The Ambassador (26 page)
‘So, my dear son, you still enjoy being in Parliament? It has not gone sour on you?’
‘Not at all. Life is treating me extraordinarily well. I am enjoying myself hugely.’
The Princess’s laugh tinkled. ‘You always did. You have an infinite capacity for making the most of whatever opportunities are at hand. And for ending up with everyone’s approval, whatever scrapes you found yourself in. I don’t know where this ability comes from. Certainly not me – I am far too conventional.’
‘Maybe my father?’ Marius relaxed, pushing one leg out lazily under his mother’s seat. He wished she were marginally less conventional about smoking, but the detectors were on and blinking at him.
‘Your father, possibly. He was a bit of an adventurer in his way. He would have loved what you get up to. We were a strange couple, him with his penchant for a bit of swashbuckling and me with my passion for the proper. It was a love match, you know, Marius. We were very fortunate.’
The Prince smiled. ‘So I’m an unusual mixture of genes, Mother. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel that I fit in, often.’
The Princess paused for a second in her painting, but did not lift her eyes to her son. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s hard to explain. I’ve sensed it since my childhood. My school friends and fellow Énarques would slip easily into whatever pattern was set for us. I, on the other hand, was mildly rebellious – not enough to make a fuss, and perhaps innately I did not want to draw
attention to myself; your caution, maybe, Mother. But they had an unshakeable conviction that everything was tremendous, that progress was inevitable, and that nothing could ever go wrong in the world. At least, not as long as we were in charge. I didn’t share that confidence. I felt … more irreverent and disloyal than I should have been. More like an outsider.’
‘How strange,’ his mother murmured. ‘I can’t imagine where you inherited that from. Does it show in your chart?’
‘My genetic chart? I can’t tell, it’s too subtle for me. Anyway, on which chromosome is personality formed?’
‘All of them, I expect.’ The Princess laughed indulgently. She tapped Marius’s knee. ‘Which brings me to the obvious question, my dear child. Have you yet found anyone to marry? You should not leave it too late, if you want to use your own genetic material for reproduction. Even healthy men’s sperm deteriorate, they say.’
‘Heavens, Mother, you make it sound so clinical. No, I haven’t yet found a partner. But you’re right, the search has begun, just about. I need a woman who is intelligent and attractive, who is imaginative and supportive, but who is not
too
formidable.’
‘Will you consider a royal?’
Marius snorted. ‘No. With one or two honourable exceptions, such as yourself, Mother, they’re too dim for words. We would really have to fiddle with the embryo if I were to have any sort of close relationship with my children. I’m fond of our cousin the King, but that’s as far as it goes. An NT copy would not be my idea of a wonderful son.’
The Princess giggled and covered her mouth.
Marius rose. ‘I have to go. I’m pleased to see you recovering so well, Mother. And don’t worry, my marital status, or lack of it, is now in the forefront of my mind. You have given me food for thought, as ever. Take care.’
Winston Kerry, the records clerk, had no similar problems with smoke detectors. The advantage, he had discovered, of living in a small cottage on the surface in Stony Stratford was that the renovations could be made entirely to his specifications. When the builder had pointed out that a certificate of fitness for human habitation could be issued only if the gadgets were prominently installed on each ceiling, he had invited the man back the following week. Sure enough, white steel boxes had been placed where bureaucracy required and red spots blinked. That there was nothing inside was known only to Winston and his partner, who now offered him a Chinese cigarette.
Martin Kerry (for such was the surname he had adopted) was a rangy, thin man with a shock of ginger hair cut in a spiky crew-cut, a style made popular by punk designers of the previous century. He was a copy editor for a publishing house and worked from home.
They had met five years before in a gay bar in Hampstead mid had stood, beer bottles in hand, hips thrust forward, each transfixed by the other, until at last Winston had round his voice, made the ritualised inquiry about an AIDS test – the usual euphemism for sex, the disease itself having long been conquered – and had broken into a broad smile at the affirmative nod. They had left together immediately and had been lovers ever since.
Winston drew on the cigarette several times and blew a smoke ring. Then he ambled into the kitchen, collected a tray of Kentish mangoes, skinless bananas, mixed nuts, goat cheese and focaccia bread, with two cans of lager. One of the cans was handed to Martin,
who had already eaten and was lounging on a leather sofa, his eyes half turned to the wall television, though the sound was low.
Winston sat at his side and they kissed for a moment, till Winston slumped back and began to eat a banana. ‘I’m buggered at work,’ he announced.
Martin switched off the television, helped himself to some nuts and curled his legs under him. He did not need to do more than listen. Winston, the extrovert, the wild boy, could then unburden himself in comfort, while Martin could offer calm and uxorious sympathy.
‘What do you do, Marr, if you believe your employer’s whole operation is deeply flawed? But you’re stuck in the middle, and you know you’re the best there is? Every day I do what I’m paid for. I keep their records, I adjust the parents’ selections in line with the guidelines – not the published ones, but those that come through every six months or so. All I gotta do is reboot the computer so it throws up any genetic constructions that haven’t been authorised or are no longer deemed desirable. Mine’s not to reason why, and since I don’t give a fuck about any of it, mostly I don’t bother my head to find out what they think they’re up to.’ He halted, brooding, and gulped down half a bottle of the beer.
Martin stroked his arm wordlessly. His thin face puckered in concern.
Winston prodded the food. ‘At times like this I wish I wasn’t a veggie. I could eat red meat. I could
murder
somebody. Today I decided to test the instructions. I was watching for any anomalies – Dr Pasteur has been struggling and I’d like to sort it out for her. But what came up on the screen made even me yelp. What a shower they are.’
Martin cracked a green pistachio nut in his teeth, took out the kernel and fed it to Winston. He continued to do this until he sensed his partner relent a little.
Winston sighed. ‘I knew that the IQ enhancement was to be restricted to specified A1 types. That’s been the rule for some time, though by law it’s available to everyone. The explanation, see, is that after three generations we’ve taken it as far as it’ll go. Start creating too many geniuses and the result could be a lot of unhappiness. But the impact of the latest circular is that we are to take IQ
down
a little from here onwards. Two or three points. Undetectable to most recipients. Except for certain groups, who will be specially labelled – and they’re to carry on going upwards. Somebody’s trying to accomplish what nature itself can’t do.’
His shoulders sagged, and he let himself slide gently down until his head was in Martin’s lap, his long legs in their scruffy jeans hanging over the arm of the sofa. Meanwhile Martin broke off pieces of bread and cut slivers of cheese which he fed one at a time into Winston’s mouth.
‘The world’s gone crazy,’ Winston mused. ‘First I’m asked to remove defects – but not all of them. I’m told to spice the genes up a bit, make the kids smarter – I don’t have much argument with that. I’m obliged to lighten the skin of every Asian or Afro-Caribbean citizen’s child, whether they like it or not. They like it and come clamouring for more. They’d all be blond and blue-eyed, given half a chance – shows you how hopeless the
anti-discrimination
codes are, don’t it? In half a century true blacks will have disappeared, at least from the upper castes. They’ll all be shades of grey. But now I have to make a big space between one bunch of triply enhanced NTs and the rest of the nation. Given my devious mind, I can just guess why. It makes my blood run cold, Marr, I tell you.’
He reached up and caressed Martin’s face. His voice, when he spoke again, was soft
and full of love.
‘A right pair, we are. Lucky we don’t fancy breeding. Nobody would have either of us. Our DNA’d be dumped straight into the bin. Gay means unsuitable. Me, black,
nine-tenths
, anyway. And belligerent, uncouth and ungovernable, I guess. And you, born dumb and never spoken. Genetic rejects, the pair of us. But who’s to decide we’re worthless? What gave them the right?’
Several thousand miles away, another public servant was frowning in annoyance at the orders that had just been handed to him. Colonel Mike Thompson read each line again and snorted. The flash had appeared on the screens earlier in the day, but had been confirmed by the white crested envelope and letter brought by fastjet courier. The signature of Morrison, the Permanent Secretary at the Ministry of Defence meant there could be no mistake.
‘But I am a soldier,’ he murmured, not caring that Captain Neimat Vesirov, the Azerbaijani adjutant, was in earshot.
‘Sir?’
‘I am to return. To relinquish this post. I am promoted, and will take up ceremonial duties in London.’
‘Congratulations, sir.’ His master’s glowering expression meant that the remark was made without enthusiasm.
‘I bet,’ the Colonel continued slowly, ‘I’ll bet there’s more to it than ceremonial. I’m too bloody useful here. Must be some reason for it. Half the regiment’s recalled, too. Not you – you’ll see out your term here, Neimat.’
‘You’ll be missed, sir. The men think highly of you, if you don’t mind my saying so. Sir.’
‘Thank you. Appreciated.’ The Colonel half saluted then turned on his heel. As he marched away, papers in hand, the Captain could hear him muttering to himself.
‘Why on earth would the MoD want seasoned troops in the middle of London this winter? What will we be expected to do, other than get bored out of our boots on guard duty? There has to be another story. What, though? That’s what I’d like to know.’
Lisa stood stock-still in the corridor, the sound of the door being shut firmly behind her still ringing in her ears. Furiously her hand rubbed her cheek as if she had been slapped. That was how it felt.
The label on the door was unchanged: Professor James Churchill, Director. Yet her relationship with her supervisor, the man most immediately responsible for her research, for her promotion prospects and her place in society, had altered for ever. And very much for the worse.
He had listened with obvious impatience to what, to be fair, was a barely credible tale of an unusual cargo leaving the premises late one night. He had questioned her closely as to what she had been doing there and whether she made a habit of, as he put it rudely, ‘creeping round Porton Down looking for trouble’. He had tutted when she had explained her presence by the extra effort to locate the missing files, which, he remonstrated, was a problem resolved some time before, at least to everyone else’s satisfaction. To his inquiry about corroboration of her sighting – her
apparent
sighting – she had had to admit that no one else had been
nearby, and that neither photographs nor video had been taken. Nor, it transpired, was any material available from the gate security cameras, which happened to have been pointed elsewhere just at the moment Dr Pasteur claimed to have been observing such marvels.
At first Lisa was mystified, then increasingly tart. She had retorted that, since the event had been so unexpected, there’d been no time to prepare – one did not anticipate strange movements in or out of the building at that time of night.
‘And we do not normally have our top scientists prowling about at that time of night either, Dr Pasteur,’ Churchill had growled. He had glared at her until she dropped her gaze. ‘Especially an assistant director. It sets a bad example. It offends against the health and safety code, if nothing else. It will have to stop.’ And he had made her promise to cease her nocturnal activities, and to take some vacation.
Lisa realised she was shaking. This man, whom she had so respected as a professional colleague and her boss, had shown no respect to her whatever. Disrespect, more like. Contempt.
She began to walk away, head down, hands thrust deep into her lab coat pockets. It was so – unscientific. Trained men and women did not dismiss bits of evidence, however odd or unexpected, with a wave of the hand. Neither did they ignore information on offer and twist the conversation to trivialities. Instead they noted details, asked probing questions. What sort of hand? What made you think it was a child’s? What was it attached to? Are you sure it was moving and not a trick of the light? They soothed, certainly, and might hint that a simple explanation was in order. They would announce some kind of investigation. They did not invite the informant to leave and to shut the door behind them.
She headed back slowly towards her own domain, her brain jangling. At a corner a notice peered down at her, the logo of the staff of life and the human egg prominent. With the motto.
Pro bono publico
. For the public good.
All science was inherently dangerous. Once a technique had been developed past the pioneering stage, it offered options that had previously been impossible. To blow a town to smithereens: nuclear weapons made it easy. To make travel between continents barely a matter of drawing breath: with Mach 3 fastjets, that was old hat. To ensure that a child saw its hundredth birthday: a combination of genetic therapy and medicine made that virtually inevitable. To grant parents the right to choose whatever virtues they wanted in their children – to provide them, if vanity dictated, with almost a carbon copy of themselves: those processes were in her own sure hands.
Every advance had been greeted first by dismay and pseudo-moral horror: what had been an Act of God had been downgraded to an act of man. The sermons were challenged by those who stood to gain direct benefit, who demanded angrily to know by what right bishops or fundamentalist politicians could hold up progress. In. between were the mass of the populace, curious and fearful, and above them government, charged with turning each new revelation into practical policy.