lunchtime, Letitia took her to the school canteen. It
was inside the Pod. Ketty was glad to have a break from the
teacher's monotonous voice, obviously equally enamoured of being
there as the rest of them.
‘Are we really allowed in?’ Ketty hesitated at the portal door. ‘We
had to eat Outside in my last school.'
‘Yeah, sure. How else would all the super-rich over there,’ Letitia
indicated with her chin, ‘be able to view us? To ascertain whether we
got the right credentials, so to speak. These are allocated for us
NONs,’ said Letitia, sitting down with a ‘thump’ at the long table that
was down one side of the vast room.
A red line was painted straight down the middle. On the other
side were individual tables and moveable chairs. But not for them.
‘What do you mean?’ said Ketty. ‘Credentials?’
On either side of their table were two thin benches with no gaps,
secured by heavy bolts in the ground, that the NONs had to climb
over to sit down.
‘See if we got the right attitude to work for them. You know? See
if we’re docile and ain’t going to cause no trouble.’
‘That’s why we’re allowed in here? So they can vet us?’ Still
standing, Ketty hugged her tatty recycled cardboard lunch box to her
chest.
‘It’s a human market. We all got our school lunchtime jobs
allocated. We clean their tables of all the mess they make and stack
their chairs, ‘cause they ain’t expected to lift even their baby fingers.
Then they get to see us and see if we’re servant material. Meek and
sweet, that’s how they like us.’ Letitia looked down at her lap. ‘And
ugly as old boots.’
‘What? Why ugly?’
‘Come on. To check we ain’t prettier than them rich breeders and
give their men temptation.’ Letitia licked her lips.
‘No way.’ Ketty hid her grin with her hand.
Letitia patted the well-worn bench. ‘I don’t know why they’re
secured to the floor. Do they think we’re going to nick one then?’
‘I think it’s their way of making right sure we can’t pull chairs
around to mingle and have a social life.’ Ketty climbed through the
gap and sat down. ‘It keeps us in our place. In case we plan
something.’ Had she said too much? She didn’t know if she could
trust Letitia. She had to be more careful, think before she opened
her big mouth.
Letitia frowned. ‘Too true, girl.’
Ketty looked along the regimented lines at the other NONs. Many
had small lunch boxes, with whatever their parents had managed to
scrape together. Some had nothing, their faces sunken and their
eyes listless with hunger.
‘Look at them, the poor little skinnies,’ said Letitia. ‘Most of them
only come in for the clean air, gulping it down as if they can save
some for later.’
Had she read her mind? Ketty nodded. ‘For most of us, it’s
probably the only time we breathe any clean air. At least my mum
will be happy.’ She opened her lunch box. Two slices of bread thinly
smeared with jam. A feast.
‘Where are you from?’ Letitia ripped the lid off her box, and Ketty
tried not to stare. Was that fresh fruit? No way! ‘You don’t sound like
us.’ She nudged the boy next to her and passed pieces of what
appeared to be apple down to a skinny who had nothing to eat. It
was all done with careful movements of their hands under the table,
so no one could see. Clandestine and practised.
‘Yorkshire.’ Ketty saw the look on Letitia’s face. ‘Up north.’
‘I presume you were forced to come to Outside London?’ She slid
a slice of apple into Ketty’s lap. It was moist and sticky.
 ‘My dad died, and we couldn’t survive there any longer. No
money left after the funeral, then we lost our house.’
‘Did he die from all the fracking up there?’
Ketty bit down hard on her lip. ‘They didn’t say as such, but it
was some sort of lung disease.’ Come right out with it, why don’t
you? Maybe she’d made a mistake here. Maybe she didn’t want to
be friends with this girl who was now right in her business.
‘Both my mum and my dad died of the lung disease,’ said Letitia.
‘We live with my Auntie Rose now.’
Ketty dragged in a deep breath of the sweet, fresh air. Letitia was
only asking, wasn’t she? As any of them that’s lived through all this
life-crap would do.
Letitia stuffed a tiny bit of apple into her mouth and chewed
noisily. ‘They say that up north, your life expectancy is halved or less
and that all the freshwater is badly contaminated. They say the gas
explodes out the taps with the water when you try to fill up a kettle.’
‘Yeah, that’s true. The joke is you can fill the kettle, and if you
light it, heat the water at the same time. But it’s not so great down
here either, is it? Not outside of the Pods.’
‘How are you surviving? I see you got bread, so more than some.’
‘My uncle owns a restaurant here, and he’s been helping us since
we came down. We’ve got a little terraced house in Outside One.’
Where had this apple come from? Dare she ask? Maybe Letitia had
secrets of her own she didn’t want to share with her, but she held
onto her bit, careful not to let it slip from her fingers. When the
School’s Prefects were haranguing a skinny, she shoved it into her
mouth and chewed, feeling the juice dribble exquisitely down her
throat. That was just the best. She could feel the goodness
gallivanting through her system like they were doing the cha-cha
dance she’d once seen on the telly.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered. Then her sandwich was gone, and
fingers licked in seconds. Looking down, she turned to Letitia and
waved the empty lunch box. ‘Sorry, I should’ve shared this with you.’
‘No worries. I’m okay. You live in Outside One?’ said Letitia,
‘Sweet. I’m in Four. Listen, Ketty, you’ve got to know who’s who here
and where you can and can’t hang out.’ Letitia nodded slightly at the
small group of laughing older kids on the main table on the other
side of the red line. ‘That lot over there, now they’re the Zeniths,
and they’re led by a guy called Benedict Blackwood, that tall boy
who is stood up. He’s in The Final Top Year. You can’t get more
Zenith than him.’
‘Woo,’ said Ketty, ‘look at what they’re all wearing. Designer
clothes.’
‘What else?’ Letitia’s face scrunched up as if she’d had a dead rat
waved under her nose. ‘None of yer cheap rip-offs for the likes of
them.’
‘That really blonde girl is in Levi’s, isn’t she? I’d kill for the real
stuff.’
‘Wouldn’t we all.’ Letitia lowered her voice, sliding her hand over
her mouth. ‘Watch out for Benny Blackwood.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s twisted, you know?’
‘Like how?’ Something clanged in Ketty’s head. Blackwood? No,
no! It couldn’t be, could it?
‘You’ll see soon enough.’ Letitia pointed. ‘The dividing line is red
in here. Don’t ever step over it without permission, or a uniformed
Prefect will smack you one at best or drag you off to one of the
detention rooms that have locks on. They’re not sweet, neither.’
‘Right. Don’t want to put that to the test.’ Ketty gazed out across
the melee that was lunchtime in her new school. ‘That Benedict
Blackwood is cute, though.’ Long dark hair that touched his
shoulders, hooded eyes and sharp cheekbones. Teeth white and
straight in a world of crooked and stained. Taller than most of his
counterparts, he wasn’t lanky with knots for knees and elbows.
‘Don’t let his looks fool you.’ Such contempt in Letitia’s voice.
‘What is he? Part Arabic?’
‘Mum’s Egyptian, but his dad is white. You must’ve heard of the
Blackwood Franchise?’
Something cold and clammy skittered up Ketty’s backbone. ‘His
dad is Charles Blackwood?’ It was him! Her jaw clenched tight in a
spasm. How could the son of such a monster be so pretty?
 ‘Was Charles Blackwood, remember. Past tense. He may be dead
but not dead enough, in my opinion. Still want to kiss him?’ Letitia
made smacking sounds with her lips. ‘Mmmm, mmm.’
‘I’d rather stab him in the eye with one of our plastic forks.’ Ketty
waved the fork that the NONs were allowed to use.
‘I’d clap.’ Letitia grinned at her. ‘But I’d prefer it to be a metal
knife. Whambo,’ she smacked her hands together. ‘Another
Blackwood dead.’
Ketty realised she was still studying him when he glanced across
the room. You didn’t do that. Dropping her gaze to the tabletop fast,
she knew it wasn’t enough. He’d seen her. She saw movement
through her lashes. Oh no, was he coming over?
‘You were ogling me.’ His voice was husky, practically a man’s
now. He was allowed to go where he wished, able to cross that
streak of red with impunity. She despised him on so many levels.
‘I’m very sorry.’ Ketty kept her face averted. ‘I’m new, and I was
just looking about. I didn’t mean to stare at you.’ Her fingers twisted
around the fork. The name Blackwood stood for everything she
loathed, ‘cause of him, they were dying. Him and his, and all of
them like him lived in the great Pods they’d built across the country,
raking in the money while stealing the NONs’ air and water.
‘Look at me.’
There was no way out. Ketty raised her head and met his gaze.
‘That’s better. Now I can see your face properly.’ He smiled a
lopsided smile across his perfect teeth. ‘Pretty.’ He breathed deeply
through his nose as if smelling her. ‘Shame you’re a NON. What’s
your name?’
‘Ketani Patil.’ Once, she’d trodden on one of those disgusting
giant slugs, the one with the orange streak on its belly, and it’d
exploded with an audible ‘pop’ and left a green blob of goo. Made
her stomach churn with disgust. Like now.
‘Were you planning to do something with that fork?’ He bent
down, wrenched the utensil from her hand and snapped it with an
audible ‘crack’.
Ketty flushed, the heat spreading up her neck in waves. Would
she be forced to pay for it, as they were all recycled, to be used over
and again, clean or not?
‘I was only going to put it in the sand bucket.’
‘Well, pretty little NON, you can clear up our table while you’re at
it. Don’t forget to wipe it down and stack the chairs.’ He clicked his
fingers, and the Zenith’s on the big table joined him, as though they
were well-trained dogs. ‘We have a new table cleaner,’ said Benny.
‘It’s what she’s good at,’ said a squat Indian youth, whose face
was more pimples than skin. But that didn’t matter here, did it? Only
his prohibitively extortionate corrected genes, his units of heredity.
That’s all that mattered.
‘Nothing else for them to do.’ He squinted at Ketty. ‘Wow! You’re
a looker. Aren’t you lovely?’
Ketty clamped her jaw shut, trying not to let out the words
darting around in her head like the silverfish that plagued them,
scurrying about in every nook and cranny in their house. That’d only
get her sent to the detention block. Not a good start on your first
day.
‘No, silly,’ simpered the girl with nearly white, blonde hair wearing
the real Levi jeans. ‘They have lots of things that they can do.’ Her
face sort of compressed as though she’d been squeezed. What? Was
that her ‘thinking face’ then? ‘Yes, they can cook for us, clean for us,
grow stuff for us, do our chores, wait on us and look after our
beloveds. See, lots and lots of things they can do.’ She poked the
Indian boy hard. ‘And she’s not lovely at all. She’s all brown and
sticky looking.’
Ketty wanted to smack her down for that but wouldn’t want to go
knuckle-to-knuckle with her. She looked as if she could pick up a
table and wave it above her head. What would happen if she yelled:
‘You might be rich enough to be able to waste fresh water to wash
your hair, but I’m not. I have a dry towel, or I’d get a massive fine.’
Mouth sealed tight.
The girl peered down at Letitia. ‘Isn’t that right, whatever you’re
called?’
Letitia tilted her head. ‘Whatever you say, Miss Briony.’
‘Yeah,’ said Benny, ‘whatever you say, Miss Briony.’ His eyes slid
back to Ketty. ‘Now, Miss Briony here is the Queen Bee, so you make
sure you do whatever she asks.’
Briony giggled, and it sounded to Ketty similar to some sort of
animal snorting and whinnying. She didn’t mean to, but she gazed
up at the girl in front of her; nearly white hair, thin pale lips, a blue
tinge to her fair skin where her veins could be seen lacing beneath
it. And vapid, grey eyes.
‘What do you think you’re gawping at?’ Briony’s white eyebrows
met in the middle as if she had a bleached caterpillar glued to her
face. ‘Benny, make the horrible NON stop looking at me. I don’t want
the beloved curdled.’ She patted her stomach where Ketty could see
the beginnings of a bump.
‘Briony,’ said Benny, ‘milk curdles, babies don’t.’
‘So what?’ said Briony. ‘She’s looking at me funny, and I don’t like
it. I’m the one chosen by God. Not her. I’m the saviour of the human
race.’
Even Benny rolled his eyes at that. ‘Of course, you are, my petal.’
Ketty looked away. What was she? Barely sixteen and already a
baby-making machine. She’d be expected to pop a beloved out
every year of her life. Okay, she’d live a blessed life, except she’d
have no choice in it. As the broadcasts screamed at them every day,
mankind’s survival depended on breeding.
‘Stop staring,’ Benny nodded at the table behind them, ‘and get
cleaning. Do it properly, or there’ll be consequences.’
‘Yeah, consequences,’ said the pimply boy who, stepping forward,
trod on the back of Benny’s shiny, leather shoes. ‘Sorry, Benny.’
‘You’re really very ‘special’, you know that?’ Benny inspected his
heel. ‘God, sometimes, you’re so dumb that I think it’d be a crime if
you pass your genes on to another generation.’
Letitia stood up suddenly. ‘You shouldn’t say that, even as a joke.
That’s right sting in the mouth, that is. He’s got the chance to have a
beloved of his own, but we don’t have that choice.’
Benny stepped forward towards her. ‘Shouldn’t have been born a
waste then should you.’
Ketty searched about for the broken fork. How she longed to
imbed it with all her strength into one of Benny Blackwood’s eyes.
 ‘And if the tables had been turned,’ Letitia also looked as if she
wanted to crack him over the head with something hard and heavy,
‘and you couldn’t afford the procedure? That’d be alright then?’
‘But I could. End of.’ Benny snapped his fingers in Letitia’s face.
Letitia was turning a frightening colour as if all the blood in her
body was pumped into her head. It was barely a murmur, but Ketty
heard it. ‘You’ll get yours one day, Benny.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ His voice was so low, it rumbled.
Ketty could feel the tension building up like the storm clouds that
piled into the heavens before it exploded with raucous noise and wet
splotting rain. But not freshwater, as the acids in it ate the top
surface off everything it touched. No slurping that unless you
wanted your insides scurfed.
‘No, just a promise.’ Letitia’s eyes were half shut.
Briony pushed herself up against Benny. ‘I don’t like her. Get her
put her into detention.’
‘Briony, my dove,’ Benny started to move off, and the clouds
dissolved into grey mist. ‘You don’t have to like her, do you? She
doesn’t even exist. Probably will never get a job with that mouth of
hers. So come on, we’ve got physics next, and I know that’s your
favourite subject.’
‘Oh Benny, you’re so funny.’ Briony skipped after him.
‘Oh, he’s a laugh a minute,’ said Letitia. Turning, she stared hard
at Ketty. ‘I’d rather starve on the Outside than be a servant to one of
them.’
Ketty nodded, hearing the catcalls and mimicking as the Zeniths
walked out. She levered herself upright.
‘So, moved two hundred miles, and nothing has changed. Great.’
When would it all end? She still couldn’t believe that this had
been allowed to happen. Their lives were over before they’d barely
begun. Would kicking the table as hard as she could help? Or would
she just get a broken toe to add to her list of sorrows?
Letitia crossed the room, and a canteen attendant handed her
two cloths.
Ketty heard the anger and humiliation in the other girl’s voice, as
though it’d been dunked in these emotions for a long time and then
left to fester. She mustn’t forget that they were all struggling with
this. It affected every one of them. She took a proffered cloth,
already greasy from cleaning, tacky bits of unidentifiable food stuck
in its folds. Other NONs were drifting to the spattered tables.
‘Rotten sweet,’ said Letitia. ‘I’d love to tell them where to stick
these.’ She waved the cloth.
Their table was covered in half-chewed bits of food, spilt drinks
and plates and cutlery. What a terrible waste of food. Those rich kids
had never felt hunger, real hunger that made your backbone feel as
though it was fused to your belly button. Would it be really bad form
to stuff some of the dropped bits in her mouth, already filling with
saliva, before it got shovelled into the slops bucket for the school’s
pigs outside in their yard? Picking up a crust of bread that was soft,
it smelt so good she nearly dribbled.
‘Don’t eat their leftovers.’ Letitia held out a hand. ‘Don’t ever let
anyone see you desperate, girl. No bit of food is worth that.’ She
looked at Ketty. ‘No matter how hungry you are, never let them see
that you’re miserable. It makes you vulnerable.’
‘I’m desperate and starving. If they leave good food, surely it’s
better we have it than the pigs?’
‘Hell, no. Don’t you worry, I’ll look after you. That’s a promise.’
Ketty put the waste in the bucket, although her fingers were slow
to let the bits fall. How could Letitia promise such a thing? Apple in
her lunch box? Was she part of the...Woah, stop there. She mustn’t
go down that route. If you ask those sorts of questions, various
pieces of you are discovered scattered around the massive landfill
outside the city.
She changed tack. ‘What’s the gen on that Blackwood boy then?
All I know is that his great granddad fracked most of England back
in the before time, and as far as I know, his family have been
fracking us ever since. How’d they end up here?’
And she knew she wanted to kill him.
‘That was Edward. Then when they realised all the life-crap was
coming their way too, his darling granddad Francis commissioned
the Pod here outside London, so they didn’t get fracked themselves.
Benny’s dad Charles,’ said Letitia, ‘made his fortune when the
economy went into its fourth recession in 2099. Between them all,
they destroyed massive areas of land, contaminated the water
supply and ripped apart communities. Like yours, I think. Yeah?’
‘You know a lot about them.’
‘I’ve mugged up on them. You need to know your…’ Letitia
stopped wiping and looked down.
‘Enemy? Is that the word you’re looking for?’
‘Whatever.’ Letitia shrugged. ‘I’m of the opinion that a person
should know what’s happening in their world.’
‘Well, that’d be my word for them. So, they made millions, and
the poor got ill, and then the poor got dead.’ The same as her dad.
‘Too true. Took what wasn’t theirs to keep that Pod going. Took it
from us so-called wastes.’
Ketty put down the cloth. ‘Maybe you can tell me then, wasn’t it
his father Charles who sold the plans of the Pods on? So, all the rich
could live nice and cosy?’
Electronic communication might’ve been banned for the masses,
yet simple words couldn’t be crushed so easily. No one shouted. Not
anymore. Not after what they did to those who’d tried to tell the
truth. But whispered, these words crept across the country. It was
then whether you believed them, these terrible words spoken with
fear. Every so often, the Government broadcasts were interrupted,
hijacked by the illegal opposition called the Macchia, blasting out a
message, maybe only seconds long. Still, those seconds made a
lasting impact on Ketty. Who to trust?
‘Right cosy.’ Letitia bobbed her head quickly. ‘While they stole
what was left of our water and kept us locked on the Outside and all
the joy that goes with that. And then the sugared cherry on the
cake.’ Letitia patted her stomach in the same way that Briony had
done. Spittle caught at the corners of her mouth.
Ketty swallowed loudly. ‘Yeah.’ It was amazing how having
something snatched from you through no fault of your own made it
so much more desirable. ‘Fracked every which way.’
Chapter 4
 Benny - You’ve got mail

B enny stared absently at his monitor when an email icon popped up

and waggled around to get his attention. He was just about to call
out for a takeaway, as he couldn’t be sure if his mother was on
Planet Earth or bonced out on Prozac and vodka. Most days, she
could barely crawl out of bed, let alone cook any decent food. It was
Sunday, and he knew that Rosita, their Spanish cook, had sloped off
to worship her Catholic God. It was her only day off and, in his
mind, more than she deserved, the lazy Latin cow. He was convinced
she was pilfering their precious food supplies, slipping sweet fruits
and green leafy vegetables into her copious shopping bag. Did she
think she deserved it? Not likely. He’d work out a way to get rid of
her in due time.
The email icon was insistent, jiggling around, and then an
electronic voice spoke: ‘Hey Benny? You’ve got mail.’
‘Shut up, you stupid piece of crap.’
‘Hey, Benny? Just tellin’ ya.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ He turned down the Siri voice. Sometimes it got too
much. He’d already changed the posh English voice for this new,
Eastern State variety as they all ended up being annoyingly familiar
with him. As if they knew him, were his friends.
Benny clicked on his email box. Forty-five unread mails were
waiting for him. Using his father’s computer meant he still got mail
for him. It was unbelievable that they didn’t realise that his father
was dead and had been dead for nearly a year now. Either that or
they were manipulative, hoping that, as his father’s heir and the fact
he wasn’t a NON, he’d continue doing business with them. As if.
Accepting that he was one of the lucky ones came easily to him.
It was all about the money. For nearly a hundred years, the internet
had been censored, a search engine installed on every computer to
restrict the places people could visit, mostly sites sanctioned for use
by specified businesses. All transactions were monitored, although
there were ways of getting around this if you had the available
money and connections. Like he did. Anyway, who could afford a
computer? Only the very rich.
All control had been taken from the populace in 2030, and as far
as he could tell, watching historic footage called YouTube or
something, most of them were numbskulls who spent their time
watching cats fall off the furniture. Or kids landing on their heads
after doing stupid stuff on curved boards with little wheels on.
Skateboards? Propelled by your feet, so what was the point? Might
as well walk. That was in the before time when every kid had their
own phone. Imagine that...connected with anyone, anywhere, being
able to talk when you wanted. Not now, when all methods of
electronic communication were banned. But that was the point,
wasn’t it? No mass communication. Keep the Macchia blind and deaf.
The Government had had a belly full of them, hadn’t they? The
memory of that day smashed into his mind, the screams of the
dying, the blood-spattered everywhere. His father’s smile. He shook
his head. Get rid of that right quick.
Only two messages were for him. One from his best mate James
and the other from Mark. Both bore the same tale, enlightening him
that some screwball kid in the year below has been bad-mouthing
his dad.
‘I’ll deal with him in my own time,’ he wrote back. ‘I’ll make an
example of him, and trust me, no one will do the same again.’
Benny thought through his options. He’d have to find out more
about this boy, find a weakness and then squeeze him, as if he was
a straining, shiny white-headed spot, until he popped. And make
sure everyone saw it in full and glorious colour. After all, the one
thing his dad had ingrained in him was, if you had power, then use it
fully and don’t be namby-pamby about it. As he’d said countless
times, no one respected a weakling.
Scanning down the others, he clicked rapidly, ready to delete all,
but as his cursor hovered over the delete button, something caught
his eye. Upgrade?
He opened the mail. A jaunty voice sang out at him.
‘We are pleased to announce the arrival of our major new
upgrade to your last model. It has an unbelievable array of
competencies and will greatly enhance your life. Please contact us in
the usual way for more details. You won’t be disappointed.’
Benny chewed his bottom lip. There didn’t seem to be a symbol
allowing him to reply or even a contact number. If they wanted him
to buy one of what they were selling, then they weren’t making it
easy for him. They didn’t have a company name. In fact, they didn’t
have anything...except a tantalising hook. What had his father
bought from them that now had superior capabilities? And what the
hell was ‘the usual way’? He pulled the cursor from the delete
button. He’d keep it for now.

Benny leant back and laced his fingers behind his head. Out the
window, he could see the faint pink haze of the shield covering the
area where he lived with all the other influential and moneyed
people. After the air became contaminated, it’d been his grandfather
Francis who’d commissioned some of the best scientific minds to
come up with the plans for the shield and its air processing plant.
His life expectancy was more than twice that of the skinnies who
lived Outside. Skinnies like Ketani. He shoved that thought from his
mind. Why was he bothered about her?
Searching the best takeaway sites, he ordered Mexican, with
loads of chillies and guacamole. Avocados were illegal fruit due to
the prohibitive cost of transportation, but if you knew where to look
and could pay for it, anything was on the menu and tasted the
better for it. It might carry a prison sentence, but not for him. Most
people subsisted on beans and potatoes. He grinned. A lot of them
now looked like potatoes.
Thirty years ago, the fields outside of London burned. At least
that couldn’t be blamed on his family. Archive film showed the sky
black with hanging, heavy smoke as millions of acres of crops were
being destroyed worldwide at the same time. Benny closed his eyes.
The image of the smouldering remnants of the genetically modified
corn was still bright. Corn that had been intended to save mankind
but had ultimately condemned them.
‘No cross-pollination, no chance of it coming back,’ his father
Charles had said. ‘Bit late, of course. As always.’
Benny rubbed his hand across his eyes. 2027. El-Santo
genetically modified corn spread globally. Who needed to test such
an incredible breakthrough? Just whack it straight out there,
threaten anyone with corporate might if they didn’t want to use it
‘cause of stupid little ethical reasons and then sit back and watch the
money roll in. Except what ‘rolled in’ was the stuff they’d done to the
corn messed with their own genome. Three generations. That’s all it
took. What a laugh that was. Okay, there were too many humans
overcrowding the planet, and he could think of many ways to cut the
populace, but he imagined that it would involve others elsewhere.
Not here. Not him. Infertile? But his dad had sorted it, hadn’t he. No
way was he going to allow his family name to die out with his son.
He scratched at his crotch. Yeah, he’d been genetically modified too,
hadn’t he.
‘Eat local,’ he said, pressing the order button. Lots of avocados
grown around here, eh?
Flicking on the heating system, he could hear it hum in all the
rooms of the house. ‘Put a sweater on if you’re cold.’ He started to
laugh, except he knew there was no genuine mirth in it. Even to
him, it sounded more like an angry dog barking. It was funny how,
even with all he had within his grasp, sometimes it felt as if it
trickled through his fingers as if he was clutching at handfuls of
water. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt happy about anything in his
life. What a strange and horrible thought that was. He’d watched
some of the skinnies at school. Most had nothing and often less than
nothing, yet extraordinarily, some still smiled and laughed. How
could they be happy with their ribs sticking out, slowly dying of the
lung disease? Why didn’t he feel happier with everything he could
ever wish for? What, exactly, was happiness?
The seven-o’ clock curfew alarm could be heard from Outside as
it started its laborious wailing, thankfully cushioned by the shield.
Jolted from these thoughts, he was glad it didn’t apply to him. What
must it be like to have your behaviour so controlled that you had to
be home by seven and couldn’t leave your home until six the next
day? Or face being detained indefinitely by the Government and all
the delightful stuff that went with that.
When the buzzer announced the delivery boy, Benny took the
heat control box from him and nodded at the security guard who’d
accompanied the boy. Both had their ID tags prominent, showing
they had permission to still be out.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, Mr Blackwood.’ There was nothing in the man’s
voice, polite and aloof, although Benny heard it all the same.
Jealousy. The security guard knew there was stuff in the box that he
could only dream of. Benny bet he’d never seen an avocado in his
life. Probably would be hard-pressed to remember the flavour of
natural orange. He had the same tired, pasty face that most of the
population had now. Limited foodstuff meant missing vitamins and
often missing teeth. Not that he cared as long as it didn’t impact on
him. He was a breeder, after all.
Shutting the door in the man’s face, he didn’t even bother to
acknowledge the boy. Chilli burrito and all the trimmings. He licked
the tangy, tomato hot sauce from his fingers, his mind clicking
through where he could start to search for whatever his dad had
bought. Might as well look in the obvious place first. His father’s
study. Or more to the point, his safe. Especially as after the funeral,
he’d been pretty upset, and although he’d rifled through everything,
he hadn’t really been sure what he’d been looking at.
The safe had been cunningly concealed behind a painting by
some stupid Spanish artist who couldn’t paint for toffee. Pic-
somebody-or-other. His dad had been gullible. He’d never have trash
such as that on his wall just because some know-it-all told him it
was worth millions. But it had kept the safe hidden from prying eyes
for years. Or rather the false wall had. He’d only discovered it by
having the whole house laser-measured after the funeral to see if
there were any secret areas his father had built into it when it was
constructed. He was, after all, an insanely paranoid man, but he had
his reasons. One of which had killed him. That’s when the safe had
come to light. And that other room that made his head feel as
though it was full of explosive gas. Hell! What had his dad been
into?
The painting of some badly painted blue person was off the wall
in a second, and Benny had the urge to stick his knee through it. He
glanced over to the fireplace, where a portrait of his father was
gazing at him with that stern look he always had, just before he fired
someone. There were many of his father’s old business
acquaintances that had witnessed that look. His father had forced
Benny to stand in the room, facing each man as if he was the
proverbial firing squad with a gun aimed at their shrinking hearts.
What a shitty thing to do.
‘Watch and learn, Benedict,’ his father had told him. ‘Face your
enemy and do what is necessary. Never get anyone else to do your
dirty work. It makes you less of a man.’
Benny leant the painting up against the wall and twiddled with
the lock on the safe. It popped open, and he raked all the contents
out and laid them on the highly polished mahogany floor.
‘What the hell am I looking for?’ Peering back at the portrait,
Benny got the nasty feeling that his dad was actually staring right at
him and was frowning even deeper if that was possible. ‘Come on,
you miserable, old git! What did you buy that’s so secretive they
can’t put their name to it?’
Gathering all the stuff, he slipped past his mother’s room,
ignoring the muffled sobs that only made him want to slap her one.
How many times had he cried as a little kid? Loads. How many times
had she comforted him? Once and then, when his father had
shouted at him to ‘grow up and stop being a mummy’s boy’, she
stopped. His father’s words were law, and he always came first. Was
still coming first.
He stopped, unable to resist shouting: ‘The best thing he ever did
for us in life was to die!’ A shriek came from inside and the sound of
footsteps. Her bedroom door slammed shut.
‘Whatever!’ Did it make him feel better to hurt her? No. All he’d
ever wanted was to be cuddled, to be told he was ‘okay', but that
never happened after his father had spoken.
Inside his room, he again spread everything out on his bed.
Sifting through, light-fingered as a thief, he perused each piece of
paper and each plastic card until, when there were only a couple of
things not identified, he picked up a plastic digi-card.
‘Eazee Life.’ He flipped it over. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’
Hang on, that’s what it’d said on the end of the email, wasn’t it?
Where were the contact details? Oh, come on! How hard did they
want to make this?
Chapter 5
 Ketty - The Blackwood franchise

‘T here ’ s a job going ... if you want one ?’ K etty ’ s mother kept her head
down, scrubbing the soil from the potatoes in the bowl of dirty
water, which had already gone through six stages before this. You
couldn’t waste a drop, or you’d get a hefty fine.
Ketty noticed the streaks of grey that’d appeared as if overnight
in her mother’s long, black hair. Only forty-two but looking sixty. She
knew it was the combined shock of her father’s death that had
caused this and the knowledge that she would never dangle a
grandchild on her knee. They’d been tested and found wanting.
Their genes malformed, invalid. Unable to breed. NONs. She still
wasn’t sure how she felt about it all. She didn’t know if, in another
reality, she’d have bothered with children. Whispers passed on from
mother to daughter, telling of a good education in the before, of
women concentrating on a career, of choosing their life but denied it
now, that made a difference. She had no choice in it and so wanted
it more intensely.
‘That’s great,’ said Ketty, ‘but what’s the catch?’ She dried each
potato on a cloth.
‘How do you know there’s a catch?’
‘You’re not looking at me.’ She cut the potatoes into wedges, skin
on and put them in a pan.
‘Ah! It’s a cleaning job.’
‘I’m fine with that. I’d do anything to bring some cash in for our
family.’
 ‘Even working for Benedict Blackwood’s mother?’
Ketty closed her eyes and counted slowly to five. What were the
odds that of all the jobs to come up, it had to be working for him?
Or at least his family.
‘Even that.’
Would she regret it? Probably but they had to drag in whatever
they could. Her older sister Ayisha worked for their uncle in his
restaurant, enclosed in the great Pod covering the area where
Benedict lived. She was dressed in scanty so-called ethnic clothes to
serve cold beer and hot food to his sweaty handed clients. Ketty
wondered what else she did. What did she do that meant she
brought home a cut of meat or fresh fruit that kept her family from
starving slowly? Did it truly come from the generosity of her uncle as
Ayisha protested? But Ketty noticed that her eyes were always cast
down, as if ashamed.
Chapter 6
 Benny - The death

B enny thought back . T he news of his father ’ s death had sent shock
waves rippling through the community. Maybe others were involved
with his nefarious schemes and felt that death and retribution were
also marching to their door. Benny knew nothing about all that until,
one dreadful day last year, he returned from school on his quad bike
to find a Guardian car pulled up on the drive. It was all still so clear
in his memory, no matter how he tried to erase it.
He remembered pushing into the drawing-room. ‘What’s going
on?’
His mother, a shiny brittleness about her, was sat on the sofa. All
her movements were sharp, and her smile fixed. She indicated the
two officers, a man stood rigidly by the door, and a woman sat in an
armchair, an electronic logbook open on her lap, notations scrawled
over its backlit screen.
‘These nice Guardian officers have come to tell us your father is
dead.’ Still with the slightest trace of an accent, she smoothed her
dress, picking at invisible lint that only she could see. ‘I’ve
enlightened them of their mistake. I mean, of course, they’re wrong.
Your father can’t be dead.’ She stared at Benny, although her dark
eyes were unfocused. ‘Is he? Is he really dead?’ There was an
expression on her face, except Benny couldn’t decipher it.
Benny dropped his school bag with a thunk and turned to the
man. ‘What?’
 ‘I’m sorry, Benedict,’ he said. ‘But we need your mother or
another member of your family to come to the morgue to identify
the body.’
Benny heard the words, ‘the body,’ but it didn’t sink in. He
watched as his mother rose from the sofa in a fluid motion and
poured herself a large glass of sherry from a decanter on a side
table.
‘Would anyone care for one?’ Not waiting for a reply, she drained
the glass, her hands shaking, and then her body started to tremble
violently. A sound, unlike anything Benny had ever heard, poured
from her mouth, an animal whine that got louder and louder until he
wanted to cover his ears. It ended in a shriek, and she crumpled,
the glass bouncing on the floor once before it shattered and facets
of it spun in every direction. Benny made no move to help her. Then
she laughed.
‘I’ll get your mother upstairs,’ said the female officer, ‘and we’ll
call the medics to come and sedate her. It’s an awful shock.’
The man put his meaty hand on Benny’s shoulder. He jumped. ‘Is
there anyone who can come to the morgue?’
‘Uncle George is in Africa. There’s only me.’ The shards of glass
reflected all the colours in the room.
‘How old are you, Benedict?’
‘Sixteen, well, nearly seventeen. My birthday is in a week.’ Happy
birthday to me. He looked up at the officer. ‘Is it true? My dad’s
dead?’ Saying the words out loud made it infinitely worse, made it
seem more real, except it couldn’t be. ‘I saw him this morning before
he went to work. He can’t be dead.’
Benny pulled from the officer and flung the front door open.
What was he expecting? That his dad would be pulling up on the
driveway in his beautiful silver Bentley Mulsanne? Turning to his
mother, being guided towards the stairs, he took a step towards her.
‘Mum?’
She didn’t even see him. He wasn’t there. ‘MUM!’
Not even a twitch. He didn’t exist. Only his father, but he was
gone. How could that be? Wasn’t he one of the most powerful men
in Sovereign England? So how could he be dead? Don’t cry. It’s a
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Milligrams of Chemical per
Liter of Air,
Chemical Intensity of Odor
Quite Very
Detectable Faint Strong
Noticeable Strong
Amyl acetate 0.039 0.053 0.067 0.478 1.326
Ethyl acetate 0.686 1.224 2.219 4.457 6.733
Amyl alcohol 0.225 0.300 0.442 1.581 2.167
Butyric acid 0.009 0.021 0.066 0.329 0.580
Valeric acid 0.029 0.119 0.523 1.394 4.036
Ethyl ether 5.833 10.167 14.944 17.6667 60.600
Butyl 0.018 0.037 0.055 0.120 0.177
mercaptan
Isobutyl 0.008 0.018 0.025 0.041 0.060
mercaptan
Ethyl 0.046 0.088 0.186 0.357 0.501
mercaptan
Propyl 0.006 0.020 0.028 0.043 0.054
mercaptan
Amyl thioether 0.001 0.007 0.0115 0.012 0.015
Ethyl thioether 0.012 0.042 0.107 0.223 0.271
Allyl 0.008 0.012 0.024 0.030 0.201
isothiocyanate
Methyl 0.015 0.039 0.067 0.108 0.144
isothiocyanate
Amyl 0.012 0.018 0.039 0.072 0.082
isovalerate
Carbon 4.533 9.222 10.024 31.333 38.444
tetrachloride
Chloroform 3.300 6.800 12.733 28.833 46.666
[40]
Iodoform 0.018
Artificial musk 0.00004[41]
Nitrobenzene 0.146 0.178 0.222 0.563 1.493
Phenyl 0.002 0.005 0.013 0.042 0.105
isocyanide
 Milligrams of Chemical per
Liter of Air,
Chemical Intensity of Odor
Quite Very
Detectable Faint Strong
Noticeable Strong
Pyridine 0.032 0.146 0.301 2.265 5.710
Methyl 0.100 0.145 0.179
1.526[42]
salicylate
Oil of 0.024 0.032 0.109 0.332 0.348
peppermint

Touch Method. This method consists of dipping a small glass rod drawn to a needle-
like end to the depth of 1 mm. in the compound and then quickly touching the skin. The
method is qualitative only.

Fig. 119.—Skin Irritant Vapor Apparatus.

Use of Solutions. Alcohol, kerosene, olive oil, carbon tetrachloride and other solvents
may be used for the purpose of determining the lowest effective concentration of a
substance, and for the determination of the relative skin irritant efficiencies of various
compounds. Since the skin irritants were scarcely ever used in this form in the field, that
is, in solution, the method is not as satisfactory as the vapor method.
 CHAPTER XXII
CHEMICAL WARFARE IN RELATION TO
STRATEGY AND TACTICS[43]

Fundamentals of War. The underlying fundamental principles of

Chemical Warfare are the same as for all other arms. Because of
this, it is worth while, and even necessary, to understand the
applications of Chemical Warfare, for us to go back and study the
work of the masters in war from the dawn of history down to the
present. When we do that we find that the underlying fundamental
principles of war remain unchanged. They are the same today as
they were in the time of Demosthenes, and as they will be 10,000
years from now. It is an axiom that the basis of success in war is the
ability to have at the decisive point at the decisive moment a more
effective force than that of the enemy. This involves men and
materials. It involves courage, fighting ability, and the discrimination
and energy of the opposing commanders.
Another fundamental is that no success is achieved without
positive action; passive resistance never wins. These are really
unchanging fundamentals. We may also say that the vigor of attack,
the speed of movement of men and supplies, and the thorough
training of men in the use of the weapons of war are unchanging
requirements, but outside of these everything is subject to the
universal law of change.
Grecian Phalanx and Roman Legion. The last word in the
development of human strength as a battle weapon was illustrated
by the Grecian phalanx with its sixteen rows of men, the spears of
each row being so adjusted that all reached to the front line. That
phalanx could not be stopped by any other human formation that met
it face to face. To overcome it required a Roman legion that could
open up and take the phalanx in the flank and rear. In the same way,
the elephants of the Africans and the chariots of the Romans with
their great swords swept all in front of them, until the Roman Legion,
opening up into smaller groups allowed the elephants and chariots to
pass through only to close in on them from the rear. Then and then
only did those engines of war disappear forever.
Frederick the Great. Frederick the Great, realizing that rapidity
of fire would win on the fields of battle where he fought, trained his
men to a precision of movement in close order probably never
achieved by any other troops in the world and then added to their
efficiency by teaching them to load and fire muskets at double the
rate of that of his adversaries. He was thus enabled to concentrate at
the decisive points a preponderance of power, which swept all his
enemies before him.
Napoleon. Napoleon achieved the same decisive power in a
different way. Realizing that his French troops could not stand the
rigorous training that the Prussians underwent, he trained them to
fight with great enthusiasm, to travel long distances with unheard of
swiftness, and to strike the enemy where least expected. He added
to that a concentration of artillery until then not thought of as possible
on the field of battle. He, of course, had also a genius for organizing
and keeping up his supply.
Grant and Jackson. Grant at Vicksburg and Stonewall Jackson
in the Shenandoah Valley and at Chancellorsville, achieved the
same results in different ways. In every case the fundamental
principle of concentrating the greatest force at the decisive point at
the vital moment in the battle remained the same. The methods for
achieving that end change with every age, and every commander of
world-wide renown developed something new or used an old method
in a new way. And that is the fundamental requirement for a
successful general. Hannibal, Hasdrubal, Cæsar, Napoleon,
Frederick the Great, Scott, Grant, and Jackson were all independent
thinkers. Each and every one dared to do something that every other
general and statesman of his time told him could not be done or that
would bring about disaster. They had the courage of their
convictions. They had the courage to think out new ideas and to
develop them, and then they had the courage to carry through those
convictions, not alone against the opposition of the enemy, but
against the opposition of their own people, both in the field and at
home. And we may be perfectly sure that in each case had these
men not done the things they did, they would have gone down to
oblivion just as has been the case with millions of others who tried
the usual methods in the usual way.
Chemical Warfare Latest Development. Chemical Warfare is
the latest development of war. So far as the United States is
concerned, it is considerably less than four years old. It is the most
scientific of all methods of fighting and also the most universally
applicable to all other methods of making war. The use of poisonous
and irritating gases in war is just as fundamental as the introduction
of gunpowder. In fact, they have an even wider application to war
than powder itself.
Necessity for New Methods. The idea that has been expressed
above is that the General Staff and the Army commander who sticks
to old and tried methods and who is unwilling to try with all his might
new developments, will never achieve any first class success. The
General Staffs and the generals of the future that win wars will be
the ones who make the most vigorous and efficient use of Chemical
Warfare materials. They cannot confine this use to the artillery, to
Aviation, to Special Gas Troops, or to any other single branch of the
war machine. They must make use of it in every way.
What Is Meant by Gas. It must be understood that by gases we
refer to materials that injure by being carried to the victim in the air.
The word “gas” has nothing whatever to do with the condition of the
material when in the shell, or the bombs, or the cylinders before
released. In every case, the gases are liquids or solids. When the
containers are broken open the liquids are volatilized either by the
gas pressure or by the force of the explosion of the bomb.
Groups of Gases. Chemical Warfare gases are divided into
three great groups. So far as their actual tactical use on the field of
battle is concerned, there are only two groups—persistent and non-
persistent. The third is the irritant group. This group affects the eyes
and the lungs so as to make the victim very uncomfortable if not
completely incapable of action in quantities so small as to cause no
injury that lasts more than a few hours. The quantities of such gases
needed to force the wearing of the mask is ¹/₁₀₀₀ that needed to
cause the same discomfort by the really poisonous gases, such as
phosgene. They, therefore, have a very great economic value in
harassing the enemy by forcing him to wear masks and to take other
precautions against gas. And no matter how perfect gas masks and
gas-proof clothing become, their long-continued use will cut down
physical vigor in an ever increasing ratio until in two or three days an
army may be totally incapacitated.
Smoke. In Chemical Warfare materials we have another great
group which will probably be equal in the future to the three groups
just mentioned. That is common smoke. Smoke has a variety of
uses. By the simple term “smoke” is meant smokes that are not
poisonous or irritating. Such smokes offer a perfect screen against
enemy vision, whether it is the man who sights the machine gun, the
observer in the lookout station, the cannoneer or even the aeroplane
observer. Every shot through impenetrable smoke is a shot in the
dark and has a tenth or even less chance of hitting its mark. Smoke
affords a means of decreasing the accuracy of firing, much the same
as night decreases it, without the inherent difficulties of night action.
Peace Strategy. The strategy of successful war involves the
strategy of peace. This has been true from the days when David with
his sling-shot slew Goliath, down to the present moment. We don’t
always think of it in connection with war, but back of every successful
war has been preparation during peace. It may have been incidental
preparation such as the training of men in fighting Indians, and in
creating public sentiment favorable to an independent nation that
preceded the Revolutionary War. It may, on the other hand, have
been a deeply studied policy such as that of the Germans prior to the
World War. They tried and generally quite successfully, to coördinate
all peace activities toward the day when a war should come that
would decide the future destiny of the German Empire, and it was
only because of that study in peace that Germany almost single-
handed was able to stand out for more than four years against the
world. The Allies came near losing that war because they did not
appreciate that the strategy of efficient war had to be preceded by
the strategy of peace.
Chemical Warfare an Example. Chemical warfare is a
particularly good example of this fact. Prior to the World War we had
acknowledged, and without any misgivings, that Germany led the
world in chemistry, that it produced most of the dyes in the world,
and to a large extent the medicines of the world. We felt that when
American needs showed it to be advisable we could take up
chemistry and chemical production and soon excel the Germans. We
had not reckoned on the suddenness of war.
We were just getting ready with chemicals, and that included
powders and high explosives, when the war closed. And yet we had
had not only eighteen months’ intensive preparation after our own
entry into the World War, but also the preparation of great steel
institutions and powder factories for nearly three years in
manufacturing supplies for the Allies who preceded us in the war.
Coal Tar. The World War opened the eyes of England, France
and Japan as well as the United States. Each of them today is
struggling to build up a great chemical industry as the very
foundation of successful war. Few of us realized prior to the World
War that in the black, sticky mess called coal tar from the coking of
coal or the manufacture of gas from coal and oil, was stored up most
of the high explosives used in war, the majority of the poison gases,
a great deal of the medicines of the world, and nearly all the dyes of
the world. The Germans realized it and in their control over methods
of using this material, together with the great commercial plants
developed to manufacture it, as well as with the trained personnel
that must go with such plants, were enabled, when blockaded on
land and sea, to furnish the munitions, the clothing and the food
needed for four and one-half years of war.
Great Chemical Industries. Thus it is that our Government
today is giving most serious heed to the need of building up a great
chemical industry in the United States. We have the raw materials.
We need only the factories and the trained men that go with them.
We need, of course, in addition to the development of the coal tar
industry, a production of heavy chemicals such as chlorine, sulfuric
acid and the like, all of which, however, are bound together by
community interest in peace as well as in war.
Reserves of Chemists. A part of the strategy of peace is the
card-indexing of the manpower of a nation divided into special
groups. In one great group must come those who have a knowledge
of chemistry and the chemical industries. That must be so worked
out that if war should come on a moment’s notice, within twenty-four
hours thereafter every chemist could be given his job, jobs extending
from the firing line to the research laboratory. And that is the task of
the Chemical Warfare Service. And right here it is well to know that
Congress, among the other features of its Army Reorganization Act
of June 4, 1920, provided for a separate Chemical Warfare Service
with these powers:

Chemical Warfare Powers

The Chief of the Chemical Warfare Service
under the authority of the Secretary of War shall be
charged with the investigation, development,
manufacture, or procurement and supply to the
Army of all smoke and incendiary materials, all toxic
gases, and all gas defense appliances; the
research, design, and experimentation connected
with chemical warfare and its material; and chemical
projectile filling plants and proving grounds; the
supervision of the training of the Army in chemical
warfare, both offensive and defensive, including the
necessary schools of instruction; the organization,
equipment, training, and operation of special gas
troops, and such other duties as the President may
from time to time prescribe.
Why Power Is Needed. These rather broad powers indicate that
Congress realized the unity of effort that must be made from the
research laboratory to the firing line if America was to keep pace with
Germany or any other nation in chemical warfare. Some have raised
the question as to whether a service should be both supply and
combat. Perhaps the best answer to that question is that so
organized Chemical Warfare was a success in the World War. It was
a success notwithstanding it had to be developed in the field six
months after our entry into the war and with no precedents, no
materials, no literature and no personnel. Through its officers on the
staffs of commanding generals of armies, corps and divisions, and
through its fighting gas troops in the front line, it was enabled to
direct its research, development and manufacture more quickly
along lines shown to be necessary by every change in battle
conditions, than any other service.
Chemical Warfare Troops. And why should there not be fighting
Chemical Warfare troops? They fight under exactly the same orders
as all other troops. They conform to the same general plan of battle.
They bring, however, to that battle experts in a line that it takes a
long time to master. And where has there been any live commander
in the world’s history who refused aid from any class of troops that
might help him win?
Specialists in War. The wars of the future will become more and
more wars of the specialists. Your Infantry may remain the backbone
of the fighting force, but if it has not the Artillery, the Aviation, the
Chemical Warfare, the Engineers, the tanks and other specialists to
back it up, it will be overcome by the army which has such
specialists. Indeed the specialist goes into the very organization of
the Infantry itself with its machine gun battalions, its tank battalions,
and as now proposed, the Infantry light howitzer companies.
Duties of Chemical Warfare Staff Officers. The Chemical
Warfare officers on the staff of armies, corps and divisions are there
for the purpose of giving expert advice as to the quantities of
chemical materials available, the best conditions for using them, and
the best way of avoiding the effects of enemy gas upon our own
troops. The conditions that must be kept in mind are so many that no
other officer can be expected to master and keep them if he does his
own work well. The general staff officers and commanding generals
will not have the time to even try to remember the actual effects of
clouds, wind, rain, trees, valleys, villages and plains upon each and
every gas. They must depend upon the Chemical Warfare officer for
accurate information along those lines, and if he cannot furnish it
they will have to secure some one who can. The history of war is
filled with the names of generals who failed because they could not
forget how to command a company. These Chemical Warfare
officers will also furnish all data as to supply of chemical warfare
materials, and will furnish the best information along lines of training,
whether for defensive or offensive use of gas.
Gas Used by all Arms. As before stated, we cannot confine the
use of gas to any one arm. We may then ask why, if it is applicable to
all arms, it should need special gas troops. Special gas troops are
for the purpose of putting off great quantities of chemical warfare
materials by special methods that are not applicable to any other
branch now organized or that any other branch has the time to
master. Long-range firing of gas by the artillery can be done just as
well by the artillery as by gas troops. Why? Because in the
mechanics of firing chemical ammunition there is no difference
whatever from the mechanics of firing high explosives or shrapnel.
The same will be true of gas rifle grenades and smoke candles in
use by the Infantry. The same will be true of the dropping of gas
bombs and the sprinkling of gas by the aeroplanes. In this
connection just remember that all of the army is trained in first aid,
but in addition we have our ambulance companies, our hospitals,
and our trained medical personnel.
Arguments Against Use of Gas. It has been many times
suggested since the Armistice that the use of poisonous gas in war
may be done away with by agreement among nations. The
arguments against the use of gas are that it is inhumane and that it
might be used against non-combatants, especially women and
children. The inhumanity of it is absolutely disproven by the results of
its use in the World War. The death rate from gas alone was less
than one-twelfth that from bullets, high explosives and other methods
of warfare. The disability rate for gas patients discharged was only
about one-fourth that for the wounded discharged for other causes.
The permanently injured is likewise apparently very much less than
from other causes.
 Humanity. No reliable statistics that we can get show that gas in
any way causes tuberculosis any more than a severe attack of
bronchitis or pneumonia causes tuberculosis. Since its principal
effects are upon the lungs and, therefore, hidden from sight, every
impostor is beginning to claim gassing as the reason for his wanting
War Risk benefits from the Government. We do not claim there may
not be some who are suffering permanent injuries from gas, and we
are trying very hard to find out from the manufacturers of poisonous
gases and allied chemicals if they have any authentic records of
such cases. So far the results indicate that permanent after-effects
are very rare.
As to non-combatants, certainly we do not contemplate using
poisonous gas against them, no more at least than we propose to
use high explosives in long-range guns or aeroplanes against them.
The use of the one against non-combatants is just as damnable as
the other and it is just as easy to refrain from using one as the other.
Gas Cannot be Abolished. As to the abandonment of poison
gas, it must be remembered that no powerful weapon of war has
ever been abandoned once it proved its power unless a more
powerful weapon was discovered. Poisonous gas in the World War
proved to be one of the most powerful of all weapons of war. For that
reason alone it will never be abandoned. It cannot be stopped by
agreement, because if you can stop the use of any one powerful
weapon of war by agreement you can stop all war by agreement. To
prepare to use it only in case it is used against you is on the same
plane as an order that was once upon a time issued to troops in the
Philippine Islands. That order stated in substance that no officer or
soldier should shoot a savage Moro, even were he approaching the
said officer or soldier with drawn kriss (sword), unless actually first
struck by such savage. Every officer preferred, if necessary, to face a
court-martial for disobedience of such an order rather than allow a
savage Moro with a drawn kriss to get anywhere near, let alone wait
until actually struck.
Let the world know that we propose to use gas against all troops
that may be engaged against us, and that we propose to use it to the
fullest extent of our ability. We believe that such a proposition will do
more to head off war than all the peace propaganda since time
began. It has been said that we should not use gas against those not
equipped with gas. Then why did we use repeating rifles and
machine guns against Negritos and Moros armed only with bows
and arrows or poor muskets and knives. Let us apply the same
common sense to the use of gas that we apply to all other weapons
of war.
Effect on World War Tactics. A very brief study of the effects of
chemical warfare materials on the strategy of the World War will
indicate its future. It began with clouds of chlorine let loose from
heavy cylinders buried under the firing trench. These took a long
time to install and then a wait, sometimes long, sometimes brief, for
a favorable wind, but even at that these cloud gas attacks created a
new method of fighting and forced new methods of protection. Gas
at once added a tremendous burden to supply in the field, to
manufacture, and to transportation, and in a short time even made
some decided changes in the tactics of the battle field itself.
Cloud Gas. The fact that the gas cloud looked like smoke is
responsible for the name “cloud gas.” Really all gases are nearly or
wholly invisible, but those which volatilize suddenly from the liquid
state so cool the air as to cause clouds of condensed water vapor.
The cloud obscured everything behind and in front of it. It led the
German to put off fake smoke clouds and attack through them, thus
taking the British at a tremendous disadvantage. Then and there
began a realization of the value of smoke. Cloud gas was also the
real cause of the highly organized raid that became common in
every army during the World War. The real purpose in the first raids,
carried out by means of the box barrage, was to find out whether or
not gas cylinders were being installed in trenches.
These raids finally became responsible, in a large measure, for
driving the old cloud gas off the field of battle. It did not, however,
stop the British from putting off cloud gas attacks in 1918 by
installing their gas cylinders on their light railway cars and then
letting the gas loose from the cylinders while still on the cars. This
enabled them to move their materials to the front and put off gas
attacks on a few hours’ notice when the wind was right.
 Toxic Smoke Candles. To-day we have poisonous smokes that
exist in solid form and that are perfectly safe to handle until a fuse is
lighted. The so-called candles will be light enough so that one man
can carry them. With these, cloud gas can be put off on an hour’s
notice when wind and weather conditions are right, no matter how
fast the army may be moving and whether on the advance or in
retreat. Cloud gas will usually be put off at night because the cloud
cannot be seen, because then men are tired and sleepy, and all but
the most highly trained become panicky. Under those conditions the
greatest casualties result. The steadiness of wind currents also aids
cloud gas attacks at night.
Value of Training in Peace. And this brings up the value of
training in peace. We are frequently asked, “Why do you need
training with masks in peace; why do you need training with actual
gas in peace; cannot these things be taught on short notice in war?”
The answer is, “No!” Nothing will take the place of training in peace.
All of us recall that early in the war the Germans spread
broadcast charges that the Allies were using unfair and inhumane
methods of fighting because they brought the Ghurka with his terrible
knife from Asia and the Moroccan from Africa. And we all know that
after a time the Germans ceased saying anything about these
troops. What was the cause? They were not efficient. Just as the
Negro will follow a white officer over the top in daylight and fight with
as much energy and courage and many times as much efficiency as
the white man, he cannot stand the terrors of the night, and the
same was true of the Ghurka and the Moroccan.
All the Allies soon recognized that fact as shown by their drawing
those troops almost entirely away from the fighting lines. In some
cases dark-skinned troops were kept only as shock troops to be
replaced by the more highly developed Caucasian when the line had
to be held for days under the deadly fire of the counter attack. The
German idea, and our own idea prior to the World War, was that
semi-savages could stand the rigors and terrors of war better than
the highly sensitive white man. War proved that to be utterly false.
 Familiarity with Gas Necessary. The same training that makes
for advancement in science, and success in manufacture in peace,
gives the control of the body that holds the white man to the firing
line no matter what its terrors. A great deal of this comes because
the white man has had trained out of him nearly all superstition. He
has had drilled into him for hundreds of years that powder and high
explosive can do certain things and no more. If the soldier is not to
be afraid of gas we must give him an equal knowledge of it, its
dangers, and its limitations. The old adage says, “Familiarity breeds
contempt.” Perhaps that is not quite true, but we all know that it
breeds callousness and forgetfulness; that the man manufacturing
dynamite or other more dangerous explosives takes chances that we
who do not engage in such manufacture shudder at.
Edgewood Chemists Not Afraid. All of this has direct
application to training with chemical warfare materials in peace. We
believe that all opposition to chemical warfare today can be divided
into two classes—those who do not understand it and those who are
afraid of it—ignorance and cowardice. Our chemists at Edgewood
Arsenal are every day toying with the most powerful chemical
compounds; toying with mixtures they know nothing of, not knowing
what instant they may induce an explosion of some fearful poisonous
gas. But they have learned how to protect themselves. They have
learned that if they stop breathing and get out of that place and on
the windward side they are safe. They have been at that work long
enough to do that automatically.
Staff Officers Must Think of Gas in Every Problem. The staff
officer must train the army man in peace with all chemical warfare
materials or he will lose his head in war and become a casualty. The
general staff officers and commanding generals must so familiarize
themselves with these gases and their general use that they will
think them in all their problems just exactly as they think of the
Infantry, or of the Cavalry, or of the tanks or of the Artillery in every
problem. On them rests the responsibility that these gases are used
properly in battle. If plans before the battle do not include these
materials for every arm and in the proper quantities of the proper
kinds they will not be used properly on the field of battle and on them
will rest the responsibility.
They are not expected to know all the details of gases and their
uses, but they will be expected to consider the use of gas in every
phase of preparing plans and orders and then to appeal to the
chemical warfare officers for the details that will enable them to use
the proper gases and the proper quantities. They cannot go into
those details any more than they can go into the details of each
company of infantry. If they try to do that they are a failure as staff
officers.
Effect of Masks on Troops. The very best of masks cause a
little decrease in vision, a little increase in breathing resistance, and
a little added discomfort in warm weather, and hence the soldier
must learn to use them under all conditions. But above all in the
future he must be so accustomed to the use of the mask that he will
put it on automatically—almost in his sleep as it were. We have tear
gases, today, so powerful and so sudden in their action that it is
doubtful if one man out of five who has had only a little training can
get his mask on if subject to the tear gas alone—that is, with tear gas
striking him with full force before he is aware of it.
Effectiveness of Gas in World War. In the past war more than
27 out of every 100 Americans killed and wounded suffered from gas
alone. You may say that many of the wounds were light. That is true;
but those men were put out of the battle line for from one to four
months—divisions, corps and armies almost broken up—and yet the
use of gas in that war was a child’s game compared to what it will be
in the future.
It is even said that many of them were malingerers. Perhaps they
were, but do you not suppose that there were at least as many
malingerers among the enemy as there were in our own ranks?
Furthermore, if you can induce malingering it is a proper method of
waging war, and unless our boasted ability is all a myth we should
have fewer malingerers under conditions of battle than any other
nation.
 Strategy of Gas at Picardy Plains. Let us go back now to the
strategy of gas in war. Following the cloud gas came tear gases and
poisonous gases in shells and bombs. A little advance in tactics here
and a little there, the idea, though, in the early days being only to
produce casualties. As usual the Germans awoke first to the fact that
gas might be used strategically and on a large scale. And thus we
find that ten days before he began the battle of Picardy Plains he
deluged many sections of the front with mustard gas. He secured
casualties by the thousands, but he secured something of greater
importance. He wore out the physical vigor and lowered the morale
of division after division, thus paving the way for the break in the
British Army which almost let him through to the sea.
He used non-persistent gases up to the very moment when his
own men reached the British lines, thereby reducing the efficiency of
British rifle and artillery fire and saving his own men. And this is just
a guide to the future. A recent writer in the Field Artillery Journal
states that gas will probably not be used in the barrage because of
its probable interference with the movement of our own troops. In
making that statement he forgot the enemy and you cannot do that if
you expect to win a war.
Gas in Barrages. In the future we must expect the enemy to be
in a measure as well prepared in chemical warfare as we are. Let us
consider the special case of our own men advancing to the attack
behind a rolling barrage. We will consider also that the wind is
blowing toward our own troops. Obviously under those conditions the
wind will blow our own gas back onto our troops. Will we use gas in
that barrage? We certainly will! Because with the wind blowing
toward our own troops we have the exact ideal condition that the
enemy wants for his use of gas. He will then be deluging our
advancing troops with all the gas he can fire, in addition to high
explosives and shrapnel. Our men must wear masks and take every
precaution against enemy gas. How foolish it would be not to fire gas
at the enemy under those conditions. If we did not fire gas we would
leave him entirely free from wearing masks, and entirely free from
taking every other precaution against gas while our own troops were
subject to all the difficulties of gas. No, we will fire gas at him in just
as great quantities as we consider efficient. And that is just a sample
of what is coming on every field of battle—gas used on both sides by
every method of putting it over that can be devised.
World War Lessons Only Guide Posts. Example of Book
Worms. Every lesson taught by the World War must be taken as a
guide-post on the road to future success in war. No use of gas or
other materials in the past war must be taken as an exact pattern for
use in any battle of the future. Too much study, too much attention to
the past, may cause that very thing to happen. A certain general
commanding a brigade in the Argonne told me just recently that
while the battle was going on a general staff officer called him on the
telephone and asked him what the situation was. He gave it to him.
The staff officer then asked, “What are you doing?” and he told him.
The staff officer replied, “Why, the book doesn’t say to do it that way
under such conditions.” There you have the absurd side of too much
study and too close reliance on details of the past.
The battle field is a perfect kaleidoscope. The best we can hope
to get out of books is a guide—something that we will keep in our
minds to help us decide the best way to meet certain situations. He
who tries to remember a particular position taught in his school with
the idea of applying that to actual use in battle is laying the
foundation for absolute failure. Your expert rifleman never thinks
back when he goes to fire a shot as to just what his instructor told
him or what the book said. He just concentrates his mind on the
object to be attained, using so far as comes to him facts he has
learned from books or teachers. Your general and your staff must do
the same.
Infantry Use of Gas. A few words about how we will use gas in
the future. We will start with the Infantry. The Infantry as such will
use gas in only two or three ways. They will use some gas in rifle
grenades, and a great deal more smoke. We speak of the rifle
grenade because in our opinion the hand grenade is a thing of the
past. We do not believe there will ever be used in the future any
grenade that is not applicable to the rifle. The Infantry will probably
often carry large quantities of gas in the shape of the toxic smoke
candle. These materials being solids may be shot up by rifles or
artillery fire, run over by trucks or tractors, or trampled and still be
harmless. It is only when the fuses are lighted and the material
driven off by heat that they are dangerous. In using these candles
under these conditions you must have sufficient chemical warfare
officers and soldiers to get the necessary control indicated by the
sun, wind, woods, fogs, ravines and the like.
Cavalry Use of Gas. Next consider the Cavalry. The Cavalry will
use gas practically the same as the Infantry. The chemical warfare
troops will accompany the Cavalry with Stokes’ mortars or other
materials to fire gases into small enemy strongholds that may be
encountered whether machine gun nests, mountain tops, woods or
villages. They will do this either against savages or civilized people.
Methods of making these materials mobile for that purpose are
already well under way. If against savages and one does not want to
kill them, use tear gases—no better method of searching out hidden
snipers in mountain tops, among rocks, or villages, in ravines, or in
forests was ever invented.
Use of Gas by Tanks. The tanks will employ gas in the same
way as the Infantry with the possibility, however, that they may be
used to carry large quantities of gas on caterpillar tractors where
otherwise it would be difficult to move the gas. This is not a certainty,
but is a situation promising enough to warrant further study.
Artillery Use of Gas. Your Artillery will fire gas and smoke in
every caliber of gun. There is a tendency now to limit gas to certain
guns and howitzers and to limit smoke to even a smaller number of
guns. This is a mistake that we are going to recognize. A very careful
study of the records of the war show that more casualties were
produced several times over by a thousand gas shells than by a
thousand high explosive or shrapnel. And that is because gas has an
inherent permanence that no other weapon of war has.
Permanency of Gas. The bullet whistles through the air and
does its work or misses. The high explosive shell bursts, hurling its
fragments that in a few seconds settle to earth, and its work is done.
The shrapnel acts in the same way, but when one turns loose a shell
of gas it will kill and injure the same as the high explosive shell and
in the same length of time and in addition for some minutes
thereafter. Even with the non-persistent gases, it will continue on its
way, causing death or injury to every unprotected animal, man or
beast in its path. With the persistent gases, the materials from each
shell may persist for days.
Variety of Uses of Gas. This brings up the point of the great
variety of uses to which gas can be put. The non-persistent gas may
be used at all times where one wants to get rid of it in a few
moments—the persistent gas wherever one wants to keep the
enemy under gas for days at a time. We will use mustard gas on
strong points in the advance, on flanks, on distant areas one will not
expect to be reached, and as our own protection of masks and
clothing increases toward perfection we will use it on the very fields
you expect to cross. Why? Because we will be firing it at the enemy
for days before hand and we will cause him trouble all those days
while we ourselves will encounter it for a few hours at the most. So
do not think that mustard gas is only going to be used in defense in
the future.
Solid Mustard Gas and Long-Range Guns. We will come to
use chemical warfare materials just as high explosives and bullets
are used today, even though at times we do suffer an occasional
loss from our own weapons. Our Artillery in long-range guns where
we want destruction will fill each shell with say 15 per cent gas and
85 per cent high explosive. We have a solid mustard gas that may
be so used. We have tremendously powerful tear gases and irritating
gases that may be so used. Being solids they do not affect the
ballistic qualities of the shell. And what an added danger will mustard
gas from every shell bring against railroad centers, rest villages,
cantonments, cross-roads and the like. The results will be too great
for any force to overlook such use.
Tear Gases in Shrapnel. We will probably use tear gas in most,
if not all, of our shrapnel. The general idea now is that we should not
put tear gas in all shrapnel because under certain conditions it will be
blown back and harass our own troops. But as was said before, we
must remember that the enemy will be using gas at all times as well
as ourselves, and hence if we limit ourselves in any line we give the
enemy an advantage. This use of gas by the Artillery will extend to
all classes of guns—seacoast, field, turret and what not.
Use of Gas by Air Service. Bombs. Let us next consider the Air
Service. We naturally think of dropping gas in bombs when we speak
of the use of gas by the Air Service. Gas will so be used and it will be
used in bombs of perhaps a thousand pounds or even a ton in
weight, at least 50 per cent of which will be gas. Such gases,
however, will be of the non-persistent type—phosgene or similar
ones. They will be used against concentration camps and cross-
roads, on troops on the road in columns; against railroad centers and
rest areas; in other words, against groups of men or animals.
Sprinkling. But that is not even the beginning of the use of gas by
aeroplanes. Mustard gas, which is one-third again as heavy as
water, and which volatilizes far slower than water, may be sprinkled
through a small opening such as a bung hole in a tank that simply
lets liquid float out. The speed of the aeroplane will atomize it. In this
way, gas can be sprinkled over whole areas that must be crossed in
battle. The Lewisite, of which we have heard considerable, will be
used. It is less persistent than the mustard gas, but like mustard gas
it produces casualties by burning. Unlike mustard gas, however, the
burns from a quantity equal to three drops will usually cause death.
The material can be made up by hundreds, even thousands, of tons
per month.
We are working on clothing that will keep it out just as we have
been and are working on clothing that will protect against mustard
gas. But these gases are so powerful that if any opening be left in
the clothing the gas will get through, so that even if we get clothing
that will protect, it must cover every inch of the skin from head to
foot. Besides the mask must be worn at all times.
Consider the burden put on any army in the field that would have
to continually wear such complete protection. What a strain on the
mentality of the men! As before said, to endure it at all we must train
our men to think of such conditions, to face them in peace, and in
order to do so we must actually use gas. Just as in the World War
the highly trained Caucasian outdistanced the savage in endurance,