Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  'In some ways. I just wanted to let you know myself. I wanted to thank you, I suppose.'

  'Don't thank me, Cherry.'

  'Nobody wants to be thanked. Good luck then, I suppose. You'll have heard about the new screens.'

  'Of course.' Lady's words became clipped. 'What with those and the designer viruses there'll be no business left for us soon. Except for the original business.'

  'I know.' Cherry wasn't sure what to say to this. It would be no different if she were there, if she had never left. 'Will you pass on a message to Marlene and Tim for me?'

  'Cherry, I'm not your personal answering service,' Lady said, then paused for a moment.

  Cherry imagined her smoothing back her hair, stroking her skirt flat down the length of her thigh, her conscience struggling with her image.

  'Call back at three-thirty,' Lady said, as if she were ordering Cherry in to her office. 'I have to see them both about something anyway. You can tell them whatever it is yourself.'

  'Thank you. I can thank you this time, can't I?'

  'You're welcome, Cherry.'

  'Take care –'

  'We'll speak later,' Lady said and put the phone down.

  Cherry shook her head and tucked her Book away. Reaching into her bag, she brought out an almost empty gin miniature and a lighter. If the alcohol didn't do for the virus, then fire would. She carefully took the top off the bottle, tipped it so that the liquid reached its lip, lit the liquid and placed it quickly back down on the plaque. Her actions caused several passers-by to perform a shambolic stagger-and-duck manoeuvre. Presumably they had expected it to explode. When it proved to be just burning, they fell back into their normal gaits with alarming ease, carrying on across the bridge as if they had defective memories. Cherry watched the plastic melt and buckle, holes gaping it in like panicked mouths. When the flames died down she took off her shoe and knocked the remains of the bottle into the river, leaving a small round scorch mark on the plaque.

  Cherry took her Book out again. Her mother's picture smiled from the display, looking past her, somewhere over her left shoulder. She was meeting Gerald for dinner at nine, which gave her plenty of time to start on her next project. The fiscal records building with its forms and queues was the place to start. If her mother was still in the City, imprisoned or not, alive or not, that was where she would find out. She tapped the destination into her Book, held it up against the north Embankment vista to see her route mapped out for her, then tucked it away and started to walk.

  -o-

  Jesus had a particularly stern look on his face today. His wounds were not bothering him, or if they were, they were a mere irritation against the pain that Blotch had clearly caused him. Blotch knelt in front of his office altar, tracing the sequence of events, explaining, apologising and stopping to curse V in short bursts. Things had turned out a little more complicated than he had hoped. The blasted company had taken Lowe back into their dirty nest and had managed to make themselves look like the good guys in the process. The girl had done her bit, so things might have been recovered, but there had been a stampede at the fashion show, seemingly unrelated – bad luck really.

  He could have done with a hand on that front. It was the best chance of getting back into the City that the Real Church had been afforded in years and they'd blown it. Rumours of a viral attack had damaged business at the Pigs for a few days, though, and that had to be worth something. This wouldn't happen next time, he assured the Christ. Next time they would nail it.

  'Your forgiveness, my Saviour.' Blotch crossed himself and bowed his head to the altar. 'Unfortunate turn of phrase.'

  There went his promotion, just like that. He felt queasy, hot and cold. This had been it; he had been so sure. And he still had one boss to apologise to. He cast a pleading glance at Jesus. Just then there was a knock at the door and it opened a sliver. A small grey head popped in, accompanied by the flash of what Blotch thought was a knitting needle.

  'Minister.' Nan's voice went straight through him. 'Ah, you're talking to himself. You'll thank him for the transfer while you're down there will you? It was just the thing.'

  Nan pushed in through the door, indicating her new cardigan proudly. Blotch looked back at Jesus, closed his eyes and was silent for a moment, then got up and squeezed round behind his desk.

  'Nan,' he said, smiling over gritted teeth.

  'I've got a little titbit the two of you might be interested in.' She settled herself opposite him, glancing over her shoulder at the altar with a fond nose wrinkle.

  -o-

  Alexis turned right then left in front of her mirror and then looked straight at herself. On the dark grey wall behind her, opposite the open doorway to her bathroom, hung Kester's gift. She smiled. The fiery circle around London was reflected just behind her head, giving her a flaming halo. As she stared, the light bulbs at the mirror's edge fuzzed and melted into a luminous frame.

  She interrogated her reflection, trying to see herself objectively, critically. Her skin was good. There was no youthful glow, but it was clear and smooth. Her makeup was simple and precise: black liquid-lined eyes, black clump-free lashes, red lips, tidy eyebrows. Her hair was parted exactly in the middle and drawn up in two tight rolls that started above her temples and swept back down to meet in a V at the nape of her neck. She wore simple V logo stud earrings. From the neck up everything was perfect; inhumanly perfect. She nodded, satisfied, and continued her appraisal.

  Her simple silk top was a patchwork of logos, all tonally similar, creating a pattern effect on the fabric. It flattered her frame. She looked at where her breasts lifted the fabric in small peaks, then down to where it wafted free over her flat stomach. She moved from side to side and took pleasure in its small movements against her skin, a tropical breeze. Nice, but too feminine, she decided. She tried pinching it in with the waistband of her skirt but it was still too soft. Classy, but the order of the day was not classy – it was professional, sharp, intimidating. She picked up her Book and called Rita.

  'Rita, I've got an interview at three. I need to look intimidating. Bring me up something angular, something androgynous.' She hung up without waiting for a reply.

  This one she would reserve for meeting Kester afterwards, she decided. He would like it. There was plenty of room for his wandering hands to slide in underneath. Once this interview was out of the way things would be back to normal. She couldn't relax until she had taken her revenge, taken the driver's seat again. Passing a hand across her abdomen, she felt a small tug of rage, buried deep. She had never wanted to have children. Even if she did want to there was always POR. She had lost nothing, but it was the principle of the thing. As Gaunt had put it, it is little consolation to the man whose manhood you've cut off that it can be sewn back on. Campbell needed to see her at her best. She must be powerful, sexy, virulent; she must be indestructible, a perfect bronze of woman. But she doesn't care about those things, Kester would tell her.

  'Bullshit, Kester,' she said to her reflection, 'everybody cares about those things.'

  Dee would care and she would see how complete her failure was. And once she had seen how complete her failure was, Alexis would build her up and destroy her again. There was a tight ball of anticipation at Alexis' diaphragm. She picked up the hypodermic gun Kester had given her, recalled his warning, loaded it and tucked the second vial into her skirt pocket. She looked at herself in the mirror again, and pointed the hypodermic at her reflection like a hand gun.

  'Bang,' she said, blew smoke from the needle, and tucked the gun into an imaginary holster at her hip. She had plenty time to visit Gaunt and Yule; a short six hours was all it needed.

  A picture flashed up on Alexis' Book. An outfit suggestion from Rita. A clean-lined suit-fabric jumpsuit – sharply flared legs, a high collar balanced by a mid-depth V-neck, a neat line of close-set buttons sweeping down to either hip from the centre point of the V. Alexis flicked to see the back view. A waistcoat-shaped panel on the back was given over to a wel
l-matched montage of logos. Perfect.

  And perhaps Kester would like this too, in a different way. Not so easy access. She imagined the struggle he would have wrestling her out of it, could already feel the pull of his clumsy hands at the lines of buttons. Tonight would be perfect. He would be enlarged with ego, her greatest creation, Doctor Kester Lowe; she would be hot with the blood of her enemy. She smiled to herself. There would be buttons everywhere.

  -o-

  Kester swung his feet up on his desk and gave a happy sigh. The rescheduled fashion show had gone off without a hitch. Everything was new again. He felt safe, elated and confident that his world was under his control. This must be what Lex felt like all the time. He remembered his first days at V, his projects growing, the fervent activity. That was great, but this was better. He knew exactly what he was doing. Welcome…John Boyd, said the doors.

  'So, Boss, where do you want me to start?' John said.

  Kester giggled. It was weird having John there. He felt like he had done something wrong, had got a friend in the back door, even though John was one of the most capable scientists he knew.

  'Make us a cup of coffee,' Kester said, holding his face as straight as he could. He let John waver for a moment then laughed. 'Just kidding. I need you to go over my data from the initial torso tests. I want you to question the methodology, interrogate the data – just check I haven't cocked up anywhere along the way.'

  'A nice no-pressure start then?'

  'Yeah.' Kester expected John would go and start work, but he hung around at the door for a minute before coming back across.

  'The booths – the exchange booths…'

  'Yes?'

  'Is it really OK? I mean is this a trap or something? You can just use them, right?'

  'Right. Any time, with anyone. But try not to exchange below your grade too much – stick to the up-and-comers and your seniors if you can. You'll get used to it.'

  'So her, over there.' John looked to the window and pointed out a girl with a sleek mousy ponytail a few benches into the room. 'Suppose I feel she's got potential…'

  'Yes.'

  'I could just go and say to her, "Hey doll, fancy a tumble in the booths?"'

  Kester smirked. He'd had trouble getting to grips with the etiquette when he first started too.

  'Best way is to use the exchange request on your profile. Just ping her – you can use name, station number, or just point your Book to identify her and a message will pop up. She'll yes or no you and a booth will light up to show it's free if she accepts your offer.'

  'Cool. I meant it hypothetically of course.'

  'Of course. And, hypothetically speaking, you won't have to walk back across the room like a tool with everyone watching if she says no.'

  'Nice,' John said, meandering towards the door. 'Thanks Boss.'

  Kester skipped over to his coffee machine and made himself a small cup. He sat down and looked up at his twin display; streams of data tumbled down the wall next to his static design board. Picking up his Book, he flipped through his appointments. There was a heady mix of science and celebrity: a meeting to set up the controlled in vivo trials of the screens, a guest feature on Take It, his first presentation to the Board, a photoshoot with his new team, the first planning session for the show's world tour.

  Kester stood and walked to the front window of his office. This was enough vertigo for him, he decided. A happy medium. The odd visit to Alexis' office to make him dizzy would suffice. And he could always look down on the people in the square from here if he chose to. He watched them for a moment and imagined that each one was leaving a different-coloured trail across the square, together creating a giant tangled Beck map charting their encounters and decisions.

  One of them might be Dee. He wasn't sure what he thought about that, knowing that she was headed for the building. Would she try something else? He stopped himself. Alexis was in control. It was her call, her plan, nothing to do with him any more. And if it made her happy it was worth it. He made a mental note to shower and get his apartment fixed up before the interview was finished. Though it might be nice if she called him up to her office so they could relive his own interview. He wondered if she would. It was a sort of anniversary for them.

  Kester's Book rang. It was his mother.

  'Mum, how are you?'

  'Kester – my Kester. I can't believe it's really happening. You're really doing it.'

  'I know, Mum. I told you I would, didn't I?'

  'You did. You did.'

  'Did you offload the rest of those panties OK?'

  'Don't you worry about that, darling.' His mother shrieked with laughter.

  'You alright, Mum?'

  'Oh yes, yes, just the dog has just come through with a pair round his neck. He's been sticking his head in my bag again. Oh sweetie…' She descended into a stream of baby-doggy talk.

  Kester tuned out and started to scroll through the live data on the display next to his design board. It was satisfying to watch. He could see things progressing before his eyes. It wouldn't be long now until he saw his dream come to fruition, until every member of staff in the building offered themselves up to his needle – he smirked – became a vessel for his creation, came under his protection. Then it would go live to the City, to London, to the other cities and then…a small sadness sloshed in his stomach, the dregs of something that had once tasted fine. He recalled his and Dee's plans, and his drunken promise on the bar at Brass that his screen would be free for everyone. Well…maybe…

  As he looked out over the lab a piece of equipment unfolded from the ceiling on a multi-elbowed arm. It paused for a moment, seeming to look at him before continuing down to the station that had requested it.

  This was a corrupt business. It would only take one member of staff to decide the screen technology should be open source for whatever reason – one person struck by a moral revelation, one person having a noble five minutes. Halfway across the lab the lift doors opened, admitting Gerald's smile. Behind it followed Gerald and a group of models back for the next round of testing: Cherry, Hera and a few he didn't recognise. Cherry looked over and gave him a shy smile. After a minute or two Kester became aware that his mother's tone had changed again.

  'Kester? Are you listening, Kester? I said I've booked my tickets to come and see you. Now you're sure you and Alexis don't mind having me for a whole weekend?'

  'No, Mum, it's fine – really.'

  'It's going to be so lovely to finally meet her. Has Dee met her yet?'

  'Em, not quite.'

  -o-

  Dee entered the interview room. It was on the top floor of the building and as she walked forwards to meet the panel, she could see the whole of London falling away from them in a steep tilting bowl. They were at the top edge, the highest point. She might trip and be sent flying over the edge, skittering down into the centre of the city. It was impressive – she struggled with the feeling. No, it was good to be impressed. She should let herself be taken over, taken in. She needed to seem convinced to be convincing.

  Dee recognised the woman in the middle of the panel as Alexis Farrell. Farrell was dressed in a grey all-in-one suit. It was tasteful, sexy, businesslike – a look that bothered Dee. She would never be able to dress that way. She was suddenly very self-conscious about the simple trouser-suit she was wearing.

  'Take a seat,' Farrell said.

  Dee looked in front of the desk. There was no chair there. She glanced side to side and then back towards the door. Finally she spotted a chair in the far corner of the room, marking the intersection of the two glass walls. She walked over to it, picked it up, brought it back and placed it down in front of the desk. Cheap trick. She had heard about this sort of stupid stunt. It was supposed to unnerve you.

  Dee positioned her seat carefully to avoid the wedge of sunlight that was cutting through the room. She seated herself at a leisurely pace and then looked one by one at the panel members, who were all fiddling with their Books. On either side o
f Farrell there was a man, one tall and thin, one extremely large.

  'Delilah,' Alexis Farrell began.

  'Please, call me Doctor Campbell,' Dee said. She wasn't here to be patronised.

  The thin man laughed and licked his lips.

  'I'm sure you remember me –' Farrell began.

  'No.' Dee cut her off, then checked herself. She needed to look like she wanted the job. She wanted to be offered the job. It would be good to be able to turn it down. Yes, to turn it down was the thing. 'Perhaps,' she said, 'with Kester.'

  'Doctor Lowe's leaving drinks from his Institute job, I believe. A fancy-dress affair.'

  'I say.' The thin man spoke again.

  'Delilah, let me introduce you to Byron Gaunt, Pharmaceuticals, and Roger Yule, Marketing.' Alexis extended a hand simultaneously to either side, neglecting to indicate who was who.

  'Nice to meet you, gentlemen.' Dee smiled. She could feel how unconvincing her smile was. It was uncomfortable across her face, a tight piece of elastic.

  'The pleasure is all ours,' the fat man said, mopping his brow. He seemed kindly.

  'It'll be all mine, I think you'll find, Roger,' the other man said, inadvertently helping her out.

  The fat one was Yule; the thin one was Gaunt. Gaunt stood up from his chair and walked over to her. He was a decrepit pillar of charming sleaze, the sort of which Dee had frequently encountered in the academic world.

  'And an exquisite pleasure it will be,' Gaunt added.

  He took up her hand and kissed it. She tried not to pull away. No funny business, Kester had promised her. Dee could feel her colour rising. She hadn't spoken to Kester since he came to see her. Couldn't get a hold of him. She had wanted to talk to him about the interview. Had half hoped he might persuade her that working with him was a good idea, that he might say something to make everything that had happened go away. But then there was Farrell. He wouldn't be able to make her go away.