Ascension

by Jeannie van Rompaey

  The mall is crowded and the noise of people chattering reverberates round the high dome. Enthusiastic browsers are enjoying what Stella calls window-shopping. I wonder if I will ever enjoy it.

  We take a walk in the park and this is the best part of the day for me. I am out in the fresh air again, looking up at the never-ending sky and the moving clouds and the lanky trees, grassy slopes and flowers in every conceivable shade of red.

  Back home, I hope to go on my compu but no, Stella sits me down at the table on the terrace with pen and paper and teaches me some useful changes of vocabulary. I must no longer say compu but computer, not bunku but bed and not dormo-cube but bedroom. I know most of the words already, but it is important that I remember to use them. Between us we make quite a long list. She tests me and I am pleased to say that I am word perfect. No problem with my brain. Only with my motor skills.

  ‘It’s your turn to ask me questions,’ Stella says. ‘The internet is great for facts but there may be more personal things you need to know that only another complete can answer.’

  I am so surprised by that phrase “another complete” that I can’t think of a thing to ask her.

  ‘Make a list,’ she suggests. ‘Add things as you think of them. That’s the best thing to do. When you’re ready you can ask me or Alexander – your father.’

  ‘Can I record the list on my compu – er – computer?’ I ask.

  The corners of her eyes twinkle with amusement. She knows it’s an excuse to escape. ‘Go on then. Off you go.’

  Off I dash to my beloved computer at last.

  Journal Entry

  I start going out on my own. I like going to the park. I’m beginning to read the signs in the sky. When the clouds turn to dark grey, almost black, a storm is about to break. Once I was caught out. The water sluiced down on to me, soaked my clothes, beat and cut into my skin, leaving bruises and abrasions. Not pleasant. That’s how I learnt to run for shelter.

  There are lots of little pavilions in the park, built for that purpose. Now, as soon as I see those dark clouds, I make a dash for one of them. Once under cover, I watch the storm. Rain beats down, branches thrash around, lightning sizzles and thunder roars. Awesome. Spectacular. I stay there until the rain slows down to a drizzle and the rumbles of thunder diminish. Then comes the best part. The aftermath.

  The air cools, a pale sun comes out and a scent of freshly washed leaves, grass and dank earth fills the air. Who would ever have guessed that moisture could smell so sweet?

  Journal Entry

  A distressing incident in the park today.

  Some boys about Stuart’s age are playing about with a football. Someone kicks it straight at me. It lands on my head and I topple over, legs and arms splayed out at all angles.

  ‘Come on. Kick it back,’ shouts a scraggy ginger-haired boy. I scramble to my feet and find the kids staring at me, waiting for me to retrieve the ball and kick it back. I pick it up, put it on the ground in front of me and attempt to kick it. It doesn’t move an inch. A second attempt is not much of an improvement. I lean over, take the ball in both hands, lift my arms over my head and attempt a throw. The ball lands at my feet. Pathetic.

  The boys burst out laughing and start to jeer, waving their arms in the air.

  ‘Mutant!’ Ginger yells. He runs towards me, scoops up the ball and makes as if to throw it at me. I cringe and duck. He grabs the front of my T-shirt and pulls me upright, his face level with mine, nose to nose. ‘Can’t even kick a ball, you mutant!’ he hisses. The others stroll over and form a circle around me, chanting, ‘Mutant, mutant, mutant!’

  At that moment a cloud bursts and off they all run to the nearest shelter. I stand rooted to the spot in a state of shock. If I don’t move, the rain will batter me. It’s beating down more strongly every second. I can’t go to the nearest pavilion because the boys are in it. I make a quick dash for one further away. I’m completely soaked by the time I reach it.

  For once I have no interest in watching the storm. I’m mortified. I can’t believe what they called me. They know. In spite of all the operations and therapy, they know I’m a mutant humanoid. Their words ring in my ears all the way home and return to haunt me when I try to sleep at night.

  Journal Entry

  Several days pass before I venture into the park again. I look round cautiously. Not a boy in sight, but somehow they’ve spoilt the place for me and I don’t stay there long.

  Journal Entry

  I borrow Stuart’s football and practise kicking it in the garden. It takes time but I’m getting the hang of it. One mighty kick and the ball flies up in the air and bounces off the window. Didn’t break. The windows must be made of some special kind of glass. Of course it may not be glass at all, but some kind of new material made on the satellite. I make a mental note to look it up on the web. I need a bit more ball control before I can ask Stuart to give me another chance.

  Journal Entry

  My list of questions grows. I can find most answers to my questions online, but I have a personal question for Stella.

  ‘I know you look after all of us but do you have a job as well?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ she says, ‘but unlike your father I work from home.’ She hesitates. ‘I’m not sure if you’re ready for this, Michael, but I’ll have to take the risk. Come, I’ll show you. I think it’s time you found out exactly what I do and who I am.’

  I follow her through a labyrinth of colourful rooms and passages until we reach her workspace. The walls are full of pictures and all the surfaces are covered with artefacts. ‘Is this your work?’ I ask her. ‘Is this how you reach your targets for Worldwideculture?’

  She looks puzzled and shakes her head. ‘We don’t have targets here on Oasis. Targets are only for….’ The colour rushes up her cheeks. She means the targets are only for mutant humanoids.

  The saver-screen is multi-coloured, a work of art in itself. Across it in huge italic lettering is written Worldwideculture. inc. Private site. Stella Jameson. It takes me a minute or two to realise what this implies.

  Stella smiles. ‘Yes, Michael, this office is the headquarters of my company. I am the owner and managing director of Worldwideculture.inc.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stella revealed

  (according to Michael)

  Journal Entry

  ‘The company has been in my family for years ever since – well – ever since our lives changed forever. Sit down a minute, Michael. I want to show you something.’

  Stella clicks on an icon and a series of dome-shaped buildings come up on the screen, a hundred or so of them – the compounds on Earth seen from the outside. The camera skims over mile after mile of desert, the occasional dried-up shrub the only sign that anything once grew there. There are no other buildings, only the domes.

  ‘Planet Earth,’ Stella says and sighs. ‘Aren’t you glad you don’t live there any more, Michael?’

  ‘Are these live pictures? I ask because surely the plague ended at least a hundred years ago if not longer. Surely there should be signs of regeneration by now. Plants, leaves on the trees, bits of greenery, that sort of thing….’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Michael. This is a current view of Earth. You are looking at a dead planet. No plants, no animals, no birds. If you’d stayed on Earth you would never have been able to go outside.’ She puckers her pretty forehead. ‘You do think you’re lucky to be here, Michael?’

  ‘Of course. I’m very grateful for everything you and Father are doing for me.’ I’m aware I’m being ultra-polite, not completely sincere. I sense that she’s not being completely truthful about the present state of Earth. It doesn’t make sense that the land hasn’t started to revive itself. I can’t help wondering if the governments on the satellites are doing something to stop it thriving again: spraying it with the modern equivalent of Agent Orange/dioxin perhaps, to make sure the mutant humanoids stay in the compounds.

  I change the subject. ‘So, Worldwideculture is
your company. Does that mean you are above Ra?’

  ‘In theory, yes, but I rarely interfere with his decisions.’

  ‘You could, though, if you wanted to,’ I insist. I am wondering if Stella could use her influence to get Kali reinstated as chief administrator of Compound 55.

  ‘Ra doesn’t need help from me.’ Stella runs her fingers over the icons that denote the names of the compounds. ‘I just keep an eye on what is going on and make sure everything runs smoothly.’

  One click from Stella and I see inside a dome, a compu-centre full of mutant humanoids sitting at workstations. Not a compound I know. After a moment or two, she switches to another compound. Some humanoids are playing billiards, others dancing, others chatting. Stella is like Big Brother, or rather Big Sister, watching the mutant humanoids in the compounds, but they have no idea she is watching them. No idea that such a person as Stella exists. I shiver. My mind works overtime. Perhaps I can bring up this screen on my own auto-put and search each compound until I find Kali to see if she’s got over her depression. Father told me I have unlimited access online but this is clearly a private site. I’d need a special code to log on to it.

  ‘You say you inherited Worldwideculture. Who created it?’

  ‘A woman called Rebecca Harfield, one of my ancestors.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  ‘For the same reason I continue to oversee it. To do something to help improve the quality of life of those who were left on Earth.’

  ‘The mutant humanoids,’ I prompt her. I notice she tries to avoid the m-word.

  ‘Rebecca and others like her believed that those confined to the compounds should live as full a life as possible. The satellites supply the compounds with the basic necessities – food and clothes – but Rebecca believed that being creative would enrich their lives. If it hadn’t been for Rebecca there wouldn’t have been any computers in the compounds. That was quite a controversial idea at the time. She fought for that. Think how barren life in the compounds would be without them.’

  I have to agree with that. Life without compus doesn’t bear thinking about. This Rebecca Harfield must have been quite a special person.

  But something is worrying me. Everything Stella is saying sounds philanthropic but the fact of the matter is that the completes plundered the Earth, stole its resources and treasures and locked up the mutants in compounds. I feel uneasy about their motives. And about Stella’s.

  Journal Entry

  Stella and I are in her study again. A bit of an argument today. My fault. I’m in one of my provocative moods.

  Unlimited access to the auto-put has made me see things from a different perspective and I don’t always like what I find. I think of the changed person I have become, but am aware that I have not completely changed. I’m not yet a complete, not yet a fully-fledged citizen of Oasis, mentally nor emotionally. I’m still half-mutant and when I’m talking to Stella it’s the mutant half that comes to the fore.

  ‘So, your company, Worldwideculture.inc, is only for mutant humanoids?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Tell me, what is the point of the weekly targets?’

  ‘Everyone is competitive, whether humanoids or completes. It’s human nature. Competing with other sectoids and striving to reach monthly targets encourages creativity.’

  Mercury rising! I try to keep calm but say, ‘So, these targets are not important?’

  ‘Not in themselves. No.’

  ‘But you have tricked us into believing that they really matter.’

  ‘Not tricked, Michael.’ Her face tightens.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stella, but where does this emphasis on creativity lead? To churning out the same old speeches of congratulation to the sectoids with the best target figures. Apart from the figures on the spread sheets, where is the evidence of this creativity?’

  Stella begins to open files of work on the screen: pictures, architectural designs, poems, stories and pieces of music. ‘They’re all here, Michael. Look.’

  ‘Great, but I’ve never seen these before. We weren’t encouraged to look at each other’s work. We were told that our time was better spent creating the next piece of crap to meet the targets.’

  ‘Not all of it was crap.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that when anyone can put whatever they like online, the web becomes cluttered with rubbish.’

  ‘Look at these pictures from Compound 99. Is that rubbish?’

  ‘Ah C99, the flagship. The sectoid that has everything.’

  ‘You can’t call that rubbish,’ Stella insists.

  ‘Perhaps not, but has it occurred to you that the work produced there is superior because the artists, musicians or architects live in a better environment than in the other compounds?’

  Stella bites her lip. ‘So – what are you saying?’

  ‘In C55 we had nothing to stimulate us apart from things seen on the computers. It’s difficult to be creative in a vacuum. We didn’t care about the success of other compounds because we’d been taught that they were our competitors. It’s not creativity that’s important in the sectoids but the number of items produced to meet those damn targets.’

  Stella looks down at her hands. Her pretty face is troubled. ‘Maybe your leader didn’t have the imagination to….’

  I feel myself flaring up again. ‘Kali was our leader and my mother. Please don’t criticise her.’

  Stella is shocked into silence. We stare at each other. She reaches out a hand as if to placate me, but withdraws it quickly.

  ‘The trouble is, Stella, not everyone is creative. I’m not. Not in the least. I was a child when I came to C55. Kali didn’t expect me to reach targets. She made me sit at the workstation all day – that’s true – but I was allowed to surf the net, look at whatever I wanted. I’m grateful to her for that. I studied all day and often all evening too, but nothing inspired me to be creative. Sorry, Stella, but I think you need to change the focus of your company. Inspire people to learn about the past and study science and mathematics as well as the humanities and the arts.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ she says with a strained little smile.

  It must have been a gruelling afternoon for her and it certainly has been for me, one that’s made me even more aware of my dual personality. I’ve seen from a distance all that is wrong with life in the compounds and I’m beginning to suspect that attitudes on Oasis towards mutant humanoids are not as benevolent as I’ve thought or hoped. I take a deep breath, stand up and tell her I need to leave now. I have to go outside into the fresh air and walk a mile or two to clear my head.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Stella says and clicks on another icon with those graceful fingers of hers. ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to show you.’

  The interior of Headculturedome comes up with its students sitting at their workstations. ‘Look, Michael. This is where your father found you. You were sitting just there at your workstation. He recognised you immediately.’

  ‘How did he know it was me? He hadn’t seen me since I was a baby.’

  Stella smiles. ‘I don’t know if you are aware of this, Michael, but you are the spitting image of your father. When he pointed you out I was as sure as he was that you were his son.’

  ‘But he’s tall and I’m short.’

  ‘Your face, Michael. I’m talking about your features, your eyes, the shape of your head, the set of your mouth, the way your hair grows back off your forehead. All those things convinced us it was you.’

  I stare at her. It hasn’t occurred to me that I look like my father. I don’t know what my face looks like. There is a mirror in my study-bedroom but, because I’ve never been in the habit of looking at myself, I don’t look in it. The only mirror I remember using was in Hos-sat to see the result of the op on my back.

  ‘Alexander went to Headculturedome – to make sure it really was you.’

  I think of the camera eye resting on my face.

  Headculturedome is
still up on the screen. I screw up my eyes to see if I recognise anyone there. I don’t.

  One more question. ‘Is Kali still there – at the dome?’

  Stella hesitates. ‘No. She’s moved on.’

  ‘Where to?’

  A pause. ‘Michael, it’s better not to think about Kali. Your home is here now. With us. We are your family and I’d like you to think of me as your mother.’ Her lovely face surrounded by that sleek cap of blonde hair is tipped up towards mine so hopefully I can’t disappoint her. I’ve been so horrid to her this afternoon. My bad mood that sprung from those cries of “mutant” in the park I’ve taken out on her. This beautiful woman wants to be my mother. She’s welcomed me into her home and made a real effort to educate me in the ways of Oasis. I put my arms round her and give her a hug. True, not a very elegant hug. She’s sitting at the computer and I’m standing behind her and it’s an awkward position for both of us, but it is a hug. Her mouth puckers a bit as if she’s going to cry. I leave her before we both start bawling.

  I rush off to my room to pick up my coat. Just before I leave for my walk, I look in the mirror. Father’s cool grey eyes stare back at me.

  Journal Entry

  A question for my father.

  ‘What about the job you promised me? When am I to start? What will it actually involve?’

  He surprises me by saying he thinks I should attend Oasis university for a few years first. ‘Give some thought to the subjects you would like to study.’

  ‘Psychology, history and politics,’ I say straightaway.

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘You seem very sure of that.’

  ‘Psychology is necessary for the job of liaison officer. History and politics will give me a secure background to negotiate between Earth and the satellites.’