by JT Lawrence
“You don’t need to shop! You’ve got that mode printer at home. You know how many people would kill for that machine?”
“I think the shape scanner is broken.”
Keke rolls her eyes. Neither of them say: the shape scanner is not the thing that’s broken.
“Fine, but about the VR – ”
“Virtual reality really fucks with my synaesthesia.”
“Oh,” says Keke, sitting back into the carseat. “Well, that’s different. I didn’t know that.”
“Seth always has the latest kit, he’s forever buying new headsets and body sensors. He’s given up asking me to join him. Silver is his gaming partner, now. She’s as addicted as he is. The other day she beat him at that Medieval war one.”
“DarkAges.”
“That’s it. Seth says she’s a regular Robin Hood.”
“Okay, well, then what I wanted to talk to you about is a no-go.”
“Just tell me.”
The car swerves to avoid hitting a pothole, and the women hold on to avoid being thrown around inside the cabin.
“So, you know I’m on jury duty, right?”
“Yes! How is that going? What’s the case about?”
Keke hesitates. Kate can tell she doesn’t want to discuss it.
“It’s sub judice. I’ll tell you all about it once we’ve wrapped.”
Kate knows that Keke doesn’t give a hot damn about ‘sub judice’. Something else is up.
“So we were being taken through the evidence, right? And instead of just showing us photos of the crime scene, they took us through the actual crime scene.”
“Hey?”
“Well, I mean, the virtual crime scene. An exact replica. We could look around properly. Get a feel for the room. See everything, not just what the forensic photographer thought was relevant.”
“Wow. Didn’t it freak you out?”
“Of course it freaked me out. The victim was a – ” She catches herself just in time. “But it made me think. So VXR is everywhere and it has a million different applications.”
“I’m not interested in V-XXX-R, if that’s where you’re going with this.”
“It’s not about virtual sex, I promise. Although it’s not a bad idea – ”
They are a street away from Seth’s apartment.
“I thought you should maybe try immersion therapy.”
“Ugh!”
“I knew you were going to say that, but – ”
“That’s like taking two concepts I loathe and, like, monster-hybridising them. Then super-sizing them.”
“I know. I know, my friend, but think about it. I heard it can be really, really effective. Especially for PTSD. There’s this clinic called SecondLife – ”
“Yuck.”
The car slows to a stop. “We have reached your destination.”
“Just think about it.”
Kate’s passenger door clicks open.
“Okay. There. I’ve thought about it. The answer is thanks, but no thanks.”
“Can’t blame a friend for trying,” says Keke, shrugging. “See you on the flip-side.”
As soon as Kate opens the front door she goes straight to the children’s room, where she finds two sweet warm bodies ensconced in their hammox. She touches them to make sure they are there, and real. She kisses Mally’s cheek and strokes snoring Silver’s hair out of her face.
God, she loves them. Sometimes she’s completely overwhelmed by the feeling. She stays for a minute, drunkenly gazing at their cherubic faces. At times like this it can be so intense, like a punch to the stomach: Sometimes she feels bent double by affection.
“How were they tonight?” Kate whispers, trying to not breathe her weed-booze-breath in the nanny’s direction.
“They were good, they were good.” Sebongile never has a bad thing to say about them. She lets herself out and, as Kate hears her enter the nannypad next door, she triple-locks the door behind her. Kate swallows two SoberUp!s, chases them with a large beaker of water, and falls into bed.
Chapter 16
Haunted Mansion of Empty Tanks
Kate’s at Aquascape, the massive, nonsensical, wildly successful landlocked aquarium that was closed down by an animal rights group a few years ago. A corporate snatched up the prime real estate but they haven’t yet razed the mammoth-sized building. It’s a haunted mansion of empty tanks. Squatters have moved in, dismantling what they can to sell or build make-shift kennels in which to sleep. Petty criminals have stripped the building of anything valuable: superglass, candy-coloured fibre cables, glitter-white mosaic tiles. As Kate walks through, she remembers what it used to be like: the blue reflection of the water dancing on the walls. A miracle of water in a city plagued by drought. The inverse of an island. Now it’s more like a sun-bleached whale skeleton. Sad, pale, dry.
Kate’s nervous. Is it the squatters she’s afraid of? There are none in sight, but the floor is spotted with burn marks and human stains: vomit and blood. Why is she barefoot? There is broken glass everywhere.
Her limbs are shaking. Fear, or cold? She can’t tell. Both, perhaps. She can’t think why she’s here. A photography assignment, perhaps. She has a memory of shooting a great white shark here. Skew teeth and sandpaper skin. She remembers especially the jellyfish: a swarm, a smack. Electric green venom. A model in a shimmering mermaid costume. The memory is bright and joyful and full of colour – not like this: this eviscerated cave of a place.
Is she looking for someone? There is a shadow in the distance. Someone running? Nerves claw at her bowels. She needs to get out of here. This place is not for her. The empty tanks take on a menacing appearance: gaping mouths of black. Broken tiles crunch under her tender feet and smoky smells make it difficult to breathe. She needs to get out. She starts to run, to look for the exit, but it’s not where she remembers it being. If she doesn’t get outside and get some air, her head will explode.
An object glints from the floor. Her instinct is to pick it up. It’s her gun. How did her gun get on the floor? Kate is about to holster it, when she sees that shadow again. It’s someone who wants to hurt her. She pushes herself up against the wall and flicks off the safety catch.
It’s Mouton. Who else would it be? She’s sure she killed him at the Genesis lab, remembers the fleshy shock of his large body slamming into hers when they were wrestling for their lives. His gorilla hands on her. She emptied her magazine into his torso. She killed him. Didn’t she? They never found his body.
She has her gun now, and she refuses to be his victim. She’ll kill him again. She’ll wreck the sonofabitch.
The shadow flickers. Hide and seek.
The smell of him inflames her terror. Kate points the firearm out towards the darkness, ready to fire. She can’t hear anything over her own breathing. Her finger trembles over the trigger. The darkness penetrates her brain, her body. It’s going to take her over.
Kate gets a firmer grip on the trigger. She’s ready to shoot, but the smell again – the smell is wrong. It’s not Mouton. It’s citrus peel in a fire. It’s –
A hand is on her shoulder and she spins around to shoot. A bolt of orange.
“James?”
“What are you doing?” asks James, worried. He looks so young, so innocent, as if he’s just woken.
Kate starts crying. Her voice cracks. “James?”
There’s a flash of light. The gutted aquarium is illuminated, but it’s not the aquarium anymore, it’s her bedroom. And it’s not James she’s pointing her gun at. It’s Mally.
Chapter 17
Empty Pyjamas
“There’s something about this case that’s bothering me,” says Keke.
They’re on the roof again, her and the suit. It’s where they go to escape the rest of the jurors. She’s had enough of the whole thing. Keke’s tired of being a spectator. She needs to work, to feel useful. She wants the trial to end but she can’t let go of the niggling feeling she has that she – that everyone – is missing so
mething. Above all, Keke can’t forget the VXR image of the boy in the bath. The empty pyjamas haunt her.
“What?” The suit’s in the shade: leaning up against a huge water harvesting tank, one of hundreds on this roof alone. One of millions when you look out at the city. The roof’s swivelcam follows her as she moves closer to him.
She still hasn’t asked his name.
“I’m Kekeletso,” she says.
“I know,” he says. “My FusiformG recognised you as soon as you took your mask off.”
Face radar apps are ridiculously expensive. Keke would have one if she could afford it.
“Have we met before?”
“You don’t remember.”
“Sorry. I don’t get exposed to many bankers. I didn’t think we knew each other.”
What she really means is, she’s sure she’d remember someone with a face like his. Best to not be too forthcoming, though. She doesn’t know if this man can be trusted.
“I’m not a banker.”
“Trader, then.”
“Nope.”
“Financial consultant. Bloxchain advisor. General mafioso.”
“No, no, and no.”
“What then?”
“I’m a suicide expert.”
“Ha,” says Keke.
They trade amused expressions.
“You think it’s funny?”
“It’s a strange job title, that’s all. Like, if you were an expert on suicide then you probably wouldn’t be…alive?”
“Very funny,” he says, smoothing down his silk tie.
“So, suicide seems to be a lucrative business, then.”
“It is. The prevention part is, anyway, but that’s not why I do it.”
“Amazing. I would not have guessed that the Suicide Contagion would be a money spinner.”
“Anything that involves corporates and The Grim Reaper is a money spinner.”
“That’s probably true.”
“Believe me, it’s true.”
“So it’s the big corporates that use your services?”
“Mostly. Their attrition rate is sky high. I’m brought in to appraise risk and recommend therapy.”
“You’re telling me that big corporates care whether their employees snuff themselves?”
“They do. It’s very expensive to hire new people and train them.”
They look out at the city. A blue haze tints the air.
“So, we’ve met before?” asks Keke.
He purses his lips. He’s got great lips.
“I’m Zack,” he says. “Zachary.”
Zack. A name that sounds like onomatopoeia. Whack! Crack! A lightning bolt.
Her Patch pings. She looks at her wrist; it’s a bump from Marko.
Darko > Lo beautiful.
Kex >> Aweh my bling-bling.
Darko > You left without saying goodbye.
Kex >> Sorry. Early start. Trial’s wrapping up.
Darko > So, soon I’ll have you back?
Keke hesitates, doesn’t want to be rude. Zack motions for her to carry on, disappears deeper into the shadows with a wave.
Kex >> You never lost me.
Darko > You wanted me to find something for you m’lady?
Kex >> If you don’t mind.
Darko > Anything for you.
Kex >> I hope you don’t think I’m just using you for your superlative hacking skills?
Darko > I wouldn’t mind if you were.
Kex >> …
Darko > As long as you’re using me, I’m happy.
Kex >> …
Darko > …
Kex >> I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for.
Darko > Is it about the trial?
Kex >> Yebo. Something just feels off.
Darko > ??
Kex >> …
Darko > You’ve got good instincts. You’re probably on to something.
Kex >> I don’t know where to start. It’s all under wraps.
Darko > LOLZ
Kex >> What?
Darko > Nothing is under wraps. EIH.
Kex >> ?
Darko > Everything Is Hackable.
Kex >> But I don’t even know what to ask you.
Darko > Ask me what I’m wearing.
Kex >> Wena. I’m being serious!
Darko > Sorry.
Kex >> …
Darko > Just give me one thing. Off the top of your head. One thing to work with, and I’ll go from there.
Kex >> Okay. Maybe just look for similar cases. In Jozi, in the past year.
Darko > Similar cases to a father drowning his toddler?
Kex > Yes. No. Suspicious toddler deaths.
Darko >> That’s bleak.
Kex > I know. Sorry. Won’t be easy.
Darko >> Consider it done.
Kex > Thank you.
Darko >> …
Kex > Hey.
Darko >> ?
Kex > What are you wearing?
Chapter 18
SecondLife
Kate’s sitting across the room from the psychiatrist. The space is nondescript and monochrome, giving her a break from her synaesthesia, apart from a small revolving sphere hovering near her head. It’s a secret clinic. Some may even call it a black clinic, which is ironic, given the fact that Seth’s Alba grind used to close down places like this. But you get illegal clinics and then you get morally bankrupt illegal clinics, and Kate believes – or hopes – that SecondLife belongs to the former category. Alba shut down, among others, Tabula Rasa, a slow-age beauty spa that was buying discarded embryos from dodgy fertility clinics, spinning them to harvest their stem cells, then injecting them into their patients’ faces. Kate’s cheeks tingled just thinking about it. Then, of course there was Genesis, the black clinic to rival all black clinics. The clinic that killed Marmalade and almost killed her.
Kekeletso booked this appointment. Underground treatment facilities like these only accept patients from referrals and are usually booked up months in advance, so she’s not sure how Keke pulled it off.
Doctor Voges is empty-handed, there’s no notepad or Tile in sight. Some other kind of recording device must be out of view. Voges is dressed in squid-ink grey from head to toe, as if she’s an extension of the slate room. Her face is powdered to perfection. Kate has always hated doctors: she was poked and prodded her whole childhood: blood, urine, DNA tests. X-rays, MRIs, CAT scans. It made her resent her condition instead of embracing it for what it was: a gift. She had her own augmented reality before VR even existed.
“What do you know about Immersion Therapy?” asks Doctor Voges. “Or VXR?”
“Not much,” says Kate, biting her lip. “I’ve tried to stay away from it, to be honest.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t appeal to me the way it does to other people. I guess I’ve got enough going on my head without it.”
The doctor gazes at her. “That’s understandable. So why, then, are you here today?”
Kate gulps. Where to start?
That she can’t trust her own body anymore?
That alarm sirens are the soundtrack to her everyday reality?
That she craves physical nurturing but can’t stand to be touched?
Of course, all of that is secondary. The reason she’s here is because of what happened last night.
The doctor sees her hesitate and offers a way in.
“You consider yourself a threat.” she says.
“Not ‘consider’,” says Kate. “I am a threat.”
“To yourself?”
“To myself. More importantly, to my kids.”
“Tell me about your traumatic episode.”
Kate barks a laugh. “Which one?”
Chapter 19
Death in Mid-Air
The Cape Republic, 2024
Seth slams his fist against the counter of the standing desk, making Carson jump. With the help of Snaffeine he’s pulled an all-nighter, trying every mathematical sequence and p
attern he knows, but it’s still not working. The cardiomyocytes on the biohybrid stingray have been printed in a serpentine pattern – easy enough to do on a shape as simple as a ray – but a human heart is a different creature entirely. He’s watched footage of a live heart beating over and over, frame by frame, at every angle, and tried to copy it exactly, but there are obviously nuances that he is just not getting. His silicone heart prototype is clumsy. The transparent 4D animation floats in front of him, his 263rd version, taunting him with its graceless beating. Seth deletes his latest algorithm and the heart freezes. Death in mid-air.
A hand touches his shoulder and he jumps.
“Sorry,” says Arronax. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She’s wearing hermit crab shell earrings, and pieces of polished mother-of-pearl sewn into the shoulder panels of her lab coat catch the cold light.
“You didn’t,” he says. “I was just…thinking.”
How does she get her hair like that?
“I see you haven’t made much progress,” she says. “We had hoped it would be solved by now.”
“It’s proving to be more challenging than I predicted.”
What he really wants to say is: I’ve tried every equation I know. Nothing has worked. I’m out of options. He sniffs, rubs his nose. He definitely overdid the Snaffeine.
“Let me help you,” she says.
A mermaid-glimmer of hope.
“That would be great,” says Seth, knuckle-scrubbing his faux-hawk. “Which area of maths do you specialise in?”
“I don’t,” she says. “I don’t specialise in maths. There are other ways I can help you.”
She motions at Carson to close the door, and he does so. If the guard wonders why, his face doesn’t show it.
Seth looks at Arronax, really looks at her, as she takes his hand and places it on her breasts. Waits for his reaction. Her lab coat is open just enough for him to feel the warm silk of her skin on his fingertips. The seahorse pendant shimmers.