Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [95]
'What would I say that would make a difference at this junction? I still want a lawyer.'
He nods to himself, a tight little nod, as if he's decided something. 'Let me lay it out for you, Lerato. You keep your job. Things carry on exactly as per normal. Three months from now, you will be transferred to Mumbai, into another department. Your contact with your former coworkers and Zamajobe and Siphokazi will dwindle away. You'll be too busy to correspond, and within a couple of months, they'll stop bothering. It's not like you have any meaningful relationships anyway.'
'I don't understand.'
'You're being promoted. Unless you'd rather…' He tilts his chin at the window and smiles. He's smiling because he knows that even though I can't refuse – considering the unscheduled flight that would entail – I wouldn't anyway. But I'm still apprehensive.
'What would this reassignment be?'
'It's sensitive. Government linked. But you already know that. Doing what you've been doing, all that subversive stuff you so perversely enjoy. We feel we haven't been challenging you sufficiently. We feel you're ready for more responsibility.'
He hands me a page of twelve names. I recognise one immediately.
Tendeka would too.
Stefan sees my face and smirks. 'Defusers just aren't enough any more. You know that, with your little workarounds. But any action is justified in a state under terrorist threat.'
'You just have to create your own terrorists.'
'Smart girl. You'll be running several identities, posting, inciting, organising. Whatever is required. Let's just say you're on the up. Heading skywards.'
And it makes perfect sense. The process has to be managed. Fear has to be managed. Fear has to be controlled.
Like people.
Kendra
It's not a toothpaste commercial. The Inatec building is clinical, military, with double doors for gurneys leading past wards and theatres, the corridors painted a cool mint, and rows of metal cages like you see at the vet, all standing empty.
'Prisoners out on parole?' I say to defuse the silence bristling under the hum of machinery and the muffled clop of our shoes on the polished floors.
'Ha.' Andile snickers. Dr. Precious sniffs daintily.
I persist. 'Kinda creepy, though. Where is everybody?' But what I'm really thinking is, where are the dogs?
'Sunday, babes. Or are you on a different schedule? Ah, here we are. Come on.' He makes scooting motions with his hands towards a small theatre with a biohazard sign on the door. There is a cubicle to one side, with a curtain the same colour as the walls, a catscan machine and a sonogram, and other equipment I can't readily identify.
Dr. Precious goes over to a metal basin outside and starts washing her hands methodically. Andile holds open the curtain for me. They're both so tense.
'Put on the smock, please.' His voice has taken on a flavour of detached authority.
The cubicle barely has enough space to manoeuvre. I fold my clothes on the bench and reach for the green smock hanging on the back of the door. 'Front or back?'
'Doesn't matter,' says Dr. Precious. 'It's procedure for the scan. You can put your clothes back on when we do your blood work.'
'How serious is it, doctor?' I call out from the cubicle, fastening the gown at the back. 'Am I heading for the big kennel in the sky?'
'Really, babes,' Andile says, aggrieved.
'Can't say until we've got the results.'
'I wouldn't stress it too much, babes. Dr. Precious already put in a request for the vaccine from head office, so when it gets here, we can do everything at once.'
'When?'
'When what?'