Taslin Pollock
Ping. Atlas Abdulla was rudely awakened, his vitals flashing on his retina. His head pounded as he wiped the sweat off his brow. He waited for the orange flashing in his vision to subside. Another day—the same nightmare. Excruciating pain. His body lying broken in an alley. A woman’s hands pressing down on his chest. A woman with piercing mahogany eyes. Lips the colour of a dark cherry. A different face than that belonging to the woman with rose gold hair in his bed tonight. Atlas’ hand snaked out, running along the contours of her body.
Another ping. The edge of his mouth tugged upwards as his vitals flashed pink.
“Your time’s up, Mister. I’ve got another service user lined up in Zone five,” the woman purred as she slipped out of the satin sheets and stretched, before reaching slowly for her navy parka. “Coin or digital will do.”
The women let Atlas feast on her nakedness, playing the game well. A younger Atlas would have believed her, tried to charm her, eventually convincing her to stay another hour by offering her more coin than he could well afford. With a few more years of experience, Atlas knew simply to call her bluff, negotiate a much more reasonable offer. But he wasn’t playing today. His attention was elsewhere—on a more serious game.
Atlas pulled himself up, leaning against the headboard as he reached past the collection of cobalt pills on the bedside table for coin. When his search proved fruitless, he raised his index finger to his temple. Tapping once, he changed the display on the temporal link. He scanned the tally for available funds before swiftly pressing his fingerprint to his temple, authorising the transaction. A flutter of pings this time.
The woman bit her lip as she tied a belt around her waist, pulling it taut. “If you get a second, leaving feedback is good for business,” she said, her lips parting invitingly. With a final flick of her hair, she turned, pausing briefly at the bedroom door. One more chance. Atlas remained silent. The apartment door slammed a little harder than necessary.
“How was the service we provided today?” the programmed Scottish voice of his temporal device prompted.
Atlas used his eyes to slide the notification aside as his head continued to ache. He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes before reaching blindly for one of the blister packs. Cobalt-coloured pills lined up in rows on one side and the Medvian logo on the underside. Atlas traced a finger over the tablets. A desire to rid himself of his headache by returning once more to a peaceful slumber, sorely tempting. Atlas kissed his teeth, before placing the pack back with the others. The longer he’d gone without them, the more he was convinced that his nightmares were something much worse. Memories he had no recollection of.
Ping. Ping. A whammy of calendar notifications bombarded him. His monthly dinner with his Ma was scheduled tonight at 7 p.m. His lunchtime meeting with a new herb supplier for the diner now clashed with his annual check-up at Medvian. Atlas quickly recorded a voice note delegating the work meeting to his second, Eshan. Then spent a little longer crafting a coded message to an old associate. Finally, he added a stop to the schedule of the driverless vehicle route to Medvian. When prompted for a priority for the additional stop—he selected “urgent”.
Atlas strode over to the screen in front of the tinted glass cubicle on the other side of the room. He ran a hand over his stubble as he made all his selections with little fanfare: a short shower, soap, no shave, hair pulled back into a side parting, sunglasses, and a dark kurta to match his mood.
***
The vehicle came to a soft halt outside the entrance to the underground emporium in the seedy heart of Zone 4. As soon as Atlas slid up the car door and stepped onto the conveyor belt into the arena, his senses were bombarded with holographic displays advertising exotic and illegal goods. From organic rhubarb to genetically replicated extinct species, this was the place to find it. The prices flashed on his temporal device, requesting only payment. This place was where he had slunk to after dropping out of college. Where Atlas had learnt his trade. Although marginally more respectable now, the stench of this place was seeped into the fibre of his very being. It was like coming home.
Atlas scanned the vendors and knew to seek that which was hidden in plain sight. In the centre, one stall was busier than the rest. Innocuous fruit covered the table. Nothing exotic, unusual or illegal. Atlas put on his glasses, disabled his temporal device and squinted through his old eyes. It took him longer than he’s have liked before the glimmer faded. An optical illusion and a good one at that. With the curtain pulled back, all manner of illegal items decorated the table vying for new homes. Cages of creatures long forgotten sat side by side with the latest technological prototypes. Atlas went over and the old blind man who stood behind the stall, shooed his other customers away with a growl.
“Irfan,” Atlas said, offering the man his hand. The warm tones in his voice, a strange sound to his own ears.
“You have gotten slower, my old friend,” Irfan observed, reaching for the package beneath his chair and handing it to Atlas. “Consider my debt paid.”
Atlas nodded solemnly as his thoughts returned to that fateful night when the Lyceum’s wardens strode into the arena under crackdown orders. The same night Irfan lost his sight. Atlas had come to his aid, only to be left broken and battered for his troubles. After the wardens moved on, Atlas made his way towards the back door out of the emporium. A trail of blood in his wake. After that, the memory fades to black—as always.
“That night, afterwards. What happened?” Atlas asked, his vitals detecting a spike in his heart rate.
“I hid,” Irfan said, pausing, guilt washing over him. “The wardens took the living. Medvian came later. For the dead.”
Atlas sighed and looked down, busying himself. He unwrapped the fabric covering. Two devices. One round, one thin. If caught, the penalty for possessing the round one would be ruinous financially. Sinking the logistics business he’d spent years crafting. Being caught with the other would be swifter than ruinous, it would be terminal. The death penalty.
“I’ll take this as well,” Atlas said, picking up an aubergine. He was about to tap on his temporal device to pay but Irfan shook his head.
“Leave no footprint,” Irfan advised.
Atlas pocketed his items, leaving the way he came. Knowing that the blind man had not been fooled. He’d seen the truth of what Atlas really was.
***
Atlas looked up when his name was called. Dr Trewartha stood over in the corner of the waiting room, his forced smile displayed as a grimace. He tugged impatiently on the collar of his Medvian embossed lab coat while he waited for someone in the crowded room to stand and reveal themselves.
Atlas reached into his pocket, his hand clasping around the round device and gave it a quarter turn before standing. Dr Trewartha turned on his heel and headed to his office. Atlas dropped the device into the bin as he passed. He closed the door of the examination room behind him.
His annual check-ups had become so routine over the years that it was like a well-choreographed dance. Atlas needed only to confirm his name, stand in the medical scanner for five minutes before he received his new batch of cobalt pills. Dr Trewartha stared at the screen in front of him for a moment.
“Can you confirm your name?” Dr Trewartha began.
“Atlas Abdulla.”
“Can you stand in the scanner for me?” Dr Trewartha said, not even looking up.
Atlas concentrated on his breathing as he walked into the Perspex cubicle and counted. He had yet to reach fifty before the sound of mini explosions rocked the building.
“Stay here,” Dr Trewartha instructed, leaving the room.
Atlas exited the scanner as soon as the door closed. He took out the other device and held it next to the screen. Acting as a creature with a voracious appetite, the device would consume the open file and then every other until the entire Medvian database was emptied. Atlas held the device steady until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He retraced his steps and stood in the scanner when Dr Trewartha walked back in and sat back down. The doctor’s look of confusion exacerbated as he stared at the now blank screen.
“You might as well go. A firecracker device was set off in the waiting room and it must have shorted the power. The whole system is down. The Lyceum wardens are on their way. We will need to reschedule, I’m afraid. Mr?”
“Abdulla,” Atlas reminded him, leaving before the wardens arrived.
***
Atlas had been hunched over his desk for hours. It was all there in his file. His worst fears confirmed. He played the audio file for the twentieth time.
“Subject 3921. Found in the alley outside the Emporium after the crackdown raids of illegal activity in Zone 4. Administered CPR, but I pronounced the subject dead. Given his age, he was considered a good candidate for the Medvian regeneration programme. Consent was not required as the subject was deceased. His body was replicated, and his memories were transferred over to the synthetic brain tissue. After failed trials, a daily dose of the C-06 needs to be administered to keep last memories defunct and prevent rejection. Subject 3921 will be released back into society, financially compensated and monitored annually.”
Atlas knew the woman speaking had lips the colour of a dark cherry. He selected a video file to play. Dated a few years before the Crackdown raids, the camera pans on lifeless bodies, wrists bleeding.
“Suicide is highly probable among the majority of subjects whose memories of their final moments remain and become aware of the procedure,” a voice explains.
Atlas’ elevated vitals began flashing on his retina as he processed the truth about who he had become. Why he had felt like a stranger to himself. Why he kept everyone, especially his family, at arm’s length. Atlas’ vitals flashed red as he stood up and went to the kitchen. Ignoring the aubergine lying discarded on a chopping board on the kitchen counter, he selected the knife with the sharpest blade, before his eyes feasted on the open cookbook. His family’s recipes. The many ones he had yet to make. He reached for the aubergine and began to chop.
***
Atlas switched languages on his temporal device before he opened the door.
“Smells like curry,” his Ma said, in her native Gujarati as she entered. Her perfume filled the space with lemongrass and cinnamon. She closed the door behind her.
“Aubergine,” Atlas replied in English, smiling with his eyes as he reached down to kiss her cheek.
“That’s a hard one to get right. Where did you get aubergine from? You aren’t doing anything to attract the wardens’ attention, are you?” She waggled her finger at him.
“The aubergine was a gift from an old friend,” Atlas admitted, holding up his hands. Ma gave him her coat.
She gazed up at him, pulling her eyebrows together, as if seeing him for the first time “You look tired. You haven’t shaved. Whatever is worrying you, you can tell me anything.”
“Work has been busy,” Atlas attempted his lie in his native tongue. “Let’s eat, before it gets cold,” he said in English as he hung up her coat.
“I can speak to your Bapa. He can give you some money so you can take a break,” his Ma insisted in melodic Gujarati as she went and sat at the dining table. But Atlas was already shaking his head as he took his seat opposite. “Why not?” She said reaching over for his hand. “There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me stop loving you, my son.”
Atlas wanted to believe her, but how could he tell her that her real son had died a long time ago. That the man sitting in front of her was an imposter, albeit a very good copy. There is no way she would love him like she had her real son if she knew the truth. “I just need some rest and good food,” he said instead, pulling away.
“You always keep everything bottled inside, Beta. It’s not healthy,” his Ma insisted, taking her first bite. Her face lit up as her smile reached her eyes. “This is almost as good as Nanima used to make. Only a true Abdulla with a heart of gold could have pulled this one off.”
Atlas blinked away the tears that appeared and continued eating, resolving not to waste the second chance he had been given.
Taslin Pollock is a British South Asian writer living in Scotland. Her stories have been published in Northern Gravy, Peaks of Colour Nature Journal and Scotland’s Stories. A recipient of the Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award, her writing has been shortlisted for the Kelpies Prize and longlisted for the SI Leeds Literary Prize. X: @taslinp; Bluesky: @taslinpollock.bsky.social; Instagram/Threads: @taslinpollock; Facebook: Taslin Pollock
