Ascension Read online

  OASIS SERIES

  Book One: Ascension

  Jeannie van Rompaey

  The universe is transformation;

  our life is what our thoughts make it.

  Marcus Aurelius Antonius(121–180).

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One Artefacts and painted nails

  Chapter Two Ra,Ra,Ra

  Chapter Three Sister-wife

  Chapter Four Dilemma

  Chapter Five Satiated

  Chapter Six Mutiny

  Chapter Seven Mr. Suit

  Chapter Eight Mercury Rising

  Chapter Nine Golden warriors and the Olds

  Chapter Ten A prayer for Osiris

  Chapter Eleven Mercury Reformed

  Chapter Twelve Torture

  Chapter Thirteen Heracles Unlimited

  Chapter Fourteen Oasis Downloaded

  Chapter Fifteen Stella revealed

  Chapter Sixteen Revelation

  Chapter Seventeen Dreams and Schemes

  Chapter Eighteen Games People Play

  Chapter Nineteen Museum Pieces

  Chapter Twenty Murder and Mayhem

  Chapter Twenty-one Insurgence

  Chapter Twenty-two Power Games

  Chapter Twenty-three Brave New World

  Chapter Twenty-four Elizabeth and Darcy

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Jeannie van Rompaey

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Artefacts and painted nails

  (according to Odysseus)

  Isis bursts into the histo-lab, her three arms thrashing about like a crazed puppet on a string. ‘He’s at it again! Sacked half the workforce of Compound 33 today. Our turn next, for sure.’

  I look up from the research I’m doing on art forms as political satire from Honoré Daumier to George Grosz. I must try to calm down my young assistant. She’s just returned from the compu-centre where rumour is rife and panic spreads like the plague.

  ‘And guess what?’ she wails. ‘His name is Ra. How pretentious is that?’

  I put my docus on one side with an inward sigh. ‘In point of fact, it’s an appropriate name for the new CEO of World-wideculture. The God Ra is traditionally identified with the mid-day sun, the generator of light, growth and creativity.’

  Isis pulls a face. ‘Thinks he’s God all right, but if you ask me he’s keener on destroying than creating.’

  ‘We mustn’t judge him too quickly, Isis. Time will tell.’

  ‘We may not have much time. The compounds he’s already visited reckon he’s a monster, a devil, a mutant.’

  ‘The last comment is redundant,’ I remind her. ‘We’re all mutants.’

  She rolls her pupils upward until the whites of her eyes illuminate her moonface. ‘Whatever,’ she says, and trips her way over to the caffeine dispenser. That’s the tenth tab she’s taken this morning. Since we’ve had our own dispenser in the histo-lab it’s all too easy for her to help herself. No wonder she’s so hyped up.

  ‘We may consider ourselves normal,’ I explain for the umpteenth time, ‘but none of us are.’

  I flick through some old photographs on my compu to remind Isis of the way humanoids used to look. Not that they all looked the same, but the distinctions between them were subtle. Everyone had one head, two eyes, a nose and a mouth, two legs and two arms, a measure of normality that we can never be sure of nowadays. Not that many humanoids – mutant or otherwise – have been born for years. As far as I know.

  I consider myself fortunate to have been born with only one head and tell Isis she should be grateful to have been similarly blessed. The poor girl has three arms, two of the usual length and one half-size that flaps about in front of her body; but an extra arm is a better option than an extra head. The two-headed people of my acquaintance find it difficult to arrive at the most simple of decisions. I believe that I owe my responsible position within Worldwideculture to the fact that I’m a one-headed person. I may only have one eye but it is a large one in the centre of my forehead and I am therefore clear-sighted, able to make decisions easily without the distraction of an alternate self. I try to explain this to Isis.

  ‘Get over yourself, Ody,’ she says, popping another tab. She’s taken to calling me Ody lately, a nickname I take to be short for my name, Odysseus, but yesterday she called me Odious by mistake. A slip of the tongue.

  Or is it? She likes to tease.

  Because of my position as chief chronicler, I’m privileged to see authentic images not accessible to others. I slot a DVD into my compu. DVDs are obsolete, of course, but as my department is the histo-lab, I possess one of the rare compus fitted with a player. It gives me a good feeling to play a filmogram in its original format. This particular one, Gosforth Park, was made over two hundred years ago in 2001, a period piece even then. The actors walk in a more co-ordinated manner than our somewhat lumbering method of ambulation and they make gestures virtually impossible for us to emulate. Their speech, for the most part, is pleasant to listen to, a far cry from the habitual jerkiness, high-pitched squeaks or hoarse croaks typical of our attempts at personal communication.

  Isis is only half-watching. After a few minutes, she leans over and ejects the disc. ‘Got the picture, Ody. Trouble is, all these humanoids are dead. Dead boring.’ She giggles at what she considers her wit. The fingers on her short arm brush my shoulder. ‘I know you love these antiques, Ody, but not everyone’s as sold on the past as you are.’

  I can’t really expect Isis to understand; a girl who has never had the chance to go to a museum, an art gallery or an exhibition of any kind. Not that I’ve been to such places either but my academic studies have helped me envisage them.

  ‘The culture of the past provides us with a perspective that enriches our current lives,’ I inform her.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she yawns.

  She seems to have recovered from her tirade about the new CEO, intent now on setting out a row of miniature bottles containing liquid gel in various colours. She reads the labels out loud to amuse me: grungy green, bubonic blue, rampant red, putrid purple, pandemic pink. Her creative task for today is the beautification of her nails. ‘Now Ody, what do you think? A different colour for each hand or for each nail?’

  She doesn’t really want my opinion but I find myself smiling, indulging her caprice as she sometimes indulges mine. I’ve grown fond of this moonfaced girl and I like to think she has some affection for me. She’s the nearest thing to the daughter I never had and I’ve not given up hope that, in spite of her youthful cynicism, some of my passion for the treasures of the past will rub off on to her. But perhaps not today.

  Just as she begins to apply gel to the first nail, the door swings open and in storms Heracles.

  ‘How dare you?’ he bellows in that hoarse voice of his. His third leg, slightly out of kilter, grazes the wall. ‘How dare you question my research?’

  Isis doesn’t look up. She’s used to this brash young man and ignores him. Quite right. In any case, it’s not Isis he is addressing but myself.

  ‘It’s my job as your mentor,’ I explain, ‘to check your work. Finding several errors, I felt obliged to point them out.’

  ‘You pompous prick! You – you know-it-all,’ he splutters, arms and legs flailing around like Don Quixote’s windmills. ‘I am the best researcher here. I should be in charge of this histo-lab, not you.’ He holds the edge of my workstation to steady his clumsy limbs and sticks his huge square face close to mine. ‘You’re past your sell-by-date, old mutant.’

  I’m a bit shocked by this outburst but have no intention of becoming embroiled in a shouting match with him. Diplomacy is called for.

&nb
sp; Isis looks up for a moment and raises her “bubonic-blue” eyebrows – the result of last week’s beauty project. ‘Get over yourself, Heracles,’ she says. ‘The job’s not yours yet. Never will be with a temper like that. Show a bit of respect for our mentor.’

  I don’t need Isis to defend me but I’m grateful for this show of loyalty. I try to express my thanks by catching her eye, but she’s focused on her nails, the hand on the short arm splayed out flat on her workstation, as she applies the gel with long smooth strokes.

  ‘Odysseus doesn’t realise how lucky he is to have me in the department,’ Heracles grumbles. ‘Kali says my IQ is the highest in the compound.’

  Not higher than mine, I think, otherwise why do I find errors in his work?

  ‘If Kali says that, it must be true,’ Isis snaps. Her sarcasm cuts through the air like the swish of a sword. I’ve never heard her voice so harsh. ‘Kali, the dark witch. Just because she’s got one more arm than me, and some lethal pets, you think she’s something special. You should watch out.’ Isis extends her little arm, circles an index finger tipped with its glutinous layer of rampant-red and jabs it at Heracles.

  He flinches. A pink flush spreads from his neck to his cheeks, past his three eyes to his broad forehead.

  Time for me to speak. ‘Your work, generally speaking, is impeccable, Heracles, but when you do make an error – however high your IQ – it is my duty as your mentor to draw your attention to it so that it can be rectified.’

  Heracles starts to protest but I pre-empt his objections. ‘Now, let’s put that little matter behind us and move on. There’s something I’d like to show you. A painting that I believe to be authentic, but I’d value your opinion.’

  I stand up and glide round my desk. I do not judder as I move. Or only rarely. I am one of the few mutant humanoids able to move about smoothly. I really do glide. It has taken years of practice to perfect this movement, but well worth the time and effort if only to see the looks of wonder on the faces of my colleagues. As I slide over to the art-cab, I note with satisfaction that Heracles can’t take his eyes off me.

  I pull out a canvas from one of the drawers and hold it up to the neo-lite. ‘A genuine Grosz, I believe?’ I know I’m right but it’s politic to ask for his confirmation.

  ‘The Wanderer, 1943,’ Heracles says. ‘The solitary figure is of course George Grosz himself romanticised as an old tramp. Just look at the depth of colour and the clear definition of those tortuous grasses. No way could a compu-graph do justice to these effects.’

  Heracles, his tantrum forgotten, almost sings with joy. ‘It’s genuine all right. Wow. It’s totally fab.’

  ‘What’s fab about it?’ says Isis. ‘An old man wandering in the wilderness with mud on his boots, painted by someone called Grosz? That says it all. It’s totally gross.’

  ‘Give us a break, Isis. Do try not to be such a silly bitch.’ With this parting shot Heracles strides out of the histo-lab and slams the door.

  Isis gives a self-satisfied smile, pleased with the effect of her jibe. As for me, the longer I live the less I understand young folk. Why did Heracles leave so brusquely? And why is Isis so keen on riling him?

  The fervour Heracles demonstrates for the painting goes some way to restoring my confidence in him, confidence that led me to employ him initially; but he hasn’t apologised for losing his temper, nor for his insolence in suggesting it was time for me to retire. Neither has he agreed to correct the errors in his research. His high opinion of himself and his propensity to flare up whenever he feels undervalued make me doubt that he would be a good choice as my successor.

  To my surprise, when I venture to express some of my concerns about Heracles to Isis, she defends him. ‘You’ve got to remember, Ody, he’s young, out to impress, wants us to believe he’s Zeus’s gift to the humanoid race. All young males are like that.’

  Are they? I don’t know, but apparently Isis does. I frown, not caring to dwell on the images that flit through my mind of Isis with a series of young male mutant humanoids out to impress her.

  I look again at the painting by Grosz. He felt sorry for himself when his exile in the United States failed to bring him the acclaim he’d hoped for. His political satire lost its bite and he did not make the grade as a serious painter. Heracles is right. The old man in the wilderness is certainly Grosz himself.

  I imagine myself outside these windowless walls abandoned in a similar landscape, the barren wasteland that Earth has become. I shiver.

  Our planet is dead, or so we are told. No birds, no animals, no plants remain; buildings have crumbled into ruin. Only we mutant humanoids survive – our pitiful, distorted bodies the result of contamination from The Great Plague of the twenty-first century.

  Unlike Grosz, I don’t venture outside. None of us do. We are confined to these dome-like compounds, locked in for our own good we are told, so as not to breathe the polluted air. Each compound is a safe environment away from the contaminated area outside – a sort of oasis in the middle of a desert. It’s unlike any oasis I’ve seen on a compu screen – no palm trees here – but it does provide us with some kind of sanctuary, some kind of life. Thanks to our scientists, we do have AES, Alternative Energy Sources, neo-electronic power and therefore neo-lites and neo-compus, which make our lives, if not enjoyable, at least bearable. We have scientists to thank for that.

  As chief chronicler I’ve written many times about the reasons our planet died, but still can’t pinpoint how exactly we came to this pass. I just can’t make sense of it. Whether I try to compress the cause into one word or to indulge in long explanations, nothing seems to suffice. In the past a lot was talked and written about blame. Now the subject is rarely mentioned and much of the necessary data to research these causes seems to be missing from our compus. Censorship? If so, by whom? Worldwideculture itself, I assume. What else is there? Who else is there?

  Blame. Who is to blame? We are. The human race. How did it happen? One word, I said. All right. Here it is: carelessness. We used up our world’s resources and allowed our carbon footprint to destroy our world. Here’s another word: greed. And its companion, power. And another: selfishness. And another: recklessness. And another: war.

  Some say God ended what he began. A punishment for the misuse of the talents He gave us. You really can’t blame Him if he did. We have behaved quite appallingly. But how can we put the onus on Him? Who believes in God any more?

  Whoever or whatever the perpetrator, God or man, it is indisputable that the carelessness, the greed, the recklessness and the wars led to The Great Plague and thus to the death of our planet. And to our mutations.

  I sigh. Does it matter who or what is to blame? Yes, I think it does. We must learn from the past to stop it happening again. I know that’s what they said after the Nazi holocaust; yet more dictators and more atrocities followed. But I’m a historian and, oddly enough, an optimist. I do think it’s worth looking back and reviewing our mistakes in the hope that we can do better. But enough for now.

  I stare at the painting. It’s melodramatic. Grosz is wallowing in despair. He feels sorry for himself. I am not like him.

  What keeps me going is my joy in collecting artefacts from the past. Culture is the key to our continued survival. I’m convinced of that. I slide over to the art-cab and put the painting away in its drawer. I don’t want to look at it any more. I don’t want to be affected by the artist’s obvious depression.

  We are what we are. We live from day to day. We do the best we can, make the most of our skills and talents and endeavour to reach the monthly targets set by Worldwide-culture. On a good day I believe my work is worthwhile, recording the past, preparing for a better future.

  But for longer than I care to admit, very few paintings or other antique artefacts have come my way. I no longer receive packoids of treasures to open. Or very rarely. The Wanderer arrived this morning. Before that nothing for weeks on end, a sign that someone, somewhere, is determined to sabotage our heritage, to
steal or, worse, destroy the little evidence still in existence. It occurs to me that Ra could be one of these saboteurs. I think of his reputation, of his cold-hearted dismissal of staff. It is said that he turns the sacked members of the workforce out into the wilderness. What happens to them there? Are they left outside to die or are they transferred to another compound and given more appropriate employment? We don’t know and the not knowing is terrifying. For us the wilderness is a threat, the fear of the unknown.

  Suppose Isis is right and Ra is not a creator but a destructor, his name a cruel irony. I shudder at the very idea.

  Isis notices my concern. She doesn’t miss a trick. ‘What’s up, Ody? You can’t be worried about Ra’s visit. Your job’s safe. You’re totally dedicated to your work. Everyone knows that.’

  It’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to me, but if Ra is indeed a destructor who does not believe in preserving our heritage, my dedication won’t count for much.

  I start to retrieve a few of my favourite artefacts to hide them in my dormo-cube for safety. An old player with a collection of CDs, symphonies by Mozart and Beethoven, Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, albums of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, DVDs of Fawlty Towers and David Attenborough’s nature documentaries plus an early Picasso and a Royal Doulton plate. An eclectic mix.

  These objects do not belong to me. I know that, but I must save them for posterity, just in case my suspicions about Ra are justified.

  Isis frowns. ‘What if he finds out you’ve got them? Then you’ll be for it.’

  She doesn’t really believe that. She can’t imagine why any of these things are worth saving.

  A sudden whoosh and in dashes young Mercury. I’m pleased to see him. I was beginning to feel a bit maudlin and he always cheers me up. He bounds over to Isis, puts an open palm high above his head, inviting her to do the same, to slap their hands together – their usual greeting. High fives I think they call it.

  But she cries out, ‘Watch it, Merc. Can’t you see I’m doing my nails?’