We spend a few seconds in a tight embrace, and then she holds me at arm’s length to look at me. “I think you’re getting taller.”
“Taller?” I say. “Like this?” And I teeter on tiptoe.
“You’re almost as tall as Daddy.”
Her teasing always makes me giggle. My father is very tall. Taller than most other men we know. Or used to know. We don’t see many other men now. It’s mostly the other sick children my parents rescued.
“Is Daddy coming back soon?”
“Not for a few days. He has to make sure that our presence on Saliel stays secret. Otherwise the government will come looking for us.”
“You mean they aren’t already looking for us?”
“I hope not, but without the database audit trail, they won’t have a clue where to start, so that’s what Daddy is doing. He’s erasing it.”
“But isn’t that difficult?”
“Very difficult, but Daddy is a very clever man.”
“I suppose he did find this place for us, didn’t he?”
“Exactly.” Mother is stroking my hair now, and she drops into a crouch so that she can roll up my sleeve, ready for the syringe.
“I have decided,” I tell her, “that I don’t want to call him Daddy anymore. And I don’t want to call you Mummy, either. If I was a normal eleven-year-old girl, I would be having my secondary cerebral implants by now and be connecting to the Central Data Core, like every other adult.”
Mother is no longer looking me in the eye. She is concentrating on the black fluid mixing within the saline feed. “You can call us whatever you like, darling.”
Tension is in her voice, and the smile has gone. I think she doesn’t like the idea of me calling her Mother. It reminds her that I am growing up, and when that happens, everything will change. When they diagnosed me with the disease on my second birthday, the doctors did not expect me to live past seven, but they said I would definitely not make it to thirteen. My parents have been trying to find a cure ever since, and this is what eventually led us here, to Saliel.
After I was diagnosed, my parents managed to find work in Genofect Laboratory 22 on a planet in the neighboring star system that’s a lot like Earth. It’s just one laboratory among many that contribute to the government’s grand project to create a range of genetically perfect bodies. It seemed like a good way to find my cure, but now my parents think the government is more interested in studying me than healing me, so with the help of a few other sympathizers, they sneaked me—and a lot of the other children—here to Saliel, home to what is supposed to be the next stage in the genofect project in a few decades’ time. Mother says we are just starting the project a little earlier than the government planned. In secret.
“Sharp scratch,” Mother warns me, but she hesitates as the needle rests on my vein.
I rest a finger on the back of her hand. “Wait.”
“Is something wrong?” She pauses to look me in the eye, withdrawing the syringe, and I sense something about her as she waits. More of the masked pain. She hates giving me these injections.
“I want to do it.”
She squints and her lips tighten; then she says, “Can you feel . . . ?”
She is hoping for empathy. She is hoping that I want to do this myself because I can imagine her sorrow at having to be the one who does this. It would be evidence that the treatment is working.
“No, Mother, the treatment hasn’t started working yet, but I know you don’t like to do it, so I think I should do it myself.”
She nods and looks at the syringe. I think she is trying to work out whether handing it to me is a worse thing than doing it herself. “Are you sure? I mean, are you sure you can’t feel anything?”
“I feel happy, like I always do, but I can see you don’t like doing it.”
She’s still thinking about it. “How do you know I don’t like it? What does that mean to you?”
“Well, you don’t do as much when you feel unhappy, and I don’t think that’s right.”
“So you’re just . . . working it out?”
“I suppose so.” But I am no longer sure if this is true. For the first time, I think I feel something. A twinge of what might be called anxiety, a sense that something is wrong, but also a sort of duality, as if I am far away from myself, looking through a window into my mind and feelings, and I wonder if this treatment is starting to work.
Of course, Sartixil is no ordinary drug. It is a catalyst to wake up the tiny experimental nanodrones in my bloodstream. The genofect scientists engineered them to respond to a specific type of electromagnetic radiation abundantly provided by brown dwarfs, but they are made inert when we breathe them in and only reactivated when we use the Sartixil. They are very versatile little robots and aren’t just used for repairing cells. Before coming to Saliel, Mother reprogrammed some of them to build and configure our eco-bubble. She is even more clever than Father.
Mother breathes hard through her nose, and she still hasn’t taken her eyes off the syringe. Finally she says, “No. I should do this. It’s my responsibility.”
“I really don’t mind.”
She smiles her fake smile again, lifts my arm, and without another word, jabs the needle into my vein. There is a sharp sting followed by a hot rush through the length of my arm, then a sudden dizziness that makes me feel sick. I am told that all the other children start crying when this happens, but the little burst of emotion that fills my head works differently for me, and I do what I usually do. I giggle.
But something else stirs in my mind. Something is not right.
“There!” Mother says, rubbing my arm. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I grin at her. “I feel a bit sick.”
She nods and gestures to the bathroom. “I’ll get you some milk.”
“I’ll be better in a minute or two. It passes quicker every time. Can I go out after? I think the new girls will be in the park this afternoon.”
“Only if you keep your locater patch active and only if you’re sure you’re feeling steady on your feet.”
She helps me to stand before I go to the bathroom. The room is spinning, and there’s a buzzing in my head as though a circuit is shorting out inside my brain. I always imagine that this is the little robots waking up and zapping my neurons, but I probably wouldn’t be able to feel that.
“Need me to stay with you?”
I do. Something is happening in me, as if I’m fighting back a rising sense of panic. “No. I’m fine. Honestly.”
Why did I tell her that?
TWO
The town clock clangs its four-o’clock chime as I run excitedly past it toward the path that winds into the park, but I skid to a halt before reaching it. I almost missed them because of the bright summer sun in my eyes, but I catch sight of tiny red and black dots splashed upon the leaf of a low-hanging branch. I gasp as I study them. Ladybugs! I think the collective name is loveliness. I have always wanted to see real ladybugs. They died out on Earth about seven hundred years ago, but Mother had antique books amongst the memorabilia passed down to her through the generations, and some of them had these pretty little insects painted on their spines. She knows I like them. These are not real, of course, but my mother must have programmed them into the algorithms before we arrived.
I sit cross-legged in the grass with one of them scuttling across the back of my hand. It tickles, and I laugh. I could probably sit for hours just watching it move back and forth, but it also makes me wonder: why did Mother make them? Why did she go to so much trouble to make Saliel like home? I thought she wanted to cure me of my perpetual happiness because it is killing me, but instead, she is trying to make everything perfect for me. Perhaps she feels the same duality that I do.
“Salomi!”
I recognize Candice’s voice—she’s a girl I met a week ago—and allow the ladybug to make its way back onto the leaf, even though I know that neither of them is real. With my hand shielding my eyes from the sun, I look at
the path fifty paces away and see my new friend waving to me, and I wave back. She has two others with her, both of them wearing knee-length dresses of pink and blue. They look a lot younger than me, twins perhaps, and they are certainly younger than Candice, who will be seventeen next year.
“Come on, lazy,” she shouts, “we’ve been waiting for you all afternoon. The tide is almost out.”
“Coming,” I shout back and chase after them, just losing sight of them as they run back along the path into the cover of overhanging oaks. I can hear them laughing as they run, and as usual, I feel the same surge of euphoria flood my body as I race to catch up. “Wait!”
It takes about a minute for me to reach the exit of the tree-lined avenue to see the three girls wading into the waves. They laugh hysterically as the water soaks them, and with my own excitement peaking, I cannot wait to join them. I’m breathless already, but I quicken my pace all the same, feeling the warm itch of sand creep between my toes as I close the gap and splash into the shallows.
To my right, a little over half a mile away on the rocky shore, like an enormous lighthouse (though far taller), the Absorption Tower reaches for wisps of cloud, and its conical shape blurs with each jarring footfall. I would not usually give it a second thought, but as I reach Candice, it looms as a backdrop to my friend for one alarming moment, and its form is perfectly revealed. It is not the tower I have come to recognize since my arrival. It is something terrible. Something abominable. I am not looking directly at it, though. My attention is firmly fixed on Candice as she introduces me to her two new friends.
“Melista, Praynia, this is Salomi, the girl I told you about.”
I smile at them radiantly, filling up with excited energy at the prospect of getting to know even more new friends, but at the same time, there is a creeping fear running cold through my mind, growing every second. I am not looking at the tower. Why? Why am I not looking at it? Why am I acting like there is nothing wrong?
“Hello,” I say to the girls. “When did you get here?”
“Two days ago,” says Melista, the taller of the twins. “Our parents hid us in cargo boxes. Did you have to hide too to get here?”
“Yes,” is all I say as the withdrawing tide runs cold around our ankles. There is a long pause while the girls wait for me to elaborate. It is not my increasing anxiety about the tower stalling words from me, but my fascination with the girls’ hair. Deepest black, with a glowing sheen, almost like the feathers of a raven, and I am truly taken by their beauty. The twins are not identical, but they each have features that make them adorable: Melista has a button nose and a twinkle in her eyes; Praynia has the smallest mouth with the lips puckering to one side in a cute smirk. But though I am won over by their sweetness, what I desperately want to do is look at the tower and confirm what it is I thought I saw. There is a part of me willing my eyes to move, almost frantic, wanting me to scream with frustration, but I am still looking at Melista’s hair. Why am I doing that? It’s like a part of me is trapped.
“I told you she was strange, didn’t I?” Candice says, grinning and folding her arms. “She does that a lot. Stare, I mean.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, “I was just looking at your hair. It’s really, really nice. Is it programmed or natural?”
“Natural,” Melista says, proud. “My mummy’s hair is this black, too.”
“Is hers natural?” I ask.
“Daddy’s hair is black as well,” Praynia adds. “Why are you bald?”
I am taken aback by the sudden question. I had almost forgotten I would look different to them. “My hair fell out when I started taking the Sartixil. That hasn’t happened to you?” I look at each of the girls, hoping that my eyes might, just for one moment, focus on the tower behind them, but they don’t. None of the girls have lost their hair. Candice has pumpkin-colored hair, short but puffed out in wide swirls around her long face.
“Only a small percentage of patients lose their hair,” Candice says. “Has something to do with genofect glands, I think. We’ve all got them, so it could happen to any of us.”
“Oh,” I say, “I don’t have those. I had an operation when I was two.” I twist my neck and point to a small scar on the back of my head. “They thought it might help speed up my cure. They said the glands weren’t helping because they were talking to the wrong cells in my brain. Turns out they were wrong anyway. So now I don’t have any genofect glands.”
“Or hair,” says Praynia.
An unexpected wave breaks across our legs and sends us squealing with delight back across the sand. We stagger a short distance, then drop onto our backs to stare up at the sky, which is the perfect blue of a joyful summer. In reality, behind the imaging grid, there is a swirling caldron of exploding gases, and as if to remind me of this fact, a huge arc of lightning leaps across the heavens to strike the Absorption Tower, making my heart gallop into my mouth. The tower is supposed to attract the lightning, so that isn’t what sets me on edge; it’s that I know it will draw my attention to it, and I will see the statue again.
Sure enough, I look at the tower, but instead of the dull copper walls with its bands of silver that I am used to seeing, a stone colossus stands in its place. A strange and menacing figure dressed in long robes. Despite his height in the clouds, his body is stooped, almost hunchbacked. The many grooves chiseled into his face tell me he is ancient, yet the eyes bulge with malicious vitality, and they are staring directly at me. I do not understand how I am able to feel such terror, especially considering my condition, but the feeling is undeniable, and what is far worse is that, though I have never met this ugly man in my short life, I know him. I even know his name: Keitus Vieta. But this statue should not be here. Either someone is interfering with the imaging system or I am hallucinating. None of the other girls seem to have noticed the change, so it must be an invention of my mind, especially as I seem to know this character’s name.
“That was a big one,” I say. “It must be super stormy today.”
Though I can feel a creeping dread, it does not come through in my voice or actions, and in direct contrast, I still feel the heightened pleasure of witnessing the lightning too; I know this to be the real me. I have never experienced side effects from the Sartixil before, but the fact that I can feel a new and unwelcome swell of emotion, which I assume to be fear and trepidation, means the drug must be starting to work.
“You’ve given me an idea,” Candice says. “Let’s play a game.”
Melista and Praynia are already on their feet, swinging their arms in excitement, begging to know what the game is, and I follow suit, once again experiencing a rush of delight. I am relieved that I am no longer focused on the tower statue, but the relief dies when Candice offers her suggestion.
“It’s a daring game.” A sly smile overtakes her expression. “Let’s go to the tower. The winner is the one who dares to keep both hands on the wall the longest.”
The idea of actually touching this terrible statue is chilling. Part of me fears I might somehow bring it to life so that it can crush me underfoot, and it seems to be a very dangerous thing to do anyway. Nevertheless, without the slightest objection, I follow the three girls to the tower, kicking sand and whooping as if I cannot wait to throw myself at the mercy of the dark figure staring down at me.
THREE
We arrive at the base of the tower in a little under ten minutes. Thankfully, we are too close for me to see Vieta’s gaze boring into me, but the giant folds of his stone robe are a reminder that the tower is not as it should be. I would already be running in panic by now if it weren’t for the mysterious fact that my body is not reacting to this fear at all, and now I wonder if the other girls are feeling the same thing as I and also having the same inability to react.
“How do we play?” Melista says.
“It’s easy,” Candice replies. “We’ll take turns. Right after a bolt of lightning hits the tower, you slap both hands onto the wall and keep them there for as long as you dare.�
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Praynia is looking at me when she asks, “Why?”
I focus on Candice as if bouncing the question back to her.
“Because it’ll be exciting,” Candice says. She hisses the last word.
Praynia is looking at the tower, pouting. “But why? What’s so exciting about that?”
“Because of the lighteny-ing, silly,” says Melista. “If you don’t take your hands away in time”—she turns her hands into claws—“bzzzzzt!”
“I’ll go first,” Candice says.
“Why do you get to go first?” Praynia asks.
“Because I’m the darer. Why do you have to ask why all the time?”
“Why do you want to know?” Praynia grins back.
Candice rolls her eyes, and just then, another jagged spear of lightning slams into the tower, making me jump and giggle at the same time. Candice’s face lights up as white as the moon for the space of two full seconds as the electricity dances like fireworks above our heads, and the scent of raw electricity fills my nose.
“Now! Now!” Melista cries, and Candice not only smacks her palms against the cold stone; she embraces it. Her left cheek is planted firmly against the wall as she stares back at me—and only me—eyes wide and glittering with crazed intensity, and I am trying to work out whether she is bracing herself for electrocution or getting ready to spring away from the wall a split second before the next strike.
“. . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .” Melista and Praynia are chanting together.
Candice is blinking hard and fast as if expecting the strike before they reach ten. I see her glance once or twice at her arm, and I wonder if she is checking the fine hairs on her skin. She might see them rise an instant before the hit and know to push away that very instant.
“. . . ten . . . eleven . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . . fourteen . . .”
The Soul Continuum Page 2