The New Girl (Downside)

by S. L. Grey

  Jesus.

  Lying on the carpet in front of the set is a jumbled mass of limbs, heads and tiny bodies.

  She’s never seen so many Reborns in one place before. There must be at least thirty. Unlike the other figures, the baby dolls look as if they’ve been haphazardly thrown on the floor, as if whoever dumped them here did so in a hurry. And, as she looks closer, she realises with dawning disgust that each one has something... wrong with it. An ice-skinned baby with a spider-web tattoo over its face; another with... Jesus, are those tentacles for arms? A perfectly mottled Reborn with a smooth, featureless face; nothing where its eyes, nose and mouth should be.

  Tara knows with sickening certainty what’s missing from this scene: a baby with a sewn-up mouth and eyes. She shudders to think of Baby Tommy ending up in this room; is now almost glad that she ruined him.

  She turns to Penter, who is staring in bemusement at a scuffed male mannequin dressed, for some reason, as Disney’s Snow White. ‘What the hell is this?’

  Penter sighs. ‘It is Varder Batiss’s collection. We believe he has an unhealthy obsession with upside bodies, with anatomical facsimiles.’ Penter points at the Reborn pile. ‘Can you inform what these are for?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Am I not clear? What do browns – forgive me, upside citizens – use these for? Why do you create them?’

  Browns – she knows that word. Jane used that word. Who the hell are these people? ‘They’re just dolls. You can buy them on the internet.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  Tara tries to think of an answer for this, tries to push a clear thought through the fug in her mind. ‘Um. Loneliness, I suppose. A... need to...’ To what? Whatever they’ve given her is seriously screwing with her ability not only to think, but to speak straight. She tries again. ‘A need to connect. Some people find it hard to... to... be with other people.’

  Penter narrows her eyes. ‘Loneliness? But there are so many of you. Why make facsimiles?’

  ‘People want something to love, don’t they? It’s not always that easy.’ She pauses as she’s hit with another wave of regret for Baby Tommy. ‘Sometimes when people have lost... um, when they’ve lost a person they love, they want a reminder. Reborns can be... an outlet, I suppose.’

  Penter sighs. ‘Do you think Varder Batiss is lonely? That he needs outlets? That he is searching for love?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tara feels a spurt of anger. It helps clear her mind. ‘How would I know? I’ve never met him. I’ve answered your questions. Now take me to Martin.’

  Penter nods. ‘Yes, that was agreed. Please follow me.’

  It’s a relief to be out of that nightmare of a room. On her way out, Tara remembers to grab Baby Tommy’s head from the coffee table, shoving him into her bag before joining Penter at the front door. She winces as she’s hit with another muscle spasm.

  ‘Do you need help, Mrs Tara Marais?’ Penter asks, and for a second Tara’s sure she is going to touch her. The thought fills her with revulsion.

  ‘No!’

  Tara can’t make sense of what she’s just seen. The best explanation she can muster is that these people are in some sort of strange cult or religion and Varder Batiss has transgressed one of their moral codes. But what has this got to do with her? With Martin?

  She can’t dwell on this now. She’s in no condition to unpack this craziness. Her thoughts are still too sluggish. Still, she’s grateful that although her leg muscles are throbbing, the shooting pain has faded, and she’s able to make the long walk to the lifts without too much discomfort.

  The door in the centre hisses open and Tara follows Penter in. She numbly registers that there don’t appear to be any control buttons on its walls.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Tara asks. ‘Where is Martin?’

  ‘In the Factory, of course.’

  ‘The what?’

  Pan-piped musak drifts from the ceiling. She’s not certain, but it sounds like ‘Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)’ by Cher.

  It’s too much. She leans against the lift’s smooth metal wall, closes her eyes. It would be easy to give up, to collapse on the floor, curl up into a ball and wait for all of this to be over.

  But she can’t do that. Not with Martin waiting for her. She pictures bringing him home, turning up at the town house, Stephen and Olivia rushing out to greet them; imagines Stephen’s outpouring of relief and love, Olivia’s gratitude and grudging respect.

  ‘Mrs Tara Marais?’

  Tara jumps. She must have drifted off.

  The lift pings, and its doors slide open onto a high-ceilinged empty space that resembles a disused warehouse. The walls are of face brick, the floor dusty and bare, but as Tara follows Penter across it, she makes out taped square areas on the floor, the words ‘Butcher’, ‘Cleaner’, ‘Reader’, and ‘Lemons’ printed on the concrete in faded black stencil.

  ‘This is one of the old markets.’ Penter tuts. ‘The Players used it for some disregardful experiments and it was shut down. Sometimes I think they don’t know they were even vatted, do you agree?’

  Tara doesn’t bother answering. It’s clear, as her mother would say, that Penter is crazier than a junk-yard dog. And you have to be careful around crazy people. Who knows what they’re capable of doing, what could set them off? She trails Penter around a corner, comes face to face with a wide brick wall, on which some inept artist has painted a gruesome mural of a clown riding a tiny motorbike, the words ‘Brum Brum Welcome to the Factory!’ snaking out of his mouth. There’s a narrow door camouflaged in that awful painting, a sign on it reading: ‘Warning: keep appendages closed at all times.’

  Penter turns the handle, and Tara follows her straight into a cavernous area – the largest interior space she’s ever seen. It has to be double the size of a football field at least, so expansive that she can’t see where it ends. Awed by the scope of it, it takes her a few seconds to realise that it’s crammed with row after row of old-fashioned school desks.

  And not all of them are empty.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ Tara says, when she finally finds her voice. The figures sitting in earth-brown overalls with their backs to her are diminutive – so small, in fact, that she’s almost certain they must be children. But that can’t be right, can it? Didn’t Penter say this was a factory? It certainly doesn’t sound like any of the factories Tara’s encountered before. Apart from the constant faint mechanical hum that she heard back in that apartment, the immense area is eerily quiet.

  Penter beams at her. ‘Yes. Isn’t it primo?’ She points at an empty desk. ‘But look at all the vacancies. You can see why we have to scout, can’t you?’

  Tara half listens to her words, the ache in her legs now completely forgotten. The ceiling is so high she can barely see the criss-cross of its metal struts, and for some reason there’s a complex web of tubes and wires hanging down from it. She drags her gaze down one of the tubes – a clear snake the diameter of a garden hose – realises that the end of it appears to be connected to one of the small hunched figures a few rows in front of her. No, not just connected... fused into the neck of the person she’s looking at; she can make out a lump of what looks to be scar tissue surrounding it. Her stomach rolls over, she gags, swallows a mouthful of bile. That can’t be right. Nuh-uh. No way. Is she hallucinating? Some by-product of the drugs they’ve given her? She pinches her arm. She’s still feeling detached, but she’s sure she’s not that far gone.

  She finds herself touching the spongy wound behind her ear. Presses it. Feels something pop deep inside her mind, followed by a sudden wash of calm as if she’s just taken a trank. The nausea abates.

  ‘Follow me.’ Penter’s voice floats towards her. ‘And please, heed the warnings. Keep your appendages closed.’

  Tara can’t make her legs move. Can’t tear her eyes away from the hunched figures dotted around the room. And the tubes attached to each one.

  ‘Mrs Tara Marais?’

  All Tara can think is M
artin – she has to get to Martin. With a gargantuan effort, she makes herself walk forward. There’s just enough space to squeeze past the desks. Her eyes graze over the figure closest to her; it’s definitely a child. In its unrevealing overall, she can’t tell if it’s male or female. He or she is sitting hunched over, using some sort of soldering iron to weld steel shapes onto what looks horribly like a denture plate.

  She reaches out, gently touches the child’s back, trying not to stare at the wad of scar tissue sealed over the end of the tube inserted into his or her neck. ‘Hey... are you okay?’

  The child looks up and Tara gasps, recoils, bashes into one of the empty desks behind her. One side of the child’s face is lumped and misshapen, a growth covering an eye. The child smiles, showing off red, toothless gums, then drops its head and continues to work.

  Tara numbly follows Penter past row after row. Several are completely empty, but all of the children she passes seem to be deformed in some fashion. She takes in stumps where hands should be, an unfortunate whose back is so twisted and hunched its neck appears to be non-existent, and several with skin so translucent and fragile that she can make out blue veins pulsing beneath. Not one of them looks up at her curiously; all are concentrating on the work in front of them.

  ‘Aren’t they scenic?’ Penter calls. ‘Factors are allocated primo modification care, as you can see.’

  Tara knows what this place is. Of course she does. She’s seen sights similar to this on the news, exposés of wealthy design houses accused of exploiting Asian workforces to increase their profit margins. But she had no idea it was happening in South Africa. And on this scale! It’s beyond sick. Why haven’t the cops shut it down? Bribery? Must be. Jesus.

  ‘Mrs Tara Marais?’ Penter calls. ‘I am sorry to hurry, but there are other... matters I must complete before the moist break.’

  ‘What is this? Some sort of sweat shop?’

  ‘There is no sweat here!’

  ‘So just plain old slave labour then?’

  ‘Slave? Oh no. I have read my upside history. These are not like the citizens you upsiders forced to work and pluck sugar. Look: they are content.’ She taps one of the tubes hanging from the ceiling. Tara shudders. ‘They have constant victuals, they are busy and are consuming, they are entertained. Plus, they get primo modification and lemons. What more does a body want out of life? Really,’ Penter continues, ‘if I were not so suited to upside liaison, I would wish for a placement here, too.’

  ‘But these are children!’

  Penter chuckles. ‘Little appendages make for efficient workloads, everybody knows that!’

  ‘And... and what are they making?’

  ‘Various consumables. Tech and modes, mostly. Victuals too in some sectors.’

  Tara passes a child who instantly reminds her of Jane. She has the same shock of odd-coloured hair and slight build. Except that the stumps of this child’s arms appear to be fused – melted – onto a strange bulky machine that reminds Tara of a sewing machine. She waits for another surge of nausea. Feels nothing. Realises that she’s now beyond shocked, is almost glad of the mind-numbing drugs they’ve given her.

  ‘But... But how can you say they aren’t slaves? They seem to be... attached to their work stations.’

  ‘Factors are not stuck. They can petition for a work replacement if they wish. Few do, of course, but we still need to fill the vacancies and make up for the high attrition rate.’

  ‘Attrition?’

  ‘Most upside assimilants depreciate quickly, which is why we have chosen to scout halfpints now. It results in many more productive periods.’

  Tara has to admit that the silent children don’t look as if they are in obvious distress, their hideous deformities aside. Is this some kind of twisted disability scheme? Maybe their families send them here, thinking they’re going to be gainfully employed. Maybe, she thinks with a surge of disgust, their families sell them to people like this woman. ‘And... Martin is here?’ She suddenly recalls something Olivia said to that policewoman, something racist about Martin coming from a good white home, that he will be missed; that he isn’t some addicted street child with no choices.

  ‘Yes. In row 79/f.5c, station 14. Tech production. It’s a good posting.’

  ‘But... why Martin? Why did you choose him? He comes from a good home. You must have known he would be missed.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Because he was the primo viable we selected! I’m sure you agree that he had a surfeit of misdirected energy.’ She smiles, and Tara gets the impression that there’s a tinge of sadness to it. ‘Father said his redirectable destructive capacity was in an extraordinarily high percentile range. Ah. We are close.’

  With a jolt of recognition, Tara spots the back of Martin’s head in the next row and, somehow, she finds the strength to run.

  ‘Martin!’ Tara drops to her knees next to his desk, throws her arms around him. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’

  He slowly raises his head, gazes at her blankly. Jesus, they’ve drugged him, too. She looks down at the desk. His hands are moulding a pink gel substance; she can’t tell what he’s making.

  ‘Can you stand, Martin? Come on, I’m going to get you out of here.’ She glances at Penter, waits for her to disagree, pull out a weapon, threaten her. But she continues to smile at Tara in that infuriatingly benign fashion. ‘Martin, come on.’

  He doesn’t budge. She grabs his arm. ‘Please, Martin. We have to go home. Your dad is waiting for you.’ When he still doesn’t respond, she moves behind him, slides her arms under his armpits, tries to lift him. But it’s like trying to heft dead weight. He may only be twelve, but he’s large for his age, weighs almost the same as she does.

  ‘Please... please, Martin. I can’t do this by myself. You need to move. Think of all your stuff at home, your computer games. Come on, Martin. Let’s go home.’

  A dreamy smile now on his face, Martin continues to mould the plasticky mess in front of him.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Tara yells at Penter.

  ‘He is integrated, Mrs Tara Marais.’ Penter smiles. ‘He is content.’

  Tara grabs Martin’s arm again, attempts once more to yank him out of the chair. ‘Martin, please.’

  She looks up at the ceiling, that tube attached to his neck. There must be something in that tube, they must be feeding him some kind of drug. She grabs it in both hands, yanks upwards as hard as she can, and Martin lets out a high keening wail that doesn’t sound human. She drops the tube instantly; it hasn’t budged an inch from the matt of tissue healed around it. Fuck – has she hurt him? Has it been... surgically inserted like some kind of shunt or drain? Jesus.

  ‘We must leave now,’ Penter says, still with that infuriating smile. ‘I have allowed you to see the viable.’

  ‘I can’t just leave him here!’ Tara rounds on her. ‘Please, you’re a mother. You must understand.’ Penter’s smile drops, and for a second Tara thinks she’s got to her. ‘Please help me. I’ll... I’ll say that you helped me, that you did what you could. You won’t get into trouble. Please—’

  ‘You can integrate, if that is your desire, certainly,’ Penter interrupts. ‘I can petition the Ministry. Perhaps you could educate?’

  What the fuck? ‘Educate?’

  ‘Yes. Instruct our halfpints on abnormal lifeskills, like the other brown. That one will be modified soon and—’

  ‘Just shut the fuck up with all your brown shit!’ Tara’s reached the limit of her patience – and, she realises, her sanity. ‘I have to take Martin with me! Help me, please.’ Tears are falling freely now. The wash of calm she felt when she pressed the wound at the back of her head has entirely dissipated. She needs to appeal to this woman’s maternal instinct. ‘He needs to be home. I can’t leave him here. As a mother – as a woman – can’t you understand?’

  For some reason Penter seems to find this amusing. ‘Mrs Tara Marais, I will ask you again: if you wish to integrate, I can petition. Otherwise, we mu
st leave immediately.’

  She’s getting nowhere. Tara weighs up the odds. If she tries to overpower Penter, there’s no way that Martin will be able to help her in his condition, and what are her chances? She’s sick, weak, barely has the energy to walk, never mind fight. The last thing she wants to do is leave Martin here, but if she does manage to leave – if this woman isn’t lying to her and they are really going to let her go – then she could come back, bring the cops, get this whole place shut down. And if the cops are on the take, well, she’ll go to the media. Stephen will know what to do.

  And, she has to admit, she’s desperate to get out of here for her own sake. If she looks too closely at the grossly deformed children around her again, she’ll lose it for good.

  Yes, that’s what she’ll do. Get out of here, come back with the cavalry. She tries to ignore the other, darker thought that’s been nudging at the back of her mind. That maybe Martin might be getting just what he deserves. She shakes her head to erase the thought. How can she even think that? What’s wrong with her?

  Tara sinks to her haunches again, winces as her leg muscles spasm once more. ‘Martin. Listen to me. I’ll be back soon. I promise.’

  No reaction.

  She stands up. Rubs her eyes.

  ‘Mrs Tara Marias?’ Penter says. ‘Shall we?’ She gestures for Tara to walk in front of her, presumably back to the door through which they entered. Tara tries to keep her eyes straight ahead, doesn’t allow them to skate over the horrors around her. Why would this woman just let her go after what she’s seen? She knows what they’re doing here. Icy sweat dribbles down her sides, and she sees, in horrible clarity, how it will all play out. Shoved in the boot of a car at gunpoint, hands and feet bound, the clunk of the lid closing on her, the bumpy drive to a rural mine dump, an abandoned quarry.

  Her body never found.

  Should she try to flee? She winces again as another jolt of pain shoots through her thigh muscles; the adrenaline coursing through her doesn’t seem to be helping her situation.

  She pictures a thick green poison sliding through her veins. Maybe that’s why they haven’t shot her yet. Maybe she’s going to die anyway.