Spiked

by Mychael Black, Jourdan Lane, Willa Okati

  Inside, Quint stood in a line, beside the others. A woman, down the end was sobbing, and when a guard hit her, her sobs became louder. Quint was shit-scared. This was the risk he'd been taking all his life, the disaster he'd been inviting by breaking into corporate suburbs and stealing water, and by wearing a modded face.

  His hands were uncuffed, he was finger-printed and photographed, then taken to a cubicle with an examination table and a clerk.

  The clerk, female and tired, didn't look at him. “All your money and jewelry on the table, clothes in the waste bin."

  "What'll happen?” Quint said. “Can I make a call?” If he could get a message to someone, to Frood perhaps ... Then what? Frood had nothing, except whatever he'd taken over the bar the night before.

  The clerk lifted her gaze from the paperwork she was filling in. “You've been fined for trespassing. If you can't pay the fine, you'll be assigned to a labor team, to work off your account. Please take your jewelry off. The value of the metal will be deducted from the fine total."

  Quint took Frood's coins out of his pocket and dropped them on the desk, in front of the clerk. “How much is the fine?"

  "Four thousand.” The clerk counted the coins. “Three thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven."

  "How long to pay it off?” Quint asked indistinctly as he unscrewed his lip spreader.

  "You're young and strong, so it should only take a few years. Then you'll be deported."

  The lip spreader clattered onto the desk, and the clerk poked it with the end of her pen. Quint's eyebrow ring was crusted with blood when he unscrewed the ball, and he felt cautiously up his forehead, to find the cut. The skin across his horn had torn, and the hard Teflon dome poked through his skin.

  The clerk tapped her pen on the desk. “Please hurry,” she said. “All your jewelry."

  Lip rings, then Quint tossed his jeans into the bin and began to remove the bars from his sack. He could feel the magnets and fold containing his own coins, but he didn't open the fold. No one could see the pouch easily, and it held what might be the last coins he could ever get hold of.

  Naked, jewelry removed and bagged, a hole on his chest where his sternal mod had been cut out, Quint was sent out of the cubicle, to join a larger queue in a hallway.

  The man beside Quint was jittering with withdrawal shakes, trembling and whimpering, and Quint had to look away.

  The line shuffled forward in silence, until Quint could see a person in scrubs waving the queue through a narrow doorway. A metal detector or x-ray. Neither option was good, not when Quint knew he had a pouch containing coins on him.

  On the other side of the scanner was another person in scrubs, putting rubber gloves on and taking them off as each person bent over in front of them. Quint had heard things, rumors from survivors, that this happened. He was tough, he could probably take out the two medical types, but what then? He couldn't get out of the building, not without some fancy electronic equipment. He'd be gunned down.

  His turn, once the pregnant woman in front of him had stepped through the scanner.

  Quint took a deep breath, and the person beside the scanner waved him through.

  Nothing happened, no beeps or flashing lights or alarms. The person didn't even look at the screen beside them, just turned to the junkie and gestured for him to step forward, ready to go through, too.

  Quint was still trying to work out what had happened when the next medical type pulled on new gloves. “Bend over,” the person said.

  Quint bent forward, trying to will his arse to let go, and the person shoved two fingers inside him then yanked them out. “Through the door,” the person said, peeling their gloves off and turning their attention to the junkie.

  He stumbled down the corridor, following the arrows on the wall around a corner. Human error or machine failure, it was his first break since the moment the flood light had shone on him. He was hungry, naked and imprisoned, but he had a better chance than he might have had.

  * * * *

  The work crew clambered out of the van, under the supervision of a guard in full armor carrying a nasty looking piece of weaponry. Davo, the junkie from the same intake as Quint, stumbled beside Quint, falling to the ground. The other inmates stepped away, but Quint knelt down and shook Davo's shoulder. “Davo, mate?” Quint whispered. “You gotta stand up."

  Something hard and metal tapped Quint's shoulder, and he ducked out of the way of the gun.

  "Go work,” the guard said, shouldering his weapon and bending over Davo.

  Quint could have taken the guard, got the gun, blown his way out of there, only he didn't know where there was, and he had a locator under the skin of his arm. He couldn't hack the locator out and then run fast enough to get away.

  Instead, he took the spade he was handed, and followed the rest of the inmates down a limestone slope, through dry scrub in the darkness, to the banks of what had once been a storm water drain.

  "Dig,” someone called out.

  Nothing made sense, not clearing a storm drain in a city that hadn't seen rain for years, not working to clear a debt so he could be deported from the country of his birth, and Quint was angry. Cold and bright, it burnt through him, making him drive the spade into the gravel and rubbish hard, over and over. This was not his life, and he was not giving in.

  * * * *

  The absence of Quint made itself felt slowly. At first Bailey wasn't surprised not to see Quint; Quint had a job and a life, and while Bailey had done what he could to let Quint know he wanted more, he wasn't sure that Quint was interested.

  Then he kind of missed Quint, and found himself hoping each night, when he unlocked his front door, that there'd be a note from Quint, or even better, Quint would be sitting on his steps, waiting for him. Quint had been on the roof, and Bailey couldn't imagine that someone with Quint's life couldn't clamber up onto the roof and break in.

  More days, and Bailey caught the train directly to Waverly and the pub where Quint worked.

  The pub door was open, letting in the remains of the daylight, so Bailey stepped into the gloom. A couple of drinkers, in one corner, no one behind the bar. Bailey leaned across the bar, looking behind it, and a man he recognized from the previous visits pushed open the door to the basement, wiping greasy hands on his jeans.

  "Sorry if I kept you waiting, mate,” the barman said. “Generator is on the blink, and I'm short-staffed. What'll it be?"

  "Middy,” Bailey said, pushing a coin across the bar.

  The barman took a glass off the rack and angled it under the tap, pulling on the lever with his other hand. “I know you,” the barman said. “You were waiting for Quint. Do you know where he is?"

  "No,” Bailey said, and the barman handed the glass of beer over. “I haven't seen him since the night the generator wouldn't work and you closed the pub."

  The barman crossed his arms, his grubby face concerned. “He went out the following night, to get food, and hasn't been back."

  Bailey said, “Is there anywhere he'd go? Does he have family here?"

  The barman shrugged. “Not that I know of. I thought he might have gone off with you."

  "Unfortunately, no. Could he be in trouble?"

  "Wouldn't surprise me,” the barman said. “He usually was in some kind of strife."

  "May I leave my contact details with you?” Bailey asked. “If he is in trouble, or if you hear anything and think I can help, then send me a message.” He took a card out of his pocket.

  "Knew you were corporate,” the barman said, studying the card. “I'm Frood. I'll let you know if I hear from Quint, assuming he wants me to tell you."

  Bailey went home, his untouched beer still on the bar. There were a lot of places Quint could be, and Bailey had no idea where to start looking, or even if Quint would want him to.

  He felt something, he wasn't sure what. Lonely, that was it.

  * * * *

  Quint could become used to anything. He'd slept next to a generator, or in a wreck of
car, for a long time. He'd eaten anything he could get; he'd lived on nothing but beer. He was tough.

  The dormitory, however, was taking some getting used to. He never bothered counting the number of people in the dorm, the total would depress him even further. Fifteen hours a day they were all locked in together, latrine at the end of the long, dark room. The food was some kind of pulp, but after a lifetime of eating meat-on-a-stick, Quint didn't mind the tasteless stew.

  He'd begun to make sense of Immigration. Villawood was where they were being held, somewhere in Sydney's west, so at least he hadn't been shipped to the desert. The work was mind-numbing, hour after hour spent cleaning corporate solar panels while dangling over the edge of buildings, or sandbagging the harbor against the encroaching sea, or digging out drains.

  Some of the inmates were religious, taking about gods and saviors and penance. Quint listened to them, but none of it mattered and he just concentrated on not crying most days. The human race could deal with its own salvation.

  The guards had become familiar faces. The big bloke with the beard who went out with the work detail was Pete; the woman with the scar and the eye missing was Diana. Quint had formed a nodding acquaintance with Lou, the man who brought the food trolley into the dorm twice a day. Lou had lost a leg to a mine, somewhere out in the world, and he limped around the dorm, handing out food and water rations.

  Davo, the junkie, dried out and woken up, was slowly teaching Quint chess, drawing a board and the pieces in the dust on the floor. Davo and Quint were crouched over the wobbly lines in the dirt when Lou spoke to them for the first time. “Knight takes bishop, check."

  Davo grunted and scuffed out marks in the dirt, shifting the piece. “You're in check."

  Quint looked up at Lou. “Why'd you do that?” he said. “Now I'm going to lose again."

  Lou shrugged. “You're going to lose anyway, you can't play for shit."

  Quint stood up, stretching himself so his neck cracked. Lou looked thin, his eyes were red-rimmed and he had sores around his mouth. He was probably as much a prisoner of Immigration as Quint was.

  A quick look around proved only Davo was paying any attention. “Can I ask you to do me a favor?” Quint said, keeping his voice low, adrenaline pumping through him, worse than from any prank involving a corporate suburb.

  Lou shrugged, shifting his weight a little, favoring his intact leg. “Dunno."

  "A message?” Quint whispered. “I can pay you."

  It was crazy, telling a guard he had coins, but time was slipping away from Quint, lost in a stream of days in a dorm and nights cleaning solar panels. He needed to get out, before he started believing in saviors and penance, instead of just himself.

  Lou didn't shout, didn't throw Quint onto the floor and hit the panic button in his belt, calling for armed back up.

  "Two,” Lou said quietly. “That's what it costs. Slip me the note tomorrow."

  He wandered off, pushing his empty food cart, pausing for the inmates to toss their empty bowls and bottles into it.

  "How did you get coin?” Davo asked in a whisper, and Quint was very glad Davo had beaten the pearl and was no longer strung out.

  "Found it, in a drain,” Quint whispered. “Shh."

  Davo nodded, his eyes suspicious.

  Quint patted his shoulder. “How ‘bout you show me what I've done wrong in this game?"

  * * * *

  Quint found scraps of paper in the drain he was clearing, faded images of people, cars and food, leftovers from a time that Quint could almost remember from his childhood. The papers tucked inside his overalls, he scrabbled through the scrub until one of the guards walked over and pointed back at the drain Quint was supposed to be clearing. Quint nodded, turning back toward the drain, shoving spindly sticks from the dead wattle into his pocket when it was safer.

  In the dorm, while the rest of the inmates were scoffing down their meal, arguing over and trading the stew, Quint sat on his bunk, his back to the room.

  He'd learned to read and write as a kid, enough to get along, but remembering words was hard work. He took the sharpest of the sticks from his pocket, stuck it hard into his arm, right into the flesh, so blood welled up freely. Then, with the tip of the stick dipped in blood, he began to trace letters on the paper scraps.

  Flynn. SirenCare.

  Jack Quinton. Immigration. Please help. Bailey.

  He wasn't sure how to spell Bailey or Flynn, but SirenCare looked right. He was pleased he'd remembered to put his full name on the paper. Bailey only knew him as Quint, but his Immigration fine had the name his mother had given him on it.

  His blood looked dark and splotchy on the paper when it had dried. He folded it carefully, with Flynn's name on the outside, and waited for Lou.

  He didn't eat any of his meal, and that day was one of the times when he hid his face against his mattress so as not to wake anyone up.

  Chapter 6

  Bailey stepped out of the shower, shaking the last of the water from his eyes. He didn't bother with a towel, just pulled his clean trousers and tunic on over his wet skin. It had been so hot when he'd come to work that he'd be glad of each lasting drop of water on the train home.

  Flynn was waiting, leaning against the wall, outside the cubicle. He looked perplexed, or perhaps worried; Bailey wasn't sure that Flynn ever managed a state of negative emotion more intense than worried. Bailey, however, could plumb the emotional depths at times.

  Bailey slapped Flynn's shoulder, leaving a wet hand print on his scrubs’ sleeve.

  "Wanna go get a bite to eat, or are you still working?” Bailey asked.

  Flynn shook his head. “I've been waiting for you to get out of theatre. Something's happened.” He handed a tattered scrap of paper to Bailey. “This was delivered to me today, some street kid brought it into reception."

  "For you?” Bailey asked, wiping his hand somewhat drier on his tunic before unfolding the scrap.

  Jack Quinton. Imigaton. Pls Help. Baly.

  "Rain,” Bailey said. “That's written in blood."

  "Is it Quint?” Flynn asked. “I couldn't work out who else it would be."

  Bailey had to blink to clear his eyes. “It has to be him."

  "What are you going to do?” Flynn asked.

  "Get him out,” Bailey said. “Can you lend me some coin?"

  Flynn nodded. “Of course I can."

  * * * *

  The clerk at Immigration and Migration smiled blandly at Bailey. “May I help you, sir?” he asked.

  "A friend is being detained. Can you give me details about his status?"

  The receptionist's smile faded, and Bailey got the distinct feeling that everyone in the office, as well as all the security cameras, were watching him.

  "The detainee's name?” the receptionist asked coldly.

  "Jack Quinton."

  "One moment."

  Bailey closed his eyes briefly, trying not to imagine Quint being held somewhere, so desperate that he sent Bailey a note written in his own blood.

  "Jack Quinton is currently detained as an illegal, until such time as he has cleared his account with us."

  Bailey nodded. “How much is owing?"

  "Three thousand, nine hundred and ninety two."

  Sweet rain, that was a lot of money.

  "I want to pay his account,” Bailey said.

  "Of course,” the receptionist said. “You're entitled to do so, as long as you are a citizen yourself. Jack Quinton will then be deported."

  "I think he was born here. How can you deport him?"

  "If he was born here as an illegal resident, then he will be deported to the country of origin for his parents or grandparents."

  Bailey shook his head. “Is there any way he can stay here? Can I sponsor him?"

  The receptionist looked like he'd smelled something bad. “There are few options for citizenship. A corporate body would need to petition for the detainee's release, on grounds of corporate dependency. Will you be paying coins dir
ectly for the detainee's release?"

  "I'll come back,” Bailey said. “With coins.” And an entire fucking corporation, if that was what it took.

  * * * *

  Roser, the senior executive manager of R and D for SirenCare, looked up from the desk screen of scrolling numbers, pressing one finger on the screen to stop the flow of data.

  "What?” she said irritably.

  "Flynn and Bailey, from product development and surgery respectively. We have an appointment,” Flynn said.

  "Dr. Flynn,” Roser said, and the irritation on her faced eased. “Do come in. And Bailey. I've been meaning to contact you, Dr. Flynn, let you know how pleased the board is with the sales of the colorburst product line. And of course, Mr. Bailey is the hands of Dr. Ford."

  "Apologies for intruding on your valuable time,” Flynn said. “But Mr. Bailey and I have some product ideas we'd like to discuss with you."

  Roser's face split in a smile, the colorbursts on her forehead glistening gold. Bailey had put them in. “Excellent. SirenCare is always keen to foster innovation and research."

  Flynn glanced at Bailey, who nodded slightly. “We're working on a, ahem, personal satisfaction enhancer, for both men and women."

  Roser's eyes widened, and she said, “Oh. Do you see commercial applications?"

  Flynn nodded. “Informal surveys, consisting of asking everyone we work with, indicates that community use of personal satisfaction equipment is more than ninety percent. We'd need SirenCare to implement any further consumer surveys of course."

  "And the products?” Roser asked, sounding dubious.

  "Subcutaneous devices, afferent and efferent connections, self-contained. We're hoping to mimic the usage of substances like spike."

  "We're talking about an addictive behavior?” Roser asked. “You want people to pay to have gadgets inserted into their groins, which they will then obsessively use?"

  "That's the intention,” Flynn said. “The prototype uses microbial batteries as the power supply, and the in—"