Harmony had nanos for as long as she could remember.
Apparently, once, when she was a very small child, she’d got a cold. This had been when her dad was still alive, before the nanos were entirely reliable and the software hadn’t been released to cover some of the harder diseases like TB or influenza. Her parents had rushed her to hospital, transfixed by the horrendous amounts of snot and bright green bogies her tiny body seemed able to produce, and the nurse had tutted and found a box of sky-blue tissues, and had blown Harmony’s tiny, button nose.
They’d injected her with nanos a few months later, and she couldn’t remember either the cold or the day her dad died, hit by the motorbike on the blind corner by the newsagent.
Everyone at school had nanos, except Anna, whose parents had some religious thing, or maybe some hippy healing crystal thing; no one was really sure and Anna didn’t tell. Harmony’s mum covered her standard immunisation package until she was twenty-one for barely £150 a year, and at the secondary school’s recommendation she’d agreed to pay an extra £14.99 a month for an immunoboost that covered HPV, meningitis and whatever flu strain was doing the rounds that year. Harmony had always been good about keeping her nanos up to date, regularly checking the control panel on her phone for any updates to the tiny machines keeping her body in decent working order, and shutting down all streaming or internet browsing within the Wi-Fi zone during the period of an active transfer until installation was complete, as per recommended medical guidelines.
There were other upgrades, of course. A couple of kids at school boasted a few. Jenni, whose parents were notoriously pushy, was put on a dietary and neurological package throughout the entire A-level period at a cost of nearly £70 a week, someone once whispered, and sure, she did OK at exams, but Harmony wasn’t convinced that wasn’t because she studied three hours a day extra during school term and twelve hours a day during revision time.
Clara, who was the only person in the year who seemed both good at and to enjoy sports, was on a muscle-enhancing package, but that wasn’t enough to get her the football scholarship to her first university of choice, though she did make it on to the “Biomechanical Sport Therapy” course in Leeds, which made her perfectly happy.
Harmony had never looked at getting anything for herself. She hadn’t had an infection since she was five, didn’t know what earache was, couldn’t understand the naturalists who insisted every year on getting hay fever “because nature knows best” or some such. The evidence was overwhelming, and healthcare companies like Fullife regularly ran ads to remind its current and potential clientele just what awaited them should they ever stop paying for their nanos.
This is gastroenteritis. The patient, as she vomits, is unable to prevent her bowels opening simultaneously. Her liquefied faeces carry the virus, which will infect anyone who comes to her assistance.
On the screen, a woman, face wracked with pain, leaned over the toilet, brilliant yellow-orange puke tumbling out of her mouth, thin white acid from her nose, while on the floor brown sludge seeped outwards, dribbling down between her thighs.
As the nodules grow on the eardrum, hearing begins to become muddy and impaired, with certain frequencies vanishing completely until finally she understands – too late – how far the infection has gone as yellow pus begins to seep into the hollow of her ear . . .
The day that Jarek blocked her on Facebook, Harmony opened up the nano control centre on her phone, and scrolled to in-app purchases.
The list of upgrades that Fullife offered seemed endless. Before, that had been off-putting, too much to think about.
Ever wanted perfect skin?
Worried about pregnancy?
Thicker hair?
White teeth!
Pancreatic support for those sugary treats . . .
Never worry about your waistline again!
The perfect boost for your marathon training . . .
She found what she was looking for under sexual health.
Take Control – your body, your choice. Never feel anxiety about unwanted pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases again. With Take Control, you can make your choices for your body and your lifestyle. This month with 10% discount on period control when you buy anything from the “My Body, My Choice” range – never menstruate on holiday again! In the event of vaginal bleeding or discharge from the nipples lasting for more than 3 days, please contact your healthcare provider.
The upgrade was £17.99 a month for the initial twelve-month contract, rising to £35 a month at the end of the introductory period, valid for new customers only. She sat down with a calculator. £17.99 was only four fewer drinks a month, and she didn’t even like getting shit-faced anyway. She’d just have to be careful, balance these things up. It would be worth it.
This is Harmony Meads, aged nineteen, making a choice about her body, her life, not because of some bloke who was all into his upgrades, some jackass who just assumed everyone was like him and didn’t need a condom – not that he’d bothered to invest in any upgrades for his testicles, she mused – but because at the end of the day, she wanted to be in control.
She hit “buy”.
That was the beginning.