Evolution (9 page)

Brahmin dies in his sleep. A good way to go, a happy release: all the old clichés come to mind.

Jaga is outside overseeing the progress of her workforce as usual. I inform her of Brahmin’s demise and she says he should be buried in a special plot she has designated as a cemetery.

‘His passing will be marked by a religious service with a procession and music,’ she tells me.

I have no doubt that the song that has been haunting us for weeks will be included, along with other renderings of pleas for peace.

I peep into Brahmin’s cube where two females are attending to his body. I nod at them, but avert my eyes from his emaciated corpse. I leave them to their task and return to the museum. I need something to distract me, to stop me dwelling on his death.

I glide round looking at the exhibits. Everything is grouped in chronological order from medieval to contemporary. There are too many gaps. I need more paintings, more sculpture and more pottery before I can consider opening the museum to the public. The packoids of artefacts received from Oasis are welcome, but the selection is haphazard, usually only one example from each period or school of art, which gives little opportunity to show the development 
in style. Little thought seems to have been given to these gifts. It’s almost as if they’ve been selected at random. The problem is there is no direct communication between the two museums. This is something that, as the newly created curator of Museum Earth, I hope to change.

Raised voices disturb my thoughts and I follow the noise to the dino-cube, skating swiftly along. Dionysus is marching at the head of ten warriors, all in full dress uniform. Practising for the funeral, I assume.

Their heads, topped by their plumed animal helmets, are held high. Superb. Colleagues at the tables taking their nutri-rations stop eating and look up in wonder.

Dionysus calls ‘Halt!’ and the warriors pull up sharply. He turns and addresses everyone in the dino-cube. ‘Are you peasants or warriors?’ he asks in a formidable voice.

‘Warriors!’ cries a young humanoid near me and jumps to his feet, raising his arm, his hand a fist above his head, a mixture of the Nazi salute and Freddie Mercury’s gesture of power.

The cry is taken up by others, ‘Warriors! Warriors!’

‘Then follow us!’ Dionysus orders and I watch bemused as, food and drink forgotten, the diners stand and march behind the cohort, trying to keep in step.

Everyone ignores me, but I follow too, keeping close to the walls, sliding smoothly along, hoping that no one will notice me, on the periphery, but near enough to see what will happen next.

They march into the Recreation Room and I slip in after them.

From the corner of the room, Indra and his group look up warily.

‘Follow!’ yells Dionysus.

Indra tosses back his dreadlocks and whispers to his fellow conspirators. Is this to be a confrontation? I can’t hear what
they’re saying but it seems they’ve come to a decision. To my surprise, they stand as one and join the mini-regiment that has formed behind Dionysus and his warriors.

A cheer goes up. ‘Warriors unite!’ This is a united front for what I’m now sure will lead to the army’s attempt to take control of the sectoid. A military coup.

I must go to Jaga and warn her.

The warriors continue to march through the compound. In the compu-centre, those sitting at their workstations are exhorted to ‘Follow!’ and they too join the ever-growing regiment until there is a fair number of warriors marching in step, or at least trying to. It’s a while now since they’ve practised marching.

While they continue recruiting and marching, I go to Jaga’s office. No guards to stop me, I knock on the door, open it and look inside. She’s not there.

I hear cries of ‘Are you with us or against us?’ and always the reply is the same. ‘With you. With you.’

‘Then follow!’ Dionysus commands and a chant goes up, ‘Follow, follow, follow,’ as more rebels join them and make for the outside door.

I weave my way though the phalanx of warriors in an effort to reach the door before them. The pace of their marching is consistent and I manage to slip through. I stop in the doorway and scan the scene. The field workers are busy, breaking up stones and attempting to dig the hard earth.

There’s no sign of Jaga.

I’m almost bowled over by the golden warriors who march on towards the workforce in the fields. I steady myself and stand to one side, looking as unobtrusive as possible. I find myself trembling. I have reason to be afraid. After all, I am part of the management they are seeking to overthrow. They ignore me and march on. Too old and weak in their eyes to be a threat, I assume.

Suddenly Indra and his group break through the ranks shouting, ‘Mutiny, rebel, rise up my brothers and sisters! Are you peasants or warriors?’

The workers hesitate. For a moment I think they are going to fight their erstwhile colleagues who are outshining them in their glittering uniforms; but I’ve misjudged the situation. They raise their axes or spades in a symbolic gesture high above their heads, step out and join the circle of their uniformed colleagues as they march round the field. They clap and beat out a rhythm on their gardening implements, determined to keep in unison.

Jaga, straw-hair awry, a scythe in her hand appears, pushing her way through the few stragglers left inside. They fall back and allow her to pass. She stands in the doorway and takes in the scene.

‘Oh Odysseus,’ she says when she sees me. ‘What is happening?’ Without waiting for an answer, she strides out to confront the rebels.

She stops, scythe held high, calls out ‘Halt’ and, for a moment the warriors do stop, so used are they to obeying her orders.

A moment later, Dionysus yells ‘Forward march!’ and they obey him, marching in a wide circle to the beat of the makeshift timpani.

I have no idea what will happen next. It looks as if the warriors and workforce, some in uniform, some not, will go on marching round the field forever.

Jaga sees her dream collapse. The very warriors she chose as her personal guard are leading the revolt, their loyalty to their colleagues more important than their loyalty to her.

I feel sorry for Jaga and consider helping her, but what can I do apart from lending her moral support? In the back of my mind I am already thinking that she brought this on herself with her insistence on forcing the warriors to till the land. Which side should I be on?

History tells me that a military takeover is the most likely outcome and that it would be politic to align oneself with the winning side. Or at least not do anything to make them arrest me. On the other hand, I have always been loyal to my leader and don’t like to see her friendless.

While I’m debating what position I should take, Indra and his group break away from the other marchers and approach Jaga. She raises her scythe. They take a step back.

At that very moment, a chariot appears in the distance, drawn by two golden mechanical calves, and in the chariot is a warrior with a burnished gold helmet in the shape of a bull, long red hair flowing out behind her in the breeze.

Jaga gives a little cry as she realises that her sister-wife, Durga, has returned to reclaim her sectoid: the power behind the coup.

Indra and one of his colleagues attempt to take Jaga by the arms to take her into custody, but she shakes them off and makes her own way back to the compound, the arresting party following behind her. Jaga doesn’t look at me as she passes but re-enters the compound with a fair degree of dignity.

Indra and his group follow her inside. I’m sure they’ve been detailed to lock her up but there is little I can do to help her without getting myself arrested as well.

As Durga approaches, Dionysus instructs his warriors to ‘Forward March’ and draw up in formation to greet her. Durga’s chariot pulls up to face them.

Captain Dionysus moves briskly to the side of her chariot. Durga gives him instructions and he addresses the warriors. I hear enough words and phrases to get the gist. ‘Full dress uniforms or choir robes, Great Hall, Ten minutes,’ and off they go to fulfil those commands, a unified force under Durga’s control once more.

Everything has happened so quickly I don’t what to
think. A coup has certainly taken place, the result of some careful planning. If not, how could Durga have made such an opportune entrance?

I remember thinking that Indra and his colleagues were plotting something in the corner of the RR, but had no idea their plan was masterminded by Durga. As far as I knew, she was still a prisoner in C99.

The coup has been carried out without bloodshed. That’s one good thing. Jaga has been replaced with Durga. I’m not sure what I think about that. Again I think how quickly the change has occurred.

Durga stops her chariot next to me.

‘Good to see one intelligent face here, Odysseus,’ she says. ‘Will you join us in the Great Hall?’ She narrows her eyes and gives me a shrewd look. ‘We’ll have a private chat later and you can tell me exactly that stupid sister-wife of mine has been up to.’

It’s like old times. Here we are, assembled in the Great Hall, the golden warriors reinstated.

I imagine that the coup was fairly easy for Durga to arrange. The warriors would have needed little persuasion to lead the revolt. Who would not want to replace hard labour with mock fights and exchange grubby trousers and T-shirts for elegant uniforms? The members of the choir look equally delighted to have cast off their peasant clothes for those long blue robes.

Trumpets blare. The arena is flooded with golden light from the glass dome. Durga crosses the threshold in her chariot. Those of us who line the curved walls step back out of her way as she storms by. Her bull’s helmet with its massive horns, her breastplate, sword and spear shine out in triumph, red hair streams out behind her. She makes two circuits of the hall, wheels round and pulls up short, flanked by the warriors, resplendent in their red and gold uniforms and animal-headed helmets of wild animals – lions, tigers, wolves, leopards and hyenas. But the warriors look far from wild. They are controlled, at ease, in their rightful place again.

Durga has always prided herself on her expertise in public speaking and she makes the most of this occasion to demonstrate it. She doesn’t speak of the coup itself, but of
reparation, of creating order out of chaos, of restoring the army to its former glory.

She deepens her voice and starts to talk about Brahmin. She calls him “our beloved spiritual leader” as she informs the workforce of his demise.

‘He was a good man, very knowledgeable and clever. He might well have been the new curator of our museum – if he had lived long enough.’

My heart sinks. I do hope she’s going to be as supportive of me as Jaga promised to be.

Durga tells us that Brahmin’s funeral will take place later today. ‘Let’s make it a celebration of his life with the golden warriors on parade and the choir singing.’

I can’t help thinking that the funeral provides a propitious opportunity for Durga to consolidate her takeover.

I am not religious myself. My study of history reveals too many wars, too much devastation executed in the name of religion for me to believe in a benevolent deity. But Brahmin was a believer and should be given such a ceremony.

The warriors spend most of the day rehearsing for the funeral. It is so long since they’ve marched formally together that they need to make sure their steps are synchronized. There’s no problem about their fitness. Jaga insisted they attended the gymnasium every morning before starting work. But being part of a formal parade means that they have to be co-ordinated, their marching synchronised, but they are out of practice.

The members of the choir are busy practising the hymns and anthems they used to sing when Brahmin was choirmaster. Appropriate.

Durga is busy for most of the morning, organising the pulling down of what she calls ‘those ridiculous banners’ and collecting the piles of pamphlets on peace scattered around the compound. All this propaganda is to be burnt.

Durga does find time to come and see me in the museum. She bursts in without ceremony and strides round the vestibule.

‘How could my sister-wife come up with such a ridiculous scheme? “The future is agriculture!” What next? What a travesty to turn my beautiful warriors into manual labourers. Couldn’t you do anything to curb her enthusiasm for this ill-conceived scheme, Odysseus?’

I feel like saying that it was Durga’s fault for leaving Jaga in charge while she careered off to that fiasco of a raid on C99; but I decide it is more politic to keep my mouth shut.

I do say, ‘Once Jaga had made up her mind there was little I could do to get her to change course. I did try to tone down some of her – what shall I say – wilder ideas.’

‘Wild is about right. She did it to spite me, to ruin my empire. Her appointment was only ever meant to be temporary.’

‘I don’t think she saw it like that. She had a vision of field upon field of wheat, of the sectoid growing its own fruit and vegetables and being self-sufficient.’

‘She let the myth of her name go to her head. Jagadgauri, Harvest bride of Shiva indeed.’ Durga narrows her green eyes. ‘I see you have some new acquisitions.’

‘Indeed. From Museum Oasis.’ I hesitate. Is this the moment to ask for her help? ‘It was part of the agreement in the treaty that we should share their resources. They have sent some items and I’m very grateful for that, but I would like to have some say in the artefacts selected.’

She considers this. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

I have the feeling that once she’s back in her office that promise will be forgotten. I must try another strategy.

I think of the myth that gave me my name. Odysseus was known for his cunning and I have my share of that quality.

‘Durga, you must realise that a fully equipped museum could bring you and your sectoid considerable prestige. Trips could be arranged from other compounds to view our treasures. It would demonstrate that you are a leader, not only interested in warfare but in history and culture as well.’

She narrows her eyes. ‘Interesting,’ she says. ‘That’s exactly what Brahmin told me.’

‘We thought the same way about most things.’

‘I thought you were always arguing.’ She smiles with a hint of malice.

‘We had disagreements about the best way to exhibit the paintings or statues, but both of us were intent on making the museum perfect. Sometimes we differed on how to achieve that perfection, but on important matters we thought the same way, both working towards what was best for the museum, best for the sectoid, best for you.’

She laughs and turns away. ‘You have quite a way with words, Odysseus.’

‘I’ve had a good teacher,’ I tell her, letting her decide if I refer to Brahmin or to her.

She continues to pace around the vestibule.

‘Would you like to have a more detailed inspection of what we have done?’ I ask, trying to guide her into the scooped out cave where the Renaissance paintings hang.

‘I would, but not today. I have lots to do to prepare for the funeral.’ She moves swiftly away. In spite of what she must have suffered over the past few months she is very sure of herself.

I give a little bow. ‘Of course.’

She stops pacing and confronts me. ‘Would you like to make a speech at the funeral, Odysseus? A eulogy. I was going to do it myself, but I really think it would be better coming from you.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ I say.

She actually leans forward and lays her hand on mine. ‘You did say just now that you and Brahmin thought the same way about the major things.’

‘That’s right.’

‘He was very dear to me. I understand you have been at his side throughout his final illness. I appreciate that. I really do. I’m just sorry that I didn’t return sooner, in time to say goodbye.’

I swear there is a tear in the eye of this formidable woman, the renowned leader of the golden warriors. I feel honoured to have seen this softer side of Durga.

‘I will spend the rest of today writing a speech worthy of him,’ I promise her.

‘No need for that, just speak from the heart.’ She presses my hand, releases it and strides away.

At the door she turns, her face composed and gives her parting shot. ‘Not too long-winded though, eh Odysseus? We don’t want to bore everyone.’

It isn’t until I’m sitting at my workstation thinking of few well-chosen phrases to start my speech that I remember that I should have asked Durga what has happened to Jaga. Perhaps it’s just as well. I have to be loyal to the present leader and Jaga’s location is not my concern.

It occurs to me that the warriors are virtually redundant now, apart from taking part in ceremonial events. Another war would be as ill conceived as Jaga’s dreams of a golden harvest. A token, ceremonial army is the only answer. But will that satisfy the warriors? Or Durga?

Late afternoon comes the call for everyone to go outside for the ceremony. The entire sectoid assembles once more. A few surprises await us. A funeral pyre has been erected. Six golden warriors carry the white shrouded body of Brahmin and place it on a platform above the twigs and branches
that the workforce have managed to scavenge from the newly sprouting countryside. I note that Jaga’s banners and pamphlets are also being used as fuel.

At the sound of singing everyone looks up. In the distance what looks like a motley troupe of travelling players is moving towards us to the beat of drums and voices raised in harmony.

Our neighbours from Compound Creative are coming to pay their respects to Brahmin.

I had no idea he was held in such high esteem.

It must be Durga’s idea to make a grand occasion of this funeral in order to consolidate her return to power.

What a cynical old humanoid I have become. I find I am annoyed by the excessive attention being paid to my ex-colleague. Even in death he is up-staging me. All this ballyhoo tends to support the view that my appointment as curator is merely expediency, not a deserved choice, and this rankles somewhat. Not only cynical then but disgruntled, jealous of a deceased humanoid. That’s the depths to which I’ve sunk.

The travelling players stop before reaching the pyre and I can see it is a multi-ethnic group with skins of various shades from white to brown to black. Their colourful costumes have been chosen to celebrate a life, not to mourn a death. Their faces greet us with wide smiles as they line up and begin to clap in time with the rhythm of the drum and their ever-moving feet. Our choir begins to clap in time with them and the warriors march on the spot, a mutual act of greeting from the two sectoids.

Durga is clapping and smiling too. As the dancers approach our visitors, they file off into two columns, as I’ve seen our warriors do. They turn to face each other and continue clapping and smiling.

Through the space between the two lines of humanoids strides a figure dressed in a long white robe trimmed with
blue, wearing a turban. Under the turban is the huge square, three-eyed face of the new head of Compound Creative: Heracles. Durga looks disconcerted. He was her captor, she, his prisoner. She stops clapping and glares at him.

Heracles looks over his shoulder, holds out a hand to someone behind him and along trips one of Durga’s sister-wives, the two-headed Sati, looking as sweet and deadly as ever.

For a moment I think Durga is going to call over her warriors and arrest both of them, before they have a chance to speak.

After all, Sati did leave her warrior sister-wife for dead in the wilderness after the raid on C55 and Heracles kept both Sati and Durga incarcerated in cells in C99 for months.

Heracles treats Durga to a wide grin and Sati giggles.

A pause. We wait for Durga’s reaction. She takes a deep breath.

‘Heracles, Sati,’ she says smoothly. ‘We are delighted that you could attend this memorial service to our beloved Brahmin. I invite you sit beside me to witness the occasion.’ She guides them to a structure where those of us of high rank are to sit. Maybe there won’t enough room for me now, but yes, Durga beckons me and I duly follow them to the temporary royal box.

‘Where is Bathsheba?’ Durga asks Heracles. ‘My invitation earlier today was to her.’

‘Bathsheba is not in charge of Compound Creative,’ says Heracles. ‘I am.’

‘Since when?’

‘We’ve been there several days now, Sati and I.’

‘Athene appointed you?’

‘She did indeed. Did she appoint you leader of this sectoid?’

‘Athene told me I was free to make my own choices.’

‘So you decided to reclaim your sectoid for yourself. A bold plan. Where’s Jaga?’

‘Where she deserves to be. Where I didn’t deserve to be.’

‘You’ve locked her up?’

‘It’s quite a comfortable cell. You don’t need to worry about her.’

‘I’m not worried. I was interested in her project though. She wanted to work the land, build little villages and move everyone out of the compound.’

‘You think that was a good idea?’

‘To move out of the compounds, yes. To live in rural communities no.’

‘Have you another plan?’

‘As a matter of fact I have.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Let’s just say I’m more of a city boy myself.’

Durga gives a short laugh. ‘I can believe that.’ She pauses. ‘You’re not thinking of trying to rescue Jaga, are you?’

It’s Heracles’s turn to laugh. ‘Why would I do that? Or more important how could I do that? You’re the one with the army, Durga. My sectoid consists of dancers, singers, actors, artists and crafters. They are hardly equipped to carry out a rescue mission.’

‘And that appeals to you – all this namby-pamby dancing?’

‘Wait until you see them perform. I think you’ll be impressed.’

Durga stares at Sati. ‘I see you brought your concubine with you, my darling sister-wife.’

No chance for a reply. A blowing of bugles and the golden warriors are about to start the ceremonial parade. But our party is not yet complete.

Like a
deus ex machina
in a Greek tragedy, Athene appears. She doesn’t exactly fly in but drives through the wide doors from the Great Hall in Durga’s motorised chariot. Durga frowns so I know Athene is not an expected guest.

The coup has been carried out without her permission and Athene has appropriated the chariot to make some sort of point.

Athene pulls the chariot to a halt. She looks as serene as ever in her long white robe. She gazes around the assembled company through her one deep blue eye. She makes a speech about Brahmin. It’s formal, not in the least sentimental, an appreciation of his hard work, his religious beliefs and his work with the choir, but she doesn’t list his qualities. That is left for me to do. Her voice carries well in the open air but is subdued and sincere. The speech is short. Very short. I have no idea what she really thinks of Brahmin or of the takeover.

I step forward, clear my throat and list my ex-colleague’s qualities. He was erudite, knowledgeable and dedicated. I repeat what I said to Durga earlier – that he and I might not have always agreed on the little everyday details (a few amused exchanged looks and nods here) but that when it came to the future success of the museum we were “on the same page.” I read the latter phrase online recently and believe it makes me sound progressive or at least in touch with modern life. I imagine Isis rolling her eyes. My speech is not as short as Athene’s but only a few coughs towards the end, advise me politely that enough is enough. Durga gives me a nod. I think she is pleased with the generosity of my effort.