‘Don’t you dare speak like that in here!’ Dusty’s fury strikes him like lightning. He strides towards the portals, eyes flaming at Garbo. ‘Every day I help people into boxes and send them through this wall. Sport is no less than the justification of their brief time in this world. And you come in here with the weight of the universe on your shoulders and cheapen what they live for!’
Garbo is in silhouette again, but Dusty can make out the return of his provocative grin. ‘Oh, Dusty!’ he laughs. ‘What a contradiction you are! One minute you’re weeping like a Welshman, the next you’re puffing out your chest and spewing Perpetual rhetoric! Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there can be no synthesis between the Perpetual Era and Gower. The one has subdued the other in you all this time, and now that its work is done the other emerges to stake a claim. You’re a walking experiment! A fascination to me!’
‘And what about you? A scientist so highly valued by the state that they granted him Exemption. And by night he heads an underground cult whose purpose is to undermine the very system that venerates him.’
‘You should come. To one of our gatherings. I think you’re ready. Ivon loved it. You will too.’
‘Ivon needs to go home.’
‘Ivon is happy here. He’s like a juvenile in a multi-gym with all this sport he can immerse himself in.’
‘It can’t last. You say Gower’s incompatible with the Perpetual Era. So are the Welsh with the English.’
‘We don’t know that. Ivon is of interest precisely because of where he comes from. He is the progeny of purebred English elites, yet has been lifted clean out of the English system, conditioned by a diametrically opposed set of values. To the scientific community his case is a unique and precious experiment. But now the Managers are interested too – in what kind of an asset he could be. If it were up to them, he’d be taken in for Assimilation right now. We are trying to fight that. Rest assured, a lot of important people are watching.’
Panic consumes Dusty once more. It is the same each time he discusses Ivon with a figure of authority. London will not let him go, nor will England. ‘You cannot stop him returning home! Please! It will kill Ricky and Dee. And what about the effect on Ivon? If he’s troubled he won’t be productive. He’s Welsh.’
‘That’s a very Lapsed Era way of looking at it. I congratulate you on your conversion. But I haven’t been infected by Gower the way you have. My admiration for him and the Lapsed Era is intellectual. I do not share your conviction that Ivon must be reunited with his progenitors – sorry, his family! I do not understand that impulse.’
‘You do understand it. You just choose not to engage with it.’
‘Well, that is the Perpetual way, Dusty. Surely you’ve not forgotten! So much more is achieved by the disabling of feelings. The experiment with Ivon will proceed.’
‘And when they assimilate him?’
‘Then the experiment will be over, and London will have acquired a fully integrated new asset. But I do not consider his Assimilation inevitable.’
‘Of course it is! And once it’s happened, he’ll never return home. He’ll no longer want to!’
‘Then his pain will be over.’
‘And Ricky and Dee’s?’
‘He will not be allowed home, Dusty.’
Two quick strides forward, and Dusty forgets his distinguished history as a Perpetual citizen. He seizes Garbo by the upper arms and makes to shake him. The arms feel brittle in his hands. He is sure he could break them.
‘You will stop this experiment now!’ he roars in Garbo’s face. ‘Ivon must return home!’
Garbo’s face is blank. He remains passive. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man. Marcus Apollo might be able to help you there, not I.’
‘And I’m sure the Prime Manager would be interested to hear about your alternative life. Head of an underground cult? Dedicated to the undermining of Perpetual society?’
Garbo smiles wearily, and Dusty loosens his grip.
‘I am an old man now. My time could come as early as August. I’m ready for it. You, though, you have a decade at least left to you. I doubt anyone has called up the security file on Dusty Noble for many years now, so model a citizen have you been, but there will be a record on it of your exposure to a contaminated TMS procedure. Coupled with the sort of things I could reveal about your behaviour recently – and now in particular – you might very suddenly find yourself subject to correction.’
Dusty has felt bold and fatalistic about the consequences of his changing personality, but he is disgusted to find himself hesitant at the prospect of Assimilation, now it is voiced by someone who could bring it about. He surrenders his grip on Garbo. ‘If you go down, your cult will go with you.’
‘I doubt it. We are not a serious threat. In 2111, the Fellowship of Dig was taken apart following Konig’s act of sabotage, but it was a far more aggressive sect in those days. I played a part in its revival over the years that followed. We are more about celebration and escapism now.’
‘Your purpose is to undermine the Perpetual movement. That’s what you told Ivon! That’s what you told me!’
‘We like to sound more subversive than we are, but the new incarnation of Dig is far less threatening than the old. We are tolerated.’
‘The authorities know about you?!’
‘There’s not a lot they don’t know about. The deteriorating discipline of the great Dusty Noble might be one lacuna; otherwise, their infiltration is pervasive.’
Dusty turns away and paces between two tracks to the transition wall. He stretches his arms above his head and lays the palms of his hands against it. For a second, he is closer than he has ever been to the holding bay and the stasis that lies beyond. ‘You’re bluffing,’ he says. ‘The authorities would never tolerate something that celebrates the Lapsed Era.’
‘Don’t underestimate us, Dusty. We are more broadminded than you think.’
Dusty turns into the room. ‘Us? We?’
Garbo lowers his eyes and smiles.
‘You’re more than a scientist, aren’t you. What’s your relationship with Marcus Apollo?’
‘Oh, but I am a scientist, Dusty, a humble scientist. One so diminished and weak, he can’t show his face in public.’
‘You’re the Prime Manager.’
Garbo barks out a laugh.
‘Marcus Apollo is just a front. And you’re the Prime Manager.’
‘Marcus Apollo is a highly capable statesman, for whom Exemption awaits.’
‘And there’s no Exemption review for you at all.’
‘I can assure you, there is a reckoning higher even than Marcus Apollo’s whose findings on matters of life and shutdown are final. In August, the review panel will assess how close I am to that last great defeat and advise accordingly. I will accede to their findings. I have made that known.’
‘Marcus Apollo answers to you,’ murmurs Dusty, shaking his head.
‘Marcus Apollo is the Prime Manager and his own man,’ rejoins Garbo in earnestness. ‘Don’t underestimate him. He understands there is an alternative to the Perpetual way. He doesn’t believe in it, but he is conversant in the debate. And it is a debate that has intensified in recent years with the development of Deliberate Genetic Fusion. There are those in science and the state who are troubled, and I include myself among them. Twenty years ago, when the introduction of artificial assets into competition became a live question, the Primacy of Organic Assets was asserted. And the POA is, in essence, a Lapsed Era sensibility. DGF was science’s response to that, but we are encountering the same issues again. They have developed artificial gametes now, which begs the question, at what point does an organic asset become artificial? Where will it all end, and what will be left of sport and the human race when it does?’
Dusty slumps to the floor. His disillusionment since decommission may be due to the rise in him of a Lapsed Era spirit, but Garbo’s words are giving form to vague fears that have been gathering in his mind anyway. The sense of thi
ngs running out of control. Perhaps it is the kind of concern they warned him about in diminishment training, the preoccupation of those whose end is approaching. The sureness of attitude he used to know is discernible to him now only in the eyes of the young. As if the young know where they are heading. As if he once did.
‘Ivon represents the counter-revolution,’ Garbo continues. ‘He is the first savage to be admitted to Perpetual society. I want him to succeed here. I want him to become a productive asset while remaining true to who he is, which means no Assimilation. But I am in a minority. Most believe he will fail, and want him to. It would be less complicated that way. All are agreed, though, that he must first be allowed to try. And that would not be possible if he were to return home. I’m sorry.’
Dusty’s head is now hanging, as he contemplates the floor between his legs. His forearms rest on his knees, and beyond them the hands that guided London and England to terajoules of energy flop like empty gloves.
He wants to fly to Wales. He wants to spend the days left to him with Ricky and Dee. And Ivon. He wants to take Ivon home. For the boy’s sake, but for his own too. Return Ivon to his people, and Dusty will be welcomed. Without Ivon, there can be no Wales.
Dusty lifts his head. He blinks into the light streaming from ReSure’s entrance hall. He cannot make out Garbo at all, not even a silhouette. It is then that he realises Garbo has gone.
‘It’s too much!’ Alanis’s words ring in Ivon’s head, as if she were saying them again and again over the telepathy phone. ‘It’s too much! It’s too much!’ Her voice has established its line, and now that of Cerys joins in. The very same words. ‘It’s too much! It’s too much!’ The two lines harmonise, their wavelengths criss-crossing and fluctuating then merging, until both sing out their chorus in unison.
Too much this, too much that. He’s a handful, all right. Always has been. No one goes with Ivon expecting a quiet life.
The wheels of his bike describe an eight. He cycles over the same patch of ground in Finsbury Park, going round and round, over and over. He wants to carve an imprint in the blue, rubbery surface, make his mark on London somewhere, cut out a niche. But the surface yields nothing, not even a scuff. He will keep going until she appears. He is loitering, circling. Like they used to in the old days, at the top of Overland Road.
Cerys said that. ‘It’s too much.’ Eight years, three months and eleven days after he’d kissed her for the first time. Thirtieth December last. The bleak midwinter. One hundred and forty-something days ago. What was it now? One hundred and forty-six. No, seven. One hundred and forty-seven days ago. The front porch of her little home. It was too much. Didn’t want to share him with everyone else. Couldn’t. That’s Ivon’s girlfriend, titter, titter. It would never be just the two of them.
Yes, it would, it would. He never chose the limelight, he never chose all the hangers-on. He chose her. It would end, it would.
But not yet.
No, not yet.
He screams in silence, still on his hypnotic sashay back and forth, back and forth. It’s not like this with sport. The game is getting away, so you act. If you’re good enough you get it back. Nothing can stop that. But when the girl goes… The game is taken away altogether. You act, but it makes no difference. Act and act and act again, under a cold moon and unfeeling sky. A window that will never open, curtains that will never part. He’d just wanted his girl back.
‘It’s too much.’ He sees Alanis as she stood in front of him at the club this morning, tall, strong and angry, so suddenly angry, a frown where there had been only smiles. Shutting him out. Retreating towards the cots with that other bloke. Trying to pair Ivon off with one of her friends. The promiscuity of it. She deserves better. He knows her. She is too like Cerys to be happy here. He looks again towards the exit of London Volleyball. The door shut against him.
When do they finish? They’re meant to have finished.
They must talk. Not out here, not at the club, not any place where people may see or distract. She needs to focus on him. He pictures her on the seafront in Mumbles. The clubhouse at St Helen’s. The dinner table with Mum and Dad. In Cerys’s chair.
He looks up again. He stops his figure-of-eighting. She’s there at the door. A group of three girls. Alanis is the tallest. They talk and look confident and relaxed, expectant of nothing in particular. They slip round the side of the building. Ivon prepares to follow, but then remembers. The bike park. They’re collecting their bikes. Sure enough, they reappear moments later, cycling in formation, Alanis in the middle, her legs long and strong enough to pull away from the others, he’s sure. They set off down the blue road out of Finsbury Park. He waits. Lets them get ahead. Then follows.
They cycle out of the park and head north. He doesn’t know where she lives, but it’s not far. They climb a hill. When will the other two go away? Alanis and Ivon have much to discuss. He is ready.
Their conversation continues as they reach the brow of Crouch Hill. The view from here is a favourite part of Alanis’s journey home. The green sweep to the north of London inclines her to fill her lungs as much as does the climb itself. From the great wind farms atop Highgate to the west, she runs her eye along the contours of Muswell Hill ahead of them as it falls away into the forests of Tottenham to the east.
Melissa and Adriana are as excited as she is about London Volleyball’s next trimester, which begins at last with the visit of the South West tomorrow. The inactivity of their Spring Recess is about to end!
‘My maximal vertical displacement has improved by 5.3 per cent,’ says Melissa, who has been trialling a new genetic modifier. ‘So quite good, but not remarkable.’
Alanis tuts. ‘But, Melissa, your vertical displacement has always been the best. A 5.3 per cent increase in your max is equal to seven or eight in mine.’
‘Yes, but you have such limb length.’
‘I know. But a few extra cents on my MVD wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Well, you’ll be trying it yourself soon enough. They’re downloading the GM to everyone’s inoculators in the next few weeks.’
Ah, her inoculator! The mere mention of it makes Alanis think of home. She will be there soon. A couple of cerebral simulations on the couch, a nice easy physical one in the simulator, maybe a quick leisure doc over a long isotonic, then bed. She needs it all the more after the day she’s had. That bout with Andrew Catt was prolonged in the extreme, and she doesn’t think their wattage ever rose above 175. It was so drawn out she had to skip a much-needed recovery session to avoid being late for the team meeting. And all this with match-day tomorrow. After the business with Ivon earlier, it has been a stressful day. At least he seems to have stopped comming her now. Or maybe he hasn’t. She has to remind herself that she’s blocked him. She’ll check the log when she gets home.
And now the Elite Quarter for London Volleyball appears on either side of them. The astro lawns are neat and uniform. From them rise home after home, like comrades standing united, a configuration to warm the heart. Alanis’s is among the first.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow!’ she says to the others as she turns off to the left.
‘Can’t wait!’
‘Rest well!’
‘You too!’
She likes to slow her pace along the road to her home, as soon as she can see its soft, smooth curves. She relishes this moment each day.
At last. They’ve gone. One of them was the girl Alanis had tried to fix him up with earlier in the day. She was making him feel angry just by being there. Just by being. He’s all right now, though. Alanis is on her own. Ivon and Alanis are on their own. He likes it.
He pedals a little harder and closes to within 70 metres, maybe. He thinks about calling to her, but, no, this is not the place, out here in the street. Someone may turn up. Ruin everything. They need to be alone, undisturbed. He wants to take her away from all this.
Yes, he wants to take her back to Wales. He wants to go back to Wales. He can see that now. It is Alanis who
has made him realise it. He yearns for the warmth. She is his home.
She turns down the side of one of these space-age houses. It looks very much like the one they’ve given him, perhaps a little smaller. The entrance seems to be round the back. He pushes down hard on his pedals. They’re funny about their homes here. She’s unlikely to invite him in. But maybe if he could get in…
He knows the door to his house stays open for a few seconds after he’s opened it. If he’s quick, he could slip in behind her. Yes, hers would be an excellent place to talk. She would be relaxed and on her own territory.
He hurtles down the slight slope leading off the road to her house. He is grateful for the perfect, soundless traction between tyre and surface. At the corner of the house he jumps off the bike and lets it fall. Her door is still open, but he does not know for how much longer. He runs to it and just as it is swishing shut he ghosts through. The first line of defence is breached.
She is not visible from the doorway. The interior is an inverted replica of his, a little white corridor leading to a white room, which will have a low white chaise longue just to the right, out of sight, and an alcove to the left where food and drink is dispensed.
There she is. She crosses from the right to the alcove and stands a few feet away. His heart is racing.
‘Alanis, we need to talk.’
From emergence until now, Alanis’s has been a life of structure and blissful predictability. Variations in her life are measured out by the quantity of things, never the quality. Only that recent excursion into the Lapsed Era might be accounted a qualitative shift in her experience, but it was a lone aberration and she was able to chart each sickening step of her descent into it.
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