Evolution (7 page)

I’m rewarded by a gasp of admiration and some applause. The faces in front of me are raised in anticipation. There’s no music. No razzamatazz. I launch straight into my speech.

‘I, Heracles, am your new leader. I’m not a temporary replacement for Kata-Mbula. I have complete power over the sectoid. You may find my style of leadership somewhat different from Kat’s, but, as long as you conform to my rules, you will find me fair.’

I look at the faces in front of me. They have no idea what I am about to say. No clue about the change in their daily lives that I’m about to initiate.

‘Humanoids have lived in compounds for over two hundred years, but now that the Earth is no longer toxic we can begin to live outside again, as human beings did in the past. My plan is to build a city on the waste ground outside Compound Creative. It may be that migrants from other sectoids will come to share it with us – but, naturally, you will have the first option to live in the houses or flats that will be built. I am building it primarily for you.’

A stir of excitement.

‘Suppose we don’t want to live there?’ pipes up the actor who plays Romeo.

‘Then you can stay in the compound. No problem. The move is not obligatory.’

A communal sigh of relief.

These stick-in-the-muds are so used to communal living they’re resistant to change. Ah well, little by little, they’ll begin to see the advantages of city life.

I begin to paint them a picture of rows of streets with painted signs over shops, sports centres and theatres, offices and factories, images that create an idea of the energy of a city.

‘I would like to introduce you to the stage party, humanoids from C99, the flagship compound. They are the architects, draughtsmen, engineers and general overseers of the city project.

‘First we will build a tower, to be known as The Heracles Tower, a powerful symbol of our city that will seen for miles around. As soon as that is finished we will start constructing the city. From now on you are to have a new work schedule. You will be builders as well as actors, dancers and stagehands.’

Consternation. A buzz of protest.

I pause and try to soften my message a little by saying. ‘I note that every morning you have been doing warm-up exercises before starting rehearsals. In future, rehearsals will not begin until 2.0 p.m. The mornings will be spent building.’

A ripple of shock runs through the assembly.

‘Yes. Building. This will warm up your muscles and provide a workout that will increase your strength and stamina. You will then be free to rehearse in the afternoons and evenings. We shall start the new schedule tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.’

Lots of chatter but I override it with ease. ‘I want you to understand that every member of the sectoid – with very few exceptions – will take part in the physical labour demanded by this project. Male and female. This is your
city, your project, and you will share the work required to bring it to fruition. Keep an eye on the notice-boards for instructions about which work group you are to join.’

I signal to Thor to step forward and he stands legs apart, a veritable colossus. ‘You will all report to Thor, the foreman. He will be in charge of the day-to-day work. You will work to his orders.’

He grins with his two mouths, but there is something in the solidity of his stance and the fixed look of his steel-grey eyes that suggests it would be wise not to cross him.

Another burst of anxious chattering, but once more I have no trouble in restoring order. ‘One last reminder. Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp, you must all report to Thor, outside the door of the compound. I wish you a good night’s sleep and a productive day’s work.’

Not surprisingly Bathsheba is waiting to see me after the meeting, her face dark with anger.

‘You can’t do this,’ she says. ‘You can’t cut down the rehearsal time and you can’t expect actors to do manual labour.

‘Oh but I can,’ I assure her. ‘Just watch me.’

I don’t have to explain myself to her. I’m not her precious Kat. I do, however, assure her that she will not be expected to join in the physical work of the building. She’s not sure whether she’s exempt because I regard her as Kata-Mbula’s deputy or because I consider her too old. I note with a certain satisfaction that, however egalitarian her beliefs, she does accept her exemption from manual work. Like all idealists, her beliefs are only skin-deep.

The members of the council are hovering around waiting to talk to me too, but I march straight past them without a glance in their direction.

I thank my colleagues from C99 for their continued work on my behalf and for their supportive presence, before escorting them to the transporter.

Apart from Thor. He stays, of course. It’s good to have my mate, Thor, here. I have a feeling he’s going to prove indispensable to me.

We go to the bar for a celebratory beer.

‘Went well,’ I tell him. ‘I doubt Athene even noticed twenty males from her sectoid were missing for an hour or two today.’

‘Just shows how easy a takeover would be,’ quips Thor, raising his glass. There’s something about the tone of his voice that tells me he’s not totally joking.

‘It’s not time yet,’ I tell him. ‘I have to build my tower and city first.’

Thor takes a gulp of his beer. ‘Maybe we – you – could plan the coup to take place at The Big Event.’

‘Maybe,’ I say. It is something I’ve already been considering. ‘When I decide to make my move, I promise you will be the first to know.’

A frantic text from Lizzy, ‘Come quickly.’

Nothing else. Really, she is too reliant on me. She expects me to rush over and rescue her from some imagined catastrophe any time she chooses.

I have an essay to complete on the difference between the theories of Freud and Lacan, so I can’t go yet. It’s due tomorrow morning, the day Father has arranged for me to leave for Hos-sat. I stick at it, tapping away on the computer until I’ve finished it – more or less, although I’ll have to do a quick check in the morning before sending it to the tutor.

I call Lizzy. No reply. I leave a message asking what’s up. No reply. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying in Hos-sat, so decide I’d better go the Project now. I leave yet another message asking her to meet me at the Obelisk and dash off.

She’s not there. I take a risk and weave my way through the narrow streets to her house. It looks deserted.

The neighbours she told me about are lounging on the steps of the house next door, munching. They are not prepossessing specimens. Their wide square faces and small eyes make them look quite simian. All the males are bare-chested and both males and females have their arms and legs exposed, as if keen to soak up every bit of fresh air they
can. Their mutations are very obvious. Two heads, extra limbs and eyes are not exceptional for humanoids but ugly protrusions such as carbuncles on faces limbs and bodies are rare. They have a preponderance of these ugly lumps. I’d been told that the members of C1 have very basic intelligence, but had no idea they were so physically challenged.

For the first time I understand exactly how Lizzy and other completes must have felt when confronted with such mutants for the first time.

I nod at them but they don’t reply. I knock on Lizzy’s door but it is clear that there’s no one there. The window shutters are down and the front door closed. Further down the street, at intervals, I see more mutant humanoids sitting on the steps of the houses they have been allocated.

As I start to move off, a huge mutant humanoid with a sweaty protuberance on his chest the size of a melon, stands up, points at Lizzy’s house and shouts, ‘Gone!’ Others take up the chant, ‘Gone, gone, gone.’

There is no mistaking what they mean by ‘Gone.’ I’m too late. Lizzy and her family have been evicted and I doubt there’s much I can do about it but I’ll go the Rehabilitation Centre straightaway and find out if Lizzy and her family are there.

As I leave the Project, two uniformed men step out in front of me. Police? I’m not sure, but something tells me I’m being arrested for being in the Project without permission. I decide to make a run for it.

‘Michael Court?’ one of the men shouts after me.

I stop and turn round, an automatic response when someone says your name. Big mistake. I’ve just confirmed my identity and immediately I understand that this is not a random encounter.

‘Who wants to know?’ I ask.

They don’t answer but approach me, twist my arms behind my back and handcuff me.

No matter how much I struggle it does no good. There are two of them and they are tall, well built and strong. I look around seeking help but the one or two passers-by look away, not willing to get involved. The men look like officials. They take out some sort of bandage and proceed to blindfold me.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I yell at them.

This results in a wide piece of tape being stuck over my mouth. They grab the top of my arms and, in spite of my resistance frogmarch me along. We seem to be going in the wrong direction for the police station.

A few minutes later we arrive at our destination. There’s the sound of doors opening and shutting. They take off the blindfold, but not the tape on my mouth, or the handcuffs and push me into a small room with no furniture or amenities, apart from a bucket.

I hear the key turn in the lock. I’ve been banged up and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’m left alone for about half an hour until the same men return. They untie my hands but not my mouth and start to strip me. I lash out at them now that my arms are free. No use. I’m short and skinny and they are tall and brawny. They handcuff me again and walk out, taking my clothes with them, leaving me naked. It’s freezing.

The thing Father has dreaded all along has happened. Someone suspects that I’m a mutant humanoid and is determined to find out for sure.

Good job the surgeon and the therapists did such first-class work removing my mutations. There should be no evidence of my former status. Or will there? It’s quite recent surgery after all. Less than two years. I think of Father’s tiny scars where his wings had been removed as a baby and find myself wondering if there could be any sign at all that I have been operated on. I shiver and not just because of the cold.

I start to consider what my reaction would be if I were a born complete who’d been wrongly arrested, stripped and humiliated in this way. I wouldn’t be afraid. I’d be furious, indignant and demand my rights. That is how I must respond.

I must psyche myself up and make it clear to anyone who comes through that door that they cannot treat me like this. But it’s difficult to keep my dignity naked, my mouth taped up and my wrists cuffed behind my back, let alone protest.

Two men in white coats enter the cell. I’ve never seen either of them before. One of them holds something in his hand. It looks like a torch, but when it’s shone on my skin it gives out a red light. Infrared. Now I really am scared. Can this instrument reveal deep scars under the skin from the operation that transformed me from mutant to complete? I don’t know. Keep your cool, I tell myself. Don’t let them see your fear. Be outraged, offended, shocked at the way they are behaving towards you but, whatever you do, don’t look afraid. There isn’t much I can do, naked and deprived of speech but I do what I can. My eyes flame with fury. I twist and turn, determined not to make life easy for them. I need to make it clear that their behaviour towards me, a legitimate citizen of Planet Oasis, is unacceptable.

The scrutiny of my body is thorough and I hear little clicks as if there is a camera in the torch taking photographs. X-rays. They examine every little bit of me. When they point the X-ray camera on my back and shoulders I feel a twinge of fear. Will there be any indication that I once sprouted wings? I manage to control the tension and the torch soon passes on to other parts of my body. Whoever tipped these men off about me doesn’t know the particular location of my mutations. Not surprising. The only people who know about them are Kali, Father and the specialist staff at Hos-sat. Possibly Stella. None of them would have
any reason to betray me. Not even Stella. She wouldn’t do anything to damage Father’s reputation. Unless of course…. But that doesn’t bear thinking about.

It does occur to me that this is a funny way of going about things. What about taking a sample of my DNA? I’ve read about how useful it was to solve crimes. Surely that would reveal if I had any mutant genes; but maybe that technology has been lost or discredited. Maybe there are people who have their own reasons for wanting it to fall out of use. Criminals or completes like me who were once mutants.

My other peculiarities would be recognised by everyone who knew me as a mutant, my jerky walk and high-pitched voice.

The men in suits decide to test out these characteristics. I resist at first as a complete would do and refuse to move, but when they prod me I take pride in demonstrating my manly walk and stride about.

Once satisfied with my movements, they rip off the tape from my mouth. It really hurts but I don’t even flinch. Don’t want to give them the satisfaction. I make my voice as deep and masculine as I can and rent my fury on them.

‘How dare you do this to me? I’ll have you punished for your treatment of me. It’s against the law to arrest a complete human being and subject him to such humiliation. An infringement of human rights….’ My rant seems to go on forever. There is no sign of squeakiness in my vocal chords. Good old Moira, speech therapist extraordinary. If she could hear me now she’d be proud of me.

The two men have had enough of my tirade and tape up my mouth again. They exchange looks, nod at each other and knock on the door to be let out. I wait. I suppose they are checking the X-rays. After what seems like hours, the door opens and my clothes are thrown in. A man steps inside, takes off my handcuffs and goes out again quickly. I rip off
the gag and put my clothes on. I continue to wait. The door opens, the men who brought me here enter, blindfold and gag me again and push me outside. They take me for a long walk, marching me round in circles, trying to disorientate me most likely. They stop and take off my blindfold. We’re back where they found me. They rip off the tape over my mouth and give me a shove towards the Project as if they think that is where I belong.

I watch them as they storm off. They are only minions, obeying orders. There is something about them that makes me doubt they are policemen. They appear more like common thugs. But what do I know? I have little experience of either the police or thugs.

As soon as they’re out of sight, I find myself shaking uncontrollably. I want to sit down there on the edge of the Project and howl my eyes out; but know I mustn’t do that. I begin to stagger home. It takes me a long time. Every landmark looks different. Surreal. The more I hurry the slower I seem to go. I lurch from side to side unable to control my movements. I’m in one of those nightmares I suffered from as a child.

Back at Home-Court-Jameson at last, I let myself in, stumble to my room, throw myself on my bed and burst into tears.

‘Supper’s ready!’ Stella sings out.

But I can’t sit down to eat with the family. There’s no way I could eat a thing and no way I could face the children’s questions about why I’m upset.

Father knocks on my door. ‘Michael. Can I come in?’

In he comes and sits beside me on the bed and, between sobs, I pour out my story. He listens without interrupting, taking in every detail of my account.

‘It was the most dreadful, humiliating day of my life,’ I tell him. ‘Who would do such a thing, Father? Where do you
think they took me? It was like a cell, but I don’t think it was the police station. I know I was blindfolded, but it didn’t seem as if we were walking in that direction. And they knew my name, Father. They knew who I was. Can you believe that?’

Father sits for minute, his arm round my shoulders, thinking about what I’ve told him.

‘It’s my guess that they took you to the interrogation room in the Symposium,’ he says eventually.

I stare at him, unable to believe my ears. ‘An interrogation room? I thought this was a democratic state.’

‘Sometimes it is necessary to….’ He stops. ‘Look, Michael. Don’t worry. I’m on the case now. How dare they arrest my son and treat him like that?’

His response matches the way I felt in that cell. Indignant. Furious. The difference is that I was powerless. I could only rave. Father can do something about it.

‘And Father, I was dragged through the streets and no one commented or protested. Not one person tried to help me. Is this normal procedure in Oasis to arrest someone, handcuff him, blindfold him and drag him through the streets? I thought we lived in a civilised city, but the words police-state spring to mind.’

‘Oh don’t say that, Michael.’ Father grips my shoulders. ‘In any place, however civilised, there is always a section of the community who think they are above the law and others who are afraid of them.’

‘Bullies,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if these bullies torture people too.’

Father looks a little uncomfortable. ‘I think it would be best, Michael, if you feel up to it, to go to Hos-sat as planned tomorrow morning. With you safely out of the way, I will deal with the situation here. I intend to find out who is behind this travesty of justice. I have my suspicions who is responsible and intend to find out for certain.’

He pauses for a moment. I see a nerve working in his neck. In spite of his seeming control, he is very upset. And angry. ‘I want this person arrested, strip-searched, and humiliated, yes and tortured if necessary and sent to Prison-sat.’

‘But if you did that, you’d be behaving just like them.’ I’m pleased he feels so strongly about the way I’ve been treated but behaving the same way is surely not the answer.

Father takes a deep breath. ‘You’re right, as usual, Michael. But when something like this happens to my son I find I don’t just want justice. I want revenge.’

I have never heard Father speak so strongly before. It’s gratifying but I do hope he doesn’t do anything he will regret. After a while he calms down and gives me a wry smile. ‘Life does not always run smoothly, Michael, and it’s not always easy to play by the rules. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything unethical. But I would like to see that man punished properly for what he did to my son.’

Before I leave in the morning, Father comes to my room. ‘I understand you were picked up near the Project. What the hell were you doing there?’

He’s already discovered the details of my arrest and is not well pleased. His face is taut, pinched with fury.

‘I needed to see for myself what was happening there.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘I told you the other day that my friend’s cousins have been evicted, seemingly to make room for the mutant humanoids. As a student of politics it is vital for me to see for myself what’s going on.’

He shakes his head. ‘Michael, you can’t take on the problems of the whole world. You’re becoming too involved in such matters.’

I shrug. ‘That’s just how I am. I can’t help but be involved.’

‘Did you talk to any of the mutants?’

‘No.’

‘Did you recognise any of them?’

‘No.’

‘Was there anyway that they could recognise you?’

‘No. Why do you ask me that? These humanoids are from C1. There is no way they could know me.’

‘I’m just trying to get the bottom of why you were arrested.’