The Gang of Four

Lunch, it turned out, was “to die for”. At least for Alan. A very sullen Warner just picked at hers.

  Alan fully shared Warner’s dismay at the evident fate now awaiting humanity, but he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in nearly twenty-four hours, and as a bona-fide human he now appreciated food as never before. He even ordered a pudding which seemed to annoy Warner greatly. ‘The food’s great!’

  ‘Yes, I suggest you eat yourself to death before you revert to a monkey!’

  ‘Hmm hm,’ agreed Alan, absent-mindedly, as he indicated to the waiter that he wanted more custard. As a hybrid he had been kept away from alcohol, but this was what he imagined being drunk was like; he knew the ‘hangover’ would follow. For now, however, he just wanted to stuff himself.

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Warner, ‘I think I must have misjudged you, Alan. You are a common little tyke, aren’t you?’

  Alan nodded. He assumed the job offer was now rescinded and frankly, who cared what Warner thought of him.

  Alan finally could take no more: no more food and no more of Warner’s hostility. He leaned back in his chair and fixed a cold stare at his companion:

  ‘I am rediscovering what it is to be human, Helen. Experiences like this are novel to me. And if we are all doomed, as you say we are, what would you have me do?’

  Warner glared at him, but said nothing.

  Alan, now sobering quickly from his food-orgasms, decided to try a different, more constructive approach:

  ‘Surely the psynet explains how they kept us like this?’

  Warner emitted a sharp sarcastic yelp: ‘Ha!’

  ‘You’re saying it doesn’t?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s not feasible. Every human would have to be ‘flagged’, every sperm cell, and every egg. And every individual person would need a bespoke arrangement. Can you imagine the infrastructure needed to execute this? Not to mention the expertise required!’

  ‘What infrastructure did the Sponsors use?’

  ‘I haven’t bothered to look but I assume they used orbital platforms, or spacecraft of some description. Highly focused microwaves probably performed the actual DNA editing.’

  ‘I see,’ said Alan.

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘What’s likely to happen in the next five years or so?’

  Warner shrugged: ‘Not much to the existing population, I suppose, but humanity will be set squarely on a path towards degeneration. I pity those who give birth. They’ll be in for a very nasty shock! Once societies twig what’s going on – they’ll collapse. It could happen within five years.’

  ‘Suppose we construct replicas of the Sponsor technology and then assemble a team of expert geneticists to administer it. Could that work?’

  ‘I doubt it. Even if it did, the ‘landscape’ in which our genomes now sit is significantly altered and so the outcome of any manipulation is unpredictable. In short – expect serious mutations. We’d wipe ourselves out even quicker if we tampered with this!’

  The table fell silent as both diners contemplated the inevitable.

  ‘Mr. Alan Dosogne?’

  Both Alan and Warner flinched and looked up at the two burly men standing by their table.

  ‘Excuse me, who the hell are you!? This is a private restaurant!?’ shouted Warner with fury.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Cranford of Special Branch, and this is Detective Sergeant Landers. We have orders to escort Mr. Dosogne for questioning.’

  Alan glanced nervously at Warner.

  ‘They tracked you with your phone,’ remarked Warner with little interest. ‘Well go on! Go with them!’

  Alan stood and offered his hand to Warner but she ignored it.

  ‘If you could follow us please, sir,’ said Cranford, indicating the door.

  ***