by JT Lawrence
“No. It was here when I arrived. Wrapped in a ribbon.”
“Weird,” says Jasmine.
“From one of your many admirers, I’m sure.” Seth takes off the cat’s shabby old collar and replaces it with the beautiful new one; blue suede with silver eyelets. “Now I’m wishing I’d thought of it first.”
“Ha.”
“But … I do have something for you.” He pulls a small round tin out of his pocket.
“Ah, you’re a gem. Thank you.” She puts it on the counter next to an arrangement of charcoal magnolia-morph blooms.
Chairman Miaow pads over to his auto-feed contraption and presses the lever. It turns a cog which moves a belt, and the scoop is released, tipping a tablespoon of cat pellets into his copper bowl.
“I was worried,” Seth says, watching Miaow munch away. “You disappeared off the radar after bumping me about bail.”
He draws Jasmine towards him, and begins unbuttoning the back of her dress, nuzzling her shoulder.
“That escalated quickly,” she says, half-joking, half floored by desire. The sensation of his lips on her skin sends a hot velvet current zipping through her.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
“I don’t want to hear that,” she says.
“More importantly,” he says, “You’re a genius. And that’s as sexy as fuck.”
Jasmine lets her dress fall to the floor. Her nipples are hard against the synthsilk of her bra.
“Go on.”
He kisses the inked lilies, the orchids, the falling petals of a plump black dahlia that turn into clock numerals on her pale skin.
“I don’t know anyone as smart as you.”
His grip is firm, and Jasmine’s pelvis starts to throb.
“That kind of goes without saying.”
He kisses her neck and the warmth flows through her, flushing her cheeks and dilating her pupils. His hand travels down her abdomen and slips under the elastic of her panties. He finds her bud and teases her in slow motion.
Jasmine luxuriates in his perfect touch, and lets out a long sigh.
Seth goes a little harder, a little faster. “If I could have just have a fraction of your talent, I’d be happy.”
“You’re just as gifted as I am,” says Jasmine, her body melting under him, her breathing becoming ragged. “And I for one am very grateful … to be on the receiving end of your talents.”
* * *
Afterwards they lie, spent, on Jasmine’s fold out bed.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Oh, believe me, it was my pleasure,” says Seth, trailing a finger along her tattooed back.
“I’m not talking about the sex,” says Jasmine. “Although … it was pretty good.”
“Only pretty good? My performance must be slipping.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
He bites her shoulder.
“My god, you’re delicious.”
“I meant, thank you for tipping the cops off about me.”
Chapter 5
Emerald Irises Flare
Jasmine hops off the tuktuk at Tabula Rasa. A beautiful young woman with ebony skin and mirror braids is waiting for her on the steps.
“I’m Neo,” she says, looking Jasmine up and down, hands hidden in the pockets of her white faux-snakeskin lab coat.
“Jasmine.”
“I’ve been assigned to you,” says Neo. She doesn’t seem very happy about it.
“Sorry?”
“Teach you the ropes.”
“Does Barnaby make a habit of collecting miscreants?” asks Jasmine.
Neo pulls her left sleeve down, covering the PLC barcode tattoo on her wrist. Jasmine would recognise a penal labour colony tattoo anywhere. Neo’s still on some kind of probation, or she would have had that ink removed. Her mentor is obviously not a Surro candidate, either.
“I’m fresh from the slammer, too,” says Jasmine. “What were you in for?”
Neo’s emerald irises flare. “We don’t discuss that here.”
* * *
Neo leads Jasmine into the clinic building reception which is plush and crowded with large furniture, impractical cushions, magazine tiles, tiered trays of rainbow macarons and edi-glitter petit fours. A golden beacon of a carpet that makes jasmine think of the yellow brick road. Deep red orchid stems, roses and dahlias crowd a liquid mercury glass bowl. An antique silver bucket filled with real ice drips condensation onto its starched napkin. Two large glass bottles of Anahita water chill inside, and polished crystal champagne flutes wait on a tray nearby. Jasmine hasn’t had anything to drink since before she was arrested. She plucks a cube of ice from the bucket as they walk past and pops it into her mouth. The receptionist clears his throat, making Jasmine jump.
“I didn’t see you there,” she mumbles past the ice-cube melting in her mouth.
The man purses his lips in disapproval. His glare is piercing; it’s as if he can see that she has no place here.
“If you add a teaspoon of bleach to that bowl those flowers will last longer,” says Jasmine.
Most people are oblivious to the myriad uses of sodium hypochlorite.
Jasmine’s totally qualified to tend to the flowers in here. The client’s faces: not so much.
Is an imposter still an imposter if she was invited to impose?
* * *
Once they reach the treatment wing, Neo and Jasmine peel off into a vacant room and Neo begins her orientation speech. No perfume, no piercings, no pinging. Flu vax stickers are mandatory, as are regular hand sprays and neutrabreath lozenges (they recommend Bonbon Cinnamon). No drugs or heavy make-up. Bright lipstick is fine. Wear your white coat at all times. Jasmine’s invited to choose a coat of her choice from over a hundred different designs. All white, all calf-length, but each with individual bespoke details. Jasmine chooses one with a chrysanthemum illustration on the back, and Ming porcelain beads for buttons.
“You’ll start with performing lightning facials and nano-lipo treatments,” says Neo. “Once you’re adept at sucking fat out of bored housewives’ thighs we’ll train you to do the more … complicated treatments.”
Chapter 6
Gold Kidneys and a Melted Heart
“Our most exclusive fat reduction treatment is the Gold NanoLipo Curve.”
“That’s a mouthful,” says Jasmine.
“So, how it works is you inject the suspended gold nanoparticles into the fat cells, and then you use this laser,” Neo shows her what looks like a smooth flashlight that pulses red, “to heat them up, and they melt the fat.”
“Got it.”
“So: anaesthetic sweep, inject, laser. You need to think like an artist and sculpt the shape. It’s not just about weight loss. It’s about creating the right curves.”
“I can do that.”
“It’s also a good time to up-sell. A full body Swedish, a citric acid exfoliation. If they’re willing to pay for the Gold Curve then chances are they have pretty deep pockets. Hell, if they’re clients here then they’ve obviously got money to burn. Also, sign them up for a maintenance program. That way you score extra commission and make them feel you care about them at the same time. Two birds, one stone.”
“Okay. Maintenance program. Got it.”
“Good, because your ten hundred has arrived. You can collect her from reception.”
“Already?”
“What? You need a toilet break?”
“No, I just …”
“Barnaby told me you’re an extremely competent and experienced therapist.”
“Um. She may have overstated that.”
In truth Jasmine had only had three clients, nabbed from her classified ad on the MarXet. She’d laser-targeted them by selecting extreme couponers interested in cosmetic surgery and then lured them with bargain basement prices and a fake professional profile on CorpLink.
“I’m only kidding,” Neo says, without smiling. “You’re a bright green intern. You’re practically fucking g
lowing. Do you really think we’d let you near clients on your first day?”
“Oh thank the Net,” says Jasmine, hand on her chest.
“You could kill someone, you know. By injecting the wrong amount of gold, or by injecting it into the wrong place.”
Jasmine imagines organs filled with gold. Gold kidneys and a melted heart.
“You’ll be my shadow until I’m certain you’re capable.” Neo gestures that Jasmine follow her to reception. “Well, come on. What are you waiting for?”
* * *
Jasmine watches as Neo injects and lasers, injects and lasers, as if she really is a sculptor. The treatment takes ninety minutes, then the client agrees to a dermapeel and microblading. Jasmine is dispatched to gather the materials needed from the supply room.
“I don’t have supply room privileges yet,” she says, so Neo hands over her lanyard with her DNA chipcard. Before Jasmine leaves, she tidies away the used implements and picks up Neo’s empty Tethys water bottle, gesturing that she’ll throw it in the recyc for her. She walks towards the back of the building, passing treatment rooms, the sauna, the steam room, and the Lixair chamber. She uses Neo’s card to open the supply room door.
It’s a large space, packed floor to ceiling with smart glass boxes. She picks up the small steel shopping basket and clears her throat.
“Carbolix Mandarin Skin Peel,” she says, and a container on her right flashes with a green light. She opens the box and retrieves the kit, placing it in her basket. When she snaps the lid back onto the smart box, it beeps red: low stock, replacements ordered.
“Soothe It Gel Silk.” This time she has to climb a ladder to reach the top row on her left.
“Magnesium Mask.”
While she’s collecting the last of the supplies from the lowest row at the back, Jasmine catches sight of the securolock fridges.
Brushed metal, no handles, with a Caution! decal on the front, branded with a large red and white biohazard symbol. Nothing excites Jasmine more than a bold warning sticker. It’s exactly what she’s been looking for.
* * *
She knows better than to just try to wrench open the door. It would in all probability be booby-trapped with some kind of silent alarm and she’d be nabbed immediately, or worse. Instead, she takes Seth’s small round tin out of her pocket and pulls the silicone clay out of it, then holds up Neo’s empty water bottle and searches the surface for the best fingerprint she can find. She lifts it with the clay, then holds the newly molded silicone thumb along with the chipcard up to the bioprint scanner. There’s a soft hiss as the suction is released, and the door pops open.
Yes.
While she’s at it, she uses her—technically illegal—Klone app to copy the chipcard’s DNA onto her snakewatch. She’s sure it’ll come in handy. Jasmine scans the rows of chilled vials as quickly as she can. Neo will be missing her soon.
VitaMAX. Colostrum Concentrate. Dermazip. eLixpray.
And then she sees it. SkinneRenew Serum. There are only three vials of it. If she steals one it won’t go unnoticed. They’ll know she was in here and realise she’s the one who took it. But she won’t have this opportunity again, so she reaches out and takes one, and slips it quickly into her pocket.
Her heart is thudding hard, and white noise rustles in her ears.
You’d think you’d get used to this kind of thing, she thinks, but it doesn’t slow the hammering in her chest.
Jasmine closes the fridge door, careful to use the fabric of her coat as a glove. The fridge beeps red: low stock, replacements ordered.
Shit, she thinks, and then changes her mind. If more stock has been ordered it means she’ll get to find out who their supplier is. Jasmine picks up the small silver basket and leaves the room. As she hurries she almost runs smack into Neo.
“Oh!” she says, trying to look less flustered.
“Cool it, newbie,” says Neo, frowning. “What took you so long?”
Jasmine can feel the prickle of perspiration on her face.
“I—”
“Never mind,” says Neo, grabbing the basket from her. “Just hurry up. Mrs Mantashe is ready to be peeled.”
Chapter 7
Locker Room Rumour
“Darling,” Jasmine says into her watch.
“Jassy!” says Keke. “How the hell are you?”
“I’ve had a good week so far.”
“Spill!”
“I was arrested.”
“Shut the front door! Hang on, I’m going to pull over.”
Jasmine hears Keke’s motorbike slow down and come to a stop. She pictures her on the hot, shimmering tarmac, leaning on the sexy bike, speaking into her new inflatable helmet.
“Congratulations,” says Keke, a little out of breath. “Was it your first time?”
“Hardly.”
“You need bail? A lawyer? An intimate massage?”
“No, but I did think you’d be interested to know that your locker-room rumour proved to be true.”
“You didn’t!” shouts Keke. “You’re crazy!”
Jasmine moves her watch away from her ear. Keke’s never been good at volume control.
“Of course I did. You can’t tell me that kind of story and expect me to NOT act on it.”
“You little sneak. You’re amazing. Tell me everything.”
“Well, basically, your lead panned out.”
“No way,” says Keke.
“I did some bootlegs and got picked up, exactly like you said I would.”
“The mo-fos hired you.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re basically a biopunk truther who is posing as a florist who is posing as a cosmetician.”
“Yip.”
“Ha! That’s fucking beautiful.”
“What can I say? I’m a woman of much depth and many talents.”
“Oh yes, you are. I’m just picturing you now …”
“Wait, are we having phone sex? I feel unprepared.”
“I’m picturing you in your greenhouse, surrounded by your mad burgeoning garden, with all your steampunk tattoo goodness, your beehive, your steel heels. You’re holding a dangerously sharp needle and syringe, ready to inject some poor vain vacuous client full of god knows what. Under your lab coat you’re wearing that whale-bone corset that I like so much, and those tiny panties. The copper ones, with the rivet detail. And you’ve got your pale make-up on and your perfect teeth, and a wide blood-lipstick smile.”
“Ja, that’s pretty much what the situation is like right now. I may have reached my zenith. Could anyone aspire to more than this?”
“You’re like a … what phrase am I looking for? You’re like a Stepford Florist.”
Jasmine laughs out loud.
“Except, instead of being a robot inside, your cogs are on the outside, on your skin. And inside, you’re you. The real you.”
“I like that. I think I’ll use that as my next avatar.”
“And now you’re going to try find those vials I told you about. It won’t be easy.”
“I have one in my pocket.”
“Liar!”
“I’m on my way to HQ have it tested. I’ll let you know.”
“If you’re going to give me the scoop, you need to let me know how I can help. I can’t just have it dropping in my lap.”
“It’ll be dropping in your SkyBox. Is your link still the same?”
“It is,” says Keke.
“And you don’t know me, right?”
“Never heard of you. No idea where the leads came from. Nada, nowhere, no one.”
“Totally anon.”
“Of course! But let me help.”
“If I need help, I’ll call you.”
“Call me anyway. I want to see you.”
Chapter 8
Pollen&Pistils
When Jasmine reaches the florist façade at 19:40 it’s still open. The signage is street art: ‘Pollen&Pistils’. The ampersand is white and has a neon pink glow.
&n
bsp; “You’re working late,” Jasmine says to the woman behind the counter, a young health-goth emo with a half-shaved head and sharp earrings.
“Our regular florist is busy with another job and our boss is a real slave driver,” says Kale.
Jasmine laughs. “I’ll be back at work before you know it, then you can go back to your life of frozen soyshakes and RPG.”
The woman whispers: “Seriously, I haven’t worked this hard since the Slimonade case. I didn’t realise how much actual business Pollen did. I thought it was supposed to be a cover. People keep coming in and wanting to, like, actually buy things.”
“It wouldn’t work as a cover if we didn’t have real customers.”
“Argh.”
“Plus, we need the money! Who do you think pays for that terrible coffee inside?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe you freegan it.”
Jasmine blinks at her. “What?”
“You know, freeganism?”
“You mean dumpster diving outside supermarkets?” asks Jasmine.
“To put it bluntly, yes.”
“Wait. You think I dumpster dive for expired coffee beans.”
“That’s what it tastes like.”
“God, the youth of today,” says Jasmine. “So bloody entitled.”
“Aren’t we, like, the same age?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is, then, oh Wise One?”
“You don’t know how lucky you are. You’re young, you’re woke, and you’re surrounded by beautiful flowers.”
Kale sneezes three times in a row. “Don’t remind me.”
Her sneezing reminds Jasmine to keep working on splicing the apple blossom pollen with the natural histamine-inhibiting stinging nettle to relieve the hay fever effects. If it works, she can roll it out to her cut flowers, and it would allow them to access a whole new market.