Evolution (22 page)

‘Not just me,’ I mumble. ‘We had a kind of think-tank of three, Odysseus, my father and I worked out a plan together.’

‘A think-tank? What’s that?’ she giggles, but doesn’t wait for an answer. She doesn’t want to know how we found her baby. Not yet anyway. She’s just glad to have her back. That’s all that matters.

A little later she does say, ‘Your father? I didn’t know you had a father, Merc.’

And I realise that I have so much to tell her but that this isn’t the moment. This is Penelope’s moment, the time for mother and baby to bond again.

‘I’ve missed you so much, little Penny,’ she says, planting a kiss on her forehead.

‘Do you think she looks a bit pale?’ she asks, but we assure her she doesn’t. ‘We’ll soon put roses in your cheeks. No more stuffy old compounds for you. Not like it was when we were kids eh Merc, sitting at boring old compus inside all day. Here, she can grow up in the fresh air.’ She cups the baby’s tiny foot in her hand. ‘Just look at that. Have you ever seen anything so small, so perfect?’

She chatters on, concedes that Penny does look healthy and well-cared for, that she’s grown a bit too, but otherwise is just the same as before, just as beautiful as ever.

Eventually she runs out of steam and asks me what I think of the cottage. I look round. I find myself thinking how small and basic it is, but of course Isis hasn’t any knowledge of anything different.

‘It was a bit bare,’ Isis says, ‘but I’ve prettified it. Ody sent me the bits and pieces I asked for. Red and gold, my colours.’

‘You’ve always had an artistic touch,’ I tell her. Compared with Stella’s flair for home decoration, Isis’s efforts lack sophistication. ‘It looks great,’ I add to cover my unkind thoughts. ‘Totally awesome.’

She laughs, delighted with my response. ‘Mercury doesn’t really understand such things,’ she tells Osiris. ‘He’s always on those old compus learning useless facts. He knows nothing about making a nice home. And Ody is just as bad. He lives in the past but it’s the future that’s important.’

Odysseus doesn’t argue with her, doesn’t attempt to explain as he normally would that the future is dependent on our knowledge of the past.

It is, after all, Isis’s day. Today we allow her to get away with any provocative remarks she cares to make.

Jaga and I leave Odysseus with his little family and stroll back to the compound together.

She tells me about C55’s contribution to The Big Event. ‘Our workforce can’t compete with the physical antics to be put on by the golden warriors or the theatrical performances from Compound Creative, but we are to be in charge of the floral and wheat displays around the balconies where Athene and the visitors are to sit.’

‘I’m sure it will be spectacular,’ I tell her.

‘All home grown,’ she says.

Kali is standing in the doorway of C55 as we approach.

When Jaga catches sight of her, she says, ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ and steps out towards the fields to supervise the workforce.

Kali is staring at me, her black eyes shining out of her lovely, familiar blue-black face. Hugo peeps out from her neck and hisses. He uncoils his body like a concertina, withdraws, spins out again and peers at me, button-eyes gleaming, tongue flicking. At her wrists Henry and Henrietta, Hugh and Hannah, peep out too, unwind their slippery bodies and flip out their lethal tongues.

‘It’s all right, boys. Calm down,’ said Kali. ‘It’s our little Mercury.’

And she opens her arms wide and I run into them, put my arms round her and press my bony body against her solid one. That warm, comforting Kali smell reminds me of the times I used to creep into her bed after a nightmare. Hugo licks my face, slithers round my neck, shoulders and back and the other snakes lick my arms with sticky, rough tongues, acknowledging that their old mate, Mercury, has returned.

Time for another weep. What’s the matter with me today? All this emotion is so unlike me.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I sob. ‘So sorry I rushed off without saying goodbye. And sorry I haven’t been in touch since.’

I give no reasons, no excuses, for my neglect. I long for
her unconditional forgiveness. It seems that is what she is giving me. She rests her cheek against mine and strokes my hair.

She runs her hands over the top of my back but can’t find the stumps of my wings. She frowns, pushes me away and holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length and scrutinizes me. ‘Let me look at you. No wings? No sticking-out ears? Are you really Mercury?’

‘I really am,’ I tell her, tears flowing freely now.

‘I’m still Mercury but I’m also Michael Court. It’s a long story.’

‘It must be. Four years long. Come in and tell me exactly what has happened to you.’

That is exactly what I do.

We sit on a double shaper together in the empty RR. I try to make my description of Oasis light-hearted. I make her laugh when I describe the rain that falls down like transparent liquid metal and cuts into your skin if you don’t make it to the shelter in time.

I can see how pleased she is when I tell her that I still sit at a “compu” but now it’s at the University of Oasis.

But I make sure that she doesn’t think everything is perfect in my life. I wouldn’t want her to think I haven’t missed her.

In her turn, she tells me how she came back here, to C55, as Chief Administrator and how difficult it has been to settle in again and get respect back from her old colleagues.

We smooth over how upset we were with each other just before I left Earth. We leave the serious stuff for later.

‘Let me show you round C55 now,’ she says and, with a hop, skip and jump, she leaps across the RR, through the sliding doors, intent on showing me the changes.

The innovations – the RR itself, the gym, the games rooms and the hos-unit that she’s so proud of – are, in my opinion, poorly designed and equipped, but then I’m used
to the high standards of Hos-sat and Planet Oasis. The entire dome is very cold and bleak, claustrophobic with no windows. How depressing to have to live in a building like this. I can scarcely breathe.

I can’t help comparing everything with the light and airy buildings on Oasis, but I have to pretend to be impressed. For Kali’s sake. She shows me the dormo-cube where I’m to sleep tonight. It’s small and airless. I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep there.

We pass very few humanoids as we do the tour of the compound. She seems quite proud that they are working hard outside. ‘We are growing things for The Big Event at the moment.’

I gather that she and Jaga are getting on well together, working towards the same goal, until Kali says, ‘Jaga envisaged a kind of harvest festival service with religious music and songs, but it just wasn’t practical. Too ambitious. Keep it simple, I told her. “We don’t want a fiasco on our hands.’

She tells me that the females are to carry bunches of flowers or baskets of fruit and the males, bundles of wheat and put them, under Jaga’s supervision, in the designated places before the ceremony begins.

‘Jaga wanted this to take place in public once the audience were seated with some sort of music so that the workforce could keep in step. To make a kind of show of it.’ She raises her three sets of eyebrows. ‘Did you ever hear of anything so stupid, Mercury? Can you imagine this lot keeping in step? I had to say no to that. I can’t have the members of C55 making fools of themselves in public.’

I smile to myself. Kali hasn’t changed.

‘We are doing something else at The Big Event. A surprise item.’

‘What is it?’

‘It won’t be a surprise if I tell you, will it?’ she grins. ‘Besides, it’s early days yet. We haven’t rehearsed it and others are involved, so it might not come off.’

Everything seems to building up to The Big Event. Athene is determined for it to be a showcase for the talents of mutant humanoids.

Father has received an invitation to attend and I’m to go with him. Another opportunity to see Kali.

Kali asks what I think of the cottage where Isis lives.

‘Really cute,’ I tell her. ‘Are you thinking of living in a cottage yourself?’

‘Not me,’ she says. I prefer to stay in the compound where I’ve always been. I can keep control of the compu-centre better if I’m on the spot. Keep an eye on the targets.’

I’m right. She hasn’t changed. She’s still on about those damned targets!

‘Well, Mercury, I suppose we’d better go and join the admirers of baby Penelope. I mean, as leader of the sectoid I must show my face.’

‘Aren’t you fond of babies?’

‘I’m glad the child is back of course, but there was only ever one child I was interested in and even he was a bloody nuisance at times.’ She grins at me.

‘A nuisance? I thought I was perfect.’

‘In your dreams.’

We laugh and I think how good it is to be with Kali again, to tease each other and enjoy each other’s company.

Isis has put Penelope down in her little bunku-cot. She’s fast asleep. ‘Come and look at her, Kali,’ she says. ‘Isn’t she just beautiful?’

I’m pleased to say that Kali plays the game and bends over the bunku-cot to look at her. ‘Just beautiful,’ she agrees.

‘See what long eyelashes she has,’ whispers Isis. ‘Her 
eyes are flickering a bit, but no, she’s not waking up. Just dreaming. I hope they’re pleasant dreams. I wouldn’t want her having the sort of dreams her poor father has.’

‘All children dream,’ says Kali. ‘Mercury did. He had terrible nightmares, but he got over it. And I’m sure little Penelope will too.’

Isis fetches drinks for everyone and she and Dionysus pass them round. I notice that his hand shakes. Poor humanoid. He’s been traumatized by the time he spent on show in Museum Oasis.

I’d like to tell him that I saw him and the other warriors there and understand how demoralised he must feel. But I can’t. It’s not the sort of thing to say in public and I have no opportunity to talk to him alone.

To my surprise, Kali raises her glass and says, ‘You’ve all seen old filmograms on your compus so will know that a toast is a drink to wish good health and success to someone. It’s also a celebration of success. We certainly have something to celebrate today – the return of Penelope to her rightful mother. We drink to her future health and happiness.’

We raise our glasses and take a sip of whatever it is Isis has given us. Some sort of wine, I think, but I’m not sure. If we were on Oasis it would be champagne.

‘To Penelope!’ we all say in unison. ‘To her health and happiness.’

‘Shush!’ says Isis. ‘Not too loud. You’ll wake her up.’

‘Nonsense!’ says Kali. ‘You shouldn’t go tiptoeing around babies and talking in hushed voices. They have to get used to noise.’

‘Like I had to get used to you snoring when I was a child,’ I tell Kali. Hugo sticks his tongue at me for being rude to his mistress.

Isis decides it’s her turn to hold court. ‘Thanks, Kali, for the toast to little Penny. One day when she can talk I hope
she’ll thank you herself. I still can’t believe she’s here. I have to say she’s been looked after well. Thank her adoptive parents for me, Mercury. I understand you know them. They must be devastated to have had to give her up but quite honestly I can’t feel too sorry for them. They shouldn’t have taken her in the first place. She doesn’t belong to them. Anyway, she’s back with her real Mummy and Daddy now. And it’s great to have Ody here, her totally amazing grandfather. And Mercury too of course.’

‘That was a nice touch, Kali, to think of having a toast,’ says Odysseus, sliding across to her side.

‘Oh I haven’t finished yet,’ Kali informs him. ‘I have more to say, more to celebrate.’ She raises her voice to speak to us all.

‘Everyone in this room has different talents. Isis, I’m sure, with a bit of practice you will be a good mother and homemaker, in spite of being a bit of an airhead.’

We all smile and Isis gives a nervous giggle.

Kali continues. ‘I want you to know, Isis, that you and your family are welcome here in my sectoid. As for Odysseus, we all know how clever he is and how well he has done in his career: Curator of Museum Earth, Chief Chronicler and Chief Consultant to Athene. Not bad eh? But never forget he started here in the histo-lab in this compound, C55. We are all rightly proud of his success. We should drink to Odysseus and wish him all the best for the future.’

‘To Odysseus.’

We all take another swig of the strange tasting liquid.

‘As for little Mercury, remember he started here too. He sat at a compu at four years old, taught himself how to use it and learnt everything he could. And now he is at the University of Oasis, doing very well indeed and planning to be a big man in the Parliament there. I know he’ll make it. We’re all proud of you, my son. To Mercury!’

They raise their glasses to me. ‘To Mercury!’

I’d like to say thank you to Kali but I can’t utter a word. I have a lump in my throat as big as a golf ball.

I’m ashamed of myself for my critical thoughts about the compound and the cottage. I’ll have to watch out that living on Oasis doesn’t make me consider myself superior to my old friends. All I can think of at the moment is that Kali called me her son and that she’s proud of me. That makes me feel worth a million dollars.

‘Are you back here for good now Mercury?’ Isis asks.

Before I can answer, Kali says. ‘He certainly is not. He’s got to finish his university studies. But he isn’t leaving here until tomorrow. He’s staying the night in the compound.’

I need not have worried about not being able to sleep in the small dormo-cube. Kali and I don’t go to bed – or bunku. We stay up all night talking. There are things we both need to say, to apologise for, but we don’t dwell on them.

We talk about the future. The one thing we are agreed on is that we will not lose touch again. Her precious pets confirm our promise. They cling to my neck, arms and wrists as if they will never let me go.

Athene had planned The Big Event carefully. The stadium looked superb, its layers of raked seating arranged so that everyone had a good view of the circular arena. The colourful arrangement of flowers, greenery and wheat placed round the podium where Athene was to sit was a credit to Jaga, Kali and C55. The buzz of anticipation among the spectators marked the importance of the occasion.

Odysseus had told me that, after much discussion, he and Athene had come to the conclusion that completes and mutant humanoids were to be offered seats in separate stands. Segregation was a concept neither of them favoured but neither did they believe that members of Oasis and Earth should be forced to sit side by side. There were, therefore, designated seating areas. But if some members of the audience decided to mingle there was nothing and no one to stop them. No barriers. No police. A good compromise.

Father and I had only just taken our seats in the section assigned to completes when an incredible thing happened. A figure leapt over the barrier, hopped over the benches and strode out towards us. I couldn’t mistake that signature
movement. Kali had arrived in typical style. She threw her arms around me and her snakes flicked out their tongues and hissed, delighted to see me again.

How brave she was to jump those barriers, both real and symbolic, determined to watch the performance with me.

I sat with my father on one side and Kali, my mother, on the other. Amazing. I was so proud of her.

And proud of my father too for understanding how important she is to me.

This was the first time Kali and Father had met. Father was charming, Kali warm and chatty. We took no notice of any odd looks from completes around us, but sat there together as a family unit. What a break-through.

My eyes skimmed the stadium. The benches and seats that rose up around the arena were full. Among the completes I recognised several members of the Symposium, representatives of various businesses connected to the Arts and curators from Museum Oasis.

I was shocked to see Orlando Wolfe and Stella Jameson arrive together. As a member of the Symposium he was entitled to attend, as was Stella as owner and director of Worldwideculture; but it was far from tactful or kind of them to come as a couple.

I glanced at Father and noted the muscles in his face and neck tense as he caught sight of them. He soon recovered, at least outwardly, and continued to listen to Kali as she told us that Isis was at home with the baby. Dionysus, unable to face the ordeal of watching his ex-colleagues, the golden warriors, perform, was with them.

A trumpet. Athene, with Odysseus on one side of her and Heracles on the other, moved swiftly on to the podium. The spectators rose as one and applauded.

Athene, resplendent in a white robe that fell in elegant knife pleats to the ground, couldn’t stop smiling. The gown
was voluminous but failed to hide the fact that Athene was pregnant, a surprise to most of us. There were gasps, exchanged looks and a ripple of animated whispers.

Athene went on smiling, serene, confident. Heracles held his head high, a possessive hand on her elbow and grinned broadly. Who could doubt he was the father? Athene, Odysseus and Heracles settled themselves on the shapers on the dais.

Like the Roman Emperors and their entourage at the Coliseum, they were placed so that they could be seen.

The air of excitement spread through the spectators. Like the Romans, we were all waiting to be entertained. We were not going to see gladiators fight to the death or Christians thrown to the lions.

Our world might not be perfect but we no longer considered it amusing to watch others suffer. I found myself thinking with a certain satisfaction that we had learnt something after all these years.

The lights dimmed. Music rose to a climax.

The show was about to begin. And what a show it was. In spite of what happened at the end, we must remember that.

The blare of a bugle. Durga enters in her chariot, red hair flowing like a lion’s mane out of her golden bull-helmet, a magical hybrid creature, holding the reins high urging the golden calves to go faster. We can almost believe they are real, as if they, not a motorised engine, are causing the chariot to whiz round the arena in that cloud of dust. Durga pulls up short and faces the entrance.

Drums increase in volume to herald the appearance of a phalanx of red and gold warriors, marching, dividing and coming together, always in straight lines, always in step, faces looking straight ahead, impassive, emotionless. Shining animal helmets – tigers, lions, panthers – glint in
the sun. The warriors halt and stand as rigid as toy soldiers. Durga encircles them, inspecting her troops. The drumming increases. Trumpets sound.

Displays of fencing, marching, shooting and other training exercises follow, all impressive for their meticulous timing. Durga and the warriors leave the arena to thunderous applause.

A terrifying crescendo of strident brass and timpani as a giant screen unfurls, filled by a blood red sky. Out of the fog rises a tall cylIndracal building. A caption appears: THE HERACLES TOWER.

The sky turns from red to orange, to magenta, to green to violet. A camera encircles the tower, revealing its height, its solidity and the prosthesis that caps it. There’s no mistaking its intention. It’s a symbol of virility, of masculinity, of power.

The screen clouds over. A dark city looms out of the haze. Another caption emerges: EARTH CITY.

Tall black skyscrapers, silhouetted against the purple smoke-laden horizon. An electronic shriek, rotating amber searchlights, dazzling street signs, the revving up of engines, screeching brakes, gunshots, screams of terror. The camera pans out to show The Heracles Tower dominating the city. Blackout.

That’s it. A short, sharp, powerful film, designed to shock and awe. It’s greeted by a stunned silence, followed by a halfhearted attempt to applaud.

I wonder how Heracles has got away with this exhibition of power? Didn’t Athene vet the film before it was shown?

I look over at her, but she’s smiling up at Heracles, amused, as if this display of his power is a joke.

I’m not amused. I find myself wondering if the human
race is about to make the same mistakes again. Heracles is power-crazy and the tower and the city are demonstrations, not only of his present power, but also of his aspirations for the future. It warns me that if I am to liase between Oasis and Earth in the future, it is Heracles I may have to contend with.

The dark city fades and is replaced by whirling colours on the screen to match the swirling movements of dancers in the arena, images full of light and colour accompanied by mystical music. A piece of magic from the dancers of Compound Creative.

Two Shakespearean death scenes follow, both unnecessary deaths, triggered by misunderstandings.

Firstly, the suicides of the doomed lovers, Romeo and Juliet, in the marble vault, depicted in monochrome, black and white, as a kind of live film noir. Heart-breaking. Not a dry eye in the house, as they used to say.

Secondly,
Othello
. As directed by Kata-Mbula, becomes a truly frightening piece. My heart pounds against my chest throughout the scene. Othello’s anguish in his belief that Desdemona has been unfaithful to him shatters him and us. Our pity for his innocent victim is absolute but also for this misguided, vulnerable man.

In contrast, we laugh at the lovers in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
at Puck’s mixing of the potions and the couples professing love to the wrong partner. All is resolved happily to our relief.

Warmed up by this gentle comedy we are ready to ache with laughter at another dance, a pastiche of the dying swans in
Swan Lake
. As they expire, they shed their feathers all over the arena. Like all the best comedy, it’s hilarious and sad.

The mess of feathers take some clearing up. But even 
that becomes an act in itself as the dancer/cleaners, sporting headscarves and aprons, trip each other up, swing their brooms and dustpans round horizontally, knock each other down and tip over each other’s buckets of feathers to sabotage the others’ efforts. Slapstick humour straight from Edwardian pantomime.

Kali whispers in my ear. ‘Save my seat. Surprise, surprise, remember?’ And hop, skip, jump and she is striding away and leaping over the barrier. She’s off backstage to prepare for the promised surprise item.

That’s why she misses the final act from Compound Creative, an astounding solo from Kata-Mbula himself.

Who would have thought that such a big man could step and leap so lightly and execute such acrobatic spins and somersaults? He’s the master of illusion. A bird on giant wings soars through the air, a flickering silver fish weaves through glittering water, a tiger ever ready to pounce prowls through the jungle. Kat’s body, flexible, athletic, supple, is transformed again and again, from fish to fowl, from lizard to leopard, from male to female, as he tells stories through his own physicality that are both disconcerting and moving. Finally, he collapses concertina fashion in a heap on the floor. The lights snap off.

When they come up again the amorphous mass of darkness remains on the ground. Silence. We hold our communal breath. The mound begins to shift and slowly, very slowly unrolls to reveal the silhouette of a two-headed giant with legs astride and arms held high, fists clenched. A beat. Another moment of stunned silence, followed by a roar of applause as Kata-Mbula takes a deep bow, turns and slowly walks out of the spotlight.

What timing. What theatricality! We have never seen anything like this before. For a while no one can speak.
Then a mighty shout of appreciation is taken up, calling for his return. Are we going to be disappointed?

No, there is to be a grand finale and on come all the performers to enact a short reprise and take their bows. The dancers twirl, Romeo, Juliet, Desdemona and a bedraggled swan die, the lovers in the forest are reunited and Kata-Mbula is transformed into a silver fish once more. He receives the biggest cheer, not just for his acting and his dancing but also for his direction.

But all is not over. Surprise, surprise!

A bugle sounds and on comes Durga in her chariot, red hair streaming from under her bull-helmet. Two triumphant circuits of the arena and she halts at the far side, directly opposite Athene and the platform party.

Another burst of sound on the bugle and a second chariot enters, driven by Jaga, straw-coloured hair flying from beneath a black helmet in the shape of a horse. She too circles the arena and pulls up next to Durga.

Where there are two, the other two sister-wives of Shiva must surely follow.

In comes Kali in her chariot, standing proudly, dreadlocks swinging round her blue-black face under a cobra helmet. She makes an impressive figure as she finishes her circuit of the arena and rests her chariot next to Jaga’s.

Everyone focuses on the entrance again and in comes the last of the sister-wives, Sati. Two fierce tigers snarl from her helmets. She holds her heads high, the sun catching her blond curls and the long glossy sheaf of her dark hair. She leans back and we can see that Sati, like Athene, is pregnant. She halts next to Kali and all four sister-wives of Shiva smile.

I imagine rehearsing this has not been all smiles. For Durga to persuade the others to join her for this spectacle cannot have been easy. Although who would not be tempted 
by a ride in one of those chariots? I imagine the arguments and jockeying for power that must have gone on during rehearsals. No doubt I shall hear the details later from Kali.

It’s the turn of the warriors to march on again, glorious in their uniforms of red and gold, their animal helmets, shields and swords gleaming. They line up next to the four chariots.

The arena is full now, full of dancers, actors, warriors and the four warrior queens in their chariots.

That was it. That was The Big Event. I hope I’ve done it justice. It’s not easy to describe visual representations in words, but I’ve done my best.

Suffice it to say that we were all, completes and humanoids alike, on our feet, clapping and cheering as if we would never stop. The Big Event was indeed a triumph. Until….

Athene stood up and moved to the edge of the dais. The applause increased. Father and I were on our feet like everyone else, applauding. Odysseus and Heracles remained slightly upstage of Athene. This was Athene’s moment. She had pulled off the impossible and was receiving a well-deserved accolade.

As if in ironic reply to the general euphoria, over the noise of the crowd, came a sharp, short shock. A bang. A gunshot.

Screams from the crowd. Panic. Pandemonium. Those in the stands and in the arena, sensing danger, started scrambling over seats and over each other, desperate to escape.

For a moment I was unsure what had happened. I saw Odysseus move forward. Before he could reach Athene, her body had slipped to the floor. Her white gown with its knife pleats lay around her, spread out, like a fan, with what looked like red paint splattered over it. Not paint. Blood. She lay on the podium, her head to one side. A hole in the middle of her forehead oozed dark liquid that streamed down her
cheek and neck. Her one eye had become a useful target for the assassin to shoot accurately. There was no chance she was still alive.

Odysseus was kneeling by Athene’s body. Heracles had disappeared from the dais. Maybe he thought there were more shots to come and he might be the next casualty.

Or maybe he had orchestrated the shooting. I thought of the images of the looming city and the tower, blatant images of power. Was it possible that this was a coup, a bid for power?

Or was it ambitious Durga who sought a takeover? As far as I knew the only humanoids with guns were Durga and the warriors. Had she secreted a gun in her chariot to produce at the opportune moment? The shot had certainly come from that side of the arena where the chariots stood.