I’m feeling a little weird, not sure what to think. Part of me still thinks he’s telling me a sob story to get me to go with him but his distress at my failure to believe him strikes me as remarkably genuine.
Suddenly he lets go of my hands, stands up, rips off his jacket and tie and pulls his shirt over his head.
Taking his clothes off is anything but fatherly. I take a quick look behind me at the door of the guest suite. How easy would it be to escape?
‘Look at this,’ he says and swings round to show me his back. There are no bumps or feathers, but there are faint scars on his shoulder blades, evidence that surgery has taken place – that something or some things have been removed. Is it possible? I screw up my eyes.
He swings back to face me. ‘This is top secret,’ he says, like one of those undercover cops in Bourne or The Undefeated. ‘You mustn’t tell a soul. You do understand what this means?’
I nod dumbly, not knowing what to say, what to think.
He spells it out for me. ‘I too was born with protrusions on my shoulders and feathers that persisted in poking themselves through. Take a closer look.’ He turns his back towards me again and nods at me over his shoulder. ‘Go on, you can touch it. Check it out for yourself.’
I don’t want to touch him, but if this is proof that he’s who he says he is, I have little choice. I run my fingers over his back, over and around the scars. Under the skin I can feel the stumps of what could be the base of emerging wings. It is possible. It really is possible.
This is my father, I think to myself. He’s telling me the truth. He is my father. I try to swallow but there is a lump in my throat that makes this impossible.
‘My parents were lucky. They were rich and influential,’ he tells me. ‘They managed to arrange for me to have my abnormalities removed in secret. That was forty years ago.’
‘But that means you are a mutant humanoid.’
‘Correction. Was. I was a mutant humanoid. Now I’m a complete.’ He’s putting his shirt on again and doing up the buttons. ‘What my parents did for me, I intend to do for you, my son. I’m going to make you into a complete.’
I am so shocked I can hardly take in what he says next.
‘Tonight, provided you agree, we will go to the hospital satellite, Hos-sat. A hospital in the sky. There have been great advances in surgery since I was a baby. With improved neo-laser treatment there will be no scars left on your back to tell the tale.’
It takes me a moment to realise what it is he expects of me. I feel as if I’m going to be sick and look around for the bathroom. He’s still talking, explaining why this is necessary. ‘I can’t take you to Oasis as a mutant humanoid. You must see that. You wouldn’t be allowed in. At Hos-sat you’ll be in excellent hands. Top surgeons with all the latest equipment. Not only will they operate on you to erase your bumps and feathers but they’ll also be able to adjust your vocal chords and the way you move. You’ll be a new person. A complete.’
He looks pleased about that, but I can’t help thinking that if I undergo the surgery it will change me into someone I am not. I wouldn’t be a complete but a mutant humanoid in disguise. A living lie. I try to explain to him how I feel. ‘It doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to lose my identity.’
‘You’re bound to feel uncertain at first. I’ve sprung it on you. It’s a shock. Too much to take in. Give it time. You’ll receive counselling and, if you decide you don’t want the operation, I will teleport you back here. No problem. But I’m sure you’ll get used to the idea. You won’t lose your identity. You’ll still be little Mercury although – ‘he stops mid-sentence as something occurs to him, ‘actually, we will have to change your name. Completes don’t have the names of gods or other mythical characters.’
‘What’s your name?’ I ask him. ‘I don’t suppose it’s really John Smith.’
‘No, that was the first name that popped into my head.’
Not very original, but it’s not the moment to be provocative. ‘What’s your real name?’
‘Alexander Court,’ he tells me.
‘Alexander is a mythical name too,’ I point out. ‘A hero’s name anyway. Do all human beings have two names – like in the filmograms? Like James Bond?’
‘Generally speaking, yes. Some have more. The first name is the given name and the last is the surname passed on from father to child.’
‘What is my given name?’
He pauses for a moment and says, ‘Michael. I’ve always thought of you as Michael.’
‘So – I am to be Michael Court.’
‘So you are.’ He can’t help smiling, and it’s a warm smile, full of sunlight. Or so it seems to me. That is the moment he knows that I believe him and that I’ve made my decision.
‘Michael was an archangel with huge wings.’
‘So he was,’ he says. ‘So he was.’
We smile at each other, Alexander Court and Michael Court, and a bargain is struck. We both know I will do whatever it takes to go to Oasis with my father. Even if does involve surgery and a change of identity. The one thing I have lacked in my life is a father and I have no intention of losing him now.
Chapter Nine
Golden warriors and the Olds
(according to Isis)
We’re teleported to Compound 98, Odysseus and me. Real creepy feeling when your body breaks up into what Ody calls molecules and then knits together again. Totally weird. We find ourselves in a massive space, a sort of Roman arena. Not in the open air, of course, but under a dome of shining glass. Gold letters over an arch inform us we’re in The Great Hall. We’re standing round the edge with lots of other mutant humanoids. They seem to be waiting for something or someone. I roll my eyes. What now?
Trumpets sound. The central area is flooded with golden light. Enter Durga, the demon-slayer, standing upright in a golden chariot pulled by golden calves. Her helmet, a bull’s head with massive horns, her breastplate, sword and spear gleam bright gold. Impressive or what? The chariot sweeps round the hall in a huge circle. We scuttle out of her way, our backs to the wall. She wheels round and takes up a position at the end of The Great Hall. Are her weapons fashion accessories or is she is preparing for battle? An attack on another sectoid, perhaps? Compound 55 would be cool. Teach that slut Sati a lesson.
More trumpets, and in march a troop of warriors with animal-shaped helmets – wolves, lions, tigers, hyenas, the lot…. Their gold armour and weapons glitter. The warriors come to a halt on either side of Durga’s chariot. If only I could be one of them, my helmet in the form of a wild cat, my little arm swinging, the glint of a dagger peeping out of my extra hand. Imagine, me, Isis, standing in my own chariot whizzing round, a sword or perhaps two whooshing through the air, daring anyone to come too near. How cool would that be?
Music now. Mystical. Enter more humanoids, their mutations disguised by long blue gowns – though they can’t hide their multiple heads, eyes and ears. Mouths wide open, they’re singing at the top of their voices. They arrange themselves on a high platform behind the warriors.
An ancient humanoid appears, a two-headed crinkly-crumbly with an off-white sheet slung over one shoulder.
Durga raises her sword. The singing stops. She begins to speak. Her voice is deep and raw and reaches everyone in The Great Hall though it is to the little old humanoid she speaks.
‘Thank you, Brahmin, for the music rendered by your choir. An inspiring start to the day.’ She inclines her head and the crinkly mutant bows, his heads almost touching the ground. I swear that one of them is loose. Will it snap off and roll along the floor? That would be a laugh. No such luck. He’s even older than Odysseus and Ody must be at least fifty.
Durga speaks again. ‘I would like to welcome two new members to my sectoid. Odysseus is to work alongside Brahmin in the histo-lab and Isis will be their assistant.’
I feel Odysseus bristle beside me. He’s not happy about having to share the histo-lab with someone else. And what about me? What a joke to
have to be an assistant to these two decrepit olds. Imagine. They’ll be arguing about some long forgotten histo-detail that no one in their right mind cares a fig about and I’ll be piggy in the middle. Boring. Fat chance of riding to battle in a golden chariot at Durga’s side. I’ll be stuck in the histo-lab, another useless relic gathering dust.
‘I’ll now ask the Brahmin to lead us in prayer,’ announces Durga.
Oh my Zeus, he’s not only choirmaster and histo-noid but priest as well. What’s with all this religious stuff? We didn’t pray at C55. We just got on with our work. Still, I suppose if you’re going into battle, a prayer or two won’t hurt.
After the prayers, another couple of hymns, more toots on the trumpet and Durga rides off followed by the army and the choir.
Brahmin approaches us, a purple-veined hand outstretched. ‘So, we meet at last. I’ve followed your excellent work with interest, Odysseus.’
‘I’m afraid you have the advantage. I know nothing of your work.’ Ody’s answer is quiet but deadly.
‘Ah – not such a brilliant researcher as I was led to believe,’ says Brahmin with a malicious smile.
‘Not my field, I’m afraid,’ says Odysseus. ‘I don’t believe in all that religious bunkum.’
Brahmin puts his heads on one side and gives Odysseus a look full of pity. ‘Your loss, my friend,’ he says. ‘Your loss.’
I know Odysseus is irritated by Brahmin’s remarks, but he’s far too clever to show it. ‘Come on then, show me the histo-lab,’ and he glides off smoothly in his accustomed manner, leaving poor old Brahmin limping along behind him. Odysseus slows down a little, slides to a stop, whizzes round and smiles. ‘I’ll wait for you, shall I?’
Round one to cunning Odysseus, but I suspect that he and Brahmin will prove pretty evenly matched in the clashes of opinion that are bound to follow.
I have no choice but to go with them. We pass through various other halls or arenas where young mutant humanoids are practising warfare of all kinds: one-to-one combat, the throwing of spears and the shooting of arrows. There is even a rifle range.
One young warrior is removing his lion helmet. He shakes out long blonde curls. His deep blue eyes stare at the sight of us as we pass, me trotting along after the two olds. The warrior treats me to a wink from the third eye in the middle of his forehead. I feel my heart skip. He’s hot.
All morning, while Odysseus and Brahmin examine the artefacts and play their verbal games, I think about the young warrior. I can’t wait to see him again. It’s not long before I have a chance to do exactly that, but first Brahmin shows us the empty underground chamber, a huge scooped-out cave, which is to be the museum. Odysseus screws up his eyes, taking in the layout and making up his mind where the best place for each group of artworks and artefacts should be.
‘The Old Masters here, I think, as we enter, leading in chronological order to later works.’
Brahmin disagrees. ‘We should have an eclectic mix. The work should be arranged according to themes – religious or secular, symbolic or naturalistic, regardless of period.’
‘I never heard of anything so ridiculous,’ says Ody. ‘In any case, I am to be the curator of the museum, not you, so it will be my decision.’
‘Not so fast, young upstart. Who says you are to be curator?’
‘Ra informed me himself.’
‘Which of his heads told you that?’
‘The central one, naturally.’
‘When was this?’
‘Several weeks ago.’
‘Since then the other heads have clearly changed his mind. Durga notified me last night that I am in line to be the curator.’
‘We’ll soon see about that,’ says Ody in a huff. ‘I’ll go and see her straight away to put her right.’
‘You can’t just go and see her. Durga is the head of this sectoid. You need an appointment.’
‘Fine, so I’ll make an appointment. Where do I go to do that? Who is in charge of her engagements?’
Brahmin grins through his rotten, black teeth. ‘I am.’ He sniggers, pleased with himself. He really is a revolting specimen. ‘Tell you what, Odysseus, we’ll go and see her together and sort out this – misunderstanding.’
Ody grunts. He’s lost this round. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they have their meeting with Durga.
I raise innocent eyes to theirs. ‘Can I come too?’
They both turn on me and snap in unison. ‘No you cannot.’
Here, in C98, we don’t work such long hours as in 55. We stop for breaks several times a day and have the entire evening free. As I’m keen to avoid spending my spare time with my aged mentors, as soon as the trumpet heralds the end of the first session, I dash out of the histo-lab, my young limbs flying this way and that, and follow others into the dino-cube. I collect my food packoid from a counter at the side and squat down in a corner to open it. In C55 our food packoids were delivered to our dormo-cubes so I am used to eating alone. It’s different here. Everyone seems to sit in pairs or groups, talking as they eat. I catch sight of the curly-haired warrior but he’s busy chatting to his colleagues. I stuff my nutri-ration into my mouth and down it as quickly as I can. I’ve only just finished when he strolls over and gives a little bow. How formal is that?
‘Osiris,’ he says.
I open my eyes wide. ‘No way,’ I say. ‘I’m Isis.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘That’s why I said I’m Osiris.’
He’s teasing me. Flirting with me.
‘So – you’d like to be my brother, would you?’ I raise big eyes to his.
‘If being your brother means having the same relationship with you that Osiris and Isis shared, I wouldn’t mind,’ he grins.
I feel the colour rush up my cheeks. It’s a long time since I’ve sparred with another male mutant humanoid like this. Not since the bantering bouts between me and Heracles – and look what that led to. Nothing but heartache. But this warrior is something else. He’s soooo hot….
We meet again at the next break. He brings me a drink. ‘Try this. It’s Soma,’ he jokes. ‘The nectar of the Gods. Sweet, intoxicating. It will take you out of yourself. ‘
‘I’d better not drink it then,’ I say. ‘I like to be in control.’
‘So do I,’ he says.
I take a sip of the drink. It’s thick and sweet: liquid honey.
‘What’s your real name?’ I ask.
‘I’m known here as Dionysus,’ He leans over and whispers in my ear, ‘but to you I’ll always be Osiris.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean that your brother, Set, is going to kill you.’ I’m showing off a bit, proving that I know my mythology. Mind you, we all know the origin of our names and the stories that accompany them.
He’s amused. ‘What if he does? I know you’ll magic me alive again.’
‘You think I’m going to pick up all the joints of rotten meat that were once your body parts and reassemble them?’
‘Why not?’ He puts his face close to mine and whispers, ‘Apart from the one piece missing.’
I blush, well aware of the piece he’s talking about. His words turn me on. I can’t help it. My knees are totally wobbly. It won’t take long for me to give in and let him have his way with me. What then? Will I just be one more notch on his sword?
I decide to change the subject. ‘What’s with all this warrior business anyway? Is Durga preparing for a real battle? Or is it – like – just a game?’
‘It’s no game. I can promise you that, but what she actually has in mind I can’t say.’
‘Why not? Because you don’t know?’
‘Because it’s top secret.’
‘Bullshit. You don’t know what she’s up to.’
‘As a matter of fact I do, but if I tell you – I’ll have to kill you.’
‘Oh well then, you’d better keep it to yourself. I’m not ready to die yet.’
He laughs. ‘You know, Isis, Durga won’t mind if you don’t spend all your time i
n the histo-lab. She’d like you to see what we do here – how we reach our targets. It’ll make you more of a team player, which is what she really wants all of us to be. It’s a bit different here from the other sectoids. I’d be pleased to show you what we do.’
I don’t need any further urging. We sit together at a workstation and he introduces me to a series of online computer games. First he tells me there are lots of different types and tries to teach me the jargon. I hear his voice as if in a dream. MMORPG – massively multi-play online role-playing game, MMORTS …. real-time strategy, MMOFPS …. first person shooter, MMOSG … online social games….
‘There are browser games too involving the use of graphics and technologies such as Flash and Java.’
I can see he’s dead keen on these games and I really do try to take in what he’s saying, but he’s sitting so close to me, his thigh against mine, that I can feel his body heat and find it difficult to concentrate.
‘You have to learn leetspeak,’ he says. ‘Leet is short for elite and it’s a form of symbolic writing used in computers. Are you following me?’
I nod. To the ends of the Earth, I think. You lead, I’ll follow.
‘What kind of game do you fancy? Doom? That’s a deathmatch, first-person shooter game arena-style play. Or would you prefer a sci-fi based game?’
‘You choose,’ I say.
He goes into Halo, a sci-fi game with Master Chief John 117, a cybernetically enhanced super-soldier, and his AI companion, Corfana, and they “frag” and “respawn” and “telefrag” and “translocate” until I totally lose the plot.
I try to look as if I’m as excited by the action as he is and I am excited, but not by the game. His attention is focused on the computer, mine on him. He’s soooo hot….
The skills needed to win these games are based on the strategies for warfare, he informs me. The different levels a player reaches award him points, which go towards the targets for the sectoid. He’s right. It is different here. Very different from C55.
Ascension Page 9
