The Blurt of Richard Davies

Chapter Thirty

February the 27th.

Traditionally January may have been 'the cruellest month' but recently it seems February and March are trying to claim the title as well. Since the really cold weather arrived in mid-January the Fed has been struggling to shrug off the sub-arctic conditions with mixed success.

Everyone hoped by now the worst of it would be over, but the winter and the problems it causes continue to persist. The latest blizzard warning nearly caused our campaign group meeting to be cancelled, but in the indomitable spirit of our times we set off when James decided we had to meet in the secure environment of the Column. The news of my surveillance perhaps convincing him collaborating here face to face is the wiser option rather than a videoconference, despite the latter being the more sensible option at this moment. As a result I face a difficult journey to London. In spite of the best efforts of the FedRail and NRA staff, this winter is pushing a network adapted from one built to withstand far different conditions to the limit.

These days we don't cower under the stairs surrounded by piles of sandbags at the first hint of severe weather as we used to. Now the past advice to stay at home and out of any potential danger would be laughed down as an example of the effete people we had become. The more masculine nation we are now does not believe in tears: Undaunted by the weather, with outward bound boy scout brio we bravely sally forth to battle the climate.

From prepositioned camps and lodgings heroic NRA conscripts are called out to engage in a constant struggle to keep everything running. Given their lack of specialist equipment and inadequate clothing they do remarkably well, often shifting great quantities of snow by hand if no mechanical aid is available. But they do so at great cost to themselves. They suffer from cold injuries, often severe ones. Earlobes, fingertips, toes, and patches of skin are routinely sacrificed to the ferocious cold; yet still they selflessly go out into the elements to carry out their social obligation. Many of them have little choice because if they don't perform satisfactorily they get sent straight back to Rehabilitation. Some may suffer or even die in the course of performing their duty but for the greater good their work; whatever it may be, must go on. In our harsh new world some people are expendable.

The train stop-goes-stops all the way to London through the grubby twilight of a marshmallow world, the flourescent overalls of the lineside workers the only vibrant colours to be seen in the monochromatic landscape. The carriage display says the wind chill adjusted temperature outside is a relatively balmy -19°c. Any Ferals who've not been able to dig themselves an insulating burrow into a secluded earthern bank or gather enough wild foods in advance to see them through this bitter spell are certain to die. To add to the misery the train heating and HyperFi are restricted to the absolute minimum; people are swathed in warmsuits layered on top with any items of winter clothing they can lay their hands on, or wrapped in musty FedRail emergency blankets. At times of such heavy demand on our straining power systems, we're told every little economy helps. I don't believe a word of it, but the illusion of a collective sacrifice to see ourselves through this difficult period must be maintained.

Such is the state's organisational capacity and concern for our welfare we're served tepid degréplastic cups of watery powdered soup whenever we're held up at a station. It tastes an artificial cocktail of indeterminate flavours but no-one refuses it.

I reach Waterloo only two hours late. Finally reaching the Zone I'm relieved to find I'm not the only one in this predicament; most of us are held up so the start of the meeting will be delayed. A couple of our people from the north-west found themselves unable to travel any further and decided to turn around. Once most of us have arrived at the secure inner conference suite we can begin reviewing our progress to date.