Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  Was her vision blurred? When would it blur? He hadn't said. She breathed in for the count of four, out for nine, in for four, out for nine, willing herself to calm down.

  You'll notice bloodspots first, just around your irises. The virus needs to destroy some cells to reproduce – it uses these first cells as factories, which burst, releasing more viruses into your system, but like I said, after three rounds, when the viruses reach their inert form, all they do is enter the cell, express the genes we've programmed them to and remain there. It's a small area and a limited population of viruses so there won't be much bleeding. The effect will wear off gradually as your cells regenerate. The bloodspots will quickly be disguised by the effect in most people and will probably be gone within a day or two.

  Alexis looked up at her eyes again. The first bloodspots were appearing in a ring around her irises.

  'Oh my god.' She shook her head.

  This is really a small-scale demonstration of my approach – once the virus gets stuck in, it will do its work very quickly. I just think that viral displays…well they should be attractive, you know, like the displays of birds.

  Sleep was what she needed. Sleep, the only thing that could shut down her anxiety and reset her body to its default. She lay flat on her hard mattress and tapped her Book to black out the windows. It could have been her first time; the corrosive whole-head scent of freshly chlorined public toilets gushed into Farrell's mind, taking her back:

  Cold porcelain on the heels of her hands, the burn of a rash rising on her thighs and forearms, a deep itch. In the mirror, Gaunt's reflection behind hers, amused; his Sabotage aftershave, scent of the '70s, flowing out of his sleeve and up over her shoulders, warm and sickening against the rough background of chlorine; his hand steady between her shoulder blades, its heat and weight bleeding through her suit jacket, building like that of an iron left sitting at a child's scream. She had let loose at him.

  'Whose fucking idiot idea was all this? This is miserable. Getting yourself on the proof pages is fun – screwing on a helipad, seducing an idiot fatcat – that's fun – this is fucking miserable. Some bored alpha-cock thinks it's a good idea to show you he's been screwing by cracking his nanoscreen like a fukpunk and cutting the crotch out of his Armani and a bunch of other alpha-cocks are impressed by his spotted dick flapping in the wind.'

  An acid upward trickle in her gullet; a dry-retch.

  'And all because some geek hacker teen fuckwit wants to prove to his mates he's had sex.'

  Gaunt had laughed and rubbed her back. 'Well you bought into sex is success, Alexis, just like the rest of us, just like that fine young geek. Why would you be screwing fatcats on helipads otherwise?'

  Her throat opening like a forced valve; the splatter of half-digested coleslaw.

  Alexis shook her head to clear the memory and employed her breathing again.

  Even the enforced night of the black-out couldn't convince her body to sleep. She stroked her forehead, set the bed to vibrate, counted. She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids and watched as geometric patterns pulsed and churned in the red darkness. Each time she checked the clock, only a few minutes had passed. It was hours since the blood-spots had appeared. In her mind they had grown, they had taken over her eyeballs, she was weeping blood.

  Eventually, she gave up trying to distract herself, raised the lighting and walked quickly back to the bathroom. As she approached, she could see that something had changed. Her eyes looked dark from a distance. Her heart rattled. It was blood.

  She paused as if unsure whether she wanted to see, then closed her eyes and walked on towards the mirror. As she felt herself drawing close, she reached out. Her fingertips bumped gently against cold marble. She dragged them upwards and slid her hands onto the surface, stepping forward until the cool edge of the sink unit pressed against her belly.

  I can make these things better. If they're going to make an impact on the high fashion market, or even the high street market, they've got to be different from what you can pick up on the streets.

  Taking a few breaths, Alexis opened her eyes.

  They've got to be beautiful.

  Chapter 2

  Kester watched Dee. She was staring into her coffee. When she disagreed with Kester, or when he had offended her in some way, which he frequently did without knowing how, she grew dry and pale. Right now, she was made of paper-thin porcelain. If he hit her with his teaspoon she would smash like a china mask. There would be nothing inside but cold air and dust.

  He recalled a conversation they'd had years ago, before leaving for different universities, the feeling that something hadn't been said, or that he had missed something. She'd had the same look about her then, as if she was thinking, but had left her body and ascended somewhere else to do it. There had been an unusual juicer machine on the counter behind her in the student bar and he had sat, trying to figure out its inner workings, waiting for her to finally explain to him what she was thinking.

  She never had. She had spotted what he was doing and they'd had an argument about how he never listened. But Kester had tried listening and had never heard her say anything that helped him understand her better. When they ended up both working at the Institute, Dee's smugness was apparent, as if she had somehow engineered the situation, or as if it was inevitable and only Kester couldn't see this: she had won some unspoken argument begun years ago in a student bar that had a stupid juicer machine.

  'Kester…' Dee stirred her coffee and looked past Kester for a moment. 'What are you doing?'

  Kester blew on his tea and took a cautious sip. She was going to let him know what she was thinking, this time. A good start.

  'Why are you leaving – why are you going there?'

  It was less than forty-eight hours since Kester's interview on Wednesday. V had called first thing on Thursday morning to offer him the job. After pretending to consider it for half a day, he had accepted, and by Friday lunchtime he had handed in his notice at the Institute. Though he was between secondments and there was nothing sensitive at the lab, he was still expected to leave immediately. Dee had disappeared on Thursday after hearing about the offer and had only just resurfaced as he was about to leave the lab for good.

  'Well,' Kester said, and then he paused. He had known that Dee would take it the worst. People were leaving the Institute all the time to make the move to the private sector and while she never openly criticised them, he could tell that she disapproved. She was never quite as happy for them as the others, who often congratulated their departing colleagues as if they'd effected a grand escape. 'The money is better.'

  Dee let out a long breath, deflating and sinking back into her chair, arms reaching forward, hands still cradling her coffee cup.

  'And things are changing out there, Dee. We live in a bubble at the Institute. I swear nothing has changed inside these walls since 2010. But out there, there's lots to do, lots to be a part of.'

  'Like what?' Dee had a wry smile on her small mouth.

  She had a great knack of making you feel like she was intellectually superior, but compared to the people Kester had met since he'd started job hunting in the private sector she was naïve. And she seemed younger. Kester looked at her clothes. They were grown up, but her look had never quite lost the high-street fashion feel of their student days. She looked unprofessional – smart enough, but not…he couldn't put his finger on it. The people in the City looked sharp, crisp, like freshly printed flyers. They had clean edges, their clothes were expensive, tailored, and they just seemed more adult.

  'You can't think of anything, can you?'

  'Business.'

  'Business?' Dee gave a soft snort.

  'What do you think keeps the City afloat – keeps this whole country running? Public money? No – it's business. That's an interesting thing to be a part of.'

  'But we help people here.'

  'Businesses help people.'

  'Please – the kind of business you're scrabbling to get into?'
>
  'I'm not scrabbling. But yes, those businesses help people as a matter of fact. There's demand for their product.'

  'That's not the same thing.'

  'Anyway, who said we help people at the Institute? You know where I was supposed to be seconded to next; you know where the diseases from our department are headed for; you know what they're used for –'

  'For the good of the world; for keeping populations under control and keeping the peace.'

  'Wow. The marketing department has done one on you. Are you sure you didn't get your doctorate on the blacknet?'

  'Ha ha.' Dee took a sip of her coffee and failed to suppress a sneer. 'Fair dos; I suppose your track record isn't exactly grounds for a humanitarian award.' She sighed and shook her head. 'It's just I always thought we'd do it, you know?'

  Kester was thrown for a moment.

  'Make the next generation of screens, like we always talked about.'

  'Oh.'

  'Look.'

  Dee was taking something out of her pocket; a piece of paper, folded down small. She unfolded it on the table between them, handling it as if it were an ancient treasure map. Kester felt a pulse of shock: there was his handwriting. It was the A3 sheet of paper they had covered with their ideas during their first planning session.

  He let his eyes wander over the page. It started out serious, a statement of intent. Their screen would be different to Stark Wellbury's. It would be compatible with the human immune system and would not require immunosuppressants. Towards the right hand side of the page, their attention had turned to technical detail: lists of the hard nano components of the Stark Wellbury screens and what they did, a close-up sketch of how the binding sites on their sweeper cells opened up, breaching the diamond coating that made them otherwise invisible to the body.

  At this point the page started to look more chaotic – pint glass rings and a couple of dried spills, one transformed by a doodle of a palm tree into a desert island, brought the atmosphere of the bar rushing back into Kester's head. Next to Dee's sketch of the binding site was some of Kester's own artwork, clearly added later in the evening – a cartoon immunoglobin pointing at the open binding site and crying out, 'Antigen! Antigen! Call the B cells!'

  On the bottom right hand corner of the page, which had been ripped and stuck back together was more of his handiwork in the form of a shaky cartoon depicting the body and the screen as a kung fu master and his cocky young apprentice.

  Kester was shocked that Dee still had this. They had carried on their planning in earnest in their spare time and had applied unsuccessfully for funding on several occasions, but he'd forgotten this document even existed. There was a date written in the corner by which Dee had predicted nanoscreens would be affordable and available to everyone, not just the rich, keyworkers and City residents. It had long since passed. In the last year or so their planning sessions had fallen off, though Dee was always trying to spur Kester on.

  'This is what was missing.' Kester took the paper from her and raised it up, balanced on his fingertips like an ancient artifact. He felt Dee's gaze intensify. 'All those funding applications.' He widened his eyes and held the paper out to her. 'If this had been on the front page…'

  'Come on, Kester.' Dee snatched the paper from him and put it back down on the table. 'This is our dream. You're just going to give up on it?'

  Kester stared at Dee's face. Was it real disappointment? Did she really think they would have done it, or would she just miss the discussions?

  'You know no-one would ever fund it.'

  'Why not? Just because no-one has stepped up yet doesn't mean they never will.'

  'Dee – that's exactly what it means and you know why. The screens are big business for the companies involved.'

  'And the government? What's to say they won't see sense and step in?'

  'Come on. The Minister for Health is on the Board at Stark Wellbury – and legitimately too. I mean the whole reason he's there is to look after the government's interest, but you know he's corrupt.'

  'This was our thing Kester; this is what we're here for. We could change things. It's not right, everybody being dependent on one company's drugs.'

  'And that's why we have deregulation – soon they'll have a choice. Plus, not everyone is dependent any more.'

  'Right, you mean the people who have been on them so long their systems are shot. Nice.'

  'Look, Dee.' Kester could feel his voice getting prickly. 'I would love to do it more than anything in the world – Doctor Dee the immunologist; Doctor Kester the virologist, saving the world together – but it's just not going to happen, I'm telling you. The only way would be to make the money ourselves and set up on our own – and who makes that sort of money?'

  'Just…' There was a potent mix of frustration and disappointment in Dee's tone. 'Just help me do one last funding application – this could be the one.'

  'Dee, I can't. I mean I can help you with the application, but I can't stay. And anyway, they've said I can do my own research in my own time. I'll have great resources at V, so maybe this is my best shot. I can start working on it in the evenings. Maybe I could get you a pass – we could still do it together.'

  'Don't be so naïve, Kester – those bloodsuckers won't let you take an unscheduled piss. And you think I would be seen dead working there?'

  'Dee…'

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their drinks.

  'Enough.' Dee folded up the paper, stowed it away, sipped her coffee and grimaced again. 'This tastes like dog-ends. Let's get out of here.'

  Without waiting for a reply, she got up and unhooked her jacket from the back of her chair.

  'Where are you going?' Kester tried to balance the annoyance in his voice: enough to let her know how he felt; not enough to send her off into one of her rages.

  'Come on. Come with me and you'll see.'

  'Are you going to show me something to make me change my mind?'

  'Ha ha, Kester. Change your mind? With that pay cheque on the table.'

  'How do you know about the pay deal?'

  Dee fiddled with the fastenings on her jacket, pausing a little too long before replying.

  'You're the one who's been telling me all about how much better it is.'

  'It sounded like you know how much I'm getting.'

  'Well…'

  'Has my mother been calling you again?'

  Dee smiled half-heartedly and shook her head. She took a breath and then relaxed, putting a hand on the back of her chair.

  'I don't mind it really,' she said.

  'Dee, I'm so sorry. You know what she's like. She gets an idea in her head and she just won't let it go.'

  'It's not a problem.' Dee's eyes wandered. 'I sort of like it.'

  There was a pause. Kester had known Dee for long enough to know that the pause meant something, but he had no idea what.

  'Come on then, get your jacket on,' she said. 'If you want to know where I'm going, you'll have to come with me.'

  'Who's going to be there?' Kester said, standing up and pulling on his jacket. 'Is it a pub? Are the guys coming? Will Raph be there?'

  Dee's form stuttered and froze as if she was buffering. Surely not another casualty. Kester was just getting to know Raph. He was a great guy, but there had been some drama over him wanting to take a female friend to a Graphene Skin gig and Dee wanting to go with him instead. Kester had done his fair share of listening and nodding. But Dee didn't even like the band and the girl was just a friend. He couldn't see anything in it.

  'Did he take you to the gig in the end?' Kester asked. He should duck and cover.

  'He didn't take anyone to the gig,' Dee said. She smiled and looked pleased with herself. 'I hacked his account and sold the tickets to a nice man called GigMunky360. He didn't find out until too late. He didn't have anything to wear anyway – I donated his Graphene Skin t-shirt to Aldo to shred up for his lab rats. They were short on bedding.'

  'And that's that?' Kester asked.<
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  'Come on – let's go.'

  -o-

  Dee led Kester away from the Embankment where they always drank. They walked along Surrey Street and up onto the Strand. She loved this part of the city. It felt like it had stood forever. The buildings were unchanged except by the slow stroke of human presence, moulding objects in its path as a river shapes its rocks. The smoothness of worn banisters under her hands thrilled her. The steps here dipped in the middle, worn away by generations of feet carrying enquiring minds through the streets; minds thinking of who knows what – cures, new technologies, problems and solutions. She felt the presence of all those people, all that knowledge all around her, as if the buildings had memories. They were always warm.

  The further they got towards the City, the newer the buildings became. The paving slabs were blank slates, sharp-edged and clean. They knew nothing that Dee cared to learn. Every now and again a small old building, protected by law, nestled in between the ever-heightening glass structures; crumpled old men in spanking new bus stations, settled, looking at their shoes or their bottles, unaware of their incongruity. They were mostly pubs, the occasional jeweller's.

  As they walked, Dee felt herself grow warmer, her cheeks flushed against the cold. Kester was talking about her next funding proposal. She only half listened as he trawled over old ground, commenting on where they might have gone wrong in the past. And suddenly, there it was: 'this time,' he was saying, 'our proposal', 'we', 'us'. She smiled to herself. She nodded and interjected now and again, without upsetting his momentum. If he was still thinking like this he could still be persuaded. He wouldn't go. He would bottle it.

  Eventually, a digression sent Kester off into a long monologue about his most recent project. Work – proper work – it bored her. If it wasn't about their screens, their baby, she wasn't interested.