Sorenson stood paralysed at the sight and then put his arms around her as she burst into tears.
****
Back in his studio, Sorenson reviewed his encounter with Bulimia. It had taken him a couple of hours to extricate himself from the gallery. He’d been shocked by her injuries at the hands of her Old Etonian husband but not surprised that she wouldn’t press charges. Women were stupid like that, he thought. He’d read that it took 33 assaults, on average, before a woman even considered making a complaint. Why would any man want to beat her up anyway? He would treasure a voluptuous blonde like her. After making himself a strong cup of coffee, he sat down at the window. It overlooked a scrapyard that provided him with an endless source of inspiration: here was a constantly shifting graveyard of consumer durables that paralleled the end of human life. Old beaten up machines were trundled in: no longer any use or beyond repair, they came to a final resting place and expired. Just as humans were recycled at the chematorium, the metals, plastics and carbon fibre were recycled once they’d passed through the yard.
Bulimia’s revelation had sounded like a fairy tale. The princess is with child and must drink an enchanted potion to ensure that her offspring develops the characteristics of those born to rule: confidence, intelligence of the political kind and the ability to survive at everybody else’s expense. She had thrown up after taking her magic brew but not told anyone. Afterwards, she’d had a Pimms and felt much better. Now her son Bernard was a well balanced, non political human being who hated cant and hypocrisy and was amazingly honest, as well as being a talented engineer. That was failure? Sorenson could hardly believe it. He wished he was such a failure. As it was, he’d scraped through art college and was still paying off his student loan at a crippling interest rate.
The secret would have been more useful if Bulimia had known what was in the potion. All she knew was that it was based on a fungus that infested the brain of the developing foetus and changed it forever. No wonder, she’d felt sick when she’d taken it. The mere thought of it made Sorenson feel nauseous but at the same time he knew that if he could get his hands on a means of making him more ambitious, and successful, he would slug down a few litres of nasty gunge with alacrity.
****
Frinkl Neobtzl had been observing human behaviour for forty years and was still puzzled. How did the British ruling class maintain its supremacy? In many countries it was tribal and based on tradition backed by brute force. The Middle East worked that way. Strong leaders were revered despite the atrocities visited on the populace. Revolutions gave rise to yet another group of self seeking egotists with brutish ideas about human rights. In the USA there was a single criterion: how much money the candidate could spend on the campaign. There were no principles, just what perceptions would allow. While in the UK, a post colonial nation that lived in perpetual awe of its past, the situation was different. A coterie of public school incompetents ruled the roost. They went to the right schools and studied at certain universities on a limited range of courses and then their network catapulted them into positions of power despite any inherent lack of ability. How was this accomplished? She was determined to find out how the trick was done.
She was watching the UKGuv news channel with her usual amusement when an item appeared that clicked into her psyche. The talking head of the PM’s cartoonish frizzy haired avatar appeared on the screen of Neobtzl’s e-pad.
We would like to respond to public concerns about the lack of social mobility in the country. The superiority of those in government is due to genetics. We are there by virtue of abilities conferred upon us by millions of years of evolution. To this end we are publishing the genomic maps of all of those in the Cabinet, their subordinates and associated senior officials in the Civil Service.
The alien blanked out the subsequent Old Etonian government propaganda until the URL of the website containing the data popped up on the screen. She passed a finger over it and copied it to the memory card. Neobtzl already knew about the nurture element of the ruling class’s success: that was obvious. It was the genetic origins that interested her. The answer to her question lay in that data.
****
Jimmy Sorenson shifted his weight from foot to foot. His trainers squelched on the wet paving slabs outside the club where he was due to meet the journalist, Jolyon Hinchcliffe. The artist had made an effort to meet the dress code demanded by the club: he was wearing a dark suit and white shirt but had drawn the line at shiny shoes. A whistle from behind him made him turn towards the door.
‘Come on old man,’ said Hinchcliffe, beckoning with a flapping hand.
The journalist’s florid face told Sorenson that his friend was well ahead in the drinking stakes. Sorenson sprang up the steps and passed a frowning, uniformed flunky who glanced down at his sodden trainers as they left a trail of small puddles across the marble tiled floor.
Sorenson sat down at the table in the club’s restaurant. He glanced round at the overweight eaters occupying the dark red leather seats. They were all men and they growled at one another from under bushy eyebrows. Every one of those over privileged bastards, he thought, could be a product of the magic brew.
‘Wine sir?’ asked a white-jacketed waiter poised with a bottle at the ready.
Sorenson looked at Hinchcliffe with a raised eyebrow. ‘Is it any good Jolyon? Don’t want to drink crap, old man.’
‘Burgundy, Jimmy. Can’t beat it.’
Sorenson raised a hand in confirmation and his glass was filled to a nicety. He took a large noisy slurp and, to his satisfaction, was rewarded with searing eyes from all around the room.
‘You mentioned something about a magic potion on the old dog and bone, Jimmy,’ grunted Hinchcliffe. ‘Which potion did you mean?’ he continued, taking a long draught from his glass and signalling to the waiter for another bottle.
‘Well, it’s like this Jolyon. The OE’s have a secret: when a woman announces the glad tidings of impending birth, she drinks a ceremonial potion and it does something to the baby. The child comes out ready to roll straight into the upper echelons of society. It’s born to rule. No potion: no go, if you see what I mean.’
‘Where did you get this?’ asked Hinchcliffe almost inaudibly.
A waiter hovered at Hinchcliffe’s left shoulder. ‘Another bottle of the Burgundy sir: you ordered.’
Sorenson looked up at the swarthy man. He could have been there for the last couple of minutes and heard everything.
Hinchcliffe accepted the bottle and the man glided away. ‘Look here, old boy. You don’t want to get involved with this: it’s risky. But I’ll tell you this: you are right. The women do take an evil tasting elixir and their kids come out as model politicos, destined for parliament or other high office.’
‘What if the child turns out to be female?’
‘Oh, that’s easy. They become overpaid handbag designers and owners of up-market galleries in the West End.’
‘Any idea what the stuff is?’
‘Word has it that it originally came from South America: shamanic rituals and all that. The elders gave it to their women just like the OEs do here. They wanted to keep their hands on power too.’
‘But you don’t know what the stuff actually is?’
‘Sorry old boy: almost a state secret. Keep the info to yourself: hear me?’
****
Frinkl Neobtzl fed the Cabinet’s genomic data into the computer. The AI will make short work of this political nonsense, she thought. The so-called analysis provided by the advisors, the parasitic homunculi used by the ruling class as a substitute for intelligent thought, was pure propaganda and bore little resemblance to reality. The data on its own was of little use. What was needed was a comparison with the genomes of people in other walks of life and other social classes. The alien ran a program that did just that: the algorithm took data from a website where thousands of genomes were recorded and compared them with those of the members of the Cabinet.
Many hours later, Neobtzl looked at the re
sults: apart from the expected single nucleotide polymorphisms, there were no general large scale differences to be seen between the politicians and other typical members of the population. What she did find was a preponderance of versions of genes normally associated with self confidence and leadership. This applied to both men and women. No surprise there, thought the alien neurobiologist. Born leaders they may be but in genetic terms, they were no more likely to run the country than a talented barrow boy. A privileged upbringing was also a key factor but she was convinced that there had to be another ingredient in the mix that made these people special. What she really needed were samples of brain tissue.
****
Another day, another row, and this one was no different. Ever since Bulimia had told her husband that she’d missed out on the magic potion, he’d been in a constant rage. She cowered in the corner of the kitchen as he loomed over her. His homunculus leant towards his ear and whispered into it. A smile played across the parasite’s thin lips as if it were enjoying the spectacle. Seeing Algernon’s right arm twitch, Bulimia instinctively dodged the blow and his fist smashed into the adjacent cupboard door. She waited, quivering, for the next assault, knowing where he’d hit her: it was usually the body so that the bruises wouldn’t be on her face. Her ribs still hurt from the last beating.
He stepped back, snarling. ‘You’ve been talking again haven’t you? Told somebody about the ritual. Now, he’s asking questions. You stupid cow! How many times have I told you to keep it a secret? Every thick prole will want it now.’
He lunged forward, large hands reaching for her throat. With her left hand, she scrabbled on the worktop, her nails skittering across the black polished marble. He closed his hands around her neck just as her fingers made contact with the edge of a chopping board. The handle of a kitchen knife fell under her hand as his grip tightened. She couldn’t breathe: she had to make him stop. Bulimia swung the blade horizontally and it sank into his side at the level of his right kidney. A shout of pain sprang from his surprised mouth and his grip on her throat fell away. A dark stain was spreading around the knife and discolouring his crisp white shirt. He dropped to the floor, impaling himself further on the knife. It sank in up to the hilt. Bulimia’s knees buckled as she pulled in draughts of air through her aching throat. Slumped on the floor, she was powerless to help him even if she’d wanted to. He lay before her, blood pooling around him, eyes vacant and staring back at hers as his life drained away.
****
The figure in the balaclava approached the rear entrance of Zappo Forensics. He looked for cameras but could see none. Autopsy done on the cheap; typical government contract, he thought. He glanced at the door: the building was little more than a large garden shed. The keypad lock was a common model found in hardware stores everywhere. He scanned it with a handheld decoder and looked at the screen. His gloved fingers danced over the keys on the lock and he pulled the door open. The hinges squeaked, indicating the need for lubrication. He pulled a small can from his backpack and sprayed the offending hinge. It would now be quiet when he left. Making his way through an office containing a desk, swivel chair and little else, he found another door with yet another keypad. A quick reprise of the previous procedure and he was inside the lab.
He flicked his LED torch with its pale blue light around the room. The autopsy had already been carried out: his contact had told him that. The beam of light fell upon a label on a fridge door. Pulling at the handle, he found himself looking down at the cold white face of Algernon Pemberton. Now all he had to do was find the brain. Pushing the drawer back in, he scanned the other sections of the lab. A row of smaller drawer fronts grabbed his attention and he walked across towards them. Something brushed against his leg.
‘What the …?’ he said out loud.
A large tortoiseshell cat looked back up at him as he dropped his gaze to his feet.
‘Get out of here,’ he whispered.
The cat failed to understand him and rubbed against his leg again. He stroked it briefly and picked it up. He realised that he’d left the outer door open and carried the animal outside. This was not in the plan.
Back inside, doors closed, he went back to the target of his search and opened a drawer labelled Brains. Pemberton’s was there in a large fluid filled jar. The man took it out and placed it on a nearby bench. He then took a package from his backpack and unwrapped its contents. It looked similar to the thing in the jar but wasn’t quite as big. As he exchanged them, he wondered if they’d notice the difference. A few drops of liquid had spilt out on to the bench during the swap, so he pulled out a cloth and wiped them up. Then he put the jar back in the drawer, wrapped up the brain, stashed it in his backpack and left the building. Outside, he nearly tripped over the cat again. It was sitting camouflaged against the background of bushes and undergrowth: it watched his exit avidly. He whispered goodbye as he straddled his mountain bike and rode out of the industrial estate towards the road.
****
Frinkl Neobtzl looked at the human brain with satisfaction. It was intact and hadn’t been sliced and diced. That meant that she could dissect out the different regions and determine where specific genes had been switched on or off. This was a first for her and probably genetic research in general: the first brain from a member of the UK’s ruling class to be examined in the lab. How it had been obtained, she didn’t know and wasn’t inclined to ask. Some of her Gliesen colleagues had some very dubious human friends who would do anything for a wedge of cash. Being the foremost source of biotech knowledge on a planet of primitives had its advantages.
****
The news report had jumped out at Jimmy Sorenson even though it was only a minor item in a sidebar. An alien scientist had found the secret of the Old Etonians’ success, the item proclaimed. The work had appeared in an obscure on-line journal that, by all accounts, usually contained the most outlandish research. Rupert Sheldrake usually featured there. The only reason that the report had appeared in Times On-line, was that a group of Conservative MPs had tried to have the article suppressed, citing national security. Their claim had failed since the UK had no jurisdiction over an independent republic in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Threats of libel action against the journal had met with derision from the publishers who had put the whole exchange on-line. Needless to say, these legal contortions had drawn the attention of the media, the very opposite of what the MPs had wanted.
The artist read on. The brain of a member of the ruling class had been examined by an alien scientist. The genome was nothing special but what the brain did have was an abnormal number of androgen receptors. The article went on to explain how this made the brain more sensitive to testosterone and that led to behaviour normally associated with high levels of the male sex hormone. The scientist then went on to propose that a person with this abnormality would be more aggressive, ambitious and selfish than most other people. In other words, he would be an ideal politician.
Sorenson prodded at the contact link on the screen of his e-pad and it dialled the number for Frinkl Neobtzl.
‘Hi, Dr Neobtzl, I’m Jimmy Sorenson: you may have heard of me,’ he said to the golden-eyed face on the screen. His eyes took in the hairless head and slightly scaly amber skin. She was beautiful in an exotic way. I would love to paint her portrait, he thought. Not just her portrait but her whole lithe gorgeous body would succumb to his artistry.
‘Are you the pickled fruit guy?’ replied Neobtzl.
‘That’s me. Look, I’m calling about your research paper, the one about the Old Etonian’s brain.’
‘I didn’t say it was an Old Etonian.’
‘Yeah, but I have a good idea whose brain it was. I know Bulimia Pemberton, you know, the one who accidentally stabbed her husband to death. As a far as I know he’s the only prominent politician to have died recently. So, it has to be him. Now you publish this paper. It can’t be a coincidence.’
‘What do you want Mr Sorenson? Be warned, I don’t respond kindly to threats
, so just spit it out.’
‘No, I don’t want anything from you. I want to help. There’s something you need to know about people like Pemberton. I can’t tell you over a low encrypted connection like this. Can we meet?’
After arranging to meet the alien, Sorenson pondered the implications of what could come next. He’d never got close to a Gliesen woman before. It would be an opportunity too good to miss. They were supposed to be great in bed, especially when their own men weren’t in season. The Gliesen ruff and its ability to change colour with mood really fascinated him and he fantasised about having her pose naked for him and then making love to her in his studio. Then there was the potion. He had the sample Bulimia had given him. It could be his key to rampant success.
****
‘Jimmy darling, pass me the champagne will you? Don’t hog the lot,’ said Bulimia stretching out a hand to receive the bottle.
Sorenson complied with her request by pouring her another glass of bubbly and passing it to her. She sat up in bed allowing the pink silk sheet to slide down revealing her breasts.
‘Am I better in bed than that appalling alien, darling?’ Bulimia asked between sips.
‘I told you Bulimia, I didn’t get near her. It was strictly a business relationship. All she was interested in was her research. I just provided an extra piece of evidence for her project.’
‘She had you under her spell though,’ continued Bulimia. ‘Why else would you have let her experiment on you?’
Sorenson put down his glass and rolled over placing his hand over the nearest breast, caressing it. ‘I did that for my own benefit. I wanted to be like the ruling class, all get up and go. Frinkl reckoned she’d found out why they are so successful and it was with your help. You’re part of it now. That sample you gave me was the clincher.’
‘You gave it to an alien?’
‘Yeah. She set up an experiment with foetal brain cells and treated them with the potion. Those cells developed extra sensitivity to testosterone just like the adult brain cells she’d been working on.’
Parasite World Page 16
