The New Girl (Downside) (30 page)

Tara half listens to her words, the ache in her legs now completely forgotten. The ceiling is so high she can barely see the criss-cross of its metal struts, and for some reason there’s a
complex web of tubes and wires hanging down from it. She drags her gaze down one of the tubes – a clear snake the diameter of a garden hose – realises that the end of it appears to be
connected to one of the small hunched figures a few rows in front of her. No, not just connected...
fused
into the neck of the person she’s looking at; she can make out a lump of
what looks to be scar tissue surrounding it. Her stomach rolls over, she gags, swallows a mouthful of bile. That can’t be right. Nuh-uh. No way. Is she hallucinating? Some by-product of the
drugs they’ve given her? She pinches her arm. She’s still feeling detached, but she’s sure she’s not that far gone.

She finds herself touching the spongy wound behind her ear. Presses it. Feels something pop deep inside her mind, followed by a sudden wash of calm as if she’s just taken a trank. The
nausea abates.

‘Follow me.’ Penter’s voice floats towards her. ‘And please, heed the warnings. Keep your appendages closed.’

Tara can’t make her legs move. Can’t tear her eyes away from the hunched figures dotted around the room. And the tubes attached to each one.

‘Mrs Tara Marais?’

All Tara can think is
Martin
– she has to get to Martin. With a gargantuan effort, she makes herself walk forward. There’s just enough space to squeeze past the desks. Her
eyes graze over the figure closest to her; it’s definitely a child. In its unrevealing overall, she can’t tell if it’s male or female. He or she is sitting hunched over, using
some sort of soldering iron to weld steel shapes onto what looks horribly like a denture plate.

She reaches out, gently touches the child’s back, trying not to stare at the wad of scar tissue sealed over the end of the tube inserted into his or her neck. ‘Hey... are you
okay?’

The child looks up and Tara gasps, recoils, bashes into one of the empty desks behind her. One side of the child’s face is lumped and misshapen, a growth covering an eye. The child smiles,
showing off red, toothless gums, then drops its head and continues to work.

Tara numbly follows Penter past row after row. Several are completely empty, but all of the children she passes seem to be deformed in some fashion. She takes in stumps where hands should be, an
unfortunate whose back is so twisted and hunched its neck appears to be non-existent, and several with skin so translucent and fragile that she can make out blue veins pulsing beneath. Not one of
them looks up at her curiously; all are concentrating on the work in front of them.

‘Aren’t they scenic?’ Penter calls. ‘Factors are allocated primo modification care, as you can see.’

Tara knows what this place is. Of course she does. She’s seen sights similar to this on the news, exposés of wealthy design houses accused of exploiting Asian workforces to increase
their profit margins. But she had no idea it was happening in South Africa. And on this scale! It’s beyond sick. Why haven’t the cops shut it down? Bribery? Must be. Jesus.

‘Mrs Tara Marais?’ Penter calls. ‘I am sorry to hurry, but there are other... matters I must complete before the moist break.’

‘What is this? Some sort of sweat shop?’

‘There is no sweat here!’

‘So just plain old slave labour then?’

‘Slave? Oh no. I have read my upside history. These are not like the citizens you upsiders forced to work and pluck sugar. Look: they are content.’ She taps one of the tubes hanging
from the ceiling. Tara shudders. ‘They have constant victuals, they are busy and are consuming, they are entertained. Plus, they get primo modification and lemons. What more does a body want
out of life? Really,’ Penter continues, ‘if I were not so suited to upside liaison, I would wish for a placement here, too.’

‘But these are
children
!’

Penter chuckles. ‘Little appendages make for efficient workloads, everybody knows that!’

‘And... and what are they making?’

‘Various consumables. Tech and modes, mostly. Victuals too in some sectors.’

Tara passes a child who instantly reminds her of Jane. She has the same shock of odd-coloured hair and slight build. Except that the stumps of this child’s arms appear to be fused –
melted – onto a strange bulky machine that reminds Tara of a sewing machine. She waits for another surge of nausea. Feels nothing. Realises that she’s now beyond shocked, is almost glad
of the mind-numbing drugs they’ve given her.

‘But... But how can you say they aren’t slaves? They seem to be... attached to their work stations.’

‘Factors are not stuck. They can petition for a work replacement if they wish. Few do, of course, but we still need to fill the vacancies and make up for the high attrition
rate.’

‘Attrition?’

‘Most upside assimilants depreciate quickly, which is why we have chosen to scout halfpints now. It results in many more productive periods.’

Tara has to admit that the silent children don’t look as if they are in obvious distress, their hideous deformities aside. Is this some kind of twisted disability scheme? Maybe their
families send them here, thinking they’re going to be gainfully employed. Maybe, she thinks with a surge of disgust, their families
sell
them to people like this woman. ‘And...
Martin
is here?’ She suddenly recalls something Olivia said to that policewoman, something racist about Martin coming from a good white home, that he will be missed; that he
isn’t some addicted street child with no choices.

‘Yes. In row 79/f.5c, station 14. Tech production. It’s a good posting.’

‘But... why Martin? Why did you choose him? He comes from a good home. You must have known he would be missed.’

‘Isn’t it obvious? Because he was the primo viable we selected! I’m sure you agree that he had a surfeit of misdirected energy.’ She smiles, and Tara gets the impression
that there’s a tinge of sadness to it. ‘Father said his redirectable destructive capacity was in an extraordinarily high percentile range. Ah. We are close.’

With a jolt of recognition, Tara spots the back of Martin’s head in the next row and, somehow, she finds the strength to run.

‘Martin!’ Tara drops to her knees next to his desk, throws her arms around him. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’

He slowly raises his head, gazes at her blankly. Jesus, they’ve drugged him, too. She looks down at the desk. His hands are moulding a pink gel substance; she can’t tell what
he’s making.

‘Can you stand, Martin? Come on, I’m going to get you out of here.’ She glances at Penter, waits for her to disagree, pull out a weapon, threaten her. But she continues to
smile at Tara in that infuriatingly benign fashion. ‘Martin, come on.’

He doesn’t budge. She grabs his arm. ‘Please, Martin. We have to go home. Your dad is waiting for you.’ When he still doesn’t respond, she moves behind him, slides her
arms under his armpits, tries to lift him. But it’s like trying to heft dead weight. He may only be twelve, but he’s large for his age, weighs almost the same as she does.

‘Please...
please
, Martin. I can’t do this by myself. You need to move. Think of all your stuff at home, your computer games. Come on, Martin. Let’s go
home.’

A dreamy smile now on his face, Martin continues to mould the plasticky mess in front of him.

‘What have you done to him?’ Tara yells at Penter.

‘He is integrated, Mrs Tara Marais.’ Penter smiles. ‘He is content.’

Tara grabs Martin’s arm again, attempts once more to yank him out of the chair. ‘Martin,
please
.’

She looks up at the ceiling, that tube attached to his neck. There must be something in that tube, they must be feeding him some kind of drug. She grabs it in both hands, yanks upwards as hard
as she can, and Martin lets out a high keening wail that doesn’t sound human. She drops the tube instantly; it hasn’t budged an inch from the matt of tissue healed around it. Fuck
– has she hurt him? Has it been... surgically inserted like some kind of shunt or drain? Jesus.

‘We must leave now,’ Penter says, still with that infuriating smile. ‘I have allowed you to see the viable.’

‘I can’t just leave him here!’ Tara rounds on her. ‘Please, you’re a mother. You must understand.’ Penter’s smile drops, and for a second Tara thinks
she’s got to her. ‘Please help me. I’ll... I’ll say that you helped me, that you did what you could. You won’t get into trouble. Please—’

‘You can integrate, if that is your desire, certainly,’ Penter interrupts. ‘I can petition the Ministry. Perhaps you could educate?’

What the fuck? ‘Educate?’

‘Yes. Instruct our halfpints on abnormal lifeskills, like the other brown. That one will be modified soon and—’

‘Just shut the fuck up with all your brown shit!’ Tara’s reached the limit of her patience – and, she realises, her sanity. ‘I have to take Martin with me! Help me,
please.’ Tears are falling freely now. The wash of calm she felt when she pressed the wound at the back of her head has entirely dissipated. She needs to appeal to this woman’s maternal
instinct. ‘He needs to be home. I can’t leave him here. As a mother – as a woman – can’t you understand?’

For some reason Penter seems to find this amusing. ‘Mrs Tara Marais, I will ask you again: if you wish to integrate, I can petition. Otherwise, we must leave immediately.’

She’s getting nowhere. Tara weighs up the odds. If she tries to overpower Penter, there’s no way that Martin will be able to help her in his condition, and what are her chances?
She’s sick, weak, barely has the energy to walk, never mind fight. The last thing she wants to do is leave Martin here, but if she does manage to leave – if this woman isn’t lying
to her and they are really going to let her go – then she could come back, bring the cops, get this whole place shut down. And if the cops are on the take, well, she’ll go to the media.
Stephen will know what to do.

And, she has to admit, she’s desperate to get out of here for her own sake. If she looks too closely at the grossly deformed children around her again, she’ll lose it for good.

Yes, that’s what she’ll do. Get out of here, come back with the cavalry. She tries to ignore the other, darker thought that’s been nudging at the back of her mind. That maybe
Martin might be getting just what he deserves. She shakes her head to erase the thought. How can she even think that? What’s wrong with her?

Tara sinks to her haunches again, winces as her leg muscles spasm once more. ‘Martin. Listen to me. I’ll be back soon. I promise.’

No reaction.

She stands up. Rubs her eyes.

‘Mrs Tara Marias?’ Penter says. ‘Shall we?’ She gestures for Tara to walk in front of her, presumably back to the door through which they entered. Tara tries to keep her
eyes straight ahead, doesn’t allow them to skate over the horrors around her. Why would this woman just let her go after what she’s seen? She knows what they’re doing here. Icy
sweat dribbles down her sides, and she sees, in horrible clarity, how it will all play out. Shoved in the boot of a car at gunpoint, hands and feet bound, the clunk of the lid closing on her, the
bumpy drive to a rural mine dump, an abandoned quarry.

Her body never found.

Should she try to flee? She winces again as another jolt of pain shoots through her thigh muscles; the adrenaline coursing through her doesn’t seem to be helping her situation.

She pictures a thick green poison sliding through her veins. Maybe that’s why they haven’t shot her yet. Maybe she’s going to die anyway.

When she reaches the door, Tara turns to look once more at the back of Martin’s head, but she’s forgotten which row he’s in, can’t spot him. Just do as the woman says.
Don’t argue, don’t panic. Yes, if she gets out of here alive, she can save all these kids.

Penter close behind her, Tara scuffs her away across the dusty market space, reaches the lifts. As before, the area is deserted. This is it, Tara thinks. This is where she’s going to do
it. No witnesses.

‘Mrs Tara Marais?’ Penter says softly behind her.

Tara turns her head, feels her bowels contract, knows for sure that Penter will be pointing a weapon in her face, almost can’t believe it when she sees that the other woman is empty
handed, seems to be indicating she should approach the lift at the far right of the row.

Penter smiles her benign, bright smile. ‘Before you depart, may I thank you for your concern about Jane.’

Of course. Why didn’t she think of this before? Jane could be a way to forge some kind of connection with this woman – make it harder for Penter to kill her. ‘How... how is
Jane?’ she asks, feeling, for a fleeting, ridiculous second as if they are just two mothers shooting the shit in a shopping centre.

‘She is primo. Catalogue, even.’ Penter beams.

‘When I was at the house... That man... that Ryan... I told Jane he was dangerous, that he—’

‘Oh that!’ Penter laughs.

‘He’s a paedophile. A predator.’ Tara feels that she must make this woman understand, even if she is some sort of gangster running the world’s largest and sickest
sweatshop operation. Jane is still a child; she could be in danger. Tara is aware that this makes no sense. Her logic is fucked up. This woman has done something to Martin, possibly something
irrevocable. Why should she bother to help her or her family? But she’s desperate; she can’t stop. ‘Listen to me. Ryan... He is a monster.’

‘Oh, we know what he is.’

The lift pings open. Tara steps inside it, expecting Penter to follow her. But she stays where she is. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Tara Marais,’ Penter says. ‘Ignore the signs and please,
live well.’

Before Tara can answer, the doors slide shut. Tara waits for the usual swoopy feeling of being inside a lift, but after only two or three seconds, the doors open again. She’s expecting to
see Penter still standing in front of her – maybe this time with a gun in her hand, a vicious smile on her lips (
You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, Mrs Tara
Marais?
) – but instead, she sees a low-ceilinged corridor in front of her.