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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
In a world ravaged by climate change, a young woman's job of enforcing Britain's one-child policy is compromised when she discovers an illegal sibling on the ministry hit list, and that sibling is hers… `A tightly paced plot set in an all-too imaginable future … a page-turning, thought-provoking read´ Jo Callaghan 'With echoes of V for Vendetta, ONE serves as a stark warning, challenging societal norms and individual sacrifices in the face of adversity' SciFi Now Book of the Month 'Pleasingly terrifying' New Scientist `A terrifying vision of a global climate emergency, a jaw-dropping government conspiracy and some truly devastating twists … one hell of a speculative thriller´ Tom Hindle –––––––––––––––––– One law. One child. Seven million crimes… A cataclysmic climate emergency has spawned a one-child policy in the UK, ruthlessly enforced by a totalitarian regime. Compulsory abortion of 'excess' pregnancies and mandatory contraceptive implants are now the norm, and families must adhere to strict consumption quotas as the world descends into chaos. Kai is a 25-year-old `baby reaper´, working for the Ministry of Population and Family Planning. If any of her assigned families attempt to exceed their child quota, she ensures they pay the price. Until, one morning, she discovers that an illegal sibling on her Ministry hit-list is hers. And to protect her parents from severe penalties, she must secretly investigate before anyone else finds out. Kai's hunt for her forbidden sister unearths much more than a dark family secret. As she stumbles across a series of heinous crimes perpetrated by the people she trusted most, she makes a catastrophic discovery that could bring down the government … and tear her family apart. ––––––––––––––––––– `Eve Smith is a master storyteller for our troubled times´ Simon Conway `Chillingly plausible … both thrilling and deeply moving´ Philippa East `All too convincing and scientifically plausible … as much a warning as an entertainment´ Paul E. Hardisty `Amazing, beautiful writing, jam-packed with clever ideas´ Helen Fitzgerald `Gripping, frightening and deep … a very brilliant, masterful book´ Sarah K. Jackson `Simmering with great intelligence and insight that never fails to be terrifyingly and thrillingly plausible´ James Goodhand `A visionary storyteller´ Awais Khan `A gripping and pacy thriller set in an all too plausible and terrifying future´ David Beckler `Meticulously crafted, no detail is overlooked … so authentic it doesn't feel speculative at all´ Sarah Sultoon `Raises troubling issues about the balance between saving the planet and our individual human rights … brilliant!´ Guy Morpuss `Pulse-pounding and heart-rending in equal measure, this book is a tour-de-force´ Louise Mumford `A powerful warning and a gripping thriller´ Greg Mosse `A chilling, poignant novel that holds a mirror up to our world … sensational´ Vikki Patis `Gripping and unsettling´ Shen Yang `Compulsive and addictive´ Adam Simcox `Another taut and terrifying thriller from Eve Smith´ Louise Swanson `A terrifying, yet plausible read. Too scary to imagine in reality, and yet…´ Heather Fitt `Horrifying and gripping in equal measure … a jaw-dropping glimpse of the catastrophe around the corner … Astonishing´ Lucy Martin
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A cataclysmic climate emergency has spawned a one-child policy in the UK, ruthlessly enforced by an authoritarian regime. Compulsory abortion of ‘excess’ pregnancies and mandatory contraceptive implants are now the norm, and families must adhere to strict consumption quotas as the world descends into chaos.
Kai is a 25-year-old ‘baby reaper’, working for the Ministry of Population and Family Planning. If any of her assigned families attempt to exceed their child quota, she ensures they pay the price.
Until, one morning, she discovers that an illegal sibling on her Ministry hit-list is hers. And to protect her parents from severe penalties, she must secretly investigate before anyone else finds out.
Kai’s hunt for her forbidden sister unearths much more than a dark family secret. As she stumbles across a series of heinous crimes perpetrated by the people she trusted most, she makes a catastrophic discovery that could bring down the government … and tear her family apart.
ONE
EVE SMITH
For Dave
‘In the process of growing up, all excess-birth children have faced unendurable disappointments. These have torn us apart and inflicted wounds that will never heal, and which still cause us pain…
Sunshine Lü, Wei Wanjun and me, as well as millions of others who were born as excess-birth children and lived their lives hidden away, we were all sungrass blooming brilliantly in the darkness…
We have walked out of the shadows, toward the light.’
—Shen Yang, More Than One Child, Memoirs of an Illegal Daughter
‘But always – do not forget this, Winston – always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler.
Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless.
If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – for ever.’
—George Orwell, 1984
CONTENTS
Generations failed us.
But we kept our promises and stemmed the Crisis with actions,
not empty words.
Our Natural Earth
The ONE Party
For your child, and theirs.
CHAPTER 1
A hazed pink stripes the sky, mirrored in the regiments of roof panels, imbuing the street with a crimson glow. I love this hour, when tentative hues give rise to shape and form. The birds agree; their chorus swells with seesaw chirps and trills. Robins, blackbirds, goldcrests.
Possibly a finch.
Kane steps forward and scans the road. I check the time and count to four.
Today is a four day.
‘Clear,’ says Kane.
We tread softly past houses huddled in semi-circles, all facing the sun: last-generation builds, patchworks of recycled brick and stone. The Hydrail hisses in the distance. Our appointment is at number twenty-four. Which is good, because that’s six fours.
Kane unclicks the gate.
Red and green eyes wink at us from the walls: bricked in bottles. Some people consider these designs too gaudy, but I like them. They remind me of those glass pebbles Mum and I found one summer on a beach in Wales, by the village that fell into the sea.
Someone’s up: a light is on. No one leaves lights on overnight: a needless waste of your resource quota. I approach the door and wait for the house to announce me. A blind flicks, and the light snaps off. I sigh. Here we go.
I address the camera: ‘My name is Ministry Representative Houghton. I work for the Ministry of Population and Family Planning.’ I pause while their system authenticates me. ‘I am here to investigate an offence under section twenty-five of the Population Planning Act. You are legally obliged to grant me access.’
Silence.
I imagine the hushed discussion, refining alibis, perhaps some wild escape plan. Kane’s already interrogated the layout. He’s got all exits covered.
I count to four and rap on the door.
‘This is your first warning.’
The light switches back on. And another.
Kane moves into position, in front.
In mythology, Kane is the god of procreation. Kane also means ‘little warrior’; I picked it specially. I never say it out loud, though. We’re not supposed to give them names, in case we become attached, fret about their demise. It’s one of the reasons the Ministry doesn’t programme them with personalities.
A man with a long, oval face opens the door. He attempts a smile, which wilts as he clocks Kane. A woman with pale skin and curly black hair is clamped to his side. Her gaze moves over my face and lingers, predictably, on my eyes.
I finger my Ministry badge while Kane completes his checks.
‘Are you Samuel and Linda Charring?’
My feed has already confirmed their identities, but it’s a procedural relic we’re obliged to follow.
The man nods. More of a twitch. He’s clutching his wife so tightly the skin around his cuticles has bleached.
I clear my throat. ‘Linda Charring, your medi-profile indicates that your hCG hormone levels are elevated and you have not menstruated for fifty-nine days. In the last month, you ordered folic acid and vitamin supplements.’
Her breath flutters.
‘This data indicates that you are knowingly pregnant. Yet you have failed to report to a family planning centre.’
Neither of them responds.
‘You have one son registered, living at this address. Is that correct?’
Her eyes flit to the stairs.
‘Each couple is permitted one child in their lifetime. Giving birth to a second child is prohibited by law and constitutes a birth crime.’
The husband steps forward. ‘Look,’ he begins, ‘we didn’t mean to … It’s not like this was planned. It just… ’ his arm flaps like a limp tentacle ‘…happened.’
My jaw stiffens. The same old excuses … As if conception were some unfortunate mishap, beyond their control. The Ministry provides free contraceptive implants that never run out. How difficult can it be?
‘Mr Charring, your wife deactivated her Destine implant.’ I pause. ‘You are both adults. You are aware of the consequences.’
The wife pushes in front of her husband, shielding her belly with her arm. ‘I won’t. You can’t.’ Tears bloom. ‘It’s my baby!’
It was much harder, when I started. Witnessing the anguish of mothers.
Our training reels helped me with that.
Emaciated migrants fleeing camp after camp. The bloody wars over food and water. Acres of crops decimated by pests or sun.
The Charrings’ child won’t starve, or drown in floods that consume whole cities. He won’t die a slow, painful death from disease or burn in a wildfire that incinerates his home.
‘Please … can’t you make an exception? Just once?’
She gazes at me as if I am some benevolent deity, empowered to forgive her sin.
I didn’t slog my way up to executive grade three, with my condition, by turning a blind eye.
‘We’ll absorb the child’s resources into our quota,’ she continues. ‘There’ll be no excess, I swear.’
I take a breath. ‘We tried that before. It doesn’t work.’
This is how we got into this mess. Bending the rules, trusting people to make the right choices. While the climate spiralled out of control.
The husband slumps. He knows it’s pointless. But not her.
‘I won’t do it,’ she says, in a raw whisper. ‘Go ahead: arrest me.’
Kane makes a slight whirring noise. I cross my fingers under my sleeve four times.
We’re both alert to this stage: when defence ramps up to defiance. This is what we’ve trained for: PMC. Probable moment of confrontation.
‘It’s my right. My human right.’ Her lip quivers. ‘We never used to have these laws. They’re … barbaric!’
I don’t explain that our own profligate consumption compelled them, and the failure to protect our borders. That ONE’s policies saved us from lawlessness and famine.
I have learned the hard way that such logic does not help. It’s more liable to provoke an attack.
‘UK citizens have the right to live in a healthy, prospering environment. This is enshrined in our constitution. Stability and security come at a price. Your family quota has been exceeded. This pregnancy must be terminated. If you refuse to attend your clinic, then the procedure will be enforced.’
She pulls away from her husband. There’s a faint pinging: probably a medi-alert for her escalating heart rate.
‘You and your damned rules,’ she growls.
I brace myself and think of Niko, curled in his basket.
‘No compassion. No mercy.’ Her eyes glitter. ‘About as human as that silicon shit-heap beside you.’
Before I have time to react, Kane raises his arm:
‘ABUSE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!’
Both of them flinch.
‘Linda, sweetheart.’ The husband glances up the stairs. ‘Think of our son.’
She cradles her stomach: ‘What about this son? Or daughter?’ She glares at me. ‘Maybe one day you’ll be on the other side of this door. Then you’ll feel something.’ She turns and sobs into her husband’s chest. ‘I can’t do it, Sam … I just can’t… ’
I apply the distraction technique and count the spindles on their staircase: four, and four more. They taper towards the bottom, like miniature oars.
‘Please ensure your wife attends her appointment. Failure to comply is a birth crime and will incur a significant resource penalty and house arrest.’
The husband’s gaze lifts to mine. ‘People will look back at this, and they will judge you for what you do.’
He ushers his wife down the hallway just as a small face peeps over the banister, striped pyjama legs slotted between the spindles. The boy stares at Kane and then me, his mouth a perfect pink zero.
I arrange my lips into what I hope is a smile.
The boy’s eyes do not budge.
I consider lifting my hand in a wave. Anything to break that unblinking stare. But such a gesture might appear trivial.
And I wouldn’t want to be inappropriate.
CHAPTER 2
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.
CHAPTER 3
The digital display on the platform flashes green: low humidity, decent air quality and only twenty-four degrees, very comfortable for April. Particulates and CO2 levels all good, which means it’s officially a no-mask day. I still put mine on. It serves a dual purpose.
The Hydrail isn’t too busy, so when the train glides into the station, I secure my favourite seat: middle of the carriage, by the window. It’s not just the view; it’s been proven, statistically, that air quality is better here. And if the doors malfunction, you can get out fast.
We cruise past the ponds, white crests of cloud reflected in solar floater panels. The Parks line starts just north of the Chiswick wetlands, and this high up, the views are superb. I’m so grateful I don’t have to travel underground, the way Mum did, like some urban mole. Imagine being trapped in the dark in the Great Flood, water rushing into the tunnels. All the pumps in London couldn’t keep out that amount of water, not after the Thames Barrier failed. There was no stopping ONE after that.
My portable pings.
Sorry, darling, Grannie’s such a pain, I know.
Don’t worry, your dad and I can cut back on a few showers, don’t you take the hit.
Love you x
Typical Mum, taking the rap for everybody else. She’d rather die than see me go without. Not every child is so lucky.
As we pass Hammersmith, ONE Party holograms flicker across the high-rises, freshly coated with solar paint: atmospheric methane levels are reducing; national carbon emissions continue to fall; migrant resettlement targets have been exceeded. The prime minister beams as he delivers the good news, like a jovial Father Christmas. We sail through the royal parks, dropping down Constitution Hill onto Birdcage Walk. The horse chestnuts in St James’s Park are in full flower, their confetti blossoms bobbing amongst the leaves. As the train slows for Great George Street, I hoist my bag over my shoulder and edge to the doors.
I cross to Parliament Square, a breeze rippling my hair. I approach the statue of the Mother and pause, along with others, to pay my respects. Her accusatory stare is fixed on the Houses of Parliament Museum, that gaze as resolute in stone as it was in flesh. One of her first acts when she swept to power was the construction of a new eco-complex in Victoria Tower Gardens to house her government. Solar-powered, flood-resistant and cloaked in carbon-guzzling plants, it was a powerful statement: a clean sweep of the previous regime’s lavish inefficiencies. Rumour has it that when the old guard kicked off, she threatened to reallocate the footprint of those mouldy, river-soaked buildings to their personal resource quotas.
As the Mother always said: actions speak louder than words.
It’s a good five minutes to get through security. Next stop: the spit zone. That’s what we call the DNA scanner. A quick swab of saliva, a green circle, and I’m in.
Even at this hour, the office resembles an industrious hive: worker bees tapping away in softly lit cells, just the occasional beep or low voice. Two huge golden hands hang above the entrance, encircling a seedling that curls up, to the light.
As I reach my cubicle, Aisha swivels round and cups her hands in the Party salute. ‘Good morning, Ministry Representative Houghton.’
I cup my hands. ‘Good morning, Ministry Representative Osundo.’
Aisha joined the MPFP two years ago. Sponsored by the Party under the resettlement programme, she escaped Nigeria, but had to leave her family behind. Decades of drought have devastated that country; the militant sects are running rife. According to the reels, millions have starved or been killed.
‘Beautiful sky – did you see it?’ She smiles. ‘Such a deep red… ’
The bloodied sheets ambush me, and I shudder. Hopefully that man is already in Steener’s clutches.
I pull out my chair and give my keyboard a wipe. ‘Busy schedule?’ I prefer to keep things on a professional footing.
‘Another bolter: seven weeks along. Didn’t show up at the clinic.’
‘Have you tracked her?’
‘Yes: some village in Sussex. My travel quota is haemorrhaging. I swear our areas are getting bigger.’
I glance at the other cubicles. Aisha can be a little reckless. ‘It’s because they have to switch them around, remember? It’s for our own protection.’
My screen fires up, its soft blue glow reminiscent of childhood visits to the aquarium. I used to love basking in that azure light, watching the pale bodies glide past, razor teeth feigning indifference. But the aquarium was too resource intensive, so the Ministry shut it down.
I give my population vitals a quick scan: 1,671 births yesterday, all authorised. The bots have only flagged a couple of families in my area: second marriages, they always cause problems. The one-child rule applies, whether you change partner, gender or sexuality. I don’t know why that concept seems so hard to grasp.
A notification suddenly swoops in:
Excess birth, unregistered
Female
Age range 24–26 (DNA estimate, unverified)
My eyes widen.
I swing round and gawp at Aisha, but she’s busy on a call.
Even before smart medical devices were introduced for remote health monitoring the Ministry caught the majority of second pregnancies before the baby was born. At the very latest, directly after.
This is an adult.
I drill down further. A new profile, entered at a wellness centre near Oxford. Looks like a clumsy attempt was made to erase it afterwards. How on earth can it have evaded the system until now? All profiles are registered at birth.
I only know of one family that managed to conceal a grown excess child. The Ministry hushed it up, but it’s become the stuff of legend.
The penalty was severe.
I tap my screen and the DNA map slides in: genetic fingerprints lined up like a family tree.
My heel drums the floor. And stops.
I cannot breathe. It’s as if my pod has been sealed in a vacuum.
I race down the profiles: grandparents, parents … I recognise them all.
Bar one that shouldn’t be there: an illegal sibling’s.
Next to mine.
CHAPTER 4
Day One
I cross my fingers and stroke them with my thumbs, my body fizzing with cortisol as silver biofarm towers flash past. The train is crossing the rewilded zones: transgenic poplars, oaks and ash shooting up at twice the speed of their forefathers, soaking up more CO2. Usually these woodlands spark a thrill of anticipation; their branches say: look, you are getting close now, you are nearly home. But today, their welcome is blemished, as if stricken by some fungal infestation newly transported from overseas.
I think of the DNA map, my profile nestling beside another’s: a fifty-percent match.
I have a sister.
My gut tightens. Just saying that word is dangerous, but there is no denying it. The chromosomes dictate she exists.
I moved the alert to a restricted access area, reserved for ‘delicate’ investigations, usually the preserve of the famous or the influential. Such behaviour goes against my instinct, the oaths I took:
Your first loyalty is to your Ministry…
I remember Minister Gauteng drilling us at our induction about how it was our duty to root out all misdemeanours, as she eyed us, one by one. Reminding us how privileged we were to serve our country.
Especially you…
She didn’t have to voice her disgust at my eyes. Her expression said it all.
I still don’t understand how this profile can only have appeared now. I must investigate and document my evidence. Show this is all some terrible mistake.
But the system doesn’t make mistakes…
The booming in my ears intensifies, as if my head is being squeezed in a vice. I tried all the usual searches: birth registry, medical and education records. All drew blanks. I can’t stop thinking about that family that concealed their second child. They managed to keep the daughter hidden until she was twelve. Some say they procured a duplicate ID on the black market. Others claim the girl and her sister lived a double life, pretending to be the same child. Whatever happened, the Ministry made an example of them. The parents’ sentence matched the daughter’s age: twelve years. No one knows what happened to her, though rumours abound.
If my parents are guilty, and the Ministry applies the same sentence, they will go to prison for a minimum of twenty-four years.
Water glitters in the distance: the Thunberg Reservoir. As we slow for a station, a Ministry hording slides into view.
Give your baby the gift of good health with Optime baby screening
Because life doesn’t give you a second chance
The young girl sitting on her father’s shoulders has been obliterated by vandals; the appalling nickname for our Ministry scrawled underneath:
FUCK THE BABY REAPERS
And an idea hits me so hard I break out in a sweat: maybe this profile is a test – of my loyalties. What are the chances of this case of a grown sibling, my illegal sibling, being allocated to me? Maybe, right this minute, the Ministry is watching, to see if I’m up to it: investigating my own parents. Prepared to issue a warrant for their arrest.
You should have reported it…
I stray back to the interminable questions, scrolling my past for clues. I grew up as an only child, like everyone else; I have no memory of any sister. My parents were loving and law-abiding: nothing like the families I’ve met who try to sneak past the rules. But then I remember Ciara Reilly’s mum and dad. They seemed pretty law-abiding, too.
Ciara was my first and only real friend. The only one who didn’t snigger behind her hand at me or call me names because, unlike them, I wasn’t perfected before birth.
Weird-Eye!
She had this dogeared book called My Naughty Little Sister that she’d unearthed from a box when her dad was clearing out her gran’s loft. It would most certainly have been banned, but we didn’t realise how dangerous it was at the time. We used to read it under her duvet, gasping and giggling away. Sometimes, we’d even pretend we were sisters: the thought of it now still stings. We made it a game, taking it in turns to be the younger or older one, playing pranks and bossing each other around.
Until another girl in our class reported us.
We were sent to the head. Given detention for a week, humiliated in front of the whole school.
We never played the game after that.
Then Ciara really did get a younger sister. I overheard Mum and Dad whispering about it.
I didn’t see Ciara or her family again.
I spend the rest of the journey rehearsing the questions I must ask, tormenting myself with imagined answers. By the time the train pulls into Oxford, I’m exhausted.
I take the tram from the station, past the weathered-stone colleges full of students beavering away on the latest farming initiatives and carbon-sequestration tech. As we rattle past the gates to the Covered Market, I have a flashback to those melt-in-your-mouth cookies Mum used to get me, when the kids at school had been particularly mean. The stone lion is waiting for me, jaws still gaping, clambering over the arch of an ancient door. Just one more thing that gave me nightmares, as if the newsreels they made us watch weren’t enough. No matter what time it was, Mum always came in to comfort me. She’d rock me in her arms, whispering reassurances, until I drifted back to sleep.
More memories rally, protesting my parents’ innocence, and I nearly miss my stop. I jump out by the Smart Mart and zigzag down side roads, each step growing heavier as I count:
Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen…
And there it is: the street where I grew up. I know exactly how many steps it is from here. My eyes stay glued to my feet; cracks dissect the pavement where weeds cluster. Only when I’m right outside, do I look up.
Wisteria curls under the faded-white sills; blue and pink pots have assembled by the door. The stone pig I chose at a summer fair grins at me by the fence.
I take three breaths. Raise my finger to the old-fashioned bell. It hovers there, uncertain. I haven’t told Mum I’m coming. It’s better that way.
Feet pad down the hallway. A quick, light step so familiar, it makes my chest ache.
Mum’s in her casual clothes: a sleeveless top and yoga pants, her hair scraped into a bun. She’s wearing the glass drop earrings I bought her for Christmas.
‘Kai, darling.’ A smile breaks out. ‘What a lovely surprise.’
She opens her arms wide, and I clutch her tight like I used to, when she could make everything better.
As I pull away, her eyes race over me. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. I was in the area, so thought I’d pop by.’
I kick off my shoes and scurry past; attempt to ground myself in the quartz units, the bleached wooden floor. But even décor can no longer be trusted.
‘Can I get you some tea?’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Or perhaps something stronger?’
She’s not fooled. Those eyes are like Ministry scanners: they can read me from the inside out.
‘I’ll stick with tea, thanks.’
‘I’ve a new Suffolk varietal I’ve been saving. I think you’ll like it.’
I drink in each detail as she flits around the kitchen: those slender fingers with pale-pink nails, that mole on her left wrist. The familiar tune she’s humming.
She reaches into a cupboard and sighs. ‘I assume this is about Grannie.’
I blink. And remember the overshoot.
‘Actually, no.’
‘Oh.’ She passes me a cup. ‘You seem awfully serious.’ She laughs but her notes are off.
‘Something happened today which doesn’t make sense… ’ My hands squeeze the cup. ‘I was wondering … Did you ever donate any of your eggs? Or … embryos?’
Her brow pinches. ‘A strange thing to ask … No, I didn’t. Why?’
It was my wild hope. The system would have flagged it. But I still had to try.
‘This morning, a new profile cropped up, on a family record… ’ I hesitate. ‘Our record.’
The furrow on her forehead deepens. ‘What do you mean?’
‘A genetic ID. For a woman, in her mid-twenties.’
Mum freezes.
‘I’m sorry, I have to ask … Is it possible, that you … That you might have had… ’ I scrape my tongue across my teeth.
‘Kai?’ Her tone hardens.
‘…a second child?’
She stares at me. ‘What is this?’
The rawness in her voice sinks me.
‘The profile, Mum. It’s a sibling match … For me.’
Her mouth sags. ‘No. No, that can’t be right … There must be some mistake.’
‘The system doesn’t make mistakes… ’ The words erupt before I can stop them.
Deep breaths. Distance. This is what we’ve been taught.
It’s not working. I lurch for her hand. ‘This is upsetting, I know. I’m just as confused as you are.’
‘You don’t seem very confused.’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything— ’
‘Aren’t you?’ Her hand slides away. ‘You turn up here with no warning, and start … interrogating me— ’
‘I’m trying to protect you!’ I sound like the five-year-old me, desperate and frightened. ‘Please, Mum, I … I just need to be sure. Is there anything you’re not telling me?’
‘What’s going on?’
I twist round: it’s Dad. I didn’t hear him come in.
‘Why the raised voices?’ He looks at Mum, then at me.
I swallow. ‘We have a problem.’
He frowns. ‘What kind of problem?’ He turns to Mum. ‘Sarah?’
Mum shakes her head.
Dad looks smaller, somehow; perhaps it’s the way his coat is hanging off him, as if it’s suddenly outgrown him.
‘I need to speak with your father for a minute. In private.’
I haven’t heard those words in years.
And, just like that, I know.
CHAPTER 5
They trudge up the stairs to their bedroom and shut the door.
I listen to the floorboards creak as they pace up and down, minutes stretching into seeming-hours. Their voices are hushed, a duet of whispers, the occasional word rising and breaking free.
My heart still clings to a hope that Dad will magic up an explanation, make this all go away. They are not like those other parents. Such deceit is beyond them.
But still … But still… says my brain. Look at the evidence.
One thing you can be sure of: DNA never lies.
At one point I hear a noise, more animal than human. It stops abruptly.
I think it’s Mum.
My mother prides herself on her fitness, but when they eventually come down, ten years have claimed her. Instinctively, I reach out my hand. But it hangs there. Unwanted.
She collapses onto the sofa, nursing a clutch of tissues. Red veins impregnate her eyes. Dad sits next to her, and I have a sudden memory of those ‘little chats’ we sometimes had when I was younger.
Except this time it’s not me who has done something wrong.
She glances at Dad. ‘You were just five months old when I got the summons. For my tubal ligation. Before the Destine implant, they used to sterilise women as soon as they’d given birth. But I’d had complications… ’
I clench my fingers in my lap. I can hear them already: the sirens. That roaring wall of water. Just before our tsunami hits.
‘After your dad dropped me off, they did a test. They told me it was just a precaution. You see, I’d struggled with the breastfeeding. I tried so hard, but I … I just wasn’t any good.’ Her lip trembles. Dad reaches for her hand. ‘We’d mixed in bottles. The doctor said that might have been why… ’
I want to press my palm over her mouth, stop her confession. But she presses on.
‘That was when she told me, I was three months’ pregnant.’
‘Your mum had no idea.’ Dad jumps in. ‘Neither of us did. Your world turns upside down with a new baby. Sleep was all over the place.’
I try to focus on their words, but there’s a sea inside my head: wave crashing after wave. My parents broke the law. I have a sister, like Ciara.
What am I going to do?
‘The doctor wanted me to do it straight away. The abortion. She said it would be better to “just get it over with…”’ Mum falters. ‘So, she took me into this room … This cold, cold room. Pictures of daffodils and roses. And I remember thinking, how can they have flowers in a room like this?
‘She unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a packet. Dropped a white tablet into my hand… ’ Mum stares at her palm. ‘It looked so small, so … insignificant. I just stared at that pill as the doctor’s words filled the room … How I might feel a little sick, there might be some spotting. As if it was just an inconvenience, as if it was … nothing. And all I could think was, I do not want this. But they will make me do it. I cannot keep this child.’
Her eyes lift to mine, and my throat thickens.
Maybe one day you’ll be on the other side of this door.
Then you’ll feel something…
‘But I could sense that life already, growing inside me. The child it would become… ’
Mum turns to Dad. His jaw is rigid.
‘And I knew, I just knew, I couldn’t do it… ’
A tear slides down Mum’s cheek and I have to look away.
‘It’s different when you’ve carried a child. Such an unimaginable gift … A miracle, really. There’s a reason the Ministry recruits you so young… ’
Mum’s never liked what I do. She’s never said it, but I’ve always known. The casual suggestions, the links she’d send to other jobs, despite me landing such a prestigious role.
Now, I understand why.
‘So I pleaded with her not to make me. Said I’d do anything: even give up our house. I told her it would finish me, and I honestly believe that was true. I became hysterical … And that’s when the doctor mentioned there might be another way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘An option to … reallocate the child.’
Reallocate?
‘But … reallocations were only allowed for first pregnancies. Second pregnancies have always been illegal.’
‘That’s what I’d thought too,’ says Mum. ‘She said, assuming the baby was healthy, she could try and make a case, on psychological grounds. But the pregnancy would have to be kept secret. There were strict procedures, and the moment I started showing, I’d have to move into a confinement home, until the child was born.’
I breathe in for three. Out for three. But numbers can’t tame the galloping in my chest. We were never told about second-child reallocations.
I’ve never even heard of confinement homes.
‘There were four of us in that place. We weren’t allowed to go out.’
‘The way they treated them,’ says Dad. ‘As if they were criminals. Children weren’t even allowed to see their mothers.’
‘So your father took care of you. With help from his mother.’
The other grandma … So she did meet me, after all.
‘We told everyone that your mum was recuperating from dengue fever, in a wellness centre down south. No one questioned it.’
I stare at them. The parents I love. The parents I thought I knew.
Mum sighs. ‘That doctor didn’t have to help me, I don’t know why she did … Perhaps there was more pity back then… ’
Pity? Pity won’t help them with the Ministry, that much I do know. They have committed a birth crime. There is only one way this can end.
‘I had just six weeks with my baby before she came: the woman from the Ministry… ’ Mum swallows. ‘The grief never leaves you. It just … spreads out, over time… ’
Dad’s face crumples. I dig my nails into my thighs.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Kai,’ she says. ‘How horrified you must be. But you see, this way, both children had a chance at life… ’
Dad exhales. ‘Why has this all blown up now? It happened decades ago, for God’s sake.’
I have exactly the same question. ‘I … I don’t know… ’
Mum leans closer. ‘Has someone seen her, Kai? Is that it? Do you know where she is?’
I shake my head. ‘I know nothing about her.’ My words are brittle, like the rest of me.
I resort to process; the only thing right now I can be sure of.
‘I don’t understand, how did they…?’ I swallow. ‘How could your baby just disappear? With first-born reallocations, biological lineage is always displayed. You can’t change someone’s genetic ID.’
‘They never discussed any of that with us,’ says Mum. ‘I wasn’t allowed to know.’
‘What about your health records?’
She shrugs. ‘It all, just … vanished. It was as if she’d never been born.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What kind of doctor would be complicit in that?
‘I still think about her, you know,’ Mum whispers. ‘I’ll be sitting on a tram and see a young woman get on, and I’ll wonder … Could that be her?’
My panic spirals. Doesn’t she realise how much trouble we’re in? What this means, for all of us?
I have witnessed a confession. One course of action is open to me. Unless…
‘Which clinic was it?’
Mum hesitates. ‘It was before we moved. Middleton, Milton Keynes.’
‘Can you remember the doctor’s name?’
Mum frowns.
‘It was a long time ago, Kai,’ says Dad.
‘Yes, I know.’ It comes out more sharply than I intended. ‘Where did you give birth?’
‘Oxford. The Marston.’
At last: a glimmer of light. The same wellness centre where the profile was originally traced.
‘Did she…? Did you give her a name?’
Mum nods and looks down. It’s Dad who finally answers.
‘Zoe. It means “life”. We don’t know if it was passed on… ’
Mum grips my hand. ‘We did everything we were asked, Kai. We gave up our child. Can’t you, just…? Make this go away?’
‘Oh, Mum… ’ My eyes squeeze shut. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
The profile is on the system. That alone is grounds for arrest.
‘What happens next?’ asks Dad. ‘Are you obliged to … report us?’
No anger. No barbed recriminations. It would be easier if there were.
‘I have a small amount of time to investigate on my own, before the profile goes public. To try and figure things out.’
‘How small?’
I sigh. ‘Two weeks.’
CHAPTER 6
Day Two
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:
One family, one child
Because every baby deserves a healthy world
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.’
