Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  'Go on.'

  'A disgruntled admin worker. Works in the administration centre in St Paul's. He called to moan about his co-workers' wearing. He's being bullied but that's not the interesting part. One of his moans was that they have been using sacred areas of the building as exchange booths.'

  Blotch felt his colour rising. 'This is an outrage!'

  'Not just an outrage, Minister, illegal too. The installation or use of existing structures as exchange booths is explicitly forbidden inside any leased religious building – I checked. It's a standard part of the template lease drawn up by the Religious Buildings of the City Protectorate after the expulsion.'

  'Right, I see. That is interesting. Did you prime him for a call-back?'

  'I did, Minister. He's asked that someone call him tomorrow evening.'

  'Great. That's great. Good work Simon. Put it in my calendar please and attach the call reference so I can review the call before I get back to him. Thank you.'

  'Thank you, Minister.' There was a click and the voice was gone. Simon was a good worker – straight back onto it, no lingering around for praise.

  Blotch had briefed the floor yesterday on their new mandate and it was already paying off. This was just the sort of information he was looking for – City people doing dodgy things, wearers in particular, illustrating the need for moral guidance inside the City.

  Blotch opened up his email and scanned down the list. There it was – '75th ANNIVERSARY!!!' He opened the message. Somebody called Harmonie was planning next year's Real Church anniversary celebrations and was 'exited' to hear about everyone's ideas. From putting up bunting to serving up world peace, they needed help with everything. As part of its celebrations, the Real Church was running a campaign to re-establish a presence in the securitised City of London and reoccupy the Real Stairway after a 25-year absence. Here, Harmonie had pasted in a picture of the Real Church's landmark church and former City headquarters, the crystal formation-inspired 'Real Stairway'. Its precipitous north face, designed to reflect light and shine a beacon of purity out onto the City, had been digitally defaced. It now displayed the logo of HSBC, the current leaseholder, at the top of a banner of red and black adverts that reached to the ground.

  It was the word 'promotion' that had got Blotch interested in the email. Promotion and a solid gold Real Church necklet were to be awarded to the individual who made the single largest contribution to the Real Stairway campaign. Nominations were to be made by the employee's line manager. Blotch took in a long breath, testing the seams of his tunic to their limits. Promotion and a solid gold necklet – you couldn't argue with that.

  Blotch moved on to today's unanswered mail. Top of the list was a news bulletin from Reuters. He scanned down the headline list. This was usually as far as he got, but today something caught his eye. 'V set to take wearing market by storm'. He clicked through to the main site.

  Global pharmaceutical and technomedical giant V is set to make a late but spectacular entry to the viral wearing market. This morning V announced the appointment of Dr Kester Lowe as head of its new viral design department VDV. Dr Lowe, formerly of the London Institute of Immunology and Viral Medicine, is widely considered in the scientific community to be one of the greatest new thinkers in the field of viral design. The lack of information forthcoming from the Institute on Dr Lowe's projects and clients is indicative of the high-profile nature of his previous work. Clients the Institute was prepared to namecheck include the UK MoD and US DoD, along with private companies Tollbooth, Rigatronics and Stark Wellbury, where Dr Lowe worked as a consultant to the nanoscreen design department on their delay technology.

  Although V is just the sort of client to whom the Institute already provides contract consultancy services, Dr Lowe's move has nevertheless raised some eyebrows in the old-school ranks of the scientific community. Dr Bayliss of the Department of Nanotechnology, University of San Diego, sees this as another nail in the coffin for pure research science in the UK: 'To me the UK has always held a tiny flame of hope – it was a place where the academic's golden dream of no-strings funded pure research still lived on, though of course the funding pool has been steadily shrinking for the last century or so. But when brilliant young academics like Dr Lowe start jumping ship and moving to the private sector you wonder whether they have seen the future and that future spells the end for any kind of pure research.'

  According to V, Dr Lowe's remit in his new role is to become the first true 'virus designer' in the eyes of the wearing public. So far, V is being sketchy on the details of how Dr Lowe's viruses will differ from the STV mods currently being commissioned and designed, but its boasts that his appointment will "usher in a new age of viral wearing" are tantalising to say the least.

  While V insists that Dr Lowe will be free to assemble his own "crack viral development staff", two existing staff members are already known to be heavily involved in the set-up of the department: the infamous Alexis Farrell, who continues to elude the constraints of any official job title, and Gerald Harper, formerly of V's small viral screening division.

  Blotch smiled grimly to himself. This could be good or bad. Or both. He picked up his Book, typed in a number he preferred to hold in his head, then stared at it for a moment. Some air was required. Squeezing out from behind his desk he whipped the waterproof poncho from the back of his door and slung it over his arm. He looked around his office. He didn't need anything else.

  On his way through the building Blotch went back past the call centre floor and gave a wave to the floor manager, pointing towards the exit to indicate that he was going out. The floor manager nodded and waved back. Continuing towards the headquarters' atrium, Blotch passed through a glass-sided corridor. It was the main route into the building and the occupants of the flanking rooms were often pointed out to guests by their hosts as if they were rare species in a walk-through aquarium. It was a point of great pride with the Church leaders that the Real Church was the first established in the UK to follow the "American" model; it was a business and wanted to show it.

  On one side was the network room, where banks of operators sat at terminals, or walked around with their Real Church branded Books. They were working the net. They wrote blogs, posted on forums, tweeted, mapped on webweb and spent countless hours duplicate tagging on MSAR, iSee+ and Google Reality to make sure whoever won out in the augmented reality market, they would continue to be represented. They talked to other Real Church followers and reached out to those who hadn't yet heard of the Church. The room cast a net around the world and attempted to keep it pulled tight. It was thanks to this room that they were streets ahead of the Church of England and the other traditional churches in terms of reaching a new audience. They had technology on their side, which seemed to hold a lot more weight with most young people than centuries of pomp and ceremony, something which the old churches had either chosen to ignore or failed to notice.

  On the other side of the corridor were the fundraising and achievements departments: one bringing in the money; the other sending it out in one way or another. Blotch passed through and entered the atrium. He dodged around the tall concrete tablet that stood annoyingly in the centre of the room, recording the Real Church's mission and values, and headed out of the tall glass doors. As he exited, he came out next to a woman who was swiping her Book at the donation point, a small-scale representation of the Real Stairway with a panel on the front.

  'Thank you,' he said to her with a small bow. She scuttled away, smiling shyly.

  Blotch glanced either way down the broad avenue where the church sat and then shuffled across, pausing in the middle to give way to a struggling Volvo. At the coffee shop he got himself a cup of tea and then settled at one of the three empty pavement tables. He cursed quietly at the smallness of the metal chairs. The tables were small too. Just big enough to each have three placemat sized displays built into them.

  The number was still on Blotch's Book when he took it out again. While the line rang he gazed across
the road at the church and contemplated the lasered inscription above the building's faux-crystal doorway, singing out the Real Church's motto in gold leaf: Bringing Moral Balance. A small congregation was dribbling out from the entrance to the smaller East Chapel where they held weekday services. He noted how few of its members paused at the donation terminal. It was a hobby of his to watch the worshippers exit. It was always interesting to see where the different people would go next and the coffee shop gave him the perfect view either way down the street with its three bakeries, its upmarket lingerie boutique and its branch of the Pigs. The local Pig branch had been tastefully named Holes Only for the nickname of the infection-free suburban branches and the owner was such a fan of puns that he had incorporated a snooker hall on the top floor. If Blotch saw a worshipper disappear in there it wouldn't be the first time. For now most of them had stopped to check the lunchtime lotto on their Books. At least they had the decency not to have them on during the service. Blotch fixed on a man in a depressed green coat that came down to his shins.

  'The Hospital: Lady speaking.' The smooth telephone voice sent a shiver down Blotch's neck. He had almost forgotten he was on a call.

  'Lady,' Blotch lowered his voice instinctively, 'it's Minister Blotch here. I'm glad I caught you. I've got a favour to ask.'

  'A favour? A paying favour?'

  'Potentially.' Blotch flared his nostrils. People could be so indelicate about these matters. Glancing up and down the street he realised he had lost the man in the green coat. He looked back up at the church inscription and forced himself to refocus. 'If my memory serves me correctly you used to have a contact at V.'

  'Yes.'

  'Are you still in touch?'

  'The Hospital still uses V's testing centre, if that's what you mean, but you know they're not keen on me shouting it around.'

  'I'm thinking specifically of your friend Gerald who runs the centre.' For a second, Blotch worried that he had got the name wrong. He took his Book from his ear quickly and flicked a document icon from the side-menu towards the table-top.

  'Oh yes?'

  'I don't know if you've heard the news but he doesn't run the centre any more. He's had rather a nice promotion.' Blotch wiped the grimy table display with his sleeve and cast his eyes over the mail. Gerald, yes. He could barely make it out. The display looked like it had been used as a chopping board.

  'Yes, I heard.' Lady sounded hesitant. 'Perhaps I could put in a congratulatory call, but it might seem a little odd, since his new department is technically going into competition with me. And I doubt he'll be able to give you any information if that's what you're looking for. It would be helpful to know what it is you're looking for.'

  'I'm looking for…' Blotch hesitated. He wasn't exactly sure himself what it was he wanted. 'Eyes on the inside, I suppose. We don't like the idea of these "designer viruses" any more than you do. It just seems prudent to keep an eye on things, don't you think?'

  'Hm.' Lady's answer gave little away. 'Let me speak to him and get back to you. Could be a week or more. He's a busy man. He'll be even busier now.'

  Chapter 5

  Kester undid his tie for the third time. It was never going to look good enough because it would never be a good enough tie to wear to V. However, he thought it was a bit mad to go and spend a load of money on a new outfit when there had been talk of a corporate tailor.

  As he flipped the tie back over his head to start again, there was a metallic spang and he found himself standing in the dark. Cursing, Kester left the bathroom and paced around his small flat in an attempt to find some kind of reflective surface. He had thought he would stay in his Lambeth flat when he started at V, rather than live-in like most of the V staff, but over the last few days all the little niggles that he had learned to ignore had started to get to him again: the lack of any natural light source in the bathroom, the noise of next door's boiler kicking in at five every morning, the slight cant of the living room floor, the missing skirting board in the hall. He was preparing himself to say goodbye to the place, nitpicking as he might with a lover when he saw the breakup on the horizon.

  Stooping in front of his watermarked chrome kettle, he flattened out the two uneven ends of his tie. How would the morning go? He thought himself in through the revolving doors of the V office. At the reception desk he would say Hi. My name is Doctor Kester Lowe. Alexis Farrell is expecting me. She said to report to her for my induction. He would say it in a confident tone, without stumbling over his words or having to check his Book for the details. The receptionist would say Doctor Lowe – of course! Please, this way. Nice and straightforward. That bit couldn't go wrong.

  Flicking and tucking his tie into a fat knot, he continued the day in his head. Mrs Farrell would be looking over some important documents when he arrived. People would be fussing round her like cleaner wrasse. The receptionist would show him into her office and leave, bowing as she backed out of the doorway. The attendant employees would look up and then buzz out of the room, heads down, leaving just the two of them. Hello, he would say.

  Where to go from 'hello' was the hard part. She would make some lewd comment. Or would she be different now that he was an employee? With people he knew already he would idly practise conversations in his head before he met them, but then he knew the sorts of things they might have to say to him. Perhaps she would make some comment about John's performance in the bar. Oh, him, he'd reply, then follow it with a lie about John – John wouldn't mind. He's just a guy from the department. He sometimes just tags along. He can't handle his drink. He's bipolar. Maybe slightly fewer lies about John. I see, she'd reply. Then she'd hit her Book and mist up the windows that looked onto the rest of the floor. All the employees outside would give him daggers through the opacifying glass. Time for your induction.

  There was a beep. His Book. After pacing around for a bit, Kester spied it, sitting camouflaged on the edge of his smoked glass coffee table. The transparent body of the Book was a brilliant innovation – just looking through it gave you an AR view of everything you pointed it at – but Kester always forgot to set it to solid when he put it down and it would disappear into its surroundings effortlessly. Word was there was an upgrade coming that would make it change automatically when you put it down, but it hadn't materialised yet. He should have got the one with the red fingerplate and topline. As he picked it up the round button in the centre of the fingerplate recognised his thumbprint and unlocked. A good luck message from Betta.

  Kester thought of Delilah. It had been over a week. Betta had been acting the go-between, but it had all been one way. Dee had met all of Kester's apologies with silence. Betta said she was waiting for him to turn down the job, but he had no idea why he would, or why she would think that he would.

  Kester's eye wandered automatically to the picture of him and Dee that sat gathering dust on top of the fridge. He remembered the day it was taken – his eleventh birthday, a Friday in the summer holidays. That morning his parents had been deep in excited conversation when he came downstairs. The kitchen smelled of his Dad's aftershave and burnt toast. On the television they were claiming that the threat of AIDS was over and on some channels that all disease was beaten for good. Someone had invented a nano-device that built itself inside the sufferer's body and protected them from disease, taking over the functions of their broken immune system.

  When Kester had finally managed to get his parents' attention, his Dad had jumped in and explained to him what the immune system was. On the television there were arguments raging. Some people seemed to be against the device for some reason and others were saying that scientists had bettered the design of the human body. Kester couldn't follow the arguments, but he remembered thinking that it must be very important because neither of his parents had said happy birthday to him. Dee had beaten them to it, bursting in the back door, arms outstretched, chanting I am the birthdaybot. I have come to install your nanoscreener. Surrender your guts.

  -o-

  It was str
ange being back at the V building. It was only a week and a half since his interview but everything looked different to Kester. He stood looking up at the building, recalling what he had felt: a sickness, nausea, the feeling that he was about to try and fool someone. Why he should have felt this way he had no idea. He had been designing viruses for eight years now, had a PhD out of which had come several extremely well received and now commonly cited papers and articles, had produced viruses for the MoD, the Home Office and large private clients home and abroad, but faced with this new audience he felt like a fraud, despite having the notes on his Book to back it all up.

  It had been sunny, he remembered, sunnier than today. The steel structure of the building was exposed. It wore its skeleton on the outside. Above the front entrance sat the point of a gigantic V, whose arms were thrown tall to the top corners of the building. It had been incorporated into the structure and housed the mechanism for the mechanical window cleaners that swept round the building just before dawn. Beauty and functionality went hand-in-hand. Well, reflected Kester, a certain sort of modern beauty. Used to the mothball streets around the Institute, this still looked like the future to him. He recalled noticing how the V-shape was tapered to vanishing point at the top ends to exaggerate the ridiculous height of the building. The sky had been blue and flat. Fine backlit balloon skin stretched tight over the top of the city.

  Today it felt stormy. The sky was again blue, but Kester knew it could change in a matter of minutes. He stood before the giant V and looked up. With clouds skittering past fast on the wind, it looked like the immense building was sliding sideways, bending in the breeze. Kester felt suddenly giddy and looked straight ahead. Trying his best to breathe evenly, he walked in a superhumanly straight line to the single revolving door that gave access to the ground floor. As he stepped into the doors he was aware of the enormous V that branched above him. He felt a sudden spike on the top of his skull, a fear that the V might drop suddenly and split him like an anatomical model right down the middle, revealing everything.