The MaddAddam Trilogy (97 page)

The Crakers are delighted with the pump; the children scamper over and clamour to have water pumped onto them. After that, Crozier demonstrates the one piece of solar the MaddAddamites have managed to get running; it’s connected to a couple of light bulbs, one in the cooking shack and one in the yard. He tries to explain why the lights go on, but they’re puzzled. It’s obvious to them that the light bulbs are like lumiroses, or the green rabbits that come out at dusk: they glow because Oryx made them that way.

Supper takes place at the long table. White Sedge in an apron with bluebirds on it and Rebecca with a mauve bath towel tied around her middle with yellow satin ribbon dish out the food from the pots, then sit down. Ren and Lotis Blue are at the far end, coaxing Amanda to eat. The MaddAddamites not on sentry duty filter in from their chores.

“Greetings, Inaccessible Rail,” says Ivory Bill. He takes pleasure in calling Toby by her old MaddAddam codename. He has a tulip-sprinkled bedsheet draped around his sparse form and a turban-like object made from a matching pillowcase on his head. His angular nose juts out from his leathery face like a beak. It was odd, thinks Toby, how the MaddAddamites chose codenames that mirrored parts of themselves.

“How’s he doing?” says Manatee. He’s wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat that makes him look like a chubby plantation owner. “Our star patient.”

“He’s not dead,” says Toby. “But he’s not what you’d call conscious.”

“If he ever was,” says Ivory Bill. “We used to call him Thickney. That was his MaddAddam name, back in the early days.”

“He was Crake’s jackal at the Paradice Project,” says Tamaraw. “Once he wakes up, there’s a lot he needs to tell us. Before I trample him to death.” She snorts to indicate that she’s joking.

“Thickney by name, Thickney by nature,” says Manatee. “I don’t think he had the least freaking idea. He was just a dupe.”

“Naturally we wouldn’t have had a high opinion of him, to be fair,”
says Ivory Bill. “He was at the Project by choice. Unlike ourselves.” He sticks his fork into a chunk of meat. “Dear lady,” he says to White Sedge, “could you possibly identify this substance for me?”

“Ahc-tually,” says White Sedge with her British accent, “actually, not.”

“We were the brain slaves,” says Manatee, spearing another chop. “The captive science brainiacs, working the evolution machines for Crake. What a power-tripper, thought he could perfect humanity. Not that he wasn’t brilliant.”

“He wasn’t alone there,” says slender Zunzuncito. “It was big business, the BioCorps were backing it. People were paying through the ceiling for those gene-splices. They were customizing their kids, ordering up the
DNA
like pizza toppings.” He’s wearing bifocals. Once we run out of optical products, Toby thinks, it really will be back to the Stone Age.

“Just, Crake was better at it,” says Manatee. “He put some accessories into these guys nobody else even thought of. The built-in insect repellent: genius.”

“And the women who can’t say no. That colour-coded hormonal thing, you have to admire it,” says Zunzuncito.

“As a meat-computer set of problems to be solved, it was an intriguing challenge,” says Ivory Bill, turning his attention to Toby. “Let me elucidate.” He’s talking as if they’re all at a graduate seminar, while cutting his greens into small, even squares. “For instance, the rabbit gizzard, and the baboon platform for certain chromatic features of the reproductive system —”

“The part where they turn blue,” says Zunzuncito helpfully to Toby.

“I was doing the chemical composition of the urine,” says Tamaraw. “The carnivore-deterrent element. Hard to test at the Paradice Project – we didn’t have any carnivores.”

“I was working on the voice box: now that was complex,” says Manatee.

“Too bad you didn’t code in a Cancel button for the singing,” says Ivory Bill. “It gets on the nerves.”

“The singing was not my idea,” says Manatee sulkily. “We couldn’t erase it without turning them into zucchinis.”

“I have a question,” says Toby. They turn and look at her, as if surprised that she’s spoken.

“Yes, dear lady?” says Ivory Bill.

“They want me to tell them a story,” says Toby. “About being made by Crake. But who do they think Crake was, and how do they think he made them? What were they told about that, back in the Paradice dome?”

“They think Crake is some sort of a god,” says Crozier. “But they don’t know what he looks like.”

“How do you know that?” says Ivory Bill. “You weren’t in Paradice with us.”

“Because they fucking told me,” says Crozier. “I’m their pal now. I even get to piss with them. It’s, like, an honour.”

“Good thing they can’t ever meet Crake,” says Tamaraw.

“No shit,” says Swift Fox, who has now joined them. “They’d take one look at their lunatic of a creator and jump off a skyscraper. If there were still any skyscrapers to jump off,” she adds morosely. She makes a show of yawning, stretching her arms up and behind her head, thrusting her breasts up and out. Her straw-coloured hair is pulled into a high ponytail, held in place by a powder-blue crocheted scrunchie. Her bedsheet has a dainty border of daisies and butterflies, cinched at the waist with a wide red belt. It’s a startling touch: angel cloud meets butcher’s cleaver.

“No point in repining, fair lady,” says Ivory Bill, switching his gaze from Toby to Swift Fox. He’ll be even more pompous, thinks Toby, once the beard he’s working on grows in. “Carpe diem. Take every moment as it comes. Gather ye rosebuds.” He smiles, a demi-leer; his eyes move down to the red belt. Swift Fox stares at him blankly.

“Tell them a happy story,” says Manatee. “Vague on the details. Crake’s girlfriend, Oryx, used to do that sort of thing in Paradice, it kept them placid. I just hope that fucker Crake doesn’t start performing miracles from beyond the grave.”

“Like turning everything to diarrhea,” says Swift Fox. “Oh, excuse me, he’s already done that. Is there any coffee?”

“Alas,” says Ivory Bill, “we are bereft of coffee, dear lady.”

“Rebecca says she has to roast some kind of root,” says Manatee.

“And there won’t be any real cream for it when we do get it,” says Swift Fox. “Only sheep goo. It’s enough to make you ice-pick your own temples.”

The light is fading now, the moths are flying, dusky pink, dusky grey, dusky blue. The Crakers have gathered around Jimmy’s hammock. This is where they want Toby to tell the story about Crake and how they came out of the Egg.

Snowman-the-Jimmy wants to listen to the story too, they say. Never mind that he’s unconscious: they’re convinced he can hear it.

They already know the story, but the important thing seems to be that Toby must tell it. She must make a show of eating the fish they’ve brought, charred on the outside and wrapped in leaves. She must put on Jimmy’s ratty red baseball cap and his faceless watch and raise the watch to her ear. She must begin at the beginning, she must preside over the creation, she must make it rain. She must clear away the chaos, she must lead them out of the Egg and shepherd them down to the seashore.

At the end, they want to hear about the two bad men, and the campfire in the forest, and the soup with a smelly bone in it: they’re obsessed by that bone. Then she must tell about how they themselves untied the men, and how the two bad men ran away into the forest, and how they may come back at any time and do more bad things. That part makes them sad, but they insist on hearing it anyway.

Once Toby has made her way through the story, they urge her to tell it again, then again. They prompt, they interrupt, they fill in the parts she’s missed. What they want from her is a seamless performance, as well as more information than she either knows or can invent. She’s a poor substitute for Snowman-the-Jimmy, but they’re doing what they can to polish her up.

She’s just at the part where Crake is clearing away the chaos for the third time when their heads all turn at once. They sniff the air. “Men are coming, Oh Toby,” they say.

“Men?” she says. “The two men who ran away? Where?”

“No, not the ones who smell of blood.”

“Other men. More than two. We must greet them.” They all stand up.

Toby looks where they’re looking. There are four – four silhouettes, coming nearer along the cluttered street that borders the cobb-house parkette. Their headlamps are on. Four dark outlines, each bringing a shining light.

Toby feels her body unclench, feels air flowing into her in a long, soundless breath. Can a heart leap? Can a person be dizzy with relief?

“Oh Toby, are you crying?”

It’s Zeb. Her wish come true. Larger and shaggier than she remembers, and – although it’s only been days since Toby last saw him – older. More bowed down. What’s happened?

Black Rhino and Shackleton and Katuro are with him. Now that she’s closer she can see how tired they are. They’re setting down their packs, and the others are crowding around: Rebecca, Ivory Bill, Swift Fox, Beluga; Manatee, Tamaraw, Zunzuncito, White Sedge; Crozier and Ren and Lotis Blue; even Amanda, hanging back from the group.

Everyone’s talking; or all the human people are. The Crakers stay on the sidelines, clustered together, eyes big, watching. Ren is crying and hugging Zeb, which is in order: he is, after all, her stepfather. When they were at the Gardeners, Zeb had lived for a time with Ren’s luscious mother, Lucerne, who hadn’t appreciated him, thinks Toby.

“It’s okay,” Zeb tells Ren. “Look! You got Amanda back!” He extends an arm; Amanda lets herself be touched.

“It was Toby,” says Ren. “She had her gun.”

Toby waits, then moves forward. “Good work, sharpshooter,” Zeb says to her, even though she didn’t shoot anyone.

“You didn’t find them?” Toby asks. “Adam One and …”

Zeb gives her a sombre look. “Not Adam One,” he says. “But we found Philo.”

The others lean in to listen. “Philo?” says Swift Fox.

“Old Gardener,” says Rebecca. “He smoked a lot of … he liked the Vision Quests. He stayed with Adam One, back when the Gardeners split up. Where was he?” They all understand from Zeb’s face that Philo was not alive.

“There were a bunch of vultures on top of a parking garage, so
we went up to take a look,” says Shackleton. “Near the old Wellness Clinic.”

“Where we used to go to school?” says Ren.

“Quite fresh,” says Black Rhino. Which means, thinks Toby, that at least some of the missing Gardeners survived the first wave of the plague.

“None of the others?” she says. “Nobody else? Was it the … was he sick?”

“No sign of them,” says Zeb. “But I’m guessing they’re still out there. Adam could be. Food handy? I could eat a bear.” Which means he doesn’t want to answer Toby right now.

“He eats a bear!” the Crakers say to one another. “Yes! It is as Crozier told us!” “Zeb eats a bear!”

Zeb nods towards the Crakers, who are gazing at him uncertainly. “I see we’ve got company.”

“This is Zeb,” Toby tells the Crakers. “He is our friend.”

“We are pleased, Oh Zeb. Greetings.”

“He is the one, he is the one! Crozier told us.” “He eats a bear!” “Yes. We are pleased.” Tentative smiles. “What is a
bear
, Oh Zeb – this bear you eat?” “Is it a fish?” “Does it have a smelly bone?”

“They came with us,” says Toby. “From the shore. We couldn’t stop them, they wanted to be with Jimmy. With Snowman. That’s what they call Jimmy.”

“Crake’s buddy?” says Zeb. “From the Paradice Project?”

“Long story,” says Toby. “You should eat.”

There’s some leftover stew; Manatee goes to get it. The Crakers withdraw to a safe distance; they don’t like to be too close to the odours of carnivore cookery. Shackleton wolfs down his stew and moves off to sit with Ren and Amanda and Crozier and Lotis Blue. Black Rhino has two helpings, then goes to take a shower. Katuro says he’ll help Rebecca sort out the contents of the packs: they’ve gleaned more soydines and some duct tape, and a few packs of freeze-dried ChickieNobs, and some Joltbars, and another package of Oreo cookies. A miracle, says Rebecca. It’s hard to find any packaged cookies unchewed by rodents.

“Let’s check out the garden,” Zeb says to Toby. Toby’s heart sinks: there must be bad news he wants to break privately.

The fireflies are coming out. The lavender and thyme are in bloom, releasing their airborne flavours. A few self-seeded lumiroses glimmer along the edges of the fence; several of the shimmering green rabbits are nibbling at their bottom leaves. Giant grey moths drift like blown ash.

“It wasn’t the plague that killed Philo,” says Zeb. “Someone cut his throat.”

“Oh,” says Toby. “I see.”

“Then we saw the Painballers,” says Zeb. “The same ones that grabbed Amanda. They were gutting one of those giant pigs. We took a few shots, but they ran off. So we stopped looking for Adam and got back here as fast as we could, because they might be anywhere around here.”

“I’m sorry,” says Toby.

“About what?” says Zeb.

“We caught them, night before last,” she says. “We tied them to a tree. But I didn’t kill them. It was Saint Julian’s, I just couldn’t. They got away, they took their spraygun.”

She’s crying now. This is pathetic, like baby mice, blind and pink and whimpering. It’s not what she does. But she’s doing it.

“Hey,” says Zeb. “It’ll be fine.”

“No,” says Toby. “It won’t be fine.” She turns away to leave: if she’s going to snivel, she should do it alone. Alone is how she feels, alone is how she’ll always be. You’re used to solitude, she tells herself. Be a stoic.

Then she’s enfolded.

She’d waited so long, she’d given up waiting. She’d longed for this, and denied it was possible. But now how easy it is, like coming home must have been once, for those who’d had homes. Walking through the doorway into the familiar, the place that knows you, opens to you, allows you in. Tells you the stories you’ve needed to hear. Stories of the hands as well, and of the mouth.

I’ve missed you
. Who said that?

A shape against the night window, glint of an eye. Dark heartbeat.

Yes. At last. It’s you
.

Bearlift