He lets go his hold on her and pushes her away. She lands smack on the floor. It’s as much as I can do to stop myself rushing to her aid.
‘You sad bitch. ‘Indra looks down at her. ‘So all this time you’ve been two-timing Dionysis with that old man. You wait till I tell him.’
Isis gets to her feet and laughs in his face. ‘Tell him what you like. He won’t believe you. He knows about my relationship with Odysseus. He knows what you don’t know.’
‘Oh really? What is that?’
‘He knows that I love Odysseus. Know why I love him? Because he’s my father, that’s why!’
Back in the histo-lab I sit at my compu. Too early to go to my bunku. I won’t be able to sleep, but I can’t work either. I think about what she said – that I’m her father. Maybe she means that I’ve always been a father to her just as Kali was a mother to Mercury. Or does she mean that I’m her real father? It occurs to me that she could have been sent to C55 to live with her father after her mother died but I lacked the perception to put two and two together, too “thick to catch on” as Isis would so graphically have put it. I think back. If I am her biological father there is only one person who could have been her mother.
I was never a person to be promiscuous, never had more than three or four sexual partners in my entire life. For the timescale to make sense, it could only have been Penelope. The memory of her face, as round as the full moon, the face I made myself forget, yet a face remarkably like that of Isis, comes back to me now. Why haven’t I made the connection before? Odysseus and Penelope. We laughed about the coincidence of our names, told each other our love was meant to be. I close my eyes and see her face again, the soft, pale cheeks, the bright quizzical central eye, the little snub nose, the long fair hair, pinned up during the day, free-flowing in our bunku at night. We were so happy together. But she asked to be transferred to another sectoid, abandoned me. At first I had hopes that she would return, that “absence would make the heart grow fonder” as the old adage goes. It didn’t. I didn’t hear a word. I tried to find her but without success. And, as the months passed, I convinced myself that she didn’t want to be found and put her out of my mind, locked the memories of our precious days and nights together in a dark treasure chest never to be opened.
But suppose, just suppose, that she left because she was pregnant and thought I wouldn’t welcome the burden of a child? Didn’t she know that no child of hers could ever be a burden to me? Why didn’t she tell me and why didn’t she contact me after she’d left? Why that terrible silence?
After she’d gone, I shut myself up in the histo-lab and devoted myself to research. There were no further intimacies with female humanoids and no deep feelings for anyone else. Until Isis came along.
From the very beginning I had a soft spot for her. Could it be that on some subliminal level I did see in Isis a resemblance to Penelope? If I am her father that would account for the special relationship that has developed between us and the ambivalent feelings I have about the young male mutants who, in my opinion, are never good enough for her. The sight of Heracles and Isis having sex on the floor of the histo-lab released emotions I didn’t know I had. The sacking of Heracles became a pleasurable revenge, a response so alien to my nature it shocked me and continues to shock me. If Isis is my daughter and, on some subconscious level I was aware of that, I suppose it goes some way to excuse my behaviour.
Isis turns up to work on time the next morning and starts sorting through the clothes chest again. Her obsession with making different costumes for herself intrigues me. Who is she trying to impress? Not Dionysis/Osiris. He’s gone off to war. Surely not Indra. I don’t like the idea of her with any male mutant humanoid, but better an absent warrior than the ever-present Indra.
I pluck up courage and ask her if she remembers her mother.
‘Course,’ she says, ‘Why do you ask?’
‘What was her name?’
She looks at me as if I’m weak in the head. ‘You’re not going senile, are you Ody? You know her name.’
‘Was it – Penelope?’
She gives a little smile. ‘Not quite brain dead yet then,’ she quips.
So it’s true. Isis is my daughter. I berate myself for not realising it before. That’s why she was sent to C55 after her mother’s death – to be with me, her father. But why didn’t anyone tell me? Has Isis known about our relationship all along and assumed I knew too? Why didn’t she mention it? Did she think I was to blame for Penelope leaving?
I long to ask Isis about her mother, not least about why and how she died, but when I approach the subject she says, ‘Give it up, Ody. That part of my life is well over. I’m looking to the future now.’
Isis spends more time with me in the museum, takes an interest in the paintings, particularly the ones from the golden age of the Renaissance in Italy. Apart from Raphael’s Sistine Madonna, the inspiration for the blue dress and silver hooded cloak, she admires several other depictions of the Virgin including an earlier work, Madonna della Vittoria by Mantega. I tell her that this was dated circa 1496 and was transferred from wood to canvas for Francesco Gonzaga, that it was originally in the Cappella della Vittoria in Mantua, hence its name, but was acquired by the Louvre in Paris. I try to explain about the formalisation of the surrounding figures and how they are not as naturalistic as representations in the later years of the period but, once again, she isn’t listening. She’s staring at the Madonna.
‘Look at the colour of her dress, Ody, and the way it hangs in folds over her arms and legs. I’m going to look for some material that colour,’ and she’s off, diving into the old chests again.
It isn’t until a few days later when I hear her gasp at Correggio’s The Holy Family, known as Madonna della Cesta that I begin to realise how obtuse I’ve been yet again. “Thick as a plank, Ody.” I’m referring to the painting in which the male child’s chubby legs are exposed and his genitals lie spread out on the mother’s thighs, while the mother clutches her breast, ready to feed him.
‘That,’ says Isis, ‘is totally the most beautiful painting in the world.’
I begin to talk about Correggio’s use of light and dark to highlight the central personas; but something makes me stop and look at Isis. Her face is ecstatic. Her eyes are shining and her moonface gleams. That’s when I realise.
‘You’re pregnant,’ I gasp.
‘I wondered how long it would take you to catch on,’ she laughs. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’
‘Marvellous,’ I repeat, but all kinds of thoughts race through my mind. Will the foetus survive? If it does, will she be allowed to keep it? What mutations will it have? I also realise how I have underestimated Isis. I thought her interest in making new garments was purely aesthetic, to prettify herself. I was wrong. The gowns are maternity clothes, designed to accommodate the bump that contains her expected offspring. How perspicacious of Isis to turn to the Renaissance painters for inspiration.
‘Give us a hug then, Ody,’ she says, bringing me back to reality.
I put my arms round her and hold her close, but not too close. I don’t want to hurt her precious cargo. She snuggles up and rests her head on my bony shoulder. A moment to cherish. I take a deep breath.
‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ I ask her.
‘No. I thought it only fair to tell you first.’
We will have to decide what to do and who to tell. There’s no way we can contact the prospective father. He’s still missing and Durga has not been seen lately either.
We must find a doctor but I have the feeling we must proceed with caution.
I think of Penelope. She must have been pregnant before she left, but maybe didn’t desert me voluntarily. Having a baby was rare even then. She might have been taken away to give birth in a controlled environment. Why wasn’t I informed? Didn’t she want me to know? Or was it someone in authority who refused to let me know? All these possibilities are buzzing around in my mind.
One comfortin
g thought is that Penelope must have told her daughter about me. Otherwise how would she have known that I was her father?
As Isis stands here in my arms a great surge of emotion rushes through my entire body. If this is love, an emotion I haven’t felt, or at least acknowledged, for years, it’s a good feeling, but a terrifying one too. I find myself trembling.
Isis must feel it too, because she looks up at me, questioningly. ‘You are pleased for me, Ody?’
‘Pleased?’ There’s a lump in my throat that I’m trying hard to control. ‘It’s – wonderful.’ I swallow several times. I’d like to tell her that I love her, but I can’t do that. Not yet. She’d stick a finger in her throat and make vomiting noises. Or tell me to get over myself.
‘I wonder what he’s going to be like?’ she asks. ‘Beautiful of course – just like the child in that picture. Just imagine it, Ody. I’m going to have a son. Think of what we can teach him – how to walk and talk and feed himself. And you can teach him all about the past.’
I nod, too choked to speak. Something very special has happened. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. After all, it isn’t a common occurrence in this day and age for a mutant humanoid to realise that he is going to be a grandfather.
Chapter Seventeen
Dreams and Schemes
(according to Heracles)
Sati lies back on her huge bunku, the oyster-coloured satin sheets smooth against her ivory thighs. She seems to be asleep. I zoom in for a close-up. God she’s beautiful. For a moment I’m tempted to satisfy my growing erection with a bit of self-help, but, annoyed that the bitch still has power to arouse me, I minimise the screen and hone in on Compound 37.
There is Kali, looking more animated than I’ve seen her for a long time. She’s speaking to someone on the intercom-fone. I turn up the sound. This eavesdropping device I’ve installed is proving most useful. Hacker Heracles doesn’t miss a trick.
‘You bet I’m ready,’ Kali says. ‘Just say the word and I’ll be there.’
Who’s she talking to? I tune in and hear two other voices in the conference call. Durga and Jaga. I bring up the video-link and maximise the three screens. There they are in all their glory: golden Durga, red hair cascading way down way past her shoulders, charcoal eyes smouldering: blue-black Kali, fierce face surrounded by head-hugging plaits, Hugo’s sleek body coiled round her neck: yellow Jaga, halo of straw-coloured hair sticking out like blades of wheat, green eyes gleaming. Three sister-wives engaged in plotting the overthrow of the fourth sister-wife now reclining so indolently on her day bunku.
‘My warriors are on red alert,’ says Durga. ‘When I give the word, teleport yourselves to C98 and we will attack in force.’
‘It’s not necessary for me to come to your compound,’ Jaga argues. ‘I’ll stay here in C55 and let you in.’
‘Just do as I say,’ Durga retorts. ‘There can be only one leader in a battle and I’m the best qualified. I need you both here to detail you as to strategy and to fit you out with appropriate battle gear, weapons and chariots.’
It’s Kali’s turn to protest. ‘Chariots? Is your plan to travel through the wilderness to Compound 55?’
‘That’s exactly what we are going to do.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘You don’t think I’d undertake such a project if it wasn’t? I’ve sent out several forays to investigate the contamination levels. They are now low enough to ignore.’
Jaga pouts her full red lips, as if she finds this statement difficult to believe. ‘Then why are we still shut up in compounds?’
‘When my – our – objectives have been reached, we will all live differently. Until that happens the compounds must remain and they must be run efficiently. That is why Sati must be eliminated and Kali’s regime restored.’
‘What do you mean, eliminated? Is Sati to be assassinated?’ Jaga asks.
‘To start with I’ll imprison her, put her in a bare cell with no creature comforts, but in the long term it will be better to subject her to some intense brainwashing, reduce her sex-drive, make her into someone who could be useful to us.’
‘You have the technology to do that?’ Kali asks.
‘Technology will come into it, but psychoanalysis will probably prove more effective.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Jaga says. ‘Sati doesn’t respond to the talking cure. I’ve tried it, believe you me.’
Durga shakes out her red mane. ‘I’ll be the judge of that. I have all the latest psychiatrists in Compound 98.’
‘For when your warriors get war fatigue syndrome?’ That’s Jaga being nasty.
‘Have they ever been to war or do they just play games?’ Kali’s turn to twist the knife.
Durga glowers. ‘You don’t know all my secrets.’
‘Never mind about your secrets,’ Jaga says, ‘What I want to know is why do you think Kali should take over C55? What about me? I’ve worked hard to change things in that sectoid. It doesn’t seem fair that Kali should be reinstated.’
‘Just a minute,’ Kali bursts out. ‘As I remember it, Jaga, you turned traitor and joined Sati against me.’
‘Ra made the decision for me to be co-leader. Not me.’
‘You were only too happy to go along with it. I saw you waltzing off arm in arm with Sati.’
‘Enough,’ Durga snaps. ‘No internal squabbling. We’re all on the same side. Both of you need to trust my judgment.’
She narrows her eyes.
‘You’ve done a reasonable job, Jaga, I’ll grant you that, but I’m sure you’ll agree there have been one or two fiascos during your time in C55 that you couldn’t control. Turning the basement into a brothel, for example, not to mention the riot in the RR when the large screen was smashed to smithereens. It would be difficult for you to remain in C55 once Sati’s gone. For one thing the workforce have split into two camps, those loyal to you and those, for whatever reason, loyal to Sati. In the past Kali was able to keep the workforce united and I believe she could do it again.’
‘No trouble,’ says Kali, ‘I’ll soon whip them into shape.’
‘An unfortunate word “whip”, Kali,’ reprimands Durga. ‘You should take a more conciliatory course. Have you learnt nothing from your time away from C55? You will find everything there very different now. The new facilities are in place and your colleagues are used to plenty of leisure time. This practice should continue. Under your guidance the workforce should be able to reach their targets while maintaining the better standard of life they’ve become accustomed to. That’s one reason I want you to come to C98 – to see how we do things here. C98 is highly organised with the correct balance of work and leisure activities.’
‘What about me?’ Jaga complains. ‘If Kali is to be chief administrator for C55, what am I going to do?’
Durga pauses. ‘How would you like to be chief administrator of C98?’
‘That’s your position.’
‘It is indeed, but I’m going to be very busy with military affairs for the next few months and I need you to manage things while I’m away.’
‘So – it’s only a temporary post.’
‘Not necessarily. I can’t reveal all my plans at the moment, but put it this way, I’m very ambitious.’
‘What?’ says Jaga. ‘How much further up can you go?’ She gives a little gasp. ‘You’re not thinking of making a play for Ra’s job?’
‘Ra is one of the aspects of this venture we need to discuss. For now, that is all I’m willing to say. I will keep you informed. Prepare yourselves both physically and mentally for the changes that are to come. Wait for the summons.’
I click off the three screens and think about what I’ve overheard. Durga is more devious than I’d thought. She’s planning, not just the takeover of C55 but also, it seems, the replacement of Ra. That’s my objective too, but she has an army to support her as well as her sister-wives. She intends to put them in key positions just as dictators of the past relied on members of their famil
ies to support them. Think Muammar Ghadafi and Saddam Hussein. Pity I have no family.
It’s the old question. Which is stronger – a leader backed by the military or one backed by intellect? If I’m to thwart Durga’s plans and instigate mine I shall have to use my not inconsiderable brainpower and act quickly.
I wonder how much of the information I have learnt today I should report to Ra. By tapping this conference call I have proof of Durga’s traitorous intentions, but little idea how or when she will act. If I tell Ra what I have discovered, it will demonstrate my loyalty and with Ra’s backing I have more chance of counteracting her plans. Ra is in Hos-sat. There is little he can do from there apart from give orders. He has told me to give my findings directly to him and I can do that, of course, by intercom-net, but in his absence, should I share what I have discovered with Athene?
As if in answer to my question, there is a knock on the door. I sing out, ‘Come in,’ and in she comes, Athene, the ersatz goddess, her face as inscrutable as if carved out of marble. To my surprise, the marble cracks a little. She smiles at me.
‘You look happy. Does that mean Ra’s health is improving?’
‘Not really. The news is he’ll have to stay in Hos-sat for quite a bit longer.’
‘What have you got to smile about then?’
‘I’ve come to a decision.’ She slips on to the shaper facing me. ‘I think it’s about time we stopped being in competition with each other and worked together.’
‘What exactly has led you to that conclusion?’
‘It was Ra’s idea actually. In his absence he’s made me chief administrator. I’m to use his office and his multi-compu – I now have the code key – and you are to report directly to me.’
That’s why she’s smiling. She’s gloating. Why has Ra done this? I am his second-in-command, not Athene. It should be me sitting in the main office.
Ascension Page 17
