Sequela (35 page)

'Abuse. Abuse of technology, abuse of the body, abuse of the soul…'

-o-

'This is ridiculous,' Gaunt said, adjusting the gauze mask over his face. 'We look like a bunch of bloody terrorists.'

The Viral Development Board members, with the exception of Agbabi and Farmer, were seated around a giant mushroom table on one of the less popular levels of the PlayPen. Alexis looked around the table. Gaunt was right.

'I'll second that,' Yule said. Despite his face being covered, it was clear that he was suffering. The outsized boiler suit was tight on his landslide form and large sweat patches had already formed on the bright orange fabric around his armpits.

'Look, it is stupid, but let's get it over with,' Chen said. 'This is the safest place we could meet.'

'Who's minuting this?' Jones asked.

Chen's head snapped towards her, then back to centre.

'First thing's first,' Chen said, 'we need to shut down our less cautious operations.'

'You mean any XC transactions?' Gaunt asked.

'Transactions, buildings access, everything.'

'I've already briefed Gerald,' Alexis said.

Gerald had conducted their extra-City dealings with impeccable delicacy. If anyone could dismantle things without drawing attention, it was him.

'Do you think we might be overreacting a little?' Jones asked.

She looked tiny on her toadstool, pinched in around the boiler suit waist, managing to look good in it, resembling an annoyingly good child with her doll-like posture.

'Extra-City operations are extremely lucrative,' she added.

'We have a new revenue stream to protect,' Alexis said. 'That's why I've got Kester out there now being interviewed, and after that going over security protocols with representatives from the various Pig operators.'

She gazed at the covered faces around the table. It was the most sinister meeting she had ever attended. The masks were acting as windows into people's personalities, allowing their true faces to reveal in the ghostly hoods.

'We've got to protect this,' she said. 'It's potentially our largest revenue stream and it's a legitimate one.'

'Our newest, certainly; our largest, perhaps;' Jones said, 'but it is definitely our most unstable – we have no idea how long this craze will last.'

'Jones, we're way ahead of the game with this,' Alexis said. 'Other companies are on it, but the stuff they've been turning out is frankly unwearable – it's not pretty and it's too similar to the muck you can pick up from the Pigs – people aren't going to want that when there's a better alternative.'

'It's true,' Yule said. 'We're just getting started, but we've already recouped our outlay for everything – the lab, Kester's salary for the next five years, the fashion show.'

'The V Spa?' Jones asked. 'The competition?'

'The competition is making us money,' Gaunt said.

'We'd be fools not to continue,' said Yule. 'We're only just tapping into this. We're getting interest from people who would never even have considered wearing before – people who couldn't see the beauty in the expressions of natural viruses. The media coverage is being kind to us and that's a hell of a lot more than they've granted us in the past.'

'They're being kind to Kester,' Jones said.

'And Kester is ours,' Alexis said.

'Speak for yourself.'

Alexis snarled. It was as well they all had masks on.

'The point is that as long as the public can only see so far,' Gaunt said, 'and as long as they are creaming their panties over Kester, we're OK. As for our clients, they wouldn't know a moral dilemma if they woke up in bed with one.'

'This is all very good,' Chen said, 'but I didn't come here to debate our options.'

'Gerald and his team have always been discreet – I don't see any reason why we can't –'

'I said I didn't come here for a debate, Jones,' Chen raised her voice. She glanced over her shoulder. 'We need to talk about how we're going to wind things down without attracting too much attention. We're not leaving here until we have a detailed plan and one that leaves us on dry land by the end of the month. Gaunt, I want you to brief Agbabi and Farmer.'

'It's on,' Alexis said. 'You're famous. Even more famous.'

She squeezed Kester's leg as he sat down beside her on the edge of his bed. She was lying on her front, arms hanging over the end of the bed like a teenager. Kester grunted.

'We're under attack,' he said, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

The four days since Yule's screen broke down had been hell. First had come the statements from the various Churches declaring the attack 'devastating' and describing the 'uncontrolled' spread of the virus. Some showed real religious compassion, offering to help care for those affected by the attack, but others were thinly veiled condemnations of City culture. The Church broadcasts were followed in short order by the press with pandemic specials, technology specials, casualty projections and doomsday predictions. Whatever the source, the effect was the same: panic.

Fortunately, the panic had been short-lived. People's pupils had barely dilated when V released a statement, backed up by the MoD, that the virus was under control and could be easily treated. Roger Yule had been by far the worst physical casualty. From the outside, Vs containment of the situation looked easy; inside the building the air was sweat and swears as they figured out the best way to identify all those affected and negotiated with the health clinics to put out the anti-virus. Kester looked down at Alexis. At least their latest crisis had speeded her return to his bed.

'It could have been much worse,' Alexis said. 'Much worse. If anything we've come out of it looking like the good guys – this was no mistake of V's after all, or yours – it was a terrorist attack and we stepped in to sort it out. We've not lost trust, we've not lost face – all your appointments are filled – and we still have a room full of A-listers prepared to bid to bed you first.'

Alexis seemed to be making peace with their situation. Perhaps everything seemed brighter in the face of averted disaster. Perhaps she had enjoyed securing the highest price possible for her champion's services.

'It's nice that you want to pimp me out personally. It's not so bad that way.'

Alexis turned up the sound. There he was, looking bedraggled in front of the cameras, smiling politely as the interviewer asked a multi-claused question.

'They always choose somewhere windy. Why do they do that? I look a mess.'

'You look sexy – your collar turned up like a private detective.'

'I've never designed a bespoke virus without considering how it could be stopped,'
windswept Kester said to the interviewer, eye-contact steady, hands visible and open.
'Ethical and safety considerations such as this are priorities for the Institute when agreeing contracts. It's one of the reasons that the Institute has such a trusted reputation.'

'You did well,' Alexis said. 'I like the word "bespoke" – says less "weaponised" and more "small boutique affair".'

'But let's see what they did with it. Whose side are they on?'

The interview cut back to studio.

'So,' the studio presenter said, 'viral designer and heartthrob Kester Lowe saves the day. The MoD has issued the following statement:
Without Doctor Lowe's vigilance and quick-thinking, a serious situation may have ensued. While the MoD and the Government as a whole do not share all of the views put forward in Doctor Lowe's statement and do not condone viral wearing, we are grateful for his professional handling of the matter. A full investigation into the attack is underway and we will make sure that those responsible are brought to justice swiftly
.

'In the second half of this special edition we talk to top scientists from around the globe about our dependency on Stark Wellbury nanoscreen technology and the complementary immunosuppressant therapy provided by Doctor Lowe's employers V. Are we too reliant on this one safety net? How has our health ended up in the hands of these two technopharmaceutical giants and is there any way out?'

Kester raised his eyebrows at Alexis.

'But before that, we go live to Bond Street to speak to some Pig-users and get their opinions. Will they stop using the Pigs now security has shown to be compromised so easily or is a quick response like this enough to keep the public's confidence? Does it bother them that the Pigs are apparently happy to trade on the German viral blackmarket? And what do people say to the
rumours
that this was a religious attack originating here in the UK? We take a closer look at some of the Church broadcasts.'

Alexis flicked off her display and flipped over onto her back.

'What are you looking so smug about? They're going to rip us apart in that second segment,' Kester said.

'They've been squabbling over that stuff for years,' Alexis said with a wave of her hand. 'That's not us; that's a whole different department. Besides, what do you care? If they burned us to the ground would you not emerge renewed from the flames as Kester Lowe Enterprises, clutching your new screen in your hand?'

'You'd have difficulty clutching it in your hand,' Kester said, then scratched his neck, considering the suggestion. With the rush of the show and the fallout of the attack Kester's private work had taken a back seat, but he needed to figure out what to do about it. No doubt Alexis already had a plan. 'You know that is something we need to talk about. I don't know what to do about it. Do I take it to Chen? Do you think it's something the company might be interested in?'

'You know they're re-running your fashion show on eight channels tonight?'

Kester couldn't help looking impressed.

'And you get to meet your new models in a few days,' Alexis said. 'The contest is closed but we've managed an impressive number of entries.'

Kester looked down at her. She was smirking. Entries; dear god. Kester's Book rang.

'Hi, Mum,' he said, making a face at Alexis.

She slapped him on the knee and mouthed
be nice to your mother.

'Kester, I was just watching you on the news!' his mother said. 'You looked so handsome!'

'I told you,' Alexis said.

'You can hear this?' Kester said to Alexis. 'Mum, you're shrieking – people can hear you.'

'People – sorry darling, are you in the middle of something?'

'No, Mum, just watching the news too.'

'With…'

'With Alexis.'

'Oh, lovely, I'm so glad it's going well for you two. I know she's a career woman, but don't let that put you off. Your father thought I had my head in the clouds when I wanted to start up my own business, but look at me now – self-sufficient and not even a bitch.'

'Mum.' Kester was painfully aware that his mother was still audible. He fumbled with his Book to turn her down while Alexis sniggered to herself.

'What? I'm just saying you shouldn't be intimidated by powerful women.'

'Mum, I'm not,' Kester said, 'but it's hardly the same, running an underwear store.'

'A
lingerie boutique
, Kester.'

'Whatever. Anyway, how are you, Mum – how's the dog?'

'The dog? What's the dog got to do with it? He's fine. I'm sending out invitations today for our next panty party. Everyone had such a fabulous time. Will you sign some more panties for me darling? They sold ever so well.'

You're blushing
, Alexis mouthed.

Kester half expected the conversation to end right there with the dog doing something interesting to distract his mother.

'I'm glad, Mum. To tell the truth I was a bit worried you'd be…I was a little embarrassed by the whole thing, you know?'

'Embarrassed? You never need to be embarrassed about who you are, Kester. Look at what you just did – saved the whole City from catastrophe. A lot of people out here will be saying it just goes to show how lucky we are not to have those screens foisted on us, but believe you me, you did a good thing, Kester. A good thing. It doesn't matter who's in trouble – you should help them if you can. I'm proud of you, Kester.'

Kester covered the mouthpiece on his Book.

'I love the PR department,' he said to Alexis, smiling.

-o-

Blotch's hands sweated as he lifted the telephone. Jesus was looking at him from the front of his extravagant altar. The varnished enamel gave a watery look to the eyes, a look of infinite suffering and sadness. He wished his altar retracted into the wall like Clarke's did. He pressed a button on his phone to call Clarke and then swung on his chair to face towards the back corner of the room.

'Are you watching all this?' he asked as Clarke answered. 'Their blasted PR department! This is all going…tits up.' Blotch struggled with the words. 'They discover the thing within days and by Monday morning everything's hunky-dory and Doctor Deviant is a hero. The whole City is supposed to be in meltdown right now – disease
spiralling
out of control – this was supposed to be bigger than the Black Death!' He was shouting now, showering the handset with foamy spittle. 'And we look like idiots!
God's way of telling us to stop
– what did I say – I went out live on television saying it was God's will, calling it a major terrorist attack, and now Kester bloody Lowe has sorted it all out. We –'

'Calm down, Minister,' Clarke said in a too-even tone. 'We must not blame ourselves for this. You did well. You've got people talking. Not everyone is praising Doctor Lowe. And besides, you assured me that there was a phase two to your plan.'

Blotch breathed heavily through his nose for a few moments before answering. 'There is. It's already underway.'

On the display in the corner, the ticker was announcing that Kester Lowe was to help the Pigs tighten up their security protocols. Blotch gritted his teeth.

'Good. Then I expect you to go and get a coffee and a pastry and crack on. Don't lose your nerve now. You're making good progress.'

Blotch put down the phone. There was a phase two, but it was a poor one, primarily because the same thing wouldn't work twice. Stupid. He flicked channels on the display, up and up in an attempt to find something that wasn't Kester Lowe. Finally he found the boxing. It was a montage of Bo Omotoye's recent fights, the warm-up for a big fight later in the day, no doubt. Blotch turned the volume back on. The programme cut to a live pre-fight press conference. The two fighters were snarling at each other over the heads of their promoters. The camera zoomed in on Omotoye as he turned back to face the press. His eyes were surrounded with a shimmering chemical-green ring that shone against his dark pupils. He looked like a werewolf.

Blotch looked down at his desk. He leafed through a few bits of paper and finally found his scrawled spider diagram. He looked up at his Jesus, who was regarding him calmly.

'Thank you,' he said.

This was the last piece of the puzzle. He had the perfect mode of delivery for the next attack and he hadn't even realised it. He looked at the names on his diagram: Cherry, Kester, Dee, Farrell, Gerald. Then he lifted his pen and drew multiple lines out from Cherry's node, ending each with a scribbly dot.
Celebrities!
he wrote beside them. The speech was already writing itself in his head.

-o-

'It is to our great sadness that the Real Church today is compelled to make another statement to our congregation and to the broader population. This morning it was announced that a second so-called 'fashion show' is being planned at V. It seems the slim escape from the peril of last month's terrorist attack was not slim enough to lift the blindness with which our City brothers and sisters have been afflicted. The City has chosen over its true hero, Jesus, the agent of the evil that has been wrought upon it: Doctor Kester Lowe. We hear reports that it was his quick thinking that saved the city, that it was his innovation that allowed the quick treatment of the virus, but was it not he who first created the virus?

'As Real Christians, given to forgiveness by the will of Jesus and His Heavenly Father, we could forgive, even celebrate, the bomber who in a moment of clarity and repentance defuses his own bomb and in so doing saves the day. But if that bomber were to build another bomb? What then? Would we place him on a pedestal? Would we allow him to take from us our trust, our time, our bodies, our lives? No.

'And yet today we see that the man on the pedestal, Doctor Kester Lowe, still stands. He is insensible to the fact that he is opening the doors to a second attack. This atheist, on his pedestal, believes he stands the highest being in the known Universe. And believing himself the highest point, the greatest creator and controller, he looks down. He looks down on you, seeing only your faces looking up at him. But should he look harder, beneath you he will see the ground and beneath the ground the threat of hellfire. For he and his colleagues are planning another show. For he is building another bomb.