Ascension Read online

  He looks at me shrugs and grins, indicating that he’ll never understand females. I empathise.

  ‘I’ve got a message for you Odysseus,’ he says. ‘From Kali.’

  ‘Why can’t she send an auto-mail same as everyone else?’ Isis scoffs, holding her nails out in front of her to dry. ‘Why does she have to use you as her little messenger?’

  ‘Because it’s a secret message.’ Mercury places a finger on his lips. ‘Besides she says it is good exercise for me, that I sit too long at my compu.’

  ‘That’s true. You do, you swot.’

  ‘Better than being a bimbo with nothing between the ears like you. Anyway I thought you’d be pleased to see me?’ He dances round her, elbows and knees sticking out at odd angles, trying to make her laugh.

  He succeeds. A huge beam spreads across her moon face. ‘You know you’re always welcome here,’ she says, tipping her face to one side mocking him. ‘As long as you don’t smudge my nail varnish.’

  How well the two of them get on together. When Mercury came to C55, some twelve years ago, he was only four years old. Kali, the snake woman, appropriated him and, to all intents and purposes, has been his mother ever since. Isis arrived two years later when she was eight and Mercury, six. The only children here, they grew up together, almost like brother and sister, although Kali was never a mother to Isis. The poor girl has had to manage without a female role model.

  Physically the two youngsters couldn’t be more different. Mercury has no obvious mutations at all. To look at him in repose, sitting at a compu for example, you could almost believe he’s a complete human being living in the time before The Great Plague. But when he moves and speaks his jerky movements and high-pitched squeaky voice reveal his mutant status. Mercury is skinny and has always been short for his age, whereas Isis is tall and well built. Her mutations are immediately notable, her moon face and extra arm.

  Mercury skips over to me. ‘Kali says to tell you that Ra’s visit has been confirmed for tomorrow. He intends to interview everyone in turn. She has elected to be interviewed first and suggests that you go last. She wants to check you are happy with this arrangement before distributing the list of interview times to other members of the workforce.’

  That is considerate of her. She’s chief administrator and isn’t obliged to consult me. I am pleased with the arrangement. By the time it’s my turn, it will be well into the evening. That gives me plenty of time to prepare.

  ‘Alpha and Omega,’ I say.

  ‘Speak English,’ says Isis.

  ‘Even you must know what that means,’ says Mercury. ‘First and last letters of the Greek alphabet: Alpha and Omega. Kali and Odysseus are first and last on the list to be interviewed – positions that reflect their importance. Don’t you ever read anything but beauty tips?’

  Isis sticks her tongue out at him and giggles. ‘Don’t be cheeky. I’m not a child any more, you know.’

  ‘Oh yes you are.’

  ‘I assure you I’m not. I’m a woman now.’ She looks him straight in the eye. It would be difficult to miss her meaning.

  The colour rushes up Mercury’s cheeks.

  ‘Well,’ I say to break the embarrassment. ‘Everything seems to be in order. Fine. Tell Kali I have no problems with the order of interviews.’

  Isis stands up and shows me her nails. ‘A work of art, would you say, Ody?’ She has taken the daring option, each nail a different colour. Fifteen shades of effervescence. ‘As good as the Grosz?’ she asks.

  So she was listening after all.

  ‘Different. An original Isis,’ I tell her.

  She giggles, slings her red patent bag over her little arm. ‘I’ll go back to the compu-centre with Mercury. Gotta show the girls my latest effort. What do you bet I’ve started a trend? Next week they’ll all be at it.’

  ‘Copies,’ I smile. ‘There’s only one genuine Isis.’

  ‘See you later.’ She waves her multi-coloured claws at me and, forgetting she’s a woman, not a child, races off down the corridor with her little friend Mercury.

  Chapter Two

  Ra,Ra,Ra

  (according to Odysseus)

  From what we’ve heard about him, we imagine Ra making a spectacular entrance, his arrival at Compound 55 a veritable piece of theatre. He will storm into the compu-centre, roaring like King Kong, beating his chest and barking out orders, firing employees with ruthless brutality.

  This is not what happens. Not a bit of it. He’s too clever for that.

  By the time we arrive for work on the appointed day, Ra is already ensconced in Man1, the huge managerial office at the end of the steel-plated cylindrical passage that connects it to the compu-centre. No doubt he’s been teleported in molecules from Compound 99, the headquarters of World-wideculture, in the middle of the night and reassembled there, as in Star Trek, that archaic science-fiction series. I understand teleporting is the usual techno system used for travel between compounds as well as for transporting goods. We have AES to thank for these innovations, or rather the scientists who channel these new sources of power to install such devices.

  A memo is in place on every auto-put. Kali’s work. Ra will interview each member of the workforce in turn to discuss the possibility of continued employment under his leadership. A list of employees and the time of each interview is attached. As anticipated, Kali’s name is first and mine last. Alpha and Omega.

  I spend the morning in the histo-lab planning my strategy. It shouldn’t be difficult to convince Ra of my efficiency. He only has to examine my database and factoid files to ascertain my diligence. What I will have to do is to satisfy him that my research is relevant, indeed crucial, for the healthy future of our cultural lives. I must also make it clear that I, myself, am an indispensable asset to the company, a loyal team player, keen to contribute to the achievements of Worldwideculture.

  In view of what I’ve heard about him, I will endeavour not to be controversial, but accept (nominally at least) his vision of the future, whatever that vision may be, and assure him that I will work alongside him to help achieve his aims.

  Once my position is confirmed and my job secure, if I find I do not approve of the future he proposes, I will not be above indulging in a little sabotage myself. I’m not called cunning Odysseus for nothing.

  At lunchtime I cruise through the compu-centre past row-upon-row of gleaming blue metallic workstations to see for myself what is going on. A few heads turn to admire my progress as I glide around the perimeter of the room and swing smoothly to a stop like a skater on an ice rink. I survey the scene.

  About half the workstations are deserted, telling their own story of jobs lost, careers ruined, possibly lives over. Those still waiting to be called for interview try to look unconcerned, but restless hand movements give them away. Extra nervous colleagues pace up and down, bodies skewed at all angles, arms and legs awry, bumping into desks or into each other. All of them keep tapping their ear-clips to check that their inter-fones are working, just in case Ra changes the order of the interviews. It wouldn’t do to miss the summons. Those who’ve already had their sessions with Ra and passed whatever test he set them, sit at their shiny blue workstations, heads down, focused on their work.

  I’m pleased to note that Kali is still with us. Her organisational skills are indispensable to our sectoid. She runs this place with firm efficiency. She raises her huge blue-black head and looks steadily at me. The fierce-looking snakes at her neck and wrists open and close their mouths and shoot out thin, triumphant tongues. Kali uses her pets to keep the workforce compliant, but the truth is they posture more than attack. How perceptive of Ra to keep her on. A good decision.

  My eye scans the other successful colleagues, most of them diligent researchers. Not surprisingly Mercury has passed the test. He looks up as I pass, gives a little wave and immerses himself in his work again.

  Heracles has survived too. My feelings about his survival are ambivalent. On the one hand it would be a reflection on me
as his mentor if Ra had fired him; on the other, I can’t help wondering what Heracles has told Ra about me. Has he told him that he considers me “past my sell-by date” and that I should be put out to grass like an old warhorse to make room for a younger humanoid? I can’t be sure.

  Heracles gives me a nod as I pass, but I have no way of knowing what that nod implies, apart from the fact that his job is safe. It’s very quiet in the compu-centre. Only the hum of the auto-puts and the occasional thump or thud as the pacers misjudge the space and bump into a wall or workstation. There seems to be a consensus that it is not politic to discuss what has taken place during the private sessions with Ra. Maybe my colleagues are afraid that their comments could be heard over the intercom-net or seen on the surveillance cameras, afraid that Ra will swing open the door of Man1 and thunder along the cylindrical corridor like a giant troll, to inform them that Compound 55 is not a viable unit, that it is to be shut down. The atmosphere of fear that has built up over the past few weeks continues to prevail. There is no chit-chat, no caffeine breaks, no feedback about the new boss’s appearance or behaviour, no tips to the next in line on how to handle the interviews, no farewells to those less fortunate colleagues obliged to make a hasty exit.

  A sudden scream. A dishevelled young woman appears through the heavy grey door of Man1. She scuttles along the corridor, helter-skelter, her three legs and multiple arms crashing against the metallic curved walls. All four of her eyes are wide open and tears stream down the cheeks of both her faces. No one looks up as she twists and turns and rushes out of the main door – the door that’s normally kept locked but today opens at a single push. I hesitate. I could follow her and attempt to console her, but decide against it. What would be the point? I have no power to reinstate her and she’s not worth risking my reputation over. Or my health, exposed as it would be to the atmosphere outside. Ra has recognised that she’s an ineffectual worker and acted accordingly. I feel sorry for her, but my confidence in Ra’s acuity increases.

  Isis receives the call, takes her time, picks up her bag and strolls to Man1, swinging the bag as if she hasn’t a care in the world. She doesn’t look at me. I tried to prepare her for the interview, told her to take deep breaths before going in, to keep calm and to answer the questions as honestly as she can, but I’m not sure she was listening. She’s in there a long time. A good or bad sign? I trust that Ra will not be misled by her glib comments and consider her shallow. I can’t bear the thought that he might let her go.

  After about twenty minutes she emerges, runs helter-skelter down the metal cylinder swinging her red bag on the short arm across her body. She rolls her eyes until only the whites remain, pushes her way past the other mutants in the compu-centre and barges through the main door. Ra must have fired her. I can’t believe it. I rush after her, slipping and sliding, no longer caring what others think about me, or about my health. Outside, the wasteland stretches before me: dry earth, a few shrubs and a couple of leafless trees against a bleak, grey sky. No sign of Isis. She’s disappeared. I call her name. No reply. I shiver with cold and fear. I stumble back inside and make my way to the histo-lab.

  It must be a mistake, a cruel joke. Isis must have careered out of one door and in another.

  She will bounce in any minute now, grin at me, roll her eyes upwards in her moon face and say, ‘What’s up, Ody? You don’t think you can get rid of me as easily as that, do you?’

  I sit at my workstation, head in hands, eyes closed, and think about Isis. It’s ten years since she was transferred to this compound. Ten years. Apparently her mother died and it was thought better to let Isis start life afresh elsewhere. I have no idea why. Maybe no one from her previous sectoid offered to look after her. I don’t know why she was sent to this particular compound, C55. She certainly received a cold welcome here. She arrived looking lost, a somewhat sullen, over-sized girl of eight, not what you’d call a personable child. She rejected any overtures of friendliness, refused to utter a word at first, just kept raising her eyebrows and rolling her eyes. When finally she did open her mouth, she made curt, derogatory remarks. I have to admit that all too often she was downright rude. I suppose she was grieving, missing her mother. No one seemed inclined to take responsibility for her so finally I agreed take her on, intending to educate her and pass on to her my love of things past. I haven’t always succeeded in my objectives but I’ve never given up.

  What I have never done is attempt to persuade her to talk about her mother or her life in the other compound. That may have been a mistake, but I’ve no experience of dealing with children, especially young females, and thought it best for her to get on with her new life without dwelling on past traumas.

  As she became used to me, she began to chatter away about all kinds of things, but not her past.

  I like to think that, as time has passed, Isis and I have grown comfortable in each other’s company. The thought that she is out there in the wilderness alone, that she could die, is an anathema. An unbearable thought. There is a lump in my throat that refuses to go away.

  It was different with Mercury. He became the darling of Compound 55 as soon as he arrived. All the female mutants adored him and spoilt him, but he wouldn’t allow any of them to touch him, apart from Kali. Most mutants nowadays are infertile so I suppose this little humanoid provided an outlet for surplus maternal feelings, but he screamed when anyone other than Kali tried to lift him up and cuddle him. Sad really. I’ve often wondered about his past and what had happened to make him so suspicious of females. Although only two years older than him, Isis, big, strong, awkward Isis, tried to pet him too but he was having none of that. Instead, as the only two children in the compound, they became companions. I wouldn’t say they played together. No one taught them to play, but they looked up things on the compus together – that sort of thing. And they giggled, bounced on the shapers in the Relaxation Room and chased each other round the furniture. Kali didn’t allow such behaviour in the compu-centre but turned a blind eye in the RR. We adults were amused by their antics, treated them indulgently and smiled to see them happy. We knew that being trapped in a compound would give them little scope for pleasure as they grew up and were pleased to see them enjoying life as children while they had the chance.

  As they have grown older the relationship between the two young humanoids has changed. Mercury has become more serious, devoted to his compu, intent on learning as much as he can. He continually surprises me with how much he knows. His compu is his teacher and sometimes I think he has assimilated every piece of data it can offer him. When the compu fails him he is not too proud to come and ask me a question and I’m delighted to enlighten him – if I am able to do so.

  Isis is less academic. Actually I have to face it, she’s not academic at all, but that doesn’t mean she’s not intelligent. She’s more concerned with what I suppose are female things, fashion and domestic matters. I encourage her to find out how human beings dressed in different historical periods but sitting at the compu doing research bores her.

  She prefers practical pursuits. She likes to adorn her dormo-cube with cushions and tapestries that she’s made herself or to convert swathes of material into attractive covers for her bunku. I often marvel at what she can make out of odd pieces of material, or metal, or glass: a piece of jewellery, a decorative box or a rag doll.

  Isis and Mercury tease each other a lot when they are together but it is good-natured ribbing. The bond between them is still there, as strong as ever. If Isis doesn’t come back, Mercury will miss her too.

  The afternoon drags on. Isis doesn’t return. I pray that she’s been rescued and transported to another compound, even if that means I’ll never see her again. At least she’ll be safe. Alive.

  It’s way into the evening before I am summoned.

  I slide smoothly into Man1. Ra is behind the desk, not a giant but squat short. His huge trunk of a neck seems to grow straight out of the desktop. As rumoured he is three-headed, a rare phenomenon, even for
a mutant. The huge central head, rooted on the massive neck, like the bust of an ancient warrior on a marble plinth – Achilles perhaps – is square, the face broad with one unblinking eye in the centre of the forehead. No welcome there. This central head must be the decision-maker. The other two heads look up expectantly at it.

  Ra nods at the chair opposite him. A skater on ice, I coast across the floor and slip neatly into the seat. His one eye stares at my one eye. We hold the gaze, summing each other up. I note that his eye is larger than mine, darker, deeper. His black pupil slips to the right as he addresses one of his subsidiary heads. When he speaks his voice is deep, rich, full of authority.

  ‘Ra Two, give me your assessment of Odysseus.’

  Ra Two’s voice is not as deep as Ra One’s but it is measured and calm. ‘Odysseus is a diligent employee, thorough and meticulous in all he does. He is passionate about his work and the artefacts in his possession.’

  I allow myself a satisfied smile. I couldn’t have written this appraisal of my strengths better myself.

  Ra’s pupil slips to the left, requesting the opinion of the third head.

  ‘Passionate, you think?’ says Ra Three. ‘I would say fanatical.’

  I am shaken, not just by what is said, but also by the high-pitched, strident voice. Looking more closely, I see that the features and hair of this head are definitely female. Hermaphrodites are not unknown among mutants, but rare, very rare. I find myself intrigued, wanting to catch sight of the rest of the body or bodies hidden behind the desk – in the cause of research, naturally.

  ‘Not fanatical,’ says Ra Two. ‘Odysseus treasures the artefacts he collects, records and archives.’

  ‘Fanatical,’ insists Ra Three, ‘and secretive. He allows no one else to see the collection apart from him. Only he watches the movies, only he reads the books, only he listens to the music.’