Colony

by Rob Grant

  'That's right, Charlie. We're going to strip your assets. Your hand, your eye. All you have left, the only bargaining point is whether we do it pre or post mortem.'

  'This is insane. I'll co-operate. Take me to a terminal now. You'll have the money back in minutes.'

  'Hey, I'd love to accommodate, you being such a sport and all, but that's a no can do.' The assistant proffers the sword with a flourish, as if it's part of some gruesome magic act. Gordon's tormentor takes it and slips it from its sheath. 'Be realistic, Chuck. You're already a non-person. You aren't here. This won't even go down in the books, my friend. It's not even a crime.'

  'OK. Look. Fifty million's a lot of money...'

  'It's not enough, Charlie. It's not enough to fund the loony scenario you're about to paint for me, where we three abscond to a yacht someplace no one will ever find us, and live on a diet of champagne and pussy. You don't think I hear that screenplay pitch every single day? Trust me, there isn't anywhere they wouldn't find you. I know, I'm one of the "they" who do the finding.'

  Gordon's eyes flit towards the street.

  'And don't spoil our relationship by thinking about that, Charlie. You wouldn't get half way, and it would be really undignified, to boot.'

  No, no. Gordon wouldn't want to ruin this relationship. Perish that thought.

  'Ten minutes ago, I was standing among those people, disgusted by them, I'm ashamed to say. Feeling superior. Wanting nothing more than to be away from them. Now...' Tears well up in his bruised eyes. Tears for himself, though. Pathetic, really. 'What did you want to know?'

  'The bank the account number, the password. We can look up the sort code, don't worry about that.'

  Gordon takes out a notepad and a pen and starts to write. 'This is your notion of "cutting me some slack"?'

  'You don't think this is cutting you slack? You'd prefer to watch us remove your eyeballs? You think I'd normally offer that option to someone who called me a, what? A clown? A moron? Who knows what else? But listen. I'm not without compassion. Are you a Catholic?'

  Gordon shakes his head.

  'I am. Not as devout as I might be, but you know, none the less. Thing is, there's a religious issue here. Now, you handing over that information, there's an argument that that could be construed as a form of suicide, because you know I'm going to kill you once you've done it. See? Well, it isn't. It's cool. I cleared it with a priest.'

  Gordon nods and hands over the paper. He looks up at the stars and sucks in his final breath. Perhaps he does take some solace in those words, because his last, warped thought is of heaven. He hopes, if it does exist, it doesn't admit Mexicans or people with hearing aids.

  That thought is still running through his head when it hits the ground.

  13

  It seems we have an impostor in our midst.

  Does Eddie's skin burn?

  Yes.

  Does it buzz?

  Like a summer hive.

  Is his mouth dry?

  Not even a cactus could flourish there.

  He's vaguely aware of the Captain rising from his seat and starting to pace behind him. He thoroughly expects a baseball bat to strike the back of his head.

  Even Gwent's boom box of a voice is hard pressed to penetrate the tha-dump thud in Eddie's ears. 'This is where the hypothesis meets reality. This is the tough test of the theoretical model. There is a clear course of action laid out for this situation. But we're not on a drawing board, now. The question is: can we practically apply the guidelines Charles, here, has set out for us?'

  A wave of stale coffee breath washes over Eddie. The Captain is crouched beside him, hand on his shoulder.

  Somehow, Eddie is supposed to break this silence. Unfortunately, his mouth is dry, drier than a constipated camel's sphincter, and he's afraid that his tongue might rip away the lining of his palate if he tries to move it.

  Somebody saves him. It's his travelling companion from the shuttle: the honest-featured fellow in the dog collar. 'I think it's a little brutal, Berwick, to be hoisting this on to Mr Gordon's shoulders.'

  'I think not, Padre,' drawl the purple lips of the carbolic Ms Peck. 'After all, it is rather a brutal penalty, and, after all, it was Mr Gordon who recommended it. We need to know if he still believes it to be viable.'

  'I'm sorry,' pipes a voice that clearly isn't. 'What exactly is the penalty we're discussing?'

  Eddie looks over at the speaker. It's a square-jawed crewcut of a man who looks exceptionally out of place among the pallid skins and studious faces around the table. He is built big. Big big. His wrists threaten to burst the cuffs of his jacket. He has those curiously overdeveloped muscles on the tops of his shoulders that blend into the neck and make the head look out of scale. Eddie wonders how you get muscles like that. Presumably, it involves lifting weights with the head. Why? To what end? When does that particular talent come in handy in the real world? But this is just Eddie attempting to belittle the man, to diminish him as a threat, to avoid thinking about how easily the man might snap him in two with one hand, whilst simultaneously guzzling a can of chocolate-flavoured muscle nourishment drink.

  Clearly, the entire penal code is required reading among the more bookish committee members. Which is all of them except for Eddie and Mr Muscle Neck.

  A man who sports an unnecessary, curable bald patch like a scholastic prize snaps irritably: 'Oh, come on, Mr Styx. It's in the book.' And he indicates several bound volumes in the centre of the table with a vexed gesture, as if only the smallest and most stupid of primates couldn't commit them to perfect memory in a lazy afternoon by a swimming pool.

  Styx's cheek muscles flutter frighteningly. How does he work-out on that? Does he attach weights to the insides of his gums? Whatever, the minute involuntary gesture is enough to silence the slighter.

  'Charles?' Gwent asks, from behind his shoulder. Eddie resists the temptation to check his ear for leaking blood. 'Perhaps you'd like to illuminate our Security Section Leader as to the recommended remedial procedure in the event of unselected personnel impersonating one of the Selected.'

  There can be no escape now. The jig is most definitely up. An uncommon anger wells up in Eddie's tired, beleaguered spirit. He's been rumbled, ridiculed and toyed with, and now, quite frankly, he's had enough. He's not going to take this vicious teasing any more.

  'All right. You've all had your juvenile fun. You've pinned me to the table with contempt, like some craven crawling insect and prodded and poked me while I wriggle and squirm. But before you take the brilliantly studied and well-informed decision to hurl me to whatever nasty wolves you have snarling on their leashes, just let me say this: no one here is better than me. None of you. I may not be the brightest guy on board. I may not crack impenetrable so-called "jokes" in dead Mediterranean languages, for you all to pat yourselves on your smug, well-read backs and take dismal satisfaction in being repositories of deeply useless knowledge. But I am not deserving of your assumed superior contempt. Nor do I accept your right to pass judgement on my ultimate value as a human being. You are not better than me. None of you. Not one of you is actually any better a person than I am.'

  Eddie realizes he's raised himself to his feet at some point during his harangue, which was a mistake, because he senses, from the slightly stunned, open-jawed reaction around the table, that he has somehow missed the mark, somehow massively over-reacted, and he wishes he were sitting down and ever so slightly less centre stage.

  Like a crossbow bolt in his overworked, distended gut, it hits him: he is not the 'impostor' they're discussing.

  Gwent's 'impostor amongst us' pronouncement was not, as Eddie assumed, culled from the Bumper Book of Bond Villain Threats: he'd been referring to another impostor -- one who isn't even in the room.

  It isn't Eddie's fate that hangs in the balance here. At least, it hasn't been up until now, up until what must, on reflection, have come over as a bizarre, not to say psychotic, speech.

  He sits down, and tries to find somewher
e to look, but there is nowhere: there can be nowhere.

  He can actually feel the entire committee squirming as if it's a single person.

  Captain Gwent, still crouched behind Eddie, finally sighs like a wind tunnel and stands, knees cracking as he straightens. 'Charles,' he claps a fatherly hand on Eddie's shoulder, almost snapping it, '... you're absolutely right. We all accepted your formulae, there was ample opportunity for debate, and now is not the time to call you to task.' Gwent turns and addresses the muscle man. 'The penalty, Mr Styx, is the same penalty inflicted on all perpetrators of, and I quote, "Non-correctable and mission-threatening transgressions of ship-regulations."' He smiles politely at Eddie, acknowledging Charles Gordon's wording, as if to remind himself and others present that a fully functioning brain was once at work in that head, and managing quite well. He puffs out his considerable chest. 'To wit: the non-permanent suspension of life.'

  The non-permanent suspension of life. That doesn't sound good, to Eddie. That doesn't sound like something a person might look forward to, should a person ever be exposed as a ship-regulation transgressor of mission-threatening proportions.

  'The non-permanent suspension of life.' The Padre repeats it. Superfluously, in Eddie's book. 'A nice phrase. Concealing a rather grim and barbaric reality.'

  'Let me assure everyone,' the victim of unnecessary male pattern baldness takes over, 'the procedure is painless and extremely efficient.'

  Eddie doesn't like the sound of this. Clearly, this is a doctor talking. 'Painless' and 'procedure' are oxymoronic in the mouth of a surgeon. And 'extremely efficient' is the medical equivalent of that old military charmer: 'acceptable losses'.

  '"Extremely efficient" doesn't sound very promising, Piers.' Clearly, the Padre's thoughts are running parallel to Eddie's.

  'There is no "zero failure rate" in surgical procedure, Father Lewis, even in this day and age.' The doctor runs his hand over the downy rodent fur on the top of his skull. 'But barring massive equipment failure, coupled with the sudden and complete loss of all my faculties and expertise, this is as close as it gets. A small child could perform the deed with only an ether-soaked handkerchief and a circular saw.'

  A circular saw? Eddie is right to worry.

  'I think we can trust Dr Morton's skills,' Gwent sonic booms. Eddie wishes the good Captain would stand elsewhere. Preferably on another craft. 'That isn't the issue. The issue is: can we, as civilized humans, consider taking a fellow human's life, albeit in a temporary and fully refundable manner?'

  Eddie would like to disinvolve himself at this point.

  Matters are being discussed here which he feels are out of his moral safety zone, and he'd really like to do the Eddie thing and withdraw from the discussion without honour. But, clearly, a precedent will be set by the outcome of this discussion. A precedent that might very well impinge on his future social life in an extremely anti-social way. But how can he contribute, without risking unmasking himself? Any argument he advances might well disagree with Gordon's viewpoint, which seems set to become the law here.

  Once again, Father Lewis, who seems to be the closest thing to a human being on board, jumps in and saves Eddie's face. 'Aren't we thinking about this issue too abstractly? I mean, we don't know anything about the perpetrator. Have we assessed his potential in any meaningful way? He may have some valuable contribution he might make to the community.'

  The Captain is, mercifully, back at the head of the table. 'Two points, Padre: he is not among the Selected. That, in and of itself, makes him superfluous to community requirements, and if that sounds elitist...' Elitist? Try Hitlerian. '... then I'm sorry, but as Mr Gordon here has said on many occasions: we are pioneers of a new and exceptionally dangerous frontier. A circumstance which demands brutal regulations, rigidly enforced.'

  The Padre looks at Eddie in a way Eddie wishes he wouldn't. The Captain's brilliant speech is rapidly alienating the only potential ally Eddie might have on the entire vessel. Eddie searches through the darkest recesses of his facial expression wardrobe for something appropriate to wear, but comes out naked. The Padre turns to Gwent again. 'And your second point, Berwick?'

  'It hardly matters, of course, given the unassailable finality of the primary rationale, but, for the record -- and balm for your conscience, Padre -- the man is a career criminal, chromosomically disposed to the same, thanks to inept gene screening techniques in certain over-libertarian jurisdictions. He has provably resorted, on several occasions, to spree murdering as an anti-boredom device. He is in flight from every legitimate law-enforcement agency on the globe. Furthermore, he is responsible for the premature demise of the genuine Selected community member he is currently impersonating. He is, most assuredly, a bad, could-hardly-be-worse sort.'

  'How very compliant of him,' the Padre smiles with a heavy sadness. Eddie smiles in his direction, in sympathy, of course. And, of course, his smile is misinterpreted as smugness.

  'I'm sorry,' Gwent blares, 'that I couldn't offer you something a little more ambiguous. A political prisoner, perhaps, or a religious dissident.' An unrequired jibe at the expense of Lewis's beliefs. 'But there you are. We can hardly risk contaminating our community, or our gene pool, with this son of Cain, now, can we? So what alternative do we have? None of which I am aware.'

  'Couldn't we...' Eddie feels invisible bolts strike him from every eye in the room. Everyone is waiting for another paranoid outburst. Eddie collects his wits, what's left of them, and forges on. 'I mean, it sounds too obvious to suggest, but couldn't we send him back down?' He looks round for support, but finds only blankness.

  Peck jumps in, sensing a small triumph in the offing. 'Send him back down?'

  'To Earth.' Still blankness.

  Peck turns the stiletto. 'Wouldn't he slightly... be killed?'

  Eddie knows he's almost certainly walking into a large and deadly mantrap, but he still can't see the jaws. 'Well, not if we sent him down slowly. In the hoist?'

  The Captain's blankness is the first to clear. He rolls his eyes, like he's just understood a wickedly clever, obscure joke. 'Ooh, I see. No, Charles. We're off. We're en route. We officially "launched" over seven minutes ago.'

  They're off? The ship has set out from Earth's orbit, bound for the stars on the most ambitious journey ever undertaken by the human race? And this historic event has passed unmarked by so much as an announcement? Not even a tinny little fanfare on the ship's PA and a chorus of hip-hooray?

  'Forgot to warn you: we DFI-ed the full-on news coverage launch. Didn't want the crew distracted by twittering arsewits, a.k.a. "journalists". We thought it best to slip away early without the old media brouhaha.'

  Eddie says: 'I see. Makes sense.' But he doesn't see, and it doesn't make sense. Slipping away without the telecast cameras rolling is one thing. Embarking on a momentous journey without acknowledging it, without waving goodbye to everything you're leaving behind: that feels wrong. Everything feels wrong about the way these people are treating this voyage, treating the ship itself. Normally, a crew has a bond with the vessel it relies on: a relationship, a respect. More, even: a passion. There is none of that here. Simply cold, unemotional functionality. The ship is merely a machine, just like any other machine. It seems, somehow... wrong. Irreverent.

  Gwent is scribbling on some official-looking documentation. 'Well, I hadn't expected this issue to come up so early, if, indeed, at all, but there we are. I thank you all for your input, though the reality is there was never any choice in the matter in the first place. I'm officially signing the decision to suspend the life of...' he glances over the paper. Obscenely, the man's name is unfamiliar to him. Irrelevant. 'Paulo San... what's this? Can't make it out. Man writes like a lame horse... Pablos, I think. Dr Morton,' he slides the paper over to Dr Male Pattern Baldness, 'this is your bailiwick now.' Then he looks magisterially across the table. 'This is the way of our world, henceforth. We are operating under a new and original system, which is more logical, simpler and more effective than any so
cial order yet devised. It will work, and work well, if we observe it rigidly. Meeting adjourned.'

  Gwent stands. Eddie half expects some kind of applause, perhaps the odd 'Sieg Heil', but there is only a general scraping of chairs.

  He's planning to slip out as quickly and unnoticed as possible, but a blast from the Captain's larynx thwarts that scheme. 'Charles! If you've got a moment.'

  Eddie disguises his sigh as a yawn and crosses to the Captain, in the hardly creditable hope that this might entice him to lower his voice, and prevent the stragglers in the room from overhearing what will almost certainly be a humiliating rebuke.

  His effort is not rewarded.

  'Charles,' Gwent appears to be talking over some nearby roadworks, audible only to him. 'Sorry to throw you to the dogs back there.'

  Eddie hardly smiles, and responds, 'That's all right, Captain,' at a level almost below human hearing, in an effort to drag the Captain's volume down to just 'embarrassing'.

  'Eh? But you understand. Had to bring 'em all up to speed, baptism of fire, et cetera.' And then he adds what sounds, at first, like 'whoopsy daisy', but turns out to be a short phrase in a language that died long before the invention of gunpowder. Eddie makes out one word, 'ipso' or 'ipse', which his paltry education leads him to believe means something like 'thus' or 'and thus', which is, in Eddie's frank opinion, dead even in translation.

  'That aside,' Gwent blasts on, 'your little speech seemed somewhat, well... odd.'

  Eddie looks around discreetly, knowing, before he glances at her, that Peck is lurking close by in animated feigned conversation, her attention on him, waiting to mop up the gravy of his humiliation ravenously.

  'I got the point of the "nobody's better than me" segment, although I take arms against your use of case, the nominative being plainly correct, though I suspect your selection of the accusative was an ill-considered shot at a "man of the people" type stance. Still, it was important to put the somewhat arbitrary, artificial ranking system we've been compelled to adopt into a valid interpersonal perspective.'