Dr. Precious loads a silver capsule like a bullet into the back of the autosyringe. She’s too smooth to be a doctor-doctor. She’s not worn hollow from the public sector, new outbreaks, new strains. Inatec Biologica it says on the logotag clipped to her lapel.
Before interview #1, I thought their line was limited to cosmetics. I imagine her in a white coat and face-mask in a sleek lab that is all stainless steel and ergonomic curves, like in the toothpaste commercials. Or behind a cosmetics counter, spritzing wafts of perfume and handing out fifty-g samples of the topshelf biotech creams (one per customer, please). This isn’t so different after all. It’s just that the average nano in your average anti-ageing moisturiser acts only on the subdermal level. Mine, on the other hand, is going all the way.
‘Don’t sweat it, Kendra,’ Andile said back in interview #3, seeing my face. ‘The chances of meltdown are like zero. They’ve been using the same tech in animals for years. Cop dogs, the Aitos, you know, guide dogs, those helper monkeys for the disabled. Well, not quite the same, obviously.’
Which doesn’t mean that the contract didn’t include a host of clauses indemnifying Ghost, their parent company Prima-Sabine FoodSolutions International, Vukani, Inatec Biologica and all their respective agencies and employees against any unforeseen side-effects.
‘So, how long before the mutation kicks in?’ I ask, acting like it’s no big deal, as Dr. Precious swipes at the crook of my elbow with a disinfectant swab, probably loaded with its own nano or specially cultivated germ-eating bacteria or whatever new innovation Inatec’s come up with specially.
‘Oh babes,’ says Andile, mock-hurt. ‘Didn’t we agree we weren’t going to call it that? Promise me you won’t use that word in the interviews.’
‘What did you have for breakfast?’ says Dr. Precious unexpectedly. But her question is a ruse. Before I can think to answer (cold oats at Jonathan’s apartment, no sign of Jonathan, but that’s not unusual lately), she snaps the autosyringe against my arm like a staple gun. And just like that, three million designer robotic microbes go singing through my veins.
It doesn’t even hurt.
Considering the hype, the bulk of the contract, I am expecting nothing less than for the world to rearrange. Instead, it’s like having sex for the first time. As in, is that it?
‘That’s it. It’ll take four to six hours for the tech to circulate. Do you want me to run through it again? You may experience flu symptoms: running nose, headaches, sore throat in the first twenty-four hours. Then it’ll stop. Enjoy it. It’s probably the last time you’ll ever get sick.’
‘All perfectly normal, babes. Just your body adjusting,’ Andile chips in.
Just my immune system kicking into overdrive to war with the nanotech invasion. But it’s only temporary. People adapt. Evolve. It’s all in the manual, although I haven’t read all the fineline. Who does?
‘I’ll see you here for a check-up next week.’ Dr. Precious ejects the silver capsule from the back of the autosyringe and slots it carefully back into the case with the other empty shells. Can’t leave that stuff lying around. Light catches the gleaming shells, the reflection of Dr. Precious stretched thin like a Giacometti sculpture.
I’m already planning a timelapse, to capture the change. Only the top three layers of the epidermis, Andile was at pains to point out, a negligible inconvenience to carry with you for a lifetime.
If I could embed a camera inside my body, I would. But all I can do is document the cells mutating on the inside of my wrist, the pattern developing, fading up like an oldschool Polaroid as the nano spreads through my system.
My skin is already starting to itch.
Toby
Her timing is perfect, as always. My motherbitch manages to call bang in the middle of my morning streamcast. On an everyday, this wouldn’t bug me – motherbitch is one of the favourite recurring characters on my cast, according to my Comments section, but I’m supposed to be hooking up with Tendeka to plot our criminal adventure, so it’s inconvenient deluxe. ‘You were late fifteen minutes ago, my darling,’ she says by way of greeting and it’s true, I’ve forgotten that she’s scheduled one of our ‘we have to talks’ over a civilised brunch, but with the amount of sugar I’m doing, she’s lucky I can remember the colour of my eyes without a mirror. I’ve told her to upload appointments to my phone. Whore.
I smoke some more on the way to the Nova Deli, just to bring me up enough to handle, and switch my BabyStrange, currently displaying images from the gore folder, to record. You’d be amazed at what compelling viewing even the most arb of daily interactions can make – or then, if you’re watching this, maybe you already know.
I take a shortcut through Little Angola, which I only realise is a terrible mistake when I’m hit a double blow by the smell of assorted loxion delicacies and the chatter of warez in the overbridge tunnel market.
The warez are outmode. It’s not just that they’re cheap useless, cos who really needs a tube of bondglue or six, except for the street kids, and there are better highs for less, but cos they’re all fucking chipped. This is non-reg, but the cops have better shit to worry about, especially when it doesn’t impact the corporati.
The whole audio chipping thing was outlawed almost as soon as it hit. I mean, it was bigtime initially, with cereal boxes and toys and freeware and fucking appliances all chirping their own self-importance, jingles, promos, sound-effects, celeb endorsements, so that house spouses had to wear ear blanks to get through the supermarket. It was only a matter of time before the multinationals made it illegal, or specialised use only, but then notions of illegal don’t extend to the developing. Most of the stuff now comes down from Asia or central Africa, so the chips in here aren’t even speaking English or Xhosa or any of the other eleven nationals; it’s all Cantonese and Portuguese and Kinyarwanda.
It’s ugly, but the effect, even cumulatively, is nowhere near as annoying as the relentless twitter of the motherbitch. I pause at a stall selling plastic belts and cellphone covers and Fong Kong sunglasses to get her a talking Hello Kitty taser that yelps for ‘help’ incessantly in five different languages. The vendor tries to sell me one from under the table, rather than the squawking sample that got my attention. Once they’re activated, he says, you can’t turn the damn things off. Better take a new one, still in the box. But I tell him it’s absolutely perfect and transfer the full asking to his phone, not even bothering to haggle. He can’t even keep up the pretence of being offended. Cash talks, baby.
Between the short cut, dodging the herd of cyclists who try to run me down on the promenade, and stopping to check out the surf – negligible; the sea stretching between Mouille Point and Robben Island looks greasy and flaccid, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be cooking on the corporate beaches – I’m already an hour late.
I slide into the motherbitch’s usual booth at Nova Deli by the window, playing it charming, even patting that disgusting mutacute she insists on carrying around with her, draped off her neck like an albino tiger slothmonkey scarf. It bares its neat little teeth at me, the only thing at this table brave enough to express how it really feels.
‘Oh Pretzel, stop that.’ Motherbitch taps it on its nose and it starts making these grovelling, warbling, purring sounds. I wish she could have settled on one species or two max. These multiple mash-up jobs make me queasy.
She is sucking on a nutradiet. She blows a punctuation mark of vitamin-enriched smoke in my direction. ‘Did you call the Sunshine Clinic?’