by Karl Beecher
It had been a long struggle for his organisation. For years, the Society and its members—those who admitted to being members of it, at least—had been laughed at, regarded as embarrassing failures, dedicated to wacky ideas and outdated beliefs. But no longer. They had steadily grown, won over more converts, and, one by one, managed to infiltrate key institutions of society. The previous week, the party Hanson supported had won the Abraman elections.
Ha! Who was laughing now?
Thinking of the victory reminded Hanson of his mentor, Grundy, who sadly never lived to witness the upcoming glory. What was that phrase Grundy used to say?
First, they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they ignore you again, a bit later they laugh at you some more, then they fight you, then they win. Then you start again.
Oh, how Hanson had started again over the years. And again. And again. But Grundy’s memory had inspired him to keep going. It had been a hard struggle, no doubt about it, made harder by the need for anonymity. His position as the Society’s head remained a secret. All the articles he wrote for The Conservative Crusader—the official journal of the True Origin Society—had always been signed simply, Your Leader. Hanson took solace in the knowledge they wouldn’t have to remain anonymous for much longer. The time was approaching for the True Origin Society to take the reins of power.
He spun around in his chair a hundred and eighty degrees. His eyes fell upon his proudest possessions mounted on the wall behind his desk: seven framed diplomas attesting that Hanson was a Master of Science, a Master of the Arts and the recipient of five doctoral degrees. All awarded by the Blessed Holy University 1.
The memories of Grundy. Thoughts of imminent victory. The diplomas, which represented literally weeks of work. Hanson was getting fired up again. He was ready. He boldly placed his cup back onto its saucer and instructed the computer to close the current article and reopen his half-finished work-in-progress entitled ‘On the Problem of Women.’ This was the big one, the article that was going to cement his reputation as a serious, conservative thinker when he launched his upcoming bid for office.
The last few sentences appeared on the screen. He read through them to get himself up to speed and resumed dictation.
“I must confess,” he said, his words once more appearing on the giant screen, “that the arguments I have already put forward in this article are, in fact, a waste of time. While they undoubtedly refute…”
He paused for a moment.
“Wait, erase last sentence. While they undoubtedly destroy the claims made by unnatural women and effeminate men who favour parity for the female sex, the ultimate argument against their position comes from the Progenitor (He Who Created All Thou Can See And Not See) himself.”
That was good.
He continued. “Did he not say in the Book of Subjugation, chapter four, verse nine, A woman who be silent be also holy. Yea, the quieter she be, the better, if she knoweth what benefits her? The Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory) has already told us what duties are suitable for the fairer sex. It is those duties which promote their gentle and submissive virtues. Equality contradicts those virtues. How can a woman remain unopinionated and be given the right to vote at the same time? How can a woman both maintain her glorious innocence and be educated in the ways of the world? How can a woman know the way if a man does not lead her?”
The intercom on Hanson’s desk buzzed.
Hanson sighed and opened the channel. “Yes?” he barked.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” It was the voice of Hanson’s secretary. “I’ve received a message from a reporter at The Moderate Wind2. They’re asking for a quote about the accusations made against you yesterday.”
Hanson grimaced. “You tell them this,” he said angrily. “That little floozy led me on. It was all her doing, the little witch. And if they want to accuse me of being the father, you tell that reporter I have a list of… gentlemen… from the Moderate Party who could just as easily be the daddy. All right?”
There was a pause at the other end. “I don’t think they’ll print that, sir.”
“No, you idiot! I don’t mean give it to them as a quote. You tell them that off the record.”
“Oh, I see, sir. I’ll get right on it. I also have a Doctor Gunga on the other line. He says you’re expecting his call?”
Finally, an update on Colin Douglass. Hanson hoped the good doctor bore no bad news to derail his plans.
“Ah, good. Put him through—Hello, Doctor, how goes things?”
“We’re on track,” replied the voice of Gunga through the intercom. “I just got the results of Douglass’s brain scans.”
“And?”
“No surprises, he has the neurological disorder just as the Alliance told us. It’s in an advanced state. He has the early signs of final stage memory loss. I estimate he’s got about seven to ten days before he starts suffering serious cognitive collapse and enters a vegetative state.”
Hanson tensed up. So little time left!
“Is it still curable?” he scrambled.
“Yes. He’s scheduled for surgery tomorrow, and it’s a straightforward procedure.”
The air rushed from Hanson. “Oh, good.”
“Although it’s not without possible side effects. In particular, the procedure is likely to erase some of his memories.”
Hanson tensed up again. “His memories? Which ones? How many?”
“Only a very small proportion, just a few percent. His personality and the vast majority of his memories will remain intact, but he will forget a few things. Unfortunately, which memories get destroyed is fairly random. He might forget something insignificant, like the name of his favourite restaurant, or basic stuff like his mother’s name.”
Hanson exhaled. This came as a shock. It sounded like every one of Douglass’s memories was vulnerable. If he could end up forgetting something as fundamental as the woman who gave birth to him, he could certainly lose the information in his head that Hanson so desperately wanted.
He shook his head. “I don’t like this, Gunga. I’ve waited too long for this chance. I’m not just going to sit idly by and watch the information I need get erased while it’s right there within my grasp. You’ll have to delay the operation somehow.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t. It’s an urgently needed procedure, and there’s no good reason to delay it. It would look incredibly suspicious to my colleagues if I did.”
“Come on, Gunga,” Hanson urged him. “This is for a higher purpose, remember. The time is almost ripe for the Society to come to the fore and throw off our anonymity. To live up to our name and return Abrama to its true origins. After we’ve used Douglass, we’ll… I mean, after we’ve helped Douglass meet his destiny, it will usher in a new era for Abrama, one of spiritual purity, finally free of Moderate meddling—”
“Save your speeches for the Crusader, Hanson. I know why we’re doing this.”
“It sounded to me like you needed a refresher,” he replied, trying to ensure the Doctor remembered his priorities. “Now, there must be something you can do to delay the operation.”
Gunga sighed. “I’ll have to think about it. It doesn’t help matters that you’re broadcasting your association with Douglass. Why did you turn up at the spaceport with a crew of reporters?”
Poor Gunga. He was too uptight, too rigid. He didn’t possess a brilliantly strategic mind like Hanson.
“I told you before. It’s all part of my campaign. When I return to Procya with proof that I found the Garden, that I parleyed with the Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory), and that I did it because I helped Douglass lead me there, Abrama will give me anything I want. I’ll request… no, I’ll demand to made Head of the Council of Older Elders. Once there, I’ll be in a position to appoint others to high office. People from our society. People like you, Doctor. I think ‘Minister of Spiritual Health’ suits you as a title, by the way. Then we can finally reveal ourselves. Are you not, like me, yearning to come out of the closet?
”
“That’s not quite the phrase I would use… but what about Douglass? By the time you drag him to the Garden and back here, he’ll be a drooling vegetable at death’s door.”
“Unfortunate,” replied Hanson solemnly. “But it fits the prophecy, wouldn’t you say? Once the prophet has led the way, he returns to the realm of the Progenitor (He Who Created All Thou Can See And Not See). After they’ve done their part, prophets don’t tend to hang around, Gunga.”
In fact, thought Hanson, Douglass’s demise would work out nicely. He doubted the people would want to see their prophet in such a terrible state. More likely they’d prefer to keep their own timeless mental image of him, a suitably healthy and holy one. Perhaps it would be better to put Douglass out of his misery once he’d served his purpose. Not totally ethical, perhaps, but then he’d do the same thing for a poor, sick old dog. He tentatively decided in favour of this course, assuming the Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory) would send a sign later if he objected.
“That’s all very well,” said Gunga. “But your announcing him to the world has made my job very difficult, what with these crowds.”
“Crowds? What crowds?”
“Outside the hospital. Have you not heard? There’s a crowd of people outside the hospital. There must be forty or fifty of them, and they keep coming.”
Hanson was intrigued. “What do they want?”
“What do you think? They want a sight of the prophet you announced was here.”
“So, they’re Conservatives, our people. Nothing to worry about.”
“Mostly, but a few Moderates are starting to turn up too. They’re not happy about things.”
Not surprising, thought Hanson. The Moderates, with their more liberal views, didn’t usually hold with things like prophets, often seeing them as Conservative plots. To be fair, they weren’t far off in this case, but that was beside the point.
Gunga continued, sounding irritated. “It’s making the staff here nervous. The crowds are getting tense. Heck, one of these people even sneaked into Colin’s room earlier.”
“They did? But I sent a guard to the room.”
“Fat lot of good he did. He’s too busy trying to get into my nurses’ knickers!”
Hanson sighed. That damned rascal. Still, as the good lord said, ‘Boys be intent on being boys.’ Even boys in their forties. He would have to have a word with those vexatious nurses responsible.
“All right, I’ll come down to the hospital and put matters straight.”
“Good. And while you’re down here, will you talk to the crowds as well? Get them to leave, because all this tension and scrutiny is making things difficult for me.”
“I will,” he promised, though he suspected that the Doctor was probably worrying over nothing.
“Right,” said Gunga. “See you later.”
The line closed.
Hanson looked at the half-finished article on the screen, an open invitation to pontificate, opine and condemn, some of his favourite pastimes.
“… as soon as I’ve finished writing this.”
33
Tiffin’s stomach growled. Loudly. If this place hadn’t been so deserted, he’d have worried about the sound giving him away. As it was, his little secret headquarters was safely tucked away in a corner of the huge storage basement.
He sat against a wall of painted brick, staring at the racks of lab coats surrounding him. His black attaché case lay on the floor beside him, acting as a makeshift table for the communicator. The little grey box was tuned into the earpiece Tiffin had left in Colin’s room.
The good news was that the earpiece remained undiscovered. Of course, that meant Tiffin having to spend hours sitting on the floor listening to the sounds coming from the room while his buttocks went so numb he’d have sworn they’d fallen off. As he listened, he tried to piece together the staff’s routines and learn any information useful to planning the kidnap. He heard the usual things: orderlies cleaning up and bringing meals, nurses examining Colin, and occasional dull chatter. Right now, the target seemed to be alone in the room and Tiffin heard nothing but the occasional sound of a magazine page being turned or the intermittent breaking of wind (lunch today had been cauliflower cheese).
Tiffin felt his stomach grumble again. Damn, he was hungry. He’d sent Mokk out to pilfer some food nearly an hour ago. Where the hell had got to? Like Tiffin, Mokk had put on a lab coat to wander the hospital corridors, but in his case the disguise was decidedly unconvincing. With his youthful face, Mokk didn’t so much look like a doctor as he did a doctor’s twelve-year-old son trying on his father’s work clothes. Tiffin began to wonder if he’d been caught.
More likely, the young idiot had got lost.
As Tiffin’s belly growled once more, he heard activity through the communicator. He sat up in anticipation, and a buttock screamed out in gratitude. Although the earpiece was inferior to a bug as a listening device, it worked well enough so long as Tiffin focused.
He heard a door opening and heavy footsteps entering the room. Then someone spoke.
“Hello.” It was Colin’s voice.
“Hi,” the other person replied. Tyresa. “Any news?”
“Yes,” replied Colin, looking up from his magazine. “I just learned that my operation is scheduled for tomorrow.”
Tyresa smiled. “That’s good news. Nervous?”
Colin nodded. “Yes, but also…” He struggled to put the other feeling into words, but when he really thought about it, the word was obvious. “… happy. Oddly happy.” It was the first time in months he’d felt anything like it. Well, the first time in centuries, technically.
“Did they tell you about the procedure?”
“Yes. I thought they’d be slicing into my brain or something, but they don’t have to make any incisions at all. They just use something called micro-focused ultra wave something-or-other to zap the diseased cells.”
“Is it risky?”
“Apparently not. They say I should expect some slight memory loss, but no other side effects apart from that. It’s a small price to pay.”
“That’s good to hear. I guess that frees your mind up to think about what we do next.”
Colin put down his magazine. “Next?”
“Yeah,” said Tyresa. “As in, how soon do we leave? It’s pretty obvious to me you don’t want to stay here. Oh, sure, I know you like the look of the place. And the temperament suits you. Everyone here is an uptight conservative; you’re an up… an old-fashioned kind of guy. But I can tell you don’t like the way a lot of people are treated around here. And I guess you want to run for the exits now everyone thinks you’re some kind of messiah.”
“Ye-e-s,” he dithered.
“After all, they’re hardly going to be happy with you when word gets around you’ve denied it.” Tyresa looked searchingly at him. “You have denied it, haven’t you?”
Colin gave a nervous laugh. He’d anticipated having to have this discussion with her, but he hadn’t looked forward to it.
“Um… yes,” he stuttered, “I did. I did. Well, actually, to be more precise… no, I didn’t.”
Tyresa looked aghast. “You haven’t denied it? But you said one of the doctors here told you he believes in you. Why didn’t you set him straight?”
Colin rubbed his forehead. “I… I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I never agreed I was a prophet, I just didn’t say I wasn’t either. I was in shock when he first told me. Then he kept going on about it and… well… I think I left too late.”
“Too late?”
“Yes, too much time had passed. If I’d denied it then, it would have been very embarrassing for him.”
“Embarrassing?” exclaimed Tyresa. “Not this again!”
“Well, it wasn’t only that. He sounded so sincere. I was afraid that contradicting him would sound like an insult, like I was telling him his own god was wrong.”
“I don’t believe this. You think setting yourself up as a false prophet
is the polite thing to do?” Tyresa dropped onto a nearby chair. “This could end up a very big mess.”
“Don’t worry,” said Colin. He pulled himself together a little and tried to adopt a reassuring tone. It was time to reveal his idea. “I’ve thought it through since then. I think there’s something I can do to rescue the situation.”
Since getting over the initial shock, he’d managed to calm down and spend some time thinking about the prophet thing logically. The claim itself was nonsense, of course, but Colin was sure he’d thought up a way to make some good of the whole situation, a way that wouldn’t disappoint the faithful Abramans. It might even give Colin something he’d never expected: a useful place for himself in his new world, a role other than that of a museum exhibit.
Tyresa narrowed her eyes, looking sceptical. “Which is?”
Here goes. “What if I don’t leave Procya? What if I stay here?”
She looked confused. “Stay? Why would even you want to? I thought you didn’t like it here.”
“Yes, you’re right, I don’t. I quickly decided I hate this place. But that was before I knew people here saw me as a messenger from their god.”
“So what?” said Tyresa. “You’re not a prophet, you know that.”
“Yes, I know I’m not a prophet, but they think I am. Some of them are fawning over me. From what I’ve been told, they might offer to make me an honorary citizen. Who knows where I might end up and what influence I might have?”
A flash of recognition appeared in Tyresa’s eyes. “Oh, I get it,” she drawled. “They roll out the red carpet for you, drop you into the elite and you conveniently forget how awful it is for everybody else, is that it?”
“No, no,” said Colin. “You’re misunderstanding me. In all honesty, I’m appalled by this society. How they’ve divided people. How they treat people. In many ways, it’s more primitive than the one I left behind. The women are just property of the men. The non-believers are a horribly sat-upon underclass who get the crappy leftovers. But maybe I can help them.”