by Rob Grant
This is taking too long. This should have been a quick check, possibly a double take, and a wave through.
Eddie toys with the idea of feigning indignation. After all, he's a Pilgrim. Pilgrims are notoriously arrogant. He thinks he might try: 'Is this going to take much longer? Only some of us have an interstellar spaceship to catch.' But he knows he won't. Not Eddie.
The guard looks up and says: 'Mr Gordon. Glad you could make it. They were just about to push the button on you.'
Eddie fakes a smile. What's that? Push the button? What could that mean?
The guard reaches out for Eddie's left hand before Eddie can react. 'If you don't mind, sir. We just need to check your DNA signature.'
'My...?'
'It's just a formality.'
Before Eddie can protest, he feels a prickling sensation in his arm and hears the hiss of his blood being withdrawn.
The guard holds the vial up to the light. Enough to fill a fountain pen. Eddie's surprised he's got that much blood left in his system.
'Is this absolutely necessary?' Eddie's tone is depressingly short of arrogant.
'Just a formality,' the guard repeats, and inserts the vial into her desktop console.
Eddie's in a real bind now. Running, of course, is out of the question. He could try to waddle away, but what would be the point? The worst thing that could happen to him, here, is to get turned away. To be released to the less than tender mercies of the pink sock brigade. But the jig is surely up. Even if he were good at bluffing, which he is not, Eddie couldn't bluff his way through a DNA mismatch.
The computer emits a series of unpromising sounds. The guard turns from the screen and looks at Eddie. She is most definitely pissed off.
'Well, you could have saved us a little time, here, couldn't you?'
'In what way?' Better. Much closer to arrogant.
'In the way that you might have mentioned this is the first time you've reported to the Project. That your DNA wasn't on record.'
'Well,' Eddie smiles, 'it is now.'
The guard grunts, hands the wallet back, and nods tinily towards the embarkation point. Relief flushes through Eddie's extremely overtaxed nervous system, as he hauls his poor body towards the boarding gate. It is with some satisfaction that he overhears, as he is meant to overhear, the guard muttering, slightly too loud: 'Arrogant bastard.'
There are only a couple of other passengers on the shuttle, and neither of them pays much attention to Eddie. One of them is an extremely good-looking woman. She offers him a brief smile. Far too charming a smile to interest Eddie. She is definitely not his type.
Eddie's type, for the record, Eddie's kind of gal, is the type that Eddie will fail to attract. Usually some breed of male hater, who wouldn't be attracted to any man, let alone such a pitiful example of manhood as Eddie O'Hare. They're not even lesbians, as a rule, though Eddie's wasted a substantial amount of his unrequited allure, not to mention his insubstantial salary, on them. They're not even, necessarily, unattractive, though looks are not of major importance to Eddie's libido. They just have to be aloof and unattainable to get Eddie's juices flowing.
Why?
Who knows?
Perhaps he wants to fail with women. Perhaps there's some awful part of his DNA that knows it shouldn't try reproducing itself. Perhaps it's a natural selection thing -- Eddie's so wishy-washy and nice, he needs to mate with pure horror to balance things out.
Whatever the reason, the results speak for themselves. On the extremely rare occasions he's managed to persuade or trick one of the objects of affection actually out on a date, the evening has never lasted through an entire movie, got past the first interval at a play, or gone as far as the pudding course in a restaurant.
She's busy working, this woman that Eddie wouldn't date because she might possibly still be hanging in there while he's arguing over the bill. The other occupant of the cabin, an earnest, honest-looking man in a dog collar, is also working.
Eddie should be working, too. He should be ploughing through C.P. Gordon's files. He should, for instance, in a perfect world know who he actually is. He should probably also know what he does. He should know who his colleagues are, who he reports to, who reports to him. It would be nice to have the odd autobiographical fact to hand, too. Like his mother's name. His nationality. His sexual orientation. All those little details that could trip him up. It might even be handy to find out what the consequences would be if he does get tripped up. Will they give him a sharp slap on the wrist and withdraw a few privileges, or will they stuff him into a garbage canister and shoot him out into space through the waste disposal?
But as the shuttle lifts off, Eddie can only look out through the window and wonder how to feel as Afortunado shrinks away, as he leaves his life behind. As he leaves the planet Earth behind.
And when the last light from the tallest tower is definitely no longer visible, and hasn't truly been visible for a good ten minutes, Eddie finally grabs hold of the file, spreads the papers over his seat table and sighs like a bouncy castle going down. Gordon has agreed to pay off his debt, and send a million to Eddie's mother's bank account. No loose ends. Everybody happy.
There is another sigh, almost simultaneous, and almost as contented, on the ground.
Gordon has watched Eddie board and take off. He watches the shuttle through the heat haze of the thermal dome until it can no longer be distinguished from the ice-capped peak of the mountain that is its destination. He smiles, very broadly. He has no intention, naturally, of paying off Eddie's debt, or sponsoring Eddie's mother, touching and cute as the dismal thought might be.
No.
He has good use for his money.
He can use it to sow the seeds of the perfect society he's dreamed of. And he'll see the results now, in his own lifetime, not just imagine them, generations hence.
In a little under four hours, the Willflower will have launched. In a little under four and a half hours, Gordon, looking suitably beaten up and bedraggled, will file a report to the effect that a man answering Eddie O'Hare's description jumped him, drugged him and stole his identity papers. O'Hare will be arrested and... dealt with. It will, of course, be too late for Gordon to join the mission.
No loose ends.
Everybody happy.
PART TWO
Generation I
'There's no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first, avowed intent
To Be A Pilgrim.'
(John Bunyan: The Pilgrim's Progress)
10
Eddie stays on the shuttle for as long as he can, desperately cramming up on Gordon's notes. Initial impressions are not good. Community Planning, it transpires, is one of those strange social sciences you have to study for decades before you can understand what it actually is, and even then can't define it. He finally acquiesces to leave the cabin just before the irate steward starts getting physical with the portion-control bags of macadamia nuts.
He bundles out of the craft, still trying to stuff the papers back in the file, so he almost collides with a very serious-looking group of individuals, standing at the entrance to a huge cylindrical tower. One of them, a silver-tinged black-bearded man of indeterminable age -- he could be a very well-preserved sixty with distinguished colouring, or a gone-to-seed forty with inadequate access to hair dye -- holds out his hand and says: 'Mr Gordon, I presume?' Which is deemed sufficiently close to a joke to exhort a mild snicker from two or three members of the party.
Eddie doesn't hesitate, doesn't look around for this Mr Gordon who's being talked to: he acts the part, he pulls it off. He immediately shoots out his bandaged hand in response, and prays for two things: he prays he doesn't have to return some kind of secret handshake, and he prays that this group isn't in any way representative of the average sense of humour level on board.
Only the first of those prayers is answered.
'Community Director Gwent,' the bearded man offers, clasping Eddie's injured han
d with unsuppressed gusto, despite the bandage. Great. This bundle of fun looks like he's Eddie's superior. But it gets worse. The buffoon mocks a commedia dell'arte level 'Whoops!' and strikes his brow with the flat of his hand. 'I mean Captain Gwent!' This draws a major laugh from all the lackeys, and a deep, heartfelt guffaw from Gwent. Eddie snickers along and tries not to look bewildered. 'Don't worry,' the Captain slaps him far too heartily on his shoulders, 'I won't be holding it against you, Charles.'
Holding what against him? 'I hope not,' Eddie tries, and then attempts an amused: 'Captain,' which all but brings the house down. This is the biggest laugh Eddie's ever got in collected company, and he's no idea what it is that's supposed to be so funny.
The Captain thumps Eddie between the shoulder blades with the same force a normal man might use to attempt the Heimlich manoeuvre on a choking gorilla, drapes a matey arm around his shoulders and steers him towards the cylinder's entrance. Eddie knows what this is: it's the famous Stairway to Heaven, officially designated as one of the seven wonders of the modern world. It looks less impressive from this angle than the computer simulations he's seen, but the cloud cover is very low, and only a small portion of the tower is visible.
Gwent makes some remark in what sounds like Latin, but could be classical Greek, or even, for all Eddie knows, Etruscan. Whatever the language, it is clearly understood by everyone else in the party, since it's greeted by a great woof of delighted laughter. Eddie tries a little chuckle, as if to imply he obviously gets the joke, but he doesn't think it's all that funny. This seems to meet with Gwent's approval. 'They told me you were finally on your way, Charles, so I made a special journey down to greet you.'
Eddie's meant to be flattered. He acknowledges as much with a slight inclination of his head. He wishes he'd corrected the Captain the first time his name had been used. He'd much prefer to be known as CP. He doesn't feel like a Charles at all. He doesn't really feel like a CP, come to that, but CP would be better than Charles. CP is more of an action guy, the kind of guy you'd like to hang out with in a bar, or have as a racquet ball partner. Charles is too goody-goody. He still calls himself what his mother calls him. Still, too late now. The moment's gone. Charles it is. Ah, well.
Eddie's been too fixed on this, perhaps trivial, thought train. Understandable enough, though. This is a new beginning for him; a chance to shake off the useless clutter of his wasted past. This is important, in its way.
But now, the assembled group is staring at him, and the Captain has withdrawn his arm. Clearly, he's been asked a question, and he's failed to respond for a rude amount of time. He tries a stab at a humorous recovery. 'I'm sorry? Could you repeat that... Captain?'
This time, he meets only a blank silence. What's wrong? It's the same useless joke. Why isn't it funny any more?
A thin woman, attractive, even though her features are a little pinched and her dark hair is dragged back in a severe bun which fails to be unfeminine, steps in: 'Are you, perhaps, buying time, Mr Gordon? Or is it that a true and honest answer might damn you, and your profession?' She parts her lips, which are painted a Gothic dark purple, in a predatory smile.
Eddie's not going to get any help from these quarters. He's in strange company here, where daydreaming isn't part of the mental make-up. And further dithering is definitely out of the question. He elects to go bold. 'Absolutely not. I would say... on the whole... my response would be... positive.'
There is a small but deep silence. It's broken by the Captain's guffaw, and another ill-judged blow between Eddie's shoulder blades which Eddie feels sure has fractured several vertebrae. He is led onward, towards the great tower. The Captain leans closer to him, pointlessly, since his voice is only capable of one volume, which is just below the level of an elephant's death bellow. 'You'll have to forgive Section Leader Peck,' he trumpets. 'She's a hard, hard scientist. It's a religion with her. Anything less than pure mathematics belongs in the waste compactor just above psychology.' He spits 'psychology' in the austerely fetching Ms Peck's direction. A private 'joke'. Eddie's not sure how many more of these jokes he'll have to take. Unfortunately, his mind can work it out. At the rate of one per minute, which seems to be the average here, with eight hours a night off for blessed sleep, he can expect to face around another forty-one million, if his projected life expectancy pans out. He can only pray it doesn't.
'No, no,' the Captain broadcasts on. 'Most of us think Afortunado is an astonishing achievement. No sane scientist' another joke? 'could expect a hundred per cent successful implementation of such a sophisticated social model. Unless of course chaos theory has suddenly joined the social sciences!' Everyone snorts at this one, except Eddie and Ms Peck, at whom it's directed. Just a little tickler of a gag. Still, nauseating none the less.
They're inside the tower, now, and stepping into what must be the elevation tube itself. It's... well, it's large. You could have hidden the Pacific Fleet from the Japanese bombers in this space. The source of the Nile could be lurking in one of the corners, and you'd never find it. It's a big, big space. Eddie dreads what the acoustics might do for the Captain's voice.
He is not disillusioned.
'Your first trip, Mr Gordon,' the Captain rock concerts, 'and my last. Alpha and omega. Come.' As the double doors slide closed and the airlock whispers, the Captain strides over to the opposite wall. The rest of the party follow in various degrees of punctual respect. 'This is the view.'
Eddie looks out at the view, which is bewilderingly monochrome and featureless. He shoots a quick glance at the Captain, whose sanity already has a big question mark over it, then realizes they are still at underground level. The view, as yet, is merely of rocks of ice.
There is a grinding sound which is, for Eddie, far too reminiscent of a rust-ridden fairground ride, and the room lurches. The ice falls away, and the spectacular view is now the monochrome blue-black of a polar night sky. Eddie peers fruitlessly into the gloom, but gloom is all there is, all around them.
Then the window is filled with white again, as the hoist achieves cloud height. Eddie would like to utter some kind of awe-filled mumble to justify the Captain's pronouncement but, as yet, he hasn't been able to make out a single feature of the panorama.
'Any moment now.' The Captain holds up a finger and listens. Fans kick in. 'Yes. Fifteen thousand feet. Oxygen required.'
And upwards, through layer after layer of fluffy cloud. Eddie is beginning to feel embarrassed for the Captain. Some view. A small child could reproduce the spectacle by holding a glass tumbler to his eye and wiggling a wad of cotton wool over the end of it.
And then the cloud falls away.
A cannon goes off in Eddie's ear. Gwent. 'The edge of the troposphere. There is no weather above this point. No more weather for us, Charles. We have cursed our last rain shower, constructed our last snow person, squealed through our last sea squall. Humbling, no?'
Humbling? No. But now, suddenly, there is a view. The cloud blanket drops beneath them and curls away towards a lowering horizon, with an astonishingly clear, bright view of the stars and space beyond, unhindered by atmosphere. The clouds start to break up and curl into wisps and smoky strands over the ball of the strangely fragile Earth beneath them.
This is humbling. Even Eddie, who is, let's get real, not exactly unhumble anyway, is further humbled by this view. Imagine how humbled the arrogant bastards around him must feel.
So he isn't the only one who fails to see the Captain draw a gun.
He is, however, the first to leap back at the sound of the weapon cocking, and he cowers the lowest when the Captain yells, quietly on his scale, 'Now, stand back, one and all.'
And that's all the warning anyone gets as the barrel of the gun booms and jerks and the transparent wall through which they had all just been admiring the view smashes spectacularly, to be replaced by what Eddie can only think of as a 'big hole'.
And out of this 'big hole' charges the air that Eddie had planned to be breathing for the next few minutes of the t
rip.
Eddie's lungs are being dragged inside out. His eyes are bulging like a dodgem fare collector's jeans. His tongue feels like it's unravelling. He looks back towards the Captain, whose greasy silver black hair is whipping forwards all over his grinning face.
The Captain raises his voice over the roar of the escaping air. 'Charles,' he screeches. 'Would you like to talk us through this next bit?'
Eddie thinks, on the whole, that it's probably best it all ends here, messily, insanely and inexplicably, before they reach the ship. God alone knows what madness is waiting for him up there.
With a great effort, he lurches his neck around, in the vague hope that one of these butt-licking idiots might have some kind of contingency plan for the emergency strangulation of the senior officer in the event of blatantly demonstrable frontal lobe failure. But no. All eyes are on him. They're waiting for him to answer the Captain's question, as if they're in some kind of tutorial group in the cosy comfort of a lecturer's sitting room, rather than standing in a glass canister with a big hole in it, far above the Earth's atmosphere, within scant seconds of having all their heads explode like rotten fruit in a shooting gallery. He swings his head back to face the Captain.
'We-ell,' Eddie yells, 'I would have to highly recommend hurling you through the hole in the direction of the troposphere, Captain.'
The Captain raises his chin and begins to judder. Eddie worries that he's suffering a terminal and messy aneurysm. But no. He's laughing. This is great. Eddie could get the job of ship's jester without even practising.
The Captain guffaws: 'A sane response.' Right. Like he would know. 'But wrong. No. We simply wait and watch.'