Parasite World

by Trevor Williams

  Biologists have estimated the number of red crested tree rats in London and Liverpool. A simple calculation shows that there are ten of the rodents for every human being in these cities and the number is growing.

  Originally introduced as a fashionable pet by an enterprising couple of ex-university lecturers, these attractive rodents are rapidly becoming a pest, both in cities and the countryside, stripping fruit trees and gobbling vegetables as soon as they become edible.

  He stopped reading, went outside and spoke to Marcella.

  ‘Looks like Ginger is going to be busy.’

  Interference

  ‘I’m turning green,’ said Melanie, pointing at her face. ‘And look here at my arms where I’ve been in the sun. They’re green too.’

  Jim Beam, Minister for Golf Courses, looked at his wife’s skin closely. He’d noticed that his own skin had taken on a greenish hue of late but thought it was a figment of his imagination or poor lighting. Now his suspicions were confirmed. He was acquiring a delicate greenish tan. He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’ve got it too. Your face is even greener than mine,’ continued Melanie shrilly. ‘Even your bloody homunculus is turning green. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Must be something we ate,’ he said, looking sideways at the parasitic advisor growing out of his right shoulder.

  ‘I don’t feel any different,’ replied Melanie. ‘If anything, I’ve been feeling better lately, especially at the gym.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about then. It’ll clear up I expect.’

  ‘Are you sure? I heard on the news that half of the people in the world have the same problem. I bet it’s that GM muck they keep putting in the food nowadays. Even if we don’t eat it ourselves, the animals do and then they pass it on to us.’

  ‘I think Melanie has a point,’ interrupted the homunculus. ‘Having green skin could be the first sign of a serious disorder.’

  ‘Can we talk about it later?’ said Beam, straightening his Old Etonian Club tie in the dressing table mirror.

  With small nimble fingers, the homunculus adjusted its own tie and smoothed the lapels of its Saville Row jacket.

  ‘I have to be at an ATAG meeting in the next hour. The Home Secretary is going to be there. It’ll go on for hours, so I’ll be late back,’ said Beam, terminating the conversation.

  On his way to the meeting, Beam thought about where he would be going afterwards. Visions of his other woman: muscular with curves in all the right places, the very opposite of the angular skinny Melanie, filled his head. When he had first met her at the Gliesen embassy, her golden eyes had bored straight through into his soul. That she was an alien and hairless wasn’t important: her sensuous beauty was all consuming. He even liked the ruff around her neck that changed colour with her moods. He hadn’t worked out what the colours meant yet but he knew they were significant to other aliens. Marrying Melanie after the tragic death of her husband, Davy Cameroon, at the hands of his own homunculus, had seemed like a good idea at the time but now Beam felt the need for more variety. Yes, he would be very late that night.

  ****

  Rich Sanctimonius, President of the USA, was giving one of his regular addresses to the nation.

  ‘And I say unto you, my citizens, that the green scourge is a sign from God. All those sinners out there are turning green so that the pure of heart can see who they are. This plague has not started here in our beautiful country because we are true believers in Almighty God. As long as you believe in Him, you will not turn green. We will know what to do with anyone who does.’

  He gestured to a holographic map floating in front of him. ‘These are the nations being overtaken by this plague,’ he said, jabbing at various places on the map. ‘The unbelievers in Iran, North Africa and Chechnya are all stricken with the green plague. God is taking his revenge on them for their misguided notions of faith!’

  The studio audience roared its approval, fists thrust into the air like a collection of nuclear missiles emerging from an underground silo.

  Later, in the dressing room behind the White House TV studio, he wiped off the obligatory makeup applied to hide his pimples and wrinkles. With a start, he noticed that there were tiny green flecks on his cheeks and forehead. He rubbed harder. He couldn’t be getting the green plague, could he? Impossible for a righteous believer like him. More rubbing and scrubbing resulted in reddened skin. After that he was gratified that he couldn’t see any green bits.

  ****

  Dwayne Burghe clicked the replay button on the TV remote and watched the US president’s address again, scratching at his straggly beard as he did so. He’d only clicked on the news item out of idle curiosity before going out on his daily run but now he felt inspired. A message had passed between them, from one black guy to another. Sitting in his spartan bedsit in Liverpool, he usually cared little for what Sanctimonius said, but this time was different: it was a call to arms.

  He switched the set off. In running shoes and shorts, he clopped down two flights of rickety stairs and made his way out on to the street. It was a cool spring day with broken cloud and the occasional flash of sunshine. He had already decided on his route: Otterspool prom and then all the way to the Albert Dock and back. Not a long one today but I’ll have a nice view of the river, he thought. Sanctimonius’ speech was still at the back of his mind as he ran along the prom. People strolled and sat on benches while others lay on the grass verges sunbathing. Sunbathing? It’s not that warm, he thought. Slowing slightly as he reached the Sitting Bull, he noticed an enticing woman in a bikini atop the sculpture: her skin was a delicate shade of green. He wondered if it was green underneath her scanty kit.

  A quick glance at the monitor on his wrist told him he needed to speed up to achieve the goal he’d set himself for the run. His feet responded automatically but he couldn’t stop his head swivelling to look at the woman again and then at her companion at the base of the statue. She too was baring nearly all and was greening up nicely. Picking up speed, he could feel his anger rising. Green people equalled sinners, President Sanctimonius had said. Burghe reckoned that sinners should be destroyed, especially women who exposed themselves so blatantly. His woman, Sharon, wouldn’t do that. She knew he wouldn’t let her, anyway, the little slag. He wondered why she hadn’t been round over the last few days: he’d only given her a bit of a tap, after all.

  At his turn round point at the Albert Dock, his e-pad chimed several times. The last one was the special chime assigned to the Controller. He pulled the device out and glanced at the clutch of new messages: all rubbish apart from the encrypted one. He knew what the message would contain: his next target. The Controller had said that it would be high profile, something that would rock the self satisfied British government to the core. A bombing would be good. Then those heretics would have to acknowledge the power of God’s word. For the rest of the run, he listened to a sermon on his mp3 player, soaking up the words of the Pastor, the preacher he’d met in prison the previous year. The Pastor had his own gang of converts in the nick. Most of the real hard men had joined. Since his conversion, life had taken on real meaning. Burghe didn’t need a job: that was for the unbelievers, the drones who laboured under the false delusion that a godless society was the norm. He knew different. As a member of the Wrath of God, he was an instrument of the Lord: he would be part of the new Christian order when the government fell.

  ****

  Jim Beam parked his ample backside in the leather chair and flashed a smile around the table at the other members of the Alien Technology Acquisition Group. He enjoyed these meetings in the SIS building, affectionately know as Babylon-on-Thames. This was where his real work was done. Being Minister for Golf Courses was all very well but it could never give him the same frisson as ATAG, even if the PM did think that golf was the new engine of economic growth. Beam was of another persuasion: alien biotech was where the real power lay, if only humans could get their hands on it, especially their reproductive technology. Whenever he tho
ught about his last failed attempt, a cloud of gloom enveloped him.

  The Home Secretary, Jemima Heinous-Smythe opened the meeting. ‘I’ve had a contact from one of the Gliesen hierarchy. They want to discuss epidemiology with us, apparently.’

  ‘Which aspect, particularly?’ asked Mike, the CIA man. ‘Not H5N1 again is it?’

  ‘Not this time. Mike. It’s about the green plague,’ replied Heinous-Smythe.

  ‘It’s hardly a plague,’ interjected Beam. ‘Plagues kill people. This just looks like a green suntan.’

  ‘They want to discuss its effects on humans and give us other info that might be useful,’ said the Home Secretary, glancing across at Beam. ‘Jim, you’re looking a bit green yourself. Sure you haven’t got it?’

  ‘Er …. Well …. I might have, come to think of it, but I haven’t the foggiest how I got it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, don’t breathe on me,’ interrupted the MI6 man with no name. He quickly stood up and moved to the other side of the table, covering his mouth with a paper tissue as he went.

  ‘How are you feeling Jim?’ asked the bio-terror consultant, peering at Beam’s face intently. ‘Apart from a faint green tinge, you seem OK.’

  ‘Never felt better,’ replied Beam, rolling his shoulders. ‘Just a touch of sunburn or something like that.’

  Heinous-Smythe came back in. ‘Whether Jim has it or not, we need to ascertain how serious a threat it is. ATAG is not really involved at the moment, so it’s not part of our remit. The public health people are looking at it. However, now that our alien friends have mentioned it and want to talk to us in particular, we could be. Jim, can you deal with it? They’re based at their London research centre and want somebody of your rank. You have contacts there, don’t you? While you’re at it, you might pick up some other ideas we could use. Anything would be better than the last fiasco you got us embroiled in.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the CIA man. ‘That cat breeding programme you lifted from them was pretty nifty.’

  ‘OK, OK. Take the piss as much as you want, but if we’d got hold of their real reprotech, you’d be singing my praises,’ Beam retorted. ‘And come to think of it, your own efforts in the USA haven’t got very far. The Gliesens have been here a hundred years and yet the most powerful country in the world has been unable to find out how the aliens reproduce themselves.’

  After the meeting, Beam went to see his beautiful amber skinned mistress, Zaraxtl, at her Chelsea apartment. As he stepped inside, she looked at him keenly.

  ‘So, you’ve got it too,’ she said.

  ‘What have I got, my darling?’

  ‘The green, of course. Did you see the US president’s speech?’

  ‘Sorry, been busy all day. What did the old fool have to say?’

  ‘Same old rhetoric,’ she said. ‘It’s a visitation from God on sinners.’

  ‘I’ve got to set up a meeting with some of your scientist friends to discuss that very topic.’

  ****

  Burghe was excited. This was the real deal. So far, he’d only had to harass a couple of abortionists’ families. He’d done no real harm apart from pushing a child into the path of an oncoming car and kicking a cat: just small stuff. The kid hadn’t died; just lost a leg and the cat ran off. And there were a few demos where he’d waved placards. At the last one he’d stabbed a couple of members of the Secular Society who got in his way. He’d done a lot worse before he got banged up. Continuing to read the message from the Controller, he contemplated who it might be. The Controller’s identity had never been revealed, nor did Burghe know where the man or woman lived. It could be anywhere in the world since the only contact he got was through text messages on his e-pad or anonymous e-mails. Whoever the Controller was, Burghe always got good intel. The message gave him the details of the target: time, place and opportunity. It was now up to Burghe to use that info and do the work of the Lord.

  ****

  The Gliesens distrusted virtual meetings: they were easily hacked into by geeks who enjoyed disrupting communications and there were many xenophobes out there with those sorts of skills. Jim Beam, therefore, had to meet the alien scientists face to face. The Gliesen research centre had been built on the defunct 2012 Olympic site. When Beam arrived, he half expected to see hordes of athletes running and jumping but this idea was immediately dispelled once the gates opened to reveal a set of utilitarian single storey buildings and not a running track in sight. The armed guards waved his government limo through and it was automatically routed along a short road to the main building. The driver didn’t need to steer the vehicle and in fact couldn’t. Manual control was locked out.

  Beam got out of the car and made his way to the main office. He’d met the two Gliesens, a man and a woman, before and he always felt that there was an element of contempt in their attitude towards him. He mentioned this to his homunculus on his way to the office.

  ‘It’s me they hate,’ said the parasite. ‘Didn’t they try to wipe us out a while ago?’

  ‘Yes. They tampered with the previous generation of advisors. It meant that we had to remove them and start again. I missed mine when it went. It was almost like losing a brother. I was really glad when you were up and running.’

  ‘I’ll keep quiet in the meeting,’ replied the homunculus. ‘It wouldn’t help to antagonise them, especially if they are going to help us with this green plague.’

  As he walked along the corridor, Beam’s e-pad chirped. He stopped and pulled it out. On the screen, a newsflash appeared.

  Green plague is OK, says CDCP.

  Going green is good for you. It is caused by a friendly bug that makes your skin act like a plant. Yes, you can make your own food from sunlight! ‘Get ‘em off!’ says health guru …..

  Beam showed the screen to the homunculus and scanned the rest of the item. Then he put the e-pad back in his jacket pocket. ‘Those pics of green naked women cavorting in the sun are over the top,’ he said, ‘but they do make the point.’

  The scientists’ office was small and overcrowded with a desk and four chairs. The walls were covered in computer screens showing what was happening inside the machines in the lab. Beam shook hands with the two aliens and declined the whisky they offered. He wanted to keep a clear head.

  ‘I think I know what you are about to tell me,’ Beam said. ‘Just had a flash on the pad about the green plague. The CDCP says it’s harmless, beneficial even. Is that right?’

  Lzortm Ekjorb, the male Gliesen smiled slightly. ‘They are good scientists at the CDCP and yes, they are right. The green plague, as you call it, is harmless and is designed to help.’

  ‘Lzortm, what do you mean, designed to help? Are you telling me it’s not a natural phenomenon?’ asked Beam.

  The Gliesen woman, Pvertlz Bratlm, took up the tale. ‘Evolution has not thrown up many photosynthetic animals on Earth, you may have noticed. And yet, would it not be an advantage for animals to manufacture their own food?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Beam nodding.

  ‘We have designed the green plague to reduce human reliance on growing crops and animals for food. It is a cyanobacterium that eventually integrates itself into human skin cells and, once there, makes sugars from carbon dioxide, water and sunlight.’

  ‘So, I’m now photosynthetic, is that right?’ said Beam.

  ‘You are in the early stages by the look of it,’ replied Lzortm Ekjorb. ‘You will become greener when you are exposed to more sunlight.’

  On his way home, Beam discussed the meeting with his parasitic advisor. ‘According to our alien friends, the green plague isn’t so much a pestilence but a blessing that should reduce human demand on the planet’s resources. Not only that, we can all expect to feel more energetic as long as we get out and expose our skin to sunlight. Sounds too good to be true.’

  ‘Having oxygen and glucose being pumped directly into the bloodstream seems like a good idea’ replied the homunculus. ‘They missed something out though. How is the infection transm
itted?’

  ‘You’re right. I did ask but the woman changed the subject and went on about using sunscreen. I’ll have to ask them about that next time.’

  ****

  Jim Beam stretched out his pudgy hand for the impossibly priced hi-tech club offered by his caddy and looked over at the Royal Birkdale clubhouse. The 18th hole at last, he thought. The white wooden building resembled the deck of a doomed cruise liner with its array of wooden chairs on the raised patio outside. Currently these were occupied by a bunch of web-reporters and their hangers on. Not real reporters, reflected Beam; just glorified gossips calling themselves bloggers or even worse, citizen reporters. They usually got everything wrong but were believed by the gullible public. Beam had already had a conducted tour of the clubhouse with its wood panelled rooms, overblown trophies and leather clad armchairs, the latter all facing the view of the ever eroding dunes. After the game, he would accept the free drinks, complete his business as quickly as was polite and hightail it back to London. He hated the provinces, especially the North.

  Even with the solar powered golf buggy transporting his bulk between holes, he’d found the course arduous. The black athletic caddy, assigned to him by the club, hadn’t ridden with him but had run alongside, barely breaking sweat as far as Beam could make out.

  ‘Let’s see what we can do here,’ he said to his homunculus.

  As he accepted the club, the parasitic beast whispered in his ear telling him how to take his shot. Beam shook his head.

  ‘Look, just let me make up my own mind on this. You’re my political advisor and I respect your knowledge on that score but golf is my speciality. I’ll deal with this myself, thanks.’

  The homunculus looked at him sourly. ‘Please yourself, but may I point out that your opponent is only behind by one stroke? You do need to get this right. If she wins, your political position will be weakened when you suggest that you know more than she does about encouraging economic growth.’