The next day there was another test. He asked what it was.
‘It’s BEOS – Brain Electrical Oscillations Signature,’ replied the technician. ‘Developed in India. We can tell if you have knowledge of crimes already committed by the way you react to questions we ask and pictures we show you.’
Matt spent an hour with a cap of electrodes on his head while electrical signals from his brain were fed to a computer. Once again a series of images bombarded him. He knew nothing about the crimes depicted and had no worries that he might be accused of any of them.
****
‘All our tests indicate that you have the potential to be a criminal and you are hereby charged with the offence of genetic and neurological potential criminality,’ Sara Marchand intoned. She looked up at Matt as she finished her statement.
‘Look, I may have done some things which skated close to the edge of legality but I am not a criminal,’ replied Matt.
‘Tell me about your barely legal activities, Mr Zeeman.’
‘Have you heard of Geisha Hotel?’
‘No. Is it a Japanese style hotel?’
‘Almost. It was a virtual world set in a hotel full of willing geishas. Men logged in and had virtual sex with them. It was like having the real thing, with all the senses engaged through a neural link, a bit like your BEOS gear. That was my brainchild and it was a very successful business until I got closed down.’
‘If it was legal, why was it closed down?’
‘Some Old Etonian minister’s son and his buddies have a similar venture, Sex Machine. You may have heard of it. I was taking market share from them so they used a legal argument to take me off line. They said I was promoting the exploitation of foreign women by inference. It was totally specious but they had high powered lawyers and they won. Then my sponsors bailed out and I went bust. The bank took my house too.’
‘That’s not relevant here, Mr Zeeman. You have the low activity variant of the MAOA gene and a mutation of HT2RB associated with violent behaviour. Along with our investigations into your brain function these factors mark you out as a potentially vicious criminal. We are thus bound by law to prevent you from actually committing crimes.’
‘What does that mean? Are you going to lock me up just in case?’
‘No. We treat your genome. We’ll give you new versions of the genes that predispose you to criminality.’
‘How can you do that?’
‘The usual way: we inject you with a set of modified viruses that insert the new genes into your DNA. It’s a technique used in medicine every day.’
‘But I haven’t committed any crimes and never been in court: never had a parking fine even. I am a law abiding citizen and you are now victimising me on the basis of a load of dodgy tests dreamed up by politicians desperate for votes. I saw the Home Secretary, Jemima whatsit giving it large about law and order. It was bullshit!’
‘It is not bullshit, as you call it, but the result of scientific studies on violent Dutch criminals and Maoris who showed the same tendencies due to their genetics. You have the same genomic pattern and that is why we need to treat you.’
‘And when you’ve done that, how will you know it worked?’ asked Matt.
‘The absence of crime will be living proof that it has worked.’
‘On the other hand, I may never commit any crimes anyway. Your argument is totally illogical.’
‘That is the criterion upon which we have been instructed to operate. I can do no more.’
‘If I let you do this to me, can I go?’
‘We’ll have to wait a week to make sure the blood tests show the right levels of monoamine oxidase activity, and then you can go back to your delightful caravan park and a virtuous crime free life.’ Sara gestured to two muscular men in white medical style uniforms standing behind Matt. ‘Take him to the genome unit and give him the treatment.’
Once Matt and the medical orderlies had left, Sara opened a window on her computer screen and sent a message to the Gliesen research team. It seemed superfluous to involve the aliens in what was a judicial action, enshrined in law. However, it was all part of the procedure laid down by her superiors, so she did it anyway.
A short while later, the face of Mzorkl Probtzl, professor of neurobiology at Lancaster University, appeared on her screen. Sara had met the Gliesens during her training for CRAPP and no longer felt revulsion for their scaly hairless skin and golden eyes. She knew that many human women found alien men sexy and there were rumours about the aliens’ prehensile penises. She hoped that she would not be required to find out if it were true.
‘Hello Sara,’ said Probtzl. ‘You have another subject for us to follow up?’
‘Yes. I sent you all of the relevant details.’
‘The basics, yes, but I would like to know what your impressions were. In the absence of previous offences, we have to use other kinds of information. Did he seem to be a violent type of man? Was he aggressive?’
‘Not really. He was puzzled and aggrieved at his treatment, as many of them are. The idea of potential genetic criminality has yet to be generally accepted.’
‘Not what you humans would call a cut-throat, then. How would you sum him up?’
‘A computer geek who’d lost his business and is now struggling, I’d say.’
****
‘You’ve put on weight,’ said Wanda.
‘Yeah, the food was all burgers and chips. I’ll need to take a shedload of exercise to get back to normal,’ replied Matt. He was glad to be back at the caravan. It had been a hectic three weeks. What had really rankled was that he’d been dumped on the street outside the agency building and told to make his own way home. He’d had no cash on him and it had taken three hours to walk home. His feet hurt. Looking out of the window, he could see that Steve’s potatoes had sprouted and were growing well.
‘I’ve run out of decent food myself,’ Wanda came back, interrupting his reverie. ‘Could you conjure up another hamper now you’re here? I’m out of cigarettes too.’
‘Hell Mum, I’ve only been back an hour and you’re already asking for stuff. You’ve no idea what I’ve been through. I even have a criminal record now despite never having been charged with an actual crime. I don’t know what’s happening to this country. Real justice has been subsumed by pseudo-science and snake-oil.’
‘I know all about our legal system, son. When your father ran out on us, he didn’t pay us any maintenance; never sent a penny. And when I took him to court, it was a travesty. He moved to Poland and then disappeared, the scumbag.’
‘Yeah Mum, I know all about that. Life’s not fair: you just have to do what you can.’
A month later, Matt’s plans were coming together. His accounts in the Seychelles were buoyant and receiving regular payments from corporate accounts worldwide. The amount per transaction wasn’t large but there were many of them. Once he’d reached his target, the operations would stop and all tracks would be erased. He was worried about his mother. She seemed to be going into a decline and had rarely left her bed for the previous two weeks. He was not sure that he’d be able to take her with him. Outside, near horizontal rain swept across the caravan park, turning it into a muddy lake. The sight reinforced Matt’s decision to leave. Only another month to wait and he’d be on his way to sun, sea and sand.
****
Matt settled into his seat. It was going to be a long flight but he was prepared for that. He would sleep, watch movies and read his Kindle. He’d loaded the device with several long trashy novels he would never look at again. He sighed as the engines powered up and the plane accelerated along the runway. Eleven hours and he’d be in the Seychelles. Once there, he would have more money than he knew what to do with. Pity about Mum. She couldn’t come in her state. The idea of dragging her around with him in a sun kissed paradise had filled him with dread. He was going out there to start a new life and envisaged meeting a gorgeous woman and having endless sex. A sickly Wanda hanging around him would have cram
ped his style. He’d taken care of things in the most humane way he could think of. She would never suffer again.
****
Wanda powered up her laptop and logged in. Matt was on his way to god knows where but she would soon find out. She looked at the bottle of wine he’d given her and the now empty glass he’d poured for her before his departure. He’d said he was going out for a ride in his car. Enjoy some wine, he’d said. It’ll make you feel better. She’d watched the battered blue Toyota leave the caravan park and emptied the glass into the nearest pot plant. The wine in the bottle went down the sink. She always knew when he was lying: he was her flesh and blood after all. His intentions had been written all over his face. He was just like his father – a dishonest bastard.
She scrolled through the user names and passwords she’d culled from his laptop over the past few weeks. The level of encryption had been OK for the average user but she wasn’t in that category. Encryption was her specialty. Within a few minutes she was looking at a bank account in the Seychelles.
‘Nice job, Matt,’ she said out loud. ‘You’re worth millions.’
She set up a series of transfers to her own account. They would go through over the next month but when complete, Matt would suddenly be broke. She could feel a shopping spree coming on.
A soft tapping at the door of the caravan brought her up short. She logged out of the account and closed the browser. The tapping was repeated and she went to the door and opened it. A pair of Gliesens confronted her. Behind them, curious camp dwellers were hanging around. A scowling Steve ambled up, a metal bar dangling from his left hand.
‘Need help Wanda?’ he said, glaring up at the alien man and woman.
‘Now Steve, there’s no need for bad behaviour is there? Just go back to your van and leave this to me. Better come inside,’ she said, ushering in the aliens and shutting the door with a clang.
‘What can I do for you? I’m not in the market for Gliesen artefacts. In fact, I’m broke at the moment.’
There was a pause as they looked one another up and down. Wanda noticed that the ruff around each Gliesen’s neck was pale green. From what she’d read, this meant that they were friendly.
The male Gliesen finally spoke in a rumbling voice. ‘Sorry to disturb you Mrs Zeeman. I am Mzorkl Probtzl and this is my colleague Frinkl Neobtzl. We are both at the University of Lancaster and are members of the Crime Reduction Agency for Public Protection follow up team. We were looking for your son Matthew.’ He paused, fixing Wanda with his golden eyes.
‘He’s been treated and had his genes fixed, so he’s no longer a potential criminal. What more do you want?’
‘Yes, that is why we are here. We would like to determine the effectiveness of the treatment. Do you know where we can find him?’
‘Tell me, why have they sent a pair of aliens instead of proper human beings? It was humans from CRAPP who took him away in the first place.’
Frinkl Neobtzl interrupted in a cool melodious voice. ‘Could we sit down? I think we owe you an explanation before we do anything else.’
When they had settled themselves on rickety folding chairs, Wanda stared at them waiting for them to start.
‘CRAPP is an experiment as far as we Gliesens are concerned. We agreed to help with our genetic technology as long as we could monitor the effectiveness of the therapy,’ said Probtzl. ‘However, your government has seen it differently and decided to use it as a weapon against crime.’
‘Another political football, you mean,’ replied Wanda. ‘One more so-called initiative that turns into a cock-up, I expect.’
‘We hope not. So, can you help us and tell us where your son is?’
‘Sorry, he left earlier today: he took his car, which is unusual, and I haven’t seen him since. He hasn’t called or sent any messages either. I’ve a feeling he’s left the country.’
Half an hour later, the aliens left the caravan. Old Steve was lurking outside with his metal bar and stepped forward towards the female Gliesen. She turned, her ruff now purple, and grabbed him by his shirt front, lifting him off his feet in a single handed grip. Then she walked over to his van and deposited him on its steps. He sat down heavily, eyes wide with shock. Other residents, loitering nearby, suddenly found other things to do and slunk off.
Wanda watched with a smile as the aliens drove off in their black hybrid Land Rover. She’d told them nothing but she had learnt a lot from them. The agency had changed a so-called warrior gene in Matt’s brain to a non-aggressive version. So, he would be unlikely to commit violent crime. There was a downside though. The new version of the gene was associated with risk taking and gambling. Lighting a cigarette, she sat down at the computer and checked her messages.
She spoke to the screen. ‘You’ll be back when you run out of money, Matt my son. They were right about you though. You’re a born criminal.’
Born to Rule
Bulimia Pemberton watched the animated tattoos on Jimmy Sorenson’s muscular arms with revolted fascination. She knew that they were just purple nematodes injected under the skin but that knowledge didn’t detract from the artistic statement made by them. Most artists were content to use inanimate objects or things that were at least dead but Jimmy had gone a step further. His tattoos were a living, random work of art burrowing around in his epidermis, spreading eventually to his whole body, unless he decided to kill them by submerging himself in a bath of worm killer. His bald head swarmed with them. Bulimia looked down at his jean clad legs, imagining the worms traversing them and writhing their way along his penis. She shut off the thought abruptly before the image in her head became too realistic.
He wasn’t the only one with the self inflicted parasitic infestation. Once he’d done it, millions worldwide had copied him and now there were tales of people seeing the faces of their dead lovers or tortured saints in the images generated by the wriggling creatures. She’d seen them on U-bend but none was as graphic and satisfying as Jimmy’s. In his, she could see rolling hills and banks of clouds, interspersed with fleeting glimpses of birds, flowers and trees.
‘Like it?’ he asked.
Bulimia pulled her attention back to the subject of their discussion. On the wall of her gallery a series of slices of dried stained flesh passed through a frame, each one pausing for a few seconds.
‘Whose is that and what is it?’ she asked.
‘Can’t you see it?’ he said. ‘That’s a whole section of a kidney. OK. I stained it orange and blue but you can still see the anatomical detail. That belonged to the Moors Murderer, Ian Brady.’
Groaning and choking noises accompanied the display. Then followed a long rasping sigh fading to silence.
‘And the noises?’
Obvious: sounds of them dying. Each one’s different, reflecting the way they died,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not the actual sounds they made, of course. I had to simulate them.’
‘Horrible,’ replied Bulimia, grimacing.
‘Yeah, but they were ‘orrible people: murderers and rapists who were either murdered or committed suicide. That’s the real thing, that kidney. They all are. I got permission to take samples straight after the autopsies. I’ve been working on this for years.’
‘I’ll have to work out a price. It’s in a different class from your pickled fruit series. Come into the office: we can have a drink to seal the deal.’
Half an hour and several vodkas later, Bulimia was in full flow. ‘I love your work Jimmy. It has authenticity and comes straight from the heart; none of that born to rule political nonsense I get at home. You know, my son and his father don’t get on. Bernard is on an engineering course, in the north of all places, at Manchester. Algernon has never forgiven him for not applying to do PPE at Oxford, like he did. Tells him he won’t stand a chance of getting into government. What really riles Algernon is that Bernard won’t have an homunculus. Bernard says it looks ridiculous having a so-called advisor growing out of your shoulder spouting political rubbish in your ear 24 hours per day.’
‘Algernon has one then?’
‘They all do. It’s a rite of passage straight after getting into politics. Have you seen a politician without one?’
‘No. You’re right. They all have them. I draw the line at that sort of parasite. My worms can’t tell me how to think: they’re pure art. So, how does Bernard react to his father’s ranting?’
‘He just looks at Algernon with pity in his eyes: says he’s just a self serving politico doing nobody any good.’
‘Well, we all have to find our own way, Bulimia …’
‘Yes, but Algernon blames me for Bernard’s failure.’
‘Hardly a failure, being a graduate engineer.’
Bulimia swilled down the rest of her vodka and poured herself another large one. Sorenson covered his own glass with his hand when she proffered the bottle.
‘No, the failure is mine: you see, I didn’t take the magic brew when I got pregnant with Bernard.’ She slurped more of the colourless spirit.
‘Magic brew? What sort of guff is that?’
Bulimia dropped her voice. ‘We’re not supposed to talk about it. It’s a secret. Oh what the hell. Look at what Algernon did to me last night.’ She pulled her top over head to reveal bruises that stretched from her stomach, disappeared beneath her bra and reappeared above her ample breasts.
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