The solution came with the news that the Pakistani based Taliban had used a small drone to bomb the home of a suspected traitor. So as Bhat left his house for the short walk through his manicured gardens of his compound on Malabar Hill to his waiting car, a small, blackmarket military drone came in with the sun behind it and headed straight for Bhat’s car. There wasn’t much left of Bhat, his bodyguard, his driver or his butler.
The assassination had sent the Indian government into a spin. Again, carefully planted disinformation muddied the waters. But even if the various agencies agreed on a suspect, the puppet masters might find it convenient to scapegoat someone else. These things were out of his control. For the moment their plan seemed to have worked. Most of the heat was now on Pakistan. Bhutan was in the clear, for the moment. Akash felt sick as he read the report. He felt trapped in a moral world that demanded a cold calculation between degrees of suffering. Each death took its toll, chipping away at his confidence.
The next report was delivered in person by Sauveterre. He had hoped only to hear that their genomic program was progressing (it was) but Sauveterre dropped his own, metaphorical bomb. Although they had long had their suspicions they lacked the hard evidence. It was not unsuspected but it changed the game.
“It was a chance discovery,” said Sauveterre as he sipped his coffee. “An overheard conversation, a name. Two and two were quickly put together.”
“You are sure?”
Sauveterre nodded. “We are not surprised. It was a matter of time.”
“Who?”
“A Swiss company based in Geneva, headed by a Dr. Paul Krauss, a Swiss-German. Expensive. Designed to keep out the riffraff.”
“What do they offer?”
“Life extension, removal of genetic diseases, IQ boost. The rich go on a skiing vacation, enjoy themselves, check in on their Swiss bank accounts and call into the clinic, in just the same way they employ cosmetic surgery. But that’s not the worst news. We’ve got word of a black program. Increasing the stamina and strength of militias. There are also rumours of adjustments for workers, mainly around sleep and compliance. A docile workforce able to work longer hours and cope with shift work, mostly applied to migrant workers in the Gulf States and parts of Asia.”
“But who would sign up?”
Sauveterre gave a cynical laugh. “Who says they consent? It is part of the corporate health program. They are told they must undergo compulsory genetic therapy to avoid heart disease, cancer or any other affliction that might shorten their work life. It is part of the insurance program. If they don’t do it…”
Akash shook his head, not wanting to believe they would actually do what everyone expected they would. “But if this came out?”
Sauveterre shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing would happen. Besides, they have been preparing the ground. Their puppets, their paid politicians, have been agreeing to legislative changes that make it difficult to prosecute. Corporate rights now override individual rights in many jurisdictions. Oh, you won’t find a specific law permitting compulsory genetic engineering. It’s all hidden in trade agreements and subclauses, commercial-in-confidence provisions, that sort of thing.”
“A genetically imposed caste system…”
Sauveterre nodded. “There have been internal papers prepared by think tanks circulated in corporate circles. Economic arguments to justify a class system: workers, soldiers, rulers. There are Conservative thinkers, philosophers, psychologists, sociologists, who claim this is the natural order, the most efficient way to manage a society. This move simply consolidates what they have always wanted. Even the proletariat who have become weary of the responsibility to think, to act, to be authentic, even to love, want it.”
“Brave New World?”
“Oui, Aldous was right. Except for the sex. He got that part wrong. You cannot control happy people. They only laugh at you. You have to keep them stressed, fearful, uncertain, keep up the flow of cortisol and noradrenaline, keep them in a permanent state of anxiety and want.”
“What can we do?”
“Nothing. We know about the Swiss clinic but we suspect that the Russians, Chinese and Americans are doing something similar. This should surprise no one. It was why we set up the Huxleys.”
“And the next step?”
“To continue gene hacking, to create a back door, to create people they can never control.”
He left early, too despondent to continue sorting through the bad news. When he walked into the apartment he was greeted by simple domesticity: Pema, Alice and Nour baking cookies and Freja reading. He knew Tshering would be out. She had, a board meeting at the new gallery and her sister Sigyel was coming to town.
“Oh good,” said Freja. “Now that you’re here, Alice and I can go early.”
“Hello to you too,” he said to tease her. He walked over to kiss Pema and Alice. Nour smiled shyly, still unsure of him. He was pleased; she had put on weight and had already undergone her genetic therapy. She was thriving. “Go early where?”
Freja stood and walked toward him. She was dressed in Western jeans and a Scandinavian style ski jumper. “The Sauvaterres, a Huxley meeting. I presume Hugo spoke to you?”
“Ah, the Swiss clinic?”
Freja kissed him on the cheek. “No, there are new Crickets.”
He shook his head to indicate that Sauvaterre hadn’t mentioned it.
“Pah, he is getting absent-minded. There are six more. A brother and sister, French-Algerian, Salah and Amina Katib, based in Marseilles, a Czech girl, Frantishka Dvoraçek, from Prague and the Roth triplets, from Israel.”
“And what have you Crickets got planned?” he asked, suspicious that they would now pressure him to include them in the first mass migration to Eden.
Freja shook her head with mock disappointment. “Don’t worry. This is just a conference call to introduce them to their Cricket brothers and sisters…”
“Eden isn’t on the agenda,” interrupted Alice.
“This is just an orientation and a chance to get to know them.”
“Although they do have some valuable genes. The Katibs have Berber heritage.” Alice added.
“Besides, we haven’t had a chance to all get together and Anaïs is a bit down because she misses Pros.”
“And Tsher knows about…” he started to ask.
“Of course, she suggested it,” said Freja.
“Ah,” he said, the full plan revealing itself. Tshering would return with Sigyel and Freja and Alice would conveniently be absent. He wasn’t too upset at the plan but it was clear that Tshering was the person in control of his sex life, like the first wife arranging the schedule of consorts for her husband.
Alice got up to get ready. “The cookies need to go in at one hundred and eighty degrees until they are a golden brown, about twenty minutes, and the girls need a bath…”
He looked at Pema and her eyes lit up with a mischievous twinkle. It had been some time since he had been alone with Pema and he was certain she would use it to her advantage. “And when will Tsher be back?”
“Late, she’s having dinner with Sigyel and some of her Bhutanese friends,” said Alice.
“Talking politics no doubt. Seems Sigyel has ambitions,” Freya added.
“Tsher hasn’t mentioned…” he protested.
“And would you have had time to listen?” said Freja placing her hand playfully on his shoulder. “You are not the only one with plans, surely you knew that? Tshering married you for her own reasons.”
He managed, just. The cookies were a little burnt and Pema and Nour insisted on staying in the bath until it became cold and their skin began to wrinkle. They demanded he wash their hair and play bath games (he was surprised Nour had let him see her naked and he took it as a positive sign of trust). Of course the bathroom was a mess and he was sure it had never been as messy. And after the bath he had trouble getting them to at least put on a t-shirt. They found it amusing to run around naked, squealing and chasing each other. Wh
en he finally succeeded they pressured him to play ponies, exhausting him as they rode him around the living room. He tried desperately to calm them down but they were hyper: giggling and being foolish, trying to teach him Bollywood dance moves, bouncing on the furniture, insisting on tickling games and play wrestling. Eventually he collapsed on the couch and they cuddled next to him and asked him to read to them, a children’s classic from two decades ago, a tale about a witch and a trans dimensional wardrobe.
Tshering and Sigyel found them asleep on the couch, the large screen playing some anime. It was well past the girls’ bedtime but it would be forgiven. Pema had had so little time with her father… Sigyel helped her carry them to bed and they returned, wondering what to do with her husband, who was lying slumped on the couch with his mouth wide open on the verge of snoring.
He woke when he heard the kettle boiling. He was disoriented. The apartment had been returned to some form of normality, incense was burning. He sat up and tried to focus. Tshering and Sigyel were whispering in the kitchen. He staggered over. “How late is it?” he mumbled.
“Just after one,” said Sigyel.
“You look like you need a tea?” Tshering said as she moved toward him to give him a kiss.
“I must have… The girls?”
“Fine. They’ll be tired tomorrow… You look exhausted.” She gave him a sympathetic hug, her pregnant belly pressing into him. She was clearly showing now, five months gone.
“How was your night?” he asked as Sigyel poured the tea.
“Interesting,” said Tshering. “I told Sigyel about Eden, what you’ve really been doing.”
He froze. He trusted Tshering’s judgment but he was still shocked.
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe. I would never betray Tsher, betray family,” said Sigyel with playful sarcasm.
“She had to know eventually,” said Tshering. “Besides, we still have to think of Bhutan.”
Sigyel moved forward to join her sister by his side. She kissed him on the mouth, lingering. “Yes. I have no wish to travel to paradise, I want to create paradise in Bhutan. So, we must talk about Bhutan’s future when you have left. Not tonight, you are tired, but Tsher and I will not let our beloved Bhutan suffer. What happens if the world powers find out that Bhutan helped you? We are a small nation. Could we protect ourselves from their punishment? The Chinese, the Indians, the Russians? Have you thought of that? They would tear Bhutan apart to discover your secret.”
He looked carefully at Sigyel. It had been six years since that extraordinary night and she was now twenty-two and a politics student at Nagarjuna University in Andhra Pradesh (rated the top university in India - she was on a semester break). He did not think he was betraying Tshering to think that she was her equal, if not just a degree more cunning. He clearly saw fierce ambition glinting in her eyes.
“You have a plan?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said kissing him again, this time with more passion.
“To become the first female prime minister of Bhutan?” he joked.
“Or our child,” she said kissing him again. “Our genetically enhanced child.”
85
The Crickets
It was about as European as you could get in Bhutan, given the local ingredients. Goat stew simmered in a classic French red wine sauce, fresh bread, sautéed carrots and beans, finished off with a classic apricot and almond calfouti, baked by none other than Jules, all washed down by an imported Bordeaux from a small, family vineyard.
Hugo had proposed the toast. “To the success of our little transhumanist project and to our little Crickets, who have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.” They all drank to the toast, even Alice, because that was the French way, although Freja looked at Anaïs with a cynical smirk - Hugo could be a bit pompous.
After dinner they gathered in a tight group in front of an open fire on a large leather couch covered with Bhutanese rugs to watch a large cinema-sized screen mounted above a mantle piece featuring an antique statue of Avalokiteshvara. The conference call had been timed because they, being further east, were ahead of the others.
They waited patiently as the new Crickets logged on, some sitting in front of laptop screens, others using tablets or handsets, all using Shunyata’s secure system, the AI automatically displaying the person speaking in the central panel, the others in smaller panels at the edge. Rasim Çiçek from Istanbul, Lotte van Houten from The Hague, Wolfgang Bergen from Dresden, Lisette Zarins from Riga, and the most recent members, Salah and Amina, Frantishka and the Roth triplets, Gila, Tal and Ari.
“Hi guys,” said Jules. “First thing, what is your preferred language, English or Francaise?”
“Mon Français est… um, p-pauvre,” Rasim announced, a little embarrassed.
“Yes, but you speak Arabic, German and English; so don’t be too hard on yourself. Anglais, il est alors. So, this meeting is to see how you are all progressing and to get the noobs up to speed.”
There was a moment of confusion as they interrupted each other to say hello and give a few biographical details: age, nationality, interests. It was Lotte, an enthusiastic, freckle-faced strawberry blond, who asked the awkward question. “Where is Li Li?”
Jules was surprised by the question and glanced quickly at the others for help. “Um, she isn’t near a screen and can’t participate.”
“Which doesn’t actually answer the question,” said Lisette, who had strong, aquiline features, piercing green eyes and straight, jet-black hair.
“Yes, and why did you look at the others like you were keeping a secret?” asked Tal, an intense eleven year-old with penetrating almond eyes and curly, unkempt chestnut hair.
“You look nervous,” added her near identical brother and sister in unison, finishing her thought.
“Yes, what exactly are you hiding?” asked Lotte. “Don’t tell me it’s happened already? When were you going to tell us?”
“It isn’t on the agenda,” said Alice.
“What isn’t on the agenda?” asked the new girl Frantishka, a fidgety, awkward ten year-old, still wearing thick glasses (until her eyesight adjusted), her auburn hair in pigtails.
“Why did you think you could fool us?” said Lotte, her face distorted from leaning into the camera to emphasise her point.
“We shouldn’t have had the wine,” Freja sighed. “They read our facial micro-expressions all too easily. We should never have underestimated them.”
“So,” demanded Lisette, “out with it. It’s finally happened. She’s not on Earth is she?”
“Not on Earth?” asked Wolfgang, the youngest. “You mean she is on another planet? Wow, really?”
Jules threw up his hands and sighed. “Merde. Yes, yes. For two weeks now.”
“And what is it called, this planet?” asked Amina speaking for the first time, a pretty girl of about nine, with dark brown eyes, thick, wavy black hair and a classic Berber face.
“Eden…”
There was a babble of voices until Lars used his deepening voice to command everyone’s attention. “There was no point in telling you without telling your parents first, obviously. You are not independent of them yet, no matter how clever you are.”
They were stunned into a moment’s silence.
“I am not sure I would want to go anyway,” said Frantishka. “We should fix up this planet first.”
It was a moral point they had already well and truly discussed. Anaïs was blunt in her response. “Not all of us can go. There is a limit to the number of prepubescent children who could go anyway, especially unaccompanied. And you girls should understand quite clearly that it is a colony that will need to generate its own population. You would not have the luxury of having children late in life. Alice has done the calculations…”
“Yes, any female Cricket who goes must commit to a breeding program to ensure the best possible population outcome, preferably as soon as they become fertile.”
Amina, Frantishka and Lotte all looked mortifie
d. “Our husbands chosen for us?” asked Lisette.
“No,” said Alice calmly. “The father of your children suggested to you, and a different father for each child.”
“Of course, a continuation of the genetic program…” Gila said as she looked at her siblings in a way that suggested they had already discussed the matter.
“IVF... We were conceived by donor, we expected we would form part of a program eventually,” said Tal. “I personally thought it should start as soon as we were fertile. The thought of wasting all those eggs, especially the eggs of the gifted like us,” she added without arrogance, as if her observation were obvious. “All that lost potential.”
“Not just IVF, naturally too, as soon as you are ready,” Alice added.
“Intercourse? That won’t go down well with the normals,” Gila observed.
Freja remembered that young Wolfgang was party to this discussion. “Wolfie, you don’t have to be a part of the conversation…”
The AI selected his face. He was already looking down at a screen, obviously playing a game on a handset.
Paradise Reclaimed Page 61