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  “Thought you were a drug dealer, actually.”

  “Too messy.”

  “I bet your posh client got a bit miffed when you laid into Nicky’s boys, messing up your suit and all. Terribly inappropriate.”

  “Turned her on actually. Shagged like a rabbit afterwards. And Miss McIntyre has requested a meeting with you. Lunchtime at The Ethereal.”

  7

  The Ethereal was the kind of posh gaff that wouldn’t let just any old riff raff in, so Alex had trouble getting past the doorman until he could prove he had a seat booked. The place was heaving with shirts having power lunches. Recession? What recession?

  Miss McIntyre turned out to be a bit older than Alex imagined her. Steely grey eyes in a tailored beige suit. Not some simpering heiress mooching around the party circuit. Nor some politico type wibbling on about inequality. No, Alex knew those eyes. Miss McIntyre wasn’t in business for money or status. She was in it for the buzz. To win.

  A kindred spirit.

  “What kind of business are you in?” said Alex, tucking into his salmon.

  “I buy companies and invest in them. And individuals too.”

  “And you want to put me on your portfolio.”

  “As an investment, yes,” said Miss McIntyre, smiling sweetly.

  Alex exchanged glances with Forbes.

  “You know that what I do is illegal, don’t you Miss McIntyre?”

  “Is it really?” said Miss McIntyre. “There are so many new laws being introduced every day, it is so hard to keep track. Tell you what,” she added, as if it was a terrific new wheeze. “You keep quiet about it and, er, I shall do the same. How does that sound?”

  “Tickety-boo. So you’re willing to front the costs of me entering fights, in return for a cut?”

  “You catch on very quickly Mr Harvey. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. There’s one problem though. You’ll be making a loss. I’m going to need a grand to get into the next fight. But the prize money will probably be about the same. It’s going to be a while before I can work my way up to some decent stakes. How long term is your investment Miss McIntyre?”

  “My vision is as long as it is broad, Mr Harvey. You’re forgetting about the betting stakes. I won a substantial amount on your last fight. As did half the people in this room, probably. They’re currently eating on your victory, though I doubt they even know who you are. You see Mr Harvey, the betting system for these tournaments is a very wide net, operated by brokers who represent some very interesting clients. I have it on very good information that four members of parliament and one judge together made a cool million on your little display of fisticuffs. All tax free, no questions asked. The criminal who hosted your fight lives in a mansion out at Chipping Netburn. And provided he butters the right parsnips, he’ll never be brought to trial. My investment, therefore, allows me to game a very lucrative system. You keep winning Mr Harvey, and I’ll make sure you get everything you need. And do call me Fiona.”

  The Force was strong in this one. “Well, when you put it like that Fiona, how can I refuse? You’ve got a deal.”

  “Excellent. Forbes here has agreed to be your agent, so from this point onwards, I shall communicate through him. Good day Mr Harvey, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  *

  “I can’t believe I just heard that,” said Alex, walking down the street.

  “Tip of the iceberg mate,” said Forbes.

  “So how big is Fiona then?”

  “Not very. A 38B I’d say.”

  “I meant her business.”

  “Oh, that. Pretty massive, I think, though all her legit businesses are abroad. What she dabbles in on these shores, I don’t know. But you know what they say, the black market here is bigger than the legit market. Accounts for half our GDP now.”

  “Half of naff all ain’t much. So you’re my agent then?”

  “Seemed like a good idea.”

  “Seeing as I’m in such demand, and with Stu underground, I’m going to need a new chemist.”

  “Got anyone in mind?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  8

  Forton Bank was the first in a series of hills that enveloped Innsbury on three sides, with an impressive view of the Inns Valley. From up here, the sprawling town looked almost picturesque, with the church steeples of the old town contrasting with the glass architecture towers of the new town. ‘New’ being a comparative term, of course, as the new bits were now over a hundred years old and, frankly, didn’t look so good close up. From up here, though, it was still possible to get a glimpse of the planner’s designs, with the gridwork streets leaking onto the M97 that ran along the far edge of the conurbation. At night, it used to look pretty good all lit up. Nowadays, street lighting was a luxury the town couldn’t afford and, for six nights of the week, they were switched off.

  Forton farm had long since ceased to be a farm, and the old farmhouse was a gutted, roofless shell. Wind turbines had been erected on the land instead, but they’d fallen into disuse as well, the big turbines seizing up and corroding nicely. Every winter, another one would topple over, so you’d stumble across them in the tangled undergrowth. It was a great place to come for scrap metal - if you could find a way of carting it off.

  “You said it was just drugs,” said Alex, bracing himself against the gusting wind.

  Randal had found a flower that he particularly liked and was examining it closely, splitting it open along the stem. “Yes,” he said. “Powerful drugs.”

  “You didn’t say nothing about no implants.”

  “That disturbs you?”

  “Well yeah. You give me a drug and I can inject it, and that’s that. You’re talking about surgery now. In a fucking homemade clinic, being operated on by some nut with a plant fetish.”

  “Intravenous applications have their limits, Mr Harvey. By implanting artificial glands, the drugs you mentioned can be stored within the body. On call, as you might say. A mechanism that will allow you to control their release will also need to be fitted. Not to mention some genetic mutations that you may find advantageous.”

  “You’re freaking me out now. Genetic mutation?”

  “They’re perfectly natural. Well, some of them,” said Randal, eating the flower. “Take the Nandropoietin you have been using, for example. It’s a synthetic compound that stimulates the kidneys into producing more Erythropoietin, creating more red blood cells in your system to feed more oxygen to your muscles and brain. Some people are born with a mutation that does the same thing, giving them a fifty percent higher blood cell count than the rest of the population. Useful in certain endeavours, but also quite dangerous.”

  “In what way?”

  “More blood cells means a higher chance of clotting, with the attendant risk of heart failure, strokes, pulmonary embolism, etc. As you yourself have already experienced. It is, as you might say, a double edged sword. There is another mutation, however, rarer still, that increases the oxygen carrying capacity of red blood cells without the need to increase their number. It is a safer option, though not without risks of its own.”

  “And what would they be?”

  “Oxygen is a carcinogen, Mr Harvey, meaning that it causes cancer. It will also increase the destruction of red blood cells, which currently die at the rate of two million a second. You’d risk developing Hemolytic Anemia and Hemochromatosis.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to put me off.”

  “It is important that you understand the path you are setting out on. The human body is a living organism Mr Harvey. It is never static. Whatever we introduce into it will need to be fortified, compensated for, and reintroduced, for as long as you live. You will be fighting against your body for the rest of your life.” Randal picked another flower. “But you have been doing that anyway. I cannot promise you a long life, for you will undoubtedly die young, but I can give you the advantages that you currently crave. The only question is, how badly
do you want them?”

  No pressure then.

  “So these things will give me an edge?”

  “They will enhance your physical abilities, yes. Better than the compounds you have been taking.”

  Alex stared at the view for a while. “You understand my motivation. I think I’d feel easier in my mind if I understood yours. What are you getting out of this?”

  Randal acquiesced with a nod. “The technology involved in this is valuable. If I can prove that it works, then the patents alone will fund my work further.”

  “So why don’t you go to a university? Apply for funding?”

  “I did. It appears that I do not have a license, however. Not only is my work illegal, but so am I. I am a refugee, Mr Harvey. Discarded and cast out. In that, you and I share many similarities. I have worked for the better part of thirty years on this project, and risked much to do so. You have an insatiable desire to win. So do I, in my own way. This technology may prove invaluable to the future of humankind. I am determined to prove it works.”

  “Even if it kills me?”

  “I can make no promises, but I would hope that my treatments are more benign than that which you are currently using. Seeing as you are determined to pursue that path anyway, I thought I could be of use to you. It is a mutual benefit, though I will be plain about the risks, and I do not urge you to accept. In your position, I probably would not. But then, in your position, I would probably choose a more settled life. If that appeals to you at all, then turn away now. I will accept your choice, whichever it may be. It is your body Mr Harvey. Your government may see fit to rule what you can and cannot do to it, but I shall not. It is your freedom, not mine.”

  So this was what it was like to be tempted by the devil. As far as Alex was concerned though, it was a no brainer. A settled life? Not his cup of tea.

  “Okay then. Show me this clinic of yours.”

  The windfarm control facility was a concrete complex, behind a chainlink fence covered in vines. In the basement Randal had put together an operating theatre, and Alex had to admit he was impressed. It was gleaming, with a whole bunch of pinging, beeping machines, humming computers and a couple of robotic arms fitted with a gallery of surgical tools.

  “Not bad,” said Alex. “How long did it take to assemble this lot?”

  “As I said, many years. Please, I’d like you to meet my assistants, Gerald and Nadine.”

  The two assistants stared at Alex, wide eyed, and when he went to shake their hands, they just stared at him some more, like he’d just killed their cat.

  “They do not speak the language,” explained Randal, “and they are unused to your customs.”

  The three shared a definite resemblance, but Alex couldn’t place their race. Not really Caucasian, but, not really much else either. “Where are you all from?”

  “I am afraid I cannot say. Personal security, you understand. We are still being hunted, you see, and we are not safe, even here.”

  There was a lot of strange shit going on in the world, with some really ugly nationalist conflicts and ethnic bloodletting, but Alex couldn’t think of any that required this level of paranoia. Not out here, anyway. Maybe they escaped with a bunch of classified secrets. Looking at the equipment around him, Alex could well believe it.

  “Fuck it. Are we ready to start?”

  “We are.”

  Alex looked at the operating table. “I take it this is all reversible. I mean, you can remove the implants again if it doesn’t work out?”

  “Of course. We will certainly have to do that if your body rejects them.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  9

  Alex woke up on the operating slab with a stinking headache and a load of wires and tubes sticking out of him. A machine on a trolley beeped reassuringly. Vital signs were good. Randal fussed about nearby. Tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee were nowhere to be seen.

  Alex’s mouth was dry. “Need a drink,” he said.

  “There is a glass of water to your left.”

  Alex lifted his head to look, and his head throbbed even more.

  “How long have I been out?” he said.

  “Two days.”

  “Two days!”

  “The first day under analgesia, the second day under induced sleep while we monitored you. So far, everything seems to have taken quite well.”

  Alex made the effort to sit up, ignoring his body’s protests. He felt like a stiff twig being bent. His muscles were all slack and lazy, and his stomach was growling. When he leaned over to reach for the drink, half the tubes and wires went taut, like he was caught in a web. Randal disentangled him and began removing them.

  “Got any scoff?” said Alex.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Food.”

  “It is on its way. I’d like you to stand up now and walk around. You may feel nauseous or dizzy, so keep hold of the rail there.”

  Alex’s head throbbed even more - it felt like it had ballooned to double its size - but he managed a few shaky steps. He put his hand to his head. It didn’t feel right. “Have you got a mirror?”

  Randal handed him one and Alex checked himself out. His battered face looked exactly the same as when he’d last looked, but there were two swirly tattoos on his neck, one each side of his Adam’s Apple. “What the hell’s that for?”

  “It is the mechanism by which you will control the implants. A throat microphone and nano transmitter embedded into your skin. Speak a command and you will activate the glands, injecting a compound into your bloodstream.”

  “Cool.” Alex admired the design. Looked pretty good, actually. “What are the commands?”

  “Alpha will activate the stimulant, quickening your reflexes. Bravo activates a painkiller, Charlie a sedative and Delta a blood booster.”

  “Great. What if I meet someone called Charlie?” said Alex without thinking. The effect was immediate, and he suddenly felt calmer and more lethargic, his shaky leg muscles suddenly chilling out. “Whoa.”

  “Yes, that may be a problem. We will have to work on that, perhaps changing the commands. We may, perhaps, be able to introduce a control mechanism that is not quite so crude. I am still working on the development of that. And tests will be required to fine tune the dosages. I do not advise using the commands yet.”

  “Bravo,” said Alex, and the aches he’d been feeling since the last fight eased, though his head still throbbed.

  “Your headache will remain with you for some days yet. There is nothing I can do about that.”

  “Alpha,” said Alex. The shakes returned to his legs but, disappointingly, he didn’t feel any particular surge of energy.

  “The stimulant cancels out the sedative. You will need to train to understand and use the likely combinations correctly.” Randal checked a monitor. “The glands are working well so far, however, with the valves opening and closing correctly. Come, we are done here. I have accommodation onsite for you, and we shall run through a training regime to test you out and bring you back up to peak fitness.”

  “I’m already fit.”

  “Not as much as you think. After a few weeks, you will understand, and then we will know if your body has accepted the treatment.”

  *

  In the ruins of the old farm house, a lean-to apartment had been built, and Alex resided there while he went about his fitness routine. The hills provided him with his training range, and he started out with some light eight mile runs that were reminiscent of his old army training. After a week he pushed them up to sixteen miles, then extended them to thirty, building up his speed and endurance. Even that proved too easy. By the end of week two he was running with a full pack. He’d never felt so fit, and with a squirt of Randal’s new stimulant, he was flying along.

  When he wasn’t running he was lifting weights or whacking punchbags, the growth hormones amping his muscle mass. Gerald or Nadine - he had trouble telling them apart - would bring him his food, and he would wolf it down. He was eating
like a horse, and still ravenous, but his bodily systems were struggling to adapt. He was suffering from constipation and his headaches persisted, no matter what he took. He was also having problems sleeping at night. Fed up during one period of insomnia, he got up and decided to go for a night run to wear himself out. He covered forty miles and returned at dawn feeling more wide awake than ever.

  At the end of week four, he was back on the operating table with a severe case of anxiety and shakes.

  “You have been overusing the stimulant,” said Randal, tutting, “and your body has responded by reducing its adrenaline production. You are suffering withdrawal symptoms and arrhythmia. I am changing the compound to something I think may suit you better. The blood cell mutation is working well, so I will also be removing the blood boosters, as they are likely to cause a catastrophic arrest if combined with the new cells. Do not be disappointed Mr Harvey. As I predicted, you are likely to find yourself on this table quite a few times from now on.”

  “I get it. I’m like a highly tuned race car, so I need to keep coming into the pits for maintenance.”

  “Something like that. Lie back and relax now, I will see what I can do.”

  10

  The original voice commands bugged Alex, so he scoured a dictionary to find terms he otherwise would never use. Charlie became Carrageen, Bravo changed to Bilious and Alpha was renamed Ablution.

  The training continued, with Alex’s body adjusting slowly to the changes, then he had to take a break. The date for his court appearance had come up, and Alex rolled into town for the first time in two months.

  Innsbury’s old court house was a grand building opposite the town hall, but that was prime real estate that had long since been sold off for apartment housing. The courts were now located behind a nondescript black door in a side street, like the authorities were ashamed to admit its existence. The corridors and waiting rooms were absolutely packed with bodies. It was vice day and, apart from the other athletes from the dog track, Alex was in with the dope fiends, crack addicts, alcohol abusers, smokers and people who’d consumed or sold banned food that contained sugar or fats beyond the government’s proscribed levels, as dictated by the 2052 Inappropriate Ingestions Act and its fifty odd amendments. It was all a complete farce as the prisons were still full and the probation service swamped, so while at one end the moral guardians were still campaigning to sew society up tight and proper, at the other end the magistrates were dispensing suspended sentences and behavioural orders and kicking the convicted back out onto the streets. Processing that many people took time however, and it was nightfall before Alex finally managed to get out.