After that, the illusion of solidity had melted away like pillars of salt in the rain, exposing rickety shacks assembled from
scraps of plastic and metal. They leant together precariously, one stacked against another to provide a highly dubious stability.
The narrow strips of grass between were reduced to slippery runnels of mud, often used as open sewers.
So now the survivors of Valisk’s latest change in fortune had moved again, repelled from the hovels of their erstwhile possessors,
they were simply sprawling uncaringly across the surrounding grass. They lacked the energy and willpower to do anything else.
Some lay on their backs, some had curled up, some were sitting against trees, some stumbled about aimlessly. That wasn’t so
bad, Tolton thought, after what they’d been through a period of stupefaction was understandable. It was the sound which was
getting to him. Wails of distress and muffled sobbing mingling together to poison the air with harrowing dismay. Five thousand
people having a bad dream in unison.
And just like a bad dream, you couldn’t wake them from it. To begin with, when he’d emerged from his hiding place, he’d moved
from one to another. Offering words of sympathy, a comforting arm around the shoulder. He’d persisted valiantly for a couple
of hours like that, before finally acknowledging how quite pathetically pointless it all was. Somehow, they would have to
get over the psychological trauma by themselves.
It wasn’t going to be easy, not with the ghosts as an ever-present reminder of their ordeal. The ex-possessors were still
slinking furtively through the outlying trees of the nearby jungle. For whatever reason, once they’d been expelled from their
host bodies, they wouldn’t leave. Immediately after Valisk’s strange transformation they had clung longingly to their victims,
following them with perverted devotion as they crawled about shaking and vomiting in reaction to their release. Then as people
had gradually started to recover their wits and take notice, the anger had surfaced. It was that massive deluge of communal
hatred which had forced the ghosts to retreat, rather than the shouts of abuse and threats of vengeance.
They’d fled into the refuge of the jungle around the parkland, almost bewildered by the response they’d spawned. But they
hadn’t gone far. Tolton could see them thronging out there amid the funereal trees, their eerie pale radiance casting diaphanous
shadows which twisted fluidly amid the branches and trunks.
But the ghosts never went any further than the trees. It was as if the greater depths of the darkling habitat frightened them,
too. That was the aspect of this whole affair which worried Tolton the most.
His own wanderings were almost as aimless as anyone in the throes of recovery. Like them, he didn’t relish the idea of venturing
through the shanty town, he also considered it prudent not to fraternise with the ghosts. Though somewhere at the back of
his mind was some ancient piece of folklore about ghosts never actually killing anybody. Whichever pre-history warlock came
up with that prophecy had obviously never encountered these particular ghosts.
So he kept moving, avoiding eye-contact, searching for… well, he’d know what when he saw it. Ironically, the thing he missed
most was Rubra, and the wealth of knowledge which came with that contact. But the processor block he’d used to stay in touch
with the habitat personality had crashed as soon as the change happened. Since then he’d tried using several other blocks.
None of them worked, at most he got a trickle of static. He didn’t have enough (any, actually) technical knowledge to understand
why.
Nor did he understand the change which the habitat had undergone, only the result, the mass exorcism. He assumed it had been
imposed by some friendly ally. Except Valisk didn’t have any allies. And Rubra had never dropped any hint that this might
happen, not in all the weeks he’d kept Tolton hidden from the possessed. There was nothing for it but to keep moving for the
delusion of purpose it bestowed, and wait for developments. Whatever they might be.
“Please.” The woman’s voice was little more than a whisper, but it was focused enough to make Tolton hesitate and try to see
who was speaking.
“Please, I need some help. Please.” The speaker was in her late middle-age, huddled up against a tree. He walked over to her,
avoiding a couple of people who were stretched out, almost comatose, on the grass.
Details were difficult in this leaden twilight. She was wrapped in a large tartan blanket, clutching it to her chest like
a shawl. Long unkempt hair partially obscured her face, glossy titian roots contrasted sharply with the dirty faded chestnut
of the tresses. The features glimpsed through the tangle were delicate, a pert button nose and long cheekbones, implausibly
artistic eyebrows. Her skin seemed very tight, almost stretched, as if to emphasise the curves.
“What’s wrong?” Tolton asked gently, cursing himself for the stupidity of the question. As he knelt beside her, the light
tube’s meagre nimbus glimmered on the tears dribbling down her cheeks.
“I hurt,” she said. “Now she’s gone, I hurt so badly.”
“It’ll go. I promise, time will wash it away.”
“She slept with hundreds of men,” the woman cried wretchedly. “Hundreds. Women, too. I felt the heat in her, she loved it,
all of it. That slut, that utter slut. She made my body do things with those animals. Awful, vile things. Things no decent
person would ever do.”
He tried to take one of her hands, but she snatched it away, turning from him. “It wasn’t you,” he said. “You didn’t do any
of those things.”
“How can you say that? It was done to me. I felt it all, every minute of it. This is my body. Mine! My flesh and blood. She
took that from me. She soiled me, ruined me. I’m so corrupt I’m not even human any more.”
“I’m sorry, really I am. But you have to learn not to think like that. If you do, you’re letting her win. You’ve got to put
that behind you. It’s over, and you’ve won. She’s been exorcised, she’s nothing but a neurotic wisp of light. That’s all she’ll
ever be now. I’d call that a victory, wouldn’t you?”
“But I hurt,” she persisted. Her voice dropped to a confessional tone. “How can I forget when I hurt?”
“Look, there are treatments, memory suppressers, all sorts of cures. Just as soon as we get the power turned back on, you
can… ” “Not my mind! Not just that.” She had begun to plead. “It’s my body, my body which hurts.”
Tolton started to get a very bad feeling about where the conversation was heading. The woman was shaking persistently, and
he was sure some of the moisture glistening on her face had to be perspiration. He flicked an edgy glance back at her unnatural
roots. “Where, exactly, does it hurt?”
“My face,” she mumbled. “My face aches. It’s not me anymore. I couldn’t see me when she looked in a mirror.”
“They all did that, all imagined themselves to look ridiculously young and pretty. It’s an illusion, that’s all.”
“No. It became real. I’m not me, not now. She even took my identity away from me. And… ” Her voice started trembling. “My
shape. She stole my body, and still that wasn’t enough. Look, look what she’s done to me.”
Moving so slowly that Tolton wanted to do it for her, she drew the folds of the blanket apart. For the first time, he actually
wished there was less light. To begin with it looked as though someone had badly bungled a cosmetic package adaptation. Her
breasts were grossly misshapen. Then he realized that was caused by large bulbs of flesh clinging to the upper surface like
skin-coloured leeches. Each one almost doubled the size of the breast, the weight pulling them down heavily. The natural tissue
was almost squashed from view.
The worst part of it was, they obviously weren’t grafts or implants; whatever the tissue was, it had swollen out of the natural
mammary gland. Below them, her abdomen was held anorexically flat by a broad oval slab of unyielding skin. It was as though
she’d developed a thick callous across the whole area, fake musculature marked out by faint translucent lines.
“See?” the woman asked, staring down at her exposed chest in abject misery. “Bigger breasts and a flat belly. She really wanted
bigger breasts. That was her wish. They’d be more useful to her, more fun, more spectacular. And she could make wishes come
true.”
“God preserve us,” Tolton murmured in horror. He didn’t know much about human illnesses, but there were some scraps of relevant
information flashing up out of his childhood’s basic medical didactic memories. Cancer tumours. Almost a lost disease. Geneering
had made human bodies massively resistant to the ancient bane. And for the few isolated instances when it did occur, medical
nanonics could penetrate and eradicate the sick cells within hours.
“I used to be a nurse,” the woman said, as she ashamedly covered herself with the blanket again. “They’re runaways. My breasts
are the largest growths, but I must have the same kind of malignant eruptions at every change she instituted.”
“What can I do?” he asked hoarsely.
“I need medical nanonic packages. Do you know how to program them?”
“No. I don’t even have neural nanonics. I’m a poet, that’s all.”
“Then, please, find me some. My neural nanonics aren’t working either, but a processor block might do instead.”
“I… Yes, of course.” It would mean a trip into the lifeless, lightless starscraper to find some, but his discomfort at that
prospect was nothing compared to her suffering. Somehow, he managed to keep a neutral expression on his face as he stood up,
even though he was pretty certain a medical nanonic package wouldn’t work in this weird environment. But it might, it just
might. And if that slender chance existed, then he would bring one for her, no matter what.
He cast round the dismal sight of people strewn about, holding themselves and moaning. The really terrifying doubt engulfed
him then. Suppose the anguish wasn’t all psychological? Every possessed he’d seen had changed their appearance to some degree.
Suppose every change had borne a malignancy, even a small one.
“Oh fucking hell, Rubra. Where are you? We need help.”
______
As always, there was no warning when the cell door opened. Louise wasn’t even sure when it had swung back. She was curled
up on the bunk, dozing, only semi-aware of her surroundings. Quite how long she’d been in this state, she didn’t know. Somehow,
her time sense had got all fouled up. She remembered the interview with Brent Roi, his sarcasm and unconcealed contempt. Then
she’d come back here. Then… She’d come back here hours ago. Well, a long time had passed… She thought.
I must have fallen asleep.
Which was hard to believe; the colossal worry of the situation had kept her mind feverishly active.
The usual two female police officers appeared in the doorway. Louise blinked up at their wavering outlines, and tried to right
herself. Bright lights flashed painfully behind her eyes; she had to clamp her mouth shut against the sudden burst of nausea.
What is wrong with me?
“Woo there, steady on.” One of the police officers was sitting on the bed beside her, holding her up.
Louise shook uncontrollably, cold sweat beading on her skin. Her reaction calmed slightly, though it was still terribly hard
to concentrate.
“One minute,” the woman said. “Let me reprogram your medical package. Try to take some deeper breaths, okay?”
That was simple enough. She gulped down some air, her chest juddering. Another couple of breaths. Her rogue body seemed to
be calming. “Wha… What?” she panted. “Anxiety attack,” said the policewoman. “We see a lot of them in here. That and worse
things.”
Louise nodded urgently, an attempt to convince herself that’s all it was. No big deal. Nothing badly amiss. The baby’s fine—the
medical package would insure that. Just stay calm.
“Okay. I’m okay now. Thank you.” She proffered a small smile at the police officer, only to be greeted with blank-faced indifference.
“Let’s go, then,” said the officer standing by the door.
Louise girded herself, and slowly stood on slightly unsteady legs. “Where are we going?”
“Parole Office.” She sounded disgusted.
“Where’s Genevieve? Where’s my sister?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Come on.”
Louise was almost shoved out into the corridor. She was improving by the minute, although the headache lingered longer than
anything else. A small patch of skin at the back of her skull tingled, as if she’d been stung. Her fingers stroked it absently.
Anxiety attack? She hadn’t known there was such a thing before. But given everything she currently had to think about, such
a malaise was more than likely.
They got into a lift which had to be heading down. The gravity field had risen to almost normal when they got out. This part
of the asteroid was different to the cells and interview rooms she’d been kept in until now. Definitely government offices,
the standardized furniture and eternally polite personnel with their never-smiling faces were evidence of that. She took a
little cheer from the fact these corridors and glimpsed rooms weren’t as crushingly bleak as the upper level. Her status had
changed for the better. Slightly.
The police officers showed her into a room with a narrow window looking out over High York’s biosphere cavern. Not much to
see, it was dawn, or dusk, Louise didn’t know which. The grassland and trees soaking up the gold-orange light were a brighter,
more welcoming green than the cavern in Phobos. Two curving settees had been set up facing each other in the middle of the
floor, bracketing an oval table. Genevieve slouched on one of them, hands stuffed into the pockets of her shipsuit, feet swinging
just off the floor, looking out of the window. Her expression was a mongrel cross between sullen resentment and utter boredom.
“Gen.” Louise’s voice nearly cracked.
Genevieve raced across the room and thudded into her. They hugged each other tightly. “They wouldn’t tell me where you were!”
Genevive protested loudly. “They wouldn’t let me see you. They wouldn’t say what was happening.”