Those supplements granted not only skeletal strength but gave elastic skin and sexual potency well into the users’ nineties and beyond – or until whatever birthday the senior picked to opt out. Some never stopped. At third-and fourth-age entertainments, hoary gents with cochlear and penile transplants and oestrogen-plump women on their third face-lift would jiggle gaily to 2020’s musical favourites. Their great-grandchildren would pretend that it didn’t happen, as if the elderly were another species. But since what flowed through their veins was a cocktail of chemicals as close to the original as possible, nature herself had conceded defeat. Each year a new record was broken. The oldest new mother on the planet, certified and garlanded, was 102.
The barriers were forever being expanded. Genetic manipulation meant that nobody need endure the degradations of ageing ever again. She could be proud of the part she had played. The programme had banished misery and suffering on a cosmic scale.
But she was with the programme no more. The computer links had been blocked. She could no longer tap into the network that had been her
raison d’être
. Oddly enough, it did not bother her much, not since another passion had supplanted it: to support Marius, and help him reintroduce to the system those values of public service that had once so inspired her. If Solidarity were successful, some day she might return.
But by then, she would be a mother.
A mother
. With a swift movement, she rummaged in her first-aid kit, found the tiny sealed scalpel, and nicked the translucent skin covering the end of the hormone rod. A drop of blood oozed, as if in warning.
It meant pregnancy. Was she ready for it? With its risks, both to herself and the unborn – as yet unconceived – child? A swollen belly, breasts popping with milk, veins varicosing in her legs, repeated nausea, back pain, a slowing down of her brain patterns to cow-like complicity? What if it went wrong? An ectopic pregnancy – or the agony of endometriosis? Eclampsia, when her blood pressure might go berserk and kill them both? The dangers were horrifyingly vivid, not least to one who moved in circles where viviparous pregnancy was seen as wildly irresponsible. And in a world with elevated mutation rates, it could mean a handicapped child. She might carry a monster.
Then there was birth. Lisa moaned softly and clutched at her abdomen. Caesareans were available – more than two-thirds of all natural births were performed by nurse-surgeons, so common was it. The babies were unmarked and less traumatised. But if she were to
nurture a baby herself for forty weeks, it would seem like cheating. She needed to
feel
the moment when they became two separate individuals. Even if she might die, as women once did, in the process.
Every shred of common sense advised that a couple apply for a licence and go through the proper procedure. Since Marius was in the records as an NT, and of royal lineage, she could not realistically foresee any hitches. The baby would be born, in due course, a year or two from the application date, as perfect as any offspring could be.
NTs did not have ‘natural’ births. The notion would have been met with embarrassed disdain. Lower-caste citizens did, but then, they could not help themselves. Once they became more prosperous, the biggest consumer product they expected was a licence and a surrogate, whether mechanical or human. They’d deliberate for hours, then, in effect, buy a baby, with a warranty as to looks, talents and future prospects. They could even request a money-back assurance that its adolescence would be trouble-free.
But that was not what she wanted. She wanted one special infant. Marius’s child, even though its progenitors were unknown. It might be mad, or carry recessive genes. It might be deceptive or disloyal. Given his background, that was distinctly likely. Or was it? She chided herself. A man’s personality did not derive from a sheet of computer printout: it could be judged from his behaviour. Marius was no mystery.
Every fibre of her being told her not to wait. What the Prince was engaged in was perilous. He might be captured. And if a search revealed that his genetic record was a sham, he would be refused access to any modern reproductive facility.
Lisa’s hand strayed again to her abdomen and she rubbed her flat belly thoughtfully. ‘
I
have a reproductive facility,’ she said out loud. ‘Functional, if not very modern.’
It was settled. She pressed her thumb at the end of the implant furthest from the incision. The flexible silvery rod three centimetres long, streaked with red, slid out. It emerged painlessly, like a splinter. Its expulsion brought an unfamiliar elation.
She caught sight of herself in the holograph mirror. She made the image laugh and tilt its head. The tiny earrings winked and glowed.
‘And now, Marius,’ she murmured to her own face, with a smile, ‘we will find out what you and I can do.’
‘Yeah, well, we thought a bit of liaison would do no harm,’ Kowalsky said affably. He chose the second largest leather chair, parked himself solidly in it and put his booted feet up on the Colonel’s desk. His leather Rottweiler jacket was slung lazily over his lap. A faint whiff of dog excreta filled the air from the soles of the scuffed boots.
‘More’n our job’s worth, innit,’ Finkelstein agreed, and occupied the biggest chair. His uniform, smarter than Kowalsky’s, had acquired another star on each shoulder. He shifted so that his host could not avoid seeing the badges of rank. The Colonel had not invited them to sit, which in his view was bad manners with fellow combatants. Or blokes who were likely to be fellow combatants in the next few weeks. If not sooner.
‘Whatcha got in that cupboard?’ Kowalsky nodded towards a likely-looking fixture. ‘Got any whisky? I’m thirsty, after coming all that way.’
Mike Thompson moved to the cupboard and found a bottle of Johnnie Walker and two glasses which he pushed silently in the direction of Rottweiler Security Services.
‘Not joining us?’ Finkelstein asked. The Colonel might be a stuffy oaf who went too much by the book, and had carved on his stony moniker a distaste for non-NT sidekicks, but an effort to be matey had to be made.
The Colonel shook his head. ‘Not when I’m on duty, gentlemen.’
‘Gentlemen! That’s rich.’ Kowalsky drained half his glass.
‘You might prefer to say that I like to shoot straight.’ The Colonel did not blink.
‘Yeah. Got it. But we won’t have to shoot all that straight. As long as we hit ’em and put ’em down. And nobody much’ll be shooting back.’
‘You sure? Armed insurrections are no picnic. I’ve seen them at the border.’
‘What – them Chinese? Yeah, but they were soldiers, really. Trained and armed. Only dressed as peasants. Leastways, that’s what I read. Well, this lot’ll be
real
peasants.’
Mike Thompson decided not to discuss the finer points of who exactly had been raggedly dressed and why they had been waving relatively new and shiny laser machine guns, which they obviously knew how to use. The incident, a year or two before, had been suppressed with the minimum of fire-power on his side; those had been his orders. Something about his two official visitors in their Rottweiler navy blue fatigues suggested that the rules in this current civil dispute might be different.
‘My instinct, for what it’s worth,’ he said smoothly, ‘is to keep any demonstrators under control by means that will not cause lasting damage. We should not create martyrs, or fresh grievances. If we meet force with minimum force, they will eventually get fed up and stop. Especially if the authorities can meet some of their demands.’
Kowalsky’s face darkened. ‘Now look,’ he grunted, ‘don’t you get in the way of us doing our jobs. Whatever your – what’s it – your
scruples
might be. You might be some high-falutin’ NT type, but we’ve got work to do. Don’t want none of your nonsense. Anyway, there’s our bonuses.’
‘Bonuses? What will you get bonuses for?’
‘Bodies. Dead, preferably. Or so we’ve been told.’ Kowalsky tapped the side of his nose and winked.
‘My objective,’ said the Colonel coldly, ‘is to ensure that nobody gets killed. Not least, my men. Or yours,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.
‘You don’t need to worry about our boys. Got some special recruits.’ Finkelstein smiled proudly. ‘A new corps. Specially selected.’
‘To do what?’ The Colonel could not prevent his voice rising in alarm.
‘To do what they’re told, and no messing. To do their jobs properly, like you’re supposed to as well.’
‘And what exactly are they trained to do? Kill innocent people?’
The two guards exchanged glances. Kowalsky reached for the bottle to refill their glasses and snickered softly.
‘In a manner of speaking. Doesn’t seem to bother them. And, by God, if we tried to stop ’em, I wouldn’t like to get in their way.’
‘’Sright,’ his companion agreed, but without the swagger. ‘When they’re in the mood, they’d slice us in two. An’ you, Colonel. An’ anybody that crossed their path.’
The delivery boy whistled and chewed, his hands full. An unusual trip, this one. He wondered
if the parcel would be opened in his presence. That was not as important, however, as his tip. If the lady remembered this time.
It had taken several minutes hard ringing on the intercom bell to arouse Lisa. With a shake of the head she came to from a doze, and wondered idly whether the cow-like state had already started. She ordered the voice-activated camera to
Show
, and stared in puzzlement at the youth in a pale blue tunic and pillbox hat standing on her doorstep, his jaws working rhythmically.
‘Gotta sign for it, miss,’ the boy said. The sun on his shoulder braid gave him the appearance of a toy martinet. ‘I brought them flowers. Didya like them?’
Lisa came drowsily to the door and opened it. ‘Oh; yes, very much. Is it more flowers?’ She dug into her pockets for a euro coin. Would one be enough? If this were another gift from Marius then two might be better.
It was a large scarlet box decked out in red and gold ribbon. She handed over the coins and, intrigued, carried the box upstairs.
Then caution kicked in. The memory of what they had found on the doorstep in London: the murder of Winston, her close associate and a key member of her team, had shaken her rigid. Especially as it was she who had tasked him to investigate and if possible corroborate her misgivings about the programme. And the PKU. And the prisoners. She had made him a target. Though if Winston had managed to find anything useful, he had died with it. He had presumably been stopped before he could make much progress or send any of it on.
The cursory examination to which she had been able to subject the severed head suggested that he had been crudely tortured. Burn marks from some simple electrical prod, or a lighted cigarette, had disfigured the face and a hole had been burned right through one cheek. It was almost a blessing that no other remains had been found with more gruesome evidence. If he had suffered, it was she who was guilty.
But why? Lisa, born and raised an NT and servant of the state, still found it incredible that she might be under suspicion for any nefarious activity. Surely visiting the tunnels without notice and thus inadvertently making contact with Solidarity had not been sufficient to trigger a manhunt. Her record to date was unimpeachable. It took a fevered imagination to conclude that she, Dr Lisa Pasteur, an apolitical scientist, was any kind of threat to society. Nevertheless, like Strether and Marius, she acted with the utmost care. The phone was not private and she had detected signs that her e-mails had been read. And now this parcel.
She set the red box carefully on the table before her. The boy had also handed over a small envelope: old-style technology for a romantic old-fashioned way of giving presents. On the front was a traditional design of intertwined flowers, with ‘For You’ in embossed cursive script. Yet the address was formal: Dr Lisa Pasteur. That could not be Marius.
Inside was a simple piece of plain card. ‘
A token of my esteem, W
.’ was all it said. But the handwriting she recognised. It was without doubt Winston’s.
She sat upright. Had he been forced to write it under duress? She held up the card to the light; the writing was as she had always known it, scribbled in the margins of printouts, tiny and surprisingly neat for such a loose-limbed guy.
The box was tied with the ribbon only; there did not appear to be any other form of seal. Holding her breath in case – in case what? It exploded? Why would anyone do that? With brow furrowed in resolution, Lisa untied the ribbon and waited.
Nothing happened.
Heart pounding, she touched the edges, right and left, with her fingertips, careful not to disturb the box itself. Very gently, hardly daring to breathe, she lifted the lid, holding it so lightly, clear of the box.
There was no explosion; the contents did not scatter themselves in her face with an almighty bang. She let her breath go. She would live another day.
Inside, nestling in crisp red tissue and golden cups, wrapped individually in coloured tinsel foil, sat two dozen chocolates – even the strange number was the old order. The printed guide indicated that the biggest, the one in the middle, was a walnut whip. Her favourite, and prized all the more as a rarely, indulged treat.
She picked it up and began to unwrap the foil. Then she stopped again. Poisoned? Was that a possibility? There was only one way to check. From the kitchen she fetched a table knife, a pair of tongs and a plate. Then, with a sudden thought, she ordered the intercom and the internal cameras to switch themselves off for half an hour, as she might if she wanted to make love or have a bath.
Once more in privacy she placed the chocolate on the plate, removed the foil entirely with the tongs. Then held it at arm’s length and gingerly began to slice right through the centre. She was unsure what she was looking for. An ampoule of aggregated cyanide, still the quickest way to kill, was not inconceivable.
The knife hit something metallic and stopped. Lisa dropped both knife and tongs and recoiled, shaking from head to toe. For a moment she stared at the messy heap of cream, nuts and broken chocolate on the plate. The base had been sliced through horizontally – not by her, but by whoever had tampered with it originally. In fact, looking closer, it was apparent that the base was not chocolate at all; rather, it was the hard object that had stopped the knife in its downward track.