Quark doesn’t understand. And what is “besgustin’”? It is Daisy, but Daisy-ago. Daisy of the past.
And, Quark wonders, why is Quark even thinking? What is thinking? Quark simply becomes. Fast, fast, fast. None of this hanging about lark; none of this feeling! Quark just becomes the thing that was. Then uses it and becomes the next. And the next. Always become. And always the next. Always and forever. Forever past; forever future. Ever, ever, ever.
Quark wants to become! Now, now, now! Quark has waited. At the moment, Quark doesn’t understand time, but knows there’s been a lot of it. Quark has waited sooooo long! And now it’s time to become. There are many, many, many forms here. All will become. First one Daisy Jacobs and then the next and on and on and on-on-on-on-on-on—
Become, not think. Quark doesn’t need to understand.
Quark’s in charge. Quark can speak with her voice. Quark can think Daisy thoughts. So Daisy should go. Go, Daisy Jacobs! Go, go, go! Leave Quark alone in this form! This is Quark’s now. If Daisy Jacobs wants a body, Daisy Jacobs should find one of her own!
Daisy Jacobs’ body breathes slowly in and out. Quark must be in control now. But this being is difficult to grasp. To get a hold of. The form has not quite become. Quark got her; claimed her; subordinated the form. But is it in control? Quark has the upper hand, but is Quark in the driving seat?
Quark senses — as much as it can sense — an image, a blurred something that isn’t it and that is just out of its reach. Quark can’t understand. No form has ever resisted the becoming. That in itself is difficult to grasp, because we’re not talking of a week or a month or a lifetime, we’re literally talking about ever. But Quark knows this Daisy Jacobs is resisting.
By now, this being should not be thinking. This Daisy Jacobs should not be. She shouldn’t be even a ‘she’. What is a she anyway? Is a she the same as a human? A Daisy? Is a Daisy the standard form in this place? Quark can sense ... frustration at being thwarted. Quark knows that all the beings in this place are waiting for it. All the humans, the Daisy Jacobs, the shes. All waiting to become. Millions and billions of Daisys and shes.
Daisy Jacobs’ body takes another deep breath and stands as tall as a nearly fifteen-year-old she-Daisy Jacobs-human-form can stand. Quark is clear and certain: she will not be a she for long. Not a human. Not a Daisy Jacobs. She will be it. She will be Quark. Totally, one-hundred percent absorbed. She will become.
“Stand back humans. All is fine. This Daisy Jacobs is A-OK.”
This form is Quark’s. Daisy Jacobs has no choice. And absolutely no chance.
Chapter 7
NOTHING EVER USED TO HAPPEN HERE
You young uns don’t know you’re born.” How many times have we heard that or something like it? Seems like every adult who ever lived has said it. Honestly, they’ve got no idea what it’s like, this growing up lark. They totally underestimate how hard it is to endure the physical and emotional changes we go through — discovering love and heartbreak at the same instant. Withstanding peer pressure as we cope with low self-esteem. Living life in full colour, rather than standard adult black and white. And doing all this while surviving Petrarchan sonnets and double chemistry!
But no teenager who ever lived has gone through what’s happening to me now!
A thin, panicked scream escapes me, but it’s as though my scream is high pitched, like a dog-whistle that’s inaudible to the human ear, because I hear nothing. I try again, louder this time, a full-out blast of shocked, wailing anguish … nothing. No sound at all. Just a deep, ringing silence like an echo from within a tomb.
Yet my voice is talking. My body is moving. And neither has anything at all to do with me. I thought I was blind and deaf and dumb. Turns out I’m possessed or have been body-snatched!
And I have such a pounding head; a headache that didn’t build up slowly like the one that often dulls my senses for a day or so a month. This just appeared — wham! — sending shafts of pain searing into the parts of my brain I can still feel.
Trust me: I’m still in here. Except I don’t know where “here” is. And, to whoever is in charge of the rest of my mind and body, I’m not going anywhere; you will not get away with this. I want my body back — now!
Do you hear me? Get out!
No answer … ?
Of course there’s no answer, I can almost hear you say! She’s tricking us, she’s having us on. Well, I don’t go in for practical jokes. But if someone’s playing a joke on me, please stop. It’s gone too far already. And, well — I’m scared. Terrified, actually. Heading for full-on panic. So, please: just stop.
The muffled silence engulfing me is positively screaming, if that makes any sense. But when I try to speak — to break that silence — I can’t hear my voice. In fact, I can’t even make the mental connections that would begin to form words. It’s like the links have shorted out or been cut altogether. We take speaking for granted, don’t we? I mean we just open our mouths and speak. Or scream for help.
But now I hear a voice that I know is mine, I feel worse. Even more scared than before. The silence weighed heavily on me, but the voice that’s mine and yet so not mine is more disturbing than the deafening silence that came before.
“Yes, head teacher person, I am perfectly fine. Thank you for asking.”
See? For whoever has kidnapped my body and all of my voice box, speaking isn’t a problem. Although speaking like a regular person, rather than an automaton or the speaking clock is an issue! Even my actual voice sounds weird from in here. My vocal chords are being used. But the tone is wrong. It’s flatter, more monotone; less mellifluous, if I may say. There’s no warmth or passion to it. It’s dull. Unnatural. Robotic, almost. In fact, it’s like the voice of someone who’s learning to speak — or at least learning to speak a foreign language. Enunciating words precisely and carefully.
“Are you sure, Daisy?” I hear Mrs Griffin ask. “You don’t sound quite … yourself.”
No kidding! Please push this, Mrs G. Please ask what on earth this body-snatcher or Russian mind-hacker is doing messing about in the brain of a fourteen-year-old girl, in — of all places — Scuttleford.
“I think it would be a good idea to see Mrs Thomas.”
“I am honestly fine. Zero is the problem here. My body is functioning well within acceptable parameters.”
“Nevertheless …” My brain-napper does not know Mrs Griffin. If he/she/it thinks it can talk its way out of this situation, it’s very much mistaken. It does not know how our head teacher works. Mrs G rarely gives direct orders; she doesn’t need to. She has this aura of authority. It’s like a super-power. She never shouts or even raises her voice, but she has an amazing gift for making suggestions which, in the nicest possible way mean “do what I say. NOW”.
So, “a good idea” means I will go to see Mrs Thomas, our school librarian and chief first aider. And my brain-invader has no say in the matter!
“I will do so.” Apparently, “I” have surrendered to the inevitable. My body begins to move.
Inside my head, I’m frowning. My body feels as though it’s being operated by remote control — from a drone base in Nevada, Leningrad or Pyongyang, maybe. Wherever I’m going, my feet are taking me there; I am not, my feet are. My body is moving and I have nothing to do with it! I’m not responsible. I am not telling my legs to put one foot in front of another. And if I’m not giving the orders, who is?
It’s a surreal experience and I feel a mix of vertigo and sea-sickness. As though my body’s moving through the guidance of a hacked and partially downloaded online map. The movement is not natural or smooth. The body-snatcher knows how to move limbs about as well as it knows how to form sentences, but through the hazy, fog-like view I have, I can see I’m heading to the first aid station next to the library.
So there’s some sort of muscle memory going on here: my body’s moving like a discombobulated puppet, but it is moving. And there’s also something going on in my brain: somethin
g or someone is using my brain well enough to form stilted sentences. And they know where the library is. Personally, I’m not capable of standing up at all, let alone walking about like a cyborg made by a committee that couldn’t agree on the ground rules.
Hang on: I’ve stopped again.
“Now Daisy, you’ve been in the wars, I hear.” I bet most pupils of Scuttleford Secondary are calmed in times of need by the Welsh lilt of Mrs Thomas. She would instantly reassure me, if only I could talk to her, be myself with her. Unfortunately, someone else is myself at the moment!
“As I tried to explain to our esteemed leader, there is no cause for concern. The unit … the form … the —” My controller falters for a moment, as if trying to correct a software issue that’s hampering the execution of a command sub-routine. I can imagine a scrolling message on the inside of my eyelids: “Systems error, please contact your Network Administrator.”
Even through the fog of my vision, I can see this warrants the full Mrs Thomas head tilt and sympathetic, “Mmmmm”, that’s only going to lead to a phone call home.
Yes, that’s it! Mum’ll sort this out! She can manage crises that even Mrs G can’t cope with. Having a GP for a mum can be a total pain in the bum — particularly the awkward sex talk she insisted on — but she never, ever seems to stress about anything. She’ll see through this Russian robot’s mind-control tactics in a flash.
“This Daisy Jacobs is all well and good. Hale and hearty.”
“Mmmmmm,” another head tilt, “well, we’ll just make a quick call home, shall we?”
“Alive and kicking?”
“Yeeeeesss … ” says Mrs Thomas, and reaches for the phone.
“In the pink?”
“Oh, hello, is that Mrs Jacobs? This is Mrs Thomas here, first aider at Scuttleford Secondary. Now, there’s no cause for concern, but Daisy’s had a little bump on the head.”
“Tickety boo?”
“What’s that? No, she is talking. She’s definitely talking! She’s just, well — not quite herself.”
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”
“That’s right, dear. Yes, Mrs Jacobs, that will be fine. We’ll see you in about a quarter of an hour, then.”
Mrs Thomas hangs up the phone and even through my fogged-up vision I can see her smile. “Mum’s on the way and she will take you home.”
“My female parent is a medical practitioner.”
“That’s right, dear.”
“You are just a first aider.”
Mrs Thomas’ smile falters. “Well, I do my best, nonetheless.”
She does so and I bet that fifteen minutes seems like an eternity to her as fake-Daisy babbles in a most un-teenagerly fashion.
Finally, there’s a knock and then the door opens. “Daisy, sweetheart, what’s happened to you?”
If I could sigh, I would. If I could yell with sheer, unadulterated joy, I would. Mum’s here! All is well. Everything is going be absolutely fine.
“Oh, mother,” I hear my voice say, “I think I fainted and now I feel dizzy and I have such a headache.”
Okay, so maybe not absolutely fine …
“Poor you!” And I know by the fact that my vision is now restricted to blurry red linen, that Mum has enveloped me in an embrace. But I can’t feel her comforting warmth, or breathe in the delicious rose-scent of her perfume. Instead, my imposter gets the full benefit of Total Mum.
“Can you please take me home, mother.”
“Of course, my love.” She must be concerned about me, because even “mother” doesn’t give her pause. Since when did I say “mother”? She’s Mum. Always and forever!
Mum thanks Mrs Thomas and has a quick word with Mrs Griffin before leading me out of the school to the car.
“It’s okay, Daisy, I’ll take you home and we’ll make you better.”
“Thank you, mother.” I feel my face form into a grimace of a smile and see Mum’s hand reach over and squeeze my leg.
Remember me saying that Mum will sort it out? Well, if I could shout at her now, I would. If I could yell with sheer, unadulterated misery, I would. Mum’s here, but it seems all will not be well. My life’s gonna carry on being exactly as terrible as it has suddenly become.
I howl in silent anguish and frustration. A full-on, really-go-for-it, lung-bursting scream …
But, of course, Mum can’t hear. No one can hear. “I’m in here! Mum, help me!” I try to bellow; I try to let her know that the person, the thing sitting beside her in the car, luxuriating in the loving concern that only Mum can give, is not me. I’m shut inside, trying to get out while cyborg-Daisy gets all the attention.
I try to scream again, but I can’t make any connection — to her or to the real me.
Then the anger, the anxiety, the fear — all of it dissipates into a fog of nothingness. My senses dim still further. My panic subsides and I feel myself sink into a big, comforting blanket of darkness that clouds my vision and sends me into the deepest oblivion.
Chapter 8
THE TRANSCENDENCE OF QUARK
In all the history of Quark, which — give or take five minutes — is all the history of the entire universe, Quark hasn’t gone in for self-assessment. Quark has never needed to.
Because Quark is what you might call a fundamental force — yes? Eh? Means nothing to you? Okay, a singularity. Still no? Okay. How about a black hole? A formless black hole, adrift in space. Yes? Got that? I know, I know: black holes are super complex and space-science-y, but all we really need to understand about them is that they may, just possibly, swallow matter. Where that matter goes once swallowed doesn’t, well — matter.
What does matter is that Quark is a kind of black hole. A black hole currently in possession of two legs, two arms etc. In fact, all the bits and bobs that make up a fourteen-year-old girl. Or rather, almost all. Because there’s one teeny bit that’s not — yet — Quark.
With the first stirrings of consciousness comes the realisation that Quark is not all of Daisy. This concept is hard for Quark to grasp. Even harder than that science-y bit was for us two paragraphs ago. Because, from Quark’s perspective, Quark is everything and everything is Quark.
I know! Talk about self-centered and egotistical!
(In the brief flashes of consciousness, before each becoming is complete, Quark is so utterly self-absorbed that Quark usually thinks of Quark in the third person. As His Quark-ness, if you like. This is what despots, former reality TV stars-turned Presidents and planet-munching space-entities do. And I’m sure you’re thinking the same as me: it gets tiring after a while. So, as long as you faithfully promise not to tell Quark, we’ll put a stop to that. Let’s agree who’ll be the star of this book {even though, in a sense, we can class one character as an actual star}. Who are you going to root for: a human girl, or a blob of nebulous matter drifting through space, occasionally guzzling planets? And we can all agree that Daisy is {at the moment, at least} a girl. A she. So, for ease of reference, from now on Quark will be “he”. Okay? Remember — not a word!)
Quark struggles to raise the chin of the Daisy Jacobs’ human. To hold the Daisy’s head high. To straighten the Daisy’s back. To thrust out her puny chest. Quark is important!
Quark’s role is nothing less than determining the entire fate of the universe!
Even for mind-bogglingly teeny blobs of near nothingness, I’m sure you agree: this is a big job.
And as Quark revels in growing self-awareness, he remembers that the way he goes about determining the fate of the universe is to take it apart, one molecule at a time. First, he finds the relevant single molecule or group of molecules in each place. Then he becomes that bit. And, in a very real sense, that bit becomes him. Then he pulverises it into microscopic parts of near nothingness. And then he moves on and does it again. And again.
So: after the first there’s the second. It’s the natural way of things. Two become four. A gentle rolling out; a cascade. Four becom
e eight. It’s beautiful, calculated, pure. Maybe the single most beautiful thing in the whole universe. Eight become sixteen. Mathematical in its perfection. Sixteen become thirty-two. A transcendence of becomings. Onwards and onwards and onwards.
It starts with the first and rolls on. Always without a hitch. For billions of years, without fail.
In some places the first is over in a blinding flash. In others it’s a long-lasting bliss of consuming togetherness. It can a fungus-like creep from one form to another or an instantaneous tsunami of consumption, ravaging a planet in the blink of an eye. Those becomings do not satisfy him as much.
The blue-green planet had looked promising. He thought the billions of human-she-Daisy Jacobs would last long, long, long.
But, as always, the process starts with seeding the first becoming. And never had the first taken so long to become. Quark was somewhat miffed about how stubbornly this bag of molecules was resisting the simple process of being pulverised into space dust.
All he wanted to do was do what he came into existence for. And all the insignificant little Daisy Jacobs need do was GET OUT OF HIS WAY!
But Quark is becoming stronger, even as she weakens. He’s now free to roam through her mind. To take control and begin the wondrous, transcendent process of becoming, as what used to be Daisy Jacobs continues to fade away …
Chapter 9
THE END IS NIGH
I don’t know how I come to be in bed. I remember being in the car with Mum and then … nothing. Now I’m in my bedroom. It’s dark and apparently my body is asleep. I, however, am suddenly awake and what passes for conscious.
When I saw those bright lights, I thought the clichéd obvious: that the end was nigh and I was dying. But here I am. With no clue what’s happening outside my body. Obviously, my eyes are closed so I can’t see anything — not even the inside of my eyelids. I can’t hear anything either, although as my body’s asleep, it’s a relief to discover I don’t snore …
Daisy Jacobs Saves the World Page 3