‘Smile and wave,’ she said through grinning, gritted teeth.
He did. Tammy stood and walked to greet them. She was middle-aged and skinny. Her skin was pulled so tight on her face that Gertlinger expected to see a clothes peg on the back of her head. He was sort of surprised her eyeballs hadn’t fallen out of her face her cheeks were so taught. Her bulbous round breasts rose out of her blouse like buoys bobbing between waves. Gertlinger couldn’t help but glance and then immediately wished he hadn’t, knowing how many people watched and how closely. But that’s probably why she wore the blouse with the top three buttons undone. He’d seen it before, accusing misogynist actors of staring down her shirt. It was a tactic to get one up on them before they realised what she was even doing. She was about to embrace Angela though, and his back was half to the crowd, so he hoped he was alright.
He swallowed and his necktie seemed to nag at his throat.
Tammy kissed Angela on each cheek with her bloated lips and looked at Florian, taking his tightly clasped hands in front of his stomach as an invitation to forgo any physical greeting, and instead beckoned them to a leather sofa. They sat and Angela crossed her legs in perfect form, casually, yet formally. Playfully, yet respectfully. She’d done this so many times, she was maybe even enjoying it.
The minutes rolled by in silence for him while Angela spoke fluidly, without hesitation, rolling her hands through the air to emphasise what needed to be emphasised, and laughing where appropriate and necessary at Tammy’s remarks and anecdotes. She was earning her pay today. Tammy sat there with a cold look painted on her mask-like face for most of it. The crowd were gobbling Angela up, falling in love with her swinging hair, intoxicating laugh, gentle voice and huge doe eyes. Tammy was unimpressed to say the least.
Gertlinger stared into space, thinking about his next cigarette when Tammy said the one thing he was hoping she wouldn’t.
‘That’s great Angela. Now, I was hoping we could hear from Florian here. He’s the Head Researcher for the GSC, is that right?’ she said coolly.
Gertlinger’s attention honed in on the ruthless hag and his derisive nature took hold. He sat forward and blew out a hard breath, taking stock of his ammunition before he fired. He could have sworn he heard the muscles in Angela’s jaw tighten as she tried to keep that confident smile on her face.
‘Look, Tammy,’ he started, staring at her. ‘I’m not a head researcher of anything. I’ve got a PhD in genomics and embryonics and I’m at the top of my field in what I do. I’m the only person in the world who is doing what we are. It’s beyond anything that’s ever been done before. So no, it is not research. And my name isn’t Gerdlanger, as you said earlier. It’s Gertlinger. Doctor Gertlinger to you. I’m only Florian to my friends.’ He exhaled in a huff. Glad to have set her straight. It was either that or simply burst from listening to her without saying anything at all.
But suddenly, she didn’t look spiteful and mean anymore. Her face softened to a pout and her eyes welled up with crocodile tears. She faced the camera and sniffed dejectedly. ‘Oh, doctor, I am sorry. I was only going on the information that the network provided me with,’ she stammered, shuffling her papers as though desperate to find a scrap of factual information with which to save herself from Gertlinger’s wrath. ‘I do apologise that it was incorrect, but did you really have to be so mean? We’re all friends here, right? Oh, but we’re not, are we? You just said we’re not friends, didn’t you, Doctor Gertlinger?’ She took a moment and started wildly fanning her face with her painted claws. ‘Oh, my goodness, look at me, getting all upset. I am sorry, I’m so embarrassed!’
Rolls of harsh whisper reverberated through the crowd. Gertlinger swallowed, immediately aware of his screw up. He was about to speak again, to put it right when Angela squeezed his flank gently. This is what Tammy wanted. She wanted him to snap, so she could cast him as the bad guy, and so that she could seem like the victim.
He might as well have stared at her breasts.
She kept crying. She went on for a minute or two. She was good but Angela was better. Every time Gertlinger drew air to talk, Angela squeezed, shushing him. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Tammy sulked. She wanted them to apologise, to beg for her forgiveness, to relent to her. But Angela knew her game. They stayed quiet and after a minute or two more, the sobs became obviously fake. Angela fought back a smirk as the cameramen began shrugging to themselves and each other. The stage-side producers were exchanging odd glances and looking over their scripts as the whole studio and world watched a middle-aged woman sitting in an armchair on live television, pretend-sobbing to herself for four minutes straight, after a man said something not even overly-rude to her. If he’d have jumped up and apologised, then she would have won. He would have been the bully and the asshole. But now, she just looked crazy instead.
Angela cleared her throat after another few seconds and slid closer to Tammy. She leaned across and put a hand on her back. Her face was dry, the sobs choked. ‘Doctor Gertlinger is a world-renowned geneticist. He’s under a lot of stress, and he’s breaking boundaries that we never even thought we’d challenge. He’s changing the world and I think he just was offended when you said he was a researcher. I’ll put it into context for you. Imagine that I told you that I liked watching your chat show.’ She said it with such sincerity that it was only Gertlinger who realised the angle she was working.
Tammy picked her head up so fast she almost caught Angela in the chin with it. ‘This is not a chat show!’ she snapped.
Angela reeled back. ‘I know it’s not, but now you understand, right? Here, let me get that,’ She smiled warmly, dragging a handkerchief from her pocket. She leaned in and blotted Tammy’s cheek before she could bat her off. He held up the hanky to the camera and feigned shock. ‘Oh, it’s dry.’
She shrugged and put the cloth away. She moved on with her speech, knowing that little show of the fake sobbing would be damning for Tammy’s credibility. Angela’s smile swept the room and landed on camera one.
‘The GSC aren’t just a company. They are an amalgamation of minds and hearts from around the world. The best scientists and engineers from every corner of the globe, with input from every government, every country guiding them. The GSC aren’t working for the benefit of one nation, they are working for the benefit of Earth. If you’re a citizen of Earth, you’re on our side. We want to better the world and this is our chance. The possibilities that will stem from the success of our current endeavour will be endless. This is going to change the world, for the better. If anyone has got any questions for us, for the GSC, we want to put your minds at ease because you belong to the planet we are trying to save. You, the people, are what matter to us most. We’re not keeping secrets, we’re not hiding anything. Project Argus is an open book. We’re still in development on the genomics side of things so we can’t show you our pups yet, but when they are strong enough, we’ll unveil them to the world. We’re planning to launch by this time next year. Thanks, guys!' She beamed again and poked Gertlinger, prompting him to do the same. They stood and left the stunned Tammy sitting in her chair, in silence.
Gertlinger didn’t like the word pups. The promo film had said that they were creating a hybrid using the DNA of wolves and that the result would be puppies. It made it easier for people to “identify with”, and “get behind”, the marketing people had said. Except they weren’t pups in any sense of the word. And they wouldn’t be born. They were embryos reared in test tubes and matured in incubators.
Pups was a stupid way to describe them. Gertlinger grumbled about it all the way to the waiting car on the street.
NINE
THE VEIL
2122 AD
The feeling of being squeezed between sweaty and stinking bodies is something he never quite got used to.
Aaro grimaced as the heavyset man behind him coughed on to the nape of his neck. A wash of body odour slithered into his nose and Aaro guessed he was sporting at least a three-day shower hiatus.
He scowled as the work line ambled slowly forward. Ahead of him, the queue disappeared into the Assignment Building, a single storey concrete block comprising one large room. The entirety of the back wall was dedicated to outstanding jobs, categorised under different headings. Electrical, welding, engineering, construction, and a couple of other more obscure ones. Every morning was the same ordeal. Stand and wait until you got to the board, choose an available and suitable job, take the job sheet, put it through the scanner and get to work.
The only way to get through the daily torment was to be somewhere else. To let your mind assume a different place and a different time. To sink into a happy memory or an imaginary Shangri La, and move forward on autopilot when the round bulge of the belly of the guy behind you touched the bottom of your back.
Too bad happy memories were few and far between these days.
The line splayed just ahead as people spread to their pertinent boards. Aaro peeled off for Engineering and scanned the wall for something easy going. He wasn’t in the best of moods, as was usual when he slept poorly. There was a cooling fan that had broken down in one of the ventilation shafts. It would be an easy fix. Take it down, strip it, rebuild it and then put it back up. He could go at his own pace and just zone out, letting his fingers do the work. For an engineer of his calibre, it was child’s play. It was perfect. He tugged the sheet from under the pin and headed off towards the exit, a turnstile of sorts with an arm scanner on the right, a sheet scanner on the left, and an armed guard on each side, just in case. Sometimes things got out of hand if someone lost out on a job they had their eye on. It happened. People were killed for less in the city. Luckily, the guards, with itchy fingers on the triggers of their rifles, did a lot to discourage that sort of behaviour. At least most of the time.
He watched the line amble forward in front of him. Job Sheet goes on the scanner, the code is scanned, then the hand goes on the scanner and the sheet is assigned to you. Payment was automated upon successful completion.
Aaro moved with the crowd, milling slowly toward the gate, and when he arrived, in well-practised fashion, slipped the sheet in.
Green light.
In goes the hand.
Red light.
His brow furrowed at the machine’s denial.
He pulled his hand out, wiped it on his jacket, getting off the sweat or dirt that caused the misread, and then he tried again.
Red light.
He adjusted the angle of his hand and tried again. The machine strobed red continuously now, the words “Seek Assistance” flashing on the little screen. Murmurs and groans echoed from the condensing mass behind him. People started calling for him to hurry up, and then bodies started jostling. Aaro felt a shove behind him and he stumbled into the turnstile with a clanking of steel. The guards jolted and half raised their weapons at him.
‘Relax, boys, it’s all good,’ he said under his breath, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. He exhaled, trying to ignore it, but it happened again. It was the same stinking pot-bellied sack of sweat from before. He didn’t have to turn around. He could smell him.
The guards eyed the seething crowd cautiously, crooking their elbows around their rifles in anticipation.
Aaro straightened his coat and turned to face the brute now. He was fat and wearing a discoloured, and damp vest. His chest hair poured out of the top, merging with his unkempt neck-beard. His eyes were deep set in his round head and his nose was flat and red, having been broken a few times before. He did have a pretty punchable face, and he was obviously a jackass. Aaro could tell that much already.
‘Don’t,’ Aaro said gruffly.
The man pursed his puffy pink lips under his moustache and met Aaro’s eyes. He didn’t say a word but just shoved Aaro in the chest this time. Aaro chuckled a little, brushing the sweaty hand prints off his jacket and adjusting the strap of his tool-satchel. He pocketed his hands and met the fat man’s gaze once more. ‘Seriously — you touch me again and I’m gonna put you down.’
The man smirked, cracking his knuckles. Aaro kept his look firm, his feet planted. The fat man rolled his shoulder back, ready to sling a punch.
If he’d have seen Aaro’s fingers curl around the handle of the steel wrench he was carrying in the deep pocket of his sheepskin jacket, which he did for just this reason, he may have thought twice. In a blink, Aaro lashed out. The wrench whistled through the air and connected with the side of the man’s head, splitting his ear in two. The force of the blow, coupled with the pain, sent him to the ground, his head a mess of broken skin and torn cartilage. The man yowled like a dog, clutching the side of his skull with blood-soaked fingers.
Aaro stayed still after he hit him, putting the wrench back in his pocket and laced his fingers on the back of his head. In seconds, he felt the cold muzzle of a rifle pressed into the skin inside his collar.
‘Move,’ growled the guard on the other end of it. ‘I dare you.’
Aaro didn’t. The other guard quickly snapped cuffs on his wrists and frogmarched him through the parting crowd towards a door marked Plant Personnel Only, leaving the downed man without assistance, and the rest of the disinterested workers to step over him and go about their work days.
From the dim interior of the Assignment Building, the steel door led across one of the disused car parks. The pace was fast and they passed two guards running in the opposite direction, ready to take up the abandoned posts of the two who were escorting Aaro.
He walked in silence, but the odd thing wasn’t being in cuffs, it was where they were heading. Usually, altercations ended in one of two ways. The offender was either ordered from the Assignment Building back onto the streets with a one-day suspension from work. Or, the offender was knocked out and then thrown into the street with one.
Aaro had never seen anyone taken this way before. They closed in on a building with a large set of double doors and barred windows. He knew this to be one of the several office blocks at the plant, housing security and other workers who kept their fingernails clean. Those who had an affinity for numbers and computers, not tools and grease. Needless to say, Aaro didn’t visit much. He was smart, but his hands preferred the cool steel of a socket wrench to the warm plastic of a computer mouse and keyboard. Two more guards opened the doors to receive them and without a word, they entered. The corridor was long and bland with white block walls and a poured concrete floor. They went through the fifth door on the right and Aaro was pushed into what he could only describe as an interrogation room. Confused and now a little resistant, he was slammed down into a chair behind a metal table. The guard motioned him to stay put and waggled his gun to illustrate the point. Aaro nodded, trying to surmise why he was there. The guard pointed to a camera suspended in the corner of the room, told him they’d be watching and then left, locking the door.
Aaro dropped his cuffs on to the table and sighed, wondering if the fat man was the manager’s brother or something equally as unlucky. And whether he’d come through the door with an iron pipe or crowbar to return the favour. His stomach turned over at the thought. All he could do was wait and see, pissed off at the fact that they’d emptied his pockets of all potential weapons during the trip. He didn’t have to wait very long for his answer.
His head was pressed to the back of his balled fists, flat on the table, when he heard the telltale click of the lock tumblers aligning, followed by the audible creak of a poorly oiled handle. He smirked at the thought. Forever the engineer. But the next sound was not heavy sidling boot steps or the clink of a crowbar as it knocked the door frame on the way in. It was a confident stride of a woman heel-toeing.
The door swung open and one walked in. She was early thirties, slim, athletic even, with dark hair in a centre-parted bob. One side of her fringe hung lower than the other. She had black-framed glasses that slightly magnified her eyes and she was wearing a pair of fitted beige cargo trousers tucked into tall lace-up boots, and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It was functional style c
hosen by someone with the liberty of choice. She obviously didn’t have her hands in a malfunctioning oil pump day-to-day. Aaro couldn’t put a finger on it. She wasn’t like anyone he’d seen in Oslo before, and he certainly didn’t recognise her from around the plant.
She dropped a manilla file on the table and sat opposite. He said nothing, unsure whether she was about to fire him for good or something else entirely. Her hard gaze gave nothing away as she moved for the folder. She flipped open the top page and cleared her throat.
‘Emmerson, Aaro. Born 2091, Bergen, Norway. Is this you?’ she said with an accent not unlike Norwegian, but definitely not Norwegian.
‘You’re Swedish,’ Aaro said with a curious smile, leaning forward. No wonder he didn’t know her.
She didn’t change her look. ‘Yes. Why, does it matter?’ she asked almost defensively.
‘It doesn’t. We just don’t see many Swedes over here. Stockholm is one of the safest cities on the planet, or so the stories go. The lowest crime rates, the lowest breach rates, the lowest refugee population. Gothenburg, too. Just wondering why a well-educated, well-brought-up woman such as yourself would visit an impoverished shit-hole like Oslo. Swedish nationals are doing everything they can to get home, not get away. So no, it doesn’t matter that you’re Swedish, it only matters that you’re here, or more, why you’re here.’ Aaro’s smirk widened a little more as he gauged her reaction.
‘What makes you think I’m well-educated and well-brought-up?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes a touch. The initial pace of her statement spoke of haste, but now, she seemed piqued enough to veer off.
The Veil Page 5
