Falling by Debbie Moon

absence of one. The surprise, the worry that should have been in his eyes – and wasn’t.
    â€˜I see,’ he said, lowering himself into the chair opposite. The springs creaked faint protest. ‘Madam does appreciate that changing any part of her genotype, however small, may have unpredictable effects upon nebulous genetic variables – such as her ReTracing abilities?’
    â€˜Oh yes.’ Jude found that the dry smile came easily. ‘Madam appreciates that very well.’
    His mouth contracted into a thin, pale line.
    â€˜Do I sense a sudden lack of interest in taking my hard-earned cash?’
    The receptionist looked briefly away. ‘Madam must also appreciate that what she is asking for is…’
    â€˜Perfectly legal.’
    â€˜In the strict sense, perhaps.’
    â€˜Is there any other sense?’
    He frowned. ‘This is a licensed clinic, madam, not some fly-by-night backstreet operation. Licenses are not cheap, and have to be renewed yearly. If someone in authority decided that we were no longer worthy of holding a licence…’
    Exactly what he said last time. I don’t need to be here. This is all a waste of time.
    â€˜That didn’t stop you,’ she said, ‘when Emma DiFlorian came knocking.’
    He moved faster than she’d imagined possible.
    Bioteching doesn’t just change the shape of your nose or the size of your ears. It makes you strong. And fast. And other, scarier stuff. If he’d come at her, in anger or panic, she wouldn’t have survived.
    But he didn’t.
    He went over the back of the chair, tumbling it across the room as he rolled, and plunged through the door to the foyer. Jude rose in what felt like slow motion, trying to resolve the blur back into the shape of a smiling man with catalogue eyes, and wondered if there was any point in following.
    And then she heard the faint ping of machinery in the foyer and couldn’t quite stifle her laughter.
    Mr Human Streak here, faster than a speeding bullet and all that, who could have outrun her in any direction he wanted, was taking the lift.
    The indicator panel told her where to find him. Nineteenth floor. Of course, if he was smart, he’d have got out of the lift there and hurtled back down the stairs while she was on her way up, using the whole subterfuge to buy himself some escape time.
    Jude suspected that he wasn’t actually that smart. Which was a pity, because she’d feel a lot happier about going up there if there was a good chance he’d be long gone.
    Desperate measures.
    What happens if I die here? Will my future just unravel, no falling from windows, none of this ever happening? Will Fitch weep at my funeral tomorrow or the day after, instead of boycotting it in six months time?
    In the end, you don’t save yourself at all. You just change the date of your death. No one gets out alive.
    Ping.
    The doors opened.
    Blank corridors, still patched with rectangles of bright paint where pictures had once hung. Open doors bled grey light into her path as she emerged. Glimpses of equipment waiting placidly under dustsheets, shelves of papers bleaching slowly in the sun. End of the corridor here. Only one way to turn.
    Has the bird flown?
    She could hear faint sounds; rustling paper, perhaps, draughts through broken windows. Mice, or worse. Nothing else. Nothing human.
    Not good. Smacked of a trap.
    â€˜OK, Superboy,’ she called. ‘Let’s be sensible about this. You come on out, without the faster-than-light thing, tell me what I want to know, and I walk away and forget I ever had this conversation. Just anonymous information I picked up off the streets. How does that grab you?’
    No reply.
    â€˜No, I had a feeling it wouldn’t. You just remember, buddy. When they come for your licence. When they fling you in Newgate and all those nice muscleboy Green activists start offering to share your shower cubicle. I offered you a