Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  From here, as he watched from his white throne, he could see the database's reply to the threats, pulse after pulse in an endless wave of information streaming out to the screens. Each pulse was an upload package delivering response blueprints and mugshots of the latest antigens. Each would trigger near-instantaneous responses in all his subjects. Their nodes would start spitting out antibodies like rapid-fire weapons, maybe before an infection was even present, targeting the imposters and spreading the word amongst the body's own defences to multiply the effect.

  Kester opened his eyes. He felt powerful. He drew himself up and took a deep breath.

  'That's perfect,' the photographer said. 'If you can just widen that stance a bit – you're a sex god; you're a rock star.'

  'I'm a scientist,' Kester corrected him.

  -o-

  Kester sat in his office, watching the activity on the lab benches outside. It would have taken him six months, a year to develop a virus at the Institute. Here he had a team of thirty people all working on researching, developing and testing. Within his first six months they had managed to get twenty-two different viruses into development, six of which were already undergoing torso trials, and another four human trials. It was incredible. It was brilliant, he told himself, without passion.

  It was easy to feel inspired on a rooftop; less so behind a desk. Besides which it was nearly lunchtime and his early start was catching up with him. Status reports were stacking up on his wall display. Had he been into the nuts and bolts of development that wouldn't have been so bad but he hadn't touched a slide or a test tube on his V projects for weeks. He was living a double life: manager by day; scientist under cover of night. From day to day this fact took on different aspects: it was a good thing; it was a bad thing; it meant nothing.

  He was neither, Farrell kept telling him. He was a designer, a proper designer, a visualiser. They were still his techniques and blueprints that were being used, and to develop viruses for which he had come up with the concepts. That was the fun part, coming up with the concepts from basics. But now, with so many already on the go, there was no reason to come up with more. Not for now, anyway. Kester's board wall was still covered in concept sketches and notes for the viruses already in development. There was no space for anything new. He would spend most of the week checking the work of others and managing the trials process. Still, the fashion show was coming up fast. It was already there in his mind like a memory or a dream, velvet curtains and Super Trooper lights at the end of the tunnel.

  He swung round on his chair to look at the wall. It was beautiful. Each virus had its own area, drawn up on Kester's Book and 'pinned' to a segment on the plasma wall, hand-scrawled notes alongside it. Farrell had sent in an illustrator, Helena, to work up the concept drawings. They were less for Kester and more for the Board, but Kester found that they did help him and had been working quite closely with Helena until she unexpectedly handed in her notice.

  'So.'

  Kester jumped and shuffled his chair round to face the door. Alexis, unannounced as ever.

  'Have you got anything new to show me?' Alexis said. She put her hands on his desk and leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. 'I'm bored,' she stage-whispered.

  'Maybe,' he said and smiled sweetly at her.

  She hung back from the desk again and turned to see what he had been looking at.

  'I see you still have Helena's drawings up.'

  'The concept drawings?' It was bizarre – he could step into the exchange booths with as many ambitious lab hands as he liked, but one pretty woman set foot in his office and Alexis' hackles raised. 'I want to see how the final product measures up.'

  'Yes.'

  Kester was beginning to suspect that Helena's sudden disappearance had less to do with her wanting to leave and become a 'proper' artist, as Alexis had suggested, and more to do with Alexis' peculiar brand of jealousy. He was still trying to puzzle out what the key ingredient was – not beauty. Her own absence, perhaps. The feeling that she was missing something or that something was going on out of her control.

  'Come through.' Alexis indicated Kester's living quarters as if she were inviting him into her own rooms. He got up slowly and followed her.

  'You're still wearing Corona.' Kester indicated her eyes. He thought she might have got rid of it by now.

  'Yes, I'm hanging on to it. Come the fashion show I'm going to be wearing all of the Kester Lowe Big Five. It's important to mark one's territory.'

  'I'm your territory?'

  'This project is my territory, my baby. I want that to be plain. You'll be in the limelight, but I'll be standing right behind you, making all this possible.'

  'The puppeteer.' Kester smiled.

  'I beg your pardon?' Farrell pushed him backwards towards the bed.

  'I said the puppeteer.'

  'Say that one more time,' she pushed him a little further, 'and I'll have to beat you.'

  'One more time?'

  'One more time.' Farrell moved so close that Kester could barely keep his balance.

  'I have got something to show you.' He stepped sideways and headed back towards the office. Anger flashed in Alexis' eyes.

  'Good,' she said, composing herself. 'You know how I hate to punish you.'

  Kester walked up to his plasma wall and looked at the drawings.

  'Viruses three and four: Lanugo-go, Persona.' He pointed out two illustrations, one of a naked woman with a crest of hair down her spine and one of a man with a butterfly-shaped mask of colour on his face. 'In theory the mask should appear in different formations on everyone because it depends on the patterning of cell types in your facial skin.' His hand lingered over the second illustration. 'That's what happened with the chest skin in the torso testing anyway. But it should tend to one of two rough patterns depending on whether the wearer is male or female – because of facial hair distribution, you see.'

  'Nice.'

  'Pretty neat, eh? They're about to go into human trials – we've got our next lot of models in now, ready to load them up. I'll let you know when they present and we can join in the testing if you like, in vivo.' These last two words he said in his best sleazy voice.

  'Starting to enjoy yourself, aren't you?' The look in Alexis' eyes was hard, as if she was measuring him against her expectations, studying him objectively.

  'I started enjoying myself the minute I saw this lab…I'm starting to relax.'

  'That's what it is, then. Yes, maybe.' Alexis took a long breath, and then her mood flicked to business. 'Come to my office.'

  'Yes, Miss.' Kester held out both hands, one towards his office and one towards the outside exit of his apartment. 'Front door or back passage?'

  'Front door today, Doctor Lowe.'

  Kester followed her out and up to her office.

  When they got there, Alexis misted up the office-side wall, blocking out the meerkat eyes of the desk workers. She walked to the window and held both hands up splayed against the glass.

  'We're going to do it right here,' she said with a smirk, looking out onto the square below.

  'Well, why break the habit of a lifetime,' Kester said, joining her at the window.

  Standing, face close to the glass, the smell of Farrell all around him, Kester was transported back to his interview – his own pale, freckled forearms, Farrell's arms trapping him against the window, her desktop over her shoulder. He glanced over at the desk and felt an involuntary twitch.

  'Down there.' She pointed at the V front doors below them and then out towards the centre of the square. 'The catwalk will run from the front of our building right out to the fountain.'

  'And the models turn their heels over a box of shagging fans.'

  'We had thought we'd shut off the exchange booths but, come to think of it, that might be nice.'

  'This all sounds pretty grand.'

  'There's not much point in doing it if we don't do it in style.'

  'Welcome…Roger Yule,' said the doors.

  'Hel
lo, Roger,' Kester said.

  He watched as Yule began his approach, and then he looked away. It was taking too long to be comfortable, looked like such hard work. It wasn't just a matter of moving his legs; Yule had to lift each side of his body alternately. It reminded Kester of a time when he'd had to move a free-standing fridge freezer. He imagined Yule gaining too much momentum, tripping on the way and bulldozing through the window in slow motion.

  'Kester,' Yule panted a greeting, small beads of sweat gathering on his pale forehead.

  'Alexis was just telling me about your plans for the square.'

  'Ah, yes. I've had Helena on the case – she's done us some wonderful concept drawings. We've yet to see what the events management company can do with them.'

  'Helena?' Kester raised one eyebrow at Alexis. 'I thought she had moved on.'

  'You know there are people in this building I haven't seen for years,' Yule said, oblivious to the half-annoyed, half-flirtatious exchange that was going on beside him. 'So, Alexis, how far did you get?'

  'Ask a personal question, Roger,' Alexis said, with a lewd smile.

  'Welcome…Byron Gaunt,' said the doors.

  'I'll ask you a personal question, my lovely,' Gaunt said, striding over to join them. 'When was the last time you put on a pair of knickers?'

  'Just before I took them off again.' Alexis pecked Gaunt on both cheeks.

  'Kester, my boy.' Gaunt laid a firm hand on Kester's shoulder.

  'Gaunt. Nice to see you.' They shook hands.

  'That looks good on you, boy.' Gaunt indicated Kester's outfit.

  Kester had had a consultation with his stylist the day before. There was even less choice of what to wear now that he had a public image to consider, but he liked the way it was going. Rita, his stylist, wanted him to be 'in character' at all times, even under his labcoat. Kester's new outfits were a little retro – jeans and t-shirts carrying faded slogans, labels pre-removed. His clothes, to Alexis' annoyance, were not to be easy-access. As a part of his image as someone who didn't wear, he had to appear less attainable. Rita's theory was that with the exception of checking out people's shoes and what logos they were wearing, the first thing a person observed these days when considering another was how one might 'get at them'.

  'I was down at wardrobe, the other day,' Gaunt said, 'and they tried to put me in some kind of all-in-one suit – like a pin-striped babygrow. I explained to Carlos that if he didn't come up with a sensible wardrobe for me soon I would have him deported for crimes against fashion and decency and that upon reaching his home country he would need surgery to remove said pinstriped babygrow from his anus.'

  'Nice,' Kester said. 'Fortunately I don't object quite so strongly to my "new look". It's very much like my old look. And they're customising my clothes for me now.'

  'Does cutting the labels off count as customisation?'

  'Frankly, if it means I don't end up lacerating my hands with the nail scissors every time I want to wear something new, I don't give a shit.'

  'That's my boy.' Gaunt chuckled. He turned to Yule. 'So this is where we will be worshipping the Great One come August.'

  'Talk us through the rest of it, Roger,' Alexis said, growing tired of their banter.

  'Well, the date's set now that the tickets are on sale,' Roger began. 'Five weeks from now – Saturday 5th August.'

  'Five weeks?' Kester gawped. 'I know the viruses are ready, but will that give people enough time – I mean do you think –'

  'Lines opened at 9:00 this morning,' Roger said with a smile. 'We had sold out by 9:02.'

  -o-

  The Department of Microbiology and Immunology was in an old building on a wide side street close to the Strand. The building was built in Victorian proportions and was several storeys high. Perhaps it was this and its proximity to some of London's more protected buildings that had enabled it to escape stratification. Cherry let her gaze drift upwards, her eyes pausing on lit windows as they might on eyes in a crowd. Though the shell of the building was intact, it looked like the Institute had restructured its insides. Floor divisions regularly appeared halfway up windows. In the bottom half of one window there were tops of heads working away busily, close to the ceiling; in the top half of the same, serving the room above, two sets of brogued feet loitered on the crossbars of stools, one set pressed together and pointing eagerly towards the other.

  As Cherry entered the building, the warden smiled at her and said hello through his mouthful of sandwich. He tapped on the visitors' screen on the counter in front of him. She glanced across to the previous day's entries and copied a name. Once she had signed in, the warden pointed her towards the lifts.

  The department was less high-tech than Cherry had imagined. Once inside, there was no security between the different labs that she could detect, despite numerous signs saying who was and wasn't allowed to go where. Some of the doors were sitting ajar. Through the small grill-glazed windows in the doors she could see the cluttered labs, equipment accrued from years of research. It could have been a technology design museum. The colours of the equipment, the lettering on their names and the names themselves were all clues to when the pieces had been purchased. Perhaps some of these things had never been bettered, or perhaps they were kept as curiosities.

  As she walked along the corridor, she realised she hadn't thought past the door of the lab. What was she going to say to this Dee character? What if she called security the minute Cherry mentioned the Church's conditions?

  She arrived at the door and, before she realised what she was doing, knocked on the glass. There was only one figure in the lab and she had her back turned. The sleek black hair matched the description, shining like lacquer beneath the daylight ceiling. Dee looked round a moment later, as if it had taken time for Cherry's knock to filter through into her consciousness. Cherry smiled and waved enthusiastically. This drew a puzzled look from Dee but she came and opened the door.

  'Can I help you?' she asked, jade eyes interrogating Cherry's face and clothes.

  'Yes.' Cherry maintained her smile. 'I hope so – you spoke to my employers earlier about an offer of funding. Can I come in?'

  Dee drew her head back. She was expecting a man in a suit perhaps, someone older, more official. Would that make this harder or easier, Cherry wondered.

  'Yes, come in,' Dee replied eventually. 'I'm just finishing something off here – do you want to grab a seat?' She indicated one of the tall stools at the other end of her work bench.

  This lab was no exception when it came to clutter. All around the walls there were cabinets and pieces of equipment from different eras, even some paper storage. In the corner of the room, a display was flickering away to itself, showing a series of lines that wandered their way up and down – some sort of activity that needed to be monitored. The benches were rib-height, right for working when standing, or when perched on one of the high stools. They were an unpleasant grey colour. This was one of the floors with low level windows. Mucky orange light spilled in on the floor, competing with the yellowing glow from the daylight ceiling. Cherry had expected everything to be white and clean like the lab at V. It smelled unfamiliar, as if the whole place were steeped in formaldehyde.

  'Sorry about the mess,' Dee said, drawing out the words as if speaking too quickly might upend something. She was staring intently through an eyepiece and tapping notes in to her Book with one hand, but she seemed to have sensed that Cherry was looking around the room. 'We've been a bit short-staffed lately. One of my colleagues got religion and left to join one of the big corporates.'

  'Kester?' Cherry asked, after a short pause.

  Dee's head ticked to one side with an urge to look round, but she continued and finished what she was doing before turning to face Cherry.

  'Yes. Kester,' Dee said finally, folding her arms tightly beneath her chest.

  There was a low noise in the lab that came and went, rising and falling, like a headache threatening to start; a near silence made up of numerous barel
y audible tickings, drippings, buzzings, static. Dee's face was chalk-pale. It made her cold green eyes stand out and her hair look absently black, sucking light from the room.

  'You know him?' Dee asked.

  'I know of him. I know you were planning to do some research together. I know that he let you down in more ways than one.'

  'If you're from one of those worthless gossip sites I have no interest in talking to you. I've already told your colleagues I have nothing to say about the matter. We weren't doing any research on fashion viruses here before Kester left and we're not doing any now. He did it all in his spare time. I should have known – you don't look anything like –'

  'Wait. Maybe I don't look the part but, believe me, my employers are for real. They've got money and they want to fund your screen research, so hear me out.'

  Cherry swallowed and cast her eyes about as if there might be something in the room that could help her. Blotch had sent her the notes from Dee's call but, though she had read them, she hadn't planned anything she would say.

  'OK,' Dee said, giving herself time before she continued. 'How can I know to trust you?'

  There was something volatile about Dee's voice, something sub- or supersonic that was hard to identify, but which made Cherry uneasy. What if she flipped? Called the warden? Cherry imagined the scenes to come. Dee was going to go for some kind of panic button underneath the desk, or try to throw her out or call security. She would grab Dee by the wrist and spin her round. No, the hair – the hair would make a good hold. She would grab her by the hair and slam her pretty face onto the worktop. That chair in the corner was good. Something to tie her up with…