Kymiera

by Steve Turnbull

  Often his clients would try various other methods before they came to him. It was foolish of them to put themselves at risk that way. The cessation of life was the only guarantee.

  There was a knock at the door and an envelope slipped under it. He rose from the bed, walked the length of the hotel room with precise steps, he watched his thin fingers pick up the envelope seemingly of their own volition. He had a need and his body satisfied that need.

  The outside of the envelope was bare without even the name he used on it. That was as it should be. He used the knife that had come with his evening meal to slice through the crisp envelope.

  He extracted the paper from inside it. The code consisted of two hundred and forty-seven letters and numbers in a 16x16 block with the last digit missing. It looked handwritten but very neat and precise. There was no mistaking what each individual character was.

  On the desk-cum-dresser stood two small, identical devices, one of which was plugged into the power socket. His riffy. There was a time when he had had a riffy just like everyone else but there had come a time when it became an inconvenience. Everyone knew it was easy to block a riffy: an aluminium-lined hat would do the trick. But that meant you disappeared from the scan. And simply disappearing did not give you an alibi.

  A riffy did not, in itself, require power to work. It retransmitted using the energy of the enquiring signal but it could also provide information about the physical state of the person. Replacing that took clever electronics which needed power.

  The machines were expensive because they were both illegal and complex. But having one meant he could be in two places at once. Having two meant he could pretend to be someone else.

  Creating an identity required the code on the piece of paper. The missing digit was a precaution against interception.

  He activated the second device, then keyed in the digit sequence. The batteries were good for a few hours. He put on his coat and headed outside. He took the stairs down to the ground floor. He had chosen this hotel because it had a garden, which meant he could leave without going through reception where his lack of a riffy might be noticed.

  The letter Q was freshly chalked next to a modern, though not brand new, car. He walked around the next corner then pulled out his machine. He paused to key in the Q then turned around and headed back.

  The car unlocked at the touch of his hand and he climbed into the passenger seat. The car moved off smoothly in self-drive mode. The glove compartment contained information about the potential knowledge leak: sex, age. This car had a link through to the riffy network. He activated it. The target was heading in towards the centre of the city.

  John Smith specialised in accidents. It kept him below the radar. If the leaks were plugged in an apparently natural way there was no one to chase. And with contracts usually months apart there was no indication that someone like him even existed.

  Michael Dark

  His arms were getting tired but he didn’t dare put down the bags containing the items Amanda had chosen; someone might try to grab them. There had been a couple of fights but nothing they had been involved in, or even close to.

  They had been in here two hours, after queuing for a further two hours. It wasn’t just his arms that were tired. His legs ached from the standing, and the claustrophobic stuffiness of the shop, along with the breathlessness of air that had been breathed by too many people, was giving him a headache.

  ‘Mr Dark, isn’t it?’

  Mike barely registered that someone was actually talking to him.

  ‘Mr Dark?’ The voice seemed more uncertain since he hadn’t responded. He stopped daydreaming and turned. Black hair, early 40s, Middle Eastern heritage, decent clothes—and no one he recognised. Nervous-looking so not police or the Purity.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  The man smiled. ‘Ali Najjar, I’m your daughter Chloe’s chiropractor.’ He did not offer his hand; that was something you only did with someone you trusted.

  ‘Okay, nice to meet you.’ This was not a conversation he wanted. He just wanted Amanda to stop rooting through the piles of clothes that remained, so they could go home.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  A doubt crossed Mike’s mind. The man was not carrying any bags. Could he be freaking? He looked normal enough. His hands and his head were bare. He had walked without any kind of limp. There did not seem to be any suppressed pain behind his eyes. Of course there were more subtle forms of infection. Sometimes they never became visible until the infectee keeled over and died. Occasionally the genetic corruption affected the brain first.

  But for now the fellow looked unaffected. ‘Are you here shopping?’

  ‘No, Mr Dark, I came here specifically to talk to you. Do you think we can find somewhere a bit more private?’

  ‘What’s this about?’ he said. ‘Chloe?’

  ‘Look, there’s a space over by the wall.’

  ‘How did you know where we were?’

  ‘I overheard your wife’s message to Chloe this afternoon. She took it in my office.’

  Mike frowned. ‘It’s a big shop and I don’t think we’ve ever met.’

  ‘I asked the store to do a scan for me.’

  ‘And they did it?’

  ‘I told them it was a matter of life and death.’

  ‘You lied.’

  ‘No.’

  Mike had not expected him to say that. He should have agreed, or explained it away, or anything except ‘no’. There was a sincere look in his eyes. Mike gave in; at least it would be more interesting than just standing here.

  There was a rail that now held nothing but empty hangers and behind it a space. They wouldn’t be out of sight but it would afford the impression of privacy. Mike adjusted the weight of the bags and headed over to the wall.

  ‘Do you want me to take one of those?’

  Mike’s natural suspicion kicked in. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘You’re right. You can’t be too careful; these things can turn into a riot.’

  For a moment Mike thought he was being laughed at, but Najjar’s face was perfectly serious and he was making no effort to come any closer.

  When they reached the wall, Mike put the bags next to it and stood in front of them defensively. He rubbed his fingers to get some circulation back into them.

  ‘What’s this about? If it was Chloe, it would be the police talking to me.’

  Najjar looked uncertain again. He glanced around then back at Mike. ‘I have a daughter, Mr Dark, not as old as your Chloe. Just three.’

  Having to deal with the people who came to the FreakWatch meetings meant that Mike knew that some people had to go round the houses before they got to the point. But in this case he hadn’t wanted to talk anyway. ‘Perhaps you could just get to the point?’

  ‘Do you love your daughter, Mr Dark?’

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much would you sacrifice for your daughter?’

  Mike’s temper flared. ‘Are you threatening me? Where’s Chloe? What have you done with her?’ He grabbed Najjar’s jacket in one fist, but kept him at a safe distance.

  A look of terror crossed the man’s face. ‘Please, Mr Dark, I’m not threatening you or Chloe, I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know where she is,’ he said. ‘She left my office this evening after I examined and treated her. She didn’t tell me where she was going.’

  The rational side of Mike’s mind made him release Najjar’s coat but the anger was still bubbling inside him.

  ‘Mike?’ His wife appeared behind him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he growled.

  ‘I’m Ali Najjar, Mrs Dark, Chloe’s chiropractor.’ He took a deep breath and before anyone could say anything else, ‘Chloe told you she’s had back pain? I found an anomaly in her spine.’

  The anger in Mike was barely held in che
ck. ‘What exactly are you saying, Mr Najjar? Choose your next words with care.’

  Najjar hesitated again.

  ‘What’s wrong with my baby?’ said Amanda.

  ‘I did a scan of her back,’ he said. ‘Found something.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Symmetrical osteophytes and extended musculature supporting them.’

  ‘Put that in plain English.’

  ‘Something is growing in her back.’

  Mike did not even think. It was fury that propelled his fist into the man’s solar plexus. Najjar doubled over and fell to his knees. Mike leaned over him and put his mouth next to the man’s ear. ‘My daughter is not a freak. Come near us again and I will kill you. Do you know what the penalty is for falsely accusing someone of being a freak?’

  Najjar seemed to be fighting to breathe in.

  Amanda was on the verge of tears. ‘Why would you say this?’

  Mike gathered up the bags. ‘Come on, Amanda. We’re leaving.’

  Chapter 20

  John Smith

  He examined the scanner in the car. The target had been in the shopping centre for an hour but was finally moving out. He had identified his weapon of choice on this occasion and was parked behind it.

  The truck was a refrigerated unit for meat. When he found it the last of its contents was being carried into the municipal butchers—The Shambles—for processing and redistribution to shops. There would have been an escort with it when it arrived but that had moved off. The security system for the building had been reactivated just after the driver had returned to the vehicle. He had not moved yet, not that that would have been a problem.

  Smith adjusted his hat and got out of the car. In the old days there were cameras everywhere and he would have to have been far more cautious. As it was, riffy-less, the only scanners that now existed could not see him at all.

  He walked up to the driver’s side. He pulled open the door—unlocked because the driver was already in the vehicle. An ion-beam burner would mark the clothes and killing him now would register in the system as his riffy died with him. Instead the needle carried an efficient neurotoxin that prevented voluntary muscle control. The driver would not be able to guide the vehicle or call for help. It would only last an hour but that was more than enough.

  Smith climbed into the cab beside the driver and fastened his seat belt tightly—couldn’t have him slipping off the chair while driving. Attached to the dashboard was a picture of a smiling woman and three kids. ‘Sorry, pal, collateral damage,’ Smith said.

  It took a few moments to attach his system service monitor—used by vehicle mechanics—to the truck’s computer system, then code the target’s riffy into the system, and add a custom command channel. He set the new channel to the default, removed his devices and climbed out again.

  There was a faint possibility that his overrides could be found, but he was counting on the destruction of the vehicle hiding that evidence.

  As he climbed down from the cab, two people started down the otherwise empty road towards them. He turned smoothly and held the door open for a moment. ‘Yeah, okay, see you tomorrow.’ And slammed the door.

  Instead of going back to his car he headed towards the two people. He still had his hat on to shade his face from any lights. Like a good citizen, when faced with someone he did not know and was not going to talk to, he crossed to the other side of the road. He stuck his hands in his pockets moving positively but not too fast, as if he knew where he was going but was not in a hurry.

  The two people passed him without comment. Smith made it to the end of road and paused at the junction with the main road. There were a lot of lights here and a few people moving about. Most were heading away from the centre, going home.

  He turned and looked into the window of the shop on the corner. As he did so he watched the two who had interrupted him. They had passed his car and were carrying on at a leisurely pace.

  He crossed the small road so the truck was between him and them, then made his way back. Once more he was grateful for the lack of cameras; there was no one to see and no riffy scanner could note his odd behaviour.

  He passed the truck on the inside. By the time he emerged the others were gone. He got in his car and checked the target. He was out of the main shops and heading in this direction. He was probably planning on catching the Metro line in Piccadilly Gardens.

  Smith activated the truck’s motors and put it into auto-drive with the target’s riffy as the destination. It pulled away smoothly. Smith followed directly behind. This vehicle also had no active riffy so no system would be able to track it.

  Ali Najjar

  He could breathe normally again. The shop staff had been kind, especially when he claimed the argument had been over clothes. It was common enough and they had no reason to disbelieve it.

  As he came down into the street from the shop he was undecided what to do next. Perhaps he should get his wife, son and daughter, and just get out. People said the countryside had far fewer riffy scanners. It was possible to escape detection if you were careful.

  But he would not know how to live and how could he put his wife and kids through that when it was all his fault. Nothing might happen. Perhaps he was wrong about Chloe, but would the Darks risk their daughter just to report him for falsely accusing her? Surely they would be worried it might be true.

  He staggered up the gentle hill holding his stomach, which still hurt. He hoped Mike Dark had not ruptured something important.

  If they didn’t report him then time would pass and if Chloe was a freak—he hoped not—then she and the family would be put into quarantine. He would probably be tested as someone who came into physical contact with her. He might be quarantined for a while.

  Better that.

  And if she was not a freak then it was an unfortunate false alarm. He knew that was not the case. There was no mistaking what he had seen. And if she was having hot flushes as well? Could be another symptom.

  Bright vehicle lights flashed past him as he passed a junction. A car turned out of the side road and illuminated everyone walking up towards Piccadilly Gardens.

  He barely heard someone shouting as another set of vehicle lights shone at him from his left. He heard a thump as something heavy mounted the kerb nearby, and the whirring of a powerful electric vehicle motor. Then a wall smashed into him and his entire body screamed in agony for a fraction of a second.

  John Smith

  He pulled up to the kerb and climbed out. Once upon a time vehicles ran on petroleum products and could be made to burn very easily. There was no longer the industry to support drilling for oil, although coal mines had been reopened.

  But his choice of the refrigerated truck was not mere coincidence. What it did have was liquid nitrogen and carbon filament batteries.

  When it had run off the road the truck had embedded itself in the wall opposite. There was no question the target was dead. A crowd had gathered around the vehicle and someone was trying to get the driver’s door open.

  This was the tricky part.

  He moved forward through the crowd as if he knew what he was doing. People parted before him. Rather than make his way to the cab he moved just behind it. There was a valve located underneath to bleed off the nitrogen. ‘I need to check something, pal,’ he said. ‘Make sure it’s safe.’

  Those words alone were enough to get the people close up moving away.

  He climbed underneath and pulled the required tool from inside his jacket. He attached a length of rubber tubing to the nitrogen outlet and fed the other end into the battery compartment. He fitted the tool on the valve control and gave it a half turn. The rubber tube went hard as the nitrogen flowed through it. It would shatter when the battery went up.

  He stood up. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said and walked to his car.

  As he drove away the vehicle exploded, taking with it everyone who had seen him.

  Chapter 21

  Chloe


  Chloe growled at the rain as she exited the library. She walked to the edge of the steps and faced the wall of water. She had no umbrella and really wasn’t dressed for the downpour. But time was getting on and there was no point waiting; the trams were few and far between at this time of night.

  She resigned herself to getting wet and stepped out into the rain. She was drenched in moments. People joked about wet rain, the sort that somehow penetrated more than other rain. This was possibly the wettest rain she had ever encountered.

  The weather was more extreme than it used to be: the summers hotter and the winters colder. People said it was global warming; it had been a big thing once upon a time, apparently. Too many people running too many machines that burned coal and oil. S.I.D solved that problem.

  The Purity taught that S.I.D was the Malthusian solution; there had been only so long that the world population could keep increasing before disease took it—if war and famine didn’t get there first. There was nowhere else for the population to go. Of course there were the cults that thought it was a judgement from some higher being. Maybe it was. It didn’t really matter.

  She supposed that global warming must have been monitored in some way. No one talked about it anymore. Something had changed in the weather but if it had been a cataclysmic alteration nobody really noticed. Just the older people complained that the summers were hotter and the winters colder.

  She crossed the tram tracks and stood under the canopy that stretched across the waiting area. Water dripped from her and the light breeze raised a shiver. Her trip to see Ali had helped and, as long as she stayed straight, her back didn’t ache.

  She heard the screeching of the metal wheels on the rails before the tram came around the corner. Someone coughed behind her. She jumped in surprise and glanced round but there was no one there. She frowned and turned her attention to the incoming driverless carriages.

  She supposed there must be a wirehead somewhere running the trams. Or perhaps they really were completely automatic. Lots of people didn’t understand that a computer virus wasn’t like a real one; someone had to create it and plant it. Not like S.I.D which was natural. Was a wirehead really better than a computer?