Uncanny Shift
‘We were all very relieved to hear that there’s no lasting harm.’ Mr Hughes swivels as he talks, the creak of his chair almost pained. ‘Very relieved indeed.’
I give a quick nod by way of reply. He’s always had the ability to make his bulk appear to take up even more space than it already does and my body has replied, almost subconsciously, by shrinking into my seat. Whenever I delude myself that the Centre is my territory, his presence is enough to correct the error.
‘I’m sorry not to have come and said hello properly until now but, as you’ll understand in a minute, I have been preoccupied lately.’
Catching my expression, he pauses on a smile but from Mr Hughes this is no reassurance. Seven years as my boss and he’s still an unknown entity. Considering that my job is to understand the perspective of other animals, what does it say that every time I try to imagine stepping inside his shoes, I hit a horizon of static? He’s just too good at dissembling, Mr Boss Man, smile, handshake, bark. And yet sometimes I catch a glimmer in those dull eyes, as if he were watching himself through mine, smug at the effect. If I had to give this unease a name, I’d call it Uncanny Valley.
But I can live with that. I can live with the two-faced attitude, glibness, shit-eating, smile, smile, smile; with Niti’s check-ups and the lack of privacy; with the corporate lingo, buzz-words, acronyms, ‘let’s watch the profit margins’, team-building exercises!; watercooler rumours, stakeholders, HR, marketing. I can live with all of it, if they’ll only let me keep jumping.
‘So.’ He darts forwards, alarmingly fast for such a large man. ‘You’re looking well. You’re feeling well, I take it?’
‘Fine.’ My throat is almost too dry to speak. ‘Thank you.’
‘Excellent. Excellent.’
His bluster is more disconcerting than reassuring. The familiar space of his office has taken on a waiting quality, the gleam of chrome and black glass an almost claustrophobic intensity. Buckley sits stiffly in the chair next to me, as if he were a patient awaiting prognosis.
Glancing at his arm, lying on the rest between us, my fingers twitch with an irrational urge to reach out and dig into the firmness of muscle. I press them between my knees instead, not trusting them to wander, octopus-like, and cling. Noticing, Buckley smiles; eyes winced, as though my imagined grip were real.
If I am laid off, if he stops being my neuroengineer, what will we be? The idea is so monumental that processing it is impossible. I’m left instead with a blank, like turf over a fresh grave.
‘I suppose we should be thankful that inRessy deaths don’t happen more often, this job being what it is,’ Mr Hughes is saying. ‘Though, of course, that doesn’t make them any easier when they do.’
Yet noticing our quiet, his hands come together in an abrasive clap. ‘But to business. I’ve received Niti’s latest report and am delighted to say that everything is looking excellent, as ever. However, she is a little concerned that this – incident – may have caused some distress. Her recommendation is that we should err on the side of caution.’
Caution. ShenCorp really does has a euphemism for everything. Dying, being sacked, having your brainwaves mangled to remotely connect with another body, do they really think what you call it makes a difference?
He sucks in a breath. ‘I’ve therefore made the decision to remove you from Research.’
And there it is. Over. No more. But as I crumple, Mr Hughes holds up a hand.
‘Don’t look so glum. The new job I’ve lined up for you will be much more to your liking. Research, as you know, relies on long-term projects, which Niti felt could be causing unnecessary—’ He clicks his fingers to summon the word.
Why is it only now that my body has chosen to tremble?
‘You’re saying, I can keep jumping?’
‘Of course.’ His frown suggests genuine puzzlement. ‘Just for a different department.’
‘But, I don’t know anything about the development side of things.’
‘Don’t worry. We have no intention of putting you with Tech.’
I open my mouth, then shut it. ShenCorp doesn’t do anything outside of Research and Tech.
A strange intensity has pulled Buckley to the edge of his seat.
‘Of course, you’re confused,’ Mr Hughes says. ‘That’s because you don’t know what I do. Regardless of your little accident, I’ve been planning for us to have this conversation for some time. Remind me, North, how long have you been with us?’
‘About seven years.’
‘Seven.’ He shakes his head. ‘And all that time without a promotion. Well, let me reassure you that this move is going to put you right where your talents merit, at the heart of Professor Shen’s newest phenomenautical venture.’
I look, wide-eyed, to Buckley. His fingertips are practically dancing on the armrest but, catching my eye, he tilts his head at Mr Hughes. Concentrate.
Mr Hughes starts swivelling once more, not even trying to hide his smugness – surprise was obviously the reaction he was hoping for.
‘Don’t worry, you two weren’t supposed to know. Though I can’t help but notice, Buckley, that you don’t seem as shocked as I might have expected.’
Buckley’s grin becomes a smirk. I don’t think I’d ever get away with that, but Mr Hughes only seems amused. Though he’s always had more respect for Buckley; yes, he’s my senior, but only by five years or so. I’ve always suspected it’s a man thing.
‘Well, I know there has been some gossip amongst the neuroengineers, but we’ve tried to keep the project on a need-to-know basis. Believe me when I say that this day has been a long time in the making. So without further ado, let me just say that I am delighted to welcome you on board’ – he spreads his hands, relishing the drama – ‘the world’s very first Consumer Phenomenautism project.’
‘Consumer?’
‘You heard me.’
‘But that’s—’ I start to say, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Buckley shake his head.
Mr Hughes turns to him.
‘This, of course, concerns you too, Maurice. Our longest-lasting neuroengineer and phenomenaut duo. There isn’t a pair that I’d be more happy to put forward for the job.’
‘So we’ve beaten Sauntertech to the punch?’ Buckley asks.
‘Wasn’t even a competition.’
I feel too sick to join in with their laughter, with relief or shock I don’t know. Of course, the idea of Consumer Phenomenautism has been bandied about for years; Sauntertech have been making noises about crowdfunding such a project but they never managed to gather enough backers; for something like this you need serious money. Yet, whilst we’ve undoubtedly deeper pockets, I’m not convinced that the real hurdles will be different for us.
‘So what exactly are we talking about?’ I break in. ‘Body Tourism?’
‘Yes. High-end luxury consciousness projection. Zoological for the present, of course, but – well, who knows where it will take us.’
‘Right,’ I say. Sure, Phenomenautism is fascinating, mind-blowing, but how do they expect tourists to cope with Sperlman’s and Uncanny Shift? Even if they’ve found a way to diminish the discomfort, how can they get around the fact that Phenomenautism leaves you – what? Exhausted? Confused? No, it’s more a sense of . . . slipping, of being stretched . . . like a snake trying to ingest a crocodile.
But Mr Hughes has finally noticed I’m not joining in the celebration. ‘North? Is there a problem?’
‘No. I was just wondering how, well, tourists are supposed to handle it all.’
But at this he only brightens.
‘Of course, this is an important issue, which is exactly where you two come in. You are to be our voices of experience. We aren’t going into this blind. The Ressies must be trialled, the experience streamlined. But the board will fill you in on the details. We’d best be moving.’
I put my hands to my knees, uncertain whether to follow as he levers himself from the seat, and watch with bemusement as he stops by the door, where two JumpPallets are set up. Only now do I notice the CP on each. The question seems so ridiculous for a second I struggle to voice it.
‘We’re jumping?’
‘Quickest way to London. Help North, will you?’ he says to Buckley. ‘There’s on-board monitoring but you’ll need to calibrate.’
The smugness of his smile belies the extravagance. Buckley looks as astounded as I feel. Though I’ve never seen a breakdown of the running costs for projection, it has to run to a figure many times that of a train fare.
Mr Hughes sits on the closest pallet and slips on his CP. He’s done this before, hasn’t he? Of course, adults can jump, we’re the only projection company to employ teenage phenomenauts, but, as the competition’s profits demonstrate, adult adaption time is terrible.
‘What Ressies will we be?’ I say.
He just smiles. ‘You’ll see.’
I hug the CP to my chest. Jumping blind is unheard of.
‘But if I’m expected to talk?’
Unless we’ll be parrots. I feel myself redden at the thought of sitting in front of a room of suits, cracking peanuts between my beak.
He flaps a hand. ‘Why don’t you jump up on the pallet and find out.’
At my look, Buckley gives an apologetic shrug. There’s no BodySupport laid out so we can’t be going for long, but I wish I’d been given a chance to go to the loo beforehand. I’d never be able to live down pissing myself in my boss’s office.
I settle onto the pallet and position the cap on my head.
‘Quickly. We’re short on time.’
I look sideways to see Mr Hughes, jowls spread against the leather of his pallet, the mound of his belly presented upward, not even concerned what this could mean for his dominance. It’s then that understanding hits me – he trusts me, I’m not being sacked, this is really happening.
‘Just a sec,’ Buckley says. I glance up with silent pleading as he fiddles with the in-helmet settings, but for what I don’t know. He squeezes my shoulder but there’s no time for anything else. The electromagnets clunk as they go live. A light on my CP blinks. Any second now—
Noise like rain. Static in darkness, then sounds shape into words.
‘Audio, patched in. Testing.’
A sharp note.
‘Audio, online. Visuals, connecting.’
The voice is wrong. Too flat. Too dead.
Light flares, revealing a ceiling fitted with a long strip lamp. Why am I lying down? I was in Mr Hughes’s office a second ago. I try to sit up but fail to even move.
‘Visuals, online. Initial projection, complete.’
Projection? But if this is a jump, where’s Buckley? This voice doesn’t even sound human.
‘Time – three p. m.’
A click separates the words. An AI?
‘Location, London.’
London. Yes, I remember now. Mr Hughes, Body Tourism. Last thing I remember is Buckley squeezing my shoulder.
‘Buckley? Are you there?’ I sub-vocalise.
No reply.
‘Buckley?’
His absence has a cold viscosity.
‘In an emergency, please psych the exit-potential.’
I roll my eyes, taking in the tight corners of the ceiling, tinged blue in the harsh lighting. A shimmer-like heat distortion ripples across my vision.
‘Embodiment – female, human. Patching in proprioceptive signals, in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.’
Wrong
In here, out there, this body is wrong.
Hair tingles, the edifice of skin drawn taut; beneath, the spasm of muscles. Then sudden awareness of a pounding heart; its beat, huge, inside of me; followed by the splutter of lungs, as if surfacing from drowning. I cough and the uncanniness fades. For Sperlman’s, that was nothing.
Before I’ve even begun to move, I can feel that there’s something odd about this Ressy, though it’s hard to say exactly what, because the more I think about it, the more normal it seems. With a jolt, I roll my eyes to one side and see a pale arm extending away from me, no fur to speak of.
Yes. The voice said human. A human Ressy.
I stare back at the ceiling, not sure what to make of the realisation. No wonder Mr Hughes was acting so strangely. ShenCorp has really gone there. Someone was bound to sooner or later, but still, like Consumer Phenomenautism, I hadn’t expected it so soon. Or both at once. What else has ShenCorp been keeping quiet about?
‘Protocol, complete. Projection, complete.’ The machine’s whisper is nothing like Buckley’s chatter.
I breathe out and try to settle myself into the rawness of my new presence – though in these moments it can almost feel as if I don’t even have a distinct form. Only in my back against the pallet and the movement of air in and out of my lungs is there any sensation at all.
It’s as I begin to move that I start to notice the changes – maybe longer legs, heavier chest. The wrongness of Sperlman’s has completely vanished, but a different type of disquiet is left in its place – this feels less like becoming something new and more like a distortion of my Original Body.
‘Mirror, activating. Please familiarise yourself, with yourself.’
The ceiling flickers on to reveal the image of a slender woman lying across a pallet. She’s dressed in a high-collared grey suit with a plunging neckline; pale face crowned by glossy, black hair. I’d forgotten how much hair weighs. The glow of her skin suggests that she is in her early twenties, though of course that’s a misleading way of thinking when it comes to Ressies.
I lock eyes with hers, a staring contest I’m destined to lose because she’s – well, me. My mind struggles to believe it, but of course it has to be true. Becoming another species is one thing, but this is a human face, imprinted with all the social connotations of personality and history I’ve been trained to read since birth – now mine. It shows an expression of shock.
But acceptance will come with moving. I start psyching at limbs and the mirror reflects her – my – movements as I fumble across the head; fingering the lifted eyebrows, much thinner than my own; plush lips; an elfin chin. Then further, a sharp collarbone, large breasts, tight ribcage, no belly to speak of. But struck with the feeling that I’m groping someone, I put the hands – my hands – flat back on the pallet. no, for now this is mine, me. I poke the belly, marvelling at the lack of fat, and wince as I jab right into bone.
In a funny way it reminds me of the times I’d study myself in front of the mirror when puberty first kicked in. Back then I felt as if my own body was collaborating against me, morphing in front of my eyes. I’d even try to squash everything back into place; ironic, considering a couple of years later the prodding was aimed at emphasising the same curves. Airbrushing seemed so easy, flesh so stubborn. In my lowest moments I wanted to lash out at the doppelgänger in the mirror, who dared to wear my face yet resisted my wishes. But, thanks to Phenomenautism, I don’t have to be either of those girls.
An affinity has finally started to grow for the image in the mirror and I think about the nerves responding to touch in my face and hands, how the Relay is, this moment, pinging them to my brain in Bristol.
‘North. Are you ready?’ A man has appeared by the pallet.
I sit up. ‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘Excellent. The board is waiting.’ His voice has an American twang, though anglicised, as if he’s lived here for a long time.
He waits quietly as I swing my feet to the floor. I curse beneath my breath to see that I’m wearing ridiculous high heels, expecting Buckley to laugh in sympathy but, of course, he’s not there. My hands tighten around the edge of the JumpPallet.
Perhaps this Ressy is programmed to handle heels. Some kind of inbuilt movement package is standard for most Ressies, no phenomenaut can be expected to intuitively know the ‘how to’ of flying or swimming, but perhaps they think it’s easy adapting to another human.
‘So? What do you think?’ the man says.
I glance up, double-take at that face: a proud nose; mouth kinked with the hint of a smile. Most of the men who work in Phenomenautism are more comfortable with Bayesian Neurotranslative than bench presses but even obscured by his suit, he’s clearly toned. I’ve only seen men like him in magazines.
‘About the Ressy,’ he adds at my pause. Though I realise with a strange alarm that he’s looking at me appraisingly too. No, someone like that would never be interested in me. Except, of course, this Ressy is far prettier than my Original Body. But surely he knows that he’s just attracted to the Ressy.
‘Oh. Um, it’s – strange,’ I say.
One of those shapely eyebrows quirks.
‘Strange in that it doesn’t feel strange,’ I say. ‘That it almost feels normal.’
‘Ah, yes.’ he smiles radiantly. ‘This is just an early model, we’ll arrange a less “strange” ResExtenda for you soon.’
‘How long have ShenCorp been using human Ressies? If you don’t mind me asking,’ I say.
‘Oh, just under a year. All hush hush, of course.’
‘Won’t people find out?’
‘Only once our marketing team has done its work. We’re confident that positive public perception can be engineered if they’re eased into it.’
‘But aren’t human Ressies still—’ What? Wrong? Creepy? I’m not sure what words to give this prickle of feeling. Though most arguments against Homo sapiens Ressies are thinly disguised anthropocentrism, I can’t quiet my unease.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you would be the sort to be troubled, North.’
North. with a sinking feeling I look around and see another JumpPallet, empty, then back at him.
‘You’re—’
‘Mr Hughes, who else?’ he says.
Oh god. What on earth was I thinking?
‘I can’t describe how good it is to be strong again.’ His arms bulge against the shirt sleeves as he flexes. Don’t do that. Why would he do that?
My glare only seems to amuse him.
‘Now you see the potential of the Tourism? It’s just zoological for now, like I said, but as soon as the public are adjusted to the idea . . .’ He winks.
‘Right.’ I look away. Being attracted to my boss is more than I can face right now. The image of his ageing, obese Original Body flashes into my mind. It’s not fair, not right, that he can slip into another face like that.
‘Come on. They’re waiting.’
I catch the flash of a grin before he turns, bastard. But I follow, willing my cheeks to cool; this body blushes alarmingly easily. At least it appears I can walk in these heels. In my Original Body I’d be flat on my face by now.
Entering the next room, a dozen pairs of eyes fall on me; businessmen and businesswomen sit at a round table, all young, all well dressed. Everything about the scene, from the sleek white decor and the fresh flowers to the cut of their suits, speaks quietly but forcefully of money.
‘Here.’ The man – Mr Hughes – gestures to the nearest chair and I perch as he joins the others. The board are seated in a semicircle up the other end, quiet interest on their faces, though I don’t know what they expect to be able to see – I’ve been this body for less than five minutes, it’s hardly to going to bare my soul.
Aware that my face is still warm, I look down at the table. Rainbows pool in the digiglass like oily puddles, sun’s whiteness split to reveal colour. A dreamlike sensation ebbs through me . . . as if I’m hovering a centimetre above the seat, or not quite here. Without Buckley to keep an eye on the CP, the signals appear to be slipping a little. I blink a couple of times and the weight of reality returns.
On the opposite side of the table, Mr Hughes has slipped into a chair next to a man I don’t recognise. He whispers in his ear, making the other man chuckle. I grip my hands beneath the desk, wondering whether they’re joking about me. The rest of the board waits on them; whoever this man is, he’s obviously the alpha.
When he turns, the touch of his intense green eyes is almost physical.
‘Katherine. Sperlman’s wasn’t too uncomfortable, I hope?’
‘It was fine. Thank you, sir.’
‘Good.’ He flips an open hand. ‘But, please, no need for formalities. Call me Arthur.’
I nod, though really I’m wondering about the absence of a surname. Could he be Professor Shen? The professor leaves the running of the Centre to Mr Hughes, refusing to meet even the most prestigious clients. It’s always been clear that the science is Shen’s real interest and a new paper appears every year or so, but research requires funding and the smell of money around Body Tourism might have been enough to entice the professor out from the rumoured lab in Switzerland. or island in the Bahamas, depending on whose speculation you prefer. Admittedly, he looks far too young to have been developing the nascent consciousness projection experiments forty years ago, but it’s always hard to tell with the super rich.
‘Mr Hughes tells me that you were one of the very first official phenomenauts,’ Arthur says.
‘I suppose,’ I say. Although that doesn’t mean much. It was the vanguard of university students like Buckley who took the real risks.
‘And the longest-working phenomenaut to date?’
‘I guess.’
Arthur glances at Mr Hughes who shakes his head.
‘More than guess. To our estimate, North has been projecting for two years longer than anyone else on record.’
‘Seven years.’ Arthur’s eyebrows perk and he leans back with a smile. ‘A savant in our midst. I should have worn a better suit this morning.’
His smile includes me in its warmth but I don’t like the pattering of laughter. If this really is Shen, it doesn’t come as much surprise that he’s such a smug git.
‘Please do.’
I follow the point of his open palm and I jolt to see a tray has appeared in front of me. On it is a half-moon pastry and tall glass of coffee. At the sight my stomach grumbles and I realise I’m ravenous, the kind of hunger I’ve only known when a Ressy’s been kept on nutrient fluids for a long time. I can feel the heat rising off the pastry, tinged with sweet fruitiness. It’s got to just be psychological, but whilst I’m never as hungry as a human as I am in other bodies, it always seems more difficult to ignore. Context, I guess.
‘So. We have your CV here.’ Arthur pulls a sheet of paper towards him. ‘Zoological work. Several papers in Nature, I see?’
I nod. The pastry crackles lightly between my teeth, then melts to nothingness on my tongue. No expense has been spared on the food either.
‘Good working relationship with your neuroengineer. Excellent plasticity results. Impressive range of Ressy animalia. Extremely impressive. Your specialisation?’
I have to bring up a hand to catch the crumbs from the pastry, swallowing quickly.
‘Oh, um, endangered mainly. I’ve sort of carved out a niche looking at species adaption to the influence of humans. So, animals that thrive in human environments or those that are being driven to extinction. That’s why I’ve worked with such a range; it means that I can be working in almost any phylum from week to week. Well, within reason. Not fungi or anything.’
But I’m babbling.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Mr Hughes. ‘Seven years on endangered. We’re wasting her in Research.’
‘That was my thought when I recommended her.’
It’s hard not to cringe as they turn their teeth back on me. From humans, smiling isn’t a threat display. Or so I try to reassure myself.
‘Not to be rude,’ I say, ‘but I like my current role. It’s important.’
‘Of course it is. And it’s because of your exemplary work in that capacity that we’re now entrusting you with this important role. The most important, one might say.’
‘Right.’ I search from one face to the next. I have the strangest feeling that our words are piling, useless, on the table between us. ‘Sorry, but I’m not even sure quite what this job entails?’
‘Of course. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. I believe Mr Hughes has filled you in on the basics?’
‘Body Tourism? Right?’ I find my voice raising in question despite myself. Even now I can’t quite believe it.
‘That’s it! Let’s see if we can’t flesh out some details. Alison?’
He swings round to face a petite lady. She rises and the room dims, so that I can now see that the table is lit with the soft glow of the Milky Way.
‘Body Tourism –’ the woman lets the words sink in as she looks to each of us in turn – ‘is to be the world’s first phenomenautical consumer venture. Eventual markets will include business, transportation and communications, but at present the focus is on private tourism.’
At a curl of her fingers, forms begin to bubble up from the table, the shadowy suggestion of creatures dissolving through each other. A dog, an eagle, a lion. These are true holograms, not SpecSpace illusions. What sort of investors must they have secured for this project?
‘As a high-end luxury product, our marketing team is aiming to attract international clientele, especially American. Though due to the US ban on projection, all centres will be UK based at present.
‘Later, foreseen advances in technology will allow cheaper packages to be rolled out to the wider public and, with projected improvements in monitoring AI, we hope to introduce home Phenomenautism kits within the next decade.’
A silver horse solidifies from the mist to canter around the table, rendered in perfect detail. One man nods appreciatively.
‘The initial ResExtendas will all be animal, but we aim to bring out human models once marketing feels the public are ready. Each body was selected through extended discussions with our focus groups, and they are being produced at the Biolabs in Bristol as we speak. Permanent storage pods will be installed in the field to maintain and heal the ResExtendas between tourists.’
The hologram bursts into points of light and re-gathers into a tiger, fur suffused with a heavenly glow.
‘Thank you.’ Arthur turns back to me, stroking his jaw. The taste of pastry lingers in my mouth, sickly sweet.
‘As I’m sure you understand, before we launch the program we need to quality check the ResExtendas. For the prices we will charge, the product must be excellent, the experience, exceptional,’ he says. ‘Of course, our customers will know that the trip is not going to be a stroll in the park. We will make a virtue of that fact. The authentic wild experience. But there are areas of projection where comfort and safety can be enhanced. It will be your role, Katherine, to trial each body – to ensure the experience will be of the highest quality.’
He lifts his pastry, tearing the end off with his long fingers, but seems to forget to bring it to his mouth. ‘Your responsibilities as consultant will involve testing the whole range of physiological functions associated with each ResExtenda. We will be sending you the full brief after the meeting, but broadly your tasks will include stress-testing of biological functions, infield jumps and lab jumps, testing the reliability of the ResExtenda storage pods.’ He’s started swirling the end of the pastry; it’s almost hypnotic. ‘Then, of course, environmental risk factoring, monitoring local prey, social and predatory populations, along with all other factors that need to be considered in the mandatory insurance packages. Not to forget comfort maximisation, appetite profiling—’
My attention slips as he carries on, hazing out on the swirl of his pastry. Put as many fancy words to it as you like, but the job they are describing is to play guinea pig. I glance at Mr Hughes, hoping for some sort of support, but when he looks back I find myself avoiding his eyes, my face heating with the dread that he might have interpreted the look in the wrong way.
Arthur’s pastry has finally come to a stop and, as if this were a cue, everyone is looking at me. The napkin tears a little between my hands and, realising that I’ve been fiddling with it, I drop it quickly back to the plate.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m flattered, really, but Research is all I’ve ever done. I don’t know anything about this.’
‘But, Katherine, this is an entirely new branch of Phenomenautism. As of yet there are no consumer phenomenauts. Who would you have take on the job?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think I’m the best person though.’
‘Really? From our position you are excellently qualified. You’ve remarkable experience with ResExtendas but you’re not so old that trialling a range of radically different and new bodies should present a problem. Though the aims of Research may be a little different, through it you’ve become a wider range of ResExtendas certainly than anyone else at ShenCorp, but quite probably everyone in the industry.’ He smiles, finally pops the piece of pastry into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. ‘Mr Hughes reassures me that there’s no one else he’d rather have on the job.’
That’s not the point though. I became a phenomenaut because I love Research – immersing myself in a body, an environment, a pack, until I know every scent, every sound, every taste of my territory as clearly as I do the timbre of Buckley’s voice.
‘Katherine, this project is going to be game changing. And as the world’s most experienced phenomenaut, of course we’d want you on board. In fact –’ Arthur glances at Mr Hughes, who nods. ‘In fact, we are so excited, that we want you as our poster girl.’
‘Poster girl?’ My fingers bite into each other beneath the table and I flinch to find the nails are much sharper than those of my Original Body. I keep forgetting that I’m inRessy.
‘Yes, poster girl.’ Arthur smiles. Despite the unpleasantness of the situation, there’s something almost comical about his echoing. ‘Nothing too intensive, we know that your heart lies with the projection, but we’d absolutely love to have your face on the advertising.’ He sweeps an evocative arm through the air. ‘Katherine North, the face of Body Tourism. Just think of it.’
I am, and it’s made my decision very easy.
‘Thank you, all of you, for considering me. But you know I can’t leave Research.’
I don’t like the look Arthur shoots at Mr Hughes. When his smile re-gathers, its broadness is almost desperate.
‘Katherine. As much as we know you love Research, do you really think it’s what you need right now? After your recent –’ the worms of his lips twist in a way he must think of as beseeching – ‘incident, surely dying species are the last type of ResExtenda you need to be working on.’
‘But it’s my job.’ My throat tightens around the words, as if even this Ressy is aware that they’re falling on deaf ears.
‘Was your job. Believe me, I understand – no – admire your passion. Your passion is why we are so excited to be working with you. And under normal circumstances we wouldn’t dream of forcing a change of department but I believe that in your situation the matter is somewhat more complicated. Mr Hughes has advised me that for health reasons, legally, we cannot allow you to continue working in Research.’
‘Sorry?’ I glare at Mr Hughes. ‘Legally?’
A hint of the familiar hardness surfaces in that handsome face, revealing a surprising ugliness, but it’s Arthur who pushes the point.
‘We have a legal responsibility to keep all our phenomenauts in good health. Please understand that it’s only in your best interests that we have had to make the hard decision to prevent you from practising Research Phenomenautism any further. Thankfully the consumer jumps will each last a week at most and should prove far less stressful. I believe that once you’ve adapted to the change, you will find them very amenable. We’re determined not to lose you, Katherine.’
It’s too much. Too much in one day. I don’t even know what to feel any more. Anger, I suppose, but even that comes at me from a distance. I rub the numbness between my eyes, wondering if they’ve turned down the physiological inputs.
‘But, the seal jump?’ I say to Mr Hughes. ‘The geomagnetic navigation research? We promised a report by the end of the month. Julie is busy with her bottlenoses right now – so she can’t take it.’
‘I’m quite aware. You can of course finish your ongoing Research projects. But we can’t schedule you in for any new ones – and certainly nothing long-haul.’
‘So, it’s this or leave?’
‘I wouldn’t put it in such stark terms. Never lose sight of the fact that this is a promotion. You should be excited. We certainly are.’
It’d be easier to be excited if they’d stop parroting the word.
‘Could I at least have time to consider?’
I’m not above feeling pleasure at the frown Arthur gives Mr Hughes.
‘Of course,’ he says after a beat. ‘Though I can promise you that this is not an opportunity you want to overlook. In the meantime, we will send you the literature to familiarise yourself with.’
‘Right.’ But as I start to stand, Mr Hughes cuts me off.
‘You do understand, North, that everything you heard here is confidential. Especially the existence of the human Ressies.’
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘We cannot risk their existence being leaked before marketing has done its work. Any breach would result in termination of your contract and a legal suit.’
‘You can trust me.’
I thought the questioning was revenge for my hesitation to sign up but his look is still locked on mine. ‘That includes Mr Maurice.’
‘Buckley?’ I pause in stepping back from my seat. Buckley’s my neuroengineer, he knows me better than myself, to ask me to keep information from him is just—
‘You do understand that, North?’ There’s nothing close to sympathy in that face and, looking at it now, I wonder how I could ever have found it attractive.
‘It’s of the utmost importance that no word of this gets out before marketing feels the public is ready for it,’ he says.
‘Right. Yeah. That’s . . .’ I pull a smile as weak as theirs. ‘Sure.’
He sits back, finally satisfied, and I return to the JumpPallet, weak with the choice ahead of me.