It looks like a pile of rags, dumped by a dusty track.
A constant flow of people trudges past, clutching baskets and babies and bags. They stumble across deep cracks in the earth that look like a maze game I once played. The presenter is reeling off numbers – huge numbers, bigger than we’ve ever counted to in school. But then the camera moves closer. And, poking out of the rags, I see a leg.
A girl’s leg.
…Every five seconds, a child dies from hunger…
It doesn’t look like a girl’s. More like a machine’s, before they coat them with silicone. Just skin hanging off bone.
They zoom in on her face.
It is my face.
But the cheeks are hollows. Black pits where my eyes should be.
Something flickers. Not one thing, many. A swarm. Crawling, wings glistening, burrowing into my—
I wake with a cry. My fingers claw at my face, even as I register it’s just the nightmare. The same nightmare that’s haunted me ever since they showed us that reel at school.
I sit up. The sheet is slicked to my skin. Niko stirs in his charge-basket and opens one eye. He clambers onto the bed and spoons into my belly. Dawn births familiar shadows: my floating desk, the robotic tree, its CO2 filters glinting darkly. I cross and uncross my fingers three times. Because three feels right for today. Everything in threes.
A high-pitched beep tears into the room. Niko bolts upright as my screen lights up like a solar flare.
I haul the blanket around my shoulders and scurry to my desk, Niko clacking along the tiles behind. A thick red bar flashes on our family dashboard. It’s only Wednesday and my grandparents have already overshot their week’s resource quota. Typical of their generation. Banking on the rest of us bailing them out. Again.
I drum the desk in triple meter: Mum and Dad tracking slightly below, the gran we never see well under. At least she sticks to the rules. I log on to the portal and bring up their transactions. Strictly speaking, we’re not supposed to look unless it’s an investigation, but my colleagues all do it. The ministries turn a blind eye because they like us to be role models, carbon footprints nicely within budget. Especially the one I work for, the MPFP.
It’s the usual suspects: water and heating. Oh, and lunch at some café that’s been blacklisted for unauthorised imports. That always bumps quotas into the red.
Niko nudges my leg with a whine.
‘It’s OK, fella, Kai will sort it.’
I remember one time they snuck off to the Lake District on another of their sprees. Mum didn’t realise until she got to the check-out at our local store. When she swiped her card, not only did the till humiliate her with its bright-red rejection, the store bot made her put everything back: ‘Your family quota has been exceeded. These purchases cannot be authorised.’
Turned out my grandparents had managed to blow our entire week’s food quota, dining out. We had to avoid that store for weeks.
I’m about to fire off a message, when a notification pops up:
Custody authorisation request.
I check the time: just after five. My diligence may be exemplary, but this is beyond the call of duty, even for me.
A bristled face lurches onto my screen. Patches of ruddy skin gape through granite whiskers, as if a child has been let loose on them with a razor.
I summon a breath. ‘Detective Inspector Steener.’
‘Reaping already, this fine morning? Bit keen, even for you… ’
My neck muscles stiffen. I hate that term.
‘A little early for you too, Inspector.’
‘Some of us haven’t been to bed.’
He yawns, as if to prove it.
I avert my eyes. I have no desire to see inside Steener’s mouth.
‘Better brace yourself.’ He sniffs. ‘Not a good one.’
There are no good ones.
Steener works for the foeticide division. Technically, it’s foeticide and infanticide, but since genetic testing became routine, the killing of unwanted babies is mercifully rare. He may have some challenging habits, but Steener is very good at his job.
‘Go on.’
‘Woman wakes up in a hotel room. Bleeding heavily, stomach cramps, no idea how she got there. Calls an ambulance, tests show she’s been dosed. Nasty little cocktail, goes by the street name Miss Carrie.’
I frown. ‘That’s a new one. What’s in it?’
‘Abortion meds and GHB. Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid. Also known as “easy lay”: a date-rape drug.’
I sigh. Sometimes I despair of our species.
‘Only found out she was pregnant a couple of weeks ago,’ continues Steener. ‘According to her, he knew she’d deactivated her Destine implant. But when she told him about the baby, he got cold feet. Said he only got “one shot” at fatherhood. Unfortunate choice of words. Said they should have gone the IVF route with screening, to be safe. That this wasn’t “the one”.’
Steener rolls his eyes. The whites have a creamy film, like hot milk that’s gone cold.
‘He pressed her to have a termination. She refused. Just as well he’s an idiot. If he’d kept quiet and slipped her the meds at home, he might have got away with it. As opposed to dragging her out here… ’
An image materialises on screen. All I see is a wash of red.
My eyes veer away from bloodied sheets to purple flowered walls; a table in the corner with a lamp. My foot begins to tap.
‘So, where did he get the drugs?’
Steener arches his eyebrows. ‘Usual source. Every time we close one shop down another springs up.’
By ‘source’, Steener means the abhorrent slurry that resides in the underbelly of our system.
I access the couple’s profiles. She’s a secondary-school teacher, quota-compliant, no issues with resources or family planning.
He, on the other hand…
‘Bit of a spendthrift, possibly, young Michael?’ Steener smirks. ‘Not ready to give up life’s niceties for nappies?’
There’s no possibly about it. Expensive meals. Unnecessary purchases. Looks like she’s been helping him out for some time.
‘A repeat squanderer.’ That’s all I concede.
‘So, do I have a green light? Shall we bring him in for questioning?’
‘Definitely,’ I say, flagging the file. Transgressions must be penalised.
I think of the sheets. ‘How’s she doing, the woman?’
‘Physically, OK, but… ’ He puffs out a breath. ‘Put it this way, she won’t be dating any time soon.’
I end the call and pull Niko onto my lap. My fingers sink into his fur, and he sighs with pleasure.
I wonder if the woman owns a pet bot. Maybe I should suggest it.
Much safer to stick with machines.