CHAPTER 6

The tram whines up the hill on its slow climb to the Marston. I can already see it, soaring above the rooftops, those iconic green bioreactor panels looping around its frame. The Ministry of Health Security is particularly proud of its centres’ design: microalgae in the panels consume carbon dioxide and nutrients from waste water, converting them to biomass energy, which powers the buildings in a virtuous loop. But ecodesigns are not my priority today.

I stayed the night in the room that had sheltered me my entire childhood, seeking respite in the familiar: the pale-blue curtains that shimmer like waves in the sun; Teddy still waiting for me on my pillow. I immersed myself in my search, trawling page after page of data. Banking records, tax and insurance. Utilities, transport and tech. Not one single match.

In transaction terms, Zoe Houghton does not exist.

Afterwards, I just lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, filtering memories through this new lens. All I could unearth was one potential clue. I must have been around four or five, and I recall Dad’s face knotted in anger because I’d taken something from their room. I don’t remember what, but Dad hardly ever lost his temper, so it stayed with me.

Maybe what I’d taken had been hers.

I must have eventually drifted off, but woke when it was still dark. For those first few seconds, everything seemed normal, and I reached for Niko, but my fingers brushed the wall.

And my family fell apart once more.

I slump against the window as the tram swings into the approach road, passing a contractor furiously scrubbing paint off a wall:

STOP THE MURDER

My foot jiggles. I count the dots on the patterned seats in fives.

I’ve worked so hard to get this far in the Ministry, much harder than the others, so I could serve my country, prove that I was loyal. It was the same in school; the teachers never took to me, even before the incident with Ciara. It didn’t matter what I did, how hard I tried, any acknowledgement of my grades always seemed begrudging.

I can just imagine their reactions now, if they knew:

You only had to look at her…

Remember that sisters’ game?

I told you so…

I step onto the pavement and march along the path to reception. The registration scanner winks at me, and the doors slide open. Shouts erupt from the play area, where pink-cheeked children dart through tunnels and under nets. Behind them, adult limbs pound a battalion of gym machines with less elation, more sweat.

An admin bot glides out to meet me, flushing green.

‘Ministry Representative Houghton, welcome.’ It inclines its upper body. ‘We have the attendance report you asked for. Clients and their visitors in the requested timeframe.’

Was it really only yesterday I saw that alert?

It feels like a lifetime.

‘Classified, I trust?’

‘At the highest level.’

‘Good.’

It hands me a screen. ‘Staff and contractors are also listed.’

I quickly run the profiles. No flags to indicate any transgressions on quotas. And no matches.

‘Anything from security?’

‘No unauthorised visitors. Everyone is accounted for.’

Old school it is, then. ‘I’ll need to interview any staff with access to the gene bank who were here between six and seven yesterday morning. Human or other.’ I tap the screen. ‘Schedule them for ten minutes each.’

‘Of course. Permit me to show you to your workstation.’

We cross the atrium to the lifts. I cast my eye over the curved white lines and abstract décor. The walls are afflicted with blue, cell-like spheres, giving the impression of yet another antibiotic-resistant infection. As we ascend, I glimpse a scattering of white pods on the third floor: surgical biodomes.

The glass doors open, and I am assaulted by a chorus of wails.

The maternity floor.

The bot leads me into a consultation room. A white desk presides over two lounge chairs; a vase of artificial flowers diffuses a sickly scent. I glance at the poster above the desk: one of the Ministry’s favourites: a mother cradles her baby, sunlight filtering through golden leaves:

I think of my mother here, all those years ago. Cradling her illegal daughter.

‘Refreshments are available from the kiosk next door,’ says the bot. ‘The relevant staff have been notified. Is there anything else I may assist you with before I leave?’

‘No.’

A minute later, an interview list pops up on my screen. Not one of them is human.

Almost immediately, there’s a tap on the door. Only a machine would be so prompt.

‘Enter.’

It still catches me, how real some of them look, even with their skin tones. This android shimmers a pale silver.

They cup their hands in the salute: ‘A pleasure to meet you, Ministry Representative Houghton.’

They radiate a good-natured calm; facial muscles relaxed, lips slightly curled. No gawping at my eyes. Androids certainly have the edge on people when it comes to manners. But beneath that shimmering skin is a silicone endoskeleton that could crush me. Housing the neural network of a super-intelligent brain.

I flash my Ministry badge, although it’s not necessary, and launch straight in.

‘Did you access the gene lab at any point between six and seven yesterday morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was your work?’

‘Profile updates.’

‘Who else was present?’

‘In that timeframe, three data bots.’

They meet my gaze. And now I’m the hypocrite caught staring: their silver pupils have lilac irises – the combination is quite arresting. I check their ID tag: Nieran.

Only level six are given names.

I consult my notes. ‘According to the rota, you weren’t due in until eight.’

‘Preparation improves efficiency.’

A machine after my own heart.

‘Did you sequence any new profiles that morning?’

‘No. I was reviewing updates from patch feeds.’

‘Show me.’

They tip their head. ‘As you have the appropriate authorisation, I am permitted.’

They walk behind the desk and activate a console. Profile IDs spill onto my screen.

It only takes a second to run them. None is a match for Zoe’s.

‘Is it possible someone could have accessed the system remotely?’

‘The protocols are very strict. There is no remote access to the gene bank for security reasons.’

What am I missing?

My foot starts tapping: a staccato rhythm of fives.

I catch them looking, and stop.

‘May I offer a suggestion?’ Their tone is deferential. ‘I understand that you are seeking a specific profile. The Ministry works off dashboard summaries, but our bank stores the raw data of over fifteen million individuals. I could run a search, in the event there has been some anomaly in the classification?’

I hesitate. I’d rather not share this profile with anyone, but they are a level six.

And the profile originated here.

‘This information is classified at the highest level,’ I say. ‘The sequence must be deleted immediately.’

‘I understand.’

I send it over and the android blinks. Twice.

‘Unfortunately, that profile is not registered here.’

I feel a rush of irritation. ‘It was traced to this centre. Surely it can’t just appear out of nowhere then disappear again?’

Their expression indicates some conflict. ‘I am aware that, very occasionally, the centre is forced to deal with certain … emergencies. For “unregulated” identities.’

It’s as though an insect is crawling up my neck.

Officially, such things are not acknowledged. The Ministry says it undercuts confidence in the system, which is bad for morale. But we all know it happens. Offliners, who opt out of the system. Criminal gangs. And, of course, the never-ending stream of illegal migrants who vanish into the underworld.

I clear my throat. ‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ I say, because I have to. But my mind is spinning.

‘Send me the profiles of all females born in the maternity unit on this day.’

I send him the date Mum gave me. I don’t hold out much hope, given I’ve already searched the birth records, but while I’m here, I might as well ask. This reallocation business is bugging me: it just doesn’t add up. Any medical check or nursery application would flag a new child.

‘The data has been sent. Will there be anything else?’

‘No, that is all.’

They cup their hands and move to the door.

I consider cancelling the other interviews. If a level six can’t help, there’s little point drilling a data bot.

My mind turns again to that other family, who hid their excess child.

I scrolled some state social feeds in the early hours, to see if I could find out what happened to the girl. A number of conspiracy theories had somehow managed to evade the censorship algorithms. The most disturbing page, most likely the terrorist group FREE’s handiwork, claimed the Ministry had shipped the twelve-year-old off to a remote Scottish island. After sterilising her.

So she couldn’t conceive and throw their numbers out again.