This Other Eden (9 page)

Jurgen
was huge. It was as if when the Almighty was making him He (or She) had always
intended to make two, perhaps even three, environmental activists, but had
decided to save time by making one big one. Muscles coiled like serpents about
his colossal frame. His chest was a giant’s chest, the nipples were in different
time zones: this was a chest that exerted its own gravitational pull.

Legends
of Jurgen’s strength and physical powers rang around the world. Stories
abounded of his days with the Mother Earth Direct Action Group, before he had
renounced terrorism. It was said that he had once plugged a shallow water toxic
outfall with his own body, withstanding the immense pressure for many desperate
hours whilst a team of activists had made good the sabotage with steel and
cement. People whispered in awe about how the great man had once personally
dragged a stranded pilot whale from a polluted beach and swum it out to sea.
His body was pockmarked with scars from numerous bullet wounds he had received
during attacks on Claustrosphere factories in the early years. It was said
that, on the occasional times when his vast consumption of chilled peach
schnapps got the better of him, Jurgen’s party trick was to crack walnuts with
his foreskin.

Concerned
constituents.

‘Mr Thor, what can you
tell us about the activities of the terrorist group Mother Earth?’ Colin
Carper, the MEP for Essex, England and a paid Claustrosphere lobbyist inquired.

‘As I
have said many times, although I support their intentions, I do not support
their methods,’ Jurgen answered.

‘But
surely you were yourself once a terrorist, Mr Thor?’

‘I do
not accept the term terrorist, sir. Yes, I have committed acts against local
laws, you know? In pursuit of a wider justice, yes? However, in my capacity as
principal spokesperson for Natura, I, of course, acknowledge that it is not
acceptable to take the law into one’s own hands.’

‘Oh,
come now, Mr Thor. Enough of this pious bunkum,’ Carper sneered.

‘Bunk
up? What is this bunk up, please?’ Jurgen replied.

‘Bunkum,
Mr Thor! Bunkum! It is common knowledge that you are still a Mother Earth
activist and that Mother Earth itself is nothing less than the armed wing of
Natura.’

‘Sir!
If the European parliament is to be reduced to a forum for the perpetration of
gossip, suspicion and innuendo, OK? Then let me say that you, matey boy, are
internationally recognised as a place man and paid lackey of the Claustrophere
conglomerate . .

The
odious Carper reddened visibly at this outrageous slur.

‘If I
seek to make the case for Claustrosphere, Mr Thor, that is because ninety per
cent of my constituents own them, and the others are protected by municipal
arrangements! —‘

‘The
majority of your constituents also have vermin and rat infestations. Do you see
it as your duty to endlessly represent those interests too?’

People
occasionally noted, with some surprise, that Jurgen Thor’s English could be as
articulate and perfectly formed as the King’s, when he wanted. Those in the
know knew that he put the Norwegian inflections and stumbling, half
-Americanised word formations into his speech for effect. He felt that it gave
him a vulnerable air, which was useful in debate and also made women want to
sleep with him. This latter was a goal that Jurgen Thor was rumoured to
treasure even more highly than an eco-friendly world.

‘Mr
Thor, who is funding Mother Earth?’ Carper demanded.

‘What
has this question to do with me, Mr Carper?’

‘Oh,
for God’s sake, Mr Thor, your attitude insults this house! The Mother Earth
direct action group has colossal resources. Its activities become ever grander
and more daring. It has an air arm, a small navy; it has been able to operate
effectively in space, destroying countless commercial launches. Anti-satellite
ballistics cost billions of dollars, Mr Thor. Who the hell is providing that
sort of cash! I say that it is you, Mr Thor! I contend that it is the saintly
Natura party which funds this murderous terrorism!’

‘Natura,
Mr Carper?’ Jurgen laughed. ‘We are a political party, not Fort Knox
Incorporated, OK, yes, you foolish dude. We exist by private donations and
membership fees. We have less money worldwide than either of the two main
parties hold in the US alone.

Colin
Carper’s exasperation was getting the better of him.

‘Claustrosphere
factories have been attacked countless times, Mr Thor! Causing billions of
dollars in lost revenue! My constituents have a right to know who is funding
these outrages.

It is a
particularly gruesome characteristic of parliamentarians worldwide that, in
order to legitimise their own prejudices and self-interest, they place them in
the mouth of some shadowy collective constituent. Thus they lobby the cause of
those who pay them in the guise of voicing the fears of those who vote for
them. Jurgen was in fact about to point this out, but at that moment an
enormous bomb went off.

European
disunity.

The marble cracked and the
chandeliers shattered. The blast was truly terrible. Repulsive sculptures and
meaningless murals were found hundreds of metres away. Metal shapes representing
the Euro ideals of peace, diversity and a strong currency were still landing in
the suburbs of Brussels minutes after the initial explosion. A vast silk
collage entitled ‘Vive La Différence’, which had been commissioned to represent
the twin Euro goals of cultural diversity and keeping out penniless refugees
from the East, could be seen flapping in the wind, skewered on the spire of the
secular chapel. Great blobby sculptures, which looked like huge, fat,
multi-cheeked bottoms, but were in fact symbolic of the smaller European
states, were sent rolling across the Euro Piazza and off down the busy shopping
streets of the capital. All was chaos and confusion, a nightmare of smashed
modern art mixed up with dead and dying delegates.

There
were dismembered corpses everywhere. It was a harsh irony that only in death
could those earnest European representatives find the unity of body and soul
that had eluded them in life. The arms of staunch Flemish fundamentalists were
to be found embracing the torsos of die-hard Norman separatists. The brains of
Sicilian secessionists could be seen spread across the faces of Ulster
unionists. Bits of socialists from Schleswig embedded themselves in bits of
their sworn enemy, the socialists of Holstein. Christians were plastered over
Muslims. Communists blended with Fascists. Jews, or at least parts of them,
mingled freely and unchallenged throughout the chamber. For one shining moment,
all creeds and nationalities - both real and dreamt of — became one nation.
Croats, Serbs, Basques, Cornish separatists, Slovak nationalists, all puréed together
in one grand multi-limbed, multi-brained, amorphous delegate. In the short
period after the dust settled and before the finger pointing began, Europe was,
in a strange way, and for the first time, unified.

When
the finger pointing did begin, the directions in which it pointed were as many
and varied as the special interest groups that were doing the pointing.
Everyone was convinced that the dreadful carnage had been caused by the secret
agents of those whom they most despised. But as it happened, the bomb was not
in fact planted by a secret agent at all. It was planted by an advertising
agent. The bomb was a marketing ploy.

Chapter
Eight

Dangerous investigations,

a broken heart and

a terrorist attack

Getting
your head round the news.

Plastic could almost feel
the great black glutinous movement of the sea as it beat against the ruined
shore. He had forsaken conventional screen-fed communication for Virtual
Reality television. From inside the helmet he was able to accompany the news
teams as the full horrors were revealed. It was not a type of broadcasting that
appealed to everybody. The three-dimensional images which surrounded the viewer
tended to induce a certain degree of motion sickness. However, it suited
Plastic’s purposes. He wanted to get a feel of the disaster.

The
rupture was complete; the oil was out. The booms were already being breached,
the detergents washed about pathetically on top of the impenetrable slick.
There could not have been a worse mess if it had been created by a giant
two-year-old with bad hand and eye co-ordination, instead of responsible
adults. Adults with awesome technical skills and a wealth of bitter experience
to guide them.

They
just don’t learn, do they? thought Plastic, as he watched the last two people
being winched off the fast disintegrating tanker.

On the
horizon he could see the Natura ship approaching at speed.

‘Wow,
those Natura protest people got on the case fast,’ the news reporter said, and
inside the VR helmet it seemed as if he was addressing Plastic personally.

‘They
sure did,’ Plastic murmured in reply, ruefully comparing their performance
with that of his own sales team, who had let a donut ad get between them and
their target.

Further
investigation.

Judy Schwartz was also
marvelling at the rapid appearance of a Natura protest vehicle.

‘How
the hell did those guys get here so quick?’ he remarked to Jackson as they
swung together on the line hanging from the coastguard helicopter.

‘They’ve
been trailing us for days,’ Jackson replied.

‘Interesting,
isn’t it?’

‘What?’
snapped Jackson. She was getting a bit tired of Judy being interested in
everything.

‘That
they’ve been trailing you. There are literally thousands of supertankers at sea
at the moment, and Natura just happen to be hanging around the one that goes
down.’

‘Tankers
sink all the time,’ Jackson replied. ‘There’s so much oil in the Atlantic, you
could use it to make french fries.’

At that
point, further conversation was cut short because they had to clamber into the
helicopter and be disconnected from the wire that had winched them up.

‘Well,
Agent Schwartz,’ the pilot said sarcastically, ‘if you’ve seen everything you
wanted to see, perhaps we might go home now.’

Judy
did not answer. He was watching the Natura ship through the open door of the
helicopter. He turned back to Jackson.

‘How
well did you know your crew?’ he asked.

‘Not
well. It was a short trip. Why?’ Jackson replied.

‘So
they were all new to you?’

‘Not
all, there were some faces from previous trips. What are you getting at? You
think one of us deliberately ran the ship aground?’

Judy
looked around the interior of the helicopter, and wished

Jackson
would keep her voice down. There were some very tough types lining the walls of
the craft, and he didn’t want them to think he was accusing them of being
saboteurs.

‘Give
me a break, will you?’ he said. ‘I have to write something down in my report,
don’t I? Who recruits the crew?’

‘The
oil company, of course.’

‘Not
the captain?’

‘Well,
obviously not. He doesn’t pay the wages, does he? If the captain isn’t happy
with a sailor then he can ask the company to change him. That’s all.’

‘And
the captain was happy? I mean, apart from killing himself, obviously.’

‘It was
a good ship and a good crew, OK?’ Jackson was getting angry.

‘Until
you ran aground.’

‘OK,
mister, that’s it. I don’t know what you’re getting at and I don’t care. Maybe
you think we sank our own ship, I don’t know, but I’m fed up with your
questions and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up. Because you’re
looking at one lady who’s getting ready to throw you out of this helicopter and
there’re twenty-five witnesses here who’ll swear an oath you tripped.’

Dressed
to kill.

Meanwhile, Nathan was
still negotiating with the private cops at the gates of the Beverly Hills
Fortified Village.

‘So
you’re meeting with Plastic Tolstoy, huh?’ they said, not really wanting to
believe it. ‘OK, writer, let’s just check this one out.’

They
strutted back to their little hut, positively sparking in their gleaming black
BioTech flak suits. Their shiny boots crunched on the ground in a tough
aggressive manner. Not for the first time, Nathan reflected on the dubious
value of allowing  policemen to dress up like Nazis.