The Gang of Four

‘…And Mr. Waterstone will have the beef.’

  ‘Excellent. And anything to drink, madam?’ enquired the waiter, collecting up the menus.

  ‘Orange juice for me, please,’ requested Michael.

  ‘Nothing for me,’ added Russell.

  ‘And two lagers,’ added Ceres. The waiter nodded and departed, leaving an uncomfortable silence to hover over the table. Russell was still furious, though furious at what, or whom? If humanity opted for the singularity option, unpalatable though it was, it was still a marginal improvement on what was due to occur anyway. At least now this new entity would be independent of the Sponsors…

  It was no solace. Whilst Russell could accept humanity not persisting in its present form forever, the thought of an abrupt extinction occurring within this century, a total collapse of civilization and an aggressive takeover by the machines… well, it was almost disgusting! Russell glanced over at Michael: ‘Wait a minute, aren’t you the collective-machine? Can’t you, umm…’

  ‘Intervene? Not going to happen. You reside on a genetic gradient, Russell. We can push you up the slope, to flatter ground, or you can fall down the slope, of your own accord. But you can’t just stay put! It’s not natural.’

  Russell sighed, and glanced hopefully at Ceres, but she shook her head: ‘The singularity is a rite-of-passage for every space-faring species, Mr. Tebb,’ she declared, ‘but it is different in each case, and because the Sponsors accelerated your evolution you are now set to hurtle through it like a rifle bullet. If you want to avoid turning into cybermen you will need to evolve more slowly. Instead of taking a few thousand years to move from stone-age to space-age you should take millions. If you revert to dumbass you can at least try again, and this time – get it right!’

  Russell gave a weak sarcastic laugh as he took in his surroundings: It was another beautiful sunny day. The Thames shimmered in the sunlight, and London, at least here in the west, looked superb. It would have been nice to enjoy it. ‘All this culture will go…’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘Dumbass will have a culture!’ offered Ceres, still trying to sell the idea that reverting to an ape was a sound career move.

  ‘With respect, ma’am,’ interjected Michael, ‘banging a couple of rocks together is hardly a “culture”.’

  ‘It’s a start!’ argued the woman.

  Russell listened glumly as Ceres and Michael argued the merits and pitfalls of life as a hominid verses that of a space-faring thing. They disagreed on what would be the best outcome for humanity, but Michael failed to sell the singularity option to Russell. It sounded like this new entity would not only lack all connections back to the modern world it would also lack all recognizable human emotions; even scientific curiosity would be thrown out – replaced by mindless logic algorithms or something, Russell wasn’t interested. Maybe Ceres was right. Maybe the hominid lifestyle would be better… The food arrived:

  ‘The scallops?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘Yep,’ replied Michael.

  ‘And the stewed squid with tomatoes was for you, madam. The burger for sir, and…’

  ‘…And Mr. Waterstone will have the beef,’ replied Russell, indicating the cat sitting impatiently, gripping his knife and fork vertically in front of him.

  ‘Very good, sir, I’ll just get your drinks.’ The waiter departed.

  ‘That burger looks good,’ remarked Michael, through a mouthful of scallops. They made an unpleasant crunching sound as Michael consumed everything including the shells.

  ‘Keep your paws off it!’ warned Russell, sampling the burger for the first time: ‘Hmmm!! ...How’s the squid?’

  Ceres sucked up a tentacle and smiled at Russell.

  ‘As good as that?’

  After the waiter had served the drinks there was a lull in the conversation as everyone ate. Michael’s noisy crunching seemed to be disturbing some of the other diners, but the perception filter continued to do its job. Only Mr. Waterstone and his cutlery attracted attention, but not much.

  ‘Why doesn’t the perception filter work properly with him’, asked Russell, jabbing a knife in the direction of the cat.

  ‘It requires subtlety,’ Michael explained, ‘that is not really his MO, is it?’

  With the meals finished, Ceres addressed the group in general: ‘So what shall we do this pleasant afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, the weather here is very agreeable, isn’t it, ma’am?’ replied Michael.

  ‘Hmm hm. So what are we going to do with it? Mr. Tebb? Care to chip in with your local knowledge?’

  Russell thought about this... ‘SHIT!’

  ‘What!?’ enquired Ceres, with raised eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve got a class at two!’

  ‘It’s almost two now,’ observed Michael.

  ‘Meg will take care of business, Mr. Tebb,’ added Ceres, ‘You are sticking with us.’

  Russell slumped in his chair. What did it matter now, anyway? He began to think of stuff to do:

  ‘London eye?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Covent Garden?’

  ‘No’

  ‘Take in a show?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘Museums?’

  ‘No’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘Keep thinking.’

  Russell was becoming exasperated, but then a notion struck him: ‘Are there any other extraterrestrials running around London? Non-Sponsor ETs, I mean.’

  Ceres stared at him for a while and began to grin.

  Russell belched. ‘Let’s check ’em out.’

  ***