Evolution (8 page)

‘I don’t know why.’

‘Stella thinks the reason you were there was because you were trying to make contact with the mutants, that you regret becoming a complete and coming to Oasis to live with us. Is that true?’

‘Stella. What does she know?’

‘She told me she had lunch with you the other day and that you said some pretty outlandish things that led her to think that you’re not completely happy here.’

‘She’s nuts.’

Father faces me. His face is stern. ‘Michael, Stella is concerned about you. We both are. You must realise that any contact you have with mutants is likely to be perceived as suspicious. You must not return to that district. I forbid it.’

I can’t believe he said that. ‘You forbid it?’

‘I do. You must never go near the Project again.’

‘You can’t forbid me to do anything.’

‘Actually I can.’

I feel my temper rising and turn away to finish packing my rucksack to take to Hos-sat.

I have no reason to go to the Project again now Lizzy is not there, but it sticks in my throat that Father thinks he can tell me what to do.

‘Michael, I have no wish to play the heavy-handed father, but in this matter you must obey me. For all our sakes.’

If I wanted to communicate with mutants on my own behalf it wouldn’t be with those poor creatures in the Project. It would be with Kali and Isis and Odysseus, humanoids I already know and respect. The fact that I have resisted contacting them all this time shows how much I respect my father. But now he has shown how little he respects me.

We kind of make it up before I leave, but I’m still seething inside.

He gives me the Hos-sat code for the teleporter and he and Stella stand smiling together at the front door and wish me well with the operation.

If they knew that the real purpose of my visit to Hos-sat is not to have a vasectomy but to make contact with a mutant humanoid they would not look so smug.

I call into uni on my way to the teleporter as planned, read through the essay, make a few alterations and send it off to the Prof.

I put my head round the divider that separates Jonathan’s workspace from mine and tell him I’ll be away for a few days. ‘I have to go to Hos-sat.’

‘You’re not ill, man?’ His usual relaxed manner has changed to concern.

‘No, just visiting a friend. Someone from the satellite I was on before.’

I don’t mention what happened yesterday. I’ve never told Jonathan about my past. It wouldn’t be wise. I do tell him about Father banning me from visiting the Project and how angry I feel.

‘Typical,’ says Jonathan. ‘Fathers think they own us and can tell us what to do. Usual teenage versus parent stuff.’

Is it? I didn’t know that. Makes me feel a bit better.

‘It’s not as if I want to go the Project anymore. Lizzy has left.’

‘Good for her. Has she got a job?’

‘Not as far as I know. I think the whole family have been evicted.’

‘That’s bad news, man.’

‘When I come back I’ll go the Re-hab Centre and ask a few questions.’

‘They won’t tell you anything. More likely to drag you inside and brainwash you as well.’

‘Ha, ha,’ I say grinning, before realising the implications of what he’s said. ‘Is that what they do there? Brainwash people?’

‘I tell you man, by the time they’ve finished with you in there, you don’t know who you are. I had a mate once who…. Never mind. What I’m saying is, if she’s landed up there that’s real bad news. If she ever comes out you probably won’t recognise her. She won’t be the girl you fell in love with, that’s for sure.’

‘I’m not in love with her. She’s a sweet girl, but I don’t love her. As a matter of fact, Lizzy and I are more or less finished. I mean we’re still friends but there’s no future in it.’

‘I told you that ages ago. People like us shouldn’t get involved with Project folk.’

I feel a little uncomfortable. This conversation is not so different from that with my father.

‘Anyway,’ continues Jonathan, ‘no need to think of the future. Lighten up, man. Start enjoying yourself now. When you come back we’ll go out sharking.’

‘Sharking?’

‘Looking for talent.’ He must see I still haven’t caught on. ‘Girls. For someone so clever you’re not very street-wise.’

He’s right. I’m not.

He gives me a friendly push on the shoulder. ‘See you, man.’

‘See you,’ I say back.

As I walk to the teleporter that will take me to Hos-sat I think what a good friend Jonathan is and that my father is apparently only behaving like every other father of teenage boys. I send Father a text, apologising for my rude behaviour and tell him that I look forward to seeing him when I come home.

I have achieved my ambition at last: I am now curator of the largest museum on Earth. But I don’t feel like celebrating.

My friend and former adversary, Brahmin, is suffering from an illness that they say is terminal. I sit at the side of his bunku, wipe his wrinkled foreheads with wet cloths or lift a drink to one of his withered mouths. He swallows with great difficulty, dribbling half of it down the folds in his neck. I endeavour to mop it up. The drink is usually water but today I give him a drop of brandy and am rewarded by seeing a glint of pleasure in his pink-rimmed eyes. Anything I can do to make his final days bearable I will do.

Before his illness, we spent most of our time arguing about the authenticity of some artefact or other or about how the museum should be organised. These disputes were all too often acrimonious. We attacked each other’s suggestions in the most hostile language we could summon up. Isis would raise her eyebrows and open her moon-shaped eyes in mock despair at what she considered our childish squabbles.

‘You two crinkly-crumblies should know better,’ she would tell us and stalk off to pursue some project of her own she considered more important. She saw us both as old. Brahmin is, of course, much older than me. But Isis was right. Brahmin and I should have known better than to
spend our time quibbling. Rivals for the job of curator, we sought to disparage each other’s intellectual prowess at every opportunity. With his imminent demise I realise how much I shall miss him.

Who else in C98 can I engage in academic conversation? Who else has a comparable level of acumen to mine? Who else appreciates the importance of preserving these paintings, icons and sculptures for posterity?

Brahmin gasps for air. A tear creeps down my cheek. My friend seems intent on leaving me and I shall be bereft, a lone relic in a building full of relics.

For the past few months, since Athene became CEO, day after day, week after week, packoids of artefacts have been arriving from Museum Oasis. Brahmin and I have fought over them with bitter glee: who should open them, who should take possession of the treasures and where they should be displayed? Another tear appears. I’m going to miss the old bugger when he’s gone.

Our previous sectoid leader, Durga, delayed her decision about which of us should be curator. What seemed like hesitancy on her part was perhaps her way of ensuring that constant competition would produce the best work from both of us. Without sounding too arrogant I would like to make it clear that for some time I have been convinced that she would choose me. Brahmin was here first, the sitting tenant so to speak, but I truly believe I have proved myself the better manager and warrant the appointment.

Due to Brahmin’s illness, it may seem to others that the position has been awarded me by default. He is dying. The job has become mine. Not one humanoid in the compound has bothered to congratulate me even though I’ve made a point of gliding round the public areas to make my presence felt. Isis would have congratulated me if she’d been here, but she’s in Hos-sat with biological matters on her mind.

The continued delay of my appointment was partly due to the change in leadership. Durga became a prisoner after that failed attack on C99 and our new chief, Jagadgauri, has shown little interest in the museum, too busy instigating her own plans. The confirmation of my appointment came directly from Athene.

As I sit by Brahmin’s bunku, running the wet cloth over his face, neck and shoulders I hear strains of that wretched song, “Lay down your arms.”

The song, written by Doron Levison in the aftermath of the Yom Kippur war, back in 1973, is being transmitted almost constantly throughout the compound. Levinson lost many colleagues in that war as well as his own eyesight and the composition was a plea for peace and an end to military conflict. Originally written in Hebrew, the lyrics were translated into many languages and became a popular anthem advocating peace. This version is in English. I’m a little wary of music deliberately composed to work on the emotions. Any piece, however perfect, played over and over again becomes tiresome. In this case, the message portrayed is pure propaganda.

Jaga has resurrected the song to promote acceptance of the radical transformations she is making. She has a vision of the future that she’s determined to impose on her workforce. I’m not sure if the song will achieve its objective or not. I doubt it.

The words of the song reflect the passage from Isaiah 2.4:
They shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall no longer raise up arms against nation, neither shall they learn war any more
. I doubt anyone notes the biblical reference apart from myself. Brahmin would, but he’s not capable of registering what is going on.

C98 has always been famous for its army, but after its abortive attempt to invade Oasis and its pitiful efforts in
more local forays, the days of the golden warriors seem to be numbered. Jaga has decided to disband the army, retaining a token force for ceremonial purposes. She uses its manpower to cultivate the land.

Huge banners have appeared all over the compound stating THE FUTURE IS AGRICULTURE and LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND PICK UP A SPADE and other similar slogans. Laudable sentiments in their way, but like many new leaders, Jaga has rushed headlong into the reformations without due thought.

At the moment those detailed to work in the fields, breaking up rocks and trying to dig the hard baked ground are complying with her demands, but I note the dour looks on their faces and wonder how long their compliance will last.

This morning, several of the workers fail to turn up for work on time. Jaga storms down to their dormo-cubes, accompanied by the ten warriors who form her personal guard. Under her direction, they kick open every single door of the cubes. Jaga stands in the passage, corn-coloured hair a halo round her head, her face flushed with rage, and delivers her command.

‘Get out here this minute and line up, ready for work.’

She exerts her authority from the sheer strength of her will, like a teacher. The reluctant field workers emerge and line up as instructed. I can hear her voice over the music – scoffing at their complaints, their bad backs, their petty coughs and colds. ‘Are you children? Grow up. Act like responsible adults. Fulfil your duties. You will work two hours longer today. That should remind you to be on time tomorrow.’

Jaga and the guards accompany the workers outside. It must be demoralising to be prodded and ordered to move along by these privileged warriors, who were once their
colleagues. I understand their reluctance to exchange “arms for ploughshares” and their glorious uniforms for drab labourers’ garb – rough trousers topped by T-shirts stamped with the motif of a dove.

Jaga has won this round, but how long will it be before the resentment her regime is creating leads to a full-blown rebellion? She longs for them to share her vision, but when inspiration fails she resorts to the usual dictator’s tactics: threats and punishment.

Brahmin slips into sleep. After a moment or two, I check his pulse, a slow, steady pattern. I creep out of his dormo-cube and slide the door shut to block out the dreaded song.

I start my circuit of the compound, coasting along smoothly without the usual jerky movements of many of my fellow mutant humanoids.

There are very few warriors left inside the compound today. Those that remain, lounge about looking jaded. No longer allowed to play compu war games or practise martial arts, they have been detailed to research the plants and vegetables appropriate for an arid climate. An arid way of passing their time.

A group huddled together in the corner of the Recreation Room look up as I pass and stop their low pitched muttering. I note that the dark-skinned Indira with the dreadlocks is one of them. Are these erstwhile warriors plotting something? I know enough about conspiracy theories to suspect that they are. I am one of the managers and they would naturally be wary of me. I raise a questioning eyebrow. Indira gives me a quick nod of recognition. I glide on.

Outside Jaga’s office stand four warriors in full dress uniform. Dionysus – or Osiris as Isis calls him because of the myth associated with their names – is one of them. My son-in-law. I nod at him but he makes no sign that has seen me. All four warriors stare straight ahead, faces impassive.
Imposing in their red uniforms with gold fringes and trims, they must be proud to have been chosen as Jaga’s personal guards. I wonder if their colleagues huddled in the corner are envious of their status.

I must have a word with Dionysus later when he’s off duty and find out if he has heard from Isis. They parted on bad terms. Isis was adamant that she should go to Hos-sat to make sure their baby had a perfect birth.

Dionysus said that if she went he wouldn’t visit her there. As far as I know, he has kept his threat.

Perhaps he’s afraid that if he goes to Hos-sat he’ll be arrested again. Not surprising that he doesn’t trust completes when you think what he and his colleagues were subjected to on Oasis: put on show in the museum and expected to march up and down like robots to entertain the visitors. Appalling.

But, in my opinion, there are good and bad completes just as there are good and bad mutant humanoids. All of us are flawed. There is no reason to believe that Isis will be treated badly. She has permission to be there. The warriors hadn’t. Giving birth at Hos-sat with its state-of-the art facilities and highly trained staff must be the best chance for her and the baby. I don’t think Dionysus has forgiven me for encouraging Isis to go. When I feel Brahmin can be safely left I will go and visit her, even though I know it is not me she wishes to see.

The truth is, I miss Isis. Not for her intellect, which is nominal, but for the person she has grown up to be. For her bright personality, her sense of humour and, yes, for the way she cares about me. I brought her up as my child and later, discovered that she was in truth my daughter. Now I am to be grandfather to the first baby born to a mutant humanoid for twenty years.

It seems the danger of Earth’s contamination has passed. The ground is becoming fertile again and the humanoids
too. What exciting times we live in. How fortunate I am to be part of this change.

The big doors to the compound are open wide to the outside world. No cold wind assails us. Jaga is standing on the step, her blue-green eyes searching the horizon. In the foreground members of her workforce, male and female, backs bent, are breaking up hard-baked soil and rocks in the hope that the barren land will soon be transformed to the fertile.

Aware of me beside her, Jaga says, ‘Imagine it, Odysseus, field after field of golden wheat shimmering in the sun under a blue sky. The future is agriculture.’

‘It will take time,’ I warn her.

‘Not so long if everyone works hard,’ she says. ‘No more living shut up in compounds. We’ll be a rural community, living in stone cottages with thatched roofs. No cities or towns. No pollution. Village life is the answer. We will work the land. No need for industry. No need for factories. We will be self-sufficient.’

This is Jaga’s vision. But can’t she see that turning proud warriors into peasants is a recipe for disaster? I think of Indra and the group I heard whispering together in the RR. Are they plotting a mutiny? I have no proof of this but history tells me that dictators who oppress their countrymen are destined to fall. I fear for Jaga. Maybe I should warn her of the likely consequences of her actions.

She turns to me and gives me a penetrating look with her hazel eyes. ‘Tell me, Odysseus. How is Brahmin?’

‘Sleeping at the moment, but he’s very frail. I don’t think….’

The lump in my throat prevents me completing the sentence. Jaga understands and touches my arm lightly.

‘When he finally leaves us, I have something I would like you to do for me.’

I have no idea what it could be. I do hope she doesn’t want me to pick up a spade and help with the digging. I don’t feel up to that.

‘I want you to make sure the museum is ready to be open to the public as soon as possible.’

It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for: to open the museum and allow others to view our treasures.

‘I’d like a big opening. A proper ceremony. Crowds of humanoids from other sectoids making their way to see it through the fields.’

She screws up her eyes and looks out at the horizon again. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Odysseus, if the wheat was ready by then? We could cut a way through for our visitors and they could arrive singing and dancing.’

‘I think it will take time for the corn to grow….’

She’s not listening to me, lost in her dream of a sea of golden wheat and humanoids from other compounds arriving on foot. Her straw-coloured hair and golden-skinned face glow in the sunlight.

She turns her eyes on to her workforce. ‘Life in the open air is good for us. No longer enclosed in compounds we will grow healthy and strong. You too, Odysseus, must spend part of each day outside. A little walk gives you thinking time. Brahmin believed in that.’

Brahmin insisted on going outside, breathing in the “fresh air” as he called it. I can’t help thinking that these excursions did not help his health. Maybe the air was too strong for him, too much of a shock to the system after years of breathing the artificial air from neo-air-conditioning units.

I’m not as old as Brahmin but I’m taking no chances. I shall not be spending much time outside. Besides if the museum is to open to the public I will have plenty of work to do inside.

Jaga is talking again. ‘You see that dome in the distance?
That’s C97 known as Compound Creative. The members of their workforce could well be our first visitors. By the way, Odysseus, did you know that your previous colleague, Heracles, is now head of that sectoid? I’m sure he’ll be interested in the museum. Why not contact him and offer him a preview?’

I’m not sure it would be politic to do that in view of our somewhat chequered history, but I nod at Jaga as if I agree with her. Cunning Odysseus must be circumspect.