by Emma Pullar
Without a word, he starts off down the corridor. We don’t go far before I see a blue door with STAFF written on it in bold, black lettering. Instead of going through the door, Bunce leans against the wall beside it, takes a wrapped stick from his pocket and tears away the packaging. It looks like some sort of compressed meat. I recognise it. We make them in the factory.
I wait and watch while he chomps on the meat stick. I cross my arms, growing impatient. Why isn’t he going in? Why am I standing here like an idiot watching him eat? The noise of his chewing and swallowing echoes around the empty corridor. Smack, smack, smack go his pink lips. I uncross my arms and point to the door.
‘Are you going in?’
‘No,’ he says, casually.
I wait a few seconds. Pondering how to respond, I don’t want him running back to tell his sister and brother-in-link how the host was rude to him.
‘Then what are we doing here?’ I say, struggling to repress the irritation in my voice.
‘I didn’t want to sit there listening to them jabber on about useless junk,’ Bunce says. His hand back at his chubby face, he rips another mouthful from the stick. He chews and swallows. ‘To be honest, my brother-in-link looked rather upset that I didn’t invite him to escape with us.’
My shoulders relax, I almost feel grateful he got me out of there. The pressure to behave myself was getting a bit much. I take a step closer to the wall and lean back beside him. Not too close, I don’t want any part of his body touching mine.
‘I feel like I should introduce myself or something,’ I say, ‘but you already know my name, right?’
Bunce looks at me and smiles. A nervous grin. He switches the meat stick to his left hand and reaches out with his right.
‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms Skyla.’
When I don’t respond, he takes my hand in his, grips firmly and shakes. How odd. At first, I want to snatch back my hand in disgust, the Dark Angel only knows where his hand has been, meat products aren’t the half of it. I stop myself from recoiling. His touch is weird, foreign. The Morb’s skin is smooth, soft like a baby’s. On impulse, I bring my other hand up and hold his plump wrist, I run my fingers across his silky skin, up his arm. He flinches and I release his hand, aware that what I did was probably stepping over a line.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to …’
‘It’s fine,’ he says, smiling, ‘I must seem pretty strange to you.’
I laugh.
‘Yeah, well … this whole place is pretty strange to me.’
I look into his pale round face. No scars, no bruises; behind his watery, blue eyes I see no sign of mental laceration. Has he lived his childhood in a protective bubble? I don’t imagine he has ever climbed a tree, wrestled a friend, or run a race. I want to touch his cheek, his hair; pull at him, poke at him. I knew young Morbs existed, but seeing one in the flesh is surreal. I’m guessing he’s about my age but he’s so unlike me, it’s like we’re from different planets. I always thought I’d feel resentment towards someone like Bunce but I don’t. Coming face to face with a Central would be different. I’d definitely feel anger. Anger that they put me in here.
‘So, Bunce,’ I say. ‘Is it ok to call you that? Or is there some term used to address the brother of my mistress?’
‘Bunce is fine.’ He smiles.
I’m almost amused at what I’m about to imply.
‘Isn’t lying breaking some Morbihan code of conduct?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ he says, through a mouth full of jerky.
‘Why’d you lie?’ I ask. ‘Morbihan don’t often lie, do they?’
‘Truth-stretching is not lying,’ he says, ripping another chunk of dried meat from the bar.
‘Truth-stretching, huh?’
I smile. Then I remember I hate Morbs. The smile melts from my lips. I want to hate them all. I should. I did an hour ago; greedy, insular, metal race. Why do I feel warmth from Bunce? Don’t let your guard down, Sky. Never trust a Morb.
5
Be a Good Dolly
The weeks before implantation is a time for the host to get used to their new surroundings and integrate into the Morbihan way of life – so we are told. From what I’ve experienced this is not the case. I think it’s a test. To see if the chosen host will be suitable or whether the host family feel they need to change up.
I’m three days into my ‘stay’ with the Vables, and even though I’m not paying much attention to the High-Host co-ordinator, who chatters on about the most boring shit, I did notice one of the girls sitting behind me has changed her face.
The tall, twenty-something who always wore a determined expression is now a short, twinkly-eyed girl in her mid-twenties, wearing a painted-on smile. If one dolly doesn’t play nice then she is easily replaced by another, more obedient dolly.
I slip into daydreams of being outside, breathing, if not fresh, natural unfiltered air. With my pencil, I twirl a blond ringlet round and round until it’s caught and I have to rip it free. I play with the lock of forcibly curled hair and think of ways I can free myself. What would it take to be replaced?
‘Ms Skyla, are you listening?’
I don’t look up at the co-ordinator. I haven’t even bothered to learn her name. I really don’t care. I’m bored out of my skull.
‘I wasn’t, but I am now,’ I say, picking at a blemish in the wooden desk.
Gasps rush like wind around me. The High-Host walks towards me, heels clicking confidently against the polished floor; slowly, steadily, as if she’s been wearing heels from the moment she could walk. She places her blotchy hands on my desk and leans forward until her face is level with mine and I’m forced to meet her gaze.
‘Why weren’t you listening?’ she asks, sternly.
I don’t shy away red-face and ashamed, like other girls would. I stare back at her, taking in every inch of her peculiar face. It’s as if her original skin melted off and she’s glued synthetic skin over the top. I cross my arms.
‘To be honest, this all seems a bit pointless …’ the fine hairs on my arms prickle with the shear horror emitted from the other hosts, the air filling up with their discomfort at what I’m saying, but the co-ordinator’s expression doesn’t twitch, she waits, blank-faced for me to finish, ‘… are we actually going to learn about birthing the baby or how to take care of it? Do we need to prepare our bodies before they’re ripped apart by the new life?’
The High-Host draws herself up to full height and clears her throat.
‘To answer your first question, Ms Skyla,’ she slinks around my desk, trailing her long fingernails across the corners of it, ‘birthing is natural. Your body knows what to do. Second, you won’t be taking care of it,’ she drops that last word like a rock, ‘your mistress and master will, you will feed and clean the baby, and third,’ her eyes smile wickedly, ‘you will be examined.’
‘Examined?’ I say, alarmed.
‘Enough!’ she yells and slams her hands down on my desk. I flinch. ‘It is not your place to question our methods,’ she glares around the room, addressing all of us, ‘understand?’
The High-Host’s face is as red as the setting sun, the rage drains from her skin when a chorus of ‘yes co-ordinator’ ripples around the room.
‘Right then, being a host requires many skills, we are not merely incubators …’
I lower my eyes and keep my head down, concerned about that word ‘examined.’ It could mean anything. Finger resting on the touchpad, I swipe the screen until I reach page seven, the page I was meant to be studying. Being educated by family members means many Skels only have the most basic reading and writing skills. My grandfather was a great teacher but I wonder how many girls in this room can read? The words are simple enough; it’s a lot like a comic, with speech bubbles and simplistic sentences.
Page seven depicts a hover-chair bound mistress smiling at an equally smiley pregnant-bellied host. As speech bubbles appear, the mistress touches the host’s ball-shaped belly affectionately.
I don’t want my mistress touching me like that. Yuck! The animated host seems familiar; braided hair, sharp blue eyes. She looks like Andia, who didn’t get picked. I think of her back at the factory, as miserable there as I am here. What I wouldn’t give to trade places. I didn’t think much of my life as a factory worker, but this is so much worse. I wonder who’s taken my place at the grinder? What’s happened to my cube? Today would have been my recoup day. I bet Kian is at the market. I try not to let the bitterness turn down the corners of my mouth. I have to at least try and blend in.
The classroom buzzes with excitement as hosts point ‘interesting’ things out to each other as they read. No one talks to me. I begin to wish I was like the others, happy to be here, happy in my pretty dress and extreme makeup. My eyes wander from the touchpad and I spy a hover-chair-shaped shadow moving past the frosted glass doors at the front of the classroom. A fantasy forms in my head. I envision secretly packing a hover-chair with explosives and blowing the complex to smithereens. I smile to myself.
I’m snapped out of my fantasy by the heavy clip-clop of the co-ordinator’s heels stomping towards me. She towers over my desk like she is about to breathe fire.
‘Still not concentrating, I see.’
‘I was, I …’ I stumble over my words.
She grips my arm and yanks me up out of my seat, and to my horror, pulls up the back of my dress, exposing my knickers to the class then whips the back of my legs with a cane. I cry out with the third stinging strike; she drops my dress and stalks away. I hold the pain with both hands, my eyes water but I don’t let tears fall, I’ll not give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
‘Sit!’ She orders.
I gingerly lower myself onto the chair, the back of my thighs throb against the hard surface and the classroom is deathly quiet, as if the other hosts died of shock.
‘Now, girls,’ the High-Host says enthusiastically, ‘I want you to practise polite conversation with each other, as if you are talking to your mistress or master. There are some sample conversation starters at the back of the handbook, but only use them if you need help to get going. Right, everyone, find a partner.’
There’s a scraping of chairs. I don’t think I can stand, the pain is excruciating. I look to the cane in the co-ordinator’s hand, sure it has spikes on it. I find I don’t have to get up, for the grinning new girl has moved her chair opposite me. Oh joy.
‘I’m Ara,’ she says, straightening the glitter bow at her crown.
‘Skyla.’ I mutter in reply.
She looks like she’ll burst if we don’t start the role-play this second. I roll my eyes. The High-Host claps her hands.
‘Begin!’
The round ceiling light in the waiting area is brighter than the sun, the walls are orange and the chairs are too close together, so close that my bare arm is touching that of the girls either side of me, my skin sticking to their skin. Every so often I peel my arm from each of the girls next to me, and every so often the girl to my left scowls at me for daring to move. There are no windows or ventilation. The waiting room is a hot box. This part of the complex doesn’t involve Morbihan, I guess they don’t feel there’s any need to keep it cool for the staff.
The door to my right swishes open and Ara reappears in a surgical gown, frilly pink dress draped over her arms which are wrapped tight around her body, a small drawstring bag dangles from her wrist. She was called by the High-Host doctor half an hour ago. She limps back to her seat, like a wounded animal, red-faced, puffy eyes. Hell, what did they do to her?
‘Ms Skyla.’
My body stiffens. The doctor looks around expectantly at the sea of dollies in bright dresses until I finally stand.
‘Come through.’ He smiles.
I side-step past the seated hosts, the hem of my dress brushing their knees and as I approach the doctor, a bad feeling crawls over my skin. His smile is predatory and his beady, bespectacled eyes undress me, as if his glasses have the power to see through clothes. Did he just lick his lips?
‘Right this way.’ He puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me through the door, his creepy long fingers send a shiver through my bones.
The doctor’s office is as expected; Posters on the wall about pregnancy, one showing the inside of a pregnant woman, a cluttered desk, drawers of supplies, an examination table and a plastic chair. I don’t like this room.
‘Right,’ the doctor says, swishing his white coat-tail behind him and settling at his desk, ‘Ms Skyla, have you ever been examined before, at the Skel hospital or by a healer?’
I slowly shake my head.
‘Good,’ he says, ‘now, the host examinations are a little intrusive and you may endure some discomfort but it’s to make sure you’re fit to carry a baby, and you want to please your master and mistress, now don’t you?’
I nod slowly.
‘Today, we’re going to do an external and internal examination, to make sure your body is in top condition, okay?’
Internal? Eyes wide, body ridged with apprehension, I can’t even bring myself to move my head. It’s not okay! None of this is okay! But I can’t answer with that, can I?
‘I’ve got your notes here.’ He consults a touchpad. ‘From the information Chester has gathered, you’re in pretty good shape, let’s see if we can’t get you a 100% pass mark today, hmm. Take off your dress.’
He swivels on his chair and starts scribbling on the touchpad with a jotter.
‘What?’ I say, in a small voice.
‘Your dress,’ he says without looking up at me, ‘remove it.’
I search the room.
‘Do I get a gown to put on?’ I ask timidly.
‘Once we’re done.’ He says, yanking open one desk drawer after another and rummaging around, ‘Remove your underwear as well, then leave your clothes on the chair and stand in front of the bed.’
Hands shaking, I slip off my heels one at a time and place them under the plastic chair. I unzip and shimmy out of my shiny mauve dress and drape it over the chair so as not to crinkle it. I then reluctantly unclip and pull off my bra before I pull down and wriggle out of my knickers. I place them on the chair with my dress and stand with my hands clasped in front of my womanhood, head down.
The clop of the doctor’s footsteps is loud against the silence. His polished, black shoes appear opposite my bare feet.
‘I’m going to start with the external, nothing to worry about.’
I can’t look at him, he’s about ten years older than me and although he hasn’t tried to bleach his skin, he still has that strange fed look about him, the weird features Skels acquire once they’ve lived in luxury with the Morbihan for a certain number of years.
‘Stand with your legs apart, hands by your sides,’ he says softly, ‘I’m going to rotate your hips, they’re not a particularly good width for child bearing but let’s just see …’
Cold hands grab a hold of my bony waist and the doctor starts to manipulate my hips, rotating them round like a Glo-Girl would, seductively dancing for business. He drops to his knees; his face is in line with my vagina. To take my mind of this invasion of privacy, I scan a poster on the wall but as soon as I start reading in my head, the doctor is upright and talking.
‘You’re doing very well, Ms Skyla,’ he smiles, a greedy smile, he loves his job, ‘now I’m going to check your breasts for any abnormalities.’
I instinctively lean away from him.
‘Not to worry, it won’t hurt,’ he says, sweeping my hair, (which fell forwards during the ‘hip testing’) behind my back, his fingers dust my shoulder and my stomach turns. I don’t want his creepy hands on me. I take a deep breath. It will be over soon enough.
The doctor rubs his hands together, in delight or to warm them up, who knows, and then gently cups both my breasts. I stare back at the poster while he gropes me. Hands squeezing; thumbs rubbing over my nipples. He steps back and leans in, his face too close to my chest, his hot breath shushing onto my skin.
‘Half way there.’ My shoulders relax, relieved, he walks over to the drawer and pulls out a clear box, he pushes his fingers around in it as he walks back over to me, then pulls out something clear, ‘I’m just going to fit you for suction cups, they’re designed to get your nipples ready for feeding the baby and I’ll also give you a buffer.’
Suction cups and a buffer?
He places a plastic cone over my right nipple and then pulls it away quickly. Takes out another size, holds my breast in one hand and pushes a smaller cup over my nipple.
‘Size 3B,’ he mutters to himself as he walks back over to his desk, ‘lie down on the bed, if you will, Ms Skyla.’
I hoist my naked body up onto the bed and lie down, again I clasp my hands over my modesty. I’ve never felt so humiliated and violated in my life but I’m almost through it. To stand any chance of getting out of the Morb complex, I must play the game.
The doctor crosses the room again and places a small drawstring bag, I assume it has the cups and buffer inside, on the chair with my clothes. He then goes back to his desk, sits on his swivel chair and rolls himself and the drawers over to the bedside. He slaps on some white surgical gloves.
‘Now, this might be uncomfortable, but the more you relax, the less it will hurt, okay.’
‘Okay.’ I nod and take a deep breath.
He takes out an instrument from the bottom drawer, a long silver rod, round at the top like a bullet. I gulp. He pushes a button at its base and five prongs spring from the tip. No fucking way! I try to slide of the bed. Pre-empting this, the doctor grabs the top of my arm.
