In World City

by I. F. Godsland

  After school, he wandered past the shops, bathed in the cold radiance of the window displays, his breath misting the glass when he looked more closely. For all he knew, this was all there was in this promised land of his father: tree-lined streets, neon-lit cubes and cold shop windows that gave a view onto inaccessible treasures. He imagined the same combination of elements endlessly repeating itself, with people performing actions that endlessly repeated themselves, people who were entirely uninterested in anything beyond the endless repetitions they were immersed in. He remembered the moon rising over Morne Diablotin, the dogs in the streets and the boys doing acrobatics down on the beach by the packing station. He remembered the heat of midday and the sea wind at night, the clamour in the school playground, and his grandmother leading him along a barely visible path through a filigree of tree ferns. Dion broke his vow of silence and asked his father how long it would be before they went back home.

  “Home? This is home. You’re not thinking of that squalid little street we used to live on, are you? – That squalid little street on that squalid little island? That hut we lived in has been pulled down now and turned into something useful. You’re stupid, boy. I wouldn’t go back there if you paid me twice what I’m getting now. People live there all their lives and they go nowhere. I’ve been fighting my way out of there ever since I could walk. I don’t want another word about it from you. I’m intending to forget I ever had anything to do with that place, and you do the same. Have you got that? And talking of going nowhere, I’ve been getting reports from your school. As far as I can see, I’m wasting my money. You need to start making progress there, or else.”

  Dion was interested in what the ‘or else’ might be, but guessed it could only be more of the same that he was working to avoid at school. He became even bolder in his excursions during class hours, walking further, staying away longer. The simple act of walking had always gone some way towards stemming the tide of unreality that had swept over him on their arrival in Europe. Now it became a vital necessity. So he walked more. And as he walked, he imagined running away from home, hitching lifts to the coast and stowing away on a ship bound for the other side of the sea. He spent a lot of time staring in travel agents’ windows and looking at the atlas screens in the information centre. He went into one of the travel agents and asked if they had any old posters he might have. They had one of a jungle-clad island, which Dion took home and hid under his bed, only taking it out to look at when he was sure he would be undisturbed.

  Eventually Dion’s truancy was detected and its regularity confirmed. His father said, “I’m going to make an account of all the money you’ve wasted. I want you to pay it back. I don’t need the money, but you need to learn its value. I’ve tried to give you a decent education, but you clearly aren’t capable of using it. You might as well go to the local state place.”

  Dion felt an unaccountable surge of hope at this.

  Handelmann’s Hotel...

  Dion listens to the air-change hissing its fake breeze and feels the enclosing weight of the hotel around him. The semi-darkness is soothing, though: he doesn’t have to look at the place he occupies, just feel it containing him without threat.

  Like those way-stations of old, the caravanserai he occupies offers security from the Waste – its predators and robbers, and those ghostly voices that lure you off the track, further and further, until you are completely lost – only no longer among rolling sand dunes but in an infinity of decaying streets. He has chosen his pitch where the Waste comes right up to the doorstep. But if he hears the voices why should he resist?

  Once, while still a boy, he had rushed headlong into the Waste. Then, later and thanks to Miranda Whitlam, he had been thrust unwillingly back into the Waste. Both times, he had worked his way out and into World City. Had it been worth it? Why does it all seem so futile? Perhaps he should be taking some chances again.

  Images come to him unbidden – a breeze at evening blowing palm fronds, a moon rising over a mountain, a rough track leading into deep green forest, empty streets in autumn, glacial shop displays. To him, now, these are simply images of a world outside: any world; nothing personal.

  He thinks of the woman whose representative he is about to meet and how she has always had minions to work through, whichever side of the glass she has been on. But he is alone. Nothing changes.

  He remembers sitting next to her in a cafe in Cologne, snow falling in the square beyond the windows and, at the opposite side of the table, a young man who knows that by the grace of Miranda Whitlam, he has been changed in a way that people have dreamed of for as long as they have been able to dream.

  10

  Miranda Whitlam still thought of those glittering lines she had seen her father reaching out to move, but now with desperation rather than hope. She cast around for some new way of thinking about them, some new way of using them, but it was impossible to recover the sense of control and security they had promised. An unbridgeable gap had opened up between the reality of the technique and the lifesaver she had once made of it. She used work to numb the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her. She pushed herself even beyond the precocious grasp of business practice expected of her, immersing herself in the work of her company and struggling to find exactly where she could make her most worthwhile contribution.

  Accordingly, at the age of fourteen, she was able to approach the school biotech consultant and say, with all the assurance that came from a complete grasp of the essentials, “I hear that biotech is moving beyond agricultural and medical into energy production. My company has major oil and power generation interests and we need to extend into energy-centred biotech. What’s your recommendation?”

  The biotech consultant studied his fingertips for some moments. It was his business to know the profiles of every one of the school’s so-called clients, so he was aware that Miranda Whitlam was already identified as someone of unusual ability. It was his first encounter with her, however, and he replied casually enough, “What do you know about DNA?”

  “Not much. What do I need to know?”

  Even the biotech consultant, familiar with the ways of the children of the very rich, found himself slightly unnerved by Miranda’s tone of dismissive authority. He contemplated his fingertips again. Either something had been excised from this girl or it had never been there in the first place. He tried to pin it down and could only think of the expected reactions to his question – ‘Well, I know a bit – it’s the foundation of life isn’t it?’ – ‘Isn’t it what the biotech industry works with mostly?’ – The kind of reaction even grown-up executives might have given him. But instead of open-ended interest he had simply been instructed to inform. What excited this girl? What really interested her?

  The biotech consultant decided to put her under pressure. He said forcefully, “You need to know everything there is to know if you’re to make anything out of your proposed move. Firstly, you’ll need to aim for a full grounding in biotechnology. Once you have that, you’ll have some chance of assessing what you need to know next and then the level of risk this new venture of yours carries. For a start, I’d say two weeks on cell biology, a month on molecular biology, a month on molecular genetics and evolution, then three months on basic biotech. I can put together a programme of individual sessions and screen-learning for you that should cover it, but you’ll have to have your existing commitments completely rescheduled. That’s a major investment on the part of your company and a serious new venture you’re proposing.”

  The biotech consultant was interested to see that Miranda Whitlam looked pleased rather than daunted. Okay, so she liked pressure. That much he could provide.

  *

  Three months later, after the most highly-pressured term she had yet experienced, Miranda was satisfied she had a working grasp of the double helix, complementary base pairing and the genetic code. Also familiar were the mechanics by which the code was transcribed and translated into the fabric of cell and body, and she was now beginni
ng to grasp how these entities and processes could be chopped and changed to form the building blocks of manufacturing process.

  Seeing no evidence that pressure was turning into stress, the biotech consultant said, “What you’ve learned is what any school could have taught you, albeit over five years. What matters now is that you keep up the biotech, but start stepping back so you can begin to see your proposed venture as a whole. You need to operate the knowledge instead of having it hang over you like some higher authority. You’re the authority in all this. So, what you need is your own way of thinking about it – about DNA and molecular genetics and biotech – some way that’ll enable you to talk about it like you came to me talking about your company’s interests in energy production.”

  Miranda frowned. “I thought it was a technology I was learning. That’s like a tool. I’ve just been learning how the tools work. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not any more, it isn’t. You see, if you aim to use DNA-based technology to open up a whole new area of energy production, it won’t only be technical problems you come up against. If it works, there’ll be ethical, social and environmental concerns and you’re going to have to factor those into your risk analysis. Out of the personal position you adopt, you’re going to have to develop a public front for your company, and that’s why I’m pressing you to come up with something a bit deeper than mere tool use. Come up with that in public and you’ll find your staff being equated with Australopithecus. You need a philosophy, Miranda.”

  “So you’re saying that I need to make this proposal sound ethically, socially and environmentally acceptable?”

  The biotech consultant considered her carefully. He had just demanded of this girl that she become the source of an organising vision and she hadn’t flinched. Yet this was what prime-movers and top CEOs were paid millions a year to do. Perhaps she had not fully understood. He said, “There’s more to it than that. As far as ethics, society and the environment go, you’ll have a whole public relations department that can field the arguments. Your job is to develop a company position that can somehow stand above any squabble over these conventional concerns. Ask yourself, what’s my company’s role in society in wanting to undertake this work?”

  “To make more energy available at less cost.”

  “Worthy enough – but your chosen means of doing this involves working with what many believe to be the fabric of their being. They see DNA as some kind of holy, inviolate inner sanctum. They won’t like you messing with that in order to provide cheaper fuel.”

  “Why not? What’s so special about DNA? It’s just stuff we’re made of, like atoms and molecules and earth and electricity. I don’t see why they should pick on DNA as special.”

  There was a disturbing pragmatism in her reply. The biotech consultant wondered what limits, if any, this girl was actually capable of putting on herself. “I take your point, Miranda,” he said after some moments, “and largely share your frustration. I think that our problem has to do with something that stands in the way of every new development in technology there’s ever been. Call it, idealist thinking. The way idealist thinking works in relation to DNA is that people identify DNA with the source of all forms. What more precious form is there than our own selves? So what could be more precious than the source of that form?”

  “The source of all forms – what does that mean?”

  This time the consultant’s check in answering was unintentional – he had been pulled up short in his flow by something entirely unexpected. There had been a spark there, a genuine spark of interest and enthusiasm. He had been probing for that ever since they had first met. So, what did she find so exciting about the source of all forms? Was she a philosopher? Was she thinking of something else? Normally, such talk was guaranteed to induce instant catatonia.

  “That’s about as clearly as I can put it,” the biotech consultant said. “There’s a way of thinking that possesses people – some people. They see themselves as the manifestation of a deeper reality and it’s what’s happening in this deeper reality that really matters, not what you and I can experience here and now. The source of all forms I’m talking about is one of those deeper realities.”

  “So do these idealists think that by making changes in this deeper reality, they can make changes in the appearances that you and I experience here and now?”

  The biotech consultant did a double take. She hadn’t even paused to think. There was something in her that had been primed for this. What the hell was going on with this girl?

  He replied, “Yes, that’s exactly what they think, although the changes they try and make aren’t necessarily carried out by direct manipulation – as in the way we make changes to DNA. For the idealist, prayer and ritual are far more important. In fact, the idealist sees mechanical manipulation as somehow counterfeit. I don’t know anyone who’s tried praying to DNA, but I do know of people who try and influence it by meditation and visualisation – though, personally,” he added lightly, watching for her reaction, “I’d have more faith in viral vectors and site-directed mutagenesis.”

  But Miranda was not listening to the technology. The biotech consultant had spoken of idealist thinking and people’s perception of DNA. To him this was maybe just some philosophical issue, trivial compared with the power of viral vectors and the other tools and weapons of molecular biotech, only to be attended to as some irrational inconvenience getting in the way of progress. But to Miranda Whitlam, DNA and the source of all forms came together as entirely novel information. Suddenly, the molecule of life ceased to be a cipher in a set of technical procedures, or even a small but extremely extended arrangement of space-filling balls. In place of these mechanical emblems, Miranda found her imagination possessed by a world-embracing network of glittering filigree threads that coursed throughout life, glowing with information. This image and the thought of a source of all forms fused in her mind with a tremendous explosion of mental energy. The ideas projected through her, shifting, dissolving and reorienting whole constellations of concept, shaking out her thoughts into a vast new construct.

  By making changes in those glittering, abstract patterns of DNA nucleotides, she could make changes in the living forms that populated the world.

  Miranda imagined her hand reaching in to adjust the starburst clusters of DNA base pairs, rearranging the filigree of connections that bound those stellar forms to the manifest world. She would reach in, make a change and the world would change accordingly.

  11

  The ‘state place’ Dion’s father sent him to was a long bus ride away. Early each winter morning the bus headed east, away from the main highway, the smooth lawns of the industrial units and the neon-decked cubes, further than Dion had been before. At the start of his journey there was only a scattering of other passengers, who got off after just a few stops. But as the bus headed further east more people boarded until many were standing.

  Dion observed his fellow passengers carefully. They looked very different from those he had seen working in the neon-lit cubes. They were dressed plainly and carried used-looking briefcases or sandwich boxes. He noticed, too, that as the bus approached the school, the quality of the surroundings changed. The buildings looked older, the cars had dents in and the streets had holes in. It was all rougher, more makeshift and much more familiar to him than the polished, alien emptiness of the district where his father had chosen to live. The sunlight was weaker than it had been on his island and the air much colder, and there were no pigs wandering along the street, but he began to feel that here was a place where he might just live.

  In the school, the quality of the pupils was different too. He was sized-up on his first day and set upon on his second. He bloodied enough noses and ground enough cheeks into the asphalt of the school yard to win guarded respect, and the privilege of being asked who he was. He gained some status, too, from not having been born in Europe. The gang boys were mainly sons of North African and West Asian families, boys who were on the outside anywa
y. Their fathers were working for a fixed term before going home, so there was no incentive for the sons of those fathers to conform. Dion said to them, “We’re not going home. My father wants to stay here for the rest of his life. I’m going to leave. I’m going to try and get back to where I was born.” This serious intent gave him an edge. He was open to anything.

  At first, it was just planned escape. Dion and his friends would get to school, get registered then sit out the classes until they had to change rooms. During the transfer it was possible to make directly for the one section of fence that was out of sight of any window. It had been cut so it could be lifted to allow through, with only a little scratching from the cut ends of the wire, an average-sized fourteen-year-old.

  Once past the wire, they would stow the few items that passed for a uniform in a nearby road-salt box, then try and put a safe distance between themselves and the school. This generally meant half an hour’s walk into an area where they were less likely to be linked with the tides of girls and boys who came and went each day from around the school.

  “Look like we’ve been told to go somewhere,” Dion urged them, “Look like we’re doing a project or something.”

  But, more often than not, they would hear someone shout, ‘Hey, where are you going?’ and seized by panic and excitement they would run like hell, their assumed cool blown to the wind. And each time, as they pelted down proliferating side streets, Dion would experience the charge of feeling with a great wave of relief. It was like taking that first lungful of air after seeing how long he could hold his head under in the bath, and he would outrun his companions just for the sheer joy of it.