HYBRIDS
DAVID THORPE

To my mother

……Johnny Online’s Blog……Hybrid Nation……

Declaration of the Rights of Hybrids

Hybrids are human:

Hybrids may be genetically changed, but we’re still your children. The hybrids’ cause is a cause for every human being, because anyone might catch the virus.

Society—you cannot abandon us.

Hybrids have equal rights:

When humans become hybrids they have to keep the same rights as healthy people. These rights are freedom, owning things, being safe and not being persecuted.

As with healthy humans, hybrids’ freedom can only be limited by anything that might harm someone else or stop others being free in the same way. But if the government makes laws which give some members of society more rights than others, then those deprived of their rights must still be able to fight for those rights to be given back to them.

Hybrids must unite:

Hybrids have the natural right to expect that society will protect and help them. If the government doesn’t respect this right, then hybrids must band together, for in togetherness is strength.

If the government does not protect us, then hybrids have no choice but to defend themselves, by any means at their disposal.

posted Monday, 11.00 a.m

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

……Johnny Online’s Blog……Hybrid Nation……

1. The Twisted Strands

2. Exit From Nowheresville

3. My Worst Enemy

4. Salvation House

5. Playing with the Rhinoceros

6. The Mother of all Missions

7. The Rifle Man

8. Papa

9. The Mendel Arms

10. Bearing Witness

11. Captured

12. Mu-Tech

13. The Centre for Genetic Rehabilitation

14. Hidden Letters

15. Wipe-out

16. Thom Gunn

17. The dump at the end of the world

18. The Hybrid Resistance Army

19. Love

20. Deserters

21. Meet the Ancestors

22. The Tempting Offer

23. Pact with the Devil

24. The Man in the Caged Building

25. Reunited

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

1. The Twisted Strands

As soon as I saw a beautiful girl pushing open the door, I remembered I’d arranged to meet her here. She hovered in the doorway, peering shyly around the gloom from beneath long dark eyebrows. Compared to everyone else in the dump she stood out like a sixth finger: flawless skin, tangled black curls, expensive Japanese clothes—a sense of style. Watching her, I felt in my genes that something was going to change. A rush in my circuits that said ‘opportunity knocks’.

But I was scared of change. Change was not my friend.

I usually came to this backstreet café for losers called the Twisted Strands, because Francis, the owner, would let me buy just one drink and sit here for hours, no worries. Before I could compose myself the girl had sat down opposite and was trying to peer under my hood.

“Johnny Online?”

I grunted through my speakers.

“Am I late?”

“I wasn’t keeping track of the time.” I watched her getting used to the sound of my electronic voice and what serves for my face these days. “It’s OK to stare,” I said. “I’m used to it.”

“I’m sorry,” she blushed. “I’m a bit nervous. I’ve never met anyone I’ve chatted to online before. But this is an emergency.”

“So you said,” I replied, putting a flashing exclamation mark on my screen that reflected off her own face. I observed her confusion in its light; it was one of a number of reactions people have to the way I look. “Why not buy me another coffee and tell me all about it?”

She went to place an order. Francis handed her an all-day breakfast—juice, sausage, egg, toast—which she came back with and placed in front of me.

Too bad I couldn’t eat it. I took out my flask, poured the juice in, connected my tube and began to suck it down. She didn’t gawp like some.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m used to strange habits.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“See?” She gave me a quick flash of her left arm, slipping back the sleeve of her alpaca coat to reveal a mobile phone emerging from her hand. I saw her transition point: the way the flesh changed colour, texture and substance where her hand stopped being a hand.

“OK,” I nodded. “I’ve seen a few of that type.” I was suddenly sad for her. “Problem when you want to upgrade to a newer model, isn’t it?”

She bit her lip.

“Sorry. Tact isn’t my best feature.” I tried to put a reassuring smile on my screen.

She began to tuck into the breakfast she’d bought me. “Look, I’m trusting you, just by being here. And you can trust me, so relax, Johnny. It’s not as if I’m a Gene Police agent or anything. You know my name—Kestrella. It’s French after my mother. Hey, your own point looks bad.”

She’d been staring at where my skin turned into liquid crystals, just in front of my ears. I pulled my hood forwards.

“I don’t have a mother,” I blurted.

“But everyone has a mother!” she cried.

“Mine did a runner. When she saw what I’d become.”

“Now it’s my turn to say I’m sorry.” She put her pale little hand on my mittened, grubby one. No one had done that for years.

I jerked it away. “I don’t want to let you down, but…I-I have to go now.”

I hurried out on to the tired street. Beneath the orange lights I pulled my hoodie tight around me. Keeping my head down I dodged the few pedestrians who were out, aware of her following me. I turned a corner on to the Walworth Road, my shoulders hunched. I was striding as fast as I could, but she was faster.

“‘Hybrids must unite,’” she panted as she drew alongside me. “‘We have the natural right to expect that society will protect and help us. If the government does not respect this right then we must band together, for in togetherness is strength…’”

The words seemed strangely familiar. Then I realised she was quoting something I’d written back at me. “‘If the government does not protect us, then we have no choice but to defend ourselves…’” I continued.

“‘…by any means at our disposal,’” she concluded, smiling. “It’s from your blog, Hybrid Nation, isn’t it? Declaration of the Rights of Hybrids? See—I’ve done my homework.”

I stopped and put her face on close-up to see how earnest she was. So small. What kind of threat could she be either to me or to them? I was nearly two metres tall, but diminished by my stoop and by my charity-shop rags. Kestrella, on the other hand, was tiny but like a fashion model. “How come you can afford these clothes?” I asked.

“Find out,” she challenged.

“Give us a clue,” I protested. “I need something to go on.”

She told me a name. I began an Internet search.

In a doorway, out of sight of passers-by, she read a new text on her mobile. Now I could clearly see where her transition occurred: the inflammation, raw like a weeping burn, and the strips of dead skin peeling off. It wasn’t pleasant, but mine are worse.

I offered her my nearly used up can of De-Morph, but she declined.

“I have a better one,” she said. “From Papa.”

I examined the search results. She was Kestrella Chu, daughter of Sim Chu, marketing director for the big drug company Mu-Tech. It was the same name as on the tube from which she was now squeezing ointment on to her oozing skin. “Field-testing a new product, huh? So does Daddy know about…uh…?”

“Naturally.” She fixed me with her eyes, big and brown, as if it was a challenge to my idea of reality. “But he chose not to give me up.”

“You’re a Blue?” I asked.

“Yes, he registered me. With my permission.”

I looked around, puzzled. “Is he here then?”

She giggled. “Don’t be silly. He’s not my minder. He’s far too busy!” She nodded across and down the street. On a side street leading off the main road I could just see a large 4x4 with shaded windows.

“You have a private minder?”

She nodded, smiling. “Hired specially for the job. His name is Dominic, and he is two metres tall and works out and weighs 85 kilos.”

I put a white flag on my monitor. “O-kay,” I said. “No worries. So, er, why does your father keep you at home then? Is it so he’s got a real live guinea pig handy to test out his new products on?”

Her smile vanished and she left the doorway. “You really are a horrible cynic, aren’t you?” It was my turn to try and keep up with her as she sped back up the road towards the 4x4. “Did life make you this way or is that the real reason your parents walked out on you?” I laughed for the first time in ages.

Running to catch up, the wind blew the hoodie off my head, revealing the monitor where my face should be. Two passers-by saw it—recoiled in fright, turned tail and ran the other way. I hurriedly pulled the hood well over my head and hoped they weren’t off to call the Gene Police.

“Look,” I was panting as I drew alongside Kestrella. “I’m fifteen years old, I should be in school, or losing my virginity, binge-drinking, skateboarding, or whatever it is boys my age do. But instead I’ve been living on the streets for two years, always on the lookout, trying to avoid things like that happening.” I jerked my head back, one hand tugging my hood down tight over my monitor. “It’s not surprising if I’m lacking a few airs and graces.”

“You agreed to this rendezvous.” She fixed me with a gaze. “And I need your help.” She handed me her tube. Its brand name read I-So-L8. I squeezed out a dollop of cream and gingerly applied some to the side of my head where it hurt most. It felt good.

I looked at Kestrella, and how soft she was. Then I followed her across the road to the 4x4 with the smoky windows and we climbed into the back. As Dominic pulled away from the kerb and into the night, Kestrella opened a little fridge and began to feed stuff into my tube I hadn’t tasted in years. Swirls of delicious fruit smoothies snaked into my stomach. I gazed at this girl who had everything, including acceptance, wondering if she could really be trusted, and what on earth she could want from me.

There was a block of ice in my heart and I had to stop it melting.

2. Exit From Nowheresville

I watched Johnny with an amused smile as he reacted to being inside Papa’s vehicle: the smell of upholstered leather made supple with nap oil, the luxury of the satin cushions, the fridge containing energy drinks laced with spirulina and ginseng root. In short, a womb of mercy.

I leant forward. “Dominic,” I told the driver. “We’re going to see Cheri.”

He steered north across the river. I told Johnny not to worry. No one could see us through the tinted windows.

To say he looked odd would be an understatement. It was shocking at first to see someone with no face; instead just a constantly shifting array of pixels obscuring his natural features. No eyes, no mouth, no nose. My mind conjured visions of how the rest of him might be transfigured.

But I was getting used to it surprisingly quickly. His lanky ginger hair concealed the piteous details of the transition. I felt a surge of pity for him. I’d got off lightly by comparison.

I liked how he used the screen to express his feelings in an ironic, witty way. When he’d removed his tube from the third bottle, a bloated smiley face appeared. I blew out my own cheeks and smiled back. I asked him if Johnny Online was his real name.

“No, it’s something they gave me in a role-play game when I was eleven and it stuck after I got Creep. I don’t want to remember my real name. I’m not the same person any more, know what I mean?” His voice was like a train announcement and seemed to come from beneath his chin. He’d chosen one that was neutral, midtone, with only slight inflection, perhaps deliberately to make himself like a robot. He continued: “When Creep hit I was eleven but I didn’t catch it till I was twelve. I left home a year later.”

I nodded. “Me too. But what a terrible story. You’re a Grey, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said proudly. “Don’t know how but I’ve managed to stay unregistered for two years. I’ve learnt how to keep my head down.”

He reached in the fridge again and started on a strawberry yogurt. I couldn’t believe how hungry he was. I tried to see where the tube went—it seemed to disappear into his throat through a hole in his neck.

“It must be terrible being a Grey,” I prompted.

“It’s probably better than being a Red though. The Gene Police take them to the Centre for Genetic Rehabilitation and they’re never seen again.”

The streets passed by outside: Russell Square, Camden High Street, all quiet. Dominic pulled over to let an armoured ambulance, its blue lights flashing, pass by. Johnny ducked instinctively.

“I know I’ve lived a rather sheltered life,” I began hesitantly. For some reason I felt the need to apologise. “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to be homeless…”

I told him how I’d been protected by my parents’ money and status, and until recently lived a life of careless ignorance. Then I too got the plague and began to find out how awful the world could be.

He listened to my story without comment. Then “Why pick me?” flashed on his screen with a picture of a blue face in a sea of yellow faces.

“I found your blog on the net. I-I thought you might be able to help me.”

“Help you what? Find a cure?!” he snorted and flashed up a cartoon of a detective with a giant magnifying glass, then smashed it with a hammer. I smiled.

“No, that’s Papa’s company’s job. But I’ll tell you why later. First, we’re going in here. Dominic?”

I’d timed it nicely. We were in West Hampstead and the car pulled up opposite a rambling, red-brick Victorian house with brown, smoked-glass extensions, surrounded by a few trees and a high security wall.

“Where are we?” asked Johnny.

“Don’t you know?” I was surprised. “It’s where they can help you.”

“Hey. What makes you think I—”

“Oh, I’m sure you can remain anonymous if you like. A troubled soul checking in briefly from out of the cold. This is Salvation House.”

“No way,” he said petulantly.

“Oh, come on, Johnny. This is a hospice. It’s run by my aunt. Everybody’s heard of it. It’s the most hybrid-friendly place in the country. The council’s always threatening to close it down but they can’t because there’d be a riot.”

“Not interested,” he intoned in an annoying, flat voice. His screen had gone blank.

“They’ll clean you up, give you a medical…” I sighed. I didn’t think he’d be like this. “Look at the state of you. You could die on the streets any day. The vigilante gangs, no money—”

“I can look after myself.”

He kept saying this until I got the message. But Sally House was so nice. It was cosy and right at the heart of the struggle for the rights of Creep victims. My Aunt Cheri treated it as her family, her cause. Her heart was as big as London. He’d no right to turn down my offer of help. It could only be because he didn’t know how marvellous it was. He registered my disappointment. His screen came alive again with a picture of wild mountains and clouds. A wolf howled at the sky. Was this how he really saw himself?

“Very well,” I said coldly. “Can we drop you off somewhere?”

“Home.”

“Home?” I didn’t think he had a home.

He gave the location to Dominic, who impassively restarted the engine and took the car away from West Hampstead, back, back towards the river.

Johnny didn’t want to know what I wanted to ask him to do. I felt hurt by his lack of curiosity. I’d been wrong about him. He was perverse. Perhaps he was more machine than boy. There was no heart beating beneath his synthetic casing. He’d been claimed by the creeping inorganic world. No amount of care could warm a heart that didn’t exist.

There was a sullen silence throughout the journey.

I walked with him from the car along the side street. We were in a nowheresville, the anywhere of a 1930s suburban estate.

It had seen better times; the hedges straggled, untrimmed. Grime sucked the colour from all surfaces. Lace curtains drifted, ragged and unwashed. Litter snagged in the weed-claimed flower beds. Grey pebbledashing, like an old mask, had fallen from walls to reveal the shame of naked brickwork.

“You live here?” I asked.

“Sure. I like it. It suits me. See? Leaky houses once full of happy young families. The only things living here now are ghosts.” And he explained how what he called their old comfort blanket had changed into a blanket of fear. “Who knows when this happened? Sometimes I think it began when they tarmacked the front gardens for their second or third cars, or perhaps it was when the kids and their mums and dads stopped playing together and disappeared into their bedrooms for hours on end to play computer games, watch TV, press buttons. Anyway, conversation stopped. Then I imagine how the children left, sucked down telephone wires or satellite cables into another dimension. Hear it now? No sound, no wind, no movement, no people. Just planes passing overhead and the distant complaints of sirens. Here we are,” he announced.

It was a dark, semi-detached house with its windows and doors all boarded up. I held my nose against the stench of blocked drains. We clambered through a hole in a board nailed over the back door. Johnny threw a connection switch on an electricity meter, telling me he’d wired it to a street lamp outside—free electricity. “Don’t know why everyone doesn’t do this.”

The lights blazed on and the blackness shrank into sharp shadows. I couldn’t hide my shock. He took my hand as I stumbled over rubbish on the floor—wet, broken plaster, rotten floorboards, plastic bags, empty bottles.

“But what is this?” I asked naively.

“A squat, of course,” he said, and I could tell that if his voice had been human, it would have betrayed a trace of contempt at my ignorance. “How d’you think I survived for two years?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“The first few weeks were the worst. Looking back, I was lucky I wasn’t killed. One night I slept in the middle of a traffic island! I hid in the bushes, but it was hard to sleep cos of the noise.”

“That’s awful!”

“Then I met this guy, Turney. He was older, been homeless a while. He kind of took me under his wing. Saved my life really. Took me down to Southwark and found me a squat—the first of a string of them. To begin with I was sharing with about twenty others. At least I’m alone here. Turney showed me where you could get free food and clothes, and who was dangerous and who would be friendly. You see, there are cafés and shops which don’t mind hybrids coming in; some are even run by hybrids. He showed me how to keep away from the vigilantes who come hunting for us, the Gene Police, the drug pushers and the pimps.”

“Was he a hybrid?” I asked.

“No. But he kind of liked hanging out with them. He was about twenty, but he seemed a lot older. He used to say, ‘Johnny-boy, if I’m going to get it, I’m going to get it. Don’t matter what I do, my number will be up. So I ain’t going to let some crummy virus scare me’.”

Johnny led me upstairs: there were no carpets and our footsteps seemed too loud.

“He sounds nice. What happened to him?”

“Dunno. One day he just disappeared and I never saw him again. I looked for him at his usual haunts, but I never found him. Maybe he was picked up by the Gene Police and sent to the CGR just for the hell of it.”

Suddenly he froze. He signalled me to be silent. I could see daylight coming in from a bedroom. We continued slowly, treading on smashed glass. Johnny rushed into the back bedroom and I followed.

The room had been ransacked. I pinched my nose at the smell and saw excrement was smeared on the furniture. Graffiti on the walls shouted “Bye bye freaks”; “We’ll get you next time”; “Hybrid control—mission accomplished”. I saw Johnny stagger and rushed to support him, easing him on to a chair.

“My computers…back-ups…all gone…” he said. Equipment lay smashed on the floor. Papers were everywhere.

“What a mess,” I said. “Do you know who did it?”

He looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there.

“What does it matter?”

“Did they take much?”

“All my files—writing. My databases, programs, all my hardware…No, not much.”

“Haven’t you got it backed up somewhere?”

“Well, yes and no. Some of it, almost, a bit.” On his screen a picture of an underground cave system momentarily replaced his standard screensaver of a stoned smiley face.

I began to poke around in the mess. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, no?”

“Yeah, but it was my rubbish.”

“At least you weren’t here when it happened.”

“I can look after myself.”

“I don’t think so. Come on.” I took a last look round, picked up a few papers and marched out of the bedroom. This time, he followed.

It was when we got into the front yard that they pounced. I think there were three of them. They must have only just left the house when we arrived, and had seen us, returning for an ambush. Screaming, they charged at us from the side passage, waving baseball bats and a crowbar.

I let out a shriek, grabbing Johnny’s hand instinctively. We ran towards the gate, hotly pursued just a few metres behind.

But Dominic had seen what was happening and had coasted the car up to the house. The 4x4’s brilliant lights flashed on and with a scream of tyres he swerved it across the road on to the pavement to illuminate fully the front garden.

Startled, our attackers paused, shielding their eyes against the glare. Dominic leant on the horn. We didn’t need a second summons. Racing through the gate, we jumped into the open door and Dominic crashed the gears into reverse, lurched back into the road, and then, with another squeal of tyres, sped off down the street, leaving the vigilantes staring at our tail lights.

3. My Worst Enemy

The thought briefly occurred to me that she’d set this up on purpose just to make me homeless so I’d do whatever she wanted. Girls, I’d heard, can be devious like that.

I don’t believe in luck, fate or destiny; they’re all comfort words that humans have. It’s just you, what you’re like, that makes certain kinds of events happen to you rather than others. Me, I attract trouble cos I’m a hybrid. People like me give a new meaning to the word ‘dysfunctional’.

This time, as Dominic drove, Kestrella told me more about herself. She was different from anyone I’d met before. She’d seen the world, met all kinds—except dregs like me—and grown up in the type of universe where people fly their own jet to their own private island in the sun for a four-day party attended by tycoons, politicians and actors. In such a world, nobody asks too many questions and everyone feels safe. She said even I would fit in—with the right clothes.

“A hybrid?” I said. “Aren’t they afraid they might catch Something Nasty?”

She shook her head causing tangled black curls to wave around her face, and I began to think how beautiful it might be to run my hand through them. But that was a stupid thought.

“They think their wealth makes them immune from anything,” she said.

“Didn’t help you, did it? How come you’re part of that set?”

“Maman. She used to be a top model. She is still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” Kestrella went silent for a moment and her lips curled inwards as if she was swallowing something that she didn’t want to let free. “She was on the covers of glossy magazines and in the gossip columns.”

I was wondering what to say when her phone rang. It was a slender model in the style popular a couple of years ago. The keypad was where her palm might have been and the screen was in place of her fingers. It was one of the most common types of rewrite. I filed a picture of it alongside the dozens of others I kept in a database.

I’d already sensed that the vehicle we were in had a built-in wireless satellite system, probably for her father’s work given the nature of the passwords I’d picked my way through, and I uploaded the database on to a remote server. I’d actually not lost much except hardware from the attack on my place. I was always careful to copy my files on to several servers, sometimes splitting them up and distributing the pieces on servers across the world so that nobody picking up one of them would ever be able to tell what it was.

I’m not paranoid, just realistic, OK?

The 4x4 was passing through an area of old office blocks. A long section of hoarding was plastered with competing posters from different political parties for a public demonstration and counter-demonstration. Some read COMPULSORY QUARANTINE NOW! Others read PROTECTION NOT PERSECUTION.

At the next intersection, the car slowed down as it passed a Gene Police van and two patrol cars, recognisable from the logo on their sides: a DNA double helix snaking round a flaming torch. They had spilled out a dozen foot soldiers in their white, hermetically sealed suits, who were surrounding a scooter that had smashed into a lamp post. Only it wasn’t just a scooter.

I could see a human face contorted in agony, and I’m sure that the driver’s right hand somehow merged with the handlebars…I cringed inside: nothing could be done. The GP had probably spotted and given chase to their quarry, pushing him harder and harder through the city’s back streets until he’d crashed.

Kestrella was talking in her light French accent to someone about being somewhere. She finished and turned to me with a fierce Gallic look in her eye. “This time you’re not to argue. We’re going back to Salvation House and you’re going to meet my aunt Cheri, OK? Dominic?”

The red light flashing angrily on my screen bounced off the slight sheen of perspiration on her forehead. “You’re not going to register me. I don’t want to become a Blue like you. I’m a Grey and I intend to stay that way, got it?”

She smiled wryly. “You know something? I’m beginning to think you are your own worst enemy.”

A statement like that left me cold. After all I had that block of ice to keep from melting. “I’d rather be free, don’t you see?” I said defiantly. “I need to be free.”

She laughed. “What good is freedom if your life is in danger, if you’re in hiding and can’t function properly?”

“You, you may be free to jet to your own island in the sun whenever you like,” I threw back, “but you don’t understand what freedom means, and you never will until you have people trying to take it away from you just because of what you are!”

“Ha! How romantic!” She threw her head back. “Your freedom is nothing if you can’t make good use of it!”

I turned away from her, breathing heavily. Why was I so angry? I had nowhere to go, but why should that make me dependent on her and her aunt? I could find another place to be, couldn’t I? I could break into another house and squat, as I had so many times before. There were clubs, cafés, dens I knew that could tolerate someone like me: they were part of the subculture.

My heart was pounding, I was hyperventilating and I could feel my transition points flaring up and feeling hot. There were—

The next thing I knew I was on the floor of the car, staring up into Kestrella’s face—was that a tear in her eye?—writhing like a wounded animal at the pain down my left arm. Pain like a hot needle pushing down into my wrist, where the keyboard poked out—one of my transition points. She had pulled up my sleeve to see what it looked like and the expression of horror on her face made even me feel frightened. I don’t know how long I’d blacked out for, but Dominic had stopped the car and he too was reaching over me, his mirror shades reflecting the white noise on my monitor.

He’d opened the fridge and got out a spray can of I-So-L8 and was spraying it on to the affected area. It felt cool. The soreness gradually faded away, the white noise went, a screensaver picture of one of my favourite bands now bounced off Dominic’s shades as he pulled away from me and Kestrella breathed a sigh of relief, the tear gone.

She turned to Dominic: “Are we nearly there yet?” she said.

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