Ectopia (23 page)

The Book
of the Father

 

Answers to an interrogatory

 

You say you want a testament not a confession. Well fuck you. If it's a testament give me a keyboard and I'll type it out but never sign it. It stays anonymous. You think I'm some young dumbfuck with a ball for a brain? Don't ask for a testament and stick me on oral. Oral's fed to voice patterning. Voice patterning smears my DNA over every fucking word I preach. You're not getting a testament out of me. Testa-fucking-testicle. You're not getting a confession either. I've nothing to confess.

 

Steven? He's a fucking mutant. You say you're keeping me in this holding tank to keep me safe from Steven? You say he's got loose? He's out to get me? Let me out and we'll see who gets who. Sneeze on him and he cries for his mummy. If Steven's a problem let me loose. I'll sort him.

 

Don't son me. Don't lay Steven on me. There's nothing mutant about my sperm. Test it. My sperm swims straight. Steven happened after I shot my sperm. It was a twin thing, ripping the egg apart. One part turned out a girl and the other turned out girlie. A girl with a prick and an available ass. Don't lay Steven on me. I donated the sperm. That's all I'm liable for.

 

Don't lay that one on me either. It's you that fucked Paul. He was a decent lad. On top form. Then you got him. You warped him. He was meat when you finished with him. Who cares what you scraped out of a piece of meat. Who cares what your fucking analysts worked out in their stupid fucking labs. You fucked Paul. Fucked his brain and left him limp. That was sick. So sick. Maybe I fucked a slab of meat. Maybe I did. So fucking what.

 

T
hat brown wanker pal of Steven's led him on. I like timber, I love timber, I know timber. When we had timber we had wisdom. We knew the dangers of niggers in woodpiles. You want to know what fucked up the world, go scrape the brown skin off that little wanker and investigate his junk DNA. You're all too fucking correct to crawl back down the midden of history and face the truth. We had Y chromosomes by the fucking bucketful before brown wankers got into the country. Letting brown wankers in like that, it's like the Antichrist sneezing out snot, it's just shooting out virus. A burst of virus slam in your face. Aids started in monkeys, black men ate monkeys, you rolled out a fucking red carpet at the airports and showered those monkey blacks with money, our fucking money, and now we're fucked. The virus is in. You want a confession, you get that little brown wanker fucker Malik pal of Steven's to spill. I should have got him. He should be dead.

 

You're like that woman you got in here. ‘Do you think it was right to use your daughter for bait?' she kept on, spinning maggots on a line like I'm pike enough to bite. Karen's a whore. She was gasping for it. I was protecting her. ‘How many do you think you could have saved?' you ask me now? As if I was going to run through the flames, pick Steven's pack of fuckbuddies up in my arms and carry them safe to their mummies. Well what about you, you fuckers? You were there. You were waiting. You filmed it all for fuck sake. You picked me up. Whose fucking side are you on? We're samesiders, you and me. You know it. Urban scum's on one side, you and me on the other. Pick your nose, you stupid fucking imp, pick your fucking ass, but don't pick a fight with me.

 

Testament? You want a father's testament about Steven? Steven's a lying little prick. Words from his mouth are like pus from a boil. He's a fucking invert. Take what was good when I was a kid and turn it inside out, hang it from some butcher hook and let it fester, and you know what you've got? Steven fucking no son of mine Bender.

Bender in Paradise

2.01

- What day is it? I ask.

- Tuesday, Doc Drake says.

In the beginning is a word, the word is Tuesday, and it's a lie. Even if he's struck lucky on a guess, even if somewhere else on the planet people wake and their calendars say it's Tuesday, it's a lie. It's a lie to wrap something up in a word before you understand it. Whatever this day is it's not Tuesday. The world's not sequenced like that. You blink your eyes open, light comes in, and you get on with it. It's not another fucking day of the week. It's not a Friday follows Thursday kind of day. It's just another space of light and time to run through. You keep on running till you fall off the edge or you're pushed and all goes dark for a while. You wake up and you start again. On the seventh day God never rested. He just gave up counting and took off, left us to muddle through the day on day shit. Weeks are never wrapped up, we get no rest, Tuesdays don't exist. Bombs never drop on a Tuesday. Kids don't die on a Tuesday. Teensquads aren't flamed alive on a Tuesday. If days need names they can be horrordays. Whoever suffers the fiercest horror gets to name the day. Maybe today's the day a mother watches a virus eat her baby's flesh down to the bones. If that happens and she feels like talking she can name this day what the fuck she wants. It can be her day to name.

A doctor in a picnic chair doesn't get to call it Tuesday though. He's got no right.

- Where are we? I ask.

- Eden, he says.

His picnic chair's got a seat and a back of blue and white striped canvas. It's got a foldable aluminum frame. Three matching chairs are set around the other sides of a picnic table. The table's got stainless steel knives and forks either side of empty white dinner plates. Four glasses and a pitcher are empty too.

- Come on, the doc says. He pushes his chair back, stands up, and moves his hands wide apart in front of him like he's setting loose a butterfly. I'm meant to look where he's looking and find it wonderful. I've had my fill of seeing though his eyes.

I see trees with green leaves. The leaves on branches near the top move in shivers. I check the air against my face and feel heat, not wind or breeze. The picture doesn't add up.

- We'll take that path, the doc says – I'll show you a secret. Show you round.

He points to a path of baked mud. Its surface is cracked, but the land to either side of it is green, two stretches of green each so wide and yet so narrow I could roll through it and flatten it all, once up once down. The green that is nearest has huge flowers on top of long stems, dark at the core with a mass of surrounding yellow petals. I'd call em sunflowers only sunflowers turn to face the sun. Here the sun's over to the left. The flowers aren't interested. They're facing us.

I turn away and climb back into the van. Its doors are wide open.

Malik's lying on the left, Karen on the right, but Paul's chair at the back is empty. If Doc Drake's going to feed me lies I'll ask him something I don't care about.

- Where's Paul?

- Don't worry. He's safe. He's in a secure unit, working a terminal linked direct to Cromozone. Your computer access here has no download capacity. Perfect though this place is it's no good for him. His functions are coming back. He's happy where he is. I left him grinning.

Happiness is an odd thing. It sits on the strangest faces. He tells me Paul's wired in to some terminal like it's a dream come true, like life's just found a meaning. I look down at Malik and though our teensquad's burnt to tar and ashes, and Malik's body's been dragged from its senses and carted fuck knows where, yet scanning his face for his take on life I'd swear he's another happy punter. Not gulp-me-down happiness, not a heart-thumping thing, just the slightest curve of his mouth into his cheeks. Some drama's still flicking at the inside of his eyelids. His clothes have been changed. He's wearing a slinksuit of his own but where mine was black his is white.

A black version has been slipped over my body again. I smell the armpits to see if it's the one Malik was wearing, to try and catch his scent on me, but the smell's neutral. My outfit's been cleaned or it's new.

Ex-Steven's old clothes have been taken off Karen. The bandage wrap's gone from her breasts. She's in her own slinksuit that lets em bulge. The fabric's cream rather than white. It shows the rings and points of her nipples but without transparency. Wherever she is inside her head she's happy to be there. Her eyeballs are dancing under her lids like Malik's are. She wears a similar smile. She's shaved her head and she's my twin but she doesn't look like me now. I can't smile like that.

They're not restrained by belts. They're free to get up off their tables if they wake.

- Are they drugged? I ask.

- In strict neuropsychopharmacological terms, the answer's no. Their condition is infinitely more advanced than drugs alone could ever achieve. I call my own method psychopressure. Electronically pulsed stimulation of the neuro transmitters. Drugs facilitate the process but they're simply one ingredient in a sophisticated cocktail. The fundamental factor is the client's own store of memories. We access what they know and advance the tale of their lives into the future, incorporating our own incomparably supreme data on the state of the world. I see it as aiding clients to achieve their potential before they've even conceived of its possibilities. Understand it this way, for simplicity's sake. Their bodies took a shortcut to get here. Their consciousnesses had more to experience along the way. They're still travelling. They'll be here soon. They'll begin to stir as though they're waking from a night of sound sleep, and they'll be hungry. Come on. Let's go and find some food for them to eat. Let's pick us a picnic.

He heads for the path between the not-sunflowers. I head round to the front of the van. The cab's doors are both locked. I look in through the window but see no driver. Being alone without running is crap. Doc Drake's the only company I've got. I'd choose better but I've had worse. The company of a pathological psychobutcher isn't as boring as life gets.

The doc's sat himself on the dust of the path to wait.

- Get yourself down here, he says as I join him.

I crouch low.

- What do you notice?

- Lettuces. Planted between sunflowers that don't turn to follow the sun.

- All these are new breeds of plants, designed for high-density growth. In this instance an added bonus for the lettuce is the shade protection of the sunflowers. Pick the lettuces like this …

He twists a young plant of about eight leaves to break it just above the ground …

- leave the roots behind, and they'll rot into the soil to improve the next crop. This stretch of planting is the most experimental real-earth garden our bioengineers have ever achieved. Follow the logic of their plantings and you'll come to understand their method over the seasons. You'll be able to replicate it, maybe even improve on it. But that's not what I expected you to notice. Go back to the van, stand there for a couple of minutes, then come back here. Tell me what you notice then.

I take the chance of being back at the van to look in on Malik and Karen. They're still sleeping, or whatever their state is. Malik's hair is thick and flops around his head. I climb into the van and examine Karen's scalp. I see no obvious sign of implants, but I left so many small cuts with the razor it's hard to tell.

I start checking the ground around the van for footprints. Either Doc Drake drove us in or the driver dumped us and legged it. I see no obvious tracks.

- Do you never stand still? the doc calls across.

I slap a mosquito against the sleeve of my slinksuit. Blood spurts out of its body and across the black material. Doc Drake's blood maybe. The suit seems to give me protection against insect bites. I slap at the back of my neck. I'm quick. Anticipate that first sting of bite, strike when the fuckers are hooked into the vein, and I get em. We used to play games in undertow, stripping down and using our bodies as bait, swatting the biters against each other's flesh. Everyone wanted to pair with me. I'm the best.

My neck's out of the suit and exposed. My slap was fast. The bulk of a horsefly is now squashed against my neck but two legs have stuck to my hand. I brush em off, then reach back and wipe my neck clean. A smaller fly lands on my left leg but it's sucking at my sweat and not biting. I let it ride. I've had enough of standing still. I head back to the path.

- So what's the difference between standing here and standing over there? Doc Drake asks.

- Here there's only one path and you're blocking it. From over there I'm free to go any way I choose. I guess I made a mistake in coming back.

I turn and head back toward the van. A horsefly lands on my left shin. Shins are the worst. Bites there tend to swell like boils. The best way of protecting shins is to run. Instead I slap at the horsefly but miss and stumble.

The doc laughs.

- You can't do it, he says – You just can't stay still. You're either running or you're swatting.

A mosquito lands on my hand. I kill it.

- You'll note, if you bother to look, Doc Drake says, spreading wide his arms – No flies on me. None landed on you while you were on the path either. Much of this Eden is as nature intended but we're not stranding you in pre-biblical times. Nature attracts insects, some that pollinate and others that serve no useful purpose whatsoever. In this stretch of garden scientists have moderated nature. You'll have no need to spray on pesticides. Pesticides are coded into the genetic structure of the stock. This garden's an insect-bite-free zone. This path is a great place to lie on your back and admire the sky. Spend time here, Bender, and you might even learn to be still.

He heads off down the path and plucks a red fruit from a plant staked on canes to his left.

- Catch, he calls, and throws it.

My body's quicker than my brain. My hand's stretching out as my brain's computing. Brain recognition one. It's a tomato. Recognition two. The tomato's going to burst in my hand. This is some sick joke. Recognition three. Life's screwed. What's a squashed tomato on top of everything else?

I make a perfect catch. The fruit stays intact.

- It looks like a tomato. It tastes like a tomato, the doc explains – But instead of a skin it's got a shell, somewhat like an avocado. We work on one premise at Cromozone. The world can be a better place. Not better than it is now. Better than it's ever been. Mankind's had a huge effect on the planet. Now nature is weeding us out. Here's how nature wants us …

He takes the stalk of the tomato in his hand and twists it away from the body of the fruit. He then inserts a fingernail into the resulting hole and slices it down the sides. The skin peels back in four sections.

- Naked and vulnerable. We've destroyed the natural world as it was before we came. Now we have nature's response. The natural biological process gives us no more female children. Humans face extinction. Nature has us where it wants us. And this is what it will do, left to its own devices.

He folds his hand around the peeled fruit, and squeezes. His hand contains it as it explodes. He opens the fingers slightly to let the juice pour down to the dust, then tips the pulp after it.

- We've changed the rules, Bender. We can't expect nature to get us out of this mess. Nature's wiping us out. We have to conquer nature to survive. We have to adapt it to our own design. Humans are the dominant force on the planet. It's time we accepted that fact. Nature has been a great teacher but we've surpassed it. We have the skills. We have the raw ingredients. Now we need to apply them. We need to take responsibility for our own future. Who needs make do with tomatoes that bruise and rot under pressure? Who needs accept that male humans can't give birth? Who needs ever to think in terms of limitations? Not us, Bender. Not us.

He pulls out his palmpad and checks details.

- The consciousnesses of your sister and your friend are being separately introduced to their slinksuits right now. They'll slip them on in what they take to be privacy and settle down on their transport beds. Their consciousnesses are about to catch up with their physical forms. Allow ten minutes for journeying and they'll be with us. You can catch up on each other's stories. We'd better hurry if we're to have a meal ready. Come on, Bender. You're a runner. Let's see you run.

He turns on the path and kicks up dust. It's the kind of invitation I'm used to. His speed surprises me. For a bulky man he's nimble. The path's straight but the man's obscured by cloud. I can't see him for dust, he can't see me. I could run the other way and leave him to track me down. First though I need something from him. I need him to tell me one more lie. I listen for the rhythm of his tread and run to match it, lengthening my stride.

The dust cloud's dropping by the end of the path. I see the outline of his figure, kneeling down. I stop and wait as the dust settles and the picture clears. His hands are held in water. He's rubbing the tomato from his skin.

- You're impressed, he notes – Good. I was wondering what it would take to wake you to the wonders of this place. We dug this pond mechanically but it's filled by an underground spring. One more improvement on nature, Bender. And it's all for you.

He stands, shakes his hands dry, and walks to the band of crops that grow around the pond's perimeter. I look out across the water. The pond's no lake, it's maybe eight times my own length across, but it's full. Two ducks are swimming near the far edge, pushing their beaks through the grass that grows on the bank. They're white with thin orange crests and orange trim to their wings.

- They're both ducks, Doc Drake explains – We could manufacture drakes but breeding would follow the same male-only rule. These ducks are layers rather than breeders. It's a new species of duck. Name it what you will, Bender. The birds are here for their eggs but even more they're here for the scenery. Every Eden needs a little wildlife. Your daughter can grow to love them, Bender. They'll be company for her.