The buildings looked harmless enough: stacks of Portakabins, where activity had overspilled from a group of prefabricated low-rise structures. They were labelled with red letters and numbers but no names, no indication of what went on inside, and their windows were either dark or covered in blinds.
Two years of successful evasion, lying low, moving from safe house to safe house, avoiding the obvious places, stealing food, sleeping rough, and then I made one mistake and the inevitable happened. I can’t blame Kestrella. It was my fault.
It took three of them, led by Dr Welcombe, to march me inside. I was taken into an interview room to be processed, told to remove all my clothes, which were taken way, and given a white hospital gown.
Over the next few hours Welcombe asked me all kinds of questions and ran what he said were a few preliminary tests. I can hardly remember what I said. It all became a blur as I tried to manage my fear by drifting off into a sort of trance and thinking about Bruce Lee. I remembered a couple of things he said when teaching some students: “Your mind is the one place your opponent can’t reach”. And “Spread your awareness everywhere. If you focus all of it on only ten per cent of what is going on then you leave yourself vulnerable to the other ninety per cent”.
So that’s what I did, in order to process the whole of my new environment. To Welcombe it looked like I didn’t care, with a computer game still playing on my monitor. But instead I was taking everything in, even what was behind me: the colours of the walls—magnolia; their height and width—about six by five metres; the position of the two doors; the number of light bulbs—six; the location of the power switches; the flecks of mud on Welcombe’s white suit—eleven that I could see; how dirty his spectacles were behind his visor; the existence of a wireless network which I couldn’t penetrate; and so on. It made me feel more secure.
Of course I was scared, but I could tell from Welcombe’s eyes that he was just as scared of me, hidden behind his plastic suit, his air filter, his gloves and instruments. Welcombe was a nasty little man who seemed to enjoy noting down every particular aspect of his subjects. Perhaps he thought he was going to get a Nobel Prize one day for his research. There seemed to be no detail of my physical, biological or psychological life that he wasn’t interested in—my whole medical history, how many friends I had, whether I liked hot or cold weather, my favourite food, the condition of my cardiovascular system—and the names of my parents, which I said I couldn’t remember. He found this strange but didn’t press the point for the moment.
Finally he got some orderlies to escort me to my cell—or private room as he called it. So far I hadn’t seen any other prisoners—or patients as they called them. But in my cell I found two cots and, waiting for me, a boy my age with an MP3 player growing out of his ears.
“Yo.” He grunted a greeting. “Pod’s the name. Been here a week. You just come in?”
I introduced myself and dropped on the bed, exhausted, my body on fire at all my transition points. “Been here on your own all this time?” I managed to ask.
“Nah. First four days there was a kid in here with a camera growing outta his face. Gruesome. Guy was in agony and they wouldn’t give him nothing. Screamed blue murder all night long. Couldn’t sleep a wink. One night they came and took him away. Never seen him since.”
“Seen anyone else?” I asked.
“Not much. When I’m being taken for tests or an operation. But you hear them—all along the corridors, crying or screaming or shouting. The one next door used to bang on the wall at night. They don’t want us to mix.”
“You mean we eat in here?”
“Uh-huh. Eat, crap—die probably.”
There were a couple of CCTV cameras mounted in the corners. This was the last thing I noticed before I fell into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning an orderly brought us some disgusting brown goo which was hard for me to suck up. I soon lost count of the number of different people who took part in my processing and analysis. They injected drugs into me, gave me tests to do, I had X-rays, MRI scans, CT scans, blood samples, a painful lumbar puncture which involved sticking an enormous needle in me and which gave me a raging migraine, tissue samples and a brain scan. Dr Welcombe came in to supervise from time to time. They didn’t give me any medication at this point—said they wanted to see what I was like without it. So the soreness and pain got worse and worse. I watched Pod using his creams enviously.
I would have gone mad if I hadn’t kept talking to Bruce. He said I should bide my time until I knew enough and then wait for the best moment to attack or escape. “Johnny, just remember there is a time to advance, a time to retreat and a time to wait. This is a time to wait.” But it wasn’t easy. My points swelled and inflammation spread out really bad on my head. If I scratched it, it bled into my hair.
Like Pod, I hardly ever saw other hybrids and when I did it was just a glimpse—a figure disappearing through a door or round a corner, their hungry rabbit eyes fixed to me for half a second. Pod and I didn’t get on. I tried to talk to him, but he was so down he didn’t want to do anything but play deafening music all day: bands like Toxic Gene Bomb and Smash This Machine. When I asked him to turn it down he swore at me.
“Hey. I didn’t ask for you to be in here with me. Get off my back.”
“But we’ve got to stick together,” I argued. “It’s us against them. Together we’re stronger; we can help each other.”
“Crap. Don’t make no difference what we do. We’re all gonna die soon anyway. At least let me go out listening to what I wanna listen to.”
After two days of this I gave up, and besides, I began to run a fever. They waited two days before giving me antibiotics. Then it took a couple of days more before those kicked in. It was while I was running a temperature and hallucinating that I thought I saw a face I knew. I was aware someone had entered the room so I switched on my camera. A surgical mask and goggles were peering down at me impassively. There was something familiar about the way she was standing, the angle of her head and shoulders, and perhaps a wisp of hair sticking out from underneath her cap. But then I shut my eyes and carried on dreaming, and I was in the garden at home again, only it was full of water flowing in from all directions and I was six years old and drowning. My mum was behind the kitchen window at the sink. I could see her; she was staring at me with no expression, observing me as I struggled to get to the side as if I was an interesting specimen of insect. Eventually I made it and she returned to her washing up as if she’d just finished watching a mildly interesting incident on television.
When the fever had died down I was given a shower and a new gown. Pod had disappeared—when I asked the orderly, who by this time I had got to know was called Ahmed, he said Pod had demanded to be sent to another room because of my screaming. I hadn’t realised I’d been screaming. It must have been horrible for him—drowning out his music and everything. A few hours later Ahmed unlocked my door and escorted me, still dazed, outside for the first time.
In a yard was a gathering of about two hundred hybrids. I’d never seen so many together at the same time. What a mixture: people with all sorts of boxes, bits of plastic, wires, you name it, hanging from them, poking out of them, forcing them into unnatural positions. Some were in wheelchairs, some on crutches. All bore the dead eyes and drooping shoulders of pain and misery. Remembering what had brought me here I looked around for Jacquelyn, but failed to spot her anywhere. Everyone here was a teenager. We were surrounded by security guards, orderlies and nurses. The atmosphere was silent and expectant. Everyone was furtively peering at everyone else with a mixture of curiosity and sullen hopelessness. I searched for Pod but couldn’t see him either.
On a small stage at the end stood Welcombe and Lieutenant Calme, who now seemed to be a major judging by the stripes on his suit.
“OK, shut up, everyone,” yelled Calme, although no one was talking. “The only reason why you’re all here today is because we have a visitor who wants to see you. It won’t take long. You are not permitted to talk to each other during this time. If asked, you will tell him how well you’re being cared for. Afterwards, you will return to your rooms immediately.”
He then turned to mutter something to Welcombe. A door into one of the admin buildings opened to admit a medium-height woman of about fifty, who strode to the stage. For the first time since entering the CGR I was seeing a healthy human who wasn’t wearing any kind of protective clothing. Her straight grey hair was in a no-nonsense cut and beneath her white coat she wore practical clothes. The result was that she was almost unnoticeable; even her body language made its best attempt to deny her presence. But of course, with a lurch in my stomach, I recognised her at once.
My mum had always looked like that from the first time I could remember, as if she was always trying to deny herself any expression of style or personality. I tried to hide behind someone, but she didn’t look in my direction. Instead, she was preoccupied with the person accompanying her—Hunter Cracke, the Deputy Prime Minister, just recognisable through his visor. She was chatting, indicating some of the inmates, gesturing around as if explaining what went on here, and he nodded and occasionally asked questions. He seemed very nervous.
Upon reaching Calme and Welcombe, they shook hands and shared a private joke, which they laughed at but neither he nor my mum did. Cracke stood there for a while, surveying us as they talked to him. He pointed at a few of us, who shifted uncomfortably. He appeared to be asking questions. Abruptly, without addressing us with a single word, he turned to my mum and she escorted him away, followed briskly by Calme and Welcombe. Slowly, we were moved off, gazing at each other with unspoken yearning for contact.
Was that it? What the hell was my mother doing here? How come she knew the Home Secretary? Why did he want to see us?
Back in my lonely room I didn’t have long to wait for some answers. Three hours later Ahmed came to take me back to the interview room. Soon she entered, sat opposite me and stared just as she had in the dream. As before, she wore no uniform, no protective clothing. I studied her face—her skin had the tired quality of a deflating balloon. She really hadn’t altered much. Neither of us spoke for a while and I imagined she was examining me in the same way, observing my changes. All I was giving her was an impassive smiley face on my screen.
Finally, she spoke.
“Here we are then. You took your time. I’ve been waiting two years for you to turn up.” Her voice was deep, vaguely impersonal and slightly cracked.
I remembered when Kestrella had asked me what I’d do if I met her again. But instead of doing what I’d said I would, I replied, “Sorry I’m late.”
“No need for sarcasm. You’ve grown,” she observed. There are no clichés like the old clichés.
“Are you the reason why I’m here?” I asked.
“Of course not, whatever gave you that idea?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “How do I know anything? Why am I here? What are all these tests for? What’s going to happen to me?”
“All in good time,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
“I don’t want time, I want my freedom.”
She let a small smile irritate her thin lips. “Talking of tests, I’ve got your results here. They make interesting reading.”
“To somebody I suppose. But why would you be interested in me after all this time?”
“I’m the chief medical officer here in case you didn’t know.”
I said nothing and looked away. So, I’d found my mother and my darkest fear was true—she was the enemy. When she’d found out that I had the disease, she’d thrown me out to fend for myself. Now I could see why—because I represented everything she was fighting, because she was in charge of the institution that lives in the nightmares of every Creep victim. I stood up and started to pace the room. A camera swivelled to follow me. She remained seated.
“Do you want to hear the results?” she said icily.
“What difference will it make?” I said. “It can’t turn back the clock. It can’t change anything.”
“I don’t have to tell you. But I thought you’d like to know, seeing as knowledge is power.”
So far I’d forced my pixels to display only a smiley with a straight line for a mouth. Now I made the eyes narrow, the brow furrow. She gazed up at me with eyes as clear and grey as her hair. What kind of a game was she playing?
“Sit down then and I’ll begin,” she said.
Suddenly a memory surfaced from the childhood I’d repressed. Up until this moment, most of my childhood had been a blank. But now I recalled my mum and me at about six years old; it was bedtime and she held a picture book; I was racing around my bedroom and she wanted me to go to bed. She was waiting to read me a story and I was ignoring her, but she was saying, “Come and sit down beside me and I’ll begin.” I realised I’d been clenching my fists so hard my nails were hurting my palms. I unclenched them and returned to my chair.
“Thank you,” she said and opened the folder on the desk in front of her. “You might like to know that you have raised quite a few eyebrows here. It’s not often we get a case like yours. In fact, I should say it is quite unique.”
“Bully for you,” I grunted.
“Yes. Quite. Medically, you are not in good condition, but that’s not surprising if you’ve spent two years on the streets. Indeed, I’m quite impressed. And your friends at Salvation House have looked after you recently.”
“They’re not my friends,” I said.
“Whatever,” she said dismissively and began to study her files. “Anyway, as you may or may not know, most hybridisations are site-specific. There is a definite interface between the organic, human body and the inorganic, electrically-powered element. But although you have two such sites at the front of your head and on your arm, there’s also circuitry spread throughout your body.
“Quantum-level nanotech microprocessors communicate using the tiny electric field that occurs naturally on the surface of your skin. Data is transmitted by modulating the field minutely in a similar manner to how a radio carrier wave is modulated. Implanted around your body are the bits of hardware which your computer uses, such as the modem, hard drive and processor. Naturally, most of the components are nanotech. So the inorganic-organic interfaces are engineered proteins similar to computer chips, connected to the same molecule-thin filaments that are used by all nanotech electronics. Are you following me?”
“Uh-huh,” I said in a sort of noncommittal way.
“And these interfaces are all over your body. Because they are nanotech and made out of protein, written by RNA, they reproduce, and therefore we can analyse the DNA. But as far as you are concerned it means that the situation is not static, as it were.”
Now I was worried. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s developing. In layman’s terms, you are gradually turning more and more into a giant biological computer.”
I turned my camera on to my hands and stared at them. They looked just the same as they always had. Skin, nails, fingers.
“It’s giving us some insight anyway into the changing nature of the virus. That’s not static either, you know. If it was, we might have nailed it already.”
“You mean you’re using me…to find a cure?” I said.
“Oh, come on. We use everybody here. What do you think this place is for? How can we do anything else—animals don’t get the plague. They don’t use technology. We have to study humans.”
“Whether they like it or not,” I said.
For the first time her eyes betrayed a flash of emotion. “There’s a war going on, Robert, a biological war. In wartime you have to compromise; you have to make sacrifices for the greater good. The sooner you understand this the better.”
She’d called me Robert. I’d forgotten. That was my real name. How long had it been since somebody had called me that?
“My name isn’t Robert,” I said. “Haven’t you got it written down there? I’m Johnny.”
“Well, here we go by what is on your birth certificate. And I suppose I should know what that is.”
“So. I’m the sacrifice, am I?”
“You’re not the only one,” she said, pursing her lips. “The greater good. You have to think of the greater good.”
“What is the greater good?” I said angrily. “Something bigger than me that I don’t feel part of. Is one group of people allowed to exploit another just because there are more of them, in the name of the greater good?”
For the first time, a small little crackle of a laugh escaped her, devoid of humour. “My, you’ve become quite the philosopher, haven’t you? Yes, I’ve read your little blog site, with its immature adolescent rants. I tried to use it to find you, but you’re too smart for that—you deserve some credit. Well, no doubt one can come up with a philosophy which justifies almost any behaviour. But this is our policy and it’s one I happen to agree with, which is why I have this job and why the political party which appointed me has so much support among the public.” She stood up, gathering her files together. “Consultation over. I have another appointment. Unless—”
I stood up. “I have another question,” I said.
She looked at me and for the first time I sensed an element of anxiety. My mind was fit to explode with questions, but perhaps some of them I didn’t really want to know the answer to. Not yet anyway. Almost inadvertently, my brain decided to ask one of the most innocuous.
“Can I make a phone call?”