Uncanny Shift
It’s thirteen days before they let me return to work after my ‘incident’. How does Mr Hughes do it – speak in quotation marks even over the phone? Something about the vapidity of that voice brings an image of him startlingly to mind – morose jowls, the ‘V’ of two fingers curling in quotation. ‘Your unfortunate incident.’
How about ‘V’ for fuck you and your constant glibness. But I’m so glad to be called back that I just thank him, my eyes squeezed shut in the hope that this will prevent him from hearing the tears.
Later, I lie in bed quivering, deaf even to Mum’s shouts, because it’s only hours until I’m out of here. Here – not just a room but skin. How can other people call this their totality?
There is so much more.
The bus the next morning takes forever. The drumming of my foot annoys even me.
I put my forehead against the window instead, feel its tremble against my temple. With my eyes shut, I can almost imagine myself back in the hive – the dark brought to life by the hum of a hundred bees. Within that earthquake my whole body seemed ablaze, until boundaries melted and I felt myself leaking into something larger. We. Us.
I straighten and chew on the back of a hand, the skin there is loose, as if my skeleton could slip its guise any moment. My face, however, feels as taut as snake skin on the verge of being shed.
Thank god the joke of ‘sick leave’ is finally over. It’s not like my Original Body got pulped by the car. Though it’s bad enough that Tomoko is out there on her own; bad enough that the cub study had to be cancelled. Whilst they could technically print off another copy of the fox Ressy, Lauren made it clear that their grant will never stretch to cover the cost. In some ways I should be glad that ShenCorp are treating me with kid gloves; Mr Hughes must have been tempted to use the boxing variety.
My fellow passengers sit with the blank expressions of those still inwardly entangled in duvets. Beside them, holographic people dance across the windows, advertising tooth-sprays and insurance policies with such vivacity that it’s almost tempting to think that we’re the counterfeit. For a second my pale reflection overlays a flawless, beaming face; sharp eyes to her heavy lashes, bald head to her blonde mane and, as if to explain the difference, she lifts a pot of beauty cream, two hands pressed around it in the shape of a heart.
Across the aisle, a baby watches me over its mother’s shoulder, chewing mechanically on a plastic duck and, ridiculously, my mouth starts to salivate too. I blink at it and look away, only remembering after that this is friendly for cats, not babies. Its smell of sweetly sour milk mixes with the bus’s usual smellscape of disinfectant, coffee, sweat. Hell, I smell of rancid dairy too. Ever since I started projecting, and realised what it was not to always have the scent in my nostrils, its pungency finds me in odd moments.
And at last – Park Street.
My Specs beep to remind me this is my stop but I’m already hefting my bag over my head and swinging out of the door. I almost reel back as the city condenses in rush and noise. The bus hisses as it pulls away, dull eyes at the window following without seeing. Now up the hill, keeping close to the shop fronts as I weave through the morning commute. The humans here always strike me as improbably perpendicular, every chin thrust out with the confidence of a silverback. What is it that gives them such assurance? As if they’re all alphas. A suited man jostles past and I bare my teeth at his glare. This is what the city reduces you to – meat, meat that’s in the way.
Reaching University Road, grey gives way to green. A blackbird shouts its territory from a hedge and I whistle back, smiling at his furious reply. One more street, then here I am. ShenCorp.
Our Centre is taller than its neighbours, but something about it still seems to squat, its concrete almost brutal against the surrounding sandstone. The ShenCorp clam logo sits high on the wall, as stark as the scent of fresh urine. The building might be a monstrosity but it’s my monstrosity, and right now, it’s a welcome sight.
I jog up the steps and Dave glances up from his booth to wave me on with the flap of a hand. I sort of feel sorry for him – most days his job seems to consist of staring into the far distance, only broken every few months by tussling with some crazy pro-lifer, though it’s never been clear to me what they’d do if they ever did manage to ‘liberate’ a Ressy.
I flash my card at the scanner and enter the lobby, or ‘Isaac Hall’ as we’re supposed to call it. Not that anyone does. My soles whisper against the marble floor, something almost reverent about the sound, and right on cue the screen on the far wall flickers into life.
‘ShenCorp is the world’s leading Consciousness Projection Provider giving insights into fields as diverse as animal science, oenology, and astronomy’ – one day I will walk stealthily enough for it not to register, I promise myself this every morning – ‘launched by Phenomenautism’s inventor, Professor Shen. ShenCorp was the first Projection Provider to enter the global market—’
I ignore the rest of the self-congratulatory reel and follow the edge of the room, running a hand along the fish tank so that tiny damsels cluster to the warmth of my finger in blue sparks.
Hello, fish.
At our corridor I put a shoulder out to stop the swinging doors from hitting me in the face and continue into the white space. No marble floors or fish tanks here. The animal photos on the walls are static, that’s how old this place is. Buckley says that before ShenCorp took it over, he used to have his Biotech seminars in these rooms. If a client ever asks to see a projection, there’s an especially fancy room just for the purpose next to Mr Hughes’s office, but the real work is done here.
Jo waves as I pass but the other cubicles are shut; even though most of their lights are green, it’s too early in the week for people to have started projecting. The younger children will be in seminars, those over seventeen going over the notes for their next project. Shouting comes from Hanna’s door, so I don’t stop to say hello. It’s a mistake to get mixed up in the arguments with her neuro.
At the last door, I push it wide with a foot and exhale into the familiar space. Our territory. Home.
It seems larger in here today; whilst I was away, Buckley’s pushed the JumpPallet against the wall and stowed my blue wash bags underneath – a reminder that while most of my time in this room is spent consciously elsewhere, the mess is nearly always mine. The BodySupport equipment hasn’t been put out yet, though the curve of screens over his desk show some sort of pre-fig fMRI. It doesn’t look quite right for my brain patterns, even though, as a phenomenaut, your scans can become as familiar as your reflection.
The normality here feels almost wrong. I died – my Ressy died – yet life carries on as ever. Admittedly, even on a normal Come Home, there’s always the sense that the world I return to should have somehow shifted, a corner of the curtain pulled back. But perhaps it’s not the world that changes.
I rummage in the drawer where Buckley keeps his cache of biscuits. There’s a primal satisfaction to sneaking food in cubbyholes like this, security against the capriciousness of nature. I gnaw on the Bourbon and glance over his origami papers. He’s already completed one piece today, killing time waiting for me to arrive. Something folded out of red wrapping paper. I right it. A fox.
Still no Buckley, though. I head back out to the kitchenette. But it’s empty too.
Second floor. I put my head round the door of the common room. Si is on the sofa, well-loved stuffed toy tiger under one arm as he types in his SpecSpace. I’m sure he’s at least fourteen, but a lot of phenomenauts are like that, at once younger and older than their age.
‘Seen Buckley?’ I say.
He shakes his head, then stops short with a frown. I follow his look to the tables and see one of the new phenomenauts looming over Julie, aggression clear in her stance. Daisy, I think her name is: specialism entomology; there’s always something a bit odd about phenomenauts who exclusively handle invertebrates.
Easily taller than me, she can’t be older than sixteen – old for a phenomenaut just starting out. The newness shows in the vanity of her black wig; Julie and Si are only wearing beanies over their baldness and I tend to find myself not even bothering with that these days.
As I watch, Daisy snatches up Julie’s dolphin plush bag and starts twirling it. Buckley mentioned something like this might be going on. The constant changeover of phenomenauts means that the pecking order is always in flux. I walk over, pulling my lips back to reveal teeth.
It takes Daisy a good couple of seconds before she notices me, a couple more for the dolphin bag to stop its flight.
‘Hey. Kit, isn’t it?’
I stare back. Actual height doesn’t matter when it comes to threat displays. I know how to make myself look large.
A muscle slips in her face. ‘What is it?’
1. 2. 3. And . . . She glances away, eyes sweeping the common room for support that isn’t there.
‘Why are you smiling?’
I pull my smile wider, if ‘smile’ is what she wants to call it. My eyes are starting to go a little dry from not blinking but I can keep this up for a while.
Her expression collapses. ‘I don’t understand.’
Except she does. Only a human would pretend that they didn’t.
‘We were just talking,’ she says. ‘Not that anyone around here seems to know what that is.’
My hands, hidden in my pockets, curl into claws. If she notices, she doesn’t show it; she can’t have learnt many transferable combat skills in her work as insects.
‘Weirdos.’
I wait until she’s out of the door to stop my staring but she won’t be back. You almost have to feel sorry for her. She was probably an alpha at school but ShenCorp is a world away from the playground. I massage the strain of my cheeks and turn to Julie.
‘OK?’
She nods, only meeting my eyes for a second.
‘I’m looking for Buckley,’ I say.
Her shoulders twitch, lacking even the confidence to be a real shrug, and I give up. Even her neuro jokes that she should work with clams, not cetaceans.
Still, on the way out, I rub my hand against the door frame. It’s not that sweaty but if anyone here had a halfway decent nose they’d know whose territory this is.
Back on the stairs, I make a detour past Mr Hughes’s office in the faint hope that Buckley’s been called into a meeting, but mr Hughes is just entertaining some important-looking suits. Mr Hughes has been having a lot of these meetings of late. They must be some new contractor; no doubt he’ll start with the boasting once it’s confirmed. He frowns to see me looking in and I hurry on. only one more possibility.
Another two flights and the stairs end in a metal door. ‘No Entry’ the peeling sticker says. ‘This door is alarmed’. They don’t let phenomenauts onto the roof, not since Isaac Wallace, even though that was before ShenCorp had officially separated from the university.
The door is slightly open, enough in itself to tell me that Buckley is here – no one else has the inclination or the permission. It opens grudgingly, wind snapping in my face, then there he is – a tall, forlorn figure, standing at the fencing staring into nothing.
I huddle against the wind. Forlorn. What a word to use for Buckley. He’s always moving, doing, saying something. If it’s not gesturing or chatter, it’s his fingers, fidgeting, folding, giving the flatness of paper shape. But now he’s still; arms lifted slightly from his sides, as if waiting for the wind to take him.
I’ve never liked it here, not even with the illicit thrill of when, long ago, Susie and I would sneak up to spy. Seeing Buckley transformed like this, the rumours, exciting when whispered at the back of tutorials, fleshed themselves in ominous weight.
I glance back at the stairs.
‘Kit!’
But now Buckley is striding over, reaching in for what for a moment I think is going to end in a hug, but ends in steering me inside.
‘How long have you been standing there?’
‘Just a second,’ I say, peering over a shoulder, almost cheated as the door clunks shut behind us.
‘I didn’t think you were coming back today.’
‘I said I would.’
‘I know. But on the phone you sounded . . .’
‘Sounded?’
He shrugs. I shiver with the last of the cold and lead the way back towards the stairs.
‘But you’re feeling OK?’
‘Sure.’ I glance back to reply and he seizes the hesitation to bound forward and block the way, one eyebrow raised, but he can’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching and neither can I.
‘I guess things are still a little – dunno. But, honestly, mostly I’m OK.’
We walk the next flight side by side.
‘When’s your next session with Niti?’
‘They’ve moved it forwards, worried about my “incident”, as Mr Hughes is calling it.’
‘No harm in playing it safe.’
‘Prodding and poking isn’t going to help.’
I know what his look means but at least he has the sense not to voice it. Back when he used to jump, phenomenauts were only ever given the occasional psychometric profiling. These days I lose track of the name badges I’m paraded in front of – when it’s not Niti’s check-ups, it’s the GP, psychologist, orthopaedist, neurologist. Too many ‘-ists’, all ‘playing it safe’. Everyone knows their main remit is to stop Shen from being sued and, as the average age of phenomenauts is now under thirteen, that may make a certain amount of sense. yet, at nineteen, I would have hoped the sessions could have stopped for me. No such luck. Some days the red tape is looped so tight I feel like a present topped off with a bow. Or rather, a growth in a Petri dish, an anomaly – the girl who stayed jump-ready. The girl who didn’t give up.
Buckley is a worrier, though, he can’t help it, and as he pushes our cubicle door open, he looks down at me with the expression that says ‘We must be sensible’ or ‘I was very upset when you were toying with that lion, you know hyenas aren’t as strong’ or ‘Don’t you dare pretend to lose control of your wings again. I’m too young to have a heart attack’.
But today he doesn’t say anything. The cheer has already slunk from his expression, only exhaustion in its place. Mr Hughes can’t have been easy on him for his role in my death.
Are you OK? I think to say, but the image of him standing, alone, on the rooftop returns to me and I lose courage and nod at his screens instead.
He darts over to swipe them offscreen. ‘Just Mr Hughes keeping me busy whilst you were away. There’s a report to be handed in by tomorrow. Want to help?’
‘Buckley, I’m ready.’
He scoops up my bag from the floor and puts it onto the JumpPallet.
‘Buckley.’
His shoulders slump. ‘This one isn’t going to be easy.’
‘Is it ever?’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ His face brightens and he mimes crawling with fingers. ‘How do you fancy eight legs?’
By early afternoon we’re ready to go, or as near as. I sit on the pallet in my JumpPyjamas and skim the manual one last time. In training they always said to spend at least a morning studying the documents before projection, but no number of words can prepare you for the raw experience. Besides, there’s only so much you can learn from a document written by bioengineers who’ve never projected in their lives.
I shove the manual out of my lenses and take another look at the brief instead. Most of the funding comes from RIBA so, instead of the usual population, behavioural, social surveys, the focus is on the mechanics of weaving. There’s a memorandum at the end noting that some of the money came from an arachnological charity. A quick Internet search reveals that they’re campaigning to stop the use of a pesticide that’s causing spiders to weave irregular webs, which explains why Mr Hughes assigned this project to me rather than Olenna or Daisy.
Seeing me take my Specs off, Buckley raises his hand and I toss them to him. Now for BodySupport. First things first: the oxygen tubes. I slip them up my nose to the smell of plastic and stale air. Next, catheter bag; I double check it’s properly clicked in, give the skin around the cannula a swab just to be safe, and turn to the Vitals patch – check. MuscleStim – check.
I pat the fluids drip but decide to leave it; same for the colostomy bag. There’s an eight-hour jump limit on invertebrates so I’ll probably just wake up peckish and a bit constipated. And if I do shit myself, no one round here is going to judge me for it – you can’t work in consciousness projection for long without gaining an appreciation of the inevitability of certain bodily functions. At least I’m not a bloke. Original Bodies often experience erections whilst their minds are elsewhere. And though most female phenomenauts have to wear cups for their periods, I’m lucky enough to have not had one in years.
Buckley watches me double-check my setup, his expression dark. BodySupport gives him the creeps, which is a bit unfortunate if you’re a neuro. It’s not like I like it but it keeps my body ticking over whilst my conscious mind is away.
All sorted, I lie down. My toes rise gradually to my eyeline, then sink back as the pressure-relief mattress starts doing its thing. The leather is cold against my bare arms and I have to wriggle to try and find a comfortable position.
It doesn’t take long for Buckley to reappear with the CP and at my nod he slips it on my head. My scalp tickles as the nodes wriggle to ensure they’ve good contact with skin, reminding me of nothing more than ape fingers combing through my fur. I can almost hear the snap of flea carapaces between teeth and have to swallow the saliva rising to my mouth.
Buckley steps back from making his adjustments and swivels a thumb. Good or no? I dip my head and he returns to his screens.
Meditation is always sensible before a jump but I can tell that right now it’d be a wasted attempt – I’m actually shaking with the anticipation. Buckley hums tunelessly over the click of switches.
A clunk announces the electromagnets going live. The projection can only be moments away. I try to pre-empt it. Now? Now? Now? Sliders whir, the supercomputer thrums. Any second. Any