“You aren’t telling us anything new, Joan. The slow death of the biosphere is — ah — banal. A cliché. And I have to point out that what we have done is in fact inevitable. We are animals, we continue to behave like animals, and we always will.” There was a grumble of dissent. Scott plowed on, “Other animals have been known to eat themselves to extinction. In the twentieth century reindeer were introduced to a small island in the Bering Sea. An initial population of twenty-nine ballooned to six thousand in twenty years. But their food was slow-growing lichens, which had no time to recover from their intensive grazing.”
“But,” somebody shouted out, “reindeer don’t know anything about ecology.”
Scott said smoothly, “We’ve done this throughout history. The example of the Polynesian islands is well known. The Mideast city of Petra—”
As Joan had hoped, the group broke up into arguing clusters.
“…those people of the past who failed to manage their resources were guilty simply of failing to solve a difficult ecological problem…”
“We are already handling energy and mass flows on a scale that rivals natural processes. Now we have to use those powers consciously…”
“But the risks of tinkering with the fundamentals of an overcrowded planet…”
“All these technological measures would themselves cost energy, and so would actually add to the planetary burden of waste heat…”
“Our civilization has no common agenda. How would you propose to resolve the political, legal, ethical, cultural, and financial issues implicit in your proposals?…”
“I’ve been listening to this kind of technocratic horseshit all my adult life! What is this, a NASA funding pitch?”
“I say fuck the ecosystem. Who needs horny-backed toads anyhow? Let’s go for a drastic simplification. All you’ve got to do is soak up cee oh two, pump out oxygen, and regulate the heat. How hard can it be?”
“So, madam, you really want to live in Blade Runner world?”
Joan had to intervene again to pull the group back together. “We need a unity of will, a mobilization we haven’t seen before. But maybe we haven’t yet hit on the solution we should be reaching for.”
“Precisely,” said Alison Scott, and she stood up again. She rested her hands on the shining hair, blue and green, of her two daughters. “Big engineering is a defunct dream of the twentieth century. The solution is not out there; it will be found in us.”
More hostility greeted these pronouncements. “She means engineering babies, like her own two little freaks.”
“I’m talking about evolution,” Scott snapped. “That’s what happens to a species when the environment changes. Throughout our history we have proved to be a remarkably adaptable species.”
A woman stood up, sixtyish, black. Joan knew her. Evelyn Smith was one of the premier evolutionary biologists of her time. Smith said coldly, “Natural selection has not been operating on human populations for some tens of millennia. Claims that it has show a lack of understanding of the basic mechanism. We fend off the winnowing processes that drive selection: Our weapons have eliminated predators, agricultural development has beaten back starvation, and so on. But this will change if the imminent collapse occurs. In that case, selection will return. This is the subject of my paper in Session Three, incidentally.”
There were some protests.
“…what ‘imminent collapse’?”
“…for all its surface brilliance, our society shows symptoms of decline: growing inequality, declining returns from economic expansion, collapsing educational standards and intellectual achievement.”
“…yes, and spiritual death. Even we Americans pay only lip service to totems — the flag, the Constitution, democracy — while we surrender power over our lives to the corporations and comfort ourselves with mysticism and muddle. It’s happened before. The parallels with Rome especially are very clear…”
“…except that now we’re all joined up, all over the world. If we do collapse, there might be nothing much left to un-collapse out of.”
“…absurdly pessimistic. We’re resilient — we achieved great things before…”
“We dug out all the easy ores and burnt all the easy oil and coal; if we did fall, we’d have nothing to build from…”
“My point,” said Smith doggedly, “is that we may not have much time.”
These words, softly spoken, briefly silenced everybody, and Joan saw her opportunity.
She said dryly, “So I guess that if we don’t want to go back to the bad old days of being just another animal in the ecology, we need to get a hold of this mess. But I think there’s a way we can do that.” Absently stroking her belly, she smiled. “A new way. But a way we’ve known about all along. A primate way.”
And she began to outline her vision.
Human culture, Joan said, had been an adaptation to help people live through the wild climate swings of the Pleistocene. Now, in a savage millennial irony, that culture was feeding back to cause still more drastic environmental damage. Culture, which had once been so profoundly adaptive, had become maladaptive, and would have to change.
“Life isn’t just about competition,” she said. “It’s also about cooperation. Interdependence. It always has been. The first cells depended on the cooperation of simpler bacteria. So did the first ecologies, the stromatolites. Now, our lives are so interdependent that they must, in the future, develop with a common purpose.”
“You’re just talking about globalization. What corporation is sponsoring you?”
“We’re back to Gaia and other Earth goddesses, aren’t we?”
Joan said, “Our global society is becoming so highly structured that it is becoming something akin to a holon: a single, composite entity. We have to learn to think of ourselves in that way. We have to build on the other half of our primate natures — the part that isn’t about competition and xenophobia. Primates cooperate a lot more than they compete. Chimps do; lemurs do; pithecines and erectus and Neandertals must have; we do. Human interdependence comes from our deepest history. Now, without anybody planning it, we have engulfed the biosphere, and we have to learn to manage it together.”
Alison Scott stood again. “What exactly is it you want, Joan?”
“A manifesto. A statement. A cosigned letter to the UN, from all of us. We have to give a lead, start something new. We have to start showing the path to a sustainable future. Who else but us?”
“Hoorah, we can save the world…”
“She’s right. Gaia will be not our mother, but our daughter.”
“What makes you think anybody with power will listen to a bunch of scientists? They never have before. This is pie in the sky…”
Evelyn Smith said, “They’ll listen if they are desperate enough.”
Alyce Sigurdardottir stood up. “Confucius said, ‘Those who say it cannot be done need to get out of the way of the people who are doing it.’ ” She raised her thin fist in a power salute. “We’re still primates — only more so. Right?”
Despite a few catcalls, Joan thought she saw a warmer response in the faces ranked before her. It’s going to work, she thought. It’s just a start, but it’s going to work. We can fix this. She stroked her belly.
In fact she was right; it might have worked.
The political and economic pressures might indeed have induced a receptivity in the global power brokers that hadn’t existed before. Joan Useb’s ideas could indeed have shown how to ally the interconnections offered by technology with older primate instincts of cooperation. And it might have gone beyond mere ecological management. After all no species before had had the potential to be linked globally, not in four billion years of life on Earth. Given time, Joan’s approach might have inspired a cognitive breakthrough as significant as the integration of Mother’s generation.
Humans had become smart enough to damage their planet. Now, just given a little more time, they might have become smart enough to save it.
Jus
t a little more time.
But now the lights went out. There were explosions, like great footfalls. People screamed and ran.
Meanwhile, over Rabaul, the earthquakes had gotten increasingly severe. At last they cracked the seabed above Rabaul’s magma chamber. The magma was rising to the surface through great tunnels, some of them three hundred meters wide. Now seawater rushed into the tunnels and flashed instantly to steam. Meanwhile, other gases, carbon dioxide and sulfur compounds that had been kept dissolved in the magma by the higher pressure of the depths, like the carbon dioxide in a bottle of soda. But now the bottle was cracked, and the gases came bubbling out.
In the rock chambers, the pressure escalated exponentially.
II
Emergency lights came on, filling the room with a cold glow.
The false ceiling had broken up into polystyrene shards that hailed down on the fleeing attendees. Joan saw Alison Scott grab her two girls and huddle with them in a corner. The exposed roof space, filled with insulation-lagged ducts and cables, was cavernous, dark, dirty.
Fine nylon ropes tumbled down through air thick with polystyrene dust. She glimpsed black-clad shapes that moved, spiderlike, through the roof space, and slid down to the bar’s littered floor. They wore skintight black coveralls and balaclava hoods with silvery eye visors. She counted five, six, seven of them. She couldn’t tell if they were male or female. They all carried slim automatic weapons.
Alyce Sigurdardottir was tugging at her arm, trying to make her climb down from her table. But she resisted, aware that she was still the center here; she felt, maybe irrationally, that things would get even worse if she gave in to the chaos.
One of the invaders looked to be in command. On the floor, the others gathered around him as he surveyed the situation. He, she? No, he, Joan thought; in a group like this, it will be a he. Two of the intruders stayed with the leader. The other four made for the doors. With their backs to the walls they trained their weapons on the delegates, who herded, sheeplike, toward the center of the room.
There was only one hotel staff member here: the barman, the young Australian who had caught Alyce’s eye. He was slim, with curly black hair — at least part Aborigine, Joan thought — and he wore a bow tie and sparkling vest. Now, with great courage, he stepped forward, hands spread. “Listen,” he began. “I don’t know what you want here. But if you will let me call—”
The gun’s sound was quiet, oddly like a leopard’s cough, Joan thought absently. The boy fell, twitching. There was a sudden stink of death shit, a smell she hadn’t encountered since Africa. The delegates screamed, fell back, froze, as they each in their separate ways sought not to attract the attention of the murderers.
Beyond all this, incongruously, the smart walls continued to cycle, showing meaningless images of the New Guinea volcano, the toiling robot factories on Mars, ads for beer and drugs and technological trinkets.
As Joan had expected, the leader, his symbolic killing done, approached her. His gun was at his side, presumably still hot. His visor had been sewn into the balaclava. It was stylish, almost chic.
Before he could speak, she snapped, “Are you afraid to show me your face?”
He laughed and pulled off his balaclava — he, yes, she had been right. His head was shaven. He was white, with brown eyes. He was maybe twenty-five, surely not much older than the barman he had just killed. He eyed her, measuring her unspoken challenge.
His followers peeled off their balaclavas. They all had ostentatiously bare scalps. There were four men, including the leader, and three women.
Joan asked, “Are you Pickersgill?”
The leader laughed. “Pickersgill doesn’t exist. The global police state chases a chimera. Pickersgill is a pleasing joke, and useful.” His accent was Midwestern American, but with a faint exotic burr; such was the worldwide dominance of American English nowadays, this boy could have come from anywhere.
“So who are you?”
“I am Elisha.”
“Elisha, tell me what you want,” Joan said carefully.
“You are not setting the agenda now,” the boy said. “I will tell you what we have done. Dr. Joan Useb, we have released the disease.”
Joan’s skin prickled.
“You are all infected. We are infected. Without treatment, in a few days most of us will die. If this situation is resolved to our satisfaction, perhaps we will all survive. But we are prepared to die for what we believe. Are you?”
Joan considered. “Do you want the table?”
He stalked up and down before the coffee table, thinking it over. The absurd little table was the focus of power in this room: Of course he wanted it. “Yes. Get down.”
With Alyce’s help, she clambered down to the floor. Elisha leapt with some agility on to Joan’s improvised podium and began to bark commands in what sounded like Swedish to his colleagues.
“Classic primate behavior,” Alyce murmured. “Male dominance hierarchies. Paranoia. Xenophobia verging on schizophrenia. That’s what’s going on here, under the horse feathers.”
“But it’s only dealing with the horse feathers that is going to get any of us out of here—”
She was drowned out by a huge flapping noise, as if some vast pterosaur were coming in to land on the roof of the hotel. It was a helicopter, of course, suspended in the sky beyond the roof. And now an amplified voice boomed through the walls, announcing itself as the police.
The terrorists blasted their weapons at the roof, bringing down even more of the ceiling. The conference delegates cowered and screamed — thereby adding to the din the bad guys wanted to create, Joan thought, her hands pressed to her ears. When the police stopped trying to communicate, the guns were shut down.
Joan stood up carefully, brushing away dust. She was oddly unafraid. She looked up at Elisha, who stalked his coffee table podium, flushed, breathing hard, his gun resting on his shoulder. “You haven’t a chance of getting what you want, whatever it is, unless you let them speak to you.”
“But I don’t need to speak to police, or their mind-twisting psychological advisors. Not when I have you here — you, the self-styled head of the new globalization, this holon.”
Alyce sighed. “Why do I get the feeling that such an innocent word is suddenly going to become the name of a new demon?”
“We listened to your grandiose speech in the ceiling space, excluded from the light — how fitting!”
Joan said, “You really—” You really don’t understand. Wrong words, Joan. “Please. Tell me your concerns.”
He eyed her. Then he clambered down off his table. “Listen to me,” he said more quietly. “I heard what you said about the global organism into which we must soon be submerged. Very well. But any organism must have a boundary. What about those beyond the boundary? Doctor Joan Useb, the three hundred wealthiest people on the planet own as much as do the poorest three billion of their fellow human beings. Beyond the bastions of the elite, some poor regions are effectively enslaved, the people mined for their labor and bodies — or body parts. How is your global nervous system to be made aware of their misery?”
Her mind raced. Everything he said sounded rehearsed. Of course it did: This was his moment, the crux of his life; everything she did had to be governed by understanding that. Was he a student? If he was some kind of latter-day cultural colonial type on a guilt trip, maybe she could find weak spots in his commitment.
But he was a murderer, she reminded herself. And he had killed so casually, with not a moment’s hesitation. She wondered what drug regime he was using.
“Excuse me.” A new voice. It turned out to be Alison Scott. She was standing before Elisha, her two terrified daughters at her side, their hair of blue and green shining in the meaningless, flickering light of the walls.
Joan felt a stab of pain in her lower belly, hard enough to make her gasp. She had a sense of things escalating out of control.
Bex was staring at her accusingly.
“Bex, are
you OK?”
“You said Rabaul wasn’t going to hurt us. You said it was so unlikely, while we were here. You said we were safe.”
“I’m sorry. Really. Alison, please go sit down. There’s nothing you can do here.”
Scott ignored her. “Look, whoever you are, whatever you want, we are hot, we are tired, we are thirsty, we are already starting to feel sick.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Elisha said evenly. “Psychosomatic. You’re being neurotic.”
Scott actually snarled. “Don’t you psychoanalyze me. I demand—”
“You demand, you demand, yammer, yammer, yammer.” He approached Scott. She held her ground, her arms tightly wrapped around her girls. Elisha lifted Bex’s aquamarine hair, tugged it gently, rubbed it between his fingers. “Genriched,” he said.
“Leave her alone,” Scott hissed.
“How beautiful they are, like toys.” He ran his hand down Bex’s hair to her shoulder, then squeezed her small breast.
Bex yelped, and Scott pulled her away. “She’s fourteen years old—”
“You know what they do, Dr. Joan Useb, these genetic engineers? They stuff a whole extra chromosome into their kids, an extra chromosome full of desirable genes. But, aside from the hair and the teeth, do you know what that extra chromosome does? It stops those perfect kids breeding with us old-style unenhanced Homo sapiens. Now, what higher exclusion barrier can you imagine than that? Today, the rich even set themselves up as a separate species.” As if absently, like pulling a fruit from its branch, he pulled Bex away from her mother’s grasp. One of the female terrorists held back Scott. Elisha ripped open the girl’s blouse, exposing her light, lacy brassiere. Bex closed her eyes; she was muttering to herself, a song or a rhyme.
“Elisha, please—” Now there was another stab of pain in Joan’s belly, a liquid surge. She found herself bent double. Oh, Christ, not now, she thought. Not now.
Suddenly Alyce was here. “Take it easy. Sit down.”
The wall images were changing, Joan saw. Her vision was misted, but there seemed to be a lot more orange, black, gray.
Evolution Page 60
