“Am I late?”
“I wasn’t keeping track of the time.” I watched her getting used to the sound of my electronic voice and what serves for my face these days. “It’s OK to stare,” I said. “I’m used to it.”
“I’m sorry,” she blushed. “I’m a bit nervous. I’ve never met anyone I’ve chatted to online before. But this is an emergency.”
“So you said,” I replied, putting a flashing exclamation mark on my screen that reflected off her own face. I observed her confusion in its light; it was one of a number of reactions people have to the way I look. “Why not buy me another coffee and tell me all about it?”
She went to place an order. Francis handed her an all-day breakfast—juice, sausage, egg, toast—which she came back with and placed in front of me.
Too bad I couldn’t eat it. I took out my flask, poured the juice in, connected my tube and began to suck it down. She didn’t gawp like some.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m used to strange habits.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked.
“See?” She gave me a quick flash of her left arm, slipping back the sleeve of her alpaca coat to reveal a mobile phone emerging from her hand. I saw her transition point: the way the flesh changed colour, texture and substance where her hand stopped being a hand.
“OK,” I nodded. “I’ve seen a few of that type.” I was suddenly sad for her. “Problem when you want to upgrade to a newer model, isn’t it?”
She bit her lip.
“Sorry. Tact isn’t my best feature.” I tried to put a reassuring smile on my screen.
She began to tuck into the breakfast she’d bought me. “Look, I’m trusting you, just by being here. And you can trust me, so relax, Johnny. It’s not as if I’m a Gene Police agent or anything. You know my name—Kestrella. It’s French after my mother. Hey, your own point looks bad.”
She’d been staring at where my skin turned into liquid crystals, just in front of my ears. I pulled my hood forwards.
“I don’t have a mother,” I blurted.
“But everyone has a mother!” she cried.
“Mine did a runner. When she saw what I’d become.”
“Now it’s my turn to say I’m sorry.” She put her pale little hand on my mittened, grubby one. No one had done that for years.
I jerked it away. “I don’t want to let you down, but…I-I have to go now.”
I hurried out on to the tired street. Beneath the orange lights I pulled my hoodie tight around me. Keeping my head down I dodged the few pedestrians who were out, aware of her following me. I turned a corner on to the Walworth Road, my shoulders hunched. I was striding as fast as I could, but she was faster.
“‘Hybrids must unite,’” she panted as she drew alongside me. “‘We have the natural right to expect that society will protect and help us. If the government does not respect this right then we must band together, for in togetherness is strength…’”
The words seemed strangely familiar. Then I realised she was quoting something I’d written back at me. “‘If the government does not protect us, then we have no choice but to defend ourselves…’” I continued.
“‘…by any means at our disposal,’” she concluded, smiling. “It’s from your blog, Hybrid Nation, isn’t it? Declaration of the Rights of Hybrids? See—I’ve done my homework.”
I stopped and put her face on close-up to see how earnest she was. So small. What kind of threat could she be either to me or to them? I was nearly two metres tall, but diminished by my stoop and by my charity-shop rags. Kestrella, on the other hand, was tiny but like a fashion model. “How come you can afford these clothes?” I asked.
“Find out,” she challenged.
“Give us a clue,” I protested. “I need something to go on.”
She told me a name. I began an Internet search.
In a doorway, out of sight of passers-by, she read a new text on her mobile. Now I could clearly see where her transition occurred: the inflammation, raw like a weeping burn, and the strips of dead skin peeling off. It wasn’t pleasant, but mine are worse.
I offered her my nearly used up can of De-Morph, but she declined.
“I have a better one,” she said. “From Papa.”
I examined the search results. She was Kestrella Chu, daughter of Sim Chu, marketing director for the big drug company Mu-Tech. It was the same name as on the tube from which she was now squeezing ointment on to her oozing skin. “Field-testing a new product, huh? So does Daddy know about…uh…?”
“Naturally.” She fixed me with her eyes, big and brown, as if it was a challenge to my idea of reality. “But he chose not to give me up.”
“You’re a Blue?” I asked.
“Yes, he registered me. With my permission.”
I looked around, puzzled. “Is he here then?”
She giggled. “Don’t be silly. He’s not my minder. He’s far too busy!” She nodded across and down the street. On a side street leading off the main road I could just see a large 4x4 with shaded windows.
“You have a private minder?”
She nodded, smiling. “Hired specially for the job. His name is Dominic, and he is two metres tall and works out and weighs 85 kilos.”
I put a white flag on my monitor. “O-kay,” I said. “No worries. So, er, why does your father keep you at home then? Is it so he’s got a real live guinea pig handy to test out his new products on?”
Her smile vanished and she left the doorway. “You really are a horrible cynic, aren’t you?” It was my turn to try and keep up with her as she sped back up the road towards the 4x4. “Did life make you this way or is that the real reason your parents walked out on you?” I laughed for the first time in ages.
Running to catch up, the wind blew the hoodie off my head, revealing the monitor where my face should be. Two passers-by saw it—recoiled in fright, turned tail and ran the other way. I hurriedly pulled the hood well over my head and hoped they weren’t off to call the Gene Police.
“Look,” I was panting as I drew alongside Kestrella. “I’m fifteen years old, I should be in school, or losing my virginity, binge-drinking, skateboarding, or whatever it is boys my age do. But instead I’ve been living on the streets for two years, always on the lookout, trying to avoid things like that happening.” I jerked my head back, one hand tugging my hood down tight over my monitor. “It’s not surprising if I’m lacking a few airs and graces.”
“You agreed to this rendezvous.” She fixed me with a gaze. “And I need your help.” She handed me her tube. Its brand name read I-So-L8. I squeezed out a dollop of cream and
