Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  'I liked the look of KL02,' she said, looking straight into his eyes, searching for a reaction.

  'Well, you own it Ms Chen,' Kester said, smiling, still pleased with himself.

  Chen was nearly the same age as Farrell, but she was just as well-preserved, if not more so, and she was aware of the fact. Her Chinese features were less liable to betray age.

  'And that means I can take it whenever I like,' Chen said, the Scottish undertones bringing an air of threat to her voice.

  Did they teach the women at V to talk this way? Kester wondered. On some induction course, perhaps: Discomfiting and Manipulating Male Members of Staff Using Just Your Tone of Voice.

  'Whenever you like, Ms Chen,' Kester said, unsure of what he was agreeing to.

  'Hm,' she said, apparently satisfied. 'I look forward to watching your progress.' She indicated the door.

  'Thank you, Ms Chen,' Kester said and walked past her.

  She followed him, holding a palm to the small of his back as if guiding a child, so close he could feel it though she did not touch him.

  -o-

  Back at the lab, Gerald's smile was threatening to sever the top of his head.

  'Sir! Sir, it's working,' Gerald said almost before Kester had entered the room. He had his hands spread out like he was about to sing a show-tune.

  'It is?' Kester asked.

  'Yes, it is.'

  'What? What's working?'

  'Keep with the programme, boss.' Gerald took Kester by the elbow and led him to the central bench. There was a rack of test-tubes sitting there, some marked with red, some with amber, and some with green stickers.

  'These stickers all look very high-tech,' Kester said.

  'One of your techniques, I believe, sir.'

  'Yes. What am I looking at?'

  'You are looking at the skin serum for KL03.'

  'Serum? Do you mean the liquid catalyst?'

  'Mrs Farrell's idea – makes it sound good for you. Serums are associated with health, glowing skin.'

  'I see. Well, we've done glowing skin.' Kester lifted the pot and sniffed it.

  'Doesn't smell, doesn't taste too bad, but we're not sure quite what ingesting too much of it would do to you so we'd best put some kind of warning on the label. Hera is primed and waiting when you're ready to give it a go. Her virus population has plateaued just like we expected, tropism's good, host tissue is reacting well, that is to say, not at all – it's ghosting. There's a greater differentiation between areas than we expected, but it shouldn't matter. It did take an extra day to reach optimum levels but that could be quite good, don't you think – delayed gratification and all that?'

  'It's not something people are great at these days, but maybe…'

  Gerald took the pot in one hand and put the other hand back on Kester's elbow, steering him towards the testing suites.

  -o-

  By the time Kester got back to his apartment, Farrell was already there. She was perched on his couch, shoes off, hair down, a glass of champagne in her hand. She reached over to the table next to her, picked up a second glass and held it out to him.

  'They went for the fashion show.'

  'They did?'

  'Yule loved it. Believes it was his idea – it's the way to get him onside. Though he was half-way there already with his "designer" concept.'

  'Wah!' Kester said, taking the glass. 'Good thing the models are actual models.'

  'It was inevitable that they would be put on show at some point – though I wasn't counting on that being on the catwalk.' Alexis smiled to herself, knowingly.

  She had been. He could see that now.

  'You've got them all dancing to your tune, haven't you? You may have the Board fooled, but you don't fool me.'

  Kester walked to the fridge, opened the door, stared into it for a moment or two, and then closed the door again. He took a long swig of champagne.

  'Your mother called,' Alexis said.

  He spat.

  'Oh, fuck, sorry!' Kester grabbed a towel and threw it on the floor. 'My mother?'

  'She's a nice lady.'

  Kester groaned.

  'She asked if you'd been getting any work done in between trips to the knocking boxes.' Alexis smirked. 'Speaking of which the Board, including myself, thinks it would be a good idea if you went to the Pigs – at least once – just to give you a better idea of who we're marketing to – what the experience is.'

  'The Pigs?' Kester said, face contorted, snorting out the remembered smell. 'The Pigs? That's ridiculous. I don't need to know what they're like. It's not my job to know the market.'

  'Jesus, I was just kidding.'

  'God, it's just horrible.'

  'Did you hear me? I was kidding?'

  'I know, I just – guh.' Kester shuddered and laughed. 'You know why it's called "the Pigs", right? You do know?'

  'Oh come on Kester, that's just an urban myth.'

  'Oh yeah? Where do all those tons of bacon we eat in the City come from? Shipped in from the countryside? Unlikely. And you don't see pigs wandering free on the tops of buildings do you, so they must come from somewhere.'

  'You don't see cows up there either but we manage to get our hands on milk. It's transported in, crazyface. Nobody goes to "the cows".' Alexis was openly laughing at him.

  'Don't crazyface me. The Pigs, say no more. Don't have to.'

  'You're mad, Kester. It's a story told by mothers to stop their teenage boys going there. Really, what kind of society do you think we live in? They're just latex holes in the wall – whatever you want on the display in front of you, but it's just a hole.'

  'Yeah – a hole that every other fucker's fucked.'

  Alexis raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her champagne.

  'What would your mother say, Doctor Lowe, if she heard your filthy mouth?' She got up from the couch and stalked across the room towards him. 'And Chen? What would she say if she heard you bad-mouthing one of our potential clients like that? She wouldn't like it.'

  Kester's laugh was dulled by the memory of Chen's hand at his back. He finished his glass, put it down and reached out to grab Alexis' waist as she came near. She hovered just out of reach for a moment and then drew in close.

  'She'd spank me,' Kester said. 'She'd spank me with her manky little blistered hands.'

  'I'd like to see her try,' Alexis said. She blinked slowly, a cartoon blink, calculated. 'I'm going to make you famous, Kester Lowe. They'll all want to spank you.' She put her lips to his ear. Behind her on the misted-out window a fashion show was running on mute, twice life-size, hips swinging with military verve between slicing cheekbones and precision footwork. 'Every filthy little one of them.'

  Chapter 11

  Blotch rubbed his hands together as he read through Cherry's report. It had been a long three weeks, but it was worth the wait.

  …we don't know when the show will be yet – not sure a date has been set, but it's going to be like an actual fashion show, only the viruses are the clothes.

  I won't be in the first show. My lot go back into quarantine next week for secondary testing – another three weeks. I heard Doctor Lowe say to Gerald that our virus probably won't be ready for another few months and might need another round of testing, so maybe that gives you an idea of timescales if we're not being included in the show.

  So the rumours were true. They were planning a big showcase. It was the perfect opportunity, but he would have to work fast to make sure they were ready: it was time to make the call. He took his Book out and left his office, moving swiftly to the front doors of the building.

  Walking along in front of the Real Church building, Blotch flicked his Book on and found the number he needed. As the line rang he stopped and swiveled slowly on his heel. There was more graffiti on the front wall. The ONLY REAL Church is CofE. Punchy. Blotch made a mental note to report it to the caretaker.

  'Hello?' The voice that answered the phone was thin, watery. The woman sounded as if she was concentrating on some
thing else.

  'Doctor Delilah Campbell?'

  'Speaking.'

  'This may seem a bit out of the blue, but I'm calling because I've got a proposition for you.'

  'Stop,' Doctor Campbell said. 'Whatever you're selling I'm not interested. This is my home number and your sorts of calls are supposed to be blocked.'

  She was focused now and her voice bristled with spite. She was angry. Not angry at the phone call; just angry. Blotch could feel himself going automatically into call centre appeasement mode. But that wasn't right. He wanted the anger, wanted to direct it.

  'This isn't a sales call, Doctor Campbell. I'm calling because I'm interested in funding your research.'

  'My research?'

  'Your research on screen development. My organisation was informed about your plans by another funding body which I believe rejected a past application.'

  'Your organisation? What organisation?'

  'My organisation would prefer to remain anonymous. We are a benevolent fund that prefers to remain under the radar.'

  'Under the radar. Really.'

  She was going to be a joy to deal with. Blotch was already annoyed with her tone. He was relieved he wouldn't have to meet with her.

  'Yes. There would be some conditions attached to the funding, but I'll send a representative to talk these through with you.'

  'I see.' There was confirmed disappointment in her voice. 'This all sounds a bit vague for my liking. What sort of funding are we talking about here?'

  'Name it.'

  'Name it? You mean an amount? On my current proposal I've suggested an initial budget of €250,000, but depending on your "conditions" it might have to be considerably more.'

  'That's fine,' Blotch said.

  There was a long pause on the line. She was trying to get rid of him with big numbers. She thought he was a time waster.

  'What was your name again? This all sounds a bit weird to me. Why don't you send your details over and I'll apply to your fund in the normal way. I don't want to get into any trouble with the department.'

  'My representative will come and speak to you this evening,' Blotch said. He had to ride out her doubts. A big enough transfer should do the job. 'I'm sure she'll be able to set your mind at rest. Can you be in your lab until seven?'

  There was another long pause. Blotch could hear the whirr of a lab machine in the background.

  'Yes.'

  'That's settled then. I look forward to working with you, Doctor Campbell.'

  'Let's not be too hasty,' she said, and the line went dead.

  -o-

  'This is fabulous,' Yule said.

  Yule was sitting at Kester's desk, making it look small, while Kester pointed out the viruses from his board that had worked and would be ready in time for the show. He looked round to gauge Yule's reaction. Yule looked properly impressed by the last one on the list. It was in its final round of testing and was performing well. It caused a fine crest of hair to grow down the wearer's spine. A pregnant technician had named it 'Lanugo-go' after an early version's tropism selection had failed during torso testing, resulting in the torso growing hair all over.

  'There will only be five,' Kester said. 'I know you were hoping for six.'

  'No, no,' Yule said, his gaze still lingering on the concept of Lanugo-go. 'Kester Lowe's Big Five – that's absolutely fine. We've got enough going on around the edges to make the show substantial.' Yule hauled himself out of Kester's chair and shuffled over to the wall. 'This one really is fabulous.' He craned in closer to look at the notes that Kester had scrawled beside the illustrations.

  'Unfortunately, I'm not sure if it would work on you, Roger, depending on the cause of your alopecia.'

  'No. I expect not, I expect not. My hair follicles just don't work, so it's unlikely to.'

  Kester watched Yule closely. He wished he was better at reading people.

  'But it may,' Kester said after a few minutes. 'You could always give it a go and see.'

  Yule laughed and returned to Kester's chair. Kester tried not to wince as its insectile frame creaked under Yule's weight.

  'Don't worry, Kester, it's not a thing. It's just that when you've been bald all your life, hair holds a certain tactile fascination.'

  'I understand. You might fancy a trip to testing suite seven then.' Kester winked.

  'So we're free to focus on preparations for the show?' Yule said.

  'That's why you've come up to see me?'

  'Precisely. Didn't seem necessary to get everybody involved at this stage. There are a number of things we can just take decisions on and it'll be quicker without having to dodge traffic on the innuendo highway with Alexis and Gaunt.'

  Kester laughed. It sounded like a show – tonight on The Innuendo Highway with Alexis and Gaunt.

  'What's first?'

  'Let's see.' Yule took out his Book and flicked to the right set of notes. 'OK. In order of urgency: image; photoshoot; interviews. Now, I'm not one to take fashion advice from, but don't worry – we've got you a stylist.'

  'Did you say interviews?'

  'Yes, interviews – talk shows, Night Daily, webcasts and that sort of thing.'

  'Not Night Daily. I can just see them sneering about it as they miss the point and discuss over my head whether it's "art" or not.'

  'Don't worry.' Yule placed a steady hand on the desk. 'We've got the best media coach in the business. Your coaching is nine until twelve every day this week.'

  'They must think I really need it.'

  'Our image team are going to have their way with you this afternoon, so you'd better start sewing all those labels back on. Photoshoot is Thursday, early morning. They want a couple of sunrise shots, so up to the studio at five and no carousing on Wednesday night.'

  'Five?' Kester closed his eyes and sighed like a teenager.

  'It's just a one-off. I've put all this in your diary with reminders.'

  -o-

  'Just left a bit…No – back to where you were and rotate to the left a bit…OK. Come on, relax and look at that beautiful sunrise. You're cool; you're sexy.'

  Kester didn't feel cool and he didn't feel sexy. It was five-thirty in the morning and it was windy at the top of the V building. He felt puffy and a bit dizzy. He had never been up here before though it was one of the most famous bits of the building: a cantilever reinforced glass platform the length of the building and twenty feet deep that jutted out over the City boundary from the back of V's flat roof. The location was 'symbolic', Yule had assured him. He was inside the City; he was outside the City. Why that mattered, Kester wasn't quite sure. The view would have been phenomenal were the rising sun not leaving an ever-changing rash of blobs in his eyes.

  'Right at the sun,' the photographer said again. 'Hands on hips, please. No, one hand on your hip – other hand. Relax. Widen your stance a little. Just stand naturally.'

  The collar of Kester's brown fabric biker jacket was tickling his neck. He was beginning to doubt whether the corporate photographer was the best choice for the job. He folded the collar down again, trying to remodel it with a squeeze.

  'OK. Now a few with your labcoat please, Doctor Lowe.'

  A team of three stylists descended on him. One removed his jacket, the second slipped his labcoat on over his outstretched arms and a third ruffled his hair. As they retreated, Kester re-ruffled it. They returned and ruffled it again, and then paused for a moment to check he wasn't going to mess with it.

  'Right, let's snap!'

  Kester took a breath to cool the wooziness in his throat. He had avoided carousing the night before as instructed by Roger Yule, but he had stayed up late almost by accident. The lab was empty for the first time in a couple of weeks and he had decided to spend some solid time on his screen development. His in vitro tests were complete and he was ready to do some torso testing. He had commandeered one of the unused isolation suites and ordered a few extra torsos in.

  Kester had injected three of the torsos late last night. The
screens would be creating themselves now. He closed his eyes and thought himself into the system of one of the torsos. He let the sun-blobs become blood cells, allowed himself to be pushed through veins to the scene of his first screen's creation: the slithery shrunken phallus of the appendix. Here, prompted by the key virus, a cell mass was growing around a resource capsule of nanotransmitter materials, transforming the bored vestigial structure into a magnificent cathedral of immunity. Genetically modified host tissue bloomed, a froth of new growth creating an immunoglobulin factory, its benches hundreds of strands of virus-enabled cells. Rubbery tubes arose in a ridge along the length of the appendix and began birthing pods that carried transmitter packs and viral triggers, on their way to create network nodes throughout the body.

  'Forward a bit.'

  The photographer's voice shunted Kester onwards from the appendix out into the bloodstream where he was carried to a network node already under construction, spinning itself from native flesh near the subject's cervix, one of many blossoming across the torso at likely infection sites. Complete, its spongy structure began to shoot out cruisers, bruisers and antibodies like spores from a fungus.

  'If you can just pull your coat back a little.'

  The cruisers swilled past him, large and small. They were white, semi-translucent, and covered in protruding hallelujah-wide mouths, sirens singing for antigens to lure in and bind to. At the hearts of the large cruisers, confined to the bloodstream by their size, were the nanotransmitters, waiting for a binding to take place – an antigen to dock and reveal its nature, a smaller cruiser to latch on and report back from through the looking-glass of the body, a native antibody to pause and pass on information with a kiss. Bruisers rolled past, great wet tumbleweeds on patrol, reaching out tendrils, feeling for intruders, ready to help the body's macrophages where there was good eating to be had.

  'Your coat – can you pull it back a little? Wardrobe?'

  Kester grinned to himself as he flicked his coat back over one hip. He could see it, like a network of swirling laser beams: information from the cruisers and from other nearby screen users made a cat's cradle of straight green lines back to the nodes and to information central in the appendix. From there a great umbilical cord stretched out to Kester's central database. For a moment, the invisible corridors of the database were open to him. He sat in front of an endless, moon-high wall of microscopic compartments, each housing a biological menace terrifying in its own way – snarling mouth, strangling limbs, the calm pale open mouth of the reaper.