As she sends her vehicle screaming and bouncing down the outer skin of the volcano, she mutters to herself. ‘Would this be worth a few more years of youth? I don’t think so! Who are they kidding! Why don’t they give up?’
At the surgery, she claims to be Silva Merin’s physician and friend, and demands information. The small, Spanish woman clearly objects to Alcestis’ hectoring manner, and makes soft remarks about confidentiality.
‘Don’t you know anything about Silva Merin?’ Alcestis demands, or rather accuses, and when no answer is forthcoming, replies to her question herself. ‘No! For your information, she is the product of genetic engineering. She is thirty-seven years old.’
The doctor’s eyes widen in surprise.
‘Yes!’ Alcestis says triumphantly. ‘And there is a possibility she is prone to sarcoma, oat-cell cancer in particular. I know she consulted you for a skin disorder. Didn’t you bother to have samples analysed?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ the woman answers stiffly. ‘They are currently being processed. I only took the sample a week ago.’
Alcestis rolls her eyes almost gleefully. ‘You should have taken a sample when you first saw her! Was there evidence of any other disorders? What about her mental state?’
‘She seemed like a very self-possessed young woman. The sore she showed me did not resemble oat-cell. It was a fungal infection.’
‘I hope you’re right!’ Alcestis snaps. ‘Let me know the minute you get those results. I’m staying up at Canvey’s Retreat.’
As soon as she walks into the Retreat, Alcestis knows the men have been talking about her. The thick silence contained by the rotting walls is gravid with recently-uttered criticism. Lal too has a furtive air, hovering in the background.
‘You!’ Alcestis says, pointing at the biomech. ‘Am I wrong, or is one of your functions to monitor the condition of your colleagues in remote employment locations?’
‘You are not wrong,’ Lal answers silkily, gliding forward. ‘Might I be of assistance?’
‘Have you monitored Silva recently?’
‘I monitor her constantly, as a background utility.’
‘And you have computed no conclusions as to her condition.’
‘She is under stress. She worries.’
‘And the skin problem?’
‘She has a fungal infection.’
Alcestis makes a growling noise to signify her exasperation. ‘You took samples?’
‘No. She has not asked me to.’
Alcestis narrows her eyes and jerkily nods her head. ‘Well, you’re certainly fulfilling all your functions, aren’t you, lovey! Have you noticed no evidence of disorientation, absent-mindedness?’
‘Unfortunately, I’m not that familiar with Ms Merin’s personality to ascertain whether or not she is behaving abnormally.’ The biomech sounds frosty. ‘Now, if you will excuse me...’ It attempts to pass by the woman, who is blocking the door.
‘Fetch her,’ Alcestis says firmly. ‘I need to see Silva now. Although none of you appear to have noticed, she needs attention. Urgently.’
Lal answers politely. ‘I would comply with your request if I could, but regret I don’t know where Ms Merin is at this present time.’
Another growl. ‘Don’t give me that! Of course you know where she is, or else you’re an inferior model in a Meg6 skin! What are you playing at?’
The men have remained silent, almost as if they hope their lack of noise will make them invisible to this storming female. Now, Luis clears his throat and says, ‘She strays off the trail. She could be anywhere. Only the walkways are monitored.’
‘And you haven’t tried to stop her!’ Alcestis explodes. ‘Doesn’t her behaviour strike you as irrational? She is not a person to take unnecessary risks.’
Luis’ eyes drop back to his work.
‘This is outrageous!’ Alcestis shouts. She flexes her shoulders. ‘Well, if none of you will go out and bring Silva back, I will! Tell me where to start looking at least!’
For a tense moment, there is only silence and then Jesus mumbles. ‘You could try the path down to the crater.’ He cringes beneath Luis’ sudden warning glance.
‘There is no path,’ Luis says in a low voice.
Jesus shrugs. ‘There is now. She’s made one.’ He points through the window screen. ‘That way: down.’
Silva is lying in a pool of green radiance, surrounded by the swaying, lustrous forms of the forest-born. Their eyes glow fondly, mirroring the flashing feathers of the flock of quetzals that wheel about their heads. The rarest birds. Never more than one sighted at a time. A flock of the rarest birds. Silva sighs. She can feel her limbs melting into the green, into the moist earth. She is enveloped by the scent of unstoppable growth, enwombed by it. It all seems so clear to her now.
Canvey knew. He knew what these people were. Now, she cannot believe the emaciated husk that was found lying on the bed in the Retreat was really him. She feels he is close to her, one of them. He is watching her now, just a few feet away. She does not dispute his body died, but the spirit of him, the spirit... Another sigh escapes her like a breath of dawn mist. Canvey knew. He had the search image. He learned to see the immortals, to become part of the miracle that is unfurling here amid the green. And she is becoming part of it too. The forest spawned her; a miracle spore helped unravel the braids of her DNA and reformed them in a secret image. Sentience. Green sentience. And now she is home, unravelling once more, transforming.
The figures lean over her, spinning round in her sight, and ribbons of her essence spill out to be taken by their hands. They will dance these ribbons into a new shape. And she welcomes it.
Alcestis can see at once that degeneration is taking place. She can see Silva lying on her back in a clearing in the forest that looks as if it has been torn out by human hands. Alcestis has no doubt that, should she examine Silva’s hands, they will be cut and abraded by vines and tough stems. Insects will have burrowed into her unprotected skin, laid their eggs there, liquefied her flesh to feed. Uttering a cry of heartfelt anguish, Alcestis pushes her body frantically through the resistant green. In the emerald light of the forest, Silva’s damp skin looks greenish, terminally sick. There is hardly any flesh to her at all. She appears at once mummified and putrescent.
‘No, no, no...’ Alcestis murmurs a prayer of denial as she stumbles over the short remaining distance that separates her from her friend. She falls to her knees and scoops Silva up in her arms, horror and an unfamiliar sense of helplessness bringing equally unfamiliar tears to her eyes. She hugs the flimsy body to her. ‘No, no, no...’ But even as she tries to deny the terror of what is happening, and fights an inevitable, desperate grief, there is a sickening part of her that thinks, ‘She is not beautiful any more. She is not young.’ The sly inner voice that utters these words is almost too soft to be heard. It can easily be silenced, or ignored.
Suddenly, Silva twitches in Alcestis’ arms. ‘Sil! It’s me!’ Alcestis croons. ‘I’m here. I’ll take you back... God, why didn’t any of those ass-holes do anything about this?’
Silva moans and turns her head slowly from side to side. Then she opens her eyes, and Alcestis can see that they are filmed, unfocussed, the eyes of a dead woman, or someone so old their sight is obscured by cataracts. She realises then that taking Silva anywhere would be futile. It is too late. The experiment, though undoubtedly useful, has failed.
‘Al,’ Silva murmurs. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Doing? Doing? I’m gonna have Virichem by the balls, that’s what! That goddamned biomech must have known this was happening, must have been monitoring... God, it’s sick! They knew! They did nothing!’
‘No,’ Silva murmurs. ‘They don’t know... They don’t have...’ She manages a weak smile, a grim parody that resembles the grin of a fleshless skull. ‘It’s all right, Al, don’t be scared. This is all part of it...’
‘Oh, my baby!’ Alcestis grips Silva’s body firmly, as if trying to keep her spirit
earthbound. ‘I’m with you. Of course it’s all right.’
‘No.’ Summoning what must be the dregs of her strength, Silva tries to raise herself. ‘Can’t you see? Can’t you see them?’
‘Who, honey?’
‘The forest-born. They’re all around us. Look, Al, look at them. This is why you don’t have to worry. They’re taking care of me, taking care of me during my change...’
Alcestis feels a finger of fear claw her spine. For a moment, she feels Silva is talking sense. But all she has to do is raise her head to see that they are alone in the forest.
‘There’s no one here,’ she says.
Silva frowns and then stretches her papery lips back into a ghastly smile. ‘Oh, of course. You don’t have the search image. But you will Al, if you stay here long enough. You will. And then we can be together always.’ She sighs weakly and her head drops back against Alcestis’ arm. Her hair is coming out on the sleeve of Alcestis’ jacket. Her body is a decaying husk holding the soul of a vibrant girl. So cruel.
This is what life does to us, Alcestis thinks. This will come to me also, but in my case the stalking is slow and measured. It takes a little away, bit by bit, but at the end it will be the same.
‘Oh God!’ she says aloud, and throws back her head. It seems the forest, the interminable, wretched, burning green, is spinning round her head. Birds shriek and the mocking howls of monkeys fill her head. It seems they are jeering at the puny women below them. Squatting there amid the ageless green, Alcestis is painfully aware of her own mortality. It is lying in her arms. Her worst fear made manifest. Decay. Age. The bitter memory of youth. Death.
Silva’s voice is little more than a grating whisper. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, as her rebellious meat corrupts. ‘We can be together here always, face to face. Stay awhile. Rest awhile. We can be young together always.’
In the Retreat, Jesus raises his head from his work. His eyes reflect the green-glowing light as the rain-clouds gather outside. ‘She is blessed!’ he says, in his native tongue. ‘It doesn’t matter about that other woman.’
Luis is systematically destroying data, unsure of in which world his feet are rooted: the past, the present or the future. Grim-faced, he ignores his colleague’s remarks. Later, he will get drunk.
Lal mutters to itself, unheard.
Somewhere, a long way away, the daughter of Longevity Program VII draws breath. Her name is Hope, the secret name of all of who came before her.
Angel of the Hate Wind
My friend Jericho was taken by the Angel of the Hate Wind. At least that’s what I think, and though people might not like to share my view of the world, or of the angels, I know it’s a deep-seated fear within everyone. Taken by the wind.
We were rolling down the Fear Coast road in a land-dinghy when the seeds of the Taking were sown and took root. It was one of those hot, red evenings when you just feel it in your gut that anything is possible. We had stopped for the night and lit a fire within the skeletal shelter of a petrified spinney. Branches clacked like bones, bleached white in daylight, but black against the sun, sinking lovewards. The road plaited to each horizon. Mountains smudged the fear sky. We looked for spirit lights, but there were none, only wisps of cloud.
Jericho said, ‘I have to do something before we get there. Do something now.’
We were on our way to Jasper’s Fayre, on the Hate Coast. By profession, Jericho and I were tregetours, did a few juggling sketches with plasma spheres and firefly bhajis. The fayre meant income to us, but more than that for Jericho. He was sure he had tripped into a passion. I wasn’t so sure, but he got hot and angry when I tried to reason with him, so it was easier to humour him. The object of his affection was Dendria, and she was a variant, not even completely human. What grew on her head was like feathers or ferns; her eyes were yellow, with vertical pupils, like a cat’s; her skin a strange, bluey-white colour, which showed disturbing hints of bone and internal organs if the light caught her right. I suppose she was beautiful, in an aesthetic sense, but I would not have wanted to touch her, and deplored the fact that Jericho had spent the last sennight mooning around, undoubtedly composing bad poetry in his head to the Beloved. She was a cidaris; a created species, wrought for pleasure in the nutrient vats of hatish Amalgamators. Some had bred. There were hybrids. Nowadays, with everything boiling over as it is, there are no regulations to control the incubi and succubi of our wildest dreams. Some learned to be tumblers; Dendria was one of those. She belonged to a troupe called Excoriasts, who as well as flipping and flapping in all manner of contortions, could insert sharpened rods through their skin and hang from hooks, recreating all the fakir stuff from an earlier time. Dendria was the only cidaris with the troupe, although some of her colleagues represented other sub-species: admerveyelles, with their spangled eyes and multiple breasts, erminee boys, softly furred; spine-haired errinys, with their vestigial facial features and muscular limbs. I enjoyed looking at the variants, with their unexpected surprises, but no way could I desire one. Like called to like, I thought. Jericho was mad.
True, he sucked too many stalks of the erigeron, and saw visions I could not see. Sometimes, I had caught him inserting guidon thorns beneath his flesh; invoking a hallucinatory experience which would hover on the edge of his perception, but last for sennights. My disapproval of his habits provoked only outrage. I had hardened my heart. As long as he could pilot the dinghy, service its capricious sails and wheels, I could put up with his behaviour. If it eventually killed him, or sent him plummeting down a psychological abyss I could not fathom, then I would find a new partner. Perhaps even a variant. No doubt they could juggle too.
So, I was squatting in the dust, reconstituting a protein slab, listening to Jericho raving. ‘It is the future,’ he said, ‘for us all to become one, all the differences and specialisations to meld into one unique template.’
By that, I realised his fascination for Dendria had escalated into the desire to breed with her. This was too much. I said nothing, stirred my pot. Jericho’s face was demonic in the jumping light of our fire, but he still seemed wild and stunning to me. I thought, sadly, that our association must eventually end, and sooner rather than later. At first, I’d imagined our friendship would develop into something physical, but it seemed, as merely human, I was too common to ignite his libido, or perhaps he just regarded me as a sister. I rarely thought to primp and preen, and I knew I should pay more attention to personal hygiene, even though there is little point when travelling the roads between the fayres.
The end of the millennium approached. Humanity had grown careless and torpid, too lazy to make war, too idle to invent. Our technology fed and governed us; we had little to do but play. Anyone with any fire, zeal or curiosity about the universe had moved off-world to the spiralling colonies. I had often suspected we had out-lived our purpose, but because our knowledge protected us from extinction, we were doomed to linger on, wraiths of what was, without particular promise. Perhaps Jericho was right. For the variants, life was new and exciting. They lacked seriousness of mind, but that might come eventually. Then what? Would they want to own land, claim territory, fight for it? Would they turn their attention to the skies, covet the silent leviathans that circled our world, fly to make war with the remnants of humanity? I wondered about it, even though it seemed unlikely. Variants were frivolous; they had learnt this from us. All that Jericho thought of was indulging his desires.
We had met the Excoriasts only four sennights back at Cackerel Festival. It had been prestigious to earn a stage there, as the most superlative of performers had shoaled to the area. I suppose it was my fault Jericho got to meet Dendria, as I became friendly with Intempera, the troupe-leader. She was a tall, weighty woman, who oozed sex appeal, despite her size, and had the best sense of humour I’d ever come across. Also, I envied her collection of wigs. My hair, forever unwashed, I hid beneath a caul of metal feathers whenever I performed. Intempera had glorious hanks of hair hanging up in her caravan; scalps of
azure, viridian, cyclamen, daffodil, the longest of which trailed behind her on the ground as she stalked across the festival ground. Intempera taught me to drink Lizard’s Tail liqueur, which is best imbibed without breathing. She had a lover/son, Loadstar, who was seven feet tall, with a beautiful sad face, and plaits to his waist. She said he was an angel hybrid, because she had got pregnant during the Rites of Ecstasy sixteen years before, and Loadstar had been born as a miniature adult, rather than a baby. I wondered how many of her recollections were coloured by Lizard’s Tail, but the story was fascinating, and I wanted to believe it.
I took Jericho with me to Intempera’s caravan one night, to play livers, and the cidaris was there. It was obvious the game bored her, because she wouldn’t join in, but neither would she let the rest of us get on with it. Personally, I found Dendria’s behaviour very irritating. She insisted on leaping around us, upsetting the liver-stones whenever anyone was near to winning, and giggling, extending her head fronds and widening her pupils in Jericho’s face. I expected he’d find her a nuisance as well, but men’s reactions can never be predicted. Intempera occasionally picked up a rug-beater and smacked Dendria with it, which elicited raucous cries, but it didn’t stop her gadding about us.
‘What a simpo!’ I confided to Jericho later, on the short walk back to our wickyup.
He sighed. ‘I have seen a creature of aether, a denizen of love.’ His hands described cidaris-shaped outlines in the air before him. ‘Made flesh, but of a less common substance.’
True, he had been quaffing Lizard’s Tail, but I hardly expected such a sodden response. ‘Are you all right, Jericho?’