Free Falling by Debbie Moon Page B

jar. He’d probably be accommodated. They almost always were. People tended to overestimate how original and daring their cherished fantasies actually were.
    And then, the real customers. Three girls in short skirts arguing over the shape of a mannequin’s nose as they shuffled and smirked. An old woman taking a seat in a consulting room, smoothing her red dress with prim and wrinkled hands.
    And Jude. Standing at the reception desk, twisting the strap of her shoulder bag nervously between her fingers, trying to look no more or less nervous than the real customers.
    I could walk out of here as anything. Anyone. Warner would probably never even find me.
    Is that why I’ve come back here? Is that what’s necessary to stop myself going skydiving without a parachute in a few months time?
    But regening can, quite accidentally, damage the genetic accident that gives us our abilities – and if I lose the ability to ReTrace, how will I get back to my present?
    Too many questions. Just go with your past and see what happens.
    She cleared her throat meaningfully.
    The slim, dark-eyed man at the desk looked up with a smile that could have come straight from their catalogue – no. 17, Trustworthy Public Servant. ‘Madam. May I be of some assistance?’
    Jude shrugged. Muffled in the neatly buttoned wool coat, the pleated skirt, the trappings of respectability, she found that guilty indecision came easily to her. ‘I was thinking of making a few alterations.’
    â€˜But of course,’ the young man said, taking a moment to straighten his ill-fitting jacket as he stood up. ‘Would madam care to step into a consultation room to discuss her requirements?’
    Same room as before. Old executive office, salvaged furnishings and a desk laden with catalogues. She paused to scan the titles. Eyes, ears, noses; limbs, upper and lower. Same gentle slant of light through the dirty glass as she hung her coat on the single hook behind the door, registered how cold it was, and regretted it. The receptionist clearing his throat in that same nervous fashion as he joined her, a slab of paperwork under one arm.
    Same, same, same.
    Why have I come back here?
    This was a routine job. Emma DiFlorian went missing. Everyone worried for a while. Someone saw a woman of a different racial type who looked exactly like her, then lost her in the backstreets of the theatre district. Recent paperwork was pored over. An Emily DiFlorian was found to have checked into Morphotech twelve days previously for a complete re-gening. The catalogue pages and photographs of strangers that the surgeon had worked from were still attached to the paperwork, features she’d been interested in ringed or indicated by arrows in smudged red ink.
    Leaving your job wasn’t illegal, and neither was regening. But when you were a ReTracer, and the government had invested a whole lot of time and money in your training, the situation became – complex.
    â€˜Can I get madam some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?’
    Jude blinked. ‘Er, no. Thanks.’
    The young man stopped halfway to the sideboard, visibly thrown by this deviation from the procedure. ‘Certainly. Right. Then we’ll get straight down to business, shall we? Can I ask madam to explain exactly what she’s interested in trying? And please, don’t be afraid to be specific. The more exact madam is about her requirements, the more likely she is to be pleased with the end result.’
    She’d gone for small talk, the first time round. Asked questions she already knew the answers to: did it hurt, how good were their surgeons, how far could they guarantee the results? But she was tired now, a tiredness of some deep part of herself that was following her from body to body, self to self, and her patience was wearing virtually transparent.
    â€˜I’m a ReTracer,’ Jude told him, ‘and I want a full makeover.’
    There. Not a reaction, but the