Jonathan shrugs. ‘They do that sometimes – especially with mutants. They hold them for a while. If they find incriminating evidence against them they’re sent to the Prissat – there’s a special section for the re-education of mutant humanoids. If no evidence is found – it’s back to the teleport and return to sender.’
‘That doesn’t explain why they’re in the museum.’
Jonathan looks a bit uncomfortable and shrugs his shoulders again. ‘As far as I can make out, the objective is the same as for other items in the museum. To educate the public. We’ve all heard about the mutant humanoids living in compounds on Earth and, rather than lock them up in cells at the police station, we give completes the chance to see them for themselves – ourselves.’
‘That crowd today didn’t come to be educated. They came to mock humanoids less fortunate than themselves. You can’t approve of that.’
‘I certainly don’t. The abuse and the language used was the height of ignorance. Those people should have been removed by the warders.’
‘Yes, they should, but they weren’t. There wasn’t a warder in sight.’
‘Don’t get angry with me, Michael. I agree with you. Their behaviour was disgusting. The trouble is, there was such hype about the ten golden warriors that people who don’t normally go to museums came to look at them. Uneducated people.’
‘The warriors shouldn’t have been put on show like that in the first place. It encourages people to think of mutant humanoids as freaks.’
‘I entirely agree with you, Michael,’ he assures me, but there is something about his manner that tells me he’s not completely comfortable with my outburst.
He studies his hands for a moment and then adds, ‘I just wondered if there is some special reason you feel so strongly about this.’
He knows about me. Or at least suspects. He’s been my teacher in our trips around the city and is aware how little I know about Oasis. No wonder he’s suspicious. I’m not sure what to do and am tempted to come clean and tell him the truth, but that’s not possible. It’s not just my secret. Father, Stella, the doctors, the nurses and the therapists are all involved.
‘Jonathan,’ I say, turning to him and looking him straight in the eye. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
He nods, anxious to hear the confession that he is sure is coming.
‘It’s not general knowledge, you understand, and if I hear gossip about this I will know it has come from you.’
‘Michael, you can trust me not to tell a soul.’
So there, on that bench in the Plaza in front of the marble-fronted museum, I tell Jonathan that Stella Jameson, my stepmother, is the controller of Worldwidecuture.inc, an organisation that has been instrumental in creating a better standard of life for mutant humanoids in the compounds.
It may not have been the news he was expecting, but he’s impressed. ‘Wow! So that’s how you know so much about them.’
‘Stella has a multi-screened computer and can watch everything that happens on Earth. I’ve seen inside the compounds, Jonathan, watched the mutants at work and at play. Apart from their physical differences, mutant humanoids are just like us, with the same variety of human characteristics, good and bad. They have – how can I put it – the same sense of self as we have. That’s why I was so angry and upset about what I saw this afternoon.’
As we walk back to uni together, Jonathan asks me lots of questions and I try to answer them as truthfully as I can. Before we part to go back to our compu-cubes, I tell him that, like him, I have an idea of what I to be when I graduate.
‘You are passionate about being a teacher. I want to be some sort of liaison officer between Earth and the satellites. I want to improve conditions for the mutant humanoids and make sure that we all – completes and mutants alike – learn to treat each other with respect.’
He gives me a punch on the shoulder. ‘Good thinking, Michael,’ he says, but he gives me an odd sideways look as if he thinks I’m a little crazy.
Once back at my computer, my ideals become grounded in practicalities. I make a list of things to do. I intend to pay another visit to the museum later to see if there are any other captives on show. I need to know the extent of the problem before tackling it. My other task involves something I’ve resisted doing before. I must become a hacker. If Heracles can do it, I’m sure I can. I’m not a deceitful person, but Father has censored my computers after promising me unlimited access. I must keep up to date with what is going on in the compounds before I can hope to negotiate the release of the warriors. Because that is what this first year university student, Michael Court, intends to do. That is my justification for the illegal action I am about to undertake: hacking into the Worldwideculture.inc website.
A few hours’ work and I’ve managed it and can open the portals of each compound. I click on the portal for C98, Durga’s compound, and see golden warriors at the shooting range, wrestling and practising archery. Others sit at computers playing war-games. I guide the camera to other areas in the compound. There is Odysseus in the histo-lab sorting through some papers. If only he could see the collections of artefacts we have in Oasis museum, how excited he would be. And there’s Isis, sewing. She’s looking well but has certainly put on some weight. I’m pleased to notice that she looks happy enough. I swing the integral camera round to explore every corner of the compound, the dino-cube, the RR, the compu-centre and Durga’s private office.
Of Durga herself there is no sign.
I glance at the time. If I want to go back to the museum this evening to see if there are any more mutant exhibits, I must go now before it closes. I log off my compu and dash straight to the special exhibition hall where I saw the warriors. No crowds here now. I am the only visitor. A guard stands near the entrance to this section. Where was he this afternoon when he was needed? The warriors are still there, a few still sparring with foils, others practising their stance with bows and arrows but most are resting. A small group sit on the floor playing a game with dice. They take no notice of me as I pass. Why should they? They’re used to being looked at.
An adjacent box contains two more mutant humanoids, one male, the other female, leaning against each other dozing. I’ve never seen them before.
In the next box a huge three-legged mutant humanoid is loping up and down, shoulders slumped. He turns towards me and I see his big, square face almost puce with fury, his extra eye flashing in the middle of his forehead. He stops pacing and peers at me through the glass. It doesn’t take me long to recognise him. Or him me. He thumps on the glass and yells. I can’t hear him. As I suspected, the glass is soundproof, but I can make out the word he is forming. My name. Or rather my ex-name. Mercury. ‘Mercury!’ he mouths over and over again, in long silent wails of anguish.
The warder has followed me and tells me it is time to leave, that the museum is about to close. I try to signal to Heracles that I’ll try to help him and that I’ll come back tomorrow, but he’s frantic, begs me not to desert him. Tears roll down his massive cheeks. I can’t help comparing his lack of control with the quiet dignity of the warriors. To be fair, the warriors have each other for support and Heracles is alone. He must be terrified.
But what’s he doing here? Why has he come to Oasis? A dreadful thought occurs to me. Heracles is a hacker. Has he found out I am here and come looking for me? On Kali’s behalf, perhaps?
He thumps on the window, mouthing that horrendous silent yell, ‘Mercury, Mercury!’ in a desperate bid to keep me from leaving.
I turn my back on him and rush out, pushing past the warden, my mind in turmoil.
Heracles and I have never been friendly. In a way we were rivals for Kali’s affection – or at least for her attention. His behaviour at Headculturedome made me distrust him and at C55 there was some sort of problem between him and Isis. I don’t know the details but I know he made her unhappy. The thing is I don’t like him at all. I consider him arrogant and ruthless.
But he’s a fellow mutant humanoid a
nd, whatever he’s done, he doesn’t deserve to be banged up and put on show like this. I have to try to help him.
Chapter Twenty
Murder and Mayhem
(according to Michael)
I storm into Home-Court-Jameson. Father and Stella are in the kitchen. He’s cutting up some meat and she’s chopping vegetables.
‘What’s the matter, Michael?’ Stella asks, her voice as serene as a cat’s purr. Her red manicured nails stretched over the handle of the knife remind me of cat’s claws.
I come straight to the point. ‘I’ve been to the museum and seen the live exhibits. It’s absolutely disgusting putting them on show like that.’
‘Ah, I see,’ says Father. He and Stella exchange a look. ‘No wonder you’re upset.’
‘Upset doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. It makes me sick to think that the Symposium of Oasis condones such treatment. What about human rights? What about respect, what about compassion? What about….’
‘It’s all right, Michael, we understand your response and agree that is wrong to put humanoids on view like that but….’
‘How can there be any buts? You are the Minister of Culture and you should not allow such a thing to take place.’
‘Sit down, Michael. I’ll make you a cup of mint tea,’ Stella says.
I ignore her. Father puts down the cleaver and gives me a weary smile. ‘You credit me with too much influence, Michael. Sometimes, however much I object to something – and I assure you I do object very strongly to this particular initiative – I end up on the losing side.’
‘How can you stand there and call such a travesty of justice an initiative? Father, it has to stop. Tell him, Stella, explain to him that mutant humanoids are real people and cannot be treated like artefacts in a museum.’
‘I don’t need to tell him. Your father already knows.’ Stella lays her hand on Father’s shoulder.
‘What I object to is that you didn’t tell me about it, that I had to find out for myself. That hurts.’
‘We didn’t tell you because we knew it would distress you,’ says Stella. ‘We try to protect you from the knowledge of certain – unsavoury aspects of life.’
‘I don’t want to be protected.’
Father sits down at the kitchen table and motions for me to sit too, but I’m far too angry. I continue to pace about.
Father clears his throat. ‘Let me explain how Oasis is governed. It’s a democracy. The public elect the Symposium. The ministers are elected internally. We have no Prime Minister and no Cabinet. It’s non-hierarchical. Everyone is allowed to express an opinion on any issue and then we vote on it. One vote per person. That’s how our policy is shaped. Sometimes we disagree with the result of the vote, but we are bound to accept it.’
‘Sounds to me as if there are some very nasty people in your Symposium. How can they justify putting mutant humanoids on display? You should get rid of these perverts.’
‘It’s not easy to get rid of powerful politicians, Michael. You are young. You don’t understand.’
Why is it that older people invariably accuse the young of not understanding and ridicule them for being idealistic?
‘I understand only too well,’ I tell him. ‘One of the subjects I’m studying at uni is history. The ruthless quest for power has been the downfall of many societies. I know that. But we have to fight this, Father, not buckle under and accept such things.’
A little smile plays round Father’s lips. ‘Well said, my son. It’s good to know you care, but you have to realise that the world cannot change overnight.’
‘We can make a start, Father. We can start by reversing this travesty of human rights that is taking place in the museum.’
‘What is it you think I can do, Michael?’
‘For a start you can use your influence to let me talk to one of the imprisoned mutant humanoids. I know him, Father. He came with Kali and me from C55 to Headculturedome and now he’s done something stupid, come here uninvited and landed up as an exhibit in the museum. His name is Heracles.’
‘This is all about Kali, isn’t it?’ Stella shakes her head. Her mouth turns down at the corners. For a moment she looks quite ugly. ‘You’re still looking back, thinking about her.’
‘Of course I want to know about Kali. She was my mother for sixteen years. It’s natural I want to know how she’s getting on. It would make it easier if you gave me the code to the website.’
And there we are. Back to the same old argument. That’s good in a way, because now they will have no reason to suspect that I’ve hacked into Worldwideculture.inc. I’m as devious and corrupt as some of the politicians in the Symposium.
Father lifts a hand to stop this diversion. ‘This – Heracles. You say he’s in the museum? You recognised him?’
I nod.
‘Did he see you?’
‘He saw me all right, banged on the glass, called out my name – Mercury, not Michael of course – and begged me to help him. Not that I could hear him through the toughened glass, but it wasn’t difficult to lip-read. Father, let me speak to him. I stand more chance than anyone else of finding out why Heracles is here.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Tomorrow. I promised him I’d talk to him tomorrow.’
‘I’ll make a few phone calls now, see what I can arrange.’
He looks genuinely worried as he goes to his study to start phoning, but I can’t help feeling that his main concern is not the caging of mutant humanoid exhibits but the fact that someone could find out that his son is – or was – a mutant.
At uni the next day I keep all my communication lines open waiting to hear from Father. When the message comes, it’s not exactly what I expect. A personal coded intercom memo, a completely private device that no one else can read. I’ve never received one of those before. I feel like 007. It’s easy to decode. I expect it to be a summons to the museum to interview Heracles. Instead it informs me that Father has already fixed things and Heracles has been teleported back to C99. I can’t help being disappointed that I wasn’t needed but now realise that was never Father’s plan. He wouldn’t want me involved.
He rings almost immediately, an innocuous call from father to son, asking me if I’m free for lunch. You bet I am. I can’t wait to find out exactly what has happened.
Meanwhile, I tap into Wordwideculture.inc, bring up C99 and sure enough there is Heracles standing somewhat awkwardly in a huge office. Behind a large workstation sits one of the most beautiful females I’ve ever seen. Her dark hair is scraped back in classic style to reveal a white face with a huge extra eye in the centre of her forehead. I tune in to their conversation.
‘Do sit down, Heracles. I need to talk to you.’
He sprawls on the shaper opposite her, legs splayed wide, as if to convince her, or perhaps himself, that he’s relaxed, but an involuntary pulse in his neck tells a different tale. She seems to be in charge and he is no doubt afraid of being questioned about his trip to Oasis. Whether she knows what he’s been up to or not I have no idea but she doesn’t challenge him about it.
‘I have some sad news, Heracles. Ra, our beloved chief controller, the CEO of Worldwide culture, died this morning.’
Heracles sits up. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Athene. I hope he didn’t suffer.’
Athene. She’s called Athene. Very apt. So Ra is dead. This is news indeed.
‘Thank you for your sympathy, Heracles. Much appreciated. Ra and I were very close. I shall miss him. His death was not altogether unexpected. He’s been ailing for some time. He passed away peacefully in his sleep early this morning.’
Heracles is watchful, unsure what to say next. ‘If there is anything I can do….’
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know. The cremation has already taken place at Hos-sat, but his ashes are to be returned here. I would like to plan some sort of memorial event for him. A celebration of his life citing his achievements, that sort of thing. Maybe you could help wi
th that.’
‘I’d be only too pleased.’
They are both being extremely polite, but there seems to be some underlying tension between them.
‘Thing is, Heracles, I think we should keep quiet about this for the time being.’
‘I agree. When a leader dies there is bound to be a period of unrest as everyone wonders who will take over and what effect the change in leadership will have. I remember when Ra took over, how fearful my colleagues were of his power to hire and fire at will. Some of us survived and have done rather well under his regime.’
She looks him straight in the eye. ‘I’m glad you are appreciative of what he has done, Heracles. Would you like to make a speech in his praise at the memorial ceremony? When the time is right for it to take place.’
‘Yes. Why not?’
There’s a fleeting cunning look in his central eye.
Athene must have noticed it too. ‘I’d need to vet it first, of course.’
‘Why? Don’t you trust me?’
Athene smiles, a tender, knowing smile, one that reminds me of Stella. ‘What we don’t want to do is create an atmosphere of panic. For the moment, everything should continue as usual while we take stock of the situation.’ She stands as if to dismiss him and adds, as if an afterthought, ‘I hope you enjoyed your extra-terrestrial trip. I expect a full report by the end of the day.’
Heracles’s face is a picture: his jaw drops, his face reddens. She’s a cool one, this Athene. I wouldn’t fancy the chances of anyone who dares to cross her.
Jonathan pops his head round my wall-divider. I click off the screen. I’m lucky to have my own workspace. You could hardly call it a room. It’s a hole in the wall, just big enough to house a compu and a shaper, designed to allow students to concentrate on their studies without interruptions from others. There’s no door so, in theory, anyone could look over my shoulder and see what I’m doing, but that’s not likely. We don’t take much interest in each other’s research – too busy with our own – and anyway, we respect each other’s right to privacy.
Ascension Page 21
