‘How do you feel Burton?’
That voice. The link man - and Burton knew his name: Keiran Moran.
Moran came into Burton’s field of vision and stared down at him, his face seeming stark and frightening in the harsh light of the room.
‘How do you feel?’
In the instant that Moran repeated his question, full recollection of events distant and recent formed in Burton’s mind. He felt a great wave of relief pass through him and felt no concern when two strange faces appeared above him, standing on the other side of his body to Moran. They both looked down at him with a professionally detached air. Moran was saying, ‘Everything come back to you?’
Yes, thought Burton. Who, he wondered, had miscalculated the moment to initiate deceleration? Who - and it had not been him - had tried to decelerate so rapidly on Earth approach that the protective mechanisms in the ship had gone haywire and caused such panic? He could remember trying, and failing, to switch over to auto-control, and Stormaway crawling across his helpless body and reaching the vital switch. And the next thing he knew had been this same room, with awareness of a barrage of questions and his arms and legs punctured a million times by needles thin and thick.
‘There is no time for anything,’ a voice - Moran’s? - had said to him. ‘They want to see your bodies and we have to work fast. When you recover you may feel confused, memory may not be complete; we’ve made your special tree in the open-park at Hammersmith an enhancing trigger and it should help full recovery. We’ll find out everything when the heat is off. The other four we’re keeping alive for a while - you and Stormaway were both injured on landing.’
That had been all.
Moran said, now, ‘Is everything clear to you? Has it all come back?’
‘Yes,’ said Burton. ‘In retrospect it would have been one hell of a coincidence both myself and Stormaway managing to make contact in the way we did.’
‘The tree and the diary, you mean. The diary was an unexpected development. We had to fix it so that Stormaway found the book, but it was a useful development. What was a coincidence was that that particular tree was virtually in a blind spot. That was convenient.’
Burton struggled to sit up, but he felt restrained and collapsed backwards, feeling dizzy.
‘Relax,’ said Moran. He looked over at one of the two men who still watched Burton silently. From the very corner of his eye Burton saw the man administer an injection to his right upper arm. Moran went on, ‘We had not realized the extent to which memory would lag behind awareness in the recovery process, nor that having triggered your recovery on entry into the park, the park itself would become a strong signal, and leaving the park a signal to become lost again. We think you may have been right - or was it Stormaway? - when you said that the lessened subliminal barrage in the area may have been an important factor. We hadn’t taken that into account.
‘Not to worry. Everything went off splendidly. And we have a full account from you both, taken a few minutes ago.’
‘Good’ Burton could still remember nothing from the moment he had been met and brought to a tumble down, 21st century house, standing in its own small allotment, and then being put into drug induced hypnosis.
Perhaps seeing his dissatisfaction, Moran spoke a series of numbers and the full debriefing recollected itself to Burton.
Immediately he was confused.
‘I can’t help remembering,’ he said, ‘That you asked me nothing about my time in space or of what I know of the technology of space travel. All you asked me about was ... my recovery ...’
Moran smiled. ‘You must appreciate, Burton, that this is the first time we have experimented with personality and memory transplant. It’s a difficult technology to develop because it is not approved ...’
‘I understand that,’ said Burton. ‘But surely, if our futures are as insecure as you say, then shouldn’t you get as much information concerning the technology of space as you can?’
There was a moment’s silence during which Moran and Burton exchanged an unbroken stare. ‘Burton, you will be aware by now that the transplant of what is essentially a human being from one body to another can only be accomplished with the death of the donor. That’s why you died. And why you could never go back into your old body.
‘When we began to plan the infiltration of higher offices of government we knew we had to come up with a technique that was new, that would not be anticipated. Listening devices were out, and so were spies of any description. Brainwashing or hypnotic conditioning of established personnel was out because the first technique takes too long, and the second - well, hypnotic programmes can be broken at a distance of ten miles.
‘We conceived of this: a delayed action transplant of one of our number into a high official of state. But how to research and develop the technique? We couldn’t just pluck a man from the street and kill him in a trial run. Nobody is executed any more, and besides, that would be monitored - and people dying in hospitals are monitored unto the bitter end.
‘When we came up with the idea, and developed the basic technology, we realized we had come up against a void that we could not cross. Until one day - out of the literal blue - came six embarrassments to the government.
‘Because of what you were and what you represented you could not be allowed to live. No way. And who got the job of disposal? The department of Health of course, the easiest department to infiltrate at the lower levels, and it was to the lower levels that the dirty work was donated. With a great blind eye turned to what we did.
‘Suddenly, Burton, three months ago - yes, only three months - we had our experimental donors. No, don’t try and move. What you’ve received is not the sort of paralytic agent to be argued with.
‘Six donors. Burton. All to ourselves. We used two in the first test, and by all the signs, from everything you say, we will only have to do one or two more. And we still have four guinea pigs to choose from.
‘By your eyes I think you’re fading. Burton, but as you sink into the sort of sleep you never dreamed existed, let me assure you that when this country resumes its common sense, when better men - and women - sit in power and judgment over this island, your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Quinn, of course, is not dead and he must be returned and the events of the past weeks eliminated from him. We’d let you live, but ... well, the danger you represent to this government you’d also represent to ours. If nothing else we’re good Churchmen, Burton, and if we don’t like mass subversion, that’s one thing - but we have no intention of opening our arms to the forces of evil.’
<
* * * *
THE GREAT PLAN
Leroy Kettle
Most sensible people do not have enough time to be bored. Most sensible people would think to pack more than one wine-bird. But, as Leroy Kettle (revere) who is noted for the cunning quality of his humour, here points out, boredom, the work ethic and sense are inextricably mixed. Perhaps the True Tragedie was that tor Burgundal and his cronies, meaning itself had lost meaning ...
* * * *
Burgundal laughed in the light, wide way which indicated extreme delight. It was luze-whispering time, as always when the year was so far through, and he had just formulated the Great Plan, which gave all appearances of being a splendid diversion. Because of these things there was more goodness in the soft, warm air than usual. Burgundal, not necessarily a person to whom goodness meant anything special, was actually savouring the experience and storing it for possible future recollection. His cheeks, below their amusing gold whorls, flushed with what should perhaps be called ecstasy while the ancient sign affixed to his high forehead flashed COKE in wild, red abandon. Even his hair seemed to be more restless than usual.
The days passed quickly as he sat on the realistically gnarled branches mumbling happily to the fruit; but, eventually, the slight tension in the brain he used most often, caused by his thoughts of the Great Plan, forced him to relinquish the primitive though exhilarating company of the
luze, and act.
When he judged the moment to be appropriate and the tone-winds were strong, he yelled good and loud within his mind. Somewhere, and in other places, people heard him. He waited just a short time to ensure they were the right people, as tradition decreed (though there were only right people to hear), then, no longer tense, and with a mild excitement in his secondary voice, he whispered to the luze and learned a little, taught a little.
Some while later those same right people gathered together in their hundreds at the great desk of Burgundal within the largest, most comfortable, most hard to leave room, not only in his Tuesday Palace but probably above, below, and upon the whole of that particular land area. The caller himself was not yet present and speculation was rife as to the reason for the calling.
Undlum, a Man of unreasonable height, young enough to assume iridescent bones and kaleidoscope eyes, but old enough to be listened to (or, at least, heard) suggested it was from pure joy that Burgundal had shouted.
‘For are his eccentricities not well-known? And what is more eccentric, and thus to him more pleasurable, in these times than a call?’ Greatly satisfied with his contribution to the discussion, Undlum ate of the grapes which briefly grew by him.
However, Callastop, that erstwhile student of Human deviousness, too old to be other than wry and cynical, said: ‘Burgundal is rarely capable of performing anything merely joyously and certainly not with purity. He has, and always will have, himself solely as the centre of whatever thoughts spin between his brains. Not precisely a fit subject for one day’s contemplation, let alone an eternity. His mind butterflies around and he thinks all should stop to admire its pretty colours. But the intellectual capacity of a peacock is not noticeably increased when it spreads its tail.’
Callastop had undertaken her primary establishment during a period of fashionable austerity and it showed in her drabness of dress and appreciation, her long, plain-silver hair, and her meagre anatomical embellishments. She also failed to notice, or respond to, Undlum’s obvious dismay made most apparent by his dimmed skeletal structure.
She continued, ‘He has probably called for no reason, or perhaps to demonstrate his latest fazm. Silly, dry, little thing.’
There were loud murmurs of ‘Never’ and ‘Could well be’, until the oldest, and wisest when all went well, of those gathered, shifted on his velvet and warm-ice couch, and said: ‘Pooh.’
Magrib was renowned for his perception and so all were quiet, though the sag could detect some uncompliments about Burgundal drifting by. Once, even, though he felt too slowly to tell from where, the tone-wind carried the description of a surgically strenuous operation which would enable Burgundal to return to the more horizontal orders of the animal kingdom from whence he had undoubtably arrived in error. The small, wrinkled appearance adopted by the philosopher became more small and wrinkled as his annoyance increased but that soon departed as it was one of the more base feelings. If some other chose to interest himself in rudeness, that was really no concern of Magrib’s. Everyone was free. He had thought, in his unusual fit of pique, to leave and return to study the rather ancient mountain he had recently found existed in his favourite retreat; but, as these trifling upsets should not control him, he remained.
At last, and with no apologies, Burgundal arrived. One second he was not there and the next he was only just there and the next he had some substance, until, after many such seconds, he appeared solidly and actually before them. There was a little disappointment, even from his detractors, that he had not descended upon them in an inventively pyrotechnical manner, and without luze leaves and cobwebs on his immaculately reconstructed, old-time, green smock.
He stood there, tall and broad, before the vast expanse of intricately carved desk, and looked around between the towering, pure-white pillars which supported the recently added flicker-beam roof. There sat, lay or aired the whole of True Humanity, friends and unfriends. He knew their disappointment and regretted his rather arrogant dismissal of the need for a grand entry, until he spoke. They were not disappointed then.
‘I,’ he announced in a fine, powerful voice, ‘have formulated the Great Plan.”
Gasps of amazement came from all parts of the room in a fashion exceeding ritual demand.
‘The Great Plan,’ echoed some of the True Humans, tasting the words, sucking their significance dry.
The words shone upon Burgundal’s lips and dripped like the very best honey from his tongue. They resounded from the ivory walls as had Vaffly’s Horn of Triumph in the days of the First Separation, but were also as soft as the cry of a silarg. It was a glorious moment.
Finally, well-satisfied with the reaction despite his feeling that some present had only registered token astonishment, Burgundal raised a jewel-encrusted hand.
‘Cease,’ he commanded, exercising temporary ascendancy by virtue of the call. Gradually the mutterings and tonings came to a halt.
‘We, True Humanity, are met together at my request so that we may all share in the glory of my Great Plan. I trust you will be so kind as to allow me the honour of describing its workings.’
Callastop looked at her friends and they nodded among themselves. Perong’s undemonstrative, self-aware faction also nodded. Other groups, and individuals with no usual desire or ability to join in shared amusements (perhaps it was their quiet time), also nodded, with the exception of Magrib, who may or may not have inclined his head. There did indeed seem to be a general concensus that Burgundal should continue.
He reached for the crystal goblet which forever floated at his side, and filled it from a passing wine-bird. He drank deeply of the nectar, spilling a little which dissolved in the ingeniously tidy air. The others emulated him depending on their proximity to a wine-bird; the poor creatures were always at a loss when uncommon interest was shown in their produce. Burgundal let the fire of the drink burn along his veins. He waved his goblet in an all-inclusive, though somewhat dampening, gesture.
‘Here we have everything we may wish for,’ he said in as serious a voice as he possessed. ‘We live easily on this, our home planet. Our long ago and good Ancestors (revere their names) provided us with the means to live with scarcely the need for a thought let alone a physical action unless we ourselves are desirous of such. We have separated from the mundane galaxy over which we once held sway, and we exist solely for ourselves, to be the centre of our own galaxies of thought.’
Here Callastop had the grace to blush a very little, though she felt she ought to be outraged.
‘The castles of our minds,’ (Burgundal’s metaphors were not the most consistent), ‘have for their walls stupendous talents. Some of us choose to lie in the shadows of these walls, others attempt to climb them. Perhaps too many are not among the strugglers to the summit.’
He looked around darkly. Most of the True Humans found they could not meet his gaze. It was mostly a small trick he performed with concealed mirrors.
‘There seems to be nothing we lack. Or is there?’
He paused, and in that pause Magrib said something very quietly.
‘Ah, Magrib, ancient delver into reason,’ (for Burgundal had heard, not being so totally involved in his own mind as some might suggest) ‘has age deadened your voice?’
Magrib, openly derisive of attention-attracting effects, merely spoke in reply, making no attempt at physical or mental gaudiness. ‘Don’t be too clever there, Burgundal. Not too clever.’
* * * *
He sipped his wine from an ebony chalice, allowing time to rush on without him, demonstrating his disregard for haste. His old, grey lips smacked with pleasure as he wiped blatantly at his green-streaked beard.
‘I will tell you what you wish to hear. We lack purpose.’
Burgundal immediately resumed his speech having become impatient with the aged Human’s slightly hypocritical stage-stealing, and he missed (or did he choose to ignore?) Magrib’s final words. ‘But do we need it?’
Burgundal shouted, ‘Exactly. Purpose.
We lack purpose.’
He surveyed the audience quickly and discreetly, assessing their mostly silent response to his utterance. He seemed to have them, including Callastop and friends. There was no hostility, nothing even so tenuous as a raised eyebrow.
‘If we could do something which was great and good and always remembered, would not that make it all worthwhile?’
‘What is there to make worthwhile?’ inquired Callastop, uncertain as to the intended destination of Burgundal’s line of logic but not wishing him to have any easy route there.
Burgundal frowned. He thought for a moment while he set his face in a look of contemptuous superiority. Not wishing his diversion to be concluded so soon, he found the right defence to Callastop’s unexpectedly direct inquiry.
‘How can you, of all True Humanity, ask such a question? Surely it is you who are the most vocal critic whenever we appear to be more self-indulgent than normal. I cannot believe that when I offer you a chance to make your life, and help in making all our lives, worthy of the great trust placed there by our Ancestors (revere) you would spurn me.
New Writings in SF 28 - [Anthology] Page 12
