Toxic Treacle (13 page)

Clean Sweep

Even pushing the trolley, it only took them five minutes to walk from de Beauvoir Tower to the Breeding Centre and, as they approached the service entrance of the enormous building that had once been a hotel, the street lights flickered on, signalling the end of Energy Conservation Shut Down.

Monkey pulled the peak of his cap down over his face and watched as Angel raised herself onto her toes so that her eye was in line with the iris scanner. The small red LCD changed to green and an automated voice instructed her to place her thumb against a panel on the door. As she did so, the back doors of the once opulent building slid open. She hesitated, anxious for Monkey to accompany her.

‘Go in,' Monkey encouraged her under his breath. ‘You gotta look like you do this every day.'

He stepped forward and went through the identification routine himself, breathing a sigh of relief when he, too, received the green light and could join Angel inside. They made their way to the foyer where the elevators were. Two security guards, one a nurturer in her forties, the other a much younger male - probably a breeder - were sitting behind the reception desk, chatting idly. An enormous plasma-screen on the wall behind them showed corridor after corridor of the Centre, but not, as far as Monkey could make out, any of the rooms or offices. The guards looked up briefly, but returned to their conversation without a second glance at the two cleaners.

Following Beth's instructions, they made their way to the Records Office in the basement. Their entrance to the room was simple but, once inside, Monkey noticed a camera mounted on the wall above the door. He flicked his eyes in its direction, indicating to Angel the need for caution.

‘Pretend to be cleaning,' he muttered, ‘until we know if it's operational.'

Angel switched on the floor polisher to drown out any noise they might make and Monkey went through the motions of wiping the flat surfaces while he started up the nearest processor. He kept one eye on the camera as he progressed through the search stages, waiting for the tell-tale whirring of the camera motor that would alert them to the fact that their movements were being monitored. Eventually, the screen in front of him proclaimed the word
WELCOME
and a voice asked whether he was tracing a breeder or a nurturer.

‘Nurturer, ‘Monkey whispered, but nothing happened. ‘Nurturer,' he repeated - again, nothing.' He felt his shoulders slump in disappointment - he hadn't been through all he'd been through in the last couple for weeks, to come away not knowing. He turned to Angel, anxiously. ‘It's not working!'

Without stopping cleaning she said, ‘Maybe you're speaking too quietly.'

Monkey tried again at normal volume. ‘Nurturer.'

‘I'm sorry,' the lilting female voice of the computer said, ‘I didn't quite catch that.'

‘NURTURER!' he almost shouted.

‘Ssssh!' Angel warned, turning off the polisher and going over to him. ‘Nurturer,' she said.

‘Thank you,' the machine responded. ‘Now may I have the last name of the nurturer you wish to trace?'

Monkey raised his eyebrow, a nagging feeling of suspicion gnawing away at him again. ‘How come it worked for you and it wouldn't for me?'

Angel shrugged. ‘It could be the tone of my voice, or maybe it's just that it couldn't make out what was being said over the noise of the polisher. Does it matter?'

‘S'pose not,' Monkey conceded, grudgingly, before taking over again.

‘Gibbon,' he said and, this time, the machine responded.

He went through Vivian's details until, at last, on the screen in front of him he saw a list of dates. They covered a period of six years clearly defined into three batches. It didn't need a genius to work out what some of them meant: there was a cluster of dates in June, the year before his birthday and another cluster in the July: there were five groups - again at monthly intervals - the year before Penny was born. But there were several bunches of dates two years before he'd been born.

Next to the entries before his birth it read:

Pre-mov - Vivian Gibbon.

Occupation: medical student.

Rank: professional.

B
reeder - Eric Randall.

Occupation: law student.

Rank: professional
.

In a column on the right-hand side of the screen, next to the last date of that batch, it said:
Conception successful - male offspring: Michael Eric Gibbon.

It was the earlier dates that perplexed him. Again, there were several clusters of dates a month apart but they were two years before he'd been born. Monkey screwed up his eyes trying to make sense of them. Next to the last one, it simply stated:
Sp. Ab.

‘
Spontaneous abortion,' Angel helped him out. ‘It means that your mother had a miscarriage before you were born.'

Monkey nodded slowly. ‘So, my sister was Eric's “three strikes and you're out”?'

‘Looks like it.'

Monkey shook his head in disbelief. ‘So, my father only got to do it...' he counted up the entries, ‘...twenty seven times?' He looked at Angel, then lowered his eyes and blushed, embarrassed that he'd spoken to her about this. This sort of stuff was pre-breeder talk. ‘Sorry,' he mumbled and looked at the screen again to cover his discomfort. ‘Let's see what we can find out about Eric Randall.'

The processor responded to his instructions and there, in front of him, appeared the details of his father:

Eric Randall:
D.O.B. 23.11.2015.

Breeder status commenced: N/A.

Breeding commenced: 2035.

Results: 27 breedings; 2 live off; 1 sp. ab.

Breeding discontinued: 03.12.2041.

Current address: Penthouse Suite; Riverside Apartments,

S/E1 Providers'
Zone.

Current position: Barrister-at-Law; Leadlow Chambers,
The Plaza.

Monkey stared at the processor. Suddenly, in those few words on the screen, his father had gone from being an abstract figure, to a real person - with an address and a job.

‘Why isn't it applicable when his breeder status started?' Monkey queried.

Angel looked at the screen. ‘Think about it - he'd have been sixteen in 2031. The Oil Wars didn't finish until 2032 and the revolution didn't happen until the following year.'

Monkey shot her a glance. ‘Is there anything you
don't
know?'

Angel shrugged, modestly. ‘Lots of things, I expect.'

‘But even so,' Monkey went on. ‘He didn't commence breeding until 2035. He'd have been twenty.' Monkey shook his head in disbelief. ‘Twenty years old before he...' He stopped, embarrassed. ‘I don't understand. What was he doing?'

‘Education?' Angel suggested. ‘Or maybe, like Jordan said, he'd been with other pre-nurturers but it wasn't recorded?'

‘I have to meet him,' Monkey muttered.

There was a whirring sound as the camera slowly turned in their direction.

‘Quick!' Monkey said, grabbing an anti-static cloth and pretending to clean the screen. ‘Look busy!'

Angel followed suit. The camera seemed to focus on them for several seconds before scanning the rest of the office and coming to a halt facing the far end.

‘My turn, ‘Angel said slipping in front of Monkey and addressing the processor.

But the results of her search were less successful. Her father, one Paul McFadden, was an accountant who had produced two live offspring: herself and Alex, but there was no record of his current address or position. Angel stared at the screen, disappointed. ‘That's so unfair!'

Monkey checked the time on his new ring-cam. It was O-7:30. They'd got plenty of time, but the faster they got out of there, the better. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘We've got what we wanted.'

Angel shot him a look that said,
You might have got what
you
wanted,
but I haven't.
Monkey shut down the machine and Angel sighed, puzzled. ‘Why aren't his details up to date?'

‘Dunno, but we need to split.'

Quickly, they gathered together the cleaning materials and left the Records Office, sealing the door behind them. Keeping their heads down in the lift, they exited on the ground floor and began wheeling the trolley towards the rear door. As Monkey raised his hand to press the release button, the younger of the guards looked up from the reception desk.

‘Hey! I've been trying to call you two.'

Monkey went cold. He stopped and pretended to be looking for something on the trolley, allowing himself time to surreptitiously slip his new ring-cam from his finger and hide it beneath some wipes. ‘Us?' he muttered, almost incoherently.

‘Course you! Who d'ya think I'm talking to? Why aren't you answering your ring-cams?'

Angel shot Monkey a look of terror.

Monkey made a great show of holding out his naked hand, devoid of the new ring-cam, which was registered to
Ricky Kelly: student of education
, and not
Aston Holmes: cleaner
. ‘Sorry,' he mumbled. ‘We're new with the agency and they're not fully encrypted yet.'

‘Useless!' The security guard tutted loudly. ‘Well, anyway, some little pre-nurturer's been sick on the third floor. You'll need to go and clear it up. Must be her first time, eh?' he laughed, crudely.

‘Er...' Monkey's mind was racing.

He glanced at Angel who was shaking her head, almost imperceptibly.

‘We're just gonna take our break,' she said in the most artisan voice she could manage.

The guard began to walk round from the back of the reception desk. ‘Break? I'll give you a break! What do you think this is - Vacation Village?' He approached the trolley and Monkey's mind was on overdrive: should he push the trolley at the guard and make a run for it? If he did, how far would they get before a whole squadron of Security was combing the town for them? ‘Show me your ID,' demanded the guard.

Monkey's heart was racing. He pulled the small plasma card from the pocket of his overalls and handed it over, making sure to keep his face as obscured as possible. Angel did likewise. The guard scanned them on his ring-cam and seemed disappointed that they checked out.

‘Now, get yourselves up to room 316 - pronto - and clear up that mess. You do a three-hour shift and you expect a break? Ha!' As an afterthought, he added, ‘And I'll be telling the agency that we don't want you back here. Break, indeed!'

Monkey turned the trolley round and they headed back into the lift.

‘What're we going to do?' Angel asked as the doors slid shut. ‘We're supposed to have this lot back by nine.'

‘I'm working on it,' Monkey answered obliquely.

As the doors opened at the third floor, one or two couples were beginning to emerge from their rooms. They all seemed much older than Monkey had expected. Tragic had been right again. This was another T.R.E.A.CL.E. lie exposed: they'd told them that they'd graduate and be selected for breeding immediately. ‘
It's not like they've told us
it will be,'
Tragic had said, but Monkey hadn't believed him. He sighed. Had Tragic managed to escape the raid, he wondered? Or was he rotting on some Farm complex, chopping up turnips in all weathers? His train of thought was interrupted by an urgent nudge from Angel.

‘Quick,' she whispered. ‘I know her.'

Angel buried her head in a cleaning manual as a pre-nurturer, slightly older than her, walked past, arm in arm with a tall breeder who was probably about twenty. They were smiling at each other coyly.

‘She lives round the corner from me - well, from Sal,' she corrected herself with a note of sadness in her voice. ‘Shanelle Pierce. She's at uni, studying politics. Hopes to be elected to The Assembly one day. Don't you remember her from school?' Monkey shook his head. ‘She's about four years older than us. I don't recognise him, though,' she commented, watching the couple walk along the corridor, away from them.

Monkey watched the pair stop by the lift. The breeder put his arms round the pre-nurturer, pulled her to him, then kissed her. The pre-nurturer broke off, giggling.

A stern female voice sounded from the speakers that were dotted along the corridor: ‘Couple Pierce and Holland report to check-out immediately. I repeat: Pierce and Holland to check-out immediately.'

‘They're in for it,' Angel remarked, as they continued towards room 316. She knocked on the door and, when there was no reply, she pressed her eye to the scanner on the door and they went into the bedroom. The bed was unmade and the sour smell of vomit hit them as soon as they entered.

Angel put her hand over her mouth and opened the window to allow fresh air into the room.

Monkey, unaffected by the odour, looked bewildered. ‘What d'ya mean, “in for it”?'

Angel had to check that his question was serious. ‘“No fraternising with breeders after copulation”,' she quoted, matter of factly. ‘Remember? “
Procreation
not pleasure
!”' She looked at him and smiled. ‘Didn't you learn anything at T.R.E.A.C.L.E.?'

‘Not enough, apparently,' Monkey replied. ‘What's wrong with a bit of “
fraternisation
”, anyway?'

‘It encourages emotional attachment,' Angel went on, leaning out of the window and breathing deeply. ‘It's OK for us to fraternise while we're choosing who we want to breed with but, afterwards, all contact is suppose to end until the next breeding. Think about it - the last thing The Assembly wants is nurturers attached to their providers. Society, as they've created it, would break down. Males might try to take back some of their power and females would be subservient again.' Then she added, facetiously, ‘Because females are such fickle, weak-minded individuals who give away their power so easily!'