Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

The live birth registration station was a long metal and wood shed at the end of the row of stalls just west of the dance hall. Thankfully it had a roof, and rain drummed loudly upon it. Just before I joined the lines the woman handed her infant to me as if she had been eager to get rid of it. Then she sat on a long wooden bench and held her elbows for warmth.

She didn’t appear in want of interaction or speech. I couldn’t see her face well, except for her fair cheeks and round chin. She wore her hair in a braided tail, but her fringe, loose and frayed, fell in wet, curling locks and obscured much of her face. Vivian had assured me the child was born out of wedlock. No husband, no father, no strings. Just pay and waltz, as with any joget ladies. I don’t know where Vivian found her, nor would I deign to ask. In her profession there are probably hundreds of women like her. It wouldn’t be difficult to find one.

The British lady at the stall smiled at the child I was holding and asked no questions. She had a large, kindly face. Her hair was blonde and wavy. She wore a fuchsia rayon-crepe blouse with winged sleeves that stood out against the drab colours that everyone else wore. I said everything Vivian told me to: date of birth, birthplace, mother’s name. It was a titanic feat for me to have them all memorised.

The live birth was registered without a fuss and I named it Arthur. Only after did I part the swaddle and peer into her wet little face. Couldn’t have been more than six months old. She was grimacing, shuddering slightly perhaps of the chill.

At the end of it I had to give her back. It was a natural recourse. I paid the woman the 80 dollars I’d agreed to, and she precariously cradled the child in one arm and tucked the money between her breasts. She refused my umbrella for the second time. She merely pulled the drenched swaddle over the poor infant and charged into the merciless downpour.

If only this registration were real. If only the child had a father.

I went to Vivian’s home later in the afternoon when the rain thinned, to thank her and tell her that it all went well. I was certain I got the address correct until I saw the empty room. The landlady said she left the night before with a month’s rent paid in advance. Her room was bare, sterile, like a chalkboard scrubbed clean of a fine hand, its traces forever lost.

In the years between us I thought something could’ve blossomed. Now it’s as if we’ve never met. She had become distant, frosty, as if in preparation for her imminent departure to wherever she’s gone.

Perhaps I could’ve done more to keep her.

Count to Arthur 1 of 5,475.

THE RITZ ZION was a glitzy hotel with a grandiose Grecian-Creole façade of columns, cast-iron balconies, shuttered windows and fanlights of wire netting. It offered five royal suites fitted in the finest of imported furnishings, and drew a niche clientele comprising mostly wealthy, married men of status who fancied a fling with their mistresses or a willing taxi-dancer from the Great World Cabaret.

A black market had peddled Serum duplicates for over a century. They were the elixirs of life, and the wealthy had paid fortunes for rogue operatives to deliver them into their blood. They weren’t real Chronomorphs but Transplants, and for them infertility and an immunity to venereal diseases were attractive perks to longevity.

And brothels were where you’d find them.

The chosen Chronomorphs of the Coterie wouldn’t abuse the Serum this way. Only Transplants would display such deficiencies in restraint and discipline. So it was at the Zion where CODEX laid the dragnet for them. And Vivian had always been part of it.

At nightfall the hotel glowed with the light from its rooms, screened behind filmy curtains that offered teasing glimpses of the activities that took place inside. Rows of rickshaws were parked out front. Their pullers—hollow-chested, steely-eyed coolies, crouched along the road-side in wait of customers. From the back of a large Buick a group of chortling Caucasians threw out a bunch of coins. Under the illumination of gas lamps children emerged from the five-foot ways in bundles of rags and skin and went pattering after the motorcar on little bare feet as the coins pelted melodiously onto the street.

Vivian could hear their strident voices from her suite in the Ritz Zion. By an ornate doorway a smooth-faced, gangly man named Song paid a handsome tip to a chambermaid and closed the door behind him. He removed his hat and hung it over a brass hook along the hallway. His hair was fine and white. He smiled at Vivian—his prize for the night.

No one knew how Song made his fortune, and only at the mercantile ball that evening did Vivian learn that he owned 12 plantations in various parts of Malaya and two on this island. They were registered under different names, and an inquiry into them yielded 14 different sets of IDs of different ages. A true rover—and a very clever and elusive one. He’d toggle from one ID to the next; now a clerk and now a plantation owner, and the tactic would last him over a century. Vivian’s records put him at a 110.

He loved life—rather, a life the Serum had conferred upon him, miraculously spared of induced ailments. Vivian had observed how he mingled with tremendous ease at the ball, striking conversations quickly and drawing laughter from whomever he met. He had flirted with at least eight women before he chose her. And Vivian loved such clients because their conceit gave her no remorse. She’d help CODEX kill them all.

They kissed. Vivian undid the collar of her gown—a luxuriant piece of red silk and black lace. Song crossed his fingers behind her slender waist and pulled her close. He looked fondly at her, kissed her again and started slipping his hand past the slit of her skirt.

Vivian seized his wrist, but she was too late.

Song, his face glowing with a youthful, boyish charm, removed his hand, and with it a narrow, six-inch blade stocked in an ivory hilt. Vivian tried to smile through the tension in her face. “So I see,” she said softly. “You detect Serum signatures. You read minds.”

“I read intentions.” Song brushed a finger across the side of Vivian’s face. “More specifically, dangerous ones. It’s my gift. So who do you work for, Vivian?”

“No one,” she teased. “I get assistance from time to time.”

“Ah,” Song lifted an eyebrow. “And who bestows such assistance?”

Vivian knew the perils of situations like this. Song could send the steel into her throat at any moment and the bloodied mess would’ve been nothing more than self-defence. Besides, his immense wealth could buy justice. She would have to act fast, and carefully. His death had to be all-natural. No wounds, no signs of struggle.

She detected the twitch in Song’s hand that held the blade.

“Who?” Song asked again, his smile turning poisonous.

“A Coterie,” Vivian said, gracing him with one of her own, “of ageless assassins.”

In the wake of her reply Song sprung at her, hurtling the cruel shard of steel towards the side of her neck. Yet his reflexes were but those of the common man. The blade spun off in a whirr of fluid movements, and the next moment Song, his wrist wrung to a distressing angle, was gasping at the spark of pain that weakened his limbs. In snaring the hand Vivian had wisely kept the bones unbroken.

Song’s attempt to swing his free arm at her only brought about a deeper twist and greater pain. He squealed like a pig. With one hand, Vivian flipped open an antiquated leather briefcase. A magnifying screen folded into place, and a keypad, fashioned of brass and ebony, rose and locked itself into place.