‘You think he’s in communication with Rhys?’
‘Yes, but when I asked him he said, “Can’t tell. Promised.”’
‘He has to. This is important.’
‘So I gather. Eli, what’s going on? I messaged Aryel back – I wasn’t too worried at that point – and this is what she said.’ He spun his tablet round and swiped it awake. Eli saw a text panel with Aryel’s comcode, and the words NOT GOOD. Need to find him. Talk to Eli, don’t be overheard.
He looked back into the younger man’s anxious face.
‘What’s happened to Rhys?’ Callan demanded. ‘Is he in trouble? Is he ill?’
‘He’s—’ Eli stopped, squinted suspiciously around at the low, comfortable chairs, the curved wall with its panoramic view to one side and the ceiling with its ambient lighting and other unobtrusive panels and projections, and led the way out of the field and into a cramped corner away from the neurolinguistics lab. Callan followed, his worry palpably growing with every step.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Being paranoid, most likely.’ Eli kept his back to the room and sketched out what he had learned about the case, Rhys’ discoveries and their implications for Bel’Natur as well as for him. ‘Whoever’s behind this is ruthless as hell, and Sharon is hot on their heels. All thanks to Rhys. Sharon’s concerned about what the lawyer might have found out from Nance before he collapsed. Nance never knew about Rhys, but the lawyer was at the police station, he knows his way around the system, he might have picked up a rumour of him there. Not,’ he said quickly, as Callan’s eyes widened in alarm, ‘that it would serve any purpose whatsoever for anyone to want to harm Rhys. But it’s a new development that he doesn’t know about, and Aryel doesn’t like not knowing where he is, not with all this going on.’
‘Neither do I. And I don’t like us being here, either. Shouldn’t we be going?’
‘We can’t. If we suddenly packed up and went home it would prove that we think there’s a problem. Sharon says she and Mikal have a plan to get everyone safely out of this – including Rhys – but it’s only going to work if Zavcka believes that no one besides the two of them knows anything. So we have to keep a low profile, leave at the usual time, that kind of thing.’
‘Act like nothing’s wrong.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Eli, Rhys has uncovered a crime that could sink this company for good, put people in prison for the rest of their lives, and now he’s disappeared. Something is very wrong.’
‘He hasn’t disappeared if Herran knows where he is. But we’re going to have to get him to tell us, and we’re going to have to do it in a way that doesn’t raise any suspicions. Has Sevi noticed he’s acting strangely?’
‘She’s no fool, she must have done. But she’s also really wrapped up in this breakthrough they’ve made. I don’t get the sense that she’s focusing on anything else.’
‘Good. Let’s use that, then.’
They made their way back into the lab. Herran looked up from his tablet the moment they entered. Though his scarred face was as expressionless as ever, Eli noticed that he was blinking rapidly.
‘Okay, Herran?’
‘Okay.’ He did not sound it. Callan strolled over to him while Eli went to talk to Sevi. She was sitting in a huddle with two of her team, voices low but animated as they pored over the datastream outputs on the monitor screens around them.
He judged it best not to call her away and squatted down beside all of them instead, speaking softly. ‘Hey, Sevi. Mo, Kwame. All still looking really good, I take it? That’s fantastic. Listen, Callan’s been telling me he’s a bit concerned about Herran, have you noticed anything?’
They looked at each other. ‘He’s been more communicative than usual,’ Sevi said, just as quietly. ‘But also more – how would you put it, Kwame? Sort of impatient.’ The man nodded. ‘I worried whether we were asking him to do too much too fast – we’re all really excited today, you can tell – and he keeps saying he’s okay. But his reactions do seem a little off.’
‘Callan thinks so too. It might just be his way of sharing in the excitement, or maybe he is tired but doesn’t feel he can say so for some reason. It’s not easy for us to tell either, believe me. We’re going to take him out into the lounge for a few minutes, give him a change of scene and have a quiet chat. All right?’
‘Of course. Dr Walker, he’s been an absolute champion, what we’ve got today—’ The colour was high in her cheeks, and her eyes were shining with discovery. ‘We’ve unlocked it, I’m certain. If Herran wants to take a break for a few days he really shouldn’t feel badly about it. He’s given us so much to work with.’
‘I’ll make sure he understands that. Thank you, Sevi.’ He stood up, knees creaking. Thank you so very, very much, Sevi. You just gave us a way out. And I even believe you mean it.
*
They tried to lead him towards the far corner, but Herran headed straight for the chairs within the damper field and they had no choice but to follow. The little gem came to a stop in the middle of the field, blinked at the windows and their astonishing view, and then turned aside so it was out of his field of vision. He did his 180-degree whole-body swivel, looking from Eli on his left to Callan on his right.
‘Okay here. No bugs.’
Eli felt his mouth fall open in astonishment, saw the expression mirrored on Callan’s face. ‘How do you know?’
‘Checked. First day.’
Eli chuckled. ‘Herran, you are a wonder. That’s very good to know, thank you. But listen, there’s something else we need to ask you about.’
‘Rhys.’
‘Yes. Where is he, Herran?’
He looked from one to the other of them again. He was rocking and blinking and as close to agitated as Eli could imagine him. ‘Said wouldn’t tell. Rhys said don’t tell Callan, Callan will worry. Promised.’
‘Herran, it’s too late for me not to worry. I’m already worried.’
‘Worried,’ Herran repeated, and Eli realised with a jolt that he was talking about himself. ‘Rhys not answer. But said wouldn’t tell.’ He was rocking harder now. His fingers clenched and unclenched around the tablet.
‘I know you promised, Herran, but this is really important, sometimes promises—’ Eli broke off as Callan held up a hand to silence him.
‘No, that’s not going to work. We need to solve this on Herran’s terms. Herran, it was me Rhys didn’t want you to tell, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you promise not to tell Eli?’
‘No.’
‘And Eli didn’t promise anything, so he can tell me. Right?’
Herran blinked at him. Callan walked away, stepped outside the damper field and stood there with his back turned. Eli shook his head sharply and sank down onto one of the low seats. Herran sat opposite him, back straight and eyes wide.
‘Herran. Where is Rhys?’
‘Down below.’
‘Below where?’
‘Here.’ He realised Herran’s stubby forefinger was pointing between his feet, straight down at the floor. ‘Basement. Minus four.’
‘He’s in this building?’
‘In building. Minus four.’ Herran waggled the tablet. ‘Link good. But not answer.’
‘Why is he there? How did he get there?’
‘Find genetype. I help.’ He explained in his clipped, disjointed style, until Eli understood it well enough to call Callan back to them.
‘I’ve got to go and find him.’
‘One of us must. I’m not sure it should be you; they’re used to me poking around the building …’ But the mutinous look on Callan’s face told him that line of argument would get him nowhere. ‘Okay, fine. How do you get there, though? I thought I’d gone to every part of this building, and I had no idea that floor existed.’
‘How did Rhys get there?’
‘Stairs,’ Herran responded. He was completely sanguine now that Callan had heard the story from Eli, not from
him. ‘Hard to pass. Cams, beams, locks. Okay for Rhys, not okay for you. Take lift.’ His fingers flew across the tablet. ‘I make code.’
WINGS
Even her father could not have dreamt of this.
Acceleration pushes her back into creamy leather upholstery. Outside the engines rise from whine to bellow to roar, and there is a soft thump beneath her feet as the executive jet leaves the ground. She barely feels it, barely hears it. She has eyes only for the image that rotates on the screen of her tablet.
It is an anatomical rendering only, but it is enough. She squints at the complex articulation of the shoulders, the angled planes of bone where powerful muscles connect and contract. The musculature itself is amazing, interweaving and overlapping across the back, the neck, the chest. The schematic flexes, showing how the systems are isolated, each pair of limbs acting independently of the others.
She admits now that she had given little credence to the claims Jonah extracted. There are no six-limbed vertebrates. There is no template, no genetic framework on which to hang such a creature, no model outside of myth. The building blocks do not exist. She had expected at best a malformed, monstrous thing. But this thing is perfect.
They were right to keep it a secret, she thinks, and wonders if she is going soft. Patience has never been her virtue, and they made her wait. But it would have been too easy for word to filter out via assistants and infostreams. Even now details are sketchy; the file was sent only after Jonah had assured Panborn they were on their way, and the illustration is not a photograph. But they will be there soon enough, and there will be no further need of proof.
She glances at him, sitting opposite her across the polished bioplastic of the table, staring at his own tablet as though thunderstruck. He feels the gaze and looks up. She raises an eyebrow, a small indicator of her own amazement. He shrugs massively, hands spread, as if to say: Who could ever have imagined?
Indeed.
Six limbs. A pair of arms, a pair of legs and a pair of wings.
It is almost enough to rekindle her sense of wonder.
28
It was, Rhys thought, like that ancient story of a ship inexplicably abandoned, with sign of neither struggle nor madness; everything left just so, as though the inhabitants might return at any moment. To be sure, some rooms had the cold hollowness of spaces surplus to requirements and long ago emptied out, but most were well stocked and tidy, and scrupulously clean.
There was a succession of laboratories, each with a purpose he recognised. Here was where the modelling would have been done, the virtual selection of sequences, the datastream shuffle and splice preparatory to the manipulation of actual molecules. The researchers had only to step across the hall to deliver their projections to colleagues in charge of doing that molecular excision and reassembly for real; he moved down the banks of equipment, checking off sequencers and centrifuges, thermocyclers and spectrophotometers. At the back of the room he found the cold storage necessary for genestock, checked the labels on a few of the tiny vials, and nodded to himself in satisfaction.
In the next room along, the wet work: microscopes and microsurgical equipment for the incorporation of engineered genomes into living gametes, incubation trays for nurturing newly created embryos, more tissue storage. Ova only, he noticed, all identically labelled. A single donor? He moved on, stuck his head inside a bright white room. The examination table with its stirrups and restraints, the neatly racked specula and ranks of pipettes, told the next chapter in the story. Implantation, involuntary. He shuddered and ducked out, still chasing the elusive scent.
He found a kitchen with fresh milk in the fridge, half a loaf of bread, fruit in a bowl on the countertop. Next to that and strangest of all: a room full of gaily coloured mats and cushions, soft toys and bright bioplastic construction blocks. A rugged, rudimentary tablet, loaded with picture books and nursery rhymes, left on a low table next to a bed. Its coverlet was starred with orange-petalled daisies, between which full-throated bluebirds appeared to twitter a silent song. Is this a crèche? But there was only the one bed, and although narrow it was sized for an adult, not a child.
Where’s the dorm? There must be space for surrogates, and a birthing room, and a nursery. They wouldn’t need a crèche for toddlers yet, surely, the stock wasn’t stolen long enough ago. Maybe not the nursery either. But if they’re doing the implantations here they’d need the rest of it. You wouldn’t risk bringing them in just to smuggle them right back out again.
He stood in the corridor and turned in a slow circle, testing the air, straining his senses to the limit. Still no hint of another human moving anywhere nearby, but he thought he caught a sound this time; something so faint he could not be entirely sure he wasn’t imagining it, a hissing pulse on the edge of even his hearing. A few steps in that direction and both the sound and scent seemed stronger. He headed along the passage, calculating as he went. How many people would it take to staff this operation, when it was at full flow?
Depends on how many surrogates, but you wouldn’t need more than a handful to do the science. Four maybe? Six?
Where are they?
What the hell is that sound?
It led him to a side passage that ran back towards the lifts, and the door of a room that he was certain, the moment he rested his hand against the touchpanel, held a living person. There were low, slow breaths beneath that pulsing hiss, and a hint of human warmth and musk mingled with the unpleasant clinical smell. Beyond that he could read nothing, but he knew what the sound and the smell were now. He pressed the panel, and the door slid back.
The room he stepped into could have been in the hospital where he had awoken just the day before; but a critical-care suite, not the homely facility for ambulatory patients in which he had stayed. A vital-signs monitor and life-support unit throbbed against the wall in the barely audible rhythm that had led him here. Tubes disappeared under the blankets of an articulated bed in the centre of the room, delivering hydration and nutrition, and drugs too, no doubt, and collecting waste. Though sealed and sterile, the aroma of illness still hung over the equipment; a whiff of intimacies exposed, of incapacity and despair.
On the bed was a girl.
He moved silently to stand beside her, and felt the breath go out of him.
She was young; certainly no older than himself, he thought, though it was hard to be sure. Her face had been burned, badly but not recently. The melted flesh had long since fused, set and gone pale. The scarring ran down the side of her neck, spread across the patch of shoulder he could see, and disappeared beneath the light blanket that covered her body. Her undamaged skin was the same warm brown as his own; the fuzz of hair covering her scalp glowed the same ruby red.
He knew, with a sick certainty that turned his stomach over and made his head swim, that if she were to open her eyes they would be the same midnight blue.
Though her breathing was regular and deep, there was something in the girl’s stillness that told him this would not happen, that her tranquillity was not that of normal sleep. Sensor pads dotted her skull and chest, and a slim clip on her nose held the faintly hissing oxygen supply in place. But these were not what shocked him most.
It was the swelling low down on her torso, pushing the blanket up into a round flannel hill that he suddenly wanted to touch, to rest his hands against as though giving or receiving a blessing: the unmistakable bulge of a woman in the late stages of pregnancy.
*
There was a pair of chattering office girls in the lift, who fell silent but smiled politely when Callan entered it. He smiled back, and pressed the button for the canteen: the only floor, apart from the lobby and exit, that he had legitimate reason to visit. He could feel them eyeing him up, bursting with the giggles and gossip that he knew would include him the moment they were safely out of earshot. The taller of the two, pale and freckled with elaborately curled ginger tresses, kept having to pull her eyes away from his hair: glowing, flame-red, tousled and in need of a cut.
>
Carelessly sexy, that was what Rhys had called it. He’d come up with the line that first morning, as they lay in bed and he combed through it with his long, clever brown fingers.
What makes you think it’s careless? Capturing the fingers, kissing them, while Rhys laughed.
So it was part of your plan, was it, to seduce me with your beautiful hair?
Whatever works.
Callan felt the breath catch in his throat at the memory, felt his own fingers flex as though caressing silky skin, heard his exhalation turn into something close to a moan. A rush of warmth at his groin. This would not do at all, not now, not here. He shook himself and ran deliberately rough hands back through the mane of hair: clearing it away from his face, clearing the image of Rhys laughing amid a tangle of sheets, clearing his head. Across the lift the girls exchanged glances.
They got off two floors above the canteen, much to his relief. If they had still been there when the doors opened he would have had to disembark, pretend he had actually come for something, wait for another lift and try again. As it was, the moment the doors closed on their whispers and backward glances he stepped up to the control panel and rapidly pressed floor numbers in the sequence that Herran had instructed and he had memorised.
*
The lift descended, not stopping at any floors though all the buttons were now lit. It shot past the canteen, where Bruce Dunmore waited. He was idly watching the numbers on the inset panels count down and up, the better to plant himself before the sliding doors most likely to open for him, and he came alert as a down count flicked past that floor without pausing. He glanced at the waiting passengers, wondering if anyone else had noticed. If they had they made no sign. The doors of another carriage slid open almost immediately, and they piled into it without complaint.
His own arrived and he stepped inside, thoughtful. He was the only one in it and he glanced up at the ceiling, towards the executive suite to which he had been summoned, and considered changing direction. There were only two lifts that ran the full length of the building, from top floor to lowest basement, and this just happened to be the other one. He could short-circuit the cryptic message that would no doubt be waiting for him, redirecting him to meet her below stairs instead, and just go directly there. But Zavcka Klist had told him to come to her office, and she disliked presumption. Best to stick to the script, collect the message, retrace his steps. He let go of the tiny key he had been fingering in his pocket, the one that would override the other controls and send the lift straight down to the hidden floor. Follow orders, put up with Herself’s idiosyncrasies, collect the reward. The reward in this case would be well worth it.
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