He frowns. ‘You wouldn’t rather choose a creative subject – such as art, music or literature?’
I think of the scam that is Worldwideculture and shake my head. ‘No thanks.’
Journal Entry
Stuart comes home from school with a black eye.
‘What happened to you, darling?’ asks Stella.
‘Some kid said my brother was a mutant so I had to punch his face in. He punched me back but I won. His face looks like a squashed tomato.’
I bet it was that ginger-haired kid.
Stella screws up her eyes. ‘Still, you shouldn’t have hit him in the face.’
‘Why not? No one is going to call my brother a mutant and get away with it.’
I’m secretly chuffed. My little brother is sticking up for me.
‘Fancy a game of football after tea?’ I try to sound casual.
‘Thought you said you couldn’t play,’ he says.
‘I’ve been practising.’
He grins. ‘You’re on,’ and he slaps his hand on mine. ‘High fives.’
Reminds me of Isis. I wonder how she is, if she’s happy in her new compound.
For a moment I feel quite lonely, but kicking a ball around with Stuart will cheer me up.
Journal Entry
Something terrible happens. An auto-mail arrives from Heracles.
‘Hi Mercury, Kali is so worried about you. Please reply to this message a soon as possible and let us know that you’re all right.’
I’d like to reply to let Kali know I’m fine and to find out how she is but I can’t. Father has impressed on me that no one must know where I am. It’s not at all sure that Heracles knows. He’s a good hacker, but there must be a limit to his skills. He may have sent a similar message to lots of auto-mail addresses, but if I reply he will know for sure. I change my access code and put a block on his.
I try to open the portal of Worldwideculture.inc. I’d like to find Kali and Isis. Make sure they are both all right. No success. Stella has blocked my access.
Chapter Sixteen
Revelation
(according to Odysseus)
At last I’ve managed to appease Brahmin. I’ve given him a gallery of his own to display the religious icons. I pride myself that it’s the sign of good leader to appreciate the skills and preferences of his assistant and allocate him appropriate tasks. Delegate. That’s the answer. I’m not the official curator as yet but if I act as if I’ve already been appointed it will demonstrate my leadership expertise. Brahmin is quite happy in his own little world arranging and rearranging the ornate silver and gold statuettes and emblems while I am equally content concentrating on mounting the pictures in the grand gallery. All is peaceful in the histo-lab and museum. No more heated altercations. Cunning Odysseus has created order out of chaos.
I’m immersed in selecting and hanging the paintings of the Great Masters from the Renaissance period. Amongst our most prize possessions are several genuine Correggios including the Madonna della Cesta (1525) from the National Gallery in London. We also have several copies of Correggio paintings from the cupola of the cathedral of Parma: details from the Assumption of the Virgin, Saints Jerome and Mathew and my particular favourite, Madonna and child with Saint Jerome and Mary Magdalen. Brahmin and I have had several altercations about whether to include the copies or not but I insist that they should be hung with the genuine works, as long as we make it clear it that they are copies. Better to show them, I tell him, than tuck them away in a drawer where no one will see them.
Isis raises an eyebrow. ‘No one ever sees them anyway, Ody, so what’s the difference?’
‘They will, Isis. Just you wait. They will.’
Isis thinks we are taking too long organizing the artefacts and that the museum will never open; but I want to be certain that every item is displayed and labelled perfectly before the grand opening when humanoids from all the compounds are to be teleported to C98 to see them. This event has not yet been confirmed by Durga but I’m convinced she’ll agree. It will bring great prestige to her sectoid.
I don’t hold out too much hope for her pillaging of the museum on some supposed satellite, but if extra artefacts do arrive I shall not refuse them on moral grounds. After all, most art treasures have been acquired during wars. The sacking of Constantinople, for example. Without that ruthless theft we would not have any of the riches of the Renaissance.
At the end of each day, Brahmin and I peruse each other’s work. I try to go into his galleria first to remind him who’s in charge. I glide round like an ice-skater, stopping every now and then to scrutinise each addition and on I coast to assess its effect in relation to the others. It’s a practised performance: an affirmation of my power. Occasionally I make a suggestion, a small adjustment. Nothing too controversial. It’s not worth the aggravation. For one thing I couldn’t care less how he displays these boring old relics. No one will be interested in visiting this dark galleria, tucked away as it is along a back corridor. For another, I am intent on keeping the peace. Arguments interrupt the flow of my own musings, which could affect the artistic decisions I have to make about more prestigious artefacts.
A few weeks have passed since Durga’s dramatic statement of intent, but both Durga and the golden warriors are still with us. Each morning at the Grand Parade they strut their stuff, marching round the great hall. Tension is in the air as if something is about to happen, but I doubt it will. In my experience, we mutant humanoids rarely leave our own compound unless transferred to another and the premise that there are satellites in the sky inhabited by uncontaminated completes seems a little far-fetched. Being a historian I’ve never been attracted by futuristic fables, too like fairy tales for me to take seriously, but I suppose they are popular with less erudite readers. Escapism from the daily grind. I banish Durga’s proclamation to the back of my mind and continue with more tangible matters.
Isis rushes up to me arms and legs all over the place, her face flushed. I am at the top of a small stepladder engaged in hanging a rather special painting. Isis clutches me and nearly knocks me off in her agitation.
‘Ody, guess what? They’re going tomorrow. Osiris with them.’
Isis and Osiris. What is she talking about? I don’t know anyone called Osiris. She must be more befuddled than I thought.
‘You know who I mean. Dionysis.’
‘God of wine and debauchery,’ I say.
‘Oh don’t be so thick, Ody. You must know him, the blond one with curly hair. I call him Osiris because I’m Isis.’
She’s right I have been thick. Obtuse. ‘I gather your feelings for this young man are not exactly sisterly,’ I say somewhat primly.
‘You guess right.’
I know Isis doesn’t spend as much time in the histo-lab or museum as she should but she tells me that she’s doing other useful work reaching targets on the compus in the centre and of course I have no idea how she spends her evenings. Or nights. I’ve always treated her with indulgence, allowing her the freedom to do what she wants, but I hadn’t realised that there was a young man on the scene. Perhaps I didn’t want to know. The incident with Heracles at C55 affected me deeply and now I’m going to suffer again because she’s fallen for a handsome young warrior. He will no doubt be just as careless of her affections.
‘Ody, they’ve built a big teleport, big enough for a lot of warriors to be transported at the same time and he’s to be one of the advance party, the first ten.’
I climb down the one or two steps. She clearly needs support. ‘Are you sure about this, Isis?’
‘Positive. The notice is all over the intercom-net. His name is at the top of the list. Get this, they’re not even allowed to say goodbye to anyone. They’re being kept together until early tomorrow morning until they leave. It’s totally unfair. Ody, I might never see him again.’
She almost throws herself into my arms and sobs. My arms slip around her and I hold her close. What am I to Isis? Substitute father, mentor, reliable old friend? My whole
body is trembling. Ten warriors in archaic golden uniforms are to be teleported to a man-made planet? Sounds implausible to me. I assure her that everything is going to be fine and that her Osiris will come back safe and sound.
She raises her mooneyes to mine. ‘Not to let us say goodbye, Ody! That’s so cruel. They say it’s to keep them focussed on the battle to come. That they mustn’t be distracted.’
She’s still in my arms, her warm, soft body against mine.
‘That’s quite usual, you know, to separate soldiers from wives or loved ones before battle. Why, in Roman times….’
She’s not listening. I’m just her boring old Ody embarking on one of his interminable stories.
All too soon she pulls away and wipes her tears with the back of her tiny hand. That’s when she catches sight of the painting I’m in the process of hanging. ‘I like that one,’ she says.
‘Raphael painted it circa 1512,’ I tell her, ‘Julius the Second gave it to San Sisto, in Piacenza. That’s why it’s known as The Sistine Madonna.’
She pulls away from me and steps back to examine the painting.
‘Look at her dress and hooded cloak. I could make myself something like that.’
Since the golden robe she made the day after we arrived, she’s made herself several different outfits. To make herself look attractive for the young humanoid, I shouldn’t wonder.
A little later she finds the material she’s looking for and I hear her humming as she cuts and sews. I think how resilient she is, getting on with what I consider her creative work in spite of her emotional state. Or perhaps because of it. Don’t we all throw ourselves into something new in order to forget something distressing? There was a time when I too immersed myself in work for a similar reason. I sigh, climb up the stepladder again and shift The Sistine Madonna a little to the left.
As if to confirm that the action has begun, a somewhat depleted battalion of warriors attend the next day’s parade. Ten less, I assume. Durga is still with us, but she announces that these daily parades are to be suspended until further notice because of the war. I don’t think she wants us to know exactly how many warriors have left or indeed when she herself leaves. She doesn’t want to risk anarchy while she’s away.
‘When we return triumphant,’ she proclaims, ‘there will be a grand parade to beat all grand parades and celebrations for everyone, including a banquet and fireworks.’
She looks just splendid standing in her winged chariot and it occurs to me that it could be capable of taking off and propelling itself upward into the Heavens of its own accord. Absurd. Just as absurd as referring to the sky as the Heavens. More practically, I find myself wondering if the chariot will fit snugly into the newly constructed oversize teleport. Does one huge chariot take up the same space as ten warriors?
I have no answer to that. I’m no mathematician. I can’t help wondering if the whole enterprise is a glorified spoof, a moon landing in the Arizona desert. Durga could be inventing these fantasies as a method of motivating her workforce. What a cynical old mutant humanoid I am.
One look at the face of Isis and I have no doubt that she believes every word. She’s worried about her lover and can’t wait for news. During the day she checks the auto-mails every few minutes. She has finished her gown. It has an ice blue under-dress that is half-covered by a silver-hooded voluminous cloak. As she moves, the cloak swishes along the floor, majestic, if not Madonna-like. She is too restless to have that serene Madonna-look.
Days pass and still no news of Dionsysis/Osiris, nor indeed of any other members of the advance party.
‘No news is good news,’ I tell Isis, but she rolls the pupils of her eyes upwards until only the glacial whites show. She paces up and down, walks in and out of the histo-lab, visits other parts of the sectoid and returns with snippets of news.
‘They can’t send auto-mails or use the intercom-net or intercom-fones. Too dangerous. There’s a message from Durga, saying that those of us left behind must keep our spirits up and keep calm. Ha! Easy for her to say.’
‘“Keep the home fires burning,”’ I sing softly.
‘What you on about?’ asks Isis. ‘Are you losing it, Ody?’
I just smile. No point explaining the reference. She’s not in the mood.
The next day she prances in, with a different sort of news. ‘That Indra – you know, that two-headed Rastafarian – had the cheek to make a pass at me last night. Suggested he could share my double bunku now that Osiris has gone. “In your dreams,” I told him. What a moron.’
‘Sounds as if you know how to stand up for yourself,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll bother you again.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. I can’t go anywhere without him following me. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not lurking outside the histo-lab right now waiting for me to come out.’
I take a look to make sure, but there’s no one there. I conclude Isis is so worried about her Osiris that she’s a bit paranoid.
All the same, that evening, I make it my business to coast smoothly and unobtrusively through the RR. There is the usual profusion of young humanoids lounging about on the shapers; but Isis isn’t one of them. I hang around for a bit, but feel very out of place. I can’t join in with their chitchat. I don’t understand a word they’re saying. Martians chattering couldn’t be more alien to me than these youngsters.
I decide to take a look in the compu-centre. Isis isn’t the sort to work overtime but she could be checking to see if there is any news of the warriors. I’m right. Her silver-hooded head is bent over a compu in the far corner. I’m just about to glide over to her but, before I have a chance, a young warrior barges past me. He’s tall, dark-skinned and athletic. He’s off-duty so not wearing a helmet and I note that he wears his long black hair in tight little plaits, Rastafarian style. Indra. I turn away and conceal myself in a dark corner obliquely opposite them and hover just in case Isis should need my assistance. Cunning Odysseus has become an eavesdropper.
‘Isis,’ Indra breathes in her ear. ‘I have something important to tell you. The advance party have all arrived safely.’
Isis looks up at him. ‘How do you know? I can’t find anything.’
‘We warriors have special compus with special access codes.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘OK – tell me the latest.’
‘Not much more to say. Just a memogram to say they’ve arrived on Planet Oasis.’
‘A pre-written memogram is automatically released on arrival at any destination. You know that. Doesn’t mean a thing. They could be anywhere.’
‘They’re arrived safely on Planet Oasis. Trust me.’
‘Trust you? You must be joking. I’d as soon trust a snake.’
‘You don’t mean that. I’ve seen the way you look at me.’ Indra leans over and lays his arm loosely across her shoulders.
She reacts immediately and whacks his arm. ‘You can cut that out. Get out of here. I don’t want any more of your stupid messages.’
‘But Isis, I can keep you up to date each day with what is happening.’
She ignores him and continues her search on the compu.
‘You won’t have any luck on that old thing.’ He hesitates for a moment and then says, ‘I could probably sneak you in to the warrior compu-centre with its multi-screens and you could see for yourself what is happening.’
She leaps to her feet. ‘OK, let’s go.’
‘I said probably. I have to arrange it. Tomorrow would be better.’
‘You’re all mouth and trousers.’ She sits down again and goes on with her search, but I can see from the tension in her back that she is tempted by the offer. Something in her desperate attempts to find Osiris takes me back to a time when I was enamoured of a certain young female humanoid. She was transferred to another compound and I spent hours on the auto-put frantic to find her.
‘The lieutenant’s a good mate of mine, and of Dionysis. I’m sure he will all
ow you to see what’s happening. Just give me till tomorrow to fix it.’
‘If you can “sneak me in”, as you so charmingly put it, what do you expect in return?’ she asks without looking at him, still tapping furiously on the keyboard.
‘Nothing. I swear. I just want you be happy.’
She gives a little laugh. ‘Oh yeah. So what was all that about last night?’
‘I’d had a bit too much to drink. You know that. I’m sorry if I said or did anything to offend you. I miss him as much as you do.’
‘I very much doubt that.’
‘I want us to be friends, Isis. Now Dionysis has gone we need each other for support.’
‘I don’t need you, Indra. I’ve already got a special friend – someone to look after me while Dionysis is away.’
‘Who? Tell me who he is. Who else have you been talking to?’
‘Someone who respects me, that’s who.’
‘Another warrior? Tell me who it is.’ His fist is clenched, both his faces screwed up with…. what? Hatred? Jealousy? He takes her by the shoulders and lifts her off her feet until her face is level with his two. His four eyes stare at her.
‘Let me go. You’re hurting me.’
‘Not till you tell me who it is.’
‘OK, OK. I’ll tell you, but put me down first.’
‘No, you tell me and then I’ll let you go.’
She pauses a moment and then bursts out, ‘It’s Odysseus. He’s the only humanoid I trust, apart from Dionysis, because he’s the only one who really cares for me.’
I am so surprised by this admission that I have to put my hand over my mouth to stop them hearing my quick intake of breath. I am way back in the shadows but a sudden sound could reveal my presence.
Indra is dumbfounded. ‘That old man? What can he do for you?’
‘He listens to me, that’s what he does. He respects me.’
‘Respects you? What exactly is that dirty old man to you?’
‘Don’t you dare call him that,’ spits Isis. She manages to release her little arm and scratches him down the side of one his faces with her long, silver-painted nails.
Ascension Page 16
