Evolution (2 page)

But I wouldn’t want my child to turn into some kind of split self, half mutant, half complete, like me. I mustn’t let that happen. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with my mixed status. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone else.

A shocking thought occurs to me. It would suit completes if this generation of mutant humanoids were to be the last. I wonder, not for the first time, if mutants are being fed something in their food packoids to make them infertile. That the results are not infallible doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. On Earth, when I was a mutant, I may have been given such substances in my nutri-rations but that amount of control would be impossible here on Oasis. That could explain Stella’s concern that the effects are wearing off and that I might be capable of fathering a child.

My suspicions grow about the unscrupulousness of the Oasis Symposium. Why did the contamination of Earth last so long? It’s nearly two hundred years since The Great Plague. Were the wilderness years deliberately prolonged by using some sort of spray such as Agent Orange? The fact that it would be callous, not to mention immoral, to deliberately pollute the Earth in order to keep the mutant humanoids imprisoned in compounds is unconscionable,
but not impossible. Add to that a plan to sterilise mutants by putting medication in the food and my disillusion with Oasis would be total.

I start to tap into my computer, determined to find out more. As I continue my research a key question keeps returning: why can’t completes accept mutant humanoids as equals?

The answer comes to me quickly. Because they are afraid of us.

A message on my mob-fone, from the implanted chip behind my ear: ‘Please help me, Michael. We’re in terrible trouble. Meet me at the Obelisk at five o’clock?’

I sigh. Much as I like Lizzy there are times when I wish I’d never become involved with her. She relies on me too much, expects me to find the solution to all her problems.

I’m sure that The Oasis Social Project started off as a good idea, a way to help those members of our society who had fallen on hard times. They are provided with basic accommodation in a separate urbanization and supported until they find new jobs and are ready to be released back into society.

Like many philanthropic schemes, it doesn’t always work. Some people abuse the system, preferring to continue to live off the state rather than find work. I don’t know if that is the case with Lizzy’s family or not. She says her father can’t find a job that pays enough for them to live in the city itself. Meanwhile they continue living as second-class citizens, dependent on charity.

I do my best to help Lizzy. Sometimes talking to her is sufficient. Sometimes I give her money. Not much else I can do.

Jonathan says I’m too soft, that I must understand that she’s not my responsibility. Jonathan is the only one who knows about my relationship with Lizzy. It would have been
almost impossible to keep such a secret from him. He knows my movements throughout the day. We attend quite a few of the same seminars, have adjacent computer cubicles and take our coffee breaks together. We’re really good mates and I know I can trust him not to tell anyone else. It’s good to have him to confide in, just as he finds it good to tell me about the girls he goes out with. Lanky Susie has long gone. Now he has a series of girls of all shapes and sizes. He takes pleasure in telling me when he “scores”, as he calls it. He boasts a bit about his conquests, considers himself an Alpha male. His floppy fair hair and laid-back attitude to life do seem to attract females, mainly students at the university.

As for me, I don’t go out with other girls. I don’t really go out with Lizzy. We meet in the Project from time to time. Safer for her than venturing outside again, she says. Her brothers have agreed to our friendship, an ally in Oasis town proving useful. And profitable.

When we want privacy, Lizzy and I go into the garden shed in her uncle’s back yard. Once there, we hold each other close and exchange a few kisses. I spoke the truth when I told Stella I don’t have sex with anyone. I’d like to make love properly to Lizzy and I know she’d be willing, but not in that dirty shed and there’s nowhere else to go.

Besides, something holds me back. Deep down I know that if we did make love it would be an act of irretrievable commitment.

Jonathan says that’s stupid. He’s slept with lots of girls and feels under no obligation to any of them. He’s a free spirit, he says. Maybe I’m made differently from him or maybe it’s because Lizzy is so vulnerable that I couldn’t bear to hurt her. Part of me wishes to be relieved of this burden that my relationship with Lizzy is turning out to be.

I allow myself another sigh but I do reply to Lizzy’s message, telling her I’ll be there at five.

She’s leaning against the obelisk in her blue dress, tracing a circle in the loose sand with a pointed toe. A dancer: that was my first impression of her. I feel my heart race at the sight of her, but not, perhaps, with the same urgency it used to.

She kisses me lightly on the cheek and launches into an explanation of her current problem. She and her family have new neighbours.

‘Mutants,’ she says. ‘Ever so many of them, all packed into one house. They’re really ugly. One man has two heads. Can you believe that? And another one three legs. They sit outside on the doorstep all day long and munch food. It’s disgusting. Thing is they’re always there. Every time we leave the house there they are, staring at us. You’d think we were the mutants the way they gawp. Why can’t they stay inside like everyone else? No one else sits on their doorsteps.’

I take her hand in mine. ‘You’ve got to realise, Lizzy, that on Earth they were shut up in compounds for years because the air outside was polluted. Being outdoors is a treat for them.’

‘I don’t know anything about that. I just know that half the time I’m afraid to go out.’

‘Have they done anything to make you afraid of them – threatened you or anything?’

She sniffs. ‘Not exactly. One of them smiled at me – well, not a smile – a leer. Definitely a leer. I ran back indoors and slammed the door. I was totally wrecked. Couldn’t go out again for days.’

‘Perhaps he was just trying to be friendly.’

‘Well, I don’t want to be friends with him. We had good neighbours before. People like us. But the government got rid of them.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘The usual excuse. Said they were making no effort to find work and couldn’t expect to live off the state for ever.’

I ask where they’ve gone but Lizzy doesn’t know the answer to that and doesn’t seem interested. It strikes me as odd, her lack of interest in the plight of her previous neighbours. It doesn’t seem to occur to her that the same thing could happen to her family. She is so obsessed with the “horrible mutants” next door, she can’t think of anything else.

‘Have you any real complaints about your new neighbours?’

‘What do you mean real complaints? Isn’t it bad enough them being there? But yes, there are other problems. They’re so noisy. We can hear them clomping about, up and down the stairs, bumping into furniture and walls and they shout at each other all the time. Even at night. Their voices are so shrill. They do my head in.’ She pushes out her bottom lip in a pout and looks at me to judge my reaction. Her way of flirting.

It’s true that mutant humanoids aren’t co-ordinated. They have little control over their arms and legs and their voices tend to be high-pitched. I remember what I was like before surgery, physiotherapy and voice therapy. Lizzy wouldn’t have thought much of me then. I try to make her understand
that her neighbours are probably finding life very different here. ‘It will take time for them to adjust.

‘But they’re not even trying to adjust. They just do what they want, regardless of anyone else.’

‘Lizzy, you have to be patient. I’m sure things will improve. It’s a culture shock for them living here.’

‘A shock for us you mean, living next to these – these monsters.’

‘Just because they look different from you – from us – doesn’t make them monsters, Lizzy.’

She bursts into tears. ‘You don’t understand. You don’t have to live next door to them. You live in your beautiful home in Oasis city. You can’t imagine what it’s like here.’ She pounds her fists on my chest. I put my arms round her and try to calm her. She stops sobbing and raises her blue eyes to mine. ‘Michael, I want you to do something for me.’

‘You know I’ll help you if I can,’ I tell her, stroking her silky fair hair. I’m sure she washes it to make it shine like that just before she meets me.

She takes a step back and gets an envelope out of her bag. ‘Take this letter to the Symposium for me. It’s from my father. He’s been round all the houses in the Project collecting a list of people’s names. We want the government to do something about it.’

‘A petition?’

‘Is that what it’s called?’

‘How many signatures are there?’

‘I don’t know. Nearly everyone signed it – apart from one or two families too scared to do anything. Afraid of losing their benefits I suppose.’

‘What do you expect the Symposium to do?’

‘Send the mutants back to where they came from. We don’t want them here.’

‘That’s not going to happen, Lizzy. You see, the Symposium invited them here.’

She stares at me, wide-eyed. ‘Why did they do that?’

‘Because they needed people to do the menial jobs – keeping the roads and buildings clean for example.’

‘They’re taking our jobs.’

‘They’re doing the jobs you – we – don’t want to do. The kind of jobs that don’t pay much.’

‘And they don’t mind?’

‘On Earth, in the compounds, there’s no monetary system.’

Lizzy looks at me blankly.

‘They don’t use money. Their food and clothes are provided for them.’

‘Who gives them these things?’

‘We do.’

‘So they get everything free, while we have to pay for everything. That’s not fair.’

I don’t know how to start to explain. It’s like talking to a child. I sit Lizzy down at the foot of the Obelisk and start to give her a potted history of Earth. If I could make her understand what it’s like to live there maybe she’ll be more sympathetic to her neighbours.

‘The completes who escaped to the satellites were the lucky ones. They escaped after The Great Plague. The unlucky ones suffered from mutations and were left on Earth.’

Lizzy snuggles up to me, ‘I know all that.’

‘Some of the completes felt sorry for them,’ I continue, ‘and decided to help them. They built the compounds to keep them safe from further contamination.’

‘Yes, I get all that,’ Lizzy says, her head nestling on my shoulder. ‘We were taught all that at school, but what I don’t understand is why they are here.’

I start to explain how the completes ransacked the
Earth and took its resources to create a rich new world for themselves on the satellites creating a standard of living much higher than in the compounds. ‘Now that the atmosphere on Earth is no longer dangerous the humanoids feel they are entitled to share our luck….’

I stop talking, jump to my feet and turn away from Lizzy, a lump in my throat. I can’t do it. I can’t justify this venture. Not to Lizzy, nor to anyone else, including myself. What was Athene thinking of to agree to this stupid scheme? It’s misconceived from start to finish. For one thing people like Lizzy and her family do not enjoy a high standard of living. They are as confined in the Project as the mutant humanoids in the compounds.

Another thing, these particular mutant humanoids, the less educated ones from C1, were brought here to work for completes, not to share the culture and higher standard of living. The entire enterprise is an anathema.

I face Lizzy, pull her up and grip her shoulders. ‘You’re right, Lizzy. I agree with you. You shouldn’t have mutant humanoids as neighbours in the Project. And yes, I will take your letter to the Symposium – if that is what you want.’

Her face lights up and I think again how pretty she is. ‘Thank you, Mr Darcy.’

Her reference to
Pride and Prejudice
, an old joke of ours, embarrasses me. I realise, perhaps for the first time, that our love story, unlike that of Darcy and Elizabeth, will not have a happy ending. I will always be Lizzy’s friend, but not her husband. We are too different.

In spite of Stella’s warning that I must never tell anyone that I was once a mutant humanoid, I know that I will never ask anyone to share my life without being completely honest about my past. There is no way that person will be Lizzy.

Her reaction to her new neighbours makes it clear that I can never be able to share my secret with her.

When Stella goes upstairs to say goodnight to the children, I give Father the envelope containing the petition. I tell him that a fellow student gave it to me and asked me to make sure the Symposium received it.

Father asks me if I know what it’s about. I tell him that I do.

He opens the envelope and frowns. ‘The migrants from Earth weren’t supposed to live mixed up with the Project people, but in a separate section,’ he says. ‘We can’t expect them to integrate straight away.’

‘Father, you are on the sub-committee that came up with this suggestion. If you don’t mind me saying, wasn’t the scheme doomed from the first?’

‘Doomed is a bit strong, Michael, but I have to admit that there are some people in the Symposium and even on the sub-committee who think of this venture as an experiment and will be only too pleased if it fails. They will use this petition as further proof that integration of mutant humanoids and completes won’t work.’

He fingers the envelope thoughtfully. Is he wondering whether he should pass it on to the Symposium or withhold it? The petition from the Project will only add fuel to the views of those who object to any sort of integration with those on Earth.

‘If only Athene had refused to send them,’ I say. ‘She should have sent students from Headculturedome to study at the university instead.’

‘That’s what she wanted to do but the Symposium rejected that suggestion. Bringing in the blue-collar workers from C1 was a compromise. Some of us thought it was better than nothing and would keep the peace between Earth and Oasis for a while. Seems that was a mistake.’

‘Seems it was.’

Father sits brooding in his armchair for a while.

I have something else I want to ask him before Stella comes back. ‘What happens to the Project families who lose their houses?’

‘You mean the ones who break the rules, take advantage of our generosity and don’t try to find work ‘

‘My uni friend told me that a lot of families have been turned out of their homes in order to make room for the mutant humanoids. Where do they go?’

Father is still playing with the envelope containing the petition, moving it round and round between his fingers. ‘I think there has been a bit of a blitz, yes. But it was one that was well over due. Some of these people are very lazy, Michael.’

‘But isn’t it difficult for them to find employment? Isn’t there a kind of stigma about living in the Project that makes companies hesitate to employ them?’

‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘I only know what I’ve read on line and what my uni friend told me. He has cousins who live there. They didn’t want to accept charity, but the father lost his job and couldn’t get another and, as they have three children, they didn’t have much choice.’

‘What are their names? Perhaps I can help them.’

‘I don’t know. We were only talking in general terms. My friend’s cousin told him that they were caught in a trap, that he couldn’t find work and had no choice but to stay in the Project. They’ve been threatened with eviction if he doesn’t get a job soon. That’s why I asked you what happens to the people who are evicted.’

‘Depends on the situation.’ Father sits back and makes a church of his fingers, the envelope as the steeple. ‘If they are criminals, deliberately abusing the system, they are sent to Pris-sat. If not and their problems are deemed genuine they
go to another place to be – ‘he hesitates for a moment, ‘to be re-educated.’

‘To learn new skills to help them get work?’

The church collapses and the envelope drops to the floor. Father leans over to pick it up. ‘That’s more or less it. Yes.’

I get the feeling he’s not telling me the whole story. ‘What’s the satellite called where they receive this re-education?’ I ask.

Father pauses again. He doesn’t want to tell me but he’s promised to answer any questions I may have.

‘It’s not a satellite. It’s a building here, on Oasis,’ he says. ‘It’s known as The Rehabilitation Centre.’

I don’t ask him any more about it. I can look it up on the Internet later and find out exactly what the rehabilitation involves.

I note that Father puts the envelope back in his pocket when he hears Stella returning. She drapes herself on the peach-coloured sofa next to him, ready to engage us both in conversation, but I don’t want to hang around any longer in this lush drawing-room with its stylish colour combinations chosen by Stella. I jump to my feet and excuse myself saying I have some work I must do for uni tomorrow. Is it my imagination or does she look relieved? I think of our lunchtime chat. It occurs to me that she will be not be happy until I have left Home-Court-Jameson and she can have Father to herself.

Back in my room, I type in rehabilitationcentre.inc and up it comes. It’s not a very informative site, but it tells me enough to make me realise that although job skills are taught there and linked to work experience, the emphasis is on psychoanalysis.

What exactly does that entail? It seems that the centre is designed to re-educate “miscreants” defined as those who have abused their civil rights and need to be “re-processed.”
After treatment and tests, they may be eligible for work experience, unpaid jobs, that may lead to them being taken on as paid employees, acceptable as citizens of Oasis again.

From the few details described on screen the process sounds a viable method of making sure that the participants are ready to go back to live and work in the community. Why then do I feel uneasy? I think it’s the terminology, all those words beginning with “re”. Reprogrammed, repatriation, reprocessed, re-educated, reconstituted. They all suggest the stifling of the individual. Could Oasis be degenerating into the kind of regime that imposes its will on those who do not conform, a regime that turns those it considers dissidents into model citizens through force? I intend to find out.

Enough of that for the moment. I must plan my paper for tomorrow’s seminar on Russian politics.

No. I can’t concentrate. Too many new thoughts whizzing round in my brain. I’ll make “a things to do list” instead. I often use this method to prioritise my work schedule, but this time my list is shorter than usual.