Falling

by Debbie Moon

  By the time she passed the imposing front doors of Block 22, the jeering Volunteers had fallen silent.

  She’d broken the law by now, covered more than 125 yards, but there was no one around to bother her, and she wanted to leave no room for doubt or denial. If she walked to the next entrance, two stops from her starting place, she’d have covered an indisputable 200 yards, and she could ride back home in triumph, past the chastened gang members.

  She should issue a challenge of her own as she passed. Get something in before they had a chance to belittle her achievements, turn the tables –

  Fingers closed around Jude’s upper arm. Her feet went out from under her as hands clawed her into a recessed doorway.

  She fought upright, kicking out against shadows, consumed by panic. Adult-self thinking: face it, stray pre-pubescents got raped to death in alleys without the residents batting a eyelid even on ordinary nights, and out alone on Frost Night she was just asking for it, didn’t have a chance –

  As a hand tried to clamp an inhaler mask on her face, she pushed sideways in the suffocating grip. It loosened, very slightly. Not enough to get free, but this was only stage one. Panic overcoming all thoughts of dental hygiene, she leant forward and bit down hard on the thin, ulcerated wrist.

  The skin broke. Someone screamed like a kicked cat and, gagging, Jude wormed free and ran for her life.

  The mask clattered out onto the pavement in front of her, and she had the presence of mind to kick it away, into the decorative border of litter edging the SideRide track. Black market clinics would fill those with anything you asked for: sedatives, muscle relaxants, will suppressants, whatever fell off the back of a military truck this week.

  She didn’t stop to look back until she reached the steps of the next SideRide entrance.

  The doorway was empty.

  Breathing hard, Jude trudged up the steps to safety.

  ‘Looks to me, young lady,’ said the woman on the opposite track, ‘like you’ve had rather a fright.’

  Jude looked up at her.

  She was about thirty, but since regening had really started to take off, you couldn’t rely on that. Smartly dressed, too; silk overcoat and real leather shoes, too smart for the Bankside. Which meant she was police. Or an educational investigator. Maybe a God-squad type, the sort her mother had trained her never to open the door to.

  Any of which meant trouble. But she was on the southbound track, exactly where Jude needed to be. No way home without riding along behind her. And Jude didn’t really feel like hanging around out here, not any more.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. Stepping onto the nearer track, the northbound one. Dawdling as she crossed it, so the relative motion of the tracks put some distance between them.

  But the moment she stepped aboard, some fifteen feet behind her interrogator, the woman turned, weight poised on one foot like a model, and asked indulgently, ‘Of course, your mother knows you’re out?’

  ‘Been to see my dad.’ Pulling a wry face, she added, ‘Access visit.’

  That usually shut adults up. She’d discovered early on that they all hated talking about absentee parents, usually with a vehemence in inverse proportion to how many they actually knew.

  But Miss Leather Shoes and Matching Handbag wasn’t giving up.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘I should walk you back to your apartment. Check you get home all right.’ She smiled, as if they were about to share a secret. ‘I don’t have to tell your mother anything if you don’t want me to. If you’d rather not scare her. I can just come to the door.’

  ‘Well,’ Jude said slowly, as if thinking it through. ‘I don’t know. There’s been a lot of robberies around here recently. I mean, they won’t touch me, they can see I’ve got nothing to steal. But you… I think you should stay on the SideRide. The security cameras, you see. They won’t try anything as long as you stay on the SideRide.’

  Twenty yards to her stop. The SideRide seemed to be slowing down, time stretching to prolong her agonies. She could have walked faster, let alone run. How had she ever put up with this? How had anyone?

  The woman smiled and snapped open the clasp of her handbag. One gloved hand dipping in, precise, exact, a movement she’d rehearsed a thousand times. ‘Well, you’re probably right. But why don’t you take my Z gas spray, just in case?’

  Jude was watching her hand. Closing around something much bigger than the lipstick-sized spray canister. Drawing it out of the bag, into the light. Metal. An immaculate curve of grey metal –

  Jude threw herself face down on the rubber track, and the first round took out the shelter behind her in an apocalyptic shower of glass.

  No time to think, no time for adult-self to intervene. Pure instinct was running the show. Pushing hard against the track, Jude rolled backwards. Over the raised edge of the track and off, down the steps of her stop. They weren’t quite level yet, and she cracked her ankle against the archway pillar. The impact swung her round, from parallel to head-first, just as the second round punched into the step beside her head. Shredded concrete lacerated her face.

  Rolling upright, Jude ran.

  No, adult-self was screaming; you’re an easy target, running. Get under the track. A child will fit down there. You’ve done it before. Make her get off and search for you.

  Too late. Jude the Older And Wiser could have taken control, changed child-self’s mind. That was the whole point of ReTracing. But she was already most of the way to Block 24 –

  And the woman wasn’t shooting at her any more.

  Colliding with the outer doors, Jude screamed her entry code and jackknifed flat against the wall, making the most of the limited cover.

  No shots, no noise, no following footsteps.

  What the hell was happening here?

  The code finally verified, the doors clicked open, and Jude hurled herself through, using her weight to force the door closed as fast as possible. Bulletproof glass, the advertisement claimed. Perfect safety in the Prescott development.

  Unless you happened to be Jude DiMortimer, obviously.

  The street outside was empty.

  Her breathing had almost stabilised. Pressing her shaking hands to the cold glass as if that would steady them, Jude scanned the long glass corridor of the SideRide.

  The woman had disappeared.

  Off the other side and into the alleys, obviously. Who’d rely on the SideRide as a getaway vehicle? Yup, that had to be it, because obviously, people don’t just disappear…

  Over in Block 23, Lazy Jay had closed his bedroom window. He was just standing there now, looking at her like she’d grown horns. She couldn’t decide if he was scared, or impressed, or jealous.

  She tipped him a cheery salute – her hands didn’t shake as badly as she’d expected, from that distance he probably couldn’t tell – and turned away.

  At least – all other things being equal – she was going to wake up in a body without a crooked nose.

  I wonder what Fitch is going to make of that?

  The door to the apartment still creaked.

  Of course it did, she told herself, taking the weight with one bruised arm as she slipped through the gap. It creaked until the day they threw us out in preparation for the redevelopment that never happened. Probably still does.

  And yet it surprised her still; the familiar two-tone creak, the flicker of the TV, the way her mother’s hair fell across her face as she dozed in the armchair, legs drawn up to her chest to protect herself from unseen enemies. Her adult-self ached to rush across the room and curl up in the last remaining inches of chair seat, cradled between her mother’s cotton nightdress and the tatty velvet cushions.

  But she knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Her mother would wake and hustle her off to bed, muttering darkly about clingy children and the terrible fates that awaited them in the world. And even if she didn’t, everything would all turn out the same in the end. If there was anything she could ReTrace to that would change that inevitable parti
ng, she hadn’t found it yet, and she certainly wouldn’t find it here.

  Tiptoeing through the ripples of light the TV cast on the grey carpet, she passed behind her mother’s chair and into the open bedroom doorway.

  The nightlight was still on, glowing green like some alien entity come to haunt her dreams. She’d never liked it, but her mother seemed to think nightlights were somehow necessary, and she’d been too embarrassed to confess her fears.

  In the underwater glow, her mother’s unmade bed loomed, filling most of the room. She had to climb over it to reach her own – which meant taking off her shoes and replacing them in the right spot on the rack, trying not to drop mud on the carpet. Not that anyone would notice, the state it was currently in.

  Clothes off, nightdress on; three or four well-rehearsed movements, the routine of a child who went through this secret ritual almost every night. Then cold sheets and traces of lavender scent on the pillow, squeezing her eyes tight shut as she heard a long yawn from the next room.

  It was a game. She hadn’t realised that until years later. Her mother, too proud to admit her failure, curled up in that chair every night, waiting to feign sleep so she didn’t have to issue scoldings that wouldn’t be heeded and orders that Jude would ignore. Keeping the peace, saving face.

  As her mother’s silhouette loomed in the doorway, Jude opened her eyes and said, ‘Do you ever worry about me?’

  Her mother tensed visibly, suddenly faced with things she’d kept at the edges of her vision for so long.

  ‘That someone might be out to get me?’

  A slow breath, and the silhouette settled on the edge of the larger bed. ‘Someone at school, you mean?’

  But there was concern in her voice and Jude was in no mood to keep up the child pretence. ‘Someone. Anyone. Maybe someone from the government. Someone who knows that I’m different.’

  Her mother’s fingers touched her mouth, quick and hard, as if she could force the words back in somehow. ‘You’re not different. We’ve talked about this –’

  Oh yes. I remember those conversations; and the crying myself to sleep afterwards, wondering why she couldn’t see the obvious…

  ‘And I’ve told you. They’re just memories, fantasies, games you play inside your head. You’re not different.’

  ‘Because if I was, everything would change, wouldn’t it?’

  The silhouette straightened abruptly. ‘If you keep this up, things will definitely change, I’ll tell you that for nothing. If they find out you tell these ridiculous stories. They’ll take you away and give you drugs to sort your head out.‘

  ‘They’ll take me away because I have an ability that very few children have. Today, tomorrow –’

  Don’t tell her, you can’t change it, you can’t take the risk.

  ‘Whenever. It’s going to happen.’

  Her mother stumbled back a step, fell against the bed, and crumpled onto it, breathing hard. ‘Is that what you think? Is that what you want?’

  ‘No.’ She meant it, she’d always meant it, but the words came out flat and accusing, and her mother turned away. ‘But it’s what I get. I’m sorry. But I have to know if there’s anyone who knows – and who’d want to kill me because of it.’

  There. Cover blown. Better hope this never gets back to Warner…

  Her mother pressed her hand to her forehead for a moment, as if suddenly afraid her skull was splitting and everything was going to come tumbling out.

  ‘You’re doing it now, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Mum –’

  ‘I told you, you mustn’t. You can’t keep doing this. They’ll find out about you, and then you know what will happen.’

  Something tugged at the edges of Jude’s consciousness, dragging her unwillingly towards the inevitable future.

  ‘I’m sorry. Mum.’

  And the nightlight glow expanded to fill the room, and everything was gone.

  Oh God, no.

  Still falling.

  FOUR

  Morphotech Offices, three months ago

  And there she was, standing outside the shiny office block, looking up at the garish ‘before and after’ pictures pasted in the cracked, dirty upper windows, and thinking, It would be so easy.

  The sun was shining, though the sky to the west was still streaked with grey, and fledgling rock-pools were forming among the broken paving stones. It was strangely quiet. The rain had driven the respectable citizens of Monopolist’s Wharf back to the offices where they’d once worked and now squatted, dreaming of lost grandeur. The less respectable had simply moved on, seeking shelter in the down-market pubs and cafes in adjoining streets. Here, among the glistening and battered skyscrapers, monuments to another, inscrutable age, Jude was all but alone.

  Thinking exactly what she’d thought the first time.

  I only need to sign the paperwork.

  No one can stop you, not after you’ve signed. Not the police, not Warner, not even you yourself. No going back. I mean, why bother? If you decide you don’t like it, it only takes another 48 hours to change back.

  Leaning her full weight against the door, an intricate design of steel and glass, Jude eased it open.

  They’d done the place up nicely. Knew what their customers wanted. A little class, a little taste of how things used to be down here, before commerce went green and moved out to the Hursts, and greed fell, yet again, out of fashion.

  Dim lighting with spotlights picking up carefully placed plants or display boards; the reception desk neatly repaired, the carpets relatively clean. A hand-painted sign over the brass plaque that would have identified the building’s original function (and owners): MORPHOTECH INDUSTRIES in big gold letters, solid and reassuring. PURVEYORS OF BIOTECHING SERVICES FOR OVER A DECADE.

  The ‘classy operation’ act was obviously working. They had customers, even in this weather. She’d never been in anywhere upmarket, but she’d gone window shopping with friends in the cheaper, backstreet places, and she knew all the customer types by sight.

  The old man and the fidgety woman hovering around the displays nearest to the doors. They’d be the loiterers. Timewasters, in out of the rain. And the kids. A couple of eight-year-old music fans in Prissy Boy T-shirts, far too young to buy, waiting to see if someone would take their eyes off their wallet before security got round to throwing them out.

  There’d also be – yes, there in the shadows – a single, scowling figure waiting for the crowds to dissipate so he could enquire about the availability and/or legality of some dubious alteration. This time it was a young dark-haired man with purple eyes. Eyes right out of a jar. He’d probably be accommodated. They almost always were. People tended to overestimate how original and daring their cherished fantasies actually were.

  And then, the real customers. Three girls in short skirts arguing over the shape of a mannequin’s nose as they shuffled and smirked. An old woman taking a seat in a consulting room, smoothing her red dress with prim and wrinkled hands.

  And Jude. Standing at the reception desk, twisting the strap of her shoulder bag nervously between her fingers, trying to look no more or less nervous than the real customers.

  I could walk out of here as anything. Anyone. Warner would probably never even find me.

  Is that why I’ve come back here? Is that what’s necessary to stop myself going skydiving without a parachute in a few months time?

  But regening can, quite accidentally, damage the genetic accident that gives us our abilities – and if I lose the ability to ReTrace, how will I get back to my present?

  Too many questions. Just go with your past and see what happens.

  She cleared her throat meaningfully.

  The slim, dark-eyed man at the desk looked up with a smile that could have come straight from their catalogue – no. 17, Trustworthy Public Servant. ‘Madam. May I be of some assistance?’

  Jude shrugged. Muffled in the neatly buttoned wool coat, the pleated skirt, the trappings of respectability, she fo
und that guilty indecision came easily to her. ‘I was thinking of making a few alterations.’

  ‘But of course,’ the young man said, taking a moment to straighten his ill-fitting jacket as he stood up. ‘Would madam care to step into a consultation room to discuss her requirements?’

  Same room as before. Old executive office, salvaged furnishings and a desk laden with catalogues. She paused to scan the titles. Eyes, ears, noses; limbs, upper and lower. Same gentle slant of light through the dirty glass as she hung her coat on the single hook behind the door, registered how cold it was, and regretted it. The receptionist clearing his throat in that same nervous fashion as he joined her, a slab of paperwork under one arm.

  Same, same, same.

  Why have I come back here?

  This was a routine job. Emma DiFlorian went missing. Everyone worried for a while. Someone saw a woman of a different racial type who looked exactly like her, then lost her in the backstreets of the theatre district. Recent paperwork was pored over. An Emily DiFlorian was found to have checked into Morphotech twelve days previously for a complete re-gening. The catalogue pages and photographs of strangers that the surgeon had worked from were still attached to the paperwork, features she’d been interested in ringed or indicated by arrows in smudged red ink.

  Leaving your job wasn’t illegal, and neither was regening. But when you were a ReTracer, and the government had invested a whole lot of time and money in your training, the situation became – complex.

  ‘Can I get madam some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?’

  Jude blinked. ‘Er, no. Thanks.’

  The young man stopped halfway to the sideboard, visibly thrown by this deviation from the procedure. ‘Certainly. Right. Then we’ll get straight down to business, shall we? Can I ask madam to explain exactly what she’s interested in trying? And please, don’t be afraid to be specific. The more exact madam is about her requirements, the more likely she is to be pleased with the end result.’

  She’d gone for small talk, the first time round. Asked questions she already knew the answers to: did it hurt, how good were their surgeons, how far could they guarantee the results? But she was tired now, a tiredness of some deep part of herself that was following her from body to body, self to self, and her patience was wearing virtually transparent.