I have never been happy with the cover of Devolution. I self published the paperback version and with limited resources it was the best I could do. In 8 days, thanks to Dream House in India, it will be re released with an exciting new cover.
Devolution will also be in book stores which is a first for me for any book.
There are no purchase links available as yet so the old links will get you a paperback with the old cover. After June 21, the new edition will be available.
you can run from danger, you can run from a fight, and you can run from the past but you can't run from the future...
Friday, June 12, 2015
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
New review
"Devolution, by D.A.Cairns is an amazing novel with a multitude of layers. The characters are deep and well structured, and the storyline is fresh and original. This book is a must read for anyone who enjoys a fresh, contemporary piece of literature". - Rhiannon Icasuriaga
Friday, August 31, 2012
What one reader said about Devolution
"I must
admit I’m not a great fan of science fiction. But I did enjoy reading David
Cairns' book ‘Devolution’. As a disabled person I liked the idea of a
‘hovercraft’ type wheel chair that speeds around faster than humans. The story
of three friends Ted, Veena, and Joshua trying to discover who killed the
‘senators’, Ted's and Veena's fathers, was interesting and exciting. The fact that
much of the story is set in Australia and the city of Sydney also made the book
more appealing. In all a great read, very enjoyable."
- Leigh Steer
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Devolution: The first three chapters
Chapter 1
“What?’
said 3, trying to shrug off the grogginess which blinded and stupefied him.
‘This
is how you destroy anonymity,’ said a voice. ‘It’s a method we recommend called
E.A. theory. That’s E for exploding and...’ The boy smiled knowingly as if 3
would understand the obvious. He looked familiar. Hazy and vague, yet familiar.
‘Josh?’
said 3. ‘Is that you?’ His eyes wandered around his bedroom but he couldn’t see
any of the walls, just whiteness like clouds or mist. ‘Where am I?’
‘Pay
attention, Ted,’ said the boy. ‘Concentrate! You’re too easily distracted.’
A
girl appeared from within the mist, a step or two behind the boy and to his
right. Dressed in a tight-fitting beige tracksuit, she returned 3’s curious
look.
‘Yes
Ted,’ she said. ‘Listen! This is important, and you should put some clothes
on.’
3
looked down nonchalantly at his naked body. ‘Veena?’ he said. ‘What have you
done to your hair? I liked it long.’
‘Ted!
Ted!’ called the boy. ‘I don’t have much time and if you can’t show more
interest in what I’m saying than I’ll simply keep it to myself.’
He
looked at the girl then back at 3. ‘I know it’s difficult with no clothes on
but do try and concentrate just for a minute. The E.A. theory? I’ll give it to
you.’
‘Josh?
If that’s you, can you tell me what the hell is going on? I don’t understand
any of this.’
‘Look,
call me Josh if you want to but please shut up and let me speak.’
3
quickly stole another glance at his nudity and for an instant wondered why it
didn’t bother him before Josh’s voice interrupted him.
‘This
is how a nobody, like you,’ he stabbed his index finger at 3, ‘becomes a
somebody. You start with anonymity, then you do or say something controversial.
That’s stage two, controversy. Out of that controversy comes publicity. Good or
bad it doesn’t matter. Publicity is stage three. The publicity gives you
notoriety, that’s step four and that is the official end of your anonymity. Now
you are someone.’
‘I
am someone,’ protested 3. ‘I don’t understand. What does all this mean?’
‘It
means,’ said Veena, ‘that you should put some clothes on and wake up.’
‘Wake
up? Am I dreaming?’
The
boy laughed to himself and said softly, ‘He’s a bit slow this one.’ Then he
walked away, disappearing into the air out of which Veena had appeared.
‘Ted,’
said Veena in reply to 3’s question. ‘Does this look like reality? Look at my
hair. You said it yourself, I wear my hair long.’
‘You
could have cut it.’
‘I’m
sorry I have to go, too. Think about what Josh said.’
‘Where
are you going?’
‘Josh
needs me, I have to go.’
‘What
do you mean Josh needs you? I need you, Veena. I need you. More than he does.
Come back! Come back!’
She
turned to face him one last time and smiled but her teeth were all broken and
bleeding.
A
throbbing pain gripped the left side of his head, and tore him from the horrifying
and perplexing dream. He called out from the darkness of his bedroom as pain
wrestled him fully awake.
‘Veena,
come back! I need you too.’
His mother 2-11-15, glided into his darkened bedroom, projecting calming
thoughts to her son. Already floating
beside 3’s bed, was 1-11-15, his vigilant yet irritated father.
It’s all right 3, came the unspoken
message from his mother. You were having
a bad dream.
‘Dad,
my head hurts,’ said 3 as he lay motionless in his bed, buried, apart from his
head, under a black and white checked thick quilt cover. This wasn’t the first
time he had dreamed such a dream nor experienced such intense physical pain. As
he could normally endure it silently, he preferred not to disturb his parents but
this time was much worse and he had lost control as the surreal subconscious
world took an unpleasant turn. Worse than a throbbing pain or a stabbing pain,
his headache felt more like a Chinese burn applied incessantly to the forehead.
His father lay a withered comforting hand where he presumed 3’s shoulder
was and said, Don’t use your voice, son.
It’s only making the pain worse. Speak with your mind; you know it’s
much more efficient.
Reluctantly accepting his father’s advice, 3 resumed telepathic
communication with his parents. It was
the only way for him to talk to his dad, and his mum only voiced with him when
they were alone. As one of the architects of much of the Newtonian’s
progressive cultural and technological reforms, his father frowned on speaking,
and his mother as a good Newtonian wife, would in humble submission not defy
him or deliberately antagonize him. However, because 3 really enjoyed voicing,
he was glad he was still permitted to attend a mixed school, where although
strongly discouraged, telepathy was not banned. Not yet anyway.
How long will this pain last, dad?
Not long, it’s a natural part of growing up. The elder
Newtonian moved his hoverchair around 180 degrees, then reached out again to
lightly touch his son’s arm. You can
expect these pains to happen more often now in the final stages of puberty. Turning
to his wife, he smiled knowingly at her and she nodded back. Their second child
had been stillborn so 3 was their precious only child and they loved him
dearly. The suffering and anxiety of that pregnancy and the ensuing traumatic
delivery of a dead child caused his mum to vow she would not fall pregnant
again. Fortunately for her the doctors agreed, otherwise his father would
almost certainly have insisted they try to add further arrows to his quiver. A
man could boast of a greatness measured by the number and the character of his
sons.
Dad, mum, do you think dreams mean anything?
Sometimes, said his
mother.
No, said his
father emphatically.
3
decided to wait until he could talk about it to his mother alone, later. Now he
had more immediate and painful problems.
The
physical tribulation he was enduring was not entirely caused by puberty and he
knew that, despite what his father said. The morphing drugs that all Newtonians
took had never been successfully integrated with the natural surge in hormone
production during pubescence. This knowledge sometimes made him resentful,
especially when it caused him to occasionally miss school and spend the day in
bed. As none of his friends suffered these excruciating growing pains, they did
not understand. The Newtonian world view allowed no talk with outsiders in
relation to the morphing drugs. During these times of suffering, 3 often
wondered about the veracity of the High Council’s claims about the coming
cataclysm, and their plan for the survival of the Newtonian race. What would
his generation do if the predictions were false?
Enough of
these thoughts, 3 chastised himself, before I accidentally send one to dad and
earn another lofty and condescending lecture.
It’s starting to pass now. I
think I’ll be able to go to school. 3 lifted his large head off the pillow
and with difficulty sat up, pushing back the quilt as he did so.
Although, 1 was shaking his head to protest, 2 had already sent her
affirmation. She wanted him to go to
school much for the same reason as 3 himself wanted to go. It was good for young people to socialize and
interact with the other tribes. Being in
the public service meant that 2 rarely had any contact with other either Deists
or Adonites. She served the Newtonians
as a parliamentary under-secretary, and although it was a stimulating and
challenging job which made full use of her skills and experience, she often
wished she could interact with mixed tribal groups. She believed they all had
something to offer. Harboring a deep longing for a fully integrated society,
she was glad for 3, that he had opportunities which she did not.
Her husband interrupted her thoughts.
Why do you wish for those things?
No good comes out of integration.
All attempts since the war have failed, it’s futile. I don’t understand
you, wife. His eyes blazed with indignation.
What are you doing, husband? She returned his glare, and put her
hands on her hips. An action which would have told anyone how she felt even
without hearing her words. 3 had tuned out, not wanting to hear his parents
argue. Disrespecting my privacy, how dare you? she continued.
I was only-
Only being rude and intrusive. Don’t do that to me. Don’t treat me like one of your office
slaves. Then she
spun her hoverchair around and slid quickly out of the room.
Breaking the first commandment of Newtonian telepathy was a moral crime
against the individual and the tribe, even though it was only policed in the
public realm. When the first telepaths
began using their new found skill, the Council was worried about the effects of
such ability on the wider community, not only Newtonians but the other tribes
as well. Obviously it would be seen as an invasion of privacy, and the ethical
storm which would result from its misuse or even ordinary use would be nearly
impossible to quell. Recognizing its
potential for good, they ventured down the path of regulation rather than
prohibition.
The expectant look from his son was keenly
felt, as much as the question undergirding it was sensed, but 1 ignored it and
glided out of the room.
Laboriously, 3 climbed into
his hoverchair after bringing it to his bedside, and connected to its central
processing unit. Wincing at the slight
discomfort he felt as the hoverchair synthesized with his mind, 3 then made his
way to the bathroom, ordering the lights on and off as he traveled down the
hall, not because he had to but because it amused him.
As he passed the entrance to the living room, he peered in and noticed
his father preparing to dive from his hoverchair into the heated pool which
served as the floor of their home in all common areas. Someone had coined the
term ‘aqualounge’ and it was now popular even amongst the other tribes. When the decision had been taken by the
council to follow the recommendations of the Destiny Report into the cataclysm,
Newtonians began to take morphing drugs, until then, developed under the
strictest secrecy, which were designed to convert their physiology from human
to amphibian. The length of these stages of development varied among
individuals but was most certainly affected by age. As a young man, 3 would
pass through the current phase four times as fast as his parents which was some
consolation as initially the morphing drugs caused muscle weakening and altered
the pH levels of the skin. These two not unexpected effects meant that
Newtonians needed hoverchairs to get around on land and plenty of water for
skin which they now discovered dried out easily. The latest product from the
research laboratories to add to the basket of medications they needed to take
was an ultra rapid hydration formula in a micro pill naturally, but also
available in single shot injections.
At that
time most Newtonian homes had pools built in their homes which were filled with
warm water. Here they were more comfortable and at home than in their
hoverchairs, however they were not able to eat or sleep underwater. The
operation of electrical equipment was also a major issue. The safety factor was
no longer a problem but for some reason interfacing with computers under water
was slow and time consuming. Not at all
practical, and a mysterious roadblock on the technology freeway of the twenty
second century.
Watching his father swim effortlessly in the clear water, 3 marveled at his
long muscular body with small limbs crowned by a magnificent oval head. He was a fine figure of a Newtonian male. A Senator in the Asian parliament, a man well
respected and well connected, he was the leader of the Newtonian tribe in and
out of the chamber, and had recently been promoted to the position of Education
Minister. If only he wasn’t so focused on the future, and not so against the
past which he said only served to illustrate the desperate need for Newtonians
to move forward and plan for a separate future.
Isolationism, he called it. He
could not see any purpose, any benefit in an integrated society. The Adonites, he said were too fatalistic and
the Deists too optimistic, only the Newtonians were sensibly approaching the
cataclysmic consequences of the war.
Slowly moving away from the living room, 3 thought of his two best
friends, Veena, an Adonite and Joshua, a Deist. How his father frowned on that
triumvirate of comradeship, as if it were a pollutant causing irreparable
psychological damage to his son. Why couldn’t all three tribes carry on living
in harmony as they had done since the end of the war? Why not face the
challenges of the future together?
Continuing
down the hall, 3 passed the kitchen where his mother was preparing breakfast.
Surely not all Newtonians are isolationists like my father, he thought. There
must be others like my mother and myself who want to continue a symbiotic
relationship with the other two tribes, but what use was that when the council
was determined to press ahead with its plans regardless of any opposition from within
the tribe or from without. The young Newtonian didn’t actually know whether
there was any real opposition within the tribe, he only hoped there was, and on
certain days like today it was a very faint hope indeed.
Joshua, Veena, and 3 had a great time at school, sitting together in
classes and during meal breaks, where they spoke of their differences sometimes
seriously, other times in jest but never with bitterness. Despite the external
pressure from peers and society in general, there was no thought in their young
minds that they should continue to be anything but the best of friends. However
outside of school, contact was limited to e-mail and telephone and 3 was not
able to do either of these while his father was at home-fortunately not very
often. Nor was Veena, whose father was
also a member of Asia’s parliament, a Senator like his dad, allowed to contact
her friends. The irony of their two
children being the best of friends was not lost on 3 or Veena, while at the
same time being a source of shame and irritation to their prominent
fathers. In fact 3 had recently heard
rumors around the campus that there was a push to close the school; the last
mixed school in Mumbai, the capital city of the Earth’s most populous and
powerful nation: India.
Only the dread of having to suffer through another of his father’s
lectures prevented 3 from asking if the rumor was true. If anyone knew for sure if it was going to
happen, as a leader of the education council, his father would be one of just a
handful of men and women who did.
‘Mum,’ said 3, gliding into the kitchen.
Turning around quickly she said, ‘Hush, where’s your father?’
‘Swimming in the living room. You
don’t mind if we talk, do you?’
‘No,’ she said, smiling, ‘I kind of like it. It must be such fun for you to be able to
voice with your friends at school.’
He scratched his nose and played with the buttons of his shirt. ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you about
actually.’
Sensing the serious tone in her son’s voice, 2 rotated her hoverchair to
face him.
‘Has dad said anything about our school being closed down?’
‘He,’ she hesitated, and 3 noticed her uncertainty, ‘He says it’s almost
a done deal. He’s been pushing hard for
years now and has finally gathered enough support among the other councilors to
go ahead. Of course he is the education
minister.’
Keeping his eyes fixed on the liquid floor, 3 felt a surge of anger in
his veins and his head began to ache again.
‘It’s not fair, mum. It’s just
not fair.’
Wisely, his mother tried a change of subject to attempt to calm him,
‘What about your dream? Did you want to tell me about it?’ she said. But he
turned abruptly and left the room talking to himself. She tried to project a warning to him to stop
voicing, but he was so angry she could not penetrate his thoughts.
In the bathroom, 3 looked at his image in the mirror and cursed. His head, a little large for his body, its
shape oval yet triangular, narrowing at the forehead. Eyes wide-spaced, under
no eyebrows and long lashes, nose flattened, mouth too wide. As far as
Newtonians could be attractive he probably looked all right, but how would any
girl ever find him attractive? How would a particular Adonite girl desire this
ugliness? If he was to be forced into single tribe education then it probably
wouldn’t matter anymore. Obviously looks would play no part in the partnering
of Newtonians, but he desperately wanted to stay in mixed schooling. Of course
there was no hope of him ever partnering with a girl from another tribe but so
much of a teenage boy’s world was fantasy, and 3 was no different. He burned
with passion for his friend, the goddess, Veena.
Washed and
changed, 3 remained sullen during breakfast.
His parents would not read his thoughts but they knew he was upset
because he ignored their attempts to communicate. He chewed slowly and
deliberately in silence. Looking at his dad he felt a wave of rage rushing
forth again and hoped his father would not react to it.
He probably doesn’t even want to have breakfast this way anymore,
thought 3. Too old fashioned this eating
food business, we should do away with it all and just take pills and enhanced
liquid nutrients. How boring, how
pathetic! What kind of bland and
pleasureless future were his father and his friends in high places going to
take us to? Realizing his father might be listening even though he wasn’t
supposed to, 3 left the breakfast table and declared he was going to school
early.
Why? from his father.
I want to, replied 3 without further
effort to explain.
He packed his school bag and left without saying goodbye to his parents,
still angry and frustrated, yet glad to be out of the house and glad that his
headache had disappeared to leave him in peace for a while at least. Until its
next cruel assault.
Chapter 2
As he passed through the ID booth at the front of his house, 3 read the
numbers on the wall: 2087. This house in Prahbash Rd, Powai was the only home
he had ever known and although he loved his parents, and his childhood and
upbringing had generally been good, some might have said privileged, he knew he
would have to leave soon. Living with
his father’s obstinacy and militancy was becoming unbearable.
Out on the street it was uncomfortably humid under a typically ashen sky
which always threatened to rain but seldom delivered on the promise. Regular
precipitation was just one casualty of the Intercontinental War. Looking to the north, 3 saw a thick mist
draped all over Kembla Grange like a hastily made bed and realized he had never
seen the sun shine on that breathtaking escarpment, and if the scientific
forecasts were correct he never would.
He touched his badge-phone and said, ‘Call Veena.’ Her number was one of
only a few stored on his internet phone. He hoped she had already left her home
and was on her way to school so they could walk together. Laughing to himself
at the idea of him walking anywhere with anyone, 3 was equally grateful that
him being unable to get around without his hoverchair had never been a problem
for his friends. Although he was all too
keenly aware of its limitations, it really did not matter to Joshua or Veena.
The
more he thought about it, the more he reasoned it out within in his own mind,
the more he came to see how advantageous the hoverchair was. He could travel
long distances at relatively high speeds without growing weary. All the
electrical interface equipment he needed was built into the chair so he had access
to communications and information systems whenever he needed it, and he never
had trouble finding a seat on public transport.
‘Hi, have you left yet?’
‘Hi Ted, yes I just
stepped out the door. I’m so angry with
my dad.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I asked about the rumors
of the school closing and he gave me a lecture about the alleged benefits of
isolationism, and told me to enjoy the rest of the year because it will be my
last in a mixed school. Do you think it’s true, Ted?’ Her tone was unmistakably
anxious.
‘No doubt.’ he replied,
not really wanting to talk about it. ‘Should I wait for you here?’
Veena
lived a block away in Valley Way. Her family had moved to Mumbai from
Chandigarh when she was twelve, just in time to start at a new high school
where sadly for her, she knew no one. Joshua and 3, already good friends, had
been the first to reach out to her in welcome and that had meant the world to
her and still did.
‘Yeah, I won’t be long. What are you angry with your dad about? Same thing as me?’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t ask because I reckoned I
already knew the answer. Being the same as your dad. Mum told me it’s a sure
thing.’
‘You know if they were of the same tribe they would be best friends.’
‘Who? Our dads?’ 3 laughed. ‘Imagine that!’
Veena kept
walking as she talked to 3, and before too long he could see her at the top of
his street. Slow moving transports filled the tree lined streets, passing 3
without him noticing because he only had eyes for Veena; enchanted by her. Even
from a distance she was stunning, like all Adonites. They all loved their
bodies and concentrated on appearances as well as physical and mental health.
That made many of them, particularly the males 3 noted, vain and superficial,
but Veena was gloriously indifferent, always looking wonderful but never
seeming to make any effort about it or talking about it. So well proportioned,
and feminine, and although he knew a union between them was impossible and
perhaps not even desirable, he could not help but feel irresistibly attracted.
What man would not find her desirable?
Intellectually, they were equals and they had much in common but,
society being the way it was, he had to resign himself to a poor substitute of limited
friendship, and even that was about to become another memory, another piece of
the redundant past which his dad was always criticizing.
‘I see you now,’ said 3, admiring the confident stride of her long legs,
accentuated as they were by hiking boots, short socks and canvas shorts resting
mid thigh.
Looking up, Veena saw him and waved, then broke the telephonic
connection.
Just then 3’s badge-phone rang so he touched it and answered. It was Joshua.
‘I’m going to be late this morning Ted.
Don’t wait for me, okay.’
‘Okay. Everything all right at
home?’
‘Great, glory to God. See you at
school.’
Saying goodbye and disconnecting, as Veena reached him smiling widely, 3
marveled at Joshua’s optimism. He always seemed confident and happy no matter
what was going on around him, in his life or with others. For all 3 knew he
could have been calling from a hospital with two broken legs and still giving
thanks to his God. Joshua endeared himself to people because he had such
compassion for those suffering or in trouble and was always putting himself out
to help. Watching the example Joshua
set, 3 wondered why all Deists weren’t the same as him. He was such a shining advertisement for what
3 himself considered to be true religion. Personally he did not accept the
reality of the supernatural world which Joshua and the other Deists so
fervently proclaimed, but there were times when it was hard not to be impressed
by their unshakeable faith.
Perhaps it was Joshua’s particular branch of
Deism that made the difference, even though 3’s dad said that they were all the
same. Religion, he said, caused the war
and nearly destroyed all life on earth.
Hard to believe, thought 3 based on his experience of Deists, and their
champion ambassador, Joshua.
Joshua
didn’t even like the term, Deists, and was always telling anyone who asked that
he was a Christian not a Deist. He said Deism was only five hundred years old
whereas Christianity was nearly five times that ancient, and if you counted its
ancestor Judaism then it almost extended back beyond the dawn of civilization.
Deists, said Joshua, and 3 had no reason to doubt him, believed in a God who
like a great cosmic engineer created the world and then stood back and left it
to its own devices. This God did not intervene in the affairs of mankind because
he did not care. Christians rejected that kind of god as false.
‘Hey,’ said Veena, ‘Bring that super brain of yours back here, Ted.’
Adjusting the speed of his hoverchair so as to maintain a comfortable
pace beside Veena, 3 glided off the footpath so that she could use it. Due to
public safety reasons, high gliding was compulsory in densely populated cities
but here on a quiet suburban sidewalk, 3 was free to glide beside Veena at eye
level.
‘I was just thinking about Joshua and how my dad reckons Deists are
nothing but trouble.’
Laughing again in her unselfconscious way, Veena said, ‘It’s like I
said, your dad and my dad...you know?’
3 studied her round face, framed as it was by thick raven hair, and was
transfixed by the flawlessness of her skin.
All Adonites had perfect skin and perfect hair and perfect bodies, that
was their focus, physical perfection. No
wonder their leaders were so keen on ending the cohabitation of earth,
especially with Newtonians, whose unnatural ugliness in their view was the
antithesis of their highest aspirations, as superficial as they no doubt were
considered by other tribes. Veena seemed
more beautiful than other Adonite girls, and more than just beautiful she was
intelligent, and intelligence, thought 3, was itself a beautiful thing.
The Adonites had everything.
Despite concentrating on physical development and health, they had not
ignored their brains either, and although as a tribe they had lower IQ s than
the Newtonians, (if that really counted for anything anyway), there were
certainly individuals among them who were intellectually gifted. There were genii in both camps. Even the Deists, who as a tribe focused on
the spiritual aspects of their lives, had mental giants among them. That was something else 3 admired about the
Deists; the balance in their lives, their middle road approach.
‘We are the most fanatical of the three tribes,’ said 3. ‘We are obsessed with increasing our mental
abilities and enforcing our superiority.
We’re so sure that we have the best solution to the cataclysm, the only
true solution. When the world floods we
will simply become sea dwellers. Just
like that.’
‘You can already breathe under water for longer than the rest of us.’
‘But not
indefinitely,’ countered 3.
‘And your
body,' continued Veena, ‘is at its flexible and agile best in the water.’
‘Who says
the water will be warm enough for us?’
Pausing at the street corner before they crossed, 3 looked thoughtfully
at Veena. ‘And that’s just one of our
problems. I mean we may not even be
ready in time, although we could adapt wet-suits and breathing apparatus in the
interim. I don’t know, I kind of like
your approach better, and to be honest, I ...’
‘You what, Ted?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Hey,’ said Veena, pointing across the road to a small dark green shrub,
‘Look at that. It looks like a bird.’
Hurrying over to catch up with his excited friend, 3 said, ‘I’ve never
seen a bird outside of a zoo.’
They
stared at it, entranced.
‘Me neither,’ said Veena.
Its feathers were dirty looking and ruffled, as the bird perched
motionless on a branch of the shrub.
Oblivious to them, it simple stared directly ahead and they began to wonder
if it was dead.
‘Touch it, Ted. See if it’s
alive.’
‘You touch it.’
Realizing he was not acting like a man, 3 reached out to the bird and
gently prodded its wing. The bird slowly
turned its head and continued its unnatural stare. This time into 3’s face, making him shudder
involuntarily. He felt like he had just encountered the visage of death.
‘Check it with your biometer,’ suggested 3 quickly.
Veena pulled the hand-held device out of her pocket and aimed it the
bedraggled creature.
The
biometer gurgled away for a few seconds before announcing its conclusions with
a long single beep.
‘It’s dying,’ said Veena. ‘Maybe
we could take it home and look after it.’
‘Are you nuts? It’s dying! What
are we going to do for it? Anyway biological pets are illegal, have been since
the war, and for good reason. Don’t you
know how many germs and diseases they carry?
That bird could be carrying, and easily transmit some fatal disease.’
Veena looked sad. ‘I guess you’re
right.’
‘I am right. Come on. Just leave it, it’s dying, just let it die.’
‘It’s so weird to see a bird,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t believe it. Maybe it’s an omen.’
‘Now
you sound like Joshua,’ teased 3. ‘It’s not an omen, its proof that this world
cannot sustain bird life and we…’
‘We
what?’
‘Nothing.’
3 nodded in agreement with himself, satisfied by his restraint. What he
had wanted to say to Veena was that the stinking atmosphere had killed all the
birds, or was going to kill them all very soon and before too long it would
kill all biological life-forms including humans. Only Newtonians would survive
because they would no longer be dependent on air.
Still he
wondered about the bird. Before the war,
birds had filled the skies and even afterwards, so his mother often told him,
there were some birds flying around, and there was hope among some people that
the stronger species might actually be able to adapt and survive and eventually
repopulate. But the rapid deterioration
of the air quality left them with no time to adjust and evolve. There was
insufficient time to test Darwin’s ancient theory and the birds slid into
extinction. Only a few selected species
remained in zoos, safe in biospheres; a reminder of how humanity, entrusted
with the stewardship of the earth, had in arrogance, destroyed it. How had this
one survived so long?
‘I want to buy a robot dog, but
dad keeps saying no.’
‘Shut up about pets,’ said 3.
Finishing the journey in silence, they arrived at the entry point of
Ladeeda High School and entered adjacent reception booths simultaneously. He sat still as his eyes were scanned to
confirm his identity, and that having been done, the booth revolved open to
allow 3 to enter the school grounds. As
he did so he looked left and saw Veena emerge, and he moved to her side.
‘Sorry for shouting at you,’ he said.
‘That wasn’t a shout. Don’t worry
about it. You’re right anyway.’
They walked passed a group of male Adonites, one of whom called out some
derogatory remarks to Veena, reminding 3 again that there would be some
advantages to not being in a mixed school.
Many of the Adonites were very anti-Newtonian and looked for
opportunities to harass and bully them. Because he always hung around with Veena,
3 was an even more obvious target for their sarcastic taunts.
‘Hey Veena,’ called their ringleader, ‘when are you going to stop
hanging around with the freak?’
‘You should stick with your own kind, Vee,’ said another.
“Yeah, real men, not froggy freaks like that.’
Veena was already moving towards the group before they finished their teasing. Watching his friend adopt an aggressive
posture before them, 3 knew she would fearlessly fight them. She loved it and
she knew exactly how much force to use to rough people up and teach them a
lesson without seriously injuring them. Physical combat was a natural and
necessary ability for Adonites, and Veena was better than average. How ironic, thought 3, that she was afraid to
touch a little bird but had no hesitation in kicking the collective butts of a
group of tough guys.
‘Supergirl, eh?’ they continued teasing her. ‘Is that why you hang around with the freak,
because you can beat up on him?’
‘Maybe he likes it,’ said another, causing them all to laugh.
Veena delivered a sidekick into the stomach of the group’s ringleader,
and before he knew what was happening, she swung her foot down across the side
of his face and knocked him to the ground.
Watching the entertaining action, 3 wished he could simply use his
mindblast. That would quickly and
painlessly, for him and Veena anyway, end the confrontation. But as desperately as he wanted to, his father’s
words of warning were yelling in his mind.
The second Newtonian commandment declared mind weapons were only for
extreme circumstances. For the protection of your life, lectured his dad, or
others lives, they are defensive weapons.
If you use them irresponsibly you will not only be in violation of the
law but you will alienate yourself further in a society where most already
consider us to be freaks and misfits, and do harm to the reputation and
position of our tribe. Heavy stuff.
‘Veena,’ he called, ‘Just stop. Don’t worry about it.’
Busy beating the big mouths, Veena didn’t hear 3 until he came right up
beside her and shouted. She almost
knocked him out of his hoverchair with another spinning kick which was intended
for the last man standing. He noticed the big smile on Veena’s face.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I guess I got a little carried away.’
‘I’m glad we’re friends,’ said 3, with a smile.
Suitably
embarrassed, the boys stood around in a ragged circle with their shoulders
hunched. One rubbed his stomach, another his jaw while a third was still on the
ground winded and humbled. Veena threw a last triumphant look over them before
she and 3 walked away.
At the snack dispenser, 3 touched the picture of a flavored milk carton
on the display screen, then waved the back of his hand in front of the scanner.
Personal Credit Storage, PCS for short, was a recent innovation which combined
and successfully realized all the elements of the much vaunted ‘cashless
society.’ A decades old dream of bankers all over the world had finally come to
fruition.
Three beeps confirmed the transfer of funds to
cover the purchase and the carton duly emerged from the bottom of the vending
machine.
It
said, ‘Thank you Ted.’
‘Come on,’ said Veena, ‘Let’s get to class.’
‘Any chance
of you staying out of trouble until we get there?’
‘Watch it!’
said Veena as she jumped in front of him and took up an attack posture. ‘You’ll
be next.’
The two
friends carried their laughter with them into the classroom, and sat down in
their usual seats. History class was first up.
Chapter 3
‘The
Minister for Education will speak.’
Senator
1-11-15 moved onto the speaker’s podium as though he owned it, as though it was
made specifically for him. Like a king long destined for glory ascending a
throne to bathe in the awe of the common people, he sat tall in his hoverchair,
head held high and swept the chamber with a haughty look. At the invitation of
the Speaker of the House, the Senator was to speak for fifteen minutes on the
issue of inter-tribal education. It was an unprepared speech, coming from the
heart and spoken many times before to whoever would listen. There were of
course slight variations, extra emphasis on particular aspects of his argument
or adjustments in language use depending on who he was talking to, but the
central message remained the same. Inter-tribal education was a cancerous
growth which must be cut out of society.
As minister for education, 1-11-15 was a heavyweight in Earth’s
parliament, and revered by his own tribe, the Newtonians. Having served in government for twenty years
he was also a hardened veteran, and a well connected man, unafraid to use
whatever means may be required to achieve his goals. As far as he was concerned,
the old adage about winning not being the most important thing was a pitiful
excuse for failure, a justification for lack of effort, a badge of weakness.
Winning was everything. This attitude
made him almost as many enemies as friends.
Some of his parliamentary colleagues feared him, others loathed him, but
from all, he commanded respect.
Sitting
in his hoverchair at the podium, he silently contemplated his audience for a
few moments before he began. He reached for the glass of water on the lectern,
took a long deliberate sip, put the glass down, then cleared his throat
unobtrusively.
‘The persistent efforts of some in our society allegedly represented by
men and women in this house, to maintain inter tribal schooling has had
disastrous consequences. Contrary to the
propaganda pushed out by advocates of this archaic method of education, our
children, have suffered as a result of policies which do nothing to advance our
society. The purity and uniqueness of
the tribes must be preserved in order to...’
The
senator coughed to clear his throat. ‘In order to…’
He began to choke on the words, coughing as though an invisible hand had
fastened around his throat. Reaching for
his glass of water, he found he could not see it properly and with his airways
constricting rapidly, he panicked and started waving his large hands
frantically in the air. With his eyes
bulging and bloodshot, his lean body spilled out onto the floor as his
hoverchair lost power and crashed at the foot of the podium.
Screams and roars of disbelief and mayhem filled the chamber as members sprang
from their chairs and buzzed around wildly in all directions inside the
triangular chamber. Knocking each other out of the way as they scrambled for
the exits, their cries filled the chamber. Shouts of ‘call an ambulance’ and
‘let’s get out of here’ and ‘what happened’, and ‘is he all right’, and finally
by those who spoke in ignorance, ‘the senator is dead’. There were a few doctors in the house and two
of them rushed to the stricken Newtonian’s side but they were unable to
determine what was wrong let alone help him.
By the time police and paramedical services arrived, 1-11-15 was dead,
and the great hall of democracy in Mumbai was like a cemetery on a bleak
wintery day.
Police began conducting interviews with the few remaining people, while
others began to examine the dead man’s body.
Nothing definitive would be revealed until an autopsy had been carried
out but initial observations and descriptions of the event from witnesses, forced
the police to consider foul play a definite possibility.
‘What
do you think, Mike?’ Chief Inspector Adrian Jacobssen towered over the body of
Senator 15, he dragged his large right hand across his unshaven cheek and onto
his chin. He waited for an answer though it was painfully obvious to him what
had happened and equally clear that this man had no shortage of enemies who
might have been responsible for his death. His question was addressed to the
chief forensic examiner, Mike Kuczynski.
‘His
heart stopped by the sound of things,’ said Mike, standing so as to not have to
crane his neck to look at Jacobssen. ‘I haven’t seen his medical records yet,
obviously-but from what I hear he was as healthy as an ox, in his prime.
Without any external signs or marks on his body, and based on what witnesses
say, a sudden massive heart attack seems the most likely cause of death.’
Jacobssen
stared at the corpse as if it might suddenly solve the mystery for him by a
brief resurrection. ‘Thanks, Mike.’
It was impossible for Jacobssen to not entertain thoughts of murder,
even without the degree of inside knowledge he had on this victim. It was in his nature to be suspicious, and
here was certainly more than enough fuel for his suspicions. Foul play meant
assassination, and not just of any politician but a prominent and powerful
minister, albeit a controversial one.
The fallout from his death would be hard to contain and impossible to
predict, but whatever transpired, it would not be good. However, all that was
not Jacobssen’s concern. He was a detective and his job was to find the truth.
Catch the bad guys; his only purpose in life these days.
Still sitting in his armchair in the center and front row of the
Adonite’s side of the triangular chamber, was 1-11-15’s greatest political
opponent, leader of the Adonites in the parliament, Harish Singh. Feeling as though he had been punched in the
stomach repeatedly for hours, Singh was unable to move or breathe properly in
shock at what he had just witnessed.
Jacobssen
saw Singh and quickly threaded his way through a crowd of policeman who were
interviewing witnesses, towards him. Strange, thought Jacobssen, to find him
still sitting here alone. Why would he react so differently from the majority
of other parliamentarians who had fled like chickens responding to an unwelcome
visit by a fox?
‘Excuse
me Senator.’
Singh
looked up slowly to see a tall man of heavy build holding out a badge for his
inspection.
‘Chief Inspector Adrian Jacobssen, Senator. Are you all right?’
Singh moved his head slowly, but Jacobssen was uncertain whether that
meant yes or no to his question. Before he could ask another, Singh spoke.
‘Such barbarism…’ he paused to claw the fingers of his left hand through
his long beard as though he wanted to rip the hairs from his chin. ‘Weak word,
isn’t it? But I can’t think of a better one. It’s unthinkable in these
enlightened days. Debate can get very heated and even personal but never
violent. Senator 1-11-15 was a man in
the prime of health, a fine example of a Newtonian. He had never suffered
illness of any kind since surviving meningicoccal disease as a child in the
north of India. He was fanatical about high standards of health and fitness. It
was his idea to establish regular mandatory health examinations for all members
of parliament.’
Jacobssen
regarded the Senator critically, and thought his words sounded like a well
prepared eulogy. ‘My forensic guy reckons it was a heart attack,’ he said.
Singh
laughed briefly, pathetically, tears welling in his eyes, then shook his head.
Many years ago in the innocence of youth he and 15 had been
friends. Decades passed and they both
became powerful men whose diametrically opposed political views shipwrecked
their friendship. Under different circumstances, in another lifetime they may
have remained the best of friends for life. Fate had determined they be enemies
instead, and fate, Singh realized, was not one to be argued with or challenged.
Someone called out to Jacobssen who turned and nodded at the officer
signaling for him that it was okay to remove the body now, which they did.
Watching the strange looking corpse leave the chamber, Jacobssen
wondered how the Newtonians survived in those pitiful bodies anyway. As a member of the only egalitarian branch of
the government, Jacobssen understood the limitations experienced by the
Newtonians but he also understood the advantages they gained over others in the
trade-off and he respected the path they had chosen for the future of their
tribe. He had many dealings with 1-11-15
over the years and although he could never quite trust him totally, he
respected his authority and believed him to be a man of great integrity.
A junior detective, a Deist came over to his boss. ‘Everyone’s saying he was murdered,
poisoned.’
‘It’s a bit early to be saying anything isn’t it?’ said Jacobssen. The
words spoken harshly and accompanied by a withering look caused the young man
to recoil.
‘It was murder all right,’ asserted Singh, suddenly extracted from his
melancholy again. ‘That man was the
healthiest in the chamber, there’s no way it was anything but murder.’ Looking up at Jacobssen again, Singh repeated
himself. ‘It was definitely murder,
detective.’
Waving the junior officer away, Jacobssen sat down beside Singh and
pressed his communication badge. “All right if I record this?’
Singh
nodded absently.
‘Tell me about it.’
Tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, Harish again marveled at
the artistry involved in the decorative mural which he himself had commissioned
for the house some fifteen years earlier.
It was a classic piece, painted in the style of the nineteenth century,
when art was beautiful and spiritual, depicting a battlefield immediately after
the cessation of hostilities. Critics
had argued against the work, questioning the beauty and value of war, but Singh
had held his ground, the mural he said was not a glorification of war but a
celebration of peace. Peace, the ever elusive
dream.
‘Senator?’
Reluctantly tearing his gaze from the ethereal view, his eyes met the
burly detectives and he sighed. ‘This is
worse than just murder, it’s worse than assassination, it’s a-’
‘Senator,’ interrupted Jacobssen, ‘If you could tell me what you
saw.’ Bloody politicians, he
thought. There were times when their inability
to get to and stick to the point was amusing, but this was not one of them. He had a crime to solve and was not remotely
interested in philosophical rhetoric or nostalgic musings.
‘Of course,’ said Singh.
The two sat quietly amidst the hustle and bustle of police and forensic
scientists as they sifted for clues and posed hypotheses and shared theories
and questioned witnesses, gathering evidence.
Singh answered the questions honestly while continuing to insist that
his colleague was the victim of a murder.
A loud
bang interrupted them and Jacobssen sprang to his feet. A muffled explosion
followed, causing all the police to reach for and draw their electroguns. It
was nothing. The noise, it turned out was caused by a malfunction in a piece of
forensic investigation equipment.
Both
Singh and Jacobssen snapped their heads back to face each other. Sharing their
mutual relief in a glance.
‘Okay,’ said Jacobssen, switching off the digital recorder. ‘Thanks for your cooperation.’
Standing to his feet despite still feeling shaky, Harish shook the
detectives hand and wished him well with the investigation. Leaving the chamber, he looked around at the
empty chairs and pictured them full of earnest ministers and members of
parliament, all listening politely to 1-11-15 even if they disagreed vehemently
with his views. The parliament was a
place where men behaved with decency and respect for each other and where there
was genuine desire to do what was best for the citizens of Asia. Opposed as they may have been on numerous
issues, none could doubt or question the sincerity of the others. The highest
ideals of humanity were championed here until this day, when someone desecrated
its sanctity, and set the parliament on the road to disintegration. Literally and figuratively.
Outside
parliament house, unnoticed among the large group of people who were standing
around either talking to each other or to police or uploading information onto
the Web, a solidly built Adonite with strangely thick legs and clean shaven
head, wearing a tracksuit spoke into his phone using an alpha-numeric
code. Unconcerned about being
interrupted or approached by anyone, the man nodded with satisfaction as he
filed his report on the incident.
‘Senator 15 is dead. It was over very quickly, my compliments to
the manufacturer of the poison. You may
initiate stage two and I will await payment at the agreed time into my account. Good to do business with you.’
Satisfied, the man smiled to himself and imagined how he would enjoy
spending the money soon to be transferred into his account. Lie around on some
Pacific Island for a few weeks or a few months, whatever. Relaxing, unwinding. This job had been difficult to orchestrate,
his hardest challenge yet, but despite the problems and the complexity of the
schemes he had to use to get to the Senator, it had come off smoothly. There would be nothing to link him to the
murder, not a trace of evidence.
So busy congratulating himself was the assassin, that he failed to
notice a Newtonian glide up behind him, place an electrogun against the back of
his head and squeeze the trigger. The
dead man crumpled to the ground while the Newtonian moved to the curb and
entered an unmarked, unregistered black RV which sped off down the street
before the door was closed.
Back inside
Asia Parliament, Harish Singh turned for one last look into the chamber, before
trudging down the long white marble hall sighing as the enormity of what had
happened bore down on him like a heavy load.
He would be a suspect, would undergo intense scrutiny and public
speculation about his role in the death of 1-11-15. Legally he was completely innocent, he had
nothing to do with the crime, but morally, Singh was as guilty as sin. He had lost count of the number of times he
had wished his opponent dead, or somehow permanently out of the scene. Why that notion should bother him now, he was
not sure but there it was, nipping and biting at his thoughts like a blue
heeler dog at a sheep’s legs. It would have been so much easier to push his
agenda without 15’s interference, and proficiency at getting his own way.
At the exit to Parliament House, Singh entered the identification booth
and had his eyes scanned as the computer logged his exit in its memory. Outside under a dull sky, the humidity pawed
at his skin as he hurried to a waiting government RV and climbed into the back
seat. Giving the driver directions,
Singh nestled into the leather seat and closed his eyes allowing the cool air
from the air-conditioning to wash over him as they drove away through the
crowded streets of Mumbai. If only it could have washed away the guilt and
despair he felt.
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