Ascension

by Jeannie van Rompaey

  Now she’s on the floor, curling herself into a leafy ball of undergrowth. Uncurling, tendrils reach out, sinuous, sensual, flowing and transform themselves into a tall willowy plant.

  The pace of the music quickens and the jungle springs to life.

  I no longer distinguish body from limbs, no longer aware that this dance is being performed by a humanoid. I see only the jungle and the jungle’s story. The wind charges through the branches and thrashes its way through the leaves. The trunks of the trees creak and bow down, almost touching the ground. Jewel-coloured birds of turquoise, amethyst, ruby and jade, speed through a sky of midnight blue. Tigers with stripes of yellow, orange and burnt sienna, prowl through the undergrowth.

  The music rises in pitch and volume. The storm breaks. Thunder growls, lightning cracks, the wind howls, twigs and greenery break up, whirl and spin in every direction. A tiger hurtles through the jungle, demented, parrots squawk and race ever upward, soar higher and higher, desperate. The racket of wind, rain and thunder swells, animals collide and crash into each other and birds screech, trapped in the topmost branches. A huge tree groans and uproots itself. The entire jungle crumples and collapses. Silence, darkness, oblivion.

  Tears are streaming down my face. I have just witnessed a dance that showed me every curve of Athene’s body, a dance that by all the usual rules and regulations that determine the susceptibility of the male body to the female should excite me sexually, but I know there will be no sex with Athene. The performance was not foreplay, not an aperitif, but the main course. Her body the vehicle for an exciting, unmatchable phenomenon: the depiction of the jungle storm. Forget sex. Forget ambition. Forget power. This is totally something else. The most exhilarating, mind-blowing experience of my life.

  Athene stands before me, dressed once more in her white cover-all gown. She notes my tears and sees only too clearly my emotional response to her performance. There’s no need for words. She starts to untie me. I remain inert on my back.

  ‘Come,’ she says. ‘Let’s go back to the living-cube and have a celebratory glass of champagne.’

  We raise our glasses and drink to our future partnership, to our loyalty to each other, to Ra and to Worldwideculture itself. Athene leans her head back languidly on the shaper and closes her eyes in an expression of satisfied lassitude. She believes she’s got me now, that I’m in her power, that I’ll always be loyal to her, no matter what.

  She feels confident enough to leave me alone tomorrow while she visits Ra. She is quite sure I won’t do anything foolish.

  Why are females so gullible? They think that sex, or in this case an exotic dance, will bind us to them forever, when all it does is give us a momentary thrill. I think of the rumours that Athene is Ra’s mistress. Is this dance the nature of the sex between them? I get a kick out of the idea that Athene has been unfaithful to him tonight – in her fashion. For a humanoid in a wheelchair this display might be sufficient – or at least better than nothing – but, fantastic as the experience is, it will never be enough for me. I may never have sex with her painted body, but there are plenty more females on offer. I think of the pledge I made to Thor not to be beguiled by one female again but to “love them and leave them”. Nothing that has happened tonight has changed that resolve. For a moment or two I was bewitched, yes, but it was a temporary diversion. Nothing more. It won’t take me long to get back on course.

  Back in my office, I check the intercom-mails I sent to Mercury. They have all bounced back, unopened. It makes no difference. I’ll find him.

  The following morning, as soon as Athene has left to visit Ra. I summon Thor and we go to the teleport where I show him what to do. As soon as I’ve gone, he must cancel the co-ordinates on the coder machine so that no one will know where I am. He nods agreement. I’ve chosen well. He’s a reliable accomplice. I tap in the numbers, take a deep breath and off I speed to Planet Oasis.

  My head and body feel as if they are splitting into millions of particles, a quite terrifying sensation, much stronger than the other transportations from compound to compound. This time there is an impression of elevation accompanied by a whirring noise and I seem to be spinning, my body completely out of control. Not pleasant at all. When the whirring and spinning stops I can scarcely stand. I feel dizzy. Disoriented.

  I must have arrived.

  I take a quick look around but only have time to note that I’m in a kind of metal container before a stinging pain attacks my head. I fall to the ground and everything turns black.

  When I come to, I find myself on the floor of a cube. No furniture in it – no shapers, bunkus or workstations. I stand up and note that one wall is transparent. I peer out through the glass but it’s dark and I see nothing. I turn round and note that there are two doors, one on the right hand wall and one at the back. I turn the handle of the side door, but it’s locked. The door on the back wall does open and reveals a lavat-cube. I go in, close the door, use the facilities and return to the main cube.

  A prison cell, that’s what it is. They must have shot me with a stun gun on arrival, hence the pain, captured me and locked me in here.

  A light comes on above me, a very bright spotlight that hurts my eyes. Another light floods the corridor outside the transparent wall. Some completes appear, ambling along, jostling each other.

  They stop outside my cube and stare at me. I stare back at them. They seem to be talking and laughing but I can’t hear a thing through what must be toughened glass. I knock on it. They laugh their silent laughs and knock back – silent knocks, mocking me. They point at my three legs, my extra eye, my big square face and double over with laughter. I lift my hands and arms up in the air like a gorilla and roar at them. I beat my chest. If they want to laugh, I’ll give them something to laugh about. They stretch their mouths into a monkey grin, put their hands on their heads and wriggle their fingers.

  Think they can scare me? I start to walk about on all fours and bare my teeth. They copy me. That’s when I realise how small these completes are. These are not adults but children. A taller complete arrives, their teacher perhaps. From the look on his face he’s giving them a good telling off. Good. The group shambles off and I’m left in peace for a while.

  I sit on the floor and think about the situation. I didn’t come to Oasis to be shot, arrested and put on show like an animal in a zoo, but there’s not much I can do about it.

  Hours pass. Other visitors, young and old, troop by to gawp at me. I scream, bang on the glass and the side door, demand to be released but when I realise this has no effect, I give up. More people arrive and gawp at me. What kind of place is this? Why have I been put on show?

  Some of the visitors are reasonably polite. Others less so. The polite ones point out my mutations and discuss them amongst themselves, some have the grace to look a little embarrassed. Others are less subtle. They pull faces and shout and try to provoke me to react. So I do, giving them as good as I get, make threatening gestures, some of them vulgar ones, screw up my three eyes, clench my fist and give the glass wall a mighty punch. They pretend to fall down and play dead, poking fun at me, or collapse laughing. I’ve become a freak show. It makes me angry that my adventure should come to this. I sit down and turn my back on the spectators, not giving them the satisfaction of responding to their taunts.

  A hole in the side door opens and a packoid of food and a plastic bottle of water plops through and lands on the floor. I’m so hungry I snatch up the packoid, tear off the wrapper and stuff the sandwich into my mouth.

  This action seems to attract some passing youngsters who stare at me. Feeding time at the zoo. I ignore them, finish the tasteless sandwich, throw the packaging on the floor, retrieve the bottle, which has rolled to the edge of the cell, unscrew the top and guzzle down every single drop of the water.

  More time passes. More visitors arrive to stare and make remarks. The side door opens. Two completes enter, force my hands behind my back and handcuff my wrists. They bundle me out of the cell and ta
ke me to another cube with a wooden table and two chairs – not shapers – nothing comfortable about them. An interrogation room. One of the men, the bald, thin-lipped one, sits behind the table and gestures for me to sit on the other side, facing him. The other man, a huge bully type, stands behind me. I’ve seen enough filmograms to be wary of this man. He’s the torturer, should torture be needed. As if to prove my theory, he moves forward, kneels down, ties my ankles to the chair legs and fixes my manacled wrists to the bars at the back of the chair.

  The man behind the desk begins to ask me questions. What am I doing here? Who sent me? How did I find out about Oasis?

  I tell him that I came because I felt like an adventure, that no one sent me. It was my own idea. The interrogator nods at the bully who promptly whacks me on the head with some sort of wooden club. I can’t see it, but it hurts even my thick skull.

  He asks me the same questions over and over again. I give him the same answers and am treated to a series of clouts round the head that I hope will not affect my ability to think clearly. When he asks me who told me about Oasis, I can’t resist boasting. ‘No one told me. I found out for myself by hacking into the auto-put.’

  Baldie frowns and holds up a hand to stop the bully from whacking me again. ‘Hacking, you say?’

  ‘Yes. I’m the best hacker in my sectoid. The best in all the compounds.’

  He thinks about that for a moment. ‘Are you indeed? I’m afraid I’ll have to detain you a little longer Mr – er –’

  ‘Heracles. But really, if you must detain me, can’t you keep me somewhere else? It’s disgusting being in that cage having everyone staring at me as if I’m a freak in a circus or an animal in a zoo.’

  Baldie pushes his thin lips together. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to stay there for the time being, but I would like my colleague to meet you. We need to talk a little further about this – hacking – you’ve been doing.’

  Shit. Damn. Fuck. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth. This tendency to brag will be my downfall.

  Back in my cage, I spend another few hours as a zoo exhibit, before being taken to the interrogation room again. The same bully stands behind me but two men sit behind the table, Baldie and someone who is obviously a complete of a higher grade. His black hair is sleeked back from a high forehead. The nails on his long fingers are tapered to needle-thin points. He raises a hand to stop the bully from strapping my ankles to the chair and orders him, in a voice as suave as polished mahogany, to undo the handcuffs.

  ‘Good morning, Heracles,’ he says in a soft but deadly voice. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Orlando Wolfe, the Minister for Foreign Affairs in the Symposium of Planet Oasis.’ I store up this information for future reference. He’s clearly a high-ranking politician and could prove a useful contact. He asks me what I know of Oasis.

  ‘Only what I’ve seen on the internet.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Green parks, plants, trees, a sparkling lake and fantastic buildings that gleam in the sunlight. Do you wonder I long to see more of this wonderful place?’

  ‘Impossible – without the proper permit.’

  I decide to take a chance. ‘This permit – how can I obtain it?’

  ‘You can’t – unless you are invited by the Symposium.’

  I push my luck. ‘Could you organise an invitation for me?’

  His lips push themselves together in what I take to be a sarcastic smile. ‘Why the hell should I do that?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘From what I’ve seen Oasis is a perfect place, a Utopia. I have dreams of building such a city myself one day.’

  He looks down at his pointy nails, considering this. ‘It’s good for a young man – human or mutant humanoid – to have ambition.’ He looks directly into my central eye. ‘Where would this proposed city be built? On Earth?’

  ‘That’s one possibility.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘On a satellite designated for mutant humanoids.’

  He gives a short laugh. ‘You’ve got a lot of cheek I’ll give you that. Are you an architect?’

  ‘No, I’m an ideas man. But we do have architects and….’ I hesitate, ‘…I thought you completes might give us the benefit of your experience to help me achieve this objective.’

  ‘Did you now. Are you rich? It takes money to build a city in the sky.’

  ‘We don’t use money in the compounds.’

  ‘Because we supply you with all your needs.’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have to do that if we had our own cities. We could enter the monetary system ourselves and be self-sufficient.’

  He taps his pointy nails on the table. ‘I understand there’s some restlessness in the sectoids.’ Orlando Wolfe narrows his eyes. ‘Especially now some of you have found out about the satellites. You envy us our lifestyle and want it for yourselves.’

  ‘Of course we do!’ I consider what to say next, how far to push it but this may be my only chance to make an ally. ‘There are those who think war is the answer.’

  ‘Ah yes, Durga and her golden warriors.’

  I’m a little taken aback that he knows about the warriors.

  ‘I don’t agree with her,’ I assure him. War never solves anything.’ I lean forward and sense the bully getting ready to grab me. ‘If Oasis could help us establish our own satellite, that restlessness would not be directed against you. We would have a new project to work on and….’

  ‘And live happily ever after in a utopia of your own.’

  I risk a grin. ‘That’s about it. Yes.’

  ‘Are you speaking on behalf of a particular sectoid?’

  ‘No. This is solely my idea. But I’m sure there are lots of humanoids – everyone really – who would support the plan, especially if we had the backing of Oasis. Living in compounds is not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘Not ideal, no, I understand that. What’s wrong with building new cities on Earth?’

  ‘As far as I know it’s still contaminated.’

  ‘I’m sure with a little help from us that problem could be rectified. Would you be happy to build your cities there on Earth – if it were safe to do so?’

  I think about that. ‘It’s a possible solution but I think a satellite….’

  ‘The satellites, Heracles – that is your name? Right. The satellites are for completes.’

  And that, it seems, is that.

  He gets up ready to leave but I have to try to stop him. This is the only chance I may have to persuade him.

  ‘If that is the case, why is there a mutant humanoid living here on Oasis now?’

  He turns, walks slowly back to his chair and sits down. ‘A mutant humanoid living here on Oasis, you say?’

  He didn’t know. I feel as if I’m betraying little Mercury but I can’t backtrack now. ‘I saw him on my screen, in the Oasis portal, walking in the park.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Near the university.’

  ‘How mutant is he?’

  That’s an insulting question but I answer it all the same. ‘His mutations are not obvious. He looks like a complete.’

  ‘How do you know he’s a mutant?’

  ‘I know him. I recognised him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  I hesitate. How can I possibly answer that question?

  He stares at me, stands up, walks up to me, puts his face near mine. His breath smells. He had garlic for lunch.

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do. You return to your cell now and the guard will provide you with an electro-pad. You write down everything you know about this mutant humanoid, including his name. If I’m satisfied with the information you give me, I’ll think about releasing you and allowing you to return to Earth.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Museum Pieces

  (according to Michael)

  Jonathan pops his head round the edge of my compu-cube and asks me if I fancy a break. ‘All work and no play make Michael a dull boy,’ he
tells me.

  ‘You think I’m dull?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he grins, ‘but you could lighten up a bit. There’s more to life than studying.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ I say.

  Jonathan Dowell is a fellow student, a diligent worker, almost as keen on his studies as I am. He works in the next compu-cube to mine and we attend one or two of the same lectures. He’s a lanky fellow, as tall as I am short, and has wispy fair hair, which he never bothers to cut. It’s continually flicking over his eyes and he’s continually trying to push it away, a habit I find both irritating and endearing. My hair is longer now too, a rebellion against convention, perhaps.

  Or maybe I’m just copying my new friend. For that’s what Jonathan has become. For the first time in my life I have a friend. Apart from Isis, but that was different. We weren’t on the same wavelength, whereas Jonathan and I are incredibly in tune with each other. Most of the time anyway. Wow, look at those mixed metaphors! A good example of what I mean, actually. Isis wouldn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. She wouldn’t know a metaphor from a metacarpal. Jonathan would.

  We must look odd together as we roam the streets, Jonathan stooping a little to speak and listen to me, me looking up at him. I’m about half his height.

  ‘How did you manage to grow so tall?’ I ask him.

  ‘How did you manage to stay so short?’ he asks me.

  We thrive on teasing each other.

  He believes what I tell him about my past, that my parents separated years ago and that my mother brought me up on another satellite until her premature death when my father brought me here to join his new family. It’s the story I always tell and no one has ever questioned its validity.

  Having been born here, it’s logical that Jonathan is much more knowledgeable than I am about what goes on in Oasis. He takes pleasure in showing me around and he’s good at explaining how things work. He’s a good teacher and that’s exactly what he wants to be when he finishes university: a teacher.