Come, Time

by Richard Jenkins

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  In darkness, I sit. A blindfold pins black into my eyes. Lashings of heavy, wet rope bond my arms and legs to a chair. Struggle is futile. Cold water soaks a shiver deep into my bones. I sense movement behind me. The black is ripped from my eyes. I see the room, the same as before, although the air has been chilled to keep us fresh. Sitting opposite me, I see a man, a Savile Row gent, of sixty plus untroubled years. He sits with an eerie calm, completely relaxed and at ease. No anger or aggression debases his demeanor; no carpet of death ruffles his poise.

  ‘Well, well,' he speaks. 'So, this is you, Samuel Dean. What are we to make of you, Mr. Dean? What are we to make of you?’

  He speaks with an English accent, well-spoken but not so posh as to grate. He continues,

  ‘My name, and it’s my real name, is Fox, Mr. Fox….I tell you that out of respect. You see, as a well-travelled, old cynic people rarely surprise me. Indeed, I find most to be flat and predictable, but you, not you. No. You, Mr. Dean, you stepped far beyond the role I assigned you. Of course, I can’t be too gracious, you did after all cause us problems, damage, too, so naturally we must reciprocate somewhat, but still, well done, and thank you.’

  He smiles warmly like we could be friends.

  ‘We made you an offer, which you rejected, be appeased or be killed. It was a good, honest offer, but still, you chose to pursue your innocence. A decision, which I have to say, somewhat tarnishes the respect I have for you, innocence is, after all, highly overrated. In fact, I would say, it is meaningless, as is guilt. It’s good, of course, that you had the will to fight, to kill for something that you thought was important, but innocence, when so much more could have been yours. Strange, well, quaint. Me, personally, I have no respect for innocence or guilt. None at all. Desire and need, Mr. Dean. Desire and need, that is what I respect, that is what I recognise…And what is it we need? We need to survive. And what is it we desire? Well, so many things! But then, to be a man, Mr. Dean, to be a man…You, you are a poor man. Your financials stink, as does your education. Use them to assess your position in the world, as people would, and the only conclusion one can honestly draw is that you dwell at the base the food chain, that you must be physically or mentally infirm, a social or mental retard, one of life’s lost and defeated drones. But actually, I myself, I would put you in the top five or six percent, after all, who would succeed in hunting you? Us, well yes, of course, but still, what a waste you potentially are. Hitler, he once observed that communists, once corrected, made the most excellent Nazis. He could have just shot them of course, but then a useful resource is always worth investing in so with that in mind, let me offer you an explanation. We, what you hunt, we are the future. We are the wealth, the intellect; we are the force. We are the collective who will ensure a future exists for us, for humanity. Put simply, people, too many people, too many irrelevant, unproductive, all-consuming people. We may share a world, but that world is not enough. There are too many people. Soon, we know, nature will snap, and that snap, that recoil will cause untold damage and misery. Chaos will ferment, and war will offer the only solution. Another war to control our planet’s precious recourses: water, minerals, the earth itself. What else do you expect our governments to do? How else do you expect them to appease the people? The earth cannot carry the weight of us all. But with our knowledge, with our technology, think how well we could live if we were so many fewer. A Malthusian Check is coming, this is certain, and from it, we may see the final destruction of us all, of all humanity. Our only hope, Mr. Dean, is to control the adjustment, to manage the cull, to remove billions from the equation. And soon, we will be ready. Against us stands what? You? You may have scored a small success but still, we breathe, Mr. Dean, and we prosper. We are winning the debate where the debate needs to be won. So let me assure you, the few, we will stand as giants.

  We lock stares. I offer no deceit. I hide no hate.

  ‘I could hurt you in so many ways. I could take your DNA, I could splice it into a cell and eventually, nine months later, I could watch as your child is born. Whether I choose to let your child live or die is not a matter for us now, but still, how far do you think I would go? Beyond the grave?...Presence of mind, of purpose. Take the Spartans, if a baby was born who was obviously below par, their standard being based on a warrior ethic, then they would throw the baby off a cliff. So simple, and direct, honest, for the good of the people. While we, we do so over complicate matters, don’t you think? There was a video on the phone of Mr. Brockhurst, which I believe you watched. Strange man Henry, he found God straight out of thin air. He wasn’t at the bottom of the pit, he wasn’t a loser, a loner, a drunk or an addict, not like your usual born again convert. No, he was successful, sharp, completely focused, but then from nowhere he found God, or as he put it, God found him. Strange. Another surprise. I soon expect a third. Anyway, the video, guess what, it’s going to happen. A small test. It won’t give us our billions, not alone, but still, tens of thousands that's hardly a bad day at the office…Of course, you shouldn’t think we enjoy what we do. We don’t. It doesn’t serve our ego, not like Oakley, he got carried away with the self, with living the dream of power. Us, what we do, we do for the good of humanity, not for the good of ourselves, something I am sure you can understand.

  He passes a casual stare over the men killed by me.

  ‘You caused us problems and damage, and now we must reciprocate. Your inability to talk makes you the perfect dummy, the perfect practice doll. But let me tell you this, if you survive, and further prove your spirit, I may just offer you a view, a chance to see the reality of our power, indeed the beauty of our power and the inevitability of our victory. I will then ask you a question, Mr. Dean, will you be appeased or will you be killed?'

  Behind me movement pounces. Before I can turn and look, a blindfold grabs and smothers my eyes.