The Empathy Gene: A Sci-Fi Thriller

by Boyd Brent

  “But?”

  “Where Christian compassion is concerned … maybe … maybe like every man here you have a-ways to go. And so it seem to me that act of mercy was important to you.”

  “You are right, Isaiah. Where compassion is concerned I am at the beginning of my journey.”

  “I know you is. There ain't no man can pull a wagon like that. You are something not natural of this world, but from where you get your strength? Could be you don't even know that yourself. You might look like a blind Lord of scripture, but Jesus sure wouldn't sound like you do.”

  “How do I sound?”

  “Like you got no humanity inside you. Not a bit. Of course that don't mean you don't. Your treatment of us says something different.”

  “You are men of faith? Despite the world you find yourself in?”

  All about the campfire nodded. “We had better be men of faith,” replied Isaiah. “We got little else 'cept hardship. The Lord Jesus is our salvation. The promise of everlasting life in paradise … away from devils like him.”

  John Torrance looked towards his boots and shook his head. “I'm a God-fearing Christian no different from any of you.”

  “The difference is that you were their enslaver,” said Gull.

  “Don't mean no harm by 'em. It's just the way of things. Niggers might be people near enough, but they'd be the first to admit they ain't properly developed like the white man. They got no history or culture, but they are strong and the Lord made 'em so for a reason.”

  Terrence smiled. “You think the Lord made us strong to toil for the white man?”

  “I believe it says as much somewhere in scripture.”

  Gull interlinked his fingers. “Words are easily misinterpreted. All men have history and culture. These men you buy and sell are no different. Did you know that the roots of all human beings can be traced back to Africa? It is where humanity originated, John.”

  John Torrance smiled and shook his head. “Then why they the colour they are?”

  “Climate dictates skin colour. The further north a race travels, the colder the climate and the lighter their skin.”

  John Torrance leaned and spat. “By that reckoning you must have done come here from the North Pole.”

  Isaiah folded his arms. “He don't look upon us as human.”

  Gull nodded. “Quite so. It is how he justifies his treatment of you. Isn't that so, John?”

  “It's just the way of things. No harm intended.”

  “It is how his forefathers conditioned him. And their father's before them.”

  Isaiah tore his gaze from John Torrance for a moment and looked at Gull. “You saying that make it right?”

  “No, Isaiah. I'm pointing out that his empathy towards the African races has been eroded. If he were a more empathic person, that would not have been possible. No amount of conditioning could have changed him.”

  “You mean if he were a better person?”

  “Yes, Isaiah. Better. And stronger.”

  “I always suspected his kind was weak.”

  “I wasn't so weak when I whipped the life out of your brother!”

  Gull looked at him. “You whipped a defenceless man to death. “A man who represented no threat. A man who begged you for mercy. You did so because your lack of empathy makes you weak, John. Weak of character.”

  “Is that so? Seems to me you didn't show my companions much empathy when you blasted their brains all to hell.”

  “I think you'll find that was self-defence.”

  “You provoked those old boys and you know you done provoked 'em.”

  “I like to think I … tested them.”

  “Tested 'em? Tested their patience, maybe.”

  “They were legitimate targets. Their lack of empathy towards these men made them so.”

  “And just who made you judge, jury and executioner?”

  “There is a war raging, John. I am a soldier in that war.”

  “What war? The Mexican War done finished. There are no wars that I'm aware of.”

  “It may be Man's ignorance of this war that has kept it going so long,” observed Gull.

  Isaiah continued to stare at John Torrance but asked Gull, “So how long this war been going on?”

  “Approximately one million years.”

  “One million? You gonna tell us who this war's between?”

  “Not who, but what. On the one side is Man's empathic promise, and on the other his bestial origins.”

  “Bestial?”

  “Yes, Isaiah. Man shares much of his genetic make-up with the beasts of this planet. Some even with the reptiles that had dominion before him.”

  “I don't recall it saying nothing about that in the Bible,” said John Torrance. “What you're implying is sacrilege.” He cast his gaze along the black faces. “Seems to me you boys have taken up with a devil of sorts.”

  Terrence unfolded his arms and leaned forwards. “Not every man has the benefit of a Christian education. You did, and you is still a white devil.”

  John Torrance's hands balled into fists.

  “Tell me, John. What is your opinion of Jews?” asked Gull.

  “Never met me a Jew. Can't say I rightly have an opinion.”

  Isaiah nodded. “Never met me one neither, but Jesus was a Jew. I know that.”

  “That's right, Terrence.” Gull held his hands up in the firelight. Every man present paused mid-chew and studied the patchwork of scars on his palms. “Who done it? Who crucified you?” asked Isaiah.

  “The Romans.”

  Ted shook his head. “Now don't none of you pay him no heed … he's pullin' your leg.”

  Terrence got up, came over and crouched before Gull. He took his hands in his own and examined them front and back. “Christ has been almost as close to me as you are now, Terrence,” said Gull. “Would you like to see him?”

  There followed a collective intake of breath, and many there put down their plates and crossed themselves. The sun had all but set below the mountains to the west, and the flickering firelight danced on the faces of every man present. “Now don't go spooking these good folks with such nonsense,” said Ted.

  Isaiah stared at John Torrance but addressed Ted. “Open your eyes, old man. If he says he has something to show us, then let him go ahead and show it.”

  Terrence released Gull's hands and stepped back.

  “I ask that you all gather behind me,” said Gull. “It will afford you the best view of the man you call your Saviour.” The men around the campfire glanced at one another. Terrence pointed out that it was not every day that a man is given the opportunity to lay eyes upon his Saviour. They clambered to their feet as though raised up by a single pulley – all except John Torrance, who revelled in their gullibility. The fugitives arranged themselves behind the cross-legged figures of Gull and Ted – dark faces called to witness something beyond the common laws of nature.

  An image was projected from Gull's eyes, filling the space between him and the fire. This was no scaled-down image as before, but a life-sized projection of Christ on his bunk in Jerusalem. Jesus was leaning towards the assembly of men and staring into their midst, his face battered and bruised and barely recognisable as the same face that now projected it. One amongst the slaves, silent until now, began to utter the Lord's prayer, and the others joined in. Their voices grew louder as though the sound would provide a barrier against the unknown. Beyond and to the right of the fire, John Torrance held his hands to his face and wept as he spied the image through his fingers. The image of Christ leaned back, and his face disappeared into shadows cast two thousand years before. The hologram began to fade, until only the dying candle on the floor of that cell remained. One of the men broke rank and shouldered his way from the throng to kneel beside it. He reached out and held his hand over the flame. Someone asked him if it burned and he replied that it did not. The candle vanished, the darkness behind John Torrance shifted, and out of it came Isaiah holding a scythe. He raised it behind h
im, and with a single sweeping motion he lopped off John Torrance's head. The headless body remained upright as his dying heart continued to pump and anoint his body in blood.

  Gull spoke softly. “Isaiah?”

  Isaiah shrugged and threw down the scythe. “I just a foot-soldier … a foot-soldier in that war you spoke of.”

  Gull nodded, and then sighed as though he'd just witnessed something impeccable.

  Fifty one

  At dawn John Torrance sat before an extinguished fire. He was leaning forwards in the attitude of a headless man with much on his mind. Everyone was asleep except Gull, who stood fifty metres from the camp, facing south. One of his eyes was white, the other blue. A rattlesnake slithered up to and over his boots like he'd been there as long as any rock in that land. His lips moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, as though whispering a secret. If someone had placed an ear to his mouth they might have heard the faint echo of voices within: “Is that you, Gull?”

  “Keep talking, David. I will be with you shortly.”

  “Where the hell am I? I can't move forward or back … it feels like I'm trapped between two walls … just enough room to inch sideways … like a damned crab, which I've been doing for some considerable time. It's pitch-black; I can't see a thing.”

  “You are trapped in a region of your mind that is not illuminated by electrical activity.”

  “That as bleak as it sounds?”

  “No. It simply means you are in a coma.”

  “Well, consider me reassured then.”

  “It appears that in my enthusiasm to rejoin and assist you, I may have inadvertently caused your current predicament.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  A faint tapping on the wall. “Did you hear that, David?”

  “I heard it. It came from my left … there it is again.”

  “I am on the other side of the wall. I was where you are now when we arrived in Utah.”

  David threw his palms against the wall. “And what? You decided to swap places?”

  “It would have taken me several days to find a way out. It would, however, take you many years to navigate a similar route. The truth is you might never discover an exit.”

  Through gritted teeth, David said, “If there's good news, I would appreciate hearing it.”

  “There is another way out – a way that's available to you but not me. And it is considerably more efficient.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “That narrow pathway is located in the logic area of your mind. Each sideways step is similar to unravelling a tiny part of a mathematical equation. Even with my computing prowess, the equation would have taken me several days to solve and–”

  “So you've said. Goddamnit, Gull. You must be aware that once again we have not exactly found ourselves delivered into paradise. So I'd appreciate your getting to the point.”

  “Gladly, David. A combination of inspiration and imagination will deliver you instantly to the answer you seek. To an exit. Even though you will have no conception as to how you reached it.”

  David thudded his palms into the wall again. “Not feeling particularly inspired right now.”

  “Might I make a suggestion?”

  “I was hoping you might.”

  “Might I suggest a door.”

  “A door?”

  “Yes, David. A door that leads from where you are to where I am.”

  “A door, he says. Why didn't I think of that?”

  “It is often difficult to see the woods for the trees. Particularly in times of heightened irritation.”

  David reached out and felt along the wall. “There is no door here…”

  “Look above you, David.”

  David looked above him into the black void. “I told you, I can't see a damn thing.”

  “They may take a moment to appear … do you see them now?”

  “… I see them. A faint cluster of stars.”

  “I have provided you with a window that looks from the left side of your mind into the right … a window into your imagination.”

  “What am I supposed to do with a view?”

  “Use it to conjure a door.”

  David sighed. “Alright.” He closed his eyes, imagined a door and reached out, but felt only the wall. “You sure about this?”

  “Try looking towards your imagination … up at the stars.” David looked up and conjured a door in his mind's eye – a door in front of him with a brass handle. He reached out and his fingertips crept over that handle. He could hear his own heartbeat hammering in some far-off corner of that darkness. He lowered the handle and pushed … a hazy starlight ebbed through a crack. He opened the door fully and stepped into a clearing beside a lake. The cosmos of his imagination was reflected in its still waters. Gull stood with his back to him, looking out over the water. He wore the same red plaid shirt and jeans David had worn before he'd stripped off to pull the wagon. “Hello, David.”

  “Gull.” Gull turned slowly to face him. The last they'd met, Gull's face had been a part-holographic representation of David's. Now the whole looked like a crude waxwork of David's face with animatronic eyes. David scratched his cheek. “You want to explain your face?”

  “It is a work in progress.”

  “I can see that. Wouldn't you rather be your own work?”

  “I have chosen you as my template. I know of no other. Does it bother you, David?”

  “I won't lie. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  Gull cast his eyes down. “Maybe you could come to look upon me as your twin brother.”

  “Maybe I could, as long as it doesn't weaken us.”

  “To the contrary, it is making us a more efficient unit. Helping us to achieve a singularity of purpose.”

  David looked over the lake. “Right now, I just need to get out of here.”

  “As you wish.”

  David turned to face the camp. Two horses had been hitched to the wagon, and a couple of dozen men lay before it sleeping. One was sitting upright without his head. David walked towards the camp. “You scratch an itch, Gull?”

  “A slave called Isaiah removed his head with a scythe. He did it in retribution for the murder of his brother.”

  “These men are slaves?”

  “Were slaves. I took it upon myself to free them, as I believe you would have done.”

  “I imagine their owners were not pleased.”

  “It would be no exaggeration to say they were livid. There were four in total. I have buried the other three.”

  “That was certainly … empathic.”

  “I thought it the right thing to do.”

  David looked down and noticed the pistols resting on each hip. He slid them free of their holsters, smiled and slid them back. “Is Ted okay?”

  “Ted is sleeping soundly in his wagon.”

  “How far are we from the nearest town?”

  “We made good progress in your absence. The town of Pioche is now just thirty-one miles to the west.”

  “And the Colonel?”

  “He is gainfully employed in Mexico.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Assisting the Mexican authorities with their Apache problem.”

  “Money for scalps?”

  “Yes, David.”

  “And Goliath?”

  “As yet I have been unable to locate any information as to Goliath’s whereabouts inside the Event Helix.”

  “Is there anything I should know before I wake these men up?”

  “We had a most informative talk at supper.”

  “And what did you inform them?”

  “They are Christians. I was keen to inspire them, so I showed them a hologram of Christ in his cell.”

  “And did it?”

  “Did it what, David?”

  “Did it inspire them?”

  “I believe it broadened their horizons.”

  “Seems to me you've been broadening some horizons of your own.”

  “I have t
ried to behave as an empathic being might. I have already alluded to the fact that you are my point of reference. I simply asked myself 'what would David do in this situation?'”

  “Not a plan I would necessarily recommend.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the three graves.

  “I gave them a clear verbal warning, David. As I believe you would have done. They had a choice.”

  “And they chose to go to ground.”

  “Yes. Isaiah is awake. He is listening to you. I believe you will like him.” David cast his gaze over the men sprawled out round the camp. Most lay on their backs and snored like men with a lifetime of sleep to catch up on, but one amongst them, the biggest, lay face down with his head resting on his arm. “Is that Isaiah?”

  “Yes, David.”

  Isaiah opened his eyes, turned slowly and sat up on his backside. He clasped his hands over his knees and looked at his knuckles. David walked over and stood before him. Isaiah’s gaze climbed David's jeans and red plaid shirt to his face. “You ain't blind no more?”

  “I'm not Gull no more. I'm David.”

  “The David Gull spoke of?”

  “That's right.”

  “So where's Gull at?”

  David tapped his temple. “Only I can hear him now.” He glanced over his shoulder at the headless body of John Torrance. “That your handiwork?”

  “Yessir. He killed my brother.”

  David smiled, reached down and pulled Isaiah to his feet, all three hundred and fifty pounds of him. Isaiah was not surprised at the ease with which he rose.

  Fifty two

  The wagon rolled forwards slowly. David and Ted sat together on the driver's seat. Three black men were seated at the rear of the wagon. Six more had squeezed inside. Terrence Curtis and four others had left and headed north, and the others walked alongside the wagon. The seating arrangements were shared in thirty-minute rotas. This had been Gull's idea. And although David had agreed it was a good idea, he'd shaken his head when he'd overheard Gull suggest it. Ted had been sheltering under his hat in silence for some time. He cleared his throat. “Folks are not gonna like it when we arrive in town with all these unchained Negroes.”