David Thorpe - Hybrids - Saga Competition Winner

To my mother

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

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

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…?”