Free Evolution by Jeannie van Rompaey Page B

nod at them but they don’t reply. I knock on Lizzy’s door but it is clear that there’s no one there. The window shutters are down and the front door closed. Further down the street, at intervals, I see more mutant humanoids sitting on the steps of the houses they have been allocated.
    As I start to move off, a huge mutant humanoid with a sweaty protuberance on his chest the size of a melon, stands up, points at Lizzy’s house and shouts, ‘Gone!’ Others take up the chant, ‘Gone, gone, gone.’
    There is no mistaking what they mean by ‘Gone.’ I’m too late. Lizzy and her family have been evicted and I doubt there’s much I can do about it but I’ll go the Rehabilitation Centre straightaway and find out if Lizzy and her family are there.
    As I leave the Project, two uniformed men step out in front of me. Police? I’m not sure, but something tells me I’m being arrested for being in the Project without permission. I decide to make a run for it.
    ‘Michael Court?’ one of the men shouts after me.
    I stop and turn round, an automatic response when someone says your name. Big mistake. I’ve just confirmed my identity and immediately I understand that this is not a random encounter.
    ‘Who wants to know?’ I ask.
    They don’t answer but approach me, twist my arms behind my back and handcuff me.
    No matter how much I struggle it does no good. There are two of them and they are tall, well built and strong. I look around seeking help but the one or two passers-by look away, not willing to get involved. The men look like officials. They take out some sort of bandage and proceed to blindfold me.
    ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I yell at them.
    This results in a wide piece of tape being stuck over my mouth. They grab the top of my arms and, in spite of my resistance frogmarch me along. We seem to be going in the wrong direction for the police station.
    A few minutes later we arrive at our destination. There’s the sound of doors opening and shutting. They take off the blindfold, but not the tape on my mouth, or the handcuffs and push me into a small room with no furniture or amenities, apart from a bucket.
    I hear the key turn in the lock. I’ve been banged up and there’s nothing I can do about it.
    I’m left alone for about half an hour until the same men return. They untie my hands but not my mouth and start to strip me. I lash out at them now that my arms are free. No use. I’m short and skinny and they are tall and brawny. They handcuff me again and walk out, taking my clothes with them, leaving me naked. It’s freezing.
    The thing Father has dreaded all along has happened. Someone suspects that I’m a mutant humanoid and is determined to find out for sure.
    Good job the surgeon and the therapists did such first-class work removing my mutations. There should be no evidence of my former status. Or will there? It’s quite recent surgery after all. Less than two years. I think of Father’s tiny scars where his wings had been removed as a baby and find myself wondering if there could be any sign at all that I have been operated on. I shiver and not just because of the cold.
    I start to consider what my reaction would be if I were a born complete who’d been wrongly arrested, stripped and humiliated in this way. I wouldn’t be afraid. I’d be furious, indignant and demand my rights. That is how I must respond.
    I must psyche myself up and make it clear to anyone who comes through that door that they cannot treat me like this. But it’s difficult to keep my dignity naked, my mouth taped up and my wrists cuffed behind my back, let alone protest.
    Two men in white coats enter the cell. I’ve never seen either of them before. One of them holds something in his hand. It looks like a torch, but when it’s shone on my skin it gives out a red light. Infrared. Now I really am scared. Can this instrument reveal deep scars under the skin from the operation that transformed me from mutant to