Why You Were Taken (24 page)

  ‘The Black Hole,’ she says. ‘It finally makes sense.’

He blinks at her. She has the feeling he understands, maybe he felt The Black Hole too but filled it with other things.

  ‘I was always – disconnected – with my father,’ he says. ‘Never met my mother. Never felt he really wanted me around, didn’t understand why they had me in the first place.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Kirsten. ‘But why abduct a child you don’t want? Surely a creep so desperate for a baby would, I don’t know, love the child more?’

Seth is silent.

  ‘It doesn’t add up,’ says Kirsten, ‘It’s too much to take in. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to cope with this.’ She moves to run her hands through her hair but feels her prickly scalp instead, the plaster on the back of her head. Realises she’s been holding the knife all along and puts it on the desk. He glances at it and narrows his eyes.

  ‘Whose knife is that?’ he asks.

  ‘This?’ she says, ‘It was my father’s – well, whoever he was – the man who pretended to be my father for 28 years. Why? What’s wrong? Why are you freaking out?’

  ‘Who was your father? What did he do?’

  ‘Who was my father? I don’t know. He was a research guy, a lab guy, a grindaholic who ignored his wife and daughter to read a lot of scientific literature. I still don’t actually know what he
did.
Will you please tell me why you are getting so freaked out by the knife?’

  ‘You’re not quite Nancy Drew, huh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you even think to look up that insignia?’

  ‘No. Why would I? And who the fuck is Nancy Drew? I’m a fucking photographer, not a member of the Hawks. All this,’ she motions around her, ‘this fuck-circus, is new to me, okay?’

He stares at her, then scans the insignia of the pocketknife and does an image-match search. Nothing comes up.

  ‘You recognise it – the logo – I can see.’

  ‘Yes, I recognise it,’ says Seth. ‘But … it’s impossible. An urban legend, a myth. It’s not supposed to exist.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

Seth points at the diamond-shaped insignia. He traces an angular ‘G’ in the left of the diamond and a ‘P’ in the right.

  ‘The guys at Alba are going to flip out when I show this to them.’

Kirsten looks at the knife, looks at him. She sees him smile for the first time.

  ‘G.P.’ he says. ‘It’s the fucking Genesis Project.’

NON-LIZARDS

27

Johannesburg, 2021

‘Okay,’ says Kirsten, ‘there’s no easy way to say this, so, well, here goes: I need to cut a microchip out of the back of your head.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Seth, ‘just as I was beginning to think we were getting on.’

  ‘The crazy lady –’

  ‘Now you’re speaking about yourself in the third person.’

  ‘The
other
crazy lady, Betty/Barbara, said she knew they were tracking her because she could feel the microchip in her head. And the killer – killers – whoever is trying to kill us, knows where we live. Knew that lady who took her toddler to that park.’

  ‘Look,’ says Seth, shaking his head, ‘that just can’t be true. Technology for trackers didn’t even exist when we were kids. Wait, is that why the back of your head was bleeding? You tried to look for a fucking microchip?’

  ‘Not tried, I found it!’

  ‘Show me,’ he says.

  ‘I planted it in a taxi. It could be anywhere.’

  He looks around the office, rolling glassy eyes. She knew he wouldn’t believe her.

  ‘Next you’ll be telling me to wear a tinfoil hat.’

  ‘Actually, that’s probably not a bad idea.’

  ‘Ha,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not fucking with you.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘but you’re not cutting it out with that thing. I know someone.’

  ‘We don’t have time to fuck around!’ shouts Kirsten.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I need to go to Alba. That is not negotiable. They’ll be able to remove the chip. Analyse it. Then we need to get bullets, and get you a weapon.’

  ‘What the hell is Alba? What about Keke?’

  ‘We can only find your friend when we have more information. The chip is the only thing we have at the moment.’

  A thought strikes Kirsten.

  ‘Hackerboy Genius,’ she says. ‘Keke’s contact. His number will be on her phone. He can get into anything: it’s how we found you.’

  ‘You think he’ll know something?’

  ‘He’ll know more than what’s on this drive,’ says Kirsten, ‘She asked him to dig.’

Seth shoves his Tile into his backpack.

  ‘We’ll call him on the way.’

‘What is the Genesis Project?’ asks Kirsten as they head down the fire escape stairs, towards the basement. Seth shakes his head. ‘There’s not a lot to tell. I mean, there have been rumours for years, but I don’t think anyone actually believed them.’

Kirsten thinks of her father: heavy, steel-framed glasses, dulled by time. Big hands, badly tailored trousers, egg-yolk stains on his ties. She finds it difficult to imagine that he was involved in any kind of covert movement.
Unless he was good,
she thinks,
unless he was very, very good.

  ‘It’s a bit like The Singularity – never gonna happen, but still as scary as shit.’ He shoots a glance at Kirsten, as if to size her up, as if to see if he can trust her. ‘When I started at Alba – ’

  ‘You still haven’t told me what that is.’

He stops on the sixth landing. The caged light next to his head flickers: a loose connection.

  ‘Alba is a bit like Fight Club. The first rule of Alba is: never talk about Alba.’

  ‘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 …’