‘Why did you do it, Gerry?’
‘I had to stop the voice in my head telling me I was worthless. It seemed to be the quickest way out.’
‘It’s not me is it? Have I done something to make you feel bad about yourself?’
‘No, of course not. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t know why I did it. All I know is that I’d been losing weight and feeling a bit low. Then the voice started and I got really depressed.’
‘Have they found anything wrong with you apart from your injuries?’
‘I had a minor parasitic infestation: nothing serious, they said.’
‘But they’ve cleared it?’
‘Yeah.’
****
Marcella Bellini surveyed the rear of the Tesco store. She’d been there before and seen the cameras but she’d just waved at them with cheery smile. So-called out of date food is such a waste, she thought. If it weren’t for people like me, it would go into some bio-digester rather than get eaten as it should. She pulled a trolley over to a metal cage full of vegetables. Stacks of cauliflowers, cabbages and all kinds of fruit filled the cage to the brim. The adjacent one was full of packets of ready meals: they were no good to her. She looked round for something to stand on. Dragging over a grey plastic box, she stepped on it and reached into the treasure trove, pulling out the veg that looked good. Then there were apples and pears. There was nothing wrong with them: they were not quite perfect in shape, that was all. She filled her trolley and then wheeled it back to her bike.
Within a couple of minutes she was on her way, panniers bulging. As she rounded the corner of the building, a large security man strolled out in front of her. She hesitated and then braked.
He grinned. ‘Recycling the discards are you miss?’ he asked. ‘We’ve been watching you. One of the guys wanted to come out and help. He really fancies you. If you need a hand next time, give us a wave on that camera over there,’ he said, pointing.
‘I thought you were going to stop me,’ she said.
‘No, we’re on your side. You grads have had a bad deal. I wouldn’t like to have to live like you lot, all that scrounging and no job or money. Terrible.’ He stepped aside and waved her on her way.
Marcella gave him her sweetest smile as she passed him. On her way home, she reflected on the security man’s comment. Despite the government’s attitude to unemployed graduates, there was a lot of sympathy out there. It gave her great satisfaction that the politicos were getting virtually no taxes from people like her. No income tax, national insurance or VAT: the grads’ barter system and self sufficiency saw to that and better still, with no income she couldn’t pay off her student loan. What a shame!
When she got back to her shed on the allotment, Gerry was there. Shed was an understatement really. It had started out that way but they’d enlarged it to three rooms and with its solar panels and simple methane generator, they’d turned it into a comfortable small home. Gerry helped her unload her swag and she told him about her encounter at Tesco. As she took an armful of produce into the tiny room they called the kitchen diner, she spotted what Gerry had been working on when she arrived.
‘Making a new crossbow?’ she enquired.
‘Yep. The old one lost most of its snap while my arm was out of action. Not enough range now. The bloody crows out-fly the bolts easily. This morning was a washout: didn’t get a single bird. I’ll have this ready for tomorrow. Then I’ll make a nice crow pie.’
‘I’m glad I’m a vegetarian. The idea of eating crow makes me feel sick. You only have to think about what they eat. Doesn’t it put you off?’
‘There’s nothing like some well cooked crow. It’s nutritious, and free!’
****
Sir Fred Richmand, Minister for Social Coherence and Stability, sat up straight in his leather chair and faced the camera. The BBC interviewer had just given him his cue.
‘Everyone knows it’s a citizen’s duty to contribute to society. And how do we do that? We work and pay our taxes. However, there is a growing band of people in this fine country of ours who don’t do this. You’ve heard of the grads I expect. Young people with degrees who don’t work and yet survive at everybody else’s expense. Yes, you’ve seen them in their scruffy handmade clothes, cluttering up the countryside with their encampments. Our farmers are up in arms at the damage they cause but as soon as they try to remonstrate with them or justifiably charge rent, the reprobates move on to another unfortunate landowner’s field. Let me say this. The days of the grads, those parasites, are numbered.’
‘Thank you Sir Fred Richmand,’ said the interviewer. ‘Can I ask a further question?’
‘Certainly not!’ Richmand retorted. ‘I came here to say what I have just said and no more. And remember, Mr Humphrys, we pay your wages. Bear that in mind.’
Richmand left the studio, pausing outside in the corridor for official photographs. He might have been mistaken but he could have sworn he’d heard Humphrys mutter something like over privileged cretin as the door closed behind him. Smoothing his wavy grey hair, he threw back his shoulders and told the parasitic homunculus on his right shoulder to do the same. It looked at him sourly but complied as the shutters clicked. On his way to the entrance, he pulled out his e-pad and called his contact at the Population Balance and Aspirations Agency. His lips pursed at the delay but finally the call was answered.
‘Jed, I haven’t heard from you for a week. Have you done any work on our little project yet?’
‘Yeah, all in hand,’ came the reply. Just check the news channels for the kinds of events we discussed. A lot of them may be local, so you’ll need to drill down a bit. I’ll be in touch.’
The call ended. Richmand’s homunculus looked round at him.
‘So, has he planted the bait?’
‘Sounds like it. He says we should be getting results right now. I predict that the unemployment figures and our benefits bill will decrease presently.’
‘Excellent!’ said the parasite. ‘I told you it would work.’
****
Marcella had only put the TV on while she changed into her working gear for the allotment. The sun was shining, so the photovoltaic panels on the roof were providing enough power for the box to work. Gerry was outside trying out his new crossbow. The thuds of bolts hitting the target were testament to its effectiveness. She listened to Richmand’s speech with a half smile on her face. Was this a threat or just the usual Old Etonian political posturing? She noticed that the politico had an homunculus on his shoulder. Hadn’t they been wiped out? Then she recalled a snippet on a news channel: a new version of the parasitic advisors had been developed. Now all the politicos had them once more. They were obviously incapable of independent thought. So much for an exorbitant public school education.
Returning to the speech, she thought about it in more detail. The grads, as they were labelled by the government pundits, were the new pariahs, to be derided and denigrated at will. Were they not the product of the very policies the government had implemented? Fifty percent of all 18 year olds to go to university as long as they could pay the massive tuition fees, of course. Yes minister, we would like jobs, status and money but having a non vocational arts degree is now a passport to unemployment. That’s why we’ve had to become self sufficient. Your plutocratic economic model is in ruins. We are the standard bearers of the world to come. Small is beautiful.
****
Jed parked his hybrid Landrover Boogaloo inside the gate to the field and got out. He swung the gate back and latched it. There were no animals in the field but he had to observe protocol. He looked every bit the part of a rural resident in his wax jacket, heavy boots and with a green rucksack on his back. He turned round 360 degrees, checking for anybody who might witness his actions. Nobody in sight but plenty of crows and magpies in fields nearby. About half a mile away, he just make out a grad encampment. Bloody crow eaters, he thought, as he slipped the rucksack off his back and unbuckled it. Digging inside, h
e pulled out a dead rabbit and looked for a suitable place to leave it. He looked for the crows he’d spotted earlier but they had moved on. He didn’t want to make it too obvious that the carrion had been deliberately left there, so he walked over to a hedge and deposited the body of the rabbit in the shade of some scrubby hawthorn. He repeated the action in other parts of the field and then strode back to his four wheel drive. Inside the vehicle, he consulted his satnav screen to pinpoint the next carrion deposit site. Only two more and then he could send Richmand a very large bill. He would reach his agency target easily that month.
****
Marcella stood outside the chematorium with Gerry as they waited for the funeral cortege to arrive.
‘This is becoming a habit, I’d rather not have,’ she said quietly. ‘How many have we been to recently?’
‘Ten at least,’ Gerry replied. ‘They were all so young, that’s what’s so horrible. Even worse, they were self inflicted, when you think about it. Poor old Bill, he swam out to sea and got caught in the current, they say. He was an experienced swimmer: he’d never have drowned unless it was deliberate.’
‘Here’s the hearse. I think there’s a pattern but I don’t know what the common factor is yet. All I know is that sleazeball Richmand made a threat to people like us and now it seems to coming true. He said our days are numbered. Let’s go in.’
Seated inside the hall, Marcella whispered to Gerry while the maudlin music played. ‘You were nearly one of them Gerry. It was sheer luck you bounced off that truck and landed at the side of the road.’
‘OK, OK, don’t go on about it,’ said Gerry nodding towards the lectern where the humanist celebrant was mounting the steps.
Later, as they cycled back to their luxury shed, Marcella continued her theme. ‘It’s beginning to prey on my mind,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t it seem strange to you, that so many young unemployed graduates are losing their lives?’
‘Shit happens, Marcella, and I don’t really want to think about it after my own near miss.’
‘I noticed that. We’ve never really discussed it, have we?’
‘And I don’t want to. So leave it will you? Let’s just get back and do our normal things. You plant your veg and I’ll use my new bow to bag a few birds for the pot. I should be able to get quite a few creds for the ones I don’t use,’ responded Gerry, accelerating away.
Marcella, left fuming in his wake, stood on the pedals, trying to catch up. By the time she reached home, Gerry had parked his bike and gone out hunting with his bow. His reluctance to discuss his own near death and her intuition that there was a reason for the suicidal behaviour of grads, besides the usual theories linking unemployment and depression, coalesced into a positive need to find out the truth. She had a nagging suspicion that the threat uttered by Richmand had substance. Could he and his merry band of politicos really want the grads dead?
****
On the allotment, the vegetables were growing in profusion, so all Marcella had to do was hoe weeds and earth up of potatoes. That left her with plenty of time to get on with her research. Gerry had gone on one of his trading jaunts, carrying sacks of dead crows and the jewellery he made from discarded electronic gadgets. He would dissect a circuit board, harvest its components and a few hours later emerge with pairs of earrings, navel ornaments and hair slides which he would sell for real money at a local market. The crows he bartered for foodstuffs they weren’t growing themselves.
Being a history graduate has its advantages, reflected Marcella: I know how to dig through evidence and sort out the wheat from the chaff. The agricultural analogy amused her as she pored over web pages on her e-pad. She also had access to the online library at Edge Hill, where she’d graduated, so academic papers were there for the asking. Then there were the forums: lots of good stuff there too. She immersed herself.
There were plenty of recent reports of suicide of people in their twenties and the number was mounting: 30 in the last month alone. For a large group of highly intelligent but disenfranchised individuals, this did not seem disproportionate at first sight. Marcella compared this with the previous five years during which the number of grads had increased rapidly. As a proportion, the number of grads killing themselves had risen sharply in only a few months. Was this a sudden blossoming of despair? It seemed unlikely. Underlying causes were hard to find though, with depression due to unemployment being the main suggestion. The socnets were full of obits and tearful videos: web grief was becoming a growth industry.
It took Marcella several days to wade through the details of all of the verified suicides of grads. She built a dossier of the information for each one, looking for features in common: family background, health, partners and lifestyle. Obtaining this material wasn’t difficult. This was a generation that lived its life on-line as well as in the flesh, so she soon amassed life stories, pictures, family trees and trivia even down to shoe sizes, all in the cause of research.
The next phase of Marcella’s quest was to look for near misses like Gerry’s. This time she viewed pictures of grads back from the dead, or almost, and they were largely smiling. As before, she gathered a blizzard of detail, still looking for that vital common link that would point to the reason for the trend.
****
Mzorkl Probtzl, Professor of Neurobiology, found human psychology a puzzle at times. It was inconceivable for any member of his race to commit suicide. Life was too precious and enjoyable to lose in such a careless way. After all, for Gliesen men, there was always the next rutting season to look forward to. Yet, humans killed themselves even though they were effectively in rut all the time. Could that be the problem; too much sex? It certainly had an effect on population: there were too many humans on planet Earth.
In his office at the University of Lancaster, he perused the results of the automatic searches he’d set up the previous day for suicides worldwide. The rotund bespectacled cartoon librarian associated with the bot seemed too jolly for the subject. He scrolled down through the figures, noting that South Korea was at the top of the list for males for the tenth year running. He clicked on his profile on the socnet site, MyFace. His golden eyes stared back at him and he clicked on his messages. Replies to his request for feedback on attempted suicides filled his inbox. There were thousands. He imported the replies into a database and set about processing them.
Waiting for the sluggish PC to do its duty, he swung around in his leather swivel chair. He’d not asked for such an archaic status symbol, but it was there in all its black polished glory when he’d arrived. Being the first alien to be offered a professorial chair at a human university had felt like an honour at the time but now he wondered. He’d been visited by various members of the upper echelons in British society who had courted his support. They all seemed to be of a particular type: mainly male, always from a public school and Oxbridge background, very rich and often with a so-called noble title. Probtzl’s rejection of their implied blandishments soon stifled the flow of offers but occasionally a new upper crust lackey, with a repellent homunculus on his shoulder, would sidle into his office and ask for help. The messenger’s transparency of purpose would expose itself in body language and shades of skin colour. As a Gliesen, he could interpret the colour changes in the ruff of somebody of his own race without thinking about it and this ability translated easily into reading human skin hues. Probtzl could spot if the agent was using a weight loss worm, pheromonal microorganisms or behavioural infestations at a glance. Human lying and obfuscation were also as plain as day to Probtzl.
The PC burped. Figures from the UK were flashing. The total number of people committing suicide or trying to do so in the past few months showed a peak. Probtzl added a filter and watched as the numbers were whittled down. The trend was in a particular socio-economic group; unemployed graduates. One of the replies from the UK popped up on the screen, having been selected by an algorithm designed to pick out emotional combinations of words.
Origin: Marcella Bellini
&nbs
p; Hi Prof Probtzl
You asked for info about attempted suicides. My lovely man Gerry has turned into a completely different person. He tried to commit suicide a couple of months ago but won’t talk about it. Now he is like a stranger, even in bed.
I have been doing a bit of research. There is something happening to the grads. That dickhead Richmand made a threat to the grads on TV a while ago. You can see it on U-bend. Is there a connection?
Regards
Marcella
Probtzl read the message twice before clicking on the link to watch Richmand’s performance. It had been placed on the site by the man himself. He laughed at Richmand’s condescending manner towards the interviewer, let alone the audience. And yes, it looked like a direct threat to the grads, a disparate group of humans classified as one by virtue of being well qualified, unemployed and self sufficient. He clicked on the link to look at Marcella Bellini’s profile. A serious looking young woman with dark curly hair introduced herself in the welcome video. She fitted the grad classification perfectly: good degree in history, attended a state school, unemployed and clever. She had several hundred friends on the site. Probtzl fired off a reply to Ms Bellini asking her if she would meet him.
****
My first alien, thought Marcella. She’d not met one before but knew the potted history of the Gliesen aliens: how their ship had landed on an isolated island in the Pacific a hundred years ago and generated a set of fully grown adults in a matter of weeks. They still used this mode of reproduction and such was their grasp of biotechnology, they could negotiate deals with governments worldwide and now constituted a small but powerful group with ever expanding influence. As she waited outside the pub near Ormskirk where she’d told Probtzl to meet her, she could see that it had originally been a farmhouse. The a la carte menu posted at the entrance looked expensive, especially since she was carrying very little money, most of her transactions being by barter. She expected the alien professor to be rich enough to buy her a drink and a meal. She locked her bike to a metal support and walked out towards the road.
Parasite World Page 6