Why You Were Taken

NON-LIZARDS ₂₇

Johannesburg, 2021

‘Okay,’ says Kirsten, ‘there’s no easy way to say this, so, well, here goes: I need to cut a microchip out of the back of your head.’

‘Wow,’ says Seth, ‘just as I was beginning to think we were getting on.’

‘The crazy lady—’

‘Now you’re speaking about yourself in the third person.’

‘The other crazy lady, Betty/Barbara, said she knew they were tracking her because she could feel the microchip in her head. And the killer – killers – whoever is trying to kill us, knows where we live. Knew that lady who took her toddler to that park.’

‘Look,’ says Seth, shaking his head, ‘that just can’t be true. Technology for trackers didn’t even exist when we were kids. Wait, is that why the back of your head was bleeding? You tried to look for a fucking microchip?’

‘Not tried, I found it!’

‘Show me,’ he says.

‘I planted it in a taxi. It could be anywhere.’

He looks around the office, rolling glassy eyes. She knew he wouldn’t believe her.

‘Next you’ll be telling me to wear a tinfoil hat.’

‘Actually, that’s probably not a bad idea.’

‘Ha,’ he says.

‘I’m not fucking with you.’

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘but you’re not cutting it out with that thing. I know someone.’

‘We don’t have time to fuck around!’ shouts Kirsten.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I need to go to Alba. That is not negotiable. They’ll be able to remove the chip. Analyse it. Then we need to get bullets, and get you a weapon.’

‘What the hell is Alba? What about Keke?’

‘We can only find your friend when we have more information. The chip is the only thing we have at the moment.’

A thought strikes Kirsten.

‘Hackerboy Genius,’ she says. ‘Keke’s contact. His number will be on her phone. He can get into anything: it’s how we found you.’

‘You think he’ll know something?’

‘He’ll know more than what’s on this drive,’ says Kirsten, ‘She asked him to dig.’

Seth shoves his Tile into his backpack.

‘We’ll call him on the way.’

‘What is the Genesis Project?’ asks Kirsten as they head down the fire escape stairs, towards the basement. Seth shakes his head. ‘There’s not a lot to tell. I mean, there have been rumours for years, but I don’t think anyone actually believed them.’

Kirsten thinks of her father: heavy, steel-framed glasses, dulled by time. Big hands, badly tailored trousers, egg-yolk stains on his ties. She finds it difficult to imagine that he was involved in any kind of covert movement. Unless he was good, she thinks, unless he was very, very good.

‘It’s a bit like The Singularity – never gonna happen, but still as scary as shit.’ He shoots a glance at Kirsten, as if to size her up, as if to see if he can trust her. ‘When I started at Alba—’

‘You still haven’t told me what that is.’

He stops on the sixth landing. The caged light next to his head flickers: a loose connection.

‘Alba is a bit like Fight Club. The first rule of Alba is: never talk about Alba.’

‘Fight Club?’

‘Have you ever read a book? Do you know that inquisitive mice grow more neurons?’

The only book she had ever read cover to cover was the collector’s edition of Hansel & Gretel that James had given her. The cruel coincidence is not lost on her.

‘Besides, we’re probably going to die tonight,’ says Kirsten, ‘I’m thinking all rules are off.’

‘Well, ja, that’s the second rule.’

‘Ha.’

‘Seriously,’ he says, holding her arm, ‘no one is allowed to know, do you understand?’

They start moving again.

‘Alba is a crowdfunded underground organisation: a rogue group of engineers, scientists, biologists, geneticists… we experiment with biotechnology. But mostly we investigate others that do the same thing.’

‘You’re a biopunk?’

‘Technically I’m a chemgineer. But, yes, biohacker, biopunk, hacktivist… basically we’re high-tech Truthers.’

‘You uncover stuff.’

Seth nods: ‘We’re a technoprogressive movement that advocates open access to genetic information. We play around with DNA – only in a clean way – but our aim, the reason we exist, is to infiltrate and expose what we call black clinics – megacorps who use biotech in an uncool way.’

‘Like?’

‘We look for anything dodgy: any way the company might be ethically dubious, illegally practicing, or trying to exercise any kind of social control.’

‘That plastic surgery place – in Saxonwold. Tabula Rasa.’

‘They were buying discarded embryos from fertility clinics, injecting the stem cells into people’s faces.’

‘You exposed them?’

‘Alba did. A colleague – she had to suck fat out of housewives’ thighs for a year before she was allowed near their faces. It took her another year to uncover the black market stem cells. We also exposed the Ribber Ranch, XmonkeyD and Slimonade.’

Kirsten had heard about all of them over the last few years: their nasty secrets being revealed and those involved being strung out in the subsequent trials.

‘The thing about amazing runaway technology,’ says Seth, ‘is that it makes it easier to be evil. Government can’t legislate fast enough to keep up. Alba is the self-appointed, independent watch-dog.’

They up their pace down the stairs.

‘So, there has always been talk about the Genesis Project. It’s seen as, like, the ultimate black clinic. Like a human version of Reptilians: a huge clandestine society that actually controls the world. They’re supposedly everywhere, especially in leadership positions.’

‘The Queen-is-a-lizard theory, but no, well, lizards.’

‘And local. It’s a South African group.’

‘So the Nancies are probably lizards. Or, whatever, non-lizards. You know what I mean.’

‘According to the rumours, there would be a few strategically-placed Genesis Project members in key political positions.’

‘The president?’

‘I’ve always thought she looked a little reptilian.’

They get to the parking basement, and Keke’s motorbike is parked in its usual place. Kirsten opens the storage space at the back of the bike, takes out the inflatable helmet and key, and packs the insulin kit and Seth’s backpack. She offers Seth the helmet but he waves it away. She puts it on, wincing as it inflates, and fastens the strap underneath her chin.

‘But you don’t believe it? I thought you’d like the conspiracy element, given your predilection for paranoia.’

‘I don’t know. Before today, I thought that if it existed, we would have some kind of proof by now.’

‘Now we have the knife.’

In the corner of the parking basement, a car comes to life. Kirsten and Seth move quickly into the shadow of a pillar. It revs, its tyres squeal on the smooth concrete. It blasts warm air on them as it rushes past. Tinted windows. The man inside tosses a spanner into his cubbyhole and clicks it shut.

Kirsten releases her grip of Seth’s arm.

‘GP could mean anything,’ he says. ‘It could be from your Dad’s local bar. GastroPub. Gin Party. Geriatric Pints.’

‘Getting Pissed.’

‘Gone Phishing.’

‘Green Phingers.’

‘Gay Pride?’

‘He wasn’t stylish enough.’

They get on Keke’s bike, and Kirsten starts the engine, revs. She accelerates gently, trying to get a feel for the machine thrumming between her thighs.

‘Except that I’ve seen that insignia before, that diamond.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s the only lead we’ve got.’