by S. L. Grey
When she reaches the door, Tara turns to look once more at the back of Martin’s head, but she’s forgotten which row he’s in, can’t spot him. Just do as the woman says. Don’t argue, don’t panic. Yes, if she gets out of here alive, she can save all these kids.
Penter close behind her, Tara scuffs her away across the dusty market space, reaches the lifts. As before, the area is deserted. This is it, Tara thinks. This is where she’s going to do it. No witnesses.
‘Mrs Tara Marais?’ Penter says softly behind her.
Tara turns her head, feels her bowels contract, knows for sure that Penter will be pointing a weapon in her face, almost can’t believe it when she sees that the other woman is empty handed, seems to be indicating she should approach the lift at the far right of the row.
Penter smiles her benign, bright smile. ‘Before you depart, may I thank you for your concern about Jane.’
Of course. Why didn’t she think of this before? Jane could be a way to forge some kind of connection with this woman – make it harder for Penter to kill her. ‘How... how is Jane?’ she asks, feeling, for a fleeting, ridiculous second as if they are just two mothers shooting the shit in a shopping centre.
‘She is primo. Catalogue, even.’ Penter beams.
‘When I was at the house... That man... that Ryan... I told Jane he was dangerous, that he—’
‘Oh that!’ Penter laughs.
‘He’s a paedophile. A predator.’ Tara feels that she must make this woman understand, even if she is some sort of gangster running the world’s largest and sickest sweatshop operation. Jane is still a child; she could be in danger. Tara is aware that this makes no sense. Her logic is fucked up. This woman has done something to Martin, possibly something irrevocable. Why should she bother to help her or her family? But she’s desperate; she can’t stop. ‘Listen to me. Ryan... He is a monster.’
‘Oh, we know what he is.’
The lift pings open. Tara steps inside it, expecting Penter to follow her. But she stays where she is. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Tara Marais,’ Penter says. ‘Ignore the signs and please, live well.’
Before Tara can answer, the doors slide shut. Tara waits for the usual swoopy feeling of being inside a lift, but after only two or three seconds, the doors open again. She’s expecting to see Penter still standing in front of her – maybe this time with a gun in her hand, a vicious smile on her lips (You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, Mrs Tara Marais?) – but instead, she sees a low-ceilinged corridor in front of her.
She hurries out, so overcome with relief that she sags against the wall, barely able to believe that she’s made it. She hears the lift door shut behind her, then makes herself walk forward.
The passageway ends at a grey door, a rusty metal sign on it reading: ‘Trespassers will be corrected.’
Ignore the signs.
She pushes through it, emerges at the bottom of a stairwell, the kind of dusty, piss-stinking space found in parking lots. Her muscles scream as she ascends the stairs, but she ignores the agony, keeps on going, loses count of the number of flights, is hyperventilating when she reaches a door at the top. Thank God. She’s expecting to step out into sunlight, but instead she emerges into a low, brick-walled tunnel.
She’s now so worn out that she doesn’t even attempt to wipe away the exhausted tears and mucus soaking her face. She crawls through it, reaches yet another door. Scrambles to her feet, grabs a slippery brass handle, turns it, and stumbles out into a room.
This can’t be.
She knows this room. Recognises the row of jars containing desiccated insects – the rat skeleton that’s now swathed in a shroud of black ants. But... How can she be here? No. No. The last of her strength ebbs out of her legs. This is it, she thinks, as she collapses to her knees. She hears – but doesn’t feel – the dull clunk of her head hitting the floor.
Chapter 24
PENTER
It’s time.
Penter acknowledges the Terminal Ward drone’s respectful greeting and walks towards the harvesting room. She looks through the round window behind which Father is strapped into the recycling chair, stabilising fluid pumping from a drip into his arm.
She touches the node at the back of her own head. The clinic has still not taken her for her penetration renewal. She has missed three cycles now, and the shunt hole is even beginning to seal over. When she woke today, she had a message from Cardineal Phelgm which informed her that she is to return upside; perhaps this is why a renewal is not deemed necessary for her. Penter takes it as a vote of confidence by senior Administration. They trust her enough to discharge her duties upside for extended periods and remain in regard even without the shunt.
Who knows? Perhaps she will not undergo another penetration renewal until she is recycled. Her new role as Head of Upside Scouting and Reconnaissance is a permanent position, now that the pilot phase has proved a success. Clone projects will be rolled out in several nodes and she will oversee the many family units that will be assigned to precincts in nodes all over the upside. Her fingers ache pleasurably from the hours she’s spent initialling and signing the requisite documents and contracts, and every nerve ending in her skull is crackling with a new emotion: excitement.
She didn’t hesitate when Cardineal Phelgm offered her the position, and somehow managed to hide her felicitation and surprise. As she stood to attention in front of his desk all thoughts of the troubling aspects of upside life – SKY, the concrete, the bloodletting, the dangerous vehicles – were forgotten. All she could think about was the taste of fresh ready beans on her tongue. She had not expected this – did not think that after Father was caught playing she would have been considered for another upside position, especially not a primo promotion! Perhaps it is because she dealt with that brown educator with such alacrity. Perhaps it is because she dealt with Father’s indiscretions so efficiently.
As she requested, Jane has been assigned to her unit. She knows she can depend on Jane. She is a calm and adaptable halfpint, proven most recently by her primo relations with the damaged brown. If anyone can keep her composure for an extended period in the field without the aid of shunts and calming medications, it is Jane.
She has only one matter to conclude before she searches out a new precinct.
One final decision to make.
Father’s eyes are shut, but as she gazes at him, they open and stare straight into hers. Something sighs deep inside her; she has forgotten how scenic he is. Blissful love, she thinks. According to the browns, it makes the world rotate.
Father has agreed to a corrective penetration which will smother his disregardful urges. But for how long? When it wears off, will he still want to play? Will he still want to collect facsimiles of brown carcasses? She is not sure. Why is it that even without a penetration renewal, she feels no need to play, to meddle, to collect unauthorised upside artefacts? Is playing a predisposition a person is vatted with? Some say that Players are rotten, that they are vatted suboptimally, with an irreparable urge to disrupt order. If this is true, then it is no wonder that Father was so enamoured with the upside and his karking collection. If Players were allowed their way, the world would become just like the upside, like a show on SKY.
She personally delivered his collection to the incinerator.
She steps into the harvesting room and approaches Father’s recycling chair. If she wanted, she could reach out and stroke his skin.
‘Father,’ she says.
His gaze does not waver. ‘Mother.’
‘I am not Mother,’ Penter says, remembering their first disregardful encounter in the television room back at the precinct. It feels far away, as if it happened many periods ago. ‘Here, my name is Penter Ulliel, Head of Upside Scouting and Reconnaissance.’
He smiles. She is not sure if it is tender or mocking. ‘Apologies, Penter Ulliel. Here, I am Varder Batiss.’
‘Why did you collect those artefacts?’ Penter blurts. She knows that her features betray her ongoing thou
ght-seep.
He closes his eyes, shivers as a shot of fluid floods down the drip tube. When he opens them again, they are cool, distant. ‘I was curious, Penter Ulliel. The anatomical fakery and... birth interested me.’
Penter’s not satisfied. Curiosity is not an answer. She recalls the educator’s words. ‘Were you looking for... for an outlet, Varder Batiss?’
He barks a laugh. ‘An outlet, Penter Ulliel? An outlet for what?’
Love, she thinks, but doesn’t say. She turns away. She wonders how she would feel if he had said that it was love that he was searching for. That the facsimiles he collected were an outlet for this emotion, like that meddling educator had suggested.
She wonders how she would feel if he had asked her to be an outlet.
She wonders if she will listen to the ache in her chest, which is at war with her intellect.
If she relents, he will be Father again. Cardineal Phelgm made this clear. If she chooses to include him in the new project unit then he will be Father and she will be Mother. They’ll be a nucleated family again.
And if she does not relent, he will be recycled.
It is up to her.
It is time to make her choice.
Chapter 25
RYAN
Ryan wakes up to a familiar sound: canned laughter and a tinny line of upbeat music. It’s an American sitcom and for a moment he thinks he’s back home. Really home, with Alice and Karin, and that time has somehow bounced backwards again to before the whole mess started.
But the potato-sack smell of the sheets and the dull artificial lighting hit him at the same time as the pain in the back of his head. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he’s seen the sun. He’s a Johannesburger, bred on sunlight, and anything more than two days of rain sends him into a deep depression. It’s been longer than that down here.
The positivity and peace of the last few days – however long he’s been here; what they call ‘periods’ down here, to avoid the natural, light-related connotations of circadian rhythms – have deserted him, he realises as he hauls his body over the edge of the bed. Then he remembers what has happened to him. He puts his hands to his devastated crotch and tries to shake himself awake from the nightmare, but he’s already awake. He’s sitting at the side of a bed in a room that’s not his.
He begins to scream, and there’s something satisfying about the rip in his body, and he screams some more.
A little girl comes through the bedroom door. She tilts her head and curls her lips at him. She doesn’t pause, just comes straight up and presses something against his neck.
Ryan is eating porridge at the breakfast nook. His body feels a little bruised, his bones ache. He tries to stretch himself straight.
‘Are you optimal, Mr Ryan?’ Jane asks.
‘I felt uncomfortable in the night. I didn’t sleep well.’
‘You had memories this morning,’ she says.
‘Really?’ Ryan asks. ‘About what? Did I tell you?’
‘No, but you were shouting. I sedated you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You are due for a penetration renewal today. That will solve your discomfort.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘How do I arrange that?’
‘Just go to the on-shift clinic at the Academy. Level H.’
‘Okay.’
Ryan has the sense that something should be worrying him, but he can’t place what it might be. Why look for things to worry about? he asks himself. If I’m feeling peaceful, why question it?
‘Happy dispatch, Mr Ryan!’ Jane announces. ‘Penter Ulliel has invited me onto a new upside project. We will be repeating the Encounters operation in a new school. Penter Ulliel admired my role in the pilot project and has asked me to reprise it.’
She’s as happy as Ryan’s ever seen her and it warms him. ‘Great. Well done,’ he says. ‘You’ll have the chance to get fresh fruit and vegetables again. I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.’
‘Yes, and to look at the sky and the creatures,’ she bubbles. Ryan can tell she’s imagining a future full of travel. He feels proud.
But then her face falls.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I will regret you, Mr Ryan. If I am to join the unit permanently, I will not see you.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘You must do what makes you happy. I’m not going to stand in your way. I’ll be here when you come back... I suppose.’
‘We can amble to the Academy together this shift,’ Jane says, working up her cheer again. She gets up and goes to the bathroom and, as she walks away, something discomforting nudges at his mind. He looks at the shape of her body in the Academy uniform and the nudge pushes him harder.
He looks back down at his porridge, and then an older memory surfaces. Alice used to love instant oats, the peach-flavoured ones. The bits of fruit in it were actually flakes of dried apple saturated with peach flavour and dyed salmon pink. He didn’t tell her.
He was dreaming about Alice last night, wasn’t he? He misses her. Perhaps that memory is trying to talk to him. Maybe that’s what this sense of dread is trying to communicate. The penetration renewal might make him peaceful, but what if it also makes him forget? He’s willing to forget a lot, but not Alice.
‘I’m not sure exactly how it works around here,’ he starts when Jane returns, ‘but what if...’ He knows he’s manipulating her, and he feels bad. He knows what she wants and he’s going to use her needs to suit his own purposes. It comes so naturally to him. Is this who he’s always been?
‘Yes, Mr Ryan?’
‘What if... Do I have to pay off my debt by tutoring? What if I came to work with Penter Ulliel. And you? Would that discharge my debt?’
‘Mr Ryan! What a primo notion. I will ask her at our next meeting. She may be able to talk to the bond administrator.’
The poor girl doesn’t realise that he’s cheating her. Her friendship is his best chance – likely his only chance – of getting upside again. Once he’s there, he’ll just disappear. He’ll go back to Alice, and they will never find him. Doesn’t he teach that about the ethos of Upside Relations? They avoid conflict and detection at all costs.
The shunt hole in the back of his head is throbbing weakly, sending short sparks into his brain as he thinks this. It’s nothing worse than the zaps he’s had every time he’s quit his mood-stabilising drugs. But he knows that whatever they’ve implanted there is trying to assert its control and is trying to reach in and shut down these seditious thoughts of his. It’s essential not to get the penetration renewed: it’s only because it’s due that he’s managed to conceive of this plan and, peace or no peace, he intends to see it through. He is going to return to his daughter.
When they get to the lifts, Jane scans them open. There are no buttons in this lift; it just takes them where they’re scheduled to go. Which, for Ryan, is Level H.
‘Felicitous renewal, Mr Ryan, and enjoy your shift,’ Jane says. She waves in her tentative way, lifting her palm halfway and wriggling her fingers, like she’s learning a foreign code. She is. People don’t wave here, Ryan’s noticed; it’s an upside affectation.
The doors slide closed in front of her and Ryan gets the sudden sense that he’s alone, that he’s beyond help. The walls of the corridor seem to compress in on him and the lights seem to dim.
It’s all in his head, he thinks, and the only answer is the grin of the ubiquitous institutional clown on the sign opposite the lift. ‘Level H’ is all the sign says. The corridor’s carpet has a disorienting pattern of honeycombed hexagons in orange against burgundy, and Ryan is mesmerised as he watches the pattern writhe off like an optical illusion along the span. Again, he gets the discomforting feeling that this whole place is a stage set hurriedly slapped together just for his benefit. There’s no listing of offices or departments, but still it’s evident where Ryan is supposed to go. The clown points a bulbous gloved finger along the long corridor to Ryan’s left, and unadorned arrows punctuate t
he wall as it disappears to the vanishing point.
If that’s where he’s going to get a drill stuck into his head and false thoughts loaded into it and his memories erased, that’s the direction he won’t be going, thank you very much. He scans his gel tag over the lift’s call button, but it answers by glowing red and emitting a bloop of failure. An ‘E’ flashes briefly on the display in the middle of the button.
There has to be another way out of here. He walks down the corridor to the right. The corridor walls have no doors along them – it’s just an unadorned tunnel in dove grey with a single mint-green stripe running along it. The colours clash nauseatingly with the carpeting. But unlike the stretch to the left, this corridor curves and switches and before long he’s not sure which direction he’s headed. He recalls the corridor in the new wing of Jane’s house, all organic curves and apparently pointless twists. Organic... yes. In the close silence, Ryan can imagine himself walking through some giant creature’s intestines, transgressing into a sanctum he should have no business seeing.
It’s just your imagination, he tells himself.
But the silence is not quite as silent as it was.
He walks on, the corridor never branching, no junction to confuse his path: it’s either the lift that won’t let him in, the way to a penetration renewal, or this way.
The background hum gets louder and begins to resolve itself as he walks; a stale, cool breeze churns up from ahead of him. He can hear snuffling, a wet sound of phlegm in a giant throat, or is that just his own ragged breathing echoing against the walls?
He turns another switchback and his feet glide in something slippery, a puddle on the floor, which, without his noticing, has become slick, polished concrete. The walls are now unplastered face brick, crystalline deposits of salt growing out between them like fungus. Ryan recalls the rising damp in Duvenhage’s office. It all seems so far away now, but the memory kindles a small knot of panic inside him, and as it grows he can feel the hole in his head throbbing harder, as if fighting off an infection. He knows it’s too weak now to stop the memories and the fear. If he just turns back, gets the penetration renewed, he will feel calm and at peace again, just like in the garden.
