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  They had borne no children. Nythlia detested them. She claimed to have no recollection of her own childhood and Skelos had fancied that she been kept in life-chamber up to the age of eighteen and then unleashed upon the world like a blizzard. She had told him she had dissociative amnesia caused by a trauma she had suffered on her sixteenth year. Skelos always wondered about the trauma, so much so, he considered making her a specimen in his laboratory so that he might read her mind. But that would have been at the risk of losing her as his experiments only carried a sixty per cent chance of survival.

  The Parliamentary Elite were the top tier of the Odisirian government that heralded democracy and yet ruled as a dictatorship. Skelos didn’t have the time or passion for the politics to which Nylthia devoted her life.

  He pecked his wife on a cheek that was as cold as her heart. She had raked her white hair up in a bun and taken most of her forehead with it. Her dark eyes were pulled upwards and outwards. Her arched brows were pulled taunt. She had angular sunken cheekbones. Her lips had been injected with a plant-based blue dye because she did not like them to lose their colour. She wore a long billowing gown that hid her willowy figure and amplified her height. Despite her coldness, men found her indifference, and her hard to read persona, attractive.

  ‘How was your day?’ The usual formality; a jumping off point for their evening conversation. Skelos always asked first as a matter of courtesy.

  Like many Citizen homes, the Dorms had more space than they needed. The neutral furniture and fittings could disappear from view at the sound of a voice, a wave of the hand, a breath or a touch, receding behind panels, walls and into the floors. Chandeliers made from steel and opals hung from the ceiling. The house droids had polished the floor to such a high sheen, it resembled water in its translucency.

  ‘Productive.’ She stared out of the window, immobile. She often stood for long periods staring out at the garden view. Thinking. Planning.

  Skelos summoned up a cube-shaped chair from the floor. Three floor tiles slid back, and the chair rose to take its place next to a table hewn from solid stone.

  ‘Productive’ meant that she did not have a good day. ‘So how are parliamentary affairs?’

  ‘Mundane,’ she replied, ‘as always. Things have not been the same since the new vice- chancellor took up the chair. I’m afraid it is not a good fit for him, even if he were slim. Sadly, there is no one to confide in. No one to trust.’ She turned to him. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘A cyborg tried to kill me and I have fool for an apprentice.’

  ‘Oh, how is Imbrecas?’ she said, brightening a little. For no reason that Skelos could fathom, she was fond of the boy.

  ‘Among the living,’ muttered Skelos, ‘for now.’ He brought up a holo-display from the table beside him. He scoured the food and drinks menu for a while before ordering a glass of Primnicott wine and a plate of raw fish and vegetables.

  A five-legged house droid with a spherical head glided in carrying the delicacy on a tray. Controlled by voice recognition, it had no voice box of its own. Nylthia had had it modified so that it didn’t make a sound. She disliked noise. She said it interrupted her thoughts and gave her headaches. Skelos had never witnessed these headaches, but according to his wife they were horrifically painful for the three seconds they lasted.

  The droid set Skelos’s food and drink down on the table. The sensor strip around its casing flashed blue. It then zoomed quickly away as if sensitive to the mood of the room, despite lacking the ability to detect emotions.

  She nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Amelia.’

  ‘She’s no trouble.’ At least not for me. Nylthia complained about Amelia daily. Every time his wife mentioned Amelia it was to make some frivolous complaint. He found it exasperating. He would have thought his wife had more demanding concerns than that of a twelve-years old girl.

  ‘She’s insolent and spoilt.’

  Like any other Citizen child. ‘Of course she is.’ He swilled the amber-coloured wine around in his glass and devoured a sliver of fish wrapped in blue seaweed. ‘You’ve met her mother.’ Nylthia detested his wife’s brother, Satcha, and yet the two women were so similar in personality and appearance they could have passed for sisters; no doubt Nylthia would disagree.

  ‘She comes to me regularly to ask about my day. The impertinence! The events of my day should be no concern of hers. Anyone would think she were a spy. And the ribbons and the dresses are taking over the house.’ She shuddered. ‘Ghastly.’

  ‘You can’t blame the child, it’s the mother’s fault and my fool brother who married her.’

  ‘That’s why they left her in your charge to go gallivanting in Kaltharine. Smart ones. They must be mocking us as we speak.’

  ‘I promised my brother I would take care of her, so whatever future plans you have in that calculating head of yours get rid of them.’

  Nylthia took a seat at the table. ‘I would never dream of parting you from your niece. I know she’s very special to you despite you ranting for the first ten years of our marriage that you don’t like children.’

  ‘And you were ranting right alongside me and yet here she is.’

  ‘Yes, she is here.’ Nylthia gave a stiff smile. ‘See to it that she no longer disturbs me.’

  Skelos changed the subject. ‘My demonstration is tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve heard. I will be present.’

  ‘Good. All the important Citizens will be there.’

  ‘I should think so. Your work will catapult me up the parliamentary spectrum as to speak. And you − you my dear will have the highest accolade a scientist has ever obtained.’ She gave him a rare peck on the lips.

  He smiled. He liked to see Nylthia happy. Everything she said was true. Tomorrow would be a new day for the both of them. Their lives would change forever. Finally, the Citizens of Odisiris would acknowledge his talents. His name would be renowned. The Parliamentary Elite would elect him as an honorary member. He would head the Planetary Data Protection Committee and assume a position on the P.S.R.F.D. His name would be legend. He would shape the planet’s future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dr Skelos Dorm beamed at his audience. He held up his hand to display his blue Status Mark. He bowed to the members of the Parliamentary Elite: the vice-chancellor, Darlis Sajoyagh, and the Chief Secretary Gabe Nevassi. Potential investors and prominent members of the P.D.P.C and directors from the P.S.R.F.D made up over half the audience.

  Of course, his Nylthia was there. He thought her presence would put him at ease. Instead, he found her severe expression unnerving. It was as if she had reserved it especially for him.

  There were a handful of lesser known scientists present, ones who had poured scorn on his work for years. One of his former childhood friends, Osaphar Kulane, had put in an appearance. Skelos did not recall inviting him, so wondered why he was there. He snorted. Well, he would show them.

  The hairstylist whose services he had procured for the occasion had given his brown mane so much bounce and body it practically leapt off his shoulders with every flouncing movement he made. His black lab coat was spotless.

  He had selected the theatre on the fourth floor of his Stores to carry out his demonstration. The laboratory was a hexagonal shape. Each wall was lined with rows of seats. There was a central projection screen set up on the main wall, furthest from the door, and four small ones on the others. The hologram images from the central screen would be displayed in front of each individual seat.

  The demonstration was to be conducted in the centre of the room. Skelos expected it to last more than an hour. He had allotted an extra hour for questions. He expected there would be quite a few. He had arranged drinks and some light refreshments to occupy his guests while he tripled-checked everything was in place.

  ‘Citizens,’ said Skelos, waving his hand to garner their attention. ‘I thank you for your attendance. I can assure all of you that you will not be disappoint
ed.’

  He glared at his assistant, a young woman with a head of hair shaped like a tent and heavy-lidded grey eyes.

  ‘Imbrecas would have been of more use,’ Skelos hissed through his teeth. ‘Do you want to put everything in place, Emphera?’

  She should have been dimming the lights to emit a pale blue and cream montage, checking the subject’s vitals, cleaning the tray of instruments that he had specially shipped in for ostentatious reasons. Instead, his assistant was preoccupied with gawping at the blank central screen along with his seventeen esteemed guests.

  ‘He’s going to show us a film, isn’t he?’ A stiff-limbed woman in a black suit postulated to the man beside her. She was on the P.S.R.F.D board of directors. Kerss Nysen was the least impressionable amongst Skelos’s audience. A sourly-looking woman, broad in hips and mouth, she was known to be fastidious in her approval of scientific exploration. He had purposely planned the demonstration to coincide with her annual vacation. He had no idea why she had cancelled at the last minute.

  ‘Why didn’t he set up a communication link so we could watch it at home?’ she complained. ‘And what’s that body doing in here?’

  ‘Everything is in place doctor,’ his assistant replied, her eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Would you like some refreshments?’

  Skelos gave an exasperated sigh and then clapped his hands. ‘Okay. Let us begin.’

  His subject, Arom Tu’ilki, lay in a padded life-chamber. Next to the life-chamber was a stainless steel table brimming with medical supplies. Skelos was keen to show his audience that he was prepared for any eventuality and that his subjects were well cared for.

  He opened the life-chamber’s barrel door and checked the restraints. Are they tight enough? The Thruen was a willing subject and Skelos had paid him handsomely for the honour of lying in the chamber.

  Half of Arom’s chest was covered with markings of ancient runes native to his homeland. He was as perfect a non-Citizen specimen that he was ever likely to get. He had a strong jawline, a short forehead and chin. His nose was turned up at the tip. His bulging arms lay at his sides. He had thick legs and a chiseled chest. He wore nothing but the surgical trousers his assistant had fitted with him. His eyes were open because he had no eyelids. This was not a racial trait, more of a mutation. Mutants were common in the Andromeda Galaxy. The only problem was that Skelos found it hard to distinguish if Arom was unconscious, conscious, or asleep.

  The Thruen was a merchant who had landed on Odisiris from his own planet of Uthren not more than two months ago. For some reason, he had not returned to his ship and it left without him. Skelos had met him in the bar of a hotel lobby. He wouldn’t have been the first Thruen who had failed to board their flight home. They were usually rounded up and deported. Arom’s stay would have been short if he had not procured him for his experiments.

  Skelos took a swab from the table and swept it over Arom’s upper arm. Again, this was completely unnecessary and only for show. The droid hovering close by had already sterilised his subject’s arm over an hour ago. Returning to the table, Skelos selected a prefilled electronic syringe.

  ‘What’s the matter with his eyes?’ said one of the minor scientists. He rose from his seat to get a better look at Arom’s face.

  ‘Mutant. No eyelids,’ whispered a man sitting behind him.

  With an understanding nod, the minor scientist retreated to his chair and plucked up his glass of berry liqueur from the tray attached to his seat.

  ‘Has he consented to this?’ asked the Darlis. He arched an eyebrow. The barrel-shaped Citizen, Darlis Sajoyagh, had been vice-chancellor for less than a year and behaved much like an emperor sitting on the throne of power while everyone around him made decisions on his behalf.

  ‘Yes he consented,’ said Skelos, proffering another bow, deeper than the first. He found the question more than a little insulting given his status and the length of his career. ‘Emphera, show him the consent forms.’

  Emphera duly selected a computerised tablet from a table and showed it to the Vice Chancellor. Darlis Sajoyagh rested one hand on his protruding stomach and stared briefly at the tablet.

  Onas Nevassi tapped something into his own tablet. A holographic decryption tool opened above it. Skelos had no concerns there; Arom’s signature was authentic.

  Skelos pumped the fluid into Arom’s arm and then waved his hand in front of the Thruen’s eyes. ‘That should do it,’ he said. He had given Arom an extra dose of anaesthetic. He didn’t want him to so much as stir during the demonstration.

  He turned on the apparatus and smiled at his audience. ‘In a short moment, you will see a yellow light appear on the screen followed by a series of images.’

  He caught the eye of Osaphar, his former friend. His stare was as cold and hard as usual. Skelos vaguely wondered if he came to offer his support, if he intended to renew their friendship. Why else would he be here?

  Feigning indifference, he removed his gloves and pretended to read from his tablet.

  ‘What is it you want us to see Skelos?’ said Darlis Sajoyagh, postulating with his hand to the unconscious subject. He guzzled from a glass filled with blue liquid and sulphate mist. ‘I don’t like surprises. What is this a demonstration of?’

  ‘The mind,’ said Skelos, wringing his hands together. A bead of sweat sprung from his temple and trickled down the side of his face. A yellow light appeared on the screen. ‘Ah,’ he said, turning to face it.

  He heard the grumbling in the audience. He looked into the life-chamber and saw that a blood vessel had burst in Arom’s eye, making the white a veiny blue. Thruens had blue blood pumping through their veins, but it was not the same colour or consistency of a blue-blooded First Status Citizen. A Thruen’s blood was thinner and the blue less rich.

  This wasn’t good, not when he was barely fifteen minutes into his demonstration.

  ‘Is this linked to your work in neurorobotics?’ said Kerss. Arms crossed, she drummed her fingers on her forearms and glared at the yellow holographic beam hovering in front of her.

  ‘Yes actually,’ said Skelos. It had nothing to do with neurorobotics, but he didn’t want to disappoint his audience. They’ll see what this is about soon enough.

  Ten minutes later, something else occurred, not as exciting as he would have hoped, more colours appeared: specks of green and blue merged with the dismal yellow light on the screen.

  ‘What in the world-of-Odisiris is this?’ asked Kerss. She batted the projected hologram with the back of her hand as if she found it offensive.

  Skelos gave an embarrassed cough. He had wanted to surprise them, show them first, and then offer his superfluous explanation. ‘If you could have a little patience, please.’

  Thirty minutes later, Skelos heard several snores coming from the arena. Two scientists who had claimed they needed the restroom had not returned. A number of his investors were reading from their tablets. Three members of the P.D.P.C had the gall to fall asleep. The vice-chancellor appeared to be in deep conversation with Osaphar.

  Emphera, his incompetent assistant, had slumped in her chair with her mouth hanging open and a remote device in her hand. Skelos kicked her in the shin, and she woke abruptly, standing to attention and dropping the remote on the floor.

  And then it happened. The colours merged to form one giant mass. The edges of the mass grew crude stems. The stems flickered. Then they grew. The stems became like snakes, weaving themselves around the giant mass of colour. The mass then shrunk. Choked by the stems.

  Arom had lifted his head from the life-chamber. The veins in his neck bulged. He gritted his teeth as if fighting to wake up from a dream.

  Skelos kept a straight face. He had not seen Arom react this way when he was under before. Twice he had linked him up to the machine. He saw nothing the first time, but the second time he had seen a blurred image of Arom, sitting with his sister and brother in their home. Arom had confirmed the memory of it when h
e had awoken. His gaze left Arom, and he went to the holo-display. He had not seen the image before. There was something under the mass of stems. He just couldn’t make out what.

  The vice-chancellor gave a weighty sigh. ‘Can you explain this Skelos?’

  Skelos tried his best. ‘What you are seeing here is one of the subject’s memories.’

  ‘Memories?’ said a member of the P.S.R.F.D. Still bleary-eyed from his nap, he was half-slumped in his chair with a spilled plate of canapés on his lap. ‘It’s a myriad of colours. Any fool can see that. And what’s happened to your subject?’

  Skelos looked at Arom. He made a strange gagging sound. Blood-specked foam spewed from this mouth. His skin had taken on a grey hue. The life-chamber sprung open, and Arom’s arm broke free of its restraint. It shook uncontrollably.

  The image on the viewing scream began to fade; the colours die. The life-chamber alarm gave a high-pitched ring and announced to the room that the subject’s vitals were failing.

  Emphera stared at Skelos, a frozen expression on her face.

  Skelos hastily tried to redress the situation by adjusting the life-chamber’s settings. Arom continued to convulse, tremble and wheeze for several minutes more and then he lay still. His vital signs were there on the holographic feed for all his audience to see. His vitals were fine. His brain, however, had ceased to function.

  ‘The Thruen appears to be brain dead,’ said the Chief Secretary, although this was abundantly obvious to everyone except Emphera, who pressed her hand to Arom’s neck in search of a pulse.

  Darlis Sajoyagh stood up. ‘I think we’ve seen enough.’

  ‘You think you can waste our time, Skelos Dorm?’ said Kerss. She threw an impatient glance in the direction of the vice-chancellor, who did not acknowledge her.

  ‘I can assure you categorically,’ said Skelos, ‘the experiment works. I have conducted it on myself.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you lying in the life-chamber?’ said Kerss, raising a chilled cocktail glass, filled with a frothy concoction, to her lips. ‘Instead of this Thruen.’

  Because I don’t want you to see my thoughts. I don’t want you to know what I truly am. What I’m capable of.