‘Fight Club?’
‘Have you ever read a book? Do you know that inquisitive mice grow more neurons?’
The only book she had ever read cover to cover was the collector’s edition of Hansel & Gretel that James had given her. The cruel coincidence is not lost on her.
‘Besides, we’re probably going to die tonight,’ says Kirsten, ‘I’m thinking all rules are off.’
‘Well, ja, that’s the second rule.’
‘Ha.’
‘Seriously,’ he says, holding her arm, ‘no one is allowed to know, do you understand?’
They start moving again.
‘Alba is a crowdfunded underground organisation: a rogue group of engineers, scientists, biologists, geneticists… we experiment with biotechnology. But mostly we investigate others that do the same thing.’
‘You’re a biopunk?’
‘Technically I’m a chemgineer. But, yes, biohacker, biopunk, hacktivist… basically we’re high-tech Truthers.’
‘You uncover stuff.’
Seth nods: ‘We’re a technoprogressive movement that advocates open access to genetic information. We play around with DNA – only in a clean way – but our aim, the reason we exist, is to infiltrate and expose what we call black clinics – megacorps who use biotech in an uncool way.’
‘Like?’
‘We look for anything dodgy: any way the company might be ethically dubious, illegally practicing, or trying to exercise any kind of social control.’
‘That plastic surgery place – in Saxonwold. Tabula Rasa.’
‘They were buying discarded embryos from fertility clinics, injecting the stem cells into people’s faces.’
‘You exposed them?’
‘Alba did. A colleague – she had to suck fat out of housewives’ thighs for a year before she was allowed near their faces. It took her another year to uncover the black market stem cells. We also exposed the Ribber Ranch, XmonkeyD and Slimonade.’
Kirsten had heard about all of them over the last few years: their nasty secrets being revealed and those involved being strung out in the subsequent trials.
‘The thing about amazing runaway technology,’ says Seth, ‘is that it makes it easier to be evil. Government can’t legislate fast enough to keep up. Alba is the self-appointed, independent watch-dog.’
They up their pace down the stairs.
‘So, there has always been talk about the Genesis Project. It’s seen as, like, the ultimate black clinic. Like a human version of Reptilians: a huge clandestine society that actually controls the world. They’re supposedly everywhere, especially in leadership positions.’
‘The Queen-is-a-lizard theory, but no, well, lizards.’
‘And local. It’s a South African group.’
‘So the Nancies are probably lizards. Or, whatever, non-lizards. You know what I mean.’
‘According to the rumours, there would be a few strategically-placed Genesis Project members in key political positions.’
‘The president?’
‘I’ve always thought she looked a little reptilian.’
They get to the parking basement, and Keke’s motorbike is parked in its usual place. Kirsten opens the storage space at the back of the bike, takes out the inflatable helmet and key, and packs the insulin kit and Seth’s backpack. She offers Seth the helmet but he waves it away. She puts it on, wincing as it inflates, and fastens the strap underneath her chin.
‘But you don’t believe it? I thought you’d like the conspiracy element, given your predilection for paranoia.’
‘I don’t know. Before today, I thought that if it existed, we would have some kind of proof by now.’
‘Now we have the knife.’
In the corner of the parking basement, a car comes to life. Kirsten and Seth move quickly into the shadow of a pillar. It revs, its tyres squeal on the smooth concrete. It blasts warm air on them as it rushes past. Tinted windows. The man inside tosses a spanner into his cubbyhole and clicks it shut.
Kirsten releases her grip of Seth’s arm.
‘GP could mean anything,’ he says. ‘It could be from your Dad’s local bar. GastroPub. Gin Party. Geriatric Pints.’
‘Getting Pissed.’
‘Gone Phishing.’
‘Green Phingers.’
‘Gay Pride?’
‘He wasn’t stylish enough.’
They get on Keke’s bike, and Kirsten starts the engine, revs. She accelerates gently, trying to get a feel for the machine thrumming between her thighs.
‘Except that I’ve seen that insignia before, that diamond.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s the only lead we’ve got.’
CRACKED COBALT
28
Johannesburg, 2021
A few kilometres away from The Office, something happens to the motorbike. There is a loud bang, as if someone had shunted a wheel, and they go skidding, screeching off the road, and slam into a stationary 4X4. They lie still for a moment. Kirsten’s left arm sparks with pain. She touches it gingerly with her other hand. Blue gleam (Cracked Cobalt). Broken.
She remembers Seth wasn’t wearing a helmet.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, trying to turn to see him, but he’s also pinned to the tar. ‘Oh my God. Seth? Seth?’ She doesn’t recognise the sound of her own voice. She tries to wriggle out from the bike, but only manages an inch. She looks around for help, but the street is dead. Seth groans, brings his hands up to his head.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks in the stranger’s high-pitched voice.
He doesn’t say anything for a while.
‘Depends on your definition of “okay”.’
Kirsten sighs loudly, lies down. ‘You can talk, which means you have a pulse. That’s something.’
He gets up, tries to find his balance, staggers on the spot for a while, before realising that Kirsten is trapped by the bike. He comes over to her side, releases her. Once she rolls clear he lets the bike crash down again.
‘Something happened,’ he says, ‘to the bike. I heard it.’
He kneels down to get a closer look, tries to spot any signs of sabotage, but he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He always liked the idea of a bike, but liked the idea of being alive more.
‘Donorcycles,’ says Kirsten, wincing. ‘That’s what James says they call them in the ER.’
‘Cute,’ says Seth.
Kirsten deflates her helmet. Opens the compartment at the back of the bike, retrieves their things. She checks Keke’s insulin pack. Three out of the five vials are broken.
‘Let’s try get a cab,’ she says, limping in the direction of the main road. The left leg of her jeans is hanging on at the knee by a thread, her calf is bloody and gravel-bejewelled. Her shorn head is bruised and dirty; she supports her injured arm as she walks.
‘You look like you’re straight off the set of Terminator 8,’ says Seth.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ she says, gesturing at his newly-bleeding forehead. There are sparks in her arm. She eases her shirt off, revealing a tank top, and ties it into a sling. Seth hands her his hoodie to wear.
‘Is your arm broken?’
‘I don’t know. Think so. Never broken an arm before.’
Seth can’t say the same.
‘The pain is blue. Different shades. Right now it’s Cyan Effervescence. I think that means broken.’
‘You’re one of those people,’ says Seth. ‘Those points-on-the-chicken people.’
She looks sideways at him.
‘Those people that taste shapes,’ he says.
‘Taste shapes, feel flavours, smell words, hear colours, see sound… yes. My wires are crossed. I have no walls between my senses.’
‘So that’s why they wanted you,’ he says.
‘Hey?’
‘All the kids that were abducted had some kind of talent, some aptitude, something that set them apart. Musical genius, edgy horticulturalist, uber-athlete, super-linguist…’