Ascension

by Jeannie van Rompaey

  We share a passion for reading. I belong to the university library, of course, but Jonathan introduces me to the city library and endorses my membership. How thrilling it is to find, not just e-books, but real books made of paper with cardboard covers. I love the feel and smell of them. Some of them are very old. The knowledge that other humans have held and read the same book, curled up in a shaper like me, is a comforting thought. Good too that I’ve met someone who feels the same way about books, reading and compus as I do. We talk non-stop about our courses and the books we read. Intrigued by the theories of Freud, Jung and Lacan, we indulge in psychological analyses of the novels and have heated discussions about leaders of the past: Mao, Napoleon, Hitler, Mandela and Assad. We’re interested in the machinations of our politicians in the Symposium: sleazy Orlando Wolfe, the Foreign Minister, misguided Harold Smythe in charge of education and pompous James Allen at the Home Office. (Adjectives we conceived to describe them, I should point out.). Jonathan thinks it’s cool that my father is the Minister of Culture. We’re both lefties, intent on improving the world.

  It’s in the spirit of progress that Jonathan takes me to the area where the underprivileged people live. It’s not a shanty-town or a slum but is comprised of row upon row of identical terraced houses.

  ‘Cheap to build and maintain,’ Jonathan informs me. ‘Those who have failed in their careers and lost their jobs have been given these houses by the more successful people – such as our parents. Amazingly philanthropic, don’t you think?’

  ‘How does the system work?’

  ‘Those who have done well try to help those who have failed by providing basic living conditions – houses, food and clothing – to give them a kick start to help them try again. They even help them find jobs. It’s called The Oasis Social Project.’

  It’s a rather bleak place with none of the style and opulence of our part of the city.

  The streets are nearly empty. A few older people peer out of the windows and some young people lounge about on the pavements, smoking and playing some sort of game with cards and dice.

  A girl in a sky-blue dress is trying out a few dance steps with an elegant nonchalance that I find fascinating. I stop to watch her and she smiles at me. There are dimples in her cheeks and her eyes match the blue of her dress. I can’t stop looking at her. She’s the most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen. I’d like to talk to her but Jonathan pulls at my arm, keen to move on.

  ‘Come on,’ Jonathan whispers, pulling my arm. ‘It doesn’t do to loiter in this part of town.’

  ‘I wonder who she is,’ I say as he continues pulling me along. ‘Hang on a minute, I’d like to talk to her.’

  He starts taunting me, saying I’m in love with her or some such crap. I feel myself blushing and allow myself to be hustled away.

  ‘The Oasis Social Project is a good idea, Michael,’ Father says when I tell him about our visit. He sits in the salon after dinner, his long legs stretched out in front of him. ‘But it doesn’t always work. Some of the people re-housed there take advantage of the situation. They’d rather live off us than work themselves. Some are just plain lazy. Others start to look for an easy way to make money without declaring it. However hard we try to make a perfect society there are always people who will find a way to buck the system. There are some rough types there. Better for you not to venture into that area again.’

  Father is over-protective of me, as usual, but I know I will go back. Alone. I have to get to know the blue-eyed girl.

  I respect Father and Stella, but often these evening sessions after the children have gone to bed lead to heated discussions about my continued interest in the compounds on Earth. Since those early visits to Stella’s study, she has never invited me in there again. I’ve tried to discover for myself what is going on in the various sectoids, but Worldwideculture. inc is a private site and Stella refuses to give me the code.

  Father promised me unlimited access to the world-wide-web but, in this case, he supports Stella and obstructs my access. It’s censorship. There’s no other word for it.

  I understand their reasons: Father and Stella want me to be fully integrated in my new life and not to look back. I try to make them see that it is not natural for me to dismiss my past, that my past is an important part of me.

  I feel, too, that I have much to offer my fellow mutant humanoids by being instrumental in improving the conditions under which they live. I’d like to work alongside Stella to contribute to these ideas, but she doesn’t appear to want my help. The truth is I was too outspoken during those early sessions with her. I shouldn’t have lost my temper; but her belief that the creative targets give a focus to the lives of the mutant humanoids makes me furious. I believe this insistence on meaningless targets is a patronising method of control. I know I should be more tactful and keep my opinions to myself, but I know more about life in the compounds than Stella does. Or Father or any other complete for that matter. And I’m not afraid to say so.

  When Stuart and Bella have gone to bed the conversation between us three adult members of the family all too often reverts to the same subject.

  ‘If I am to be a liaison officer between the sectoids and Oasis, I must keep up to date with what is going on,’ I protest.

  ‘Just concentrate on your studies at the moment,’ Father advises. ‘When you graduate you may decide you are better suited for a different career.’

  ‘You promised me that job when I agreed to come here.’

  ‘Things change, Michael. We will review the situation when you’ve finished your studies. At the moment, it’s important to keep an open mind and become fully integrated with life on Oasis so you can look at life in the compounds from a different perspective.’

  From his perspective, he means, from the viewpoint of completes. There is still a lot of the mutant in me. He’s lived his entire life as a complete. For me the period is much shorter: a matter of months. I can’t help thinking that to be a good liaison officer it is important to see both sides in any dispute, but Father only wants me to see things from his side.

  What does he mean by saying that I may decide I’m “better suited” for a different career? What is he afraid of? That I will be biased in favour of the mutant humanoids? It’s true that I will listen sympathetically to any ideas they put forward and give them a fair hearing. Who else on Oasis could promise to do that?

  Sometimes I think Father’s fear of people finding out about my past makes him try to control my life as surely as Stella tries to control the lives of the mutant humanoids in the compounds.

  When Jonathan suggests a trip to the museum, I agree straightaway. I’ve been meaning to visit it for ages but somehow or other haven’t got round to it. The museum is an imposing building in white marble, the entrance seemingly supported by slender fluted columns in the Corinthian style with ornate capitals of acanthus leaves and scrolls.

  As we enter, I am overwhelmed by the size of the interior, its height, its width, the skylights, the spacious galleries and the way the paintings, statues and artefacts of all kinds are arranged both logically and aesthetically. How Odysseus would love this place. I flit about from one room to another, gasping at the use of light in the portraits by Rembrandt, the subtle use of sfumato in Leonardo da Vinci’s paintings, the elegance of the Art Nouveau furniture and the delicacy of filigree jewellery. I am drawn into a room where a reconstruction of ancient Babylon makes me hold my breath in awe. This imposing piece must have come from the Pergamon museum in Berlin. The cobalt blue walls with its line of huge lions that form the approach to the palace are amazing. Mind-blowing stuff.

  Jonathan is at my heels. ‘Come on, Michael. You can come back here any time. Let’s find the new exhibits that everyone’s talking about.’

  I’m in a daze. The exhibits I’ve seen already are quite enough for me. ‘What new exhibits?’

  ‘Why, the mutants, of course.’

  I pull up short. ‘Mutants? What do you mean?’

  ‘
You really don’t know? Oh, have you got a treat in store. Come on, we’ll try to get near enough to see the golden warriors first. Bound to be crowded though.’

  I can’t move. It’s as if my feet are stuck to the floor. ‘They have statues of mutants?’

  ‘Not statues, no. Like everything else here, these are originals. Genuine mutant humanoids.’

  I can’t believe what he is saying. ‘Dead ones?’

  ‘Good Lord no, that would be totally gross. They’re very much alive. Come on. Don’t you want to see them?’

  My feet feel like dead weights but I manage to lift them off the ground and follow him as he moves purposefully through the galleries to a special exhibition hall at the back.

  There are a lot of people here, as Jonathan said there would be. Being short, I can’t see much at first. I peep through the gaps between the bodies in front of me. Encased in a huge box, with glass at the front, a group of golden warriors is marching up and down as if on parade. I’ve heard of them, of course. They come from C98, Durga’s compound, but I’ve never seen them.

  A stir of excitement from the spectators. ‘Look, that one has two heads!’

  ‘And that one three eyes. One in the centre of his forehead. See it?’

  ‘Just look at that one on the left. He’s got three legs. Yes, really, three legs! Can you believe it?’

  My hand flies to my throat. I think I’m going to be sick. These beautiful warriors have been put on show like animals at a zoo. It’s obscene. A gap in the bodies as some people leave, Jonathan gives me a little shove and there I am at the front with a good view of these beautiful mutant humanoids: Durga’s legendary golden warriors. There are ten of them. They march proudly, heads held high, circling, splitting into two groups, circling again and joining up in one solid formation, stepping out in unison, always impeccably in unison, as if putting on a parade was the most important thing in the world. Their faces are expressionless as if it is beneath them to show any emotion in front of these crass so-called completes who gawp at them and point out their mutations.

  I’m proud of their resilience, of their dignity and of the way they are determined to keep fit, ready for the moment when they will fight again.

  After a few minutes of marching they split up into pairs, take up some foils stored at the side of the glass box and begin to spar with each other. They take it seriously, competing to see who can make the most hits.

  They act like automatons but these are no robots. Now and again a look of frustration passes over a warrior’s face as he fails to hit his target and I can see the sweat from their exertions rolling down their cheeks.

  I could stand here all day admiring them, but the jeers and catcalls from the crowd at my side make it impossible. I don’t want to be associated with this vulgarity.

  I will come back another time when it’s less crowded and try to make contact with the warriors.

  A burly man next to me yells, ‘Fucking mutants! You think you’re so fucking clever with your fancy marching, but what good does it do you, stuck in here?’

  This offensive remark creates a huge guffaw and even applause from one or two of the spectators but no response at all from the warriors. I don’t think they can hear the comments through the toughened glass. I hope not, but I can stand it no longer.

  I turn and push my way through the voyeurs and dash through the main galleries without looking at a single painting or artefact. I’m in such a hurry to escape that I start to revert to my previous little skips and jerks, darts and flits, until I realise people are staring at me. I’d better be careful or I could end up an exhibit in a glass cage too.

  I slow down a little and try to “walk like a man.” I manage to control my movements and arrive back at the entrance hall without mishap, march down the steps to the Plaza, not caring if Jonathan is following me or not. I pace round the square, trying to think about what I have seen but it’s unthinkable.

  I’m so angry now I want to throw rocks and smash windows, scream, shout and lash out at these completes who think themselves so superior. They consider themselves civilised, but civilised people don’t kidnap other humanoids, lock them up in glass cages and put them on public display. I’m ashamed to think that I have opted to be of the same species as such brutes. I want my stunted wings back and my over-sized ears. I want my integrity. I don’t want to become like them – selfish, unfeeling and cruel.

  The citizens of Planet Oasis have not only looted the best artefacts from collections and galleries all over the world, but have captured live mutant humanoids as exhibits too. It’s sickening.

  In the charter of the Symposium of Oasis, there is a whole chapter on human rights. Father told me about it.

  My father prides himself on his humanitarian beliefs, and his compassion for underdogs. He professes to believe in egalitarianism and decries unfair treatment of anyone of whatever race or creed.

  But he must know about this abuse of human rights. If he knows, it means he condones this treatment of mutant humanoids and, if so, how can I possibly go on living under his roof?

  The more I find out about this self-professed utopia called Oasis, the angrier I seem to become.

  I sit down on the bench in the middle of the Plaza, put my head in my arms and weep for the fate of Durga’s warriors, trapped in a glass box, reduced to a tourist attraction. It’s a travesty. I weep for myself too, for another travesty, my transformation from mutant humanoid to human being.

  It’s in that position, on that bench, that Jonathan finds me a few minutes later. ‘Michael, what happened? Whatever made you dash off like that?’

  I stare at him. This is my mate, Jonathan. We have talked about so many things in the last month or so and are generally of the same mind. How can he not understand why I’m so upset? I thought he and I were on the same page. Another metaphor. Obviously not.

  He sits down beside me. ‘You found it disturbing?’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly. How can this “perfect society” treat people like that?’

  He looks at me questioningly. ‘They’re not human beings, Michael. They’re not like us.’

  ‘They are. They are. They have the same sensibilities as we do.’

  He looks at me and screws up his eyes. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I just do. What gives us the right to treat them like freaks? We call ourselves civilised human beings but we’ve learnt nothing.’

  He thinks about that for a moment. ‘Would you rather they were sent to Pris-sat with the other criminals?’

  ‘They’re not criminals!’

  ‘What would you call them then? Terrorists?’

  I’m quiet for a moment. I’ve obviously missed something.

  ‘What would you call an army that teleports itself to Planet Oasis with the express intention of attacking us? If not criminals?’

  I think about this. If the warriors were arrested on arrival, this puts a slightly different complexion on the matter, but it still doesn’t justify their treatment.

  Why would Durga send ten warriors to attack an entire city-state? The answer must be that she didn’t. This was the advance party, meant to demonstrate her power. A kind of warning shot. She knew Oasis wouldn’t destroy them. Such an action would have provoked a real attack. But I’m sure she hadn’t imagined that they would have been put on show to be ridiculed.

  ‘What exactly happened?’ I ask Jonathan.

  ‘What always happens when uninvited guests try to enter our sat.’ He looks at me oddly. ‘How come you don’t know?’

  ‘Oh you know me, I’m so immersed in my studies I rarely read the daily bulletin.’

  ‘Everyone’s been talking about it in the common room.’

  ‘You know I don’t go in there much.’ He’s looking at me strangely so I add, ‘I don’t know any students, apart from you. I’ve never bothered to get to know them.’

  He gives me a little punch on the shoulder. ‘Nerdy,’ he says and laughs, and the tension between us eases a
little. ‘OK. Want me to fill you in?’

  I nod. ‘Please.’

  He flicks his hair out of his eyes and begins. ‘They just turned up in the teleport, with no permit. Anyone can teleport themselves here as long as they have the correct code. These warriors weren’t expected, so as always happens – I expect you have a similar system on the sat you came from – they were shot on arrival. Don’t look so shocked, Michael. There are auto-stun-guns set in the walls of the teleport set to go off when uninvited visitors appear. They undergo what we call a “little death” which lasts for about twenty-four hours. When they wake up they’re questioned about their motives in coming here. During the last few months there have been quite a few illegal visitors, some of them mutant humanoids. How mutants find out about the existence of the satellites we don’t know. They do have computers on Earth but with very limited access. I suppose there’s always some clever dick able to hack in, find out about us and break the code. Some of these visitors are just tourists, curious to know what life is like here.’

  ‘What happens to them?’

  ‘We bounce them straight back to where they came from.’

  ‘They didn’t do that with the warriors.’

  ‘No. According to rumour, these warriors were so well-trained, they refused to say a word during the interrogation no matter what methods were used to encourage them to talk – if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Are you saying they were tortured?’ I’m horrified.

  ‘Oh Michael, you should see your face.’ He gives me another friendly punch. ‘The police have their own methods of dealing with these situations. We don’t call it torture. We call it protecting our satellite from terrorists.’

  I must have turned very pale because Jonathan says, ‘Are you all right, old chap? Shall we go for a caffeine intake or something?’

  I shake my head. ‘No thanks. I’m fine. So – they don’t know why the warriors are here?’

  ‘Nope. Not yet. Dressed up like that they’re not innocent tourists, for sure.’

  ‘But why put them in the museum?’