The Genesis Glitch

by Stewart Ferris

‘Those are some of his best-known characters. Wodehouse was funny and original in the way he wrote. His writing style looked both forwards and backwards. He was traditional and cutting edge at the same time, and the language he used really connected with me.’

  ‘What language did he use?’

  ‘English,’ replied Ratty, trying not to sound affronted. ‘And yet he made it his own. He reinvented the language, did things with it that had never been done before. His humour was the first thing that brought back my smile. I wanted to be in his world, to be one of his characters. I started talking like them, emulating their silly ways and mannerisms. Then I was sent away to boarding school, and I was delighted to find I was at the same school where Wodehouse had been, many decades before. Only I got bullied. Teased remorselessly over what had happened to my mother. The pain of losing her hit me all over again, and this time it went deeper. I didn’t know how to fight back. I almost lost my mind and retreated into my imagination. I was Bertie Wooster, happy-go-lucky, speaking his unique blend of incoherent erudition. And when I started talking like that to the bullies, guess what? They laughed. They thought I was wonderful. The bullying stopped and I was accepted into the fold. But I wasn’t accepted as myself, only as this spoof of a Wodehousian fool. Met a chum there, Plum, who was named after Wodehouse and was equally obsessed with the same books, and it reinforced my feeling that there was nothing wrong with my personality developing in this direction. We were both lost in a fantasy world that never really existed, and I was happy in there because the real world was too painful to bear. I never really left that fantasy behind.’

  ‘Shit. That’s one hell of a story. And you told nearly all of it in plain English. I almost wish I hadn’t said that stuff about you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t concern yourself. You’re not the first to express displeasure at my eccentricities and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘Ever tried to change?’

  ‘I have tried, goodness, yes. It’s an affliction that affects me every day of my life. I was recently in Guatemala, and while I was there I attempted a reinvention of my personality. I was successful in so far as changing my hair and clothes. Externally I am a new person. But internally I failed. Whatever makes me this way runs too deep. I’ve given in to what I am. Hate me or loathe me, this is me.’

  ‘I guess you ain’t so loathesome, honey.’

  ‘Obliged, I’m sure.’

  ‘That’s it, then? Sounds like you’ve just been wired funny.’

  ‘There is an aesthetic consideration in addition to the defence mechanism. I have a fascination with the beauty of our – I mean, the English – language. Speaking can be more than a means of communication. It has the potential to be an art form. A well-crafted sentence is a painting.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘It is also a sculpture. The selection and combination of words can be a joy to create and a fascination to behold. When people converse using the same lexemes, repeated ad infinitum, it pains my soul. Imagine creating paintings all your life only with the colour red, ignoring the rest of the rainbow. There is such variety of language available to us, and yet few are willing or able to embrace the rainbow. I need colour in my life. The rainbow gives me pleasure.’

  ‘Sure, honey. Rainbows are awesome.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You know what? Reckon there are worse people to die of thirst with.’

  ‘A most generous compliment,’ said Ratty, poking his head outside to feel the sun on his salty lips. He looked around at the endless ocean, then performed a double-take. Smoke rose above the horizon to the north. ‘I say, old Lone Starlet, it would appear that we are in need of a china tea service.’

  ‘What the hell is going on in your brain this time?’

  ‘I mean to say, we may shortly entertain guests.’

  ‘What?’ She pulled him aside so she could look out. ‘Sit back while I fire another flare. Let’s just hope they got someone on deck to see this.’

  ***

  Ruby had slept soundly in the ostentatious bedroom in one of the chateau’s private apartments. The intricately-carved four-poster bed supported her like she was weightless. The stone-walled room was far from the basement laboratory area, out of earshot of the crescendo of groans, screams and curses that emanated from Otto as the horrendous reality of his situation sunk in and he grew terrified of the brutal brevity of his second life.

  She dressed hurriedly, frantic for information about the search for Halford. The double helix staircase seemed to spin around her as she ran down the multiple floors to the laboratory. When she pushed the glass door open, Otto’s ear-splitting expression of the futility of his existence had abated to something different. He was lucid, talking rapidly and excitedly and with a glint in his daffodil-yellow eyes. Philipe and Orlando had been in attendance all night, their need for sleep overruled by fascination.

  ‘Space and time also belong to this class of quantities,’ Otto was saying, burning quickly what little energy remained in his body. ‘Time, past, present, and future, forms a continuous whole. Space, likewise, is a continuous quantity; for the parts of a solid occupy a certain space, and these have a common boundary.’

  ‘Is that Aristotle he’s reciting?’ whispered Ruby, as Otto continued babbling, oblivious to those present.

  ‘The doctors say he’s weakening fast,’ said Philipe, ignoring her question.

  ‘Of course. He has no liver,’ she replied.

  ‘He has those symptoms, but it’s more than that. Look at the deep wrinkles in his skin. A glitch in the genesis process, they think.’

  ‘But Otto carried out this process on subjects in Guatemala,’ said Ruby. ‘Orlando, you remember, don’t you? He tested this genesis procedure on that American student, Brad. I heard it was successful. Brad’s alive, isn’t he?’

  Orlando shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry, Ruby,’ he said. ‘Otto applied the genesis procedure on Brad and other test subjects. They all appeared successful at first. Apart from the bad smell and staining that seems unavoidable. But they began to weaken after a few days. Their bodies had reactivated with their minds intact, but the aging process, after being held in stasis, accelerated beyond control. There was nothing we could do.’

  ‘Is that always going to happen with this process?’ she asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ replied Philipe. ‘It’s a small sample, which means the results are not scientific. And it might not apply to Halford, because the constituent parts of the embalming compound used twelve thousand years ago may differ in some vital way from our own. The length of time in stasis may also be a factor – a longer period spent dead may perversely permit a longer second life.’

  They were distracted by the sound of urgent steps hurtling down the double helix staircase. The woman with the cherry-red ponytail who had brought them news of the North Korean claim to have found Halford now had news from Russia. And this time there was video evidence. She held out an iPad to show them.

  ‘They found Halford, but they botched the genesis procedure,’ she told them, initialising the video. ‘Halford’s dead.’

  ‘So it’s over?’ asked Ruby. ‘You tortured Otto, you’ve kidnapped me, and it was all for nothing?’

  ‘You were not kidnapped, Ruby,’ protested Philipe. ‘We merely transported you here under tight security. For your own protection. There are many parties out there who would have tried to use your knowledge of Halford, and they would not have treated with the respect that we have.’

  They watched the video clip. It lasted only a minute, and had been heavily edited. A man lay motionless, covered in a tar-like substance, suspended above a tank of water. A nurse wearing a surgical mask lowered the body into the water. The video then cut to a close-up of the face as it twitched and started to breathe, and was given oxygen. An alarm sounded, the face contorted and then was still. A scene briefly showed efforts at resuscitation, then it ended. The woman placed the iPad in its sleeve and turned to depart.

  �
��No, wait,’ said Ruby. ‘I need to see it again, and I need to pause on a frame.’

  On the second playing she froze the clip at the brief moment when Halford’s face was visible, just before the masked nurse connected an oxygen supply to his mouth, covering his features.

  ‘Doesn’t that face look familiar?’ she asked.

  ‘You mean like Orlando?’ asked Philipe. ‘I thought so too, but you have to remember they are from the same indigenous population.’

  The face in the video was unclear, still smothered in the dark preservative compound.

  ‘It’s more than that,’ said Ruby. ‘Something’s not right. No one speaks. So how do we know they are Russian? You can’t see the labels on the equipment, so how do we know it’s a Russian ship they’re working on? And that face does look like Orlando because it’s the same as him. Look closely. This is his twin.’

  ‘Seriously?’ asked Orlando, grabbing the iPad. ‘Has this been accepted as genuine by the other search parties?’

  ‘Not conclusively,’ the messenger woman replied. ‘But some are starting to give up their search.’

  Otto’s philosophical ramblings became harder to understand as his muscles struggled to work together to form coherent words, slurring his speech.

  ‘This is fake news,’ said Ruby. ‘But more importantly, it’s Orlando’s twin in the video. It’s the Patient. How did he get involved in all this?’

  ‘Believe me, I know nothing about this,’ said Philipe.

  ‘Well, I need to find out if he’s OK. And Ratty, too.’

  ***

  The rope ladder danced above the undulating water, thudding repeatedly against the rust-stained rivets of The Lone Star. Madison grabbed it climbed up. From the ship’s deck, she looked back to check on Ratty, and found her companion to be stuck half way between the tender and the ship, clinging tightly to the ladder with his eyes shut. One of the two crew members on the tender started to climb behind Ratty, soon reaching his foot and nudging him in the right direction. Firm hands reached under his armpits and hauled him onto the deck. He opened his eyes.

  ‘I say, Patient chappy. Frightfully thingy to see you. Just passing, were you, or did you see my flares? Always knew they’d come back into fashion. As you can tell, we had a bit of bother with the weather and… what of Ruby? Have you news of our imperilled chum?’

  ‘Ratty, time is not on our side. I know nothing of Ruby. But I knew where to find you, and I know where to find Halford.’

  ‘Golly. Do please enlighten.’

  Madison had been briefing her crew, but upon overhearing the Patient’s comments she turned.

  ‘Wait, I know this guy,’ she said. ‘The other one from the auction. The one everyone wanted.’

  ‘Madison, meet Patient chappy,’ said Ratty.

  ‘I got two for the price of one, huh?’

  ‘Patient chappy is about to tell us where we can find Halford.’

  Madison nodded for the Patient to explain his theory.

  ‘When I discovered through my research that it was Madison who bought Ratty at auction, I made a crude video to fool the world that Halford had been found by the Russians, in which I pretended that he did not survive the genesis procedure.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Madison asked.

  ‘To buy us time. I knew where to look for Halford. No one else was looking there. But I had to find my friend first. As the storm grew more severe I took a lifeboat from the ESA ship and rendezvoused with The Lone Star. By then they had received communication from Madison that she was attempting also to rendezvous with them at sea. But I deduced that her vessel would not survive the storm. I calculated currents and wind directions and persuaded the captain to head in this direction, where we found you. Nature does nothing in vain. Those currents mean that anything else floating loose in this region of sea will also end up just ahead of our present position, at an uninhabited island just north of Preparis.’

  ‘Driftwood and wotnot?’

  ‘I mean Halford.’

  ‘I get the mathematics of current flow versus wind speed,’ said Madison, ‘but what makes you think Halford ain’t still in Davy Jones’ Locker?’

  ‘The pod had to have no moving parts,’ said the Patient, ‘for nothing could be relied upon to function after being frozen for twelve millennia and then subjected to the intense heat of re-entry. The pod would only protect its occupant if it could absorb the energy of impact with the sea by sacrificing itself, providing the same function as the heatshield did on re-entry.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Madison. ‘You only have to rearrange Newton’s second law of motion to see the benefit of a crumple zone.’

  ‘Then you will understand that in a direct impact with the sea from a vertical or near-vertical trajectory, no crumple zone exists that could possibly protect its contents.’

  ‘I guess we’re talking about an approach speed of about twelve miles per second,’ said Madison. ‘That sure would break a few speed limits.’

  ‘It would result in the entire pod and its contents being pulverised on impact,’ continued the Patient. ‘I am not aware of any natural or artificial material capable of providing a useful function under such forces. We must also consider that the pod would have been tumbling, for it could not have any functioning attitude control systems. Therefore, there was only one way to design the pod. The heatshield would have to be on all sides, and beneath the heatshield the inner structure would have to be designed to disintegrate in a controlled and predictable manner. That is how I know the location of Halford, and it is not where everyone has been looking for him.’

  ‘So where the hell is he?’

  ‘He is not to be found at the site where he impacted with the sea, and that is because I believe his pod was designed using the same solution that Barnes Wallis devised.’

  ‘The bouncy bomb chap?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘He realised that to prevent a bomb disintegrating on impact with water the most efficient technique was to dissipate energy gradually by designing it to bounce several times, shedding disposable layers of its shell with each bounce.’

  ‘The math makes sense,’ said Madison. ‘It just needs a real shallow re-entry angle. Right over those megaliths, skimming over the sea, in this direction.’

  ‘I believe the inner casket was all that remained following the re-entry,’ said the Patient. ‘To prevent the body within from drowning during genesis, it would be necessary for the casket to possess sufficient buoyancy to remain afloat until washed ashore. I believe the island ahead of us was chosen intentionally. It is called Cow and Calf, and it has the perfect coastline to trap the casket, allowing seawater to enter Halford’s body gradually, and providing land shelter as soon as Halford is animated.’

  ‘Quite a voluminous quantity of conjecture, old chum, but I confess it has a certain je ne sais wotnot.’

  ‘I guess we’ll find out when we get our asses there. You got anything else to back up your theory?’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the Patient. ‘The megaliths of Myanmar point at the spot of the first impact. That’s roughly where all the ships are searching the sea bed. No one has considered the possibility that the pod skimmed like a stone across the sea from there. They have all been looking in the wrong place. And there’s another clue which I have yet to hear mentioned by anyone. Perhaps it is a mere coincidence, or perhaps it is more than that. We are looking for a Mayan from pre-history. This is the sea to which he has returned. Perhaps it should have been obvious all along that Myanmar – or the sea of the Mayan – would be the starting point for this venture?’

  Before Ratty could mumble ‘Burma’, a crew member shouted that land had been sighted. The Patient ran to the bow and knew immediately that his deductions had been correct.

  But he had not been the first to make them.

  A large vessel was at anchor in the deeper waters a short distance from the island. The Patient noted a French flag. Closer to the island, an amphibious helicopter bobbed on the water,
its rotors thudding lazily. Frenzied activity took place between the island, the ship and the helicopter. Camouflaged people spoke into walkie-talkies and zipped around in high-performance ribs. One of the ribs sped across the water towards The Lone Star. A soldier on the rib pointed aggressively, then shouted into a megaphone.

  ‘By order of the Marine nationale, you must leave this area immediately!’

  ‘Who does that little chap think he is, ordering us about like that?’ asked Ratty. ‘He’s French. He has no authority over us. Or anyone, for that matter.’

  A flash and boom brought their attention to a warning shot aimed above their heads.

  ‘We must proceed to the island,’ said the Patient, as if oblivious to danger. ‘Halford is there.’

  ‘Perhaps a cup of tea below deck,’ suggested Ratty. ‘Even though the fellow is a Gallic nincompoop, it would be rude not to give some consideration to his Napoleonic strutting.

  Madison looked up at the bridge. Her captain had placed the engines in reverse and halted the forward movement of the ship. He awaited her order.

  ‘Get inside,’ she told Ratty and the Patient. ‘I’ve come this far, I ain’t about to stop. I’m gonna get Halford.’

  ‘But those camembert-eating surrender anthropoids appear to be of a somewhat bellicose disposition.’

  ‘Oh god, again with the gibberish.’

  ‘He refers to their inclination towards violence,’ said the Patient. ‘They have guns.’

  ‘Hell, where I come from everyone has guns. And my guys on this ship could outgun those Frenchies any day. We’re going in!’

  She climbed to the bridge and ordered her mercenaries to their stations. Twenty men wearing body armour and ammunition webbing took up combat positions around the ship. The captain engaged the motors and pushed forward. The Frenchman in the rib picked up his megaphone again.

  ‘This is your last warning!’

  Despite the amplification of his voice, his words were drowned by the helicopter as its rotors accelerated, lifting its floats clear of the water. The French officer looked above him and knew that the mission had been completed. There was no longer any need to guard the island.