Special

by Georgia Blain

  Jerome is by my bed when I wake.

  ‘You slept well,’ he says.

  I sit up quickly, hating the thought of being observed without my knowledge once again.

  ‘All your results look good,’ he tells me. ‘You’re a fascinating case. I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered a constitution that is so adaptable to a range of environments. As I’m sure you understand, there’s a lot of interest in your design.

  ‘Aside from the physical, there’s a barrage of tests that we’d like to conduct to see how you respond to certain problems, new situations, people. I’m afraid it will be overwhelming at times. Some of these tests you’ll be aware of, others will simply be us gathering data on you as you conduct your day-to-day life. And I make no apology for that. It’s part of what your parents signed you up for when they won the Lotto.’

  ‘But what happens if they didn’t get what they paid for?’

  He looks at me and smiles. ‘Perhaps we’d better get questions from you out of the way first.’ He crosses his arms. ‘I understand what you’ve been told. We’ve obviously had some time with Lark. It might be best if I just give you free rein and let you ask whatever you need to ask.’

  I tell him that I’d like to be up and dressed for our conversation, that I’d feel more at ease.

  When Jerome returns, I’m waiting for him in the small sitting area near my bed.

  ‘Are my parents still alive?’ I didn’t expect this to be my first question, and I’m surprised as I utter the words, articulating a need I wasn’t aware I had.

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ he replies. ‘As I’m sure you know, the lives that people lead in some of the outer compounds are difficult. Work is hard. Resources are scarce. Environments are harsh. People are less resilient. When you disappeared your parents were understandably very distressed. Of course, we did everything we could to help them. Families of Lotto Girls are part of the BioPerfect family. We gave them the best meds possible, provided them with good food and we even took them to one of our healing centres. But I think their hearts were broken. Your father died first. Your mother soon after.’ He pauses for a moment and then offers his condolences.

  I am about to ask about my brother when I stop myself. I don’t know what they know and I don’t want to be trapped into giving away anything. ‘Who told you where I was?’ I ask.

  He considers my question for a moment. ‘The young man – Chimo?’ He looks at me for confirmation.

  I nod.

  ‘He didn’t tell us where you were. He was paid by us to fossick out information, to report to us regularly on everything he heard. We have people everywhere. It’s a tricky business – knowing who is telling the truth and who isn’t. We’d heard reports of your possible presence in ReCorp and a whisper of his probable knowledge, enough for us to bring him in. He denied any knowledge of you, but we had our suspicions, so we held onto him.’

  Despite myself, I’m glad. I close my eyes and try to breathe him in, the cinnamon of his skin, his lips against mine. Perhaps he wasn’t all betrayal.

  ‘When his sister learnt we had him, she arranged a swap. She led us to you in exchange for his return.’

  ‘Did you return him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Am I being monitored now?’

  He nods.

  I wonder whether this level of honesty is to lull me into believing his answer to my next question.

  ‘Miss Margaret? Rahim? Do you know where they are?’

  He looks at me. ‘Which, of course, leads us into the much larger question.’

  This time, I am the one who nods.

  ‘Were you designed or were you – and Lark, Wren and Ivy – a ploy in a larger subversive plot? An attempt to undermine the high-end designer market of what BioPerfect does? Because, as you would probably gather, the actual income from genetic design is not of vital significance. Only a very small number can afford it. But what it means to people, the possibility of what we can do with life, the dreams we sell – that is very important. And, of course, the information we obtain from it is also valuable. In fact, its value cannot be underestimated. If you strike at the heart of our design business, if you question its validity, we face the very real risk of a turning of the tides. People begin to think that perhaps they would be better off focusing resources on education, on parenting. They may begin to think that biotech is not the answer, that it may not be the way to respond to The Breakdown. They would be wrong, of course. I know that. You know that. Design is paramount. They told you that you were not designed. That was a lie.’

  ‘Why would they lie?’

  He holds up a hand. ‘Let me continue.’

  I do as he asks.

  ‘As you know, they had an extensive network – many subversive groups do – but theirs was particularly strong and well organised. Still, I find it hard to imagine that it could have been so pervasive as to have implemented such a subterfuge.

  ‘In any event, we managed to track down Rahim. He, too, was in hiding. Not so far from you, actually. When we first heard whispers of this plot, we focused all our resources on finding him. He was brought in for questioning, and we were not as harsh as you might imagine. You see, if they had carried out their plan, even that data would have been interesting to us. It wouldn’t necessarily have been for public release, but it would have given us information about the value of the education and social environments we provide. Quite simply, we just wanted to know.

  ‘The full story was far more complex than you were led to believe. There was an experiment – and you were all part of it. Unfortunately for them, it went wrong. They had planned to only design two of you and leave the other two. As you can probably gather, both you and Lark were designed. Wren and Ivy weren’t.

  ‘They also wanted to assess the impact that belief in the design has on the development of a person’s talent and for that they needed to see if thinking that you weren’t designed was going to markedly hinder your development. The plan was to tell you all this in your final years at Halston and to measure what happened to each of you. But, as you know, the group discovered we were onto them and they had to go into hiding. They needed to explain why you’d been taken from Halston, why you were forced underground. There was some argument about this, I believe. In the end the decision was to tell you and Lark that you, like the others, hadn’t been designed. They felt this was more likely to keep you quiet so that they wouldn’t be unearthed.’

  I need to unravel his words. I sit forward and look at him. ‘You’re telling me that Lark and I were designed but Wren and Ivy weren’t?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s Ivy now?’

  Jerome shrugs. ‘We don’t know, but from all accounts, it’s of little consequence. She was the most obvious failure. Her lack of design was evident from the very beginning and the environment at Halston did little to help her. We heard reports from very early on. Teachers were confused as to why she was doing so badly. They were concerned. So were we. Our suspicions were there from the get-go. Something had gone wrong but we didn’t know what – not for some time. Although she is of some use, she is clear evidence of how little the environment can do when the design is flawed. To be frank, she’s not our main priority.’

  ‘And Rahim? Where is he now?’

  ‘I’m afraid he was wiped. He was a significant loss. A brilliant man. We came up the ranks together.’ Jerome’s words express regret but his face remains as implacable as ever.

  ‘Miss Margaret?’

  He looks at me keenly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell him.

  ‘We will find her,’ he assures me. ‘Without a doubt, we will find her.’

  They test me constantly. Blood tests, urine samples and tissue traces have already been taken.

  On the first day, Jerome tells me there’s no right or wrong, just a gathering of information.

  I raise an eyebrow at him. ‘And what happens if I don’t want to participate?’

  He looks be
mused. ‘No one is holding a gun to your head. It’s up to you, Fern. It’s your life and always has been. But what better use of a life than to contribute to knowledge? It’s exciting. We’ll need to bring you back in at regular intervals to track the results,’ he tells me.

  Various biopsychs undertake the psychological and IQ testing. Different young men and women visit me, first in the healing centre and then in the apartment that I move to once I’m deemed well enough. I answer questions, I respond to stimuli, I engage in conversation, I analyse problems and sometimes I pose a few of my own. Most of the time I do as I’m asked. Often, I enjoy the challenges that are put before me. Occasionally, I argue against them.

  My results are taken, measured, considered and largely kept from me.

  ‘You are doing well,’ Jerome tells me. ‘I’m sure you could return to Halston for your final year if that’s what you wish. Otherwise, we could consider a training placement for you.’

  I tell him I’d like to think about it.

  He has come to visit me in my apartment, bringing dinner with him. A new range of BioPerfect meals, he tells me. Plus a treat – novelty items, actually – real eggs and honey.

  I remember the food that Marcus grew and Hamish cooked as I hold one of the eggs in my hand. It is smooth and fragile, delicate.

  Jerome is surprised at my genuine pleasure and even more surprised when I know how to cook it the old-fashioned way.

  As we eat, he asks me again if I’m keen to return to school. There was a time, I think, when I would have given anything to go back to Halston. But not now.

  ‘I’m sure you’re eager to rejoin the world,’ he says, ‘but I can understand if you would prefer a placement. Something that is perfect for your talents. The choice is yours.’

  ‘So the testing is complete?’ I ask him.

  ‘We would like to continue monitoring you indefinitely. As I mentioned, some tests will happen without you even being aware, while others will require your active and willing participation. You’re a fascinating source of information to us. Not only do we have teams trying to discern exactly which combinations have resulted in the strength of your constitution – a valuable commodity, and one that is sure to be sold as a premium extra – we’ve never had the opportunity to gather data on the impact of harsh environments on a design.

  ‘Interestingly, in your case, nothing seems to have been diminished – if anything, you have been strengthened. Your analytical tools are stronger than they were in your last Halston results. Your capacity to read and deliver messages is even more finely honed and your ability to filter is second to none.’ He raises his eyebrows in respect.

  There would’ve been a time when his words would have filled me with pride, a deep glow at my achievements. But now, not only am I uncertain as to whether I believe him, I’m unsure as to what it was that I let pride attach to. What achievements were mine?

  When he first told me that Lark and I had, in fact, been designed, that we were not ‘nothing’ as I had once thought, I was surprised at the lack of pleasure I took from his words. For so much of my time at ReCorp, I’d longed for all that Rahim and Miss Margaret had told us to be a lie. I’d longed to go back to being Fern Marlow, Lotto Girl. I’d felt that I was worthless without the blessings of good fortune.

  And then, as I’d navigated such an alien world with increasing strength and surety, I’d begun to feel a new sense of pride. I was discovering that I was capable of being tougher, stronger, like Chimo and Sala, I suppose, light-footed and adept at survival. Yet, even as I came closer to this new self, I also came to realise that, designed or not, I was always going to be a product of luck – luck that my parents’ genes had resulted in a constitution that was strong, luck that the advantages I’d had had been honed by years at Halston. I didn’t know if I could lay claim to any achievements – not wholly. All I have done, and will do, is part of something larger, boosted and limited by circumstance. And the horror I had felt at Rahim’s revelation had begun to dissipate – so much so that there were times when I wondered at the distress I’d felt upon hearing it.

  As Jerome leaves, I tell him I’m not sure what I want. ‘A lot has happened,’ I say. ‘I’ve had so much change. I need to think.’

  I have been behaving perfectly. I know that. He knows that.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Take as long as you need.’

  I told Jerome I needed time, but it wasn’t to consider the choice he’d laid before me. That decision was easy. I didn’t want to return to Halston. I could have told him that the evening he visited me.

  I don’t know who I am anymore, but I do know I’m tired of being a message, of being someone else’s argument, a symbol for both sides of the coin. I don’t know who’s been telling me the truth but, each time I try to unravel it, my fingers drop the threads. It’s just as Lark was trying to explain when she told me the story of hearing the song that she loved, crawling along that balcony, drawn to its joy and its sorrows, suddenly aware that it didn’t matter how she’d come into being.

  I pass the time I have by recording this – words and images that are irretrievable by anyone but me. Or I make my boxes – the one I’m working on at the moment is a small hammock floating in a compound far from here, two people entwined, asleep to the world. And all the time I am thinking, I am making a decision – but it’s not about whether I go back to school or join the BioPerfect work units. It’s about something larger, so large that I’m not even sure what it is, not at first – all I know is that it is essential.

  Lark is leaving here soon. We see each other most days; she listens to music while I watch mediastreams. Our discussions about Jerome’s revelation have been brief. If she has doubts, she doesn’t voice them. Nor do I.

  She lives in an inner precinct and teaches music.

  ‘I like it,’ she tells me. ‘The children are eager to learn and delightful company most of the time.’ She smiles. ‘I don’t know if I will ever perform or reach the heights of composition that I’d hoped for, but I’m not so sure I mind. I was never that ambitious.’

  On the night before she’s due to leave, she comes to my unit.

  We sit together in the courtyard, in the warmth of the evening, the sky gleaming with stars. I wish we could talk without fear of being overheard.

  She tells me she has been working on a song, trying to capture the one she heard when she was at PureAqua, and she’d like to play it to me.

  I’m surprised when she turns up the volume to the highest notch, complaining that it must be broken. And then she draws me in quickly, her expression more urgent than I have seen since I arrived. She tells me we only have an instant before it will be suspicious.

  ‘Trust Robertson,’ she says. ‘He will help you.’ She turns the volume down immediately, laughing as she does so. ‘Stupid me. I just didn’t look at it properly. You’re right. It was my fault. I’m sorry about that. Let me start it again at the right level.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful piece,’ I say.

  ‘Almost what I wanted,’ she tells me, ‘but I still feel I haven’t quite captured it.’ She hums gently and then looks at the sky. ‘I have the sadness but not the joy, and it needs both for each to shine.’

  Before we eat, she takes several doses of meds, grimacing as she does so.

  ‘Apparently, my system is shot. It can’t cope with the environmental changes I’ve been through. These are keeping me alive.’ She holds up the pills.

  Or so you’ve been told, I think.

  She asks me what I’m going to do, and I wish I could tell her of my idea that has gone from tufts of cloud to something harder, surer, not quite there yet but almost. Instead, I say that I have made up my mind to take a placement. ‘I don’t want to return to Halston. It would be too strange without you and the others and Miss Margaret.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, and then she looks at me, eyes bright. ‘Perhaps you could ask for work near me. We could live close, see each other often …’

  Her v
oice trails off as she realises what we both know. It isn’t going to happen. They needed her here to reassure me, but it would be foolish for us to be too close long-term, to feed each other’s doubts, to draw strength from one another.

  We hug each other goodbye. As I watch her walk away, I feel as alone as I did when I first arrived at ReCorp, and I close the door to the night and sit in my unit, determined not to be overwhelmed by my fear and confusion. I am stronger than I realise, I tell myself, and I look up at the enormity of the sky, breathing in deeply, just as Miss Margaret once instructed us to.

  Jerome tells me I have a placement with the comms lab at Inner Precinct 2. I will be working with a woman called Marlina, who also attended Halston and who has been responsible for many successful BioPerfect narratives. He’s loaded some onto my mobie, he tells me, for me to look at on my way.

  ‘The next part of your life is beginning,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘I look forward to learning about how you progress.’

  I have asked him if I can make a detour on the way. He was hesitant at first. He would consider it, he eventually said, and I didn’t hold out much hope that he would agree. But on the morning of my departure he arrived with a full ProtectaPure suit.

  ‘You must wear this,’ he said. ‘Your immune system may be remarkable but why take risks?’

  Robertson is waiting for me in the back of the autocarrier. He is also suited up, ready for our side-trip to PureAqua.

  He is, as always, completely unreadable. Since Lark’s rushed words to me about him, I have said and done nothing. Perhaps she was being forced into trying to betray me. I don’t know. And so I remain silent and watchful.

  He has his mobie on his lap and he flicks through data as he talks to me, idly, about my life to come. I barely listen and then, suddenly, he leans forward. ‘We don’t have long. I’ve set up a data vacuum and it’s brief.’

  I look down at my own mobie and see that he’s right; I can’t access anyone or anything and, for the first time since I was taken from ReCorp, I’m not being monitored. The rush is momentarily overwhelming.