Shortcuts

by Grant Stone

  ‘You really think it’ll work?’ Lionel says, still not fully convinced.

  ‘I’m sure it will. I think it’s what Atticus meant about families protecting families. Like a mother confers immunity to her newborn while the infant develops its own defences, in the same way, Mika’s own modified beta-cells implanted in just a few of her sister’s islet cells, will teach Huia’s other defective islets how to function correctly.’

  ‘It’s too simple. Islet cell transplants have been available for over sixty years. Why didn’t Atticus carry it out the transplant on the girls himself?’

  ‘Maybe it took him a while to test the theory. Or maybe he felt Mika was too young for the transplant – she was just a baby when the family fled the United States, and Mika says he died unexpectedly.’

  ‘Perhaps Atticus was afraid of what B-Cell might do to his family if they knew he possessed the cure. Look at us, Lisa, we were afraid too, hiding out at the reservation for years.’

  Mika nods. Lionel’s suggestion sounds more like it. Her father would have weighed the risks and decided that in the short term, B-Cell was the greater risk. It was safer for one of his girls to suffer the disease than to risk losing them both. She hugs the pillow to her knees, hardly daring to believe it. With Lionel and Lisa’s help she might be able to bring Huia the answers she needs.

  Suddenly, Torua vibrates abruptly as Stan stomps on the floor, opening the mid-deck hatch.

  ‘Stan, we’ve found Atticus’ cure!’ Lionel calls up through the gap.

  ‘Yeah, that’s great guys, but right now we’ve got a bit of a problem,’ Stan replies. ‘The Brotherhood are here.’

  A dozen men wearing shinobi shozoko surround the transport when the group surrender. Miles from anywhere, there’s no point running: these men are trained killers. As she jumps down onto the sand beside Stan, Mika wonders who the Brotherhood are. Had they been with B-Cell from the outset, driving the company strategy from the inside? Had the company’s pit bulls turned on their masters? She’ll probably never know.

  Lionel hands Bree down to Mika, who sets her on the ground. One arm tight around her puppy, Bree slips her hand in Stan’s.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have another one of those exploding hearts, do you?’ Stan mutters to Mika under his breath as a Brother – the leader of this group – steps forward.

  ‘You can’t have her,’ Lisa cries defiantly, jumping down from Torua and flinging her arms wide in front of Mika. ‘I may not have stood up to your kind when you exiled Mika’s father, but I won’t let you take her.’ She’s so petite, Mika would smile were her knees not trembling so much. These men aren’t like the jaded CEO in his tower: they’re warriors, fighters, sent by their order to apprehend her, to kill her so as to obliterate the secret etched on her skin. Mika smiles inside, knowing even if she’s lost, Huia has her own moko, and now that Lionel and Lisa have discovered the key...

  ‘Her? We’re not interested in her anymore,’ the Brother says, sneering. ‘We peeled off at the reservation and followed you to B-Cell. Just had a little chat with Selwyn, in fact. We already know you haven’t succeeded in reversing the defective insulin, even with the tatts on the girl’s skin.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re—’ Lionel starts, but Stan shakes his head, warning the professor to keep quiet.

  ‘It’s me you want, then, is it?’ Stan says quietly.

  ‘Well, it’s true the Order isn’t best pleased with you, Aspen. Skiving off with our money.’

  Stan’s jaw twitches. ‘You have plenty.’

  ‘Yes, we have. Which is why we’re willing to forgive your little trespass, but in return you’re going to have to do something for us.’

  ‘Whatever it is, don’t do it, Stan,’ Lionel says, evenly, his eyes fixed on the ninja.

  ‘Be quiet!’ the Brother yells, his eyes flashing red. ‘You’ll do it all right. You’re coming to the reservation with us and when we get there, you’re going to tell us why our Brothers refuse to leave.’

  ‘They refuse to leave?’ Lionel says, parroting the words.

  ‘We’ve sent messengers. Only one came back. He says they’re happy, thanks, but they’d prefer to stay on the reservation. I don’t have a clue what’s going on up there, but whatever it is, you’re going to help us smoke it out.’

  Mika has to hide her smile behind her hand.

  Torua idles, waiting on Mika to start them on their journey. It’s time to go. Past time, really. Mika hadn’t thought it would be so hard. With a quick glance back at her modified beta-cells, stored safely behind her in a cooler compartment designed by Craig, Mika takes a final look over the reservation, over the mish-mash of lean-tos and adobe homes, to the drifting of wisps of smoke that keep the Order at bay, wisps that streak the morning sky.

  A good day for a journey.

  Mika’s friends have come to see her off: Lionel, Lisa, Craig – even Irina stands alongside the transport, her arm wrapped around Bree’s shoulders. It breaks Mika’s heart to leave Bree, but now Stan doesn’t have to save the entire world, he thinks he can find time for one little girl. He and Irina have agreed to start over, and give Bree the family she needs.

  Stan lifts his hand in farewell. Bree gives her a brave smile.

  Time to go.

  Squaring her shoulders, Mika punches in the coordinates for home – for Aotearoa, her whānau, and Huia. And now, with Lisa and Lionel’s work unravelling her father’s legacy, there’s hope of a healthy niece or nephew. Perhaps in time they’ll be able to eradicate the disease entirely.

  Mika waves a last goodbye as the warm tones of Kuia’s voice break the quiet.

  ‘Calculating...’

  Pocket Wife

  I.K. Paterson-Harkness

  I FELT BEHIND MY EAR, found the little switch and turned it on. Jenny hadn’t activated my Tiny yet, but I figured I’d lie back and wait. It pays to sit still until it happens. I leaned back against the V-shaped pillow and stared at the light shade. I couldn’t help toying with the switch, and poking at the outline of the plastic disc, which lay flat beneath my skin. I’d been worried they’d have to drill through bone but when I’d expressed my concern to the technician he’d laughed. ‘The sensors are highly tuned,’ he’d said. ‘They pick it all up from outside the skull.’

  The light shade was white, round, and smooth as a pickled onion. Seems everything’s getting smoother and rounder. Gone are the good old days when you could retire to your hotel after a long day at work and sink into a decent, squishy sofa. These days you sit down and slide right off. I glanced at the fridge – thought about the Indian Pale I had in there, the condensation misting the cold glass, the sound of released pressure as I popped open the top.

  I felt the usual added strain on my mind as Jenny switched on my Tiny, and immediately closed my eyes and tried to focus on whatever it was I was supposed to be looking at. The little bugger’s eyes aren’t the best; the cameras don’t swivel properly. Ah, there we go. Jenny was holding my Tiny up in front of Nico.

  ‘Say hello to Grandpa,’ she said. The image rotated back and forth vigorously.

  Nico gurgled something; it was hard to tell over the sound of whooshing air.

  ‘It’s your Grandpa!’ Jenny squealed. ‘Your Grandpa!’

  ‘Stop waggling me around!’ I called. I could hear my own voice coming from my Tiny’s speakers – the same, but not quite.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, and the room suddenly stabilised. A monstrous baby’s hand reached towards my face and I braced against the hotel pillows.

  ‘That’s right,’ Jenny cooed. ‘He’s far, far away.’

  Nico slapped the highchair tray with his palms, and Jenny pushed me right up into his snotty face.

  ‘Christ, that’s enough,’ I said, opening my eyes. The onion-shaped light shade was clearly visible through the now semi-opaque image of Nico. It looked like he had a third eye, right in the middle of his forehead. I stood up and inched towards the fridge, trying to concentrate on the hard lines of
the hotel room. By the time I got back to the bed my head ached. I used a pillow to stifle the sound of the beer being opened, then lay back, closed my eyes again, and took a sip.

  Jenny had propped my Tiny up on top of the kitchen bench back home, facing the sink, a chopping board, and a knife the length of a cricket pitch. Outside the window the sky was a deep blue. Sparrows and wax-eyes of pterodactyl proportions flew in and out of my vision. Jenny had bought the bird feeder a few years previously, had insisted I nail it to the fence. They made a hell of a mess, those birds, but Jenny loved to watch them. I could just make out the sound of cicadas. But I was cold. Damned cold, actually, like I was lying on snow.

  ‘Jenny, where on earth did you put my Tiny?’ I called.

  She came back into view, carrying a bag of potatoes.

  ‘I’ve switched myself on,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘I told Rach I’d prepare some meals for Nico, which she can take home.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ll chop off one of your fingers. We don’t need to both be on. And why am I freezing here?’

  I had a brief glimpse of the ceiling before she repositioned my Tiny.

  ‘Sorry. Frozen peas,’ she said. I presumed she’d pressed her hand against my Tiny’s back, since the cold became less.

  ‘Turn me on, Carl. You know I like to see where you are. I feel disconnected...’

  I grumbled as I leaned over to the bedside drawer and pulled out her Tiny. About four inches tall, the thing had been made in her exact likeness. The brown eyes stared blankly. I carefully gripped the tiny left ankle between thumb and forefinger, starting to make the twist, then remembered the beer and quickly placed it on the floor where it couldn’t be spotted. I twisted the ankle and her Tiny’s eyes swivelled to look at my face.

  ‘You haven’t shaved today,’ Jenny said. Twice. The voice in my mind – heard by my Tiny on the other side of the world – and the voice coming from the speaker inside her Tiny’s chest. Sometimes the voices were in sync.

  Her Tiny began to feel warm, and I placed it on the pillow, facing me.

  ‘I’ll shave tomorrow.’

  ‘You know it makes a difference.’

  I had the usual dilemma. Did I close my eyes and watch what Jenny was doing back home, or did I keep them open and look at her Tiny? If I closed them, I’d have the relief of only one image to focus on, but her Tiny would be staring at my closed eyes, and Jenny didn’t like that. Really the whole system was flawed.

  ‘Rach is at a job interview.’

  Her Tiny was looking at me so intently. The lips didn’t move, but the voice came out all the same.

  ‘What job?’

  ‘At the high school down the road from where she lives. They want someone to look after the plants. It’s a gardening job, really. It might involve a bit of heavy lifting, which I’m worried about, but it’s only fifteen hours. She wants to start Nico at day care a couple of days per week. She says she needs to get out of the house. I told her I’d look after him, but she’s dead set on day care.’

  I became aware of a knocking noise and closed my eyes. Jenny was chopping the potatoes with her own eyes closed.

  ‘She’s not built for heavy lifting,’ she continued. Her grey-auburn hair was tied in a loose plait, her cuffs rolled up. ‘I told her she should do a course. She was so good at science when she was at school. She could do pharmacology, or study to be a radiologist.’

  ‘A radiologist?’

  ‘Sue’s niece did some courses at university, and she’s a radiologist now. Rach could do so much better than gardening.’

  ‘Let her work it out for herself.’

  I opened my eyes and the thing was still looking at me. It didn’t smile. Didn’t move at all – no muscles, I suppose. I never properly learned the science of it. All I knew was that there were sensors on my Tiny’s body, and cameras in the eyes and what-have-you, and that somehow, through satellites I suppose, the information was sent to my brain. When Jenny touched my Tiny it was like being poked through a thick blanket. The newer models can smell, and have a better sense of physical touch – or so the pop-ups claim. It’s probably only a matter of time before they’re walking around, creating havoc of their own.

  The Tinys arrived from the manufacturers in their boxes, naked. We hadn’t expected that. There’s nothing more sobering that seeing your silver pubic hairs copied in minute detail. Jenny immediately took to dressing them like little dolls. You can buy accessories from the company page. Last November she dressed my Tiny in a Halloween costume and surprised me by holding it up in front of the mirror. There I was, dressed like an English schoolboy, and there was nothing much I could do about it.

  ‘Jenny love,’ I cut in. She was still complaining about Rachel. ‘I’m meeting Michel soon – the Chief Financial Officer. He wants me to go over some figures with him.’

  ‘So late?’

  ‘He’s a very busy man. I should shower.’

  ‘Okay...’ She sighed, the noise at my end coming out like static. ‘Make sure you shave. And dress warmly, dear. You don’t want to catch another cold.’

  ‘I will. See you the same time tomorrow.’ I switched off the switch behind my ear and reached for her Tiny. I rubbed its back with my finger. I knew Jenny would still be in there, would be switched on right to the last second, but I couldn’t speak to the thing. As soon as I’d twisted its ankle I chucked it back in the drawer, and slammed the drawer shut.

  I PULLED MY JACKET collar up against the wind. People all around me hurried from one shop awning to the next, their umbrellas held out like shields, scarves flapping. The cafe terraces were deserted, the tables and chairs packed away inside the steamy restaurant interiors. Several shops were still open, music blaring, their brightness floating on the wet street. An electronics store I passed had four drift screens all playing different music at once. One of the screens followed me halfway down the block before the boy in the shop called it back. Even while at work the boy had his e-vice turned on, its holographic screen and board shimmering in the rain. I’m damned if I know how kids walk around without bumping into each other, they’re always staring into their vices. Rach changed the settings on mine once, fiddled with the opacity, but then I could hardly see what was on the screen. I sometimes think I preferred that old plastic clunky thing we used to hold to our ear. You could look like crap, be half naked in bed, and you wouldn’t offend anyone by not turning on your visuals.

  I turned right down Rue McGill and into Old Montreal. The spring rain had washed most of the snow away, but there was still the odd slushy brown pile slumped up against a shady corner. After two wrong turns I finally found myself on the narrow cobbled lane with the wooden sign hanging beneath the street lamp. Madame Bellarina’s, written in burgundy cursive. The black door and brick wall were featureless and scrubbed clean of moss or ivy. I turned the brass knob and wiped my feet on the door mat before pushing through into the interior.

  A short hallway led to the brightly lit foyer. Ornately framed mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the central chandelier. Two young women reclining on a plush red chaise longue stopped mid-conversation and turned to me, smiling.

  ‘Bonsoir cher monsieur et bienvenue chez Madame Bellarina,’ one of them said, sidling up and taking my hand in hers. Her long, dark fringe rested just above her eyes. ‘Puis-je vous débarrasser de votre manteau?’

  ‘I speak English,’ I said.

  ‘My apologies,’ she said, revealing a large a gap between her teeth as she smiled. ‘Welcome to Madame Bellarina’s. May I take your coat? It is cold outside, but in here you will soon warm.’

  She helped me shrug off my coat while the other woman positioned herself full length on the chaise longue, propped up on one elbow, watching me. She was blonde, probably naturally so, her hair falling as ringlets on her shoulders.

  ‘I’m here to see Madame Bellarina,’ I said.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ The first woman asked,
hanging my coat on the stand. ‘Madame Bellarina is most often occupied. Would you like a drink? I am certain either Anna or I can make you perfectly comfortable.’

  ‘Please tell Madame Bellarina that Carl is here to see her. I don’t have an appointment, but she’ll see me.’

  The woman slipped out through the door that led to the rest of the establishment, leaving me alone with the blonde. She didn’t sit up but patted the space on the seat in front of her body.

  ‘I’m good. Thanks.’

  ‘Your accent is cute,’ she said. She sounded Eastern European, and I wondered briefly if she was related to Madame Bellarina. ‘I have not seen you here before.’

  ‘I don’t come often.’

  ‘You like drink? I pour you something.’

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ I shoved my thumbs into my trouser pockets and rocked on my heels. There was nothing to look at, except for mirrors.

  The gap-tooth woman reappeared. ‘Madame Bellarina will see you. Please follow me.’

  ‘It’s okay. I know the way.’

  The passageway was dim, lit with low wattage red bulbs – as, I knew, were the adjoining rooms. Thick, velvet drapes covered each of the doors, making the passageway feel narrower than it actually was. I had always wondered about those drapes, about their exact purpose, but had never had the nerve to ask. Madame Bellarina never talked about work. At the end of the hall was a slender spiral staircase, and at the top, Madame Bellarina’s private quarters. I hesitated halfway up the stairs, my hands sweating.

  She opened the door before I had a chance to knock. A fire flickered in the grate and I walked straight towards it, reaching my hands out as if to warm them. I found it hard to look at her. I always did when I first arrived. I felt her move past me, towards the liquor cabinet. She smelled like cinnamon and orange with a hint of sandalwood. I heard the cabinet door open, and close. The sound of liquid filling glass. I jumped as she placed her hand on my shoulder, her fingers brushing my neck.