Alex stopped at a door and peered through the window pane. Lana edged to his side. Behind the door, a massive window-less stainless-steel drum filled the entire room.
“We won’t go inside, but this is where we had most of the embryos, both frozen and under time deceleration. One minute inside is six hours in Zone 0 and three months in Zone 12. The same time factor is applied. You wouldn’t want to be away that long, would you?”
Lana realised four minutes inside that room would be one year inside Zone 12. That would be a factor of 360 multiplied by 360. That was a difficult sum to wrap her mind around.
“How many embryos are in there?”
“We had a few million pre-thirty-five embryos sourced from various countries. Many were discarded before we found out about the virus, such a shame. They arrived here at the same time you did.”
Four days before, actually. She’d seen the transfer records, and why had he spoken about them in the past tense?
“At the same time I was? How did you make countries hand over their embryos?”
“I didn’t make anyone do anything. Countries donated to RI for research purposes because of the infertility crisis.”
“You said you had a few million embryos. Where are they now? We only have two thousand in Zone 12.”
“Let me show you the legal documents first.”
Motioning for her to follow, he walked further along the corridor through a door and into a large room, a row of closed offices inside. “Wait in here. It might take me a while to find the paper work.”
He opened the door to an office. She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind him.
Near the door two large push buttons, one red and one green, were inside a glass case. A sign above it read, for emergency purposes.
She scanned the room. A sinking feeling formed in the pit of her stomach. The room was probably used for visitor demonstrations.
Ten red-wood chairs with velvet seats and scrolled arms were positioned at a red-wood V-shaped table in front of a large screen. No furniture was as opulent inside Zone 12.
She sat on a chair with a good view of the screen and the door.
On the wall above the screen, just like an international company might show time zones in different cities, three black digital clocks were labelled Zone 0, DZ Zone and Zone 12. She assumed the clocks demonstrated different rates of time to prospective sponsors.
Each clock not only showed hours, minutes and seconds in big red numbers; they showed years and days too. She watched the clocks. The DZ Zone clock displayed zeros, and the Zone 0 clock counted seconds normally in the familiar way she would expect, but for each second ticked, the Zone 12 clock ticked on six minutes.
The rapid movement of time on the Zone 12 clock made her pulse race.
Callum was probably back inside Zone 12 now. She hoped he’d not used the embryos. If he had, she’d never forgive him.
She focused on the familiar rhythm of the Zone 0 clock.
Alex didn’t care if Callum and she came here or not. They were pawns in his embryo transfer plan. She’d been used, so had Paige, and so had the Government.
Paige said Alex included free features in the thought-text upgrade on the condition RI-Ascension Island was the sole research centre. Is that what human life can be exchanged for—a free tech upgrade?
For twenty minutes she was distracted by bitter thoughts, and Alex had not returned.
A soft click outside startled her. Expecting to see Alex she looked at the door.
Her eyes shot back to the clocks.
The DZ Zone clock was no longer zeros, and below the clock she’d appeared on the large screen.
To anyone watching outside the meeting room, her movements had become imperceptible.
Light reflected from the clocks and hit her retinas. A cascade of electrical signals flushed through her brain towards her visual cortex then on towards her thought process. Her thought process triggered an active potential which travelled through a forest of neurons along her electrical synapses towards her legs and arms, and she was up and out of her chair, running through mud.
Fight or flight.
Press the red button. Her mind screamed.
At the door she unclipped the small hammer, smashed the glass cabinet and reached for the red button.
Chapter Fifteen
In her lab Beth placed freshly made samples of liquid cow-manure into the centrifuge and set it spinning. Then she returned to her office and read her emails.
She opened an email from Meda and followed a link to her recent video broadcast.
“Hello, fellow climate change activists working inside Zone 12.”
Beth rolled her eyes.
“Over the next few months, days and hours our work at RI will gain increased visibility around the world. And we must ensure that does not distract us from our primary mission. The work we undertake inside RI will save the planet from the centuries of rape and pillaging—”
Beth’s phone beeped.
On her screen a text message from Damian popped up: Meet me at the North coffee shop asap.
Apart from the other night, Beth had not spoken to him since the debacle with Amy. Maybe he had good news about her. But she couldn’t fool herself. If Damian had good news, she wouldn’t hear it from him.
She paused Meda’s broadcast, locked her screen and slid her phone into her jeans pocket.
Since guards had escorted Amy away no one other than Meda had seen or heard from her. Meda said Amy was ashamed of her behaviour, and they’d agreed between themselves that if she returned to the UK, RI would take no further action.
Meda had dismissed Amy because of Beth. When Beth found out Amy had gone home to the New Cities, she was devastated. She loved her job. Amy had so far refused to speak to Beth, and she understood why.
She removed the samples from the centrifuge, and after placing them in a rack on her work bench, she removed her white coat and left the lab.
Distracted by thoughts of quashing Damian, she took the wrong route around the walkway and had to pass by the bronze memorial plaque sunk into the floor. She avoided passing the empty ImReal offices too. The control room was full of awful ghostly memories, and once or twice she had wondered if Jason’s spirit haunted it.
She hated to see ignorant people step on the bronze plaque. At first a part of her had wanted to run at them and push them from it. But they didn’t know what that memorial circle meant to Beth. Those who did know, those who were marked by Jason’s death, strode over it at the last minute, avoiding it like a dog turd.
When Human Resources told her about their plans for the plaque’s position, she had objected in the strongest terms, and she’d likely upset people too. That wasn’t how Jason should be remembered, marking the exact spot it happened; etching it forever on everyone’s psyche was too morbid.
She stepped towards the plaque: Dedicated in memory of Jason Croft who gave his life fighting for our survival, Aged 25, April 21, 2062.
Jason had killed himself within forty minutes of activation. The coroner’s verdict came out after the funeral. It reported his neck snapped instantly and symptoms of psychosis led to his accidental death. She wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive herself.
ImReal had been a disaster from start to finish. It should’ve been cancelled before Jason died, but after Dr Bartholomew concluded he had the evidence for his report they had the green light to proceed.
Dr Bartholomew was convinced that had Howard’s immersion continued, he would have conducted the trials on children. And so Dr Bartholomew had confirmed his hypothesis that ImReal could be used to manipulate primal instincts and control the human mind.
His report had gone on to discuss the merits of human bias as a method for mind control. But it also warned that if test subjects understood cognitive bias, then after ImReal was activated in them it may trigger a psychotic episode if the subject were to realise they were controlled against their will. In that case, and in the event the test subject was not genetically su
sceptible to mental illness, use of ImReal in conjunction with a mild drug to subdue the self-monitoring processes may be required. Beth had interpreted that last statement to mean, let them smoke cannabis so they do not care they are controlled.
But none of his warnings were applicable in Jason’s case. Problems with the ImReal code had triggered Jason’s psychosis and those were out of scope of Dr Bartholomew’s document.
Using pages of warnings in his report as a waiver, Dr Bartholomew approved the rollout, so they continued testing ImReal—on poor Jason.
Meda and Beth had been convinced the ‘Be Happy’ project would make a significant difference to the atmosphere inside the New Cities and eventually around the world.
Different reasons motivated them. Beth wanted to bring hope to the New Cities, the same hope she’d felt while she was immersed, and Meda wanted people to care about climate change. They were determined ‘Be Happy’ would succeed.
“How are you, Beth? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Beth recognised the guard’s Texan twang and smiled at Clayton. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
“Still not managed to change its location then?”
“No.”
He lifted off his navy RI baseball cap and unruffled his flat, wiry-grey hair. They dipped their heads and looked at the plaque.
“I’ve missed you at the meetings,” Clayton said.
“It wasn’t helping me, drudging it up all the time.”
Sitting around in the circle of blame made it easier for everyone to point at her, and she didn’t need reminding she was partly responsible. When the support group’s attendance dwindled she didn’t return.
The lines of wisdom had etched deep on Clayton, but his youth had left its mark too—you could get stuck at the bottom of his acne craters and never be seen again. And his large unusual flat nose was still bent from Jason’s fist.
“Didn’t opt for the nose job then?”
Bringing sparkles with jokes served as her offerings to the darkness. But more importantly, she could get away with it with Clayton.
“No, too old to be bothered with my looks. I won’t be going to the meetings anymore, either. They’re moving me back inside Zone 0.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “All the best, Beth.”
“Bye, Clayton.”
Damian was sitting at a bistro table in the cordoned area in front of the coffee shop, dressed in jeans and a ridiculously tight T-shirt stretched across his bulging arms. How many hours did he spend in the gym?
Apprehensive, Beth glanced at the unfolded screen on the table.
He noticed Beth and pulled it towards him.
She would love to slap his smug face. The image of his nose, bloody from her punch caused a surge of adrenaline. How quickly he could turn her into someone unfamiliar to herself.
After Damian had reacted suspiciously to Lana in the North Bar, she’d thought about this confrontation with him but never imagined herself so close to losing control.
“I’ve found some old video footage. I know you know who she is. It’s not even a clever disguise.”
“What are you babbling about, Damian?”
“Lana Underwood a.k.a. Lucy Green, I wonder if security knows. Let me refresh your memory.” He touched the screen and slid it across the table towards her.
A video played out, the volume on mute.
Beth, Lana and Paige were at a Youth Action Group rally near Downing Street. The video was taken in their second year at university before the government admitted the scale of the infertility crisis. Beth thrust a YAG banner above her head: Research Not Pensions. Lana and Paige were on either side of her, punching their fists in the air and chanting.
Damian stared at her, a glint in his eye and a smarmy grin on his face. Beth squirmed in her seat. Getting out of this situation would not be easy.
Face recognition software had identified them all. Lucy Green hung above Lana’s head.
So long as you told the truth about your past security didn’t care. Everyone had skeletons. Beth never lied about her involvement in the YAG and, unlike Lana, she wasn’t pretending to be someone else.
She flicked the screen back towards him.
“Of course security knows. They’re not stupid, are they?”
“Lana told you that, did she?”
“Yes.” You weren’t expecting that, were you, dickhead?
He leaned back and peeled the lid from his steaming coffee. “That’s strange because she didn’t behave like she was entirely innocent when I saw her. I thought she was a little jumpy.”
“She doesn’t want people to know who she is.”
“Because she’s, what—supposed to be dead?”
“What do you want, Damian? End-of-the-species sex?”
He laughed. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? The government were right to keep it from you mad bitches. Look at your banners. Research-Not-Pensions. Research-Not-Social Care. All it was going to take was for a few meat-heads to get involved. Couldn’t you see that? And look what happened. A terrorist minority dictating the majority and forcing us to evacuate into the New Cities for our own protection.
“The government were working on it. They built this place on Ascension Island for research into it. They knew the shit would hit the fan if the numbers got out. You and your crew—you flung the first pile.”
She stared at the table and imagined grabbing the back of his head and smashing his face into the shiny metal.
“Are you for real? The government lied to us for five fucking years. It would never have happened if they’d told us the truth in the first place, offered us compassion and hope instead of bullshit and lies.”
Seated customers had turned around to get a good view of their heated conversation. She stared at them, and they looked away.
He snorted. “Whatever.” He raised an eyebrow, lowered his voice. “Are you offering?”
Her mind raced. She wanted to say yes, get a knife and cut off his dick or bite through it. She imagined ripping it with her teeth, choking on his blood, the metallic taste in her mouth. Her hands were trembling with unwanted rage.
He leaned towards her. “No, I didn’t think so, and I’m not into rape. I want you to come to security with me and tell them who she is.”
Stunned, her rage transformed into shock.
Avoiding his gaze and stalling for time, she watched the people sitting around her.
She needed a weapon and right now if she had a gun, it would be aimed at his balls under the table.
“That’s not a problem is it? Because like you said, they already know.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.
She stared into his grey eyes, self-satisfied from his power-play, and held his attention. This boil was ripe for lancing.
“Fuck you, Damian.”
She stood abruptly, flipping the table from its underneath as she rose.
The light-weight table toppled over easily, spilling the steaming-hot contents from his coffee cup over his open lap.
“Fuck!”
He jerked up, sending his metal chair screeching across the floor. He hopped from leg to leg, pinching his pants away from the skin on his thighs. He undid his button, unzipped his zipper and pulled his trousers down past his thighs.
Laughter built up around them.
Beth’s eyes fixed on Damian’s.
Damian’s eyes fixed on Beth’s.
She turned and walked away, but after a few metres she looked back. His trousers were down around his ankles, revealing his wet black boxer-shorts, and his legs were planted wide as if he’d shit himself.
He stared hard at her. His eyes bulged, scarily, unnaturally. His face had turned a strange mix of purple and red shades. Yeah, she’d pricked the boil now. He was well and truly pissed off.
Fuck. Maybe she shouldn’t have done that.
When Howard walked in their bedroom Beth was in bed, her head submerged under the quilt cover. He sat beside her and edged the cover from her fa
ce.
“I called you to see if you wanted to get lunch. What’s going on? Are you sick?”
She met his eyes.
“Have you been crying?”
“It’s all my fault.”
“What is?”
“I should never have started the online survey. The civil war, the forced evacuation into the New Cities, Dad’s injury, Lana’s burns—it’s all my fault. The government were working on it. When they found out what was going on in ’53 they started building this site on Ascension Island to realise Alex’s discovery so they could buy time to find a solution.”
Howard sighed. “If it hadn’t been you, someone else would have run the survey. They shouldn’t have lied.”
“But they had to lie.”
“No, they didn’t. They could’ve been upfront about it.”
“Could they? Really?”
“Budge up.”
She made room for him on their bed, and he lay down next to her. They watched the gentle sway of the pendant ceiling-light come to a stop.
“Why have they only just changed the HFEA Act? That should’ve been the first thing they did, but it took nine years to get the changes made,” Howard said.
“But as soon as this place was up and running on the island they made the changes, and they might have a solution soon. So, instead of presenting just the problem to the public, they could have presented a solution at the same time.”
He sighed. “There may have been consequences to admitting the scale at the time of testing, yes, but if they told people what they planned to do about it—”
“It would’ve taken years to come up with an action plan. You know how slow the government is. People would never have waited around for the results while they worked out a plan for project shit-storm.
“With hindsight the answer to such a question should never have been sought without a plan for the consequence. They realised too late then had to lie about the result, and they’ve been trying to cover up the mess ever since. I’m not sure we can trust politicians or statisticians, whoever ordered the testing, to not screw it up for everybody.
“And I’m no better. I wanted to help cover it up with ImReal tech because I feel guilty about starting the survey. I even suggested the ‘Be Happy’ project, and everyone went along for the ride. I want it to go back to how it was before the war. People shouldn’t have to live under armed guard.”
Started with Errors (Relative Industries Series Book 2) Page 11
