Ascension Page 3

  Ra One looks straight ahead, testing my reaction.

  Am I to speak now? I wait.

  Ra Two speaks on my behalf once more. ‘Odysseus is the guardian of the histo-lab, not a librarian who issues library tickets. He is storing them for posterity, for future generations.’

  ‘A waste of space to store obsolete items. No one has the machines to play these DVDs, CDs or videos anymore. Apart from this one humanoid. Anyway, who else would want to play them? All the music, filmograms and paintings can be reproduced electronically on the auto-puts, the sound and picture quality of the originals enhanced.’

  ‘Not enhanced. Distorted. Odysseus believes the originals should be kept intact for the instruction and enjoyment of future generations.’

  ‘He keeps them for his own pleasure. He has a stash of antiques in his private dormo-cube. He wallows in nostalgia. It’s not healthy. He should look to the future. Not the past.’

  ‘He believes if we study the past and learn to appreciate it, we will have a firm base on which to build the future.’

  ‘We have all the history, all the art we need on the auto-puts. There is no need for originals.’

  Just as I think I will explode with frustration, I realise what is happening. Ra Two and Three are playing good cop, bad cop, as in the old movies, intent on provoking a reaction. I sit back and fold my arms. It’s too ridiculous. This is Worldwideculture. How can such a company support the idea that museum pieces are defunct, that original artefacts of all kinds have no place in our culture? It doesn’t make sense. They are playing a game and I have no intention of participating.

  Ra One stares at me, dares me to speak. I remain silent. I won’t lower myself to answer these accusations. Ra is considering both sides of the argument. Whatever he decides is good enough for me. My compliance should ensure my future employment. That is my only objective. At the moment.

  Ra One hedges his bets. He informs me that my position is safe – for the time being. He needs to inspect the artefacts I have collected before coming to a definite conclusion. If I have enough items of quality, he may see his way to funding a museum to house them.

  A museum. That is a vision beyond my wildest dreams. I move from frustration to elation in one moment. Where would it be built? Underground perhaps with tunnels to other compounds. I note Ra trying to assess my response.

  We gaze at each other, eye to eye, and a pact is made: a museum in exchange for my unconditional acquiescence.

  ‘Have you any questions you’d like to ask me?’ Ra asks.

  ‘Just one. Can you see a way to allow me to keep my assistant, Isis?’

  Ra raises his eyebrow and looks down at Ra Three. ‘Isis?’

  ‘The moonfaced female,’ she replies. ‘You let her go. She showed little interest in history or the company. She was rude to you, called you a ….’

  ‘Yes, all right, no need to remind me.’ Ra One glares at me. ‘Why do you want to retain her?’

  ‘She’s a good sounding board. She presents me with the viewpoint of the youth of today. Young humanoids like her are the future. She stops me from taking myself too seriously and becoming too set in my ways. I am her mentor, but she has things to teach me too.’

  Ra’s huge face twists into his version of a smile. ‘Good answer,’ he says. ‘Done. She’s yours.’

  The female head purses her lips, not pleased with the decision, but Ra turns to his auto-put, highlights a couple of commands and touch-initiates them. ‘She’s on her way. She’ll be waiting for you in the histo-lab.’

  I envisage Isis being teleported in molecules from the middle of the wasteland back to Compound 55. I thank him politely and start to stand up, but he hasn’t finished with me.

  His sticks out his chin and narrows his eye. ‘One more thing. I give you Isis – you give me Heracles. Would you kindly inform him of the change of plan? I’ll send him confirmation by auto-put in, say, an hour’s time – but I’d like you to dismiss him first, face to face.’

  I’m not happy about that. Heracles will think I am the instigator of his dismissal. I also realise that this could be a test on Ra’s part. Does he expect me to obey him without question or will he respect me more if I fight to keep Heracles as I fought for Isis? They are both my assistants. Don’t they both deserve my loyalty? I take a deep breath. ‘Heracles is young, a bit immature, but he has learnt a great deal since being my assistant. With further training he could be in line to be the new chief chronicler when the time comes to replace me.’

  Ra’s face doesn’t move a muscle. ‘Heracles must go. You must dismiss him.’

  ‘What will happen to him? Will you find him a post on another compound or will he be turned out into the wilderness?’

  ‘That is not your concern, Odysseus. You must avoid this tendency to be sentimental. It won’t do. I can’t have a chief chronicler who’s soft in the head.’ He stares at me and holds the gaze for several moments. ‘My problem is not Heracles, but you, Odysseus. Your first and only loyalty is to me. The question is: are you willing to carry out my instructions unconditionally? Think carefully before you answer. Are you with me, or against me?’

  ‘With you, Ra,’ I assure him, but I have the feeling that it will be some time before he will trust me completely. He may even change his mind about renewing my employment. Perhaps it will be me receiving a memo of dismissal.

  ‘Just remember that if you follow my instructions in all things, Odysseus, for the foreseeable future your position as chief chronicler will be secure.’

  I find myself reiterating my pledge of loyalty and thanking him profusely for his time. Is he going to stand up and shake my hand? No. He gives me a curt nod. I pull myself up, swing round and glide out into the metallic cylinder.

  As I approach the histo-lab, I hear a familiar giggle and know she’s back. I can’t wait to see her and receive her thanks for interceding on her behalf. She must have been very frightened and cold out in the wilderness and be in need of reassurance.

  I peep round the door, thinking to surprise her. The his-to-lab is almost dark but I can see well enough to register that they are both there. Isis and Heracles. They are lying on the floor, clothes askew, hair tousled, limbs entangled, like the writhing tentacles of an octopus. Her moon face rests on his chest. Her mooneyes shine up at him. The fingers of her short arm caress his cheek. Her nails gleam like glow-worms. He leans over, thrusts his tongue deep into her mouth and their bodies begin to move in unison.

  I close the door quietly, slide along the corridor to the nearest lavat-cube, my stomach heaving. I vomit in the bowl. I don’t know why seeing them together like that should disturb me so much. They are both young. Sex is acceptable, even encouraged, between mutant humanoids.

  I rinse my mouth, splash water over my triangular face and blink my one eye. For someone who considers himself so intelligent, I have been very obtuse, unaware of what has been going on right under my somewhat bulbous nose. Now I understand. The bickering between Isis and Heracles has been nothing but foreplay: a flirtation. The cutting remarks from Isis about Kali were signs of jealousy. Perhaps Heracles has been playing one off against the other. That would be just like him. From what I’ve just witnessed, I gather that Isis seems to have won the contest – if contest it has been – and Kali is out of the picture. I’m a bit confused. Not least by my own response to the scene.

  I must pull myself together. I have not been looking forward to informing Heracles that his services are no longer needed, but now I rather relish it. I coast smoothly along the corridor. Outside the histo-lab, I cough a few times and blow my nose loudly to let them know I’m back and give them time to make themselves presentable.

  I open the door and ask Heracles if I can have a word with him in private.

  Tomorrow he will be gone and I will have my surrogate daughter all to myself.

  Chapter Three

  Sister-wife

  (according to Kali)

  Hugo is restless. His snake head twists and stretch
es, he opens his mouth, flicks out his tongue, whistles, looks from side to side with his beady eye, hoping for someone to nip. Ah, here comes someone, but it’s Mercury, my little messenger. Hugo won’t hurt him.

  ‘Kali, she’s here!’ Mercury’s voice is beginning to break. It fluctuates between a shrill high-pitched shriek and a croak. At the moment it’s at its shrillest and Hugo retracts, coils himself snugly round my neck. His brothers and sisters at my four wrists poke out their heads and give Mercury a friendly hiss, his mates as always.

  Two weeks have passed since Ra created such a stir by sacking half the workforce. Now he’s appointed another member of staff.

  And here she comes. She emerges in a flare of light at the end of the silver cylinder and floats towards the compu-centre. I smell trouble. I have a nose for it. She’s a mutant humanoid like the rest of us, but she’s – well – there’s only one word for it – beautiful. Or rather two words: breathtakingly beautiful. I can almost hear the communal gasp as she appears. Damnation.

  From the neck down she’s the reincarnation of a beauty queen. A curvaceous body and two long shapely legs shine through the luminous pink of her mono. Her mutant status is clear from the two heads poised on elegant necks that emerge from her smooth shoulders. One of the heads is topped by a profusion of gold curls, the other by a sleek blue-black mane that falls down her back like a satin curtain. No need to choose blonde or brunette. Here are both in one neat package. Her cheekbones are set high, as if sculptured, and her cornflower-blue eyes, one for each face, are framed by fluttering black eyelashes. The mutant males flex their muscles. You can almost smell the testosterone. The females stare at her, unable to believe their eyes. Damn and double damn. Trouble ahead, without a doubt.

  ‘Shall I bring her to you?’ Mercury is determined to be the first to greet her.

  I nod and off he dashes and flits around her. She takes as little notice of him as she would an extinct mutant fly.

  ‘Come and meet Kali, our chief administrator,’ I hear him say in his high squeaky voice. ‘She will show you to your workstation.’

  Oh no, I won’t. I won’t even speak to her. My sixteen fingers and four thumbs work overtime on my multi-compu. I fill my multi-screens with hieroglyphics no one can understand. Not even me. Gobbledegook. I’m furious. How could Ra send me this creature? Is it some kind of terrible joke? I can smell her too-sweet perfume. I don’t look up but continue tapping and clicking.

  Mercury is jiggling up and down. ‘Kali, this is Sati.’

  Sati? What a joke. Kali and Sati, two of the brides of Shiva. Sati, the ideal true and virtuous woman, faithful to her husband even after his death, offering herself to him in the flames of his funeral pyre. Sati, the sanctimonious bitch, a demon in disguise. Well, she will learn that black-earth-mother Kali is a destroyer of demons. Hugo lets out a long hiss. His siblings, Henry and Henrietta, Hugh and Hannah uncurl themselves from my wrists where they lay like bracelets, extend their slippery bodies, open their mouths and whip out their tongues. I may not have the weapons of the original Kali but I do have my precious pets. I continue to stare at the compu-screens. Tap, tap, click, click go my fingers.

  ‘Kali,’ Mercury prompts, ‘Sati is here. What are your instructions?’

  ‘I’m busy!’ I snap and pound the keys. If Ra has to send me a sister-wife why can’t it be Jagadgauri, the yellow harvest bride. Or Durga, the war goddess. On a Worldwideculture management course, the three us swore the ancient oath of fealty. Both are my sort of women, slayers of demons, their fierce beauty a far cry from the simpering prettiness of Sati.

  ‘Find her a workstation,’ I order Mercury. ‘She can start straightaway.’

  Little Mercury looks around. Half the workstations are empty since the redundancies. Out of my half-closed third eye, high up on my forehead, I spy grey-faced Merlin hovering by an empty desk hoping Sati will sit next to him. The slimy toad! Jason lounges by the caffeine-dispenser ready to offer her a tab. He puffs out his chest and cracks his fingers. Show off!

  Apollo leans back on his compu-shaper and puts on his sunniest smile, determined not to stand up and reveal his three stumpy legs. Males! How easily they are turned on by a pretty face – or, in this case, two.

  Isis mocks them by showing the whites of her eyes. For once this moonfaced female and I are in agreement. A rare occurrence indeed.

  I make a mental note to have a chat with Isis later and ask her how she’s settling in at the compu-centre. Just after Ra’s visit she asked to be moved from the histo-lab away from ‘that dirty old man’. The reason for her request surprised me. I’ve known Odysseus for a long time. I realise he’s a bit full of himself, likes to show off his knowledge and what he calls his smooth perambulation as he slithers about from place to place, but I can’t imagine him making a pass at his assistant. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe all males are the same. Even an intelligent mutant humanoid such as Odysseus must sometimes think with his dick.

  Tedious as it is, I must attend to the newcomer. Mercury has found Sati a workstation near the back, between two females. Good thinking. Leaning over her, are Merlin, Jason and Mercury, all keen to demonstrate their compu-skills – among other things. Apollo smiles and nods from where he sits, not too far way. Sati smiles tentatively back. The others grin. Apollo is no permanent threat. Just wait till he stands up. He’s so short his head won’t reach her waist.

  Time for me to intervene. I spring up, stride, hop and leap across the compu-centre, repeating the sequence that has become my signature movement. Today my strides are longer, my hops bouncier and my leaps higher than ever. I jump over a couple of workstations en route. Rocket power. The three males scuttle off and leave Sati to me.

  We stare at each other, summing each other up. She’s bold, self-assured. Well, I’ll soon show her who’s the boss of this sectoid.

  ‘Come, follow me.’

  I stride, hop and leap to the edge of the compu-centre. The electronic wall slides open. I look over my shoulder and wait for Sati to catch up.

  She walks on her toes, tiny steps, an old-time ballerina on points, yet the effect is remarkably fluid. Her feminine elegance makes my power jumps appear unwieldy. Well, I don’t have to hop or leap. A power walk is sufficient.

  She gazes wide-eyed at the circular area we have entered. ‘It’s very high tech,’ she says, ‘almost an extension of the compu-centre. Not very cosy.’

  I see this area everyday but now I see it through her eyes. We call it the RR, the relax room, but she’s right, it doesn’t look like a comfort zone. It’s a huge space and the silver and white décor is not exactly welcoming. The glossy body-shapers, singles, doubles and trebles, face large curved screens that follow the shape of the circular walls. I flick a switch and the screens light up. A kaleidoscope of colour.

  ‘You show films here?’ she asks.

  I shrug. ‘Sometimes.’

  I rarely use the RR, preferring to stay at my multi-compu in the evenings. There’s always plenty to do and the body-shapers at our desks are designed for comfort to encourage the workforce to work long hours. The only time I come in here is to watch the monthly propaganda programmes, instructive directives from the CEO, intended to motivate our research and creativity for Worldwideculture.

  ‘You have parties in here or is there another space?’

  ‘Parties?’

  ‘You know – a place to dance, eat and drink and mix socially.’

  ‘No other space,’ I say. ‘And no parties.’

  ‘In C99 we have parties. Such parties you wouldn’t believe and there’s a disco-cube too and kitchens where we cook together, prepare delicious dishes. Great fun.’

  ‘We don’t do fun. In Compound 55 we’re dedicated to our work.’

  That shut her up, but not for long. ‘There must be a kitchen and dining hall.’

  ‘No kitchen. Just a small facility in each dormo-cube to heat up food, a neo-micro-system. We receive a food packoid every day from the storeroom.’

  �
�Where’s that?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. The packoids are delivered to our dormo-cubes.’

  ‘Sounds dead boring here.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘Where’s the gym?’

  ‘No gym.’

  ‘No sports facilities at all?’

  I shake my head. ‘None.’

  ‘How do you keep fit?’

  ‘We’re fit enough. Come on, let’s find you a dormo-cube.’

  A section of the wall slides open on the opposite side of the RR and we make our way, she on her toes, me striding out, down another metallic corridor with a series of doors leading to individual cubes. Because of the exodus of half the staff, there are plenty of unused ones. I decide to install her in the one next to mine so that I can keep tabs on her.

  She looks around the small space in disbelief. ‘Are you serious? This is to be my apartment? It’s like a prison cell! I can’t live here.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it, like the rest of us.’

  Most of us have lived here since we were very young. We haven’t known any other place. I can’t help thinking about the compound Sati has left and the kind of life she led there: communal cooking, parties, discos and sport. In C55 we work hard and have very little free time. We consider it the norm. The idea that some sectoids have more facilities than others I find unsettling. Why has Sati been sent here? Did she do a bit too much socialising in C99? Has she been sent here as a punishment?

  She sits on the side of her bunku and sighs. For a moment I feel quite sorry for her. She’s undergoing a culture shock.

  ‘You can personalise the room, make it more homely,’ I tell her. ‘Remember, we work for Worldwideculture. We’re encouraged to be creative. For example, you can download and print out your favourite pictures and hang them on the walls.’

  She doesn’t look too thrilled about that. I don’t sit down beside her, my sympathy doesn’t stretch that far, but I do ask her, as kindly as I can, why she has been sent here.

  Her answer surprises me.

  ‘Ra has sent me to be the assistant curator of the new museum. I’m to work in the histo-lab with the chief chronicler, a mutant humanoid called Odysseus. Tell me – what’s he like?’