Evolution

After the unbelievable had happened, the catastrophe that pitched us all into shock towards the end of The Big Event, Odysseus asked me to record my impressions of that day for the Chronicles of Planet Earth. I could hardly refuse. In spite of the fact that I would have to relive the horror in order to write about it, I felt honoured to have been asked to record such a milestone in our history.

Later he suggested that I should include further journal entries, based on my life. Odysseus has asked others for contributions as well of course. As he never tires of pointing out, history is not a definitive account of the past but a compilation of distinct contemporaneous versions.

Up to now, my journal has only ever been intended for my own eyes. It’s a place where I can write freely and express my personal opinions. By allowing sections of it to appear in
The Chronicles of Planet Earth
my private thoughts will be accessible to others. I have to admit I’m not completely at ease with that idea. But Odysseus has convinced me that my entries will provide a valuable piece of primary material about the history of these times, both on Earth and on Oasis.

I imagine my work being pored over by academics, maybe long after I am dead, studied in detail for clues as to how the changes in our worlds took place. What a grandiose opinion
I have of myself to think that my little journal could prove so important. Still, I do like the idea that I am to play a role in the telling and unravelling of history, so have agreed to become a contributor.

For those of you who don’t know me and wonder why I should have been chosen to contribute to this chronicle, I would like to introduce myself.

I was born a mutant humanoid and brought up on Earth by Kali in Compound 55. Some of you may remember me. I was known as Mercury, often as Little Mercury, because of my diminutive stature.

Four years ago, at the age of sixteen, I underwent various operations and therapy in Hos-sat to remove my mutations and after two years emerged as a complete human being, “a complete.” I became Michael Court and went to live on Planet Oasis, not really a planet, but a man-made satellite. My father, Alexander Court, is the person responsible for this change. It was this good man who searched for me, eventually with success, made arrangements for the necessary changes in my physique and brought me to live with him on Oasis. For this I shall always be grateful.

I would like all of you reading these journal entries to know that I am not only proud of being a complete but also of having been a mutant humanoid. Even after my transformation I still feel part mutant.

I haven’t always felt positive about this duality, but it has made me appreciate how you, my fellow humanoids, must feel as you gradually leave your compounds to start new lives outside. It can’t be easy. It wasn’t easy for me to get used to a different way of life on Oasis. There was a lot to learn. I was often confused and unsure of myself. But every day that passes I have come to regard this dual personality as a special gift to help me understand our disparate worlds.

I hope that in the not too distant future I can use this gift to good effect to build good relations between Earth and Oasis.

1.0 p.m. I leave my computer cubicle at the University of Oasis in search of some fresh air and a sandwich. I poke my head round the adjacent cubicle to see if Jonathan would like to join me, but he’s not there. Probably chasing skirt in the junior common room.

As I walk through the campus on the neatly tiled paths that criss-cross the greener than green lawns, I find myself whistling. I don’t immediately recognise the song I’ve chosen or that has chosen me, but it’s a happy little tune. It fits my mood as I think about this satellite that’s become my home. I’ve never quite got over its beauty. It’s a pristine place, fresh and bright. The buildings, lakes and plazas gleam in the sunlight; the lawn and flowers on campus and in the park glow, luminous as jewels. Open to the ever-changing sky, you have to be prepared for those biting showers, ready to run for shelter when the rain assaults you with sheets of liquid metal. But the clouds soon roll back and the sky is blue again and the grass and leaves look and smell newly-washed. Refreshing. Invigorating.

Suddenly it comes to me. The tune in my head is “Always look on the Bright Side of Life” the satirical song that the crucified men sing at the end of
Life of Brian
. I stop
whistling. The song is oddly appropriate, not because of its cheerful optimism but because of its irony. I’ve come to realise that all is not perfect in this paradise we call Oasis. This clean beauty is a veneer that conceals a dark side. Every day I become a little more disillusioned. Why is it, the historian in me asks, that the utopian ideals expressed in the original charter of Oasis are being forgotten? Ignored? I pull up short. Is it possible that Oasis is falling so short of its fundamental principles that it is destined to deteriorate further until it can truly be labelled a failed state?

I shake my head to get rid of these pessimistic thoughts and make my way under the giant arches that mark the division of university and town.

As I emerge, I catch sight of a familiar figure loitering on the corner of the street. The figure is familiar. The loitering isn’t. Stella Jameson isn’t the type to hang around on a street corner. It can’t be her. But it is. There are the chiselled cheekbones, the immaculate blond cap of hair, the Dallas blue business suit with gold epaulettes and cuffs. And the matching shoes with metallic spiked heels.

I dodge behind one of the twin pillars that hold up the rather pretentious arch, hoping to see the person she’s waiting for. Too late. She has seen me. She waves and click-clacks towards me on her stilettos, her mouth forced into a bright smile.

‘Michael! I was just passing, not dreaming I’d see you. What a lovely surprise.’

I am somewhat disconcerted to discover that the person she’s been waiting for is myself.

‘I’m just on my way to buy a sandwich,’ I explain.

‘I’ll buy you lunch. Wouldn’t you rather have a proper lunch?’

‘Thanks,’ I say, trying to sound appreciative. ‘That would be great.’

Father and I often lunch together, whenever he can get away from his duties as Minister of Culture. But I’ve never before had lunch with his wife, the woman I refuse to call Mother.

As we walk side by side, I think about my ambivalent relationship with Stella. To be fair, she has done her best to make me welcome as her stepson. Not an easy task. I am eight years older than Stuart and ten years older than Bella, her children from a previous relationship. I’ve tried to fit in with this readymade family. I really have. But neither my efforts nor Stella’s have been entirely successful. We hold opposing views on a variety of subjects and both of us are reluctant or downright unwilling to compromise.

Our polite acceptance of each other for Father’s sake is the only concession we are prepared to make.

We pass the Symposium where Father works, a circular building with a crystal dome in the centre of the main plaza, surrounded by statues of famous men. On the other side of the square stands the marble-fronted museum, its grand entrance supported by a series of Corinthian columns. Ornate. Imposing. Inside are the treasures rescued (or pillaged) depending on your viewpoint, from a contaminated Earth.

I remember how sick I felt the day I saw Durga’s golden warriors displayed there, marching up and down in a glass cage. They’ve been returned to Earth now and, hopefully, never again will there be live exhibits, mutant humanoids or completes, in Museum Oasis.

As we enter the park, the sky darkens. Granite-coloured clouds blot out the sun.

‘Quick,’ says Stella and begins to trot briskly on her excessively high spikes towards the nearest shelter. I jog along beside her and we make it just in time. Down comes the metallic rain, silver spears slashing through the air like a bodiless army.

A few moments later the shower is over, the clouds roll back and the sun comes out again. A steaming mist rises from the ground leaving the dahlias aflame with an unearthly radiance that never ceases to amaze me. As we emerge from the shelter, we grin at each other, momentarily united by this piece of magic.

We lunch, Stella and I, in the park restaurant with its dazzling view of fiery flowers and shimmering lawn that stretches down to the lake.

Stella’s raised eyebrow shows me she’s surprised that I know exactly what to order. It occurs to me that Father hasn’t told her about our lunches here. I’m pleased about that. I like to think of them as trysts at which Father and I exchange confidences not shared with her.

I know that Stella has contrived this meeting. That means she has something specific she wants to talk about. It isn’t until we’ve finished our meal and are having coffee that she broaches the subject.

‘Michael, I am aware that you are now a young man – an adult.’ She hesitates and runs a long, blood red fingernail around the lip of her coffee cup. ‘It’s natural that a moment will come when you decide to leave Home-Court-Jameson and set up on your own.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘When that time comes I want you to know that your father and I will help you find the right home and support you financially if necessary. We brought you here from Earth and you are our responsibility, whether living at home or not.’

I’m flabbergasted. OK, Stella and I have never been close, but I’ve had no previous indication that she wants me out of the house.

She hasn’t finished. ‘Sooner or later you will meet someone you want to live with.’

I feel my neck muscles tense. She must have found out that I’ve been seeing a girl from the Project, and this is her
way of preventing our relationship from developing further. She’s about to tell me that unless I give Lizzy up, the offer she’s just mentioned will be withdrawn. My cheeks are burning. What shall I do? Deny all knowledge of the girl? Or admit I know her and try to engage Stella’s sympathy?

‘You may not think it will happen, Michael, but one day, sooner or later, you will fall in love. And when you do and you feel ready, you will want a home of your own.’

Does she know about Lizzy or doesn’t she? She’s still speaking hypothetically about the partner I might have one day.

She leans across the table and places her hand tightly over mine. ‘This is a difficult thing for me to say, Michael, but I must say it.’ She pauses and looks me straight in the eye. ‘You do realise that you must never father a child.’

I stare at her. Of all the subjects she might have talked to me about I had no clue it would be this.

Mutant humanoids rarely become pregnant. The Great Plague that spread over the Earth made most of us sterile. I was the youngest child in C55, probably the youngest in all the compounds. Isis, two years older than me, was the only other child I ever met or heard about.

But things are changing. A miracle has occurred. Isis, now twenty-two, is pregnant and has been taken to Hos-sat to have the baby. Is it because of Isis’s pregnancy that Stella has turned her attention to this subject? Does she think that because recent research suggests that Planet Earth is no longer polluted, the likelihood is that mutant humanoids will be able to reproduce again?

Stella releases my hand and picks up her table napkin. The red of her nails catches the light as she pats her matching red lips to remove an imagined crumb. The lipstick is not smudged. Come to think of it I’ve never seen Stella without immaculately painted lips. ‘Of course, I don’t expect a young man like you to abstain from sex. That wouldn’t be natural.’

To my annoyance I find myself blushing. ‘I’m not having sex with anyone,’ I tell her.

She looks relieved. ‘I’m not suggesting that you are,’ she says, putting down the napkin. ‘Yet.’

I feel my temper coming to the boil.

‘Anyway if one day I do have a mutant baby would that be so terrible?’ I blurt out.

Because this is what this conversation is about, but as usual, Stella doesn’t want to use the m-word.

‘How can you say that when you know what happened when you were born?’

‘That was twenty years ago. They wouldn’t take babies away from their parents these days.’

‘I don’t know what they would do.’ She reaches for my hand again and grips it, her nails biting into my skin. ‘It mustn’t happen. Do you understand? If you do find someone to love, you must tell her before you move in together, that you don’t want children. That would be the only fair thing to do. Naturally you mustn’t tell her why.’

‘I don’t need a lecture on being fair to an imaginary girlfriend.’ I withdraw my hand and look down at it. Her nails have left little dents in the skin.

‘As long as you realise how important this is.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘What I suggest you do is to go to Hos-sat and have a vasectomy. To be on the safe side.’

I feel the colour rising up my cheeks again. “That’s ridiculous. The chance that I will have a baby is minimal as you well know.’

‘We did believe that the humanoids on Earth were permanently barren, but now it seems they’re not. That female in Hos-sat for example.’

‘Isis, my childhood friend.’

‘You can’t afford to take the risk, Michael. You must see that.’

I’m becoming hotter and hotter. “Mercury rising!” Kali used to say that when I was in danger of losing my temper. Kali, who brought me up, the only mother I’ve ever known.

I take a deep breath. ‘It might be a good thing for public relations between Earth and Oasis if a mutant humanoid was born here. Show people that mutants are not so different from completes.’

Stella purses her lips. For a moment she looks quite ugly. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

‘In a few years time mutants and completes may be living side by side and mixed blood babies may become the norm.’

It’s Stella’s turn to go red in the face. ‘That won’t happen. It mustn’t. In any case it will be years before there is genuine integration. Maybe never.’

It’s true that attitudes on Earth and Oasis will have to change drastically before it can even be contemplated.’

‘At the moment, as you know, the few humanoids who are here live in the Project,’ Stella continues.

‘Yes, they’re kept well away from us and only come out under cover of darkness to sweep the roads or clean the public buildings, doing low paid jobs considered too demeaning for completes. It’s exploitation. Slave labour. I can’t believe Athene agreed to such a scheme.’ This is a jibe at Stella. As Head of Worldwideculture, it was Stella who appointed Athene as CEO of the compounds on Earth.

‘She thought it was a start, I suppose,’ Stella says.

‘A bad start’, I snap.

‘It’s working reasonably well. We hardly catch a glimpse of them or they us – which, to be honest, suits us all.’

‘Segregation,’ I say. ‘Apartheid. Have we learnt nothing from history? Mutant humanoids are not another species. They are just as good as completes. You know that. You should anyway. You live with two of us.’

Stella looks as if she’s about to explode. ‘You and Alexander are not…’

‘Not mutants? Oh yes, we are. Just because we’ve had surgery to remove our “unconventional bits” doesn’t mean we’ve changed inside.’

‘That may apply to you but not to Alexander.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

Our raised voices attract a few looks, but most diners have left and our table is tucked away in an alcove.

The flush on Stella’s cheeks subsides. She looks pale now, her lips drawn in a straight line. ‘Please don’t be flippant, Michael. I’m alerting you to the consequences of fathering a child for your own good. And for Alexander’s. I don’t know what he would do if the truth came out about his past. It would kill him.’

It won’t kill him, but he would be distraught, that’s true. He goes to great lengths to keep my past, and his, a secret.

If the effects of radiation and plague that caused mutant humanoids to be infertile are wearing off, and if I do father a mutant baby, Father will be afraid of the repercussions, both personally and as far as his political career is concerned.

Back at the university, in my computer-cubicle I think about what Stella has said. It’s strange. Until today, I’ve never thought about the possibility of being a father. What young man does? Now I find myself feeling quite passionate about the rights of this unborn child. I consider several possibilities.

One: to have a vasectomy to make sure I will never be a father. Game, set and match to Stella.

Two: to persuade my imaginary girlfriend to take the morning-after-pill as my friend Jonathan makes sure his many sexual partners do. Stella hasn’t recommended this option because she is aware it is not a hundred percent
effective. Oasis encourages its citizens to propagate and does not want a foolproof method of contraception.

Three: if I do become a father, to take the moral high ground and keep the child, mutations included. It would cause Father distress, but maybe I could persuade him to take my side. He’s already shown himself courageous by seeking me out and claiming me as his son.

I think about what could happen to the potential child. He or she would be unlikely to be taken away at birth and put in an institution on Earth as I was, but Father and Stella would surely try to whisk the baby to Hos-sat to have any mutations removed.