by JT Lawrence
“Kate.” His arms and his voice envelop her, and she allows herself to be held for a minute before she breaks away. Morgan’s solid frame is always a comfort. She feels grounded when they’re together: When he’s touching her there’s no danger of flying off into space. He holds her by her upper arms now, as if to inspect her. His warm skin is cedar leaves and cardamom: a fresh winter fire. She doesn’t see her shapes when he talks, despite his voice’s dark resonance. Instead it goes deep inside her.
Kate swallows hard. “Silver?”
“Before you see her …” the DarkDoc says, “let’s talk.”
“Let me see her first. Is she in there?” She moves towards the closed door.
“Kate. Please. I don’t want you to—”
But it’s too late. Kate leans against the door and rushes in, and when she sees Silver, she’s so shocked that the blood drains away from her head.
“Whoa,” says Morgan as her knees give way, and he grabs her.
“What happened to her?” Kate tries to blink away the dizziness. “What the fuck happened to her?”
Silver is bone-white. She’s in a spherical oxygen tent, unconscious. IV bags hang on steel arms above her shoulders. One white, one red. Good Angel, Bad Angel. Her head is bandaged, her wrists shackled to the bed with velcro strips. Silver looks so small and defenceless on the hospital bed it makes her want to cry.
Kate approaches the transparent plastic dome and unzips it just enough to hold her daughter’s cold, sleeping hand. She looks so young. Too thin and too fragile. A bird with a smashed wing. The skin on her inner arms has bright red welts, a few platelet plasters dress where the skin is broken.
“It’s her sixteenth birthday tomorrow.” Kate doesn’t know why she says it.
“I know,” says Morgan.
“How did you find her? How did you know she was here?”
“I got a med-alert from the institute. They must have scanned her dynap code. I’m still listed as her primary physician.”
“Why didn’t they call me?”
“The commlines have been unstable. I couldn’t get hold of you either, but I kept trying until I did.”
Kate re-sets her mandible.
You have three hundred and eight missed calls, it says.
“You called me three hundred times?” she asks Morgan.
A half-smile. “That sounds about right.”
Kate blinks at him. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing. Besides, it’s the good samaritan who brought her in here you should thank. And the Institute. She couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Why are her arms strapped down?”
“She was harming herself. Scratching. She almost hit a vein before we realised what she was doing.”
“What happened to her?”
The DarkDoc pulls her to the visitors’ couch where they sit down. He hands her a paper cup of some kind of lukewarm flower tea. Chamomile? No. The shape of chamomile is oval and rough-edged. This is soft. Palest yellow on white (Pee Snow). She puts it down on the ledge beside her.
“I want to know everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I don’t know much, yet, but as far as I can see, Silver’s had a bad reaction.”
“A bad reaction? To what?”
“I’ve examined the wound on her head. She got laced. I don’t know where or how—”
“Oh no,” says Kate. “Oh no. It’s my fault.”
Liquid guilt spreads inside her, blackening and embittering her organs. Cold Tar.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should have done it with her. Gone with her. Given her permission. Then you could have done it. Instead of … instead of this.”
They both look over at Silver’s still body. Morgan squeezes her hands.
“You were trying to protect her. Besides, I should have known when she came to see me that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Silver’s stubborn … like someone else I know.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan says. “I should have accompanied her home.”
“I should have gone with her in the first place!”
“You did what you thought was best.”
“Did I?”
“Kitty. Of course you did.”
“Did I do what I thought was best, or what suited me best?”
Kate’s so angry with herself, she feels like bashing her head on the wall. “I’ve just been … trying to stop her from drifting away, you know?”
“I know.”
“It’s like immersion just takes her further and further away from me. And now look at her!”
“She’s catatonic.”
“Is she in a coma?”
“No. Her vitals are there. Shallow, but all there. She’s just not … conscious.”
“I don’t understand.”
Morgan steeples his fingers. “It’s like she’s … somewhere else. Like she’s slipped away from us and left her body behind.”
Kate buries her face in her hands for a moment then looks at him. “Can you fix her?”
His immediate expression tells her all she needs to know.
“There are so many ways to mesh,” he says, “so many different laces on the market. And on the grey market. It’s impossible to regulate any of it, never mind creating proper peer-reviewed studies of how it affects different people in different ways. The tech evolves every single day … it’s just spinning away from us.”
Kate’s hopes drag. The DarkDoc is the southern hemisphere’s pre-eminent biotech doctor. If he can’t fix her, who can?
“You’ll try, though? You’ll do what you can?”
Kate can see he’s already rehearsed his answer.
“It’s too risky.”
“You have to try!”
“I’d be going in blind. The chance of causing irreversible damage is just too high. I wouldn’t take the risk with a patient I didn’t know, never mind with Silver.”
Kate blinks at him, waiting for the information to sink in.
“So. There’s nothing we can do?”
The DarkDoc smooths his black beard. “I didn’t say that.”
Chapter 44
Trumpet of Death
TWELVE YEARS PREVIOUSLY
SkyRest
Johannesburg, 2024
This time when they are led into the hall to work they are given special protective gear. Thin plastic overalls that crunch when you walk, wide face masks, and biolatex gloves. The air is less stale than usual.
The guard with grey hair and a voice like dusk stands in front of them. The younger guard—a blond, fresh-faced assistant—films him so that his face is broadcast in the hexagonal holoframe above the residents.
“Good morning,” he says, and the men mutter their replies. Zack picks up that the guard’s name is Xoli. He seems to enjoy the attention. “You’ll be wondering why you’ve been given extra kit. It’s because we’re dealing with a new substance today. It’s part of our experimentation in a new, cutting-edge technology, and we need your help. It’s not without risk, though, so please be careful and keep your prophylactix on at all times.”
There’s a murmur of interest. Virgin tasks are few and far between, from what Zack’s seen, so getting to do new work seems like something to look forward to. The men are instructed to move towards the trestle tables, and the day leaders peel away the covers to reveal large tubs of dark brown organic matter.
“Now for those of you with foraging experience,” says Xoli, and there are a few laughs, “You’ll know that this—” He holds up a large lily-shaped, charcoal-coloured mushroom. “—is called a Black Trumpet. Cornucopioides. Also known as black chanterelle, and … Trumpet of Death.”
Zack studies the tub in front of him. He can see the fungi between the humus and brittle leaves.
“Now, mycologists would usually tell you that there’s nothing to fear from a black chanterelle, and they’d be right. In fact, t
hese mushrooms, in the wild, are really quite delicious and will do you no harm.”
Xoli holds up his specimen, and the camera zooms in.
“However, this batch of fungi has been adapted by our bioburial scientists, who spliced its helix with Dermestid.”
The room is quiet.
“Anyone?”
A few frowns and head-shakes.
“Derme-stid. Skin Beetle. A Dermestid is a flesh-eating beetle.”
Zack’s skin crawls with imaginary insect legs.
“So, I introduce to you … Carnacraterellus cornucopioides.”
“A man-eating mushroom,” says someone at the front.
Xoli looks pleased. “Correct.”
The men murmur. Xoli talks them through the process: find the mushrooms, identify the mycelia, harvest the spores, store them safely in the envelopes or soil trays provided.
“Please work carefully,” he says. “And, whatever you do, don’t breathe the spores in. As you can imagine, you don’t want these suckers seeding your lungs.”
Later, in his room, Zack lies on his mat and swipes through the Reward catalogue. What he really wants now is sleeping pills. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he was arrested. Although, even if he has the pills, he probably won’t take them. Only one thing is worse than Bernard watching him sleep, and that’s not even knowing she’s watching him sleep.
He might request a bed or a decent mattress at least, but those cost a lot more than one Reward. He’d have to save up if he wants a big purchase like that. A small mirror, perhaps, for above the sink? He doesn’t know what he looks like anymore. Maybe it’s best to keep it that way. Prison pyjamas and artificial light, atrophying brain. Thinking about looking at himself every day in these conditions make him decide against it. He imagines himself as hollow-eyed and hollow-boned. That’s what it feels like, anyway.
He scrolls and scrolls until he eventually finds something to buy. The app congratulates him on his redemption (if only it was that easy) and informs him to expect delivery in the next open chute.
The dinner bell rings, and Zack silently congratulates himself for getting through most of the day.
Zack joins Lewis’s table in the cafeteria. Lewis points at him and says “Girdler” for the benefit of the other diners. The men shoot him cursory glances. One or two mumble hello.
“You’re not eating?” asks Lewis.
Zack shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
“You gotta eat.”
“What is it?” asks Zack.
“Who fucking knows,” says Lewis, and some of the other men laugh.
Zack grabs a tray and chooses the least unattractive option at the counter. Some kind of tofurkey with grey sauce and matching mash. Some pretty leaves on the side that makes the food look slightly less dire.
Back at the table, he takes a bite of mashed potato. Or, at least, he thinks it’s mashed potato. It’s difficult to swallow.
“You’ll get used to it,” says Lewis.
I doubt it.
“Soon you’ll be eating decent food,” says a shiny-scalped man to Lewis. He lifts his eyebrows at Lewis’s lapel and points his fork up to the ceiling.
“Ah,” says Lewis, relishing the thought.
“I heard they’ve got an artisanal ice cream shop up there,” says a man who looks like a professional wrestler. “There are, like, a hundred different flavours. And if they don’t have the flavour you want, you can make a request and they’ll make it for you.”
“Ah,” says Lewis again.
“I’d ask for salted butterscotch,” says the wrestler. “In a cinnamon cone.”
“Black Choxolate,” says the bald man, but there’s not much hope in his voice. He only has two stages on his lapel.
“Eighties Bubblegum,” says Lewis. “Remember that? Summers at the South Coast. Blue ice-cream dripping down your chin.”
For a moment they all look lost in their memories of childhood treats and open skies.
“And you’ll forget all about us,” says baldy.
“I fucking won’t,” says Lewis.
“Yes, you will,” says the wrestler. “And you should.”
“I’m ready,” says Zack to Lewis as they finish their game of table tennis.
“Hmm?”
Lewis is buoyed by the dinner conversation about his inevitable elevation, and Zack wants to take advantage of his good mood. “You said you’d tell me what SkyRest does when I was ready.”
Lewis scoffs. “You’re not ready.”
“Lewis. Please.”
He puts his bat down and takes a long, hard look at Zack. The ball vibrates on the table, then comes to a stop. Eventually Lewis capitulates with a shrug. “All right,” he says, and Zack follows him to the cineroom.
Chapter 45
Menacing Halo
TWELVE YEARS LATER
Metro Revolvorant
Johannesburg, 2036
Keke projects her contact list and hesitates before tapping on Marko’s avatar, a saffron silhouette of a man meditating with a giant ball of fire behind him. She knows she’s not supposed to call him, but this is an emergency. Besides, the chance of the call actually going through, all the way to an out-of-the-way ashram in India, when there’s chaos on the ground here, is infinitesimal.
She’s surprised when, on the third attempt, the phone buzzes. It’s ringing on his side. Her pulse quickens. There’s a click. All of a sudden Marko’s face is right there in the restaurant, projected over Keke’s empty glass. His eyepatch remains an accusation—will always be an accusation, whether he ends up forgiving her or not.
“Keke.” He smiles.
He looks like a different person.
“You’ve lost weight,” she says, past the tears.
“Have I? I suppose I have. That’s what a fruitarian diet does. And fasting. We do a lot of fasting here.”
“I know we agreed I wouldn’t contact you,” says Keke. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s absolutely lovely to see your face.”
Don’t get emotional. Don’t say anything tender.
“I miss you.” The tears spill down her cheeks. “Sorry. Sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
“It’s okay,” says Marko. “It’s okay.”
She sniffs and angrily swipes away the tears. Clears her throat. This isn’t why she called him.
“How’s your mom?”
“I don’t know, actually,” Marko says. “She’s still travelling. The last time we chatted she was feeding orphans in Udaipur.”
The line is bad. Marko’s face keeps snowing over.
“I’m surprised you answered. You’re still unplugged?”
“Yes. This is the first time this old Tile has rung in … months.”
“When will you … Do you know yet, when you’ll come home?”
“This is my home now, Keke.”
Keke swallows more tears, tries to un-crumple her face.
“It’s not.”
“You’re right. There’s no such thing as ‘home’. Not really. It’s just an emotional attachment to a place, which serves no one.”
Keke feels her heart harden against him. If she’s honest with herself, really honest, she can’t stand this version of Marko. This bean-eating, meditating, philosophising, asexual silhouette. Yes, he’s probably a ‘better’ man, but not for her. The essence of him is gone. What makes it more difficult, of course, is that she’s the one who caused this emergence, this evolution, and she still hates herself for it, even though she felt at the time, and still feels, that she had no other choice. Her decision to sacrifice Marko’s eye saved Silver’s life. How could he resent her for that? Of course he’s never admitted it: He didn’t want to cause any further pain. But it became too difficult for them to live together. When he first came home after being discharged from The Gordhan, he found it hard to talk to her, to look her in the eye. As he grew stronger, Keke tried to initiate sex—nothing too strenuous—but he wouldn’t (couldn�
��t?) get it up. Then, before she could get a handle on the situation, he was off to visit his mother in Goa, and suddenly an ashram had swallowed him whole. He hadn’t been connected since.
“You’re not going to like this,” she says, “but I need your help.”
What he used to say: Anything for you, M’lady.
What he says now: “Keke … you know I can’t.”
“You don’t understand.”
As if the emotional static isn’t bad enough, the phone connection is crackling too.
“We’re all in danger, Marko. There’s something going on here.”
“What?” Marko snaps to attention. His dreamy look is replaced by worry. “What’s going on?”
“There’s some kind of … artificial intelligence malfunction, they’re calling it. A robot rebellion. An uprising. There’ve been over a hundred fatalities—and those are only the ones that we know of—and it’s spreading.”
Marko stares at her. “Wait. What?”
“Did you hear me? People are being killed by AI.”
“AI doesn’t rebel. Their code prohibits it.”
“I told you, they’re malfunctioning.”
“Impossible.”
The line is dropped. Keke calls him back, fifth time lucky.
“That’s why we need your help.”
“That is totally out of my area of expertise.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not! I don’t know the first thing about defective droids, and even if I did, how would I do anything from here?”
“You’ve got that Tile.”
“This Tile is ancient. The tech is, like, eight years old. That’s, like, ninety-six in tech years. And the signal here is terrible.”
“I feel like you haven’t yet grasped what is going on here.”
“I—”
“Forget about our problems. Forget about being disconnected. We’re in danger, Marko. Kate, Seth, the kids.” She thinks of Mally and Vega. Wonders about Silver. “Especially the kids.”
Marko bunches his hair up in his fists.
“I’ll get on a plane. I’ll get on the first plane.”