BEYOND EXTINCTION - Even the concept of truth is a lie Read online

  The elevator door opens and two security guards, burly and eager for opposition, reach out and drag Mark in. "I want to go to my work suite," he insists as he tries to free his arms, but they have him pinned. I must get free; I must escape!

  "Ahhhh!" An excruciating pain shoots through him. His knees buckle and the guards catch his weight. Through the haze of shock, he tries to wriggle free but, having zapped him with their pacifier, the guards have his arms pinned tight and one is tugging and twisting his ear.

  In a second, the elevator reaches the ground floor. The door, an old-style force field with projected decorations as facings, vanishes and the guards drag him towards the building's main entrance. Numans and the occasional human walk past as they casually avoid the drama. Despite the shock, the sacking and the pain, Mark is embarrassed by his humiliating ejection.

  "Report to the spookpolice office for your neighborhood," snarls one of the guards. On the last word, they fling him with practiced ease onto the concourse in front of the building.

  Mark lies there, stunned, half-expecting someone, maybe a colleague, to come by and help him to his feet. But life, tranquil and orderly, goes on around him as if he does not exist.

  In a numan way, he does not exist. It is one thing to lose his job – that is bad enough – but it is something else to be sent to the spookpolice. That means my identity file has been marked as "subversive" and "unsuitable for employment."

  He drags himself to his feet and trudges off towards his neighborhood and the spookpolice. I might as well get it over with.

  *

  Jack proudly ladles out the beef casserole and then offers Alice the almost unobtainable Jersey potatoes, fresh beans and carrots carefully arranged on a platter. The Shiraz spills into his Amazon crystal glasses as Alice smiles in anticipation.

  She teasingly lifts her glass and sniffs. "Smells all right," she says mock doubtfully, then sips it. "Tastes all right too." She dazzles him with a smile, the glass raised. "To us and expensive wine sold cheaply."

  "I'll drink to that – or anything else."

  They eat silently, he savoring the casserole, she the Jersey potatoes. Jack looks up thoughtfully. "Last of the beef from the village," he tells her quietly. "Perry's is closing its animal meat counter in a reorganization of the store. The numans won't touch animal meat and the cost has forced our local humans into printing their own."

  "I've noticed how few people are buying animal meat."

  "Changing times, changing tastes."

  "Maybe it's not so bad," she says, picking up his mood with a sad smile. "You said you go into Dorchester sometimes. You can buy there. Or you can get Google to deliver it. You could just buy the Amazon pmeat cartridges and print your own like almost everyone else in the village. I usually eat pmeat."

  It's the future, I know. Soon only pmeat will be available to people like me. Rising sea levels have already taken the lowland areas around the country, much of it rich farming land. Food output has fallen everywhere and prices have risen faster than the sea. Almost all of East Anglia and eastern England, prime food growing areas, are under the North Sea. Only Ely Cathedral, high on its hill and long called The Ship of the Fens, is defying the waves while its medieval foundations melt away. And historic Cambridge... Maybe the new seawall will be enough to save some of it.

  "I could buy my meat in Dorchester while it's available or I could print pmeat, but that's not the point, is it?" he says gently. "It's about our life here and how long it will last before we are crushed by people being forced off the coasts and the numans buying up everything. Our society, our way of life, is becoming extinct. The human race is becoming extinct. At the very least, we'll be moved on in a year or two."

  "Moved on where?" she asks, more rhetorical than inquiring. "The numans are increasing their population exponentially with their two-wives, ten-children way of life. They say numans are popping up everywhere from Land's End to John o'Groats."

  He had once tried to argue, during his time in Cambridge University intellectual circles, that numans had a domination gene that plays out in their population expansionism and their work concentration. He could see that, so why could the brightest and best in Cambridge not see it?

  The latest reports on population changes point out that human fertility is in steep decline through pollution and poor nutrition. Most humans can no longer afford to eat adequately or bring up families: shortages, high prices, very little employment for humans after artificial intelligence replaced manual tasks and then thinking jobs. Health care discrimination. No education. Numans flooding areas. All the money in the world seems to be funneled into their needs.

  "It's amazing that you and I survived and got educated, isn't it?" he says, knowing Alice would understand.

  "How do you feel about it all, Jack?" It is the first time she has used his first name. Somehow it softens the bleakness he is feeling. "Humans seem to be lingering on the edge of... what was your word? Extinction?"

  Damn, this is going in the wrong direction. I want her to see me as someone whose company she can enjoy, someone who is fun, someone with a future.

  "How do I feel about it?" he brightens. "Great. I feel great. I'm ready to take on all-comers, anything. If our way of life changes, fine – who wants to become a boring old fart living in the same cage for the rest of our lives?"

  Outside, a slight rumble disturbs the peace as a Google delivery vehicle goes by – in Jack's mind, a driverless electric van, as if anyone saw any other kind these days. He pours more red for Alice and then for himself. He can feel the earlier dose of Shiraz pleasantly dancing with the gin in his brain.

  "Did you hear about the Harrisons?" she asks quietly, almost tentatively, gauging his spiking tension.

  "Yes. Sold out to numans. Ed Harrison said the offer was so high they couldn't refuse. They're going to emigrate to a new life in FedOz. Though how much of FedOz is left after the rise in sea levels, I don't know."

  "That's what I heard too. The new family is moving in when the sale goes through on the thirty-first. The father is going to work with us at the research center."

  "How old is he? Twelve?" Jack fills it out with a laugh but the specter of bitterness is there, the joke that is no joke.

  She reaches over impulsively, takes his hand. "Not quite that young. He is twenty-eight, and quite brilliant according to Galen. He got his first degree at sixteen, his second at eighteen and a third at twenty. His wives are pretty smart too but not smart enough to avoid having five children each by the time they were eighteen."

  "A very clever man," Jack agrees, the pleasure of her touch distracting his fears of extinction. But, even so... Numans have the evolutionary edge on humans, like Homo sapiens had the edge on Neanderthals 30,000 years ago. It's just a matter of time.

  His stress is showing but he wants her to know he is stable and, if anything develops between them, that she will always be able to rely on him. Not as family. Not as a colleague. Not as a member of his community. Not even in accord with some behavioral code. She can always count on him because of the way he feels, already, about her. Can she cope with that?

  She gently disentangles her hand. "When we have finished our meal, I think we should walk Max," she says. "My old dog died and I miss walking him."

  Max, sprawling patiently as he waits for his share of the meal, suddenly perks up. "Max!" says Alice. "You clever boy! You know what I'm saying!"

  *

  It is early evening. Max, his tail beating the air, forages among the bushes, the grasses and the field-edge flowers that grow in wild profusion in the monsoon season's heavy rainfall and sauna heat.

  Alice and Jack saunter along, keeping an eye on him as the path winds between rolling hill-rice fields that were once covered in grass and filled with cattle for milking and slaughtering.

  A cluster of robotic insects descends on the modified wildflowers that blaze unlikely colors and shapes along the field edges. Why would anyone want to redesign wildflowers? But he knows why.
Because it is numan art and business. It's not all bad – they genetically re-engineered my horse chestnut and modified the English cottage flowers to survive in 120-degree temperatures.

  A bee emerges from the tangle of flowers and Jack holds his breath as he tries to see if it is real. He pushes his grim thoughts aside. Tonight is for Alice. Let her see me as someone to enjoy.

  "This is wonderful," says Jack, turning towards Alice, his hand brushing hers as they walk, comfortable together. He is delighted with how the day has gone.

  "It is wonderful, isn't it?" she says simply. She has a way of synchronizing with him, sharing his emotions, understanding his ways of experiencing his human nature. Or am I imagining it because that's what I want?

  They plan to walk for another half hour and then, with Max ready to rest, idle away a couple of hours in the Smugglers' riverside garden, snacking on traditional Dorset fare and drinking pints of Pickled Partridge beer. It is one of the few pubs left that sells alcohol – and then in only one small area, with the rest catering to alcohol-free numan tastes.

  "Your numan recruit: what does Galen think about employing a numan? Is he the first?"

  "I don't know," she answers. "Galen never says much. He has a very demanding job – nearly two hundred and sixty people work for the research center and he has to keep them all together as a team."

  "Do you think he will take on more numans?"

  "Numans are perfect for his needs," she says defensively. "They are smarter than humans. They think only about their tasks during working hours, so they get more done. They can be paid less because the United Gulf States World Bank subsidizes families for the first five years of employment."

  Money is power. Power is survival. Lack of power is the track to death and extinction. "What is the United Gulf States World Bank?" asks Jack, keeping his eye on Max sniffing in the undergrowth. "The bank's name is everywhere but that's all. No location, no names for directors, no indication of where it gets its investment money. Just its name and endless forms for money grants and loans. All for numans; nothing for humans. I expect your finance people know the bank details if employees are subsidized."

  "I know a little, Jack, but the bank and its money are not my responsibility. Director Galen has the only link to the bank."

  "Alice, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. I'm just so frustrated with research dead ends and that's one of them."

  "I can tell you what I know. The bank system was set up by the supercomputers before we isolated them and stopped them controlling us. The World Council controls the banking system now. It takes money from human sources and processes it to support numans."

  "Why? Why not support numans and humans?"

  "The function of the system seems to be to extract liquid wealth from humans and give it to numans to enable them to replace humans in work and home ownership. The bank also controls the expansion of electronic money but I have never seen how much is in circulation. The bank is a form of control: it requires numans to buy homes from humans, who usually take the money and go to FedOz. When the humans sign on for their FedOz immigration cruise, they have to deposit their money with the FedOz NewLife Bank. The United Gulf States World Bank owns the FedOz bank and so gets back the money it gave to numans to buy the human homes. It also gets any other cash assets owned by the humans – so it makes a gain on the investment funds it uses for numans. I don't know what happens when humans get to FedOz. How does that make you feel?"

  Jack, a victim of this systematic asset stripping, nods. "Not good, but that's all in the past for me." He fights down the temptation to push for more information and raises a placating hand. She's what's important. I'll find out about the bank some other way. "Let's not talk about the numan-human question," he says. But he cannot let go of it and continues, "You know what happened to me in Cambridge?"

  "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve it, but it's the effect of market forces. It was the same in Oxford. That's why I took Galen's offer of a job here." She pauses, half-smiles at him. "It's such a nice evening. Let's not spoil it."

  "No, I'm sorry. I get a bit intense sometimes. It's not just losing my career and where I lived." He stops talking, throws a stick for Max, buying a little time. "It's also the book I'm writing. I don't want just the cold facts... I'm..." He pauses, looks into her eyes, held by a moment that even Max cannot break. "I'm thinking myself into the minds and emotions of the human victims of the numan takeover. I'm trying to do the same with animals being destroyed to the point of extinction. It's emotionally draining. I feel the threat of extinction; I fear numans are deliberately using their two wives, ten children system to squeeze us out of existence."

  "Like the populations of humans have squeezed every other animal out of existence?"

  "Precisely! This is what I want to say in my book."

  "I would like to read some of your book."

  "That would be great. You can tell me what you think."

  "I will be honest but kind," she says with mock solemnity, and they both laugh. Max joins in by jumping at her but she deftly deflects him, takes the stick and throws it a good ten yards.

  "Nice throw," says Jack admiringly, though as much for her grace and shape as for her strength.

  "I've had a lot of practice."

  They fall into a comfortable silence, lulled by the pleasures of the walk.

  "The increase in the numan population is staggering," says Alice thoughtfully, breaking the mood. "We get the figures at the Center and we can see the statistics organizations are only just beginning to get accurate data. I think it is shocking everyone – politicians, economists, and researchers like me."

  She watches him as his stress spikes again. Is she testing me to see what happens to me under pressure?

  "Are they finally solving the mystery of where the numans came from?" he asks her, not expecting an answer. "And how they achieved in fifty years what humans took 30,000 years to do. I'd love to take apart their DNA."

  "We've done it at the Center: numans are ninety-six percent human, partly mutated. We are still working on the other four percent."

  He tries to catch her eyes as she is speaking but she avoids it and follows Max. Is she telling me the truth? Why would she lie?

  "On the number of numans," she says, "it looks like the earlier statistics failed to identify them as numans. They came out of Africa and many other sparsely populated areas, first as refugees and migrants and then in unstoppable waves. At first, they were listed as humans from their countries of origin rather than numans. It was only after numan culture developed that they were seen as one homogenous group. It was then—"

  Suddenly, Jack's phone pings. "Jack, you are taking me out of signal range," it announces querulously. "Either turn back now or I'll be useless."

  "No change there then," snipes Jack.

  "Right, I'm going offline."

  Jack sighs. That damned phone. He looks at the grinning Alice.

  "Does your phone have a personality problem?" she asks.

  "Forget him," says Jack. "Let's talk about numans. Do the new figures give a world total?" I shouldn't ask her but I need to know.

  "Yes," she says quietly, watching him intently. "The latest Office of Statistics and Projections report is still to be finalized but there is a figure, not yet final, in the draft."

  "Office of Statistics and Projections?"

  "It's a closed network. Never named or quoted directly. The political people will garble a public statement from the final report and attribute it to one of their ministries."

  Jack chews it over. He has never heard of the Office of Statistics and Projections despite months of research. And Alice is revealing fascinating data that probably should never be known beyond the very heart of the World Council's most trusted and powerful elite. Does she know how much trouble she could be in for revealing it?

  "Are you sure you should be telling me this, Alice? If it's classified, it's a state crime to reveal it."

  "And you could use it
in your book, couldn't you?" she says, grinning.

  "I could, but not at the expense of getting you hauled off by the spookpolice."

  She smiles, a look of relief and pleasure crossing her face in the warm light of the setting sun. "It will be okay," she says. "I've talked it over with Galen and he has talked it over with his bosses. We want the figures to get out, in a deniable way. You will refuse to say where the figures came from and, if necessary, Galen can protect me."

  "I've never heard of anyone being protected from the spookpolice. They just take people for re-education. They will come for me and I expect they will force the truth out of me."

  "Are you frightened?"

  He thinks of the men in midnight red coming for them both.

  "No," he says, wondering where fear intersects with anticipation of loss. "But taking on the state is... well, it needs to be worth it. There will be no escape for me and I couldn't protect you for very long."

  "But," she teases him, "your book publishing fees will be the lowest in history. Everyone will want to read your book without your needing to pay anyone to download it."

  "True. But I'd rather have you here with me. The book can take care of itself." Oh no, I shouldn't have said that! I'm rushing her.

  "You know, I think I'd rather be here with you and Max than being tortured by the spookpolice," she says.

  He laughs. "Who controls the spookpolice? The World Council?" he says, changing the subject to something safer, expecting her to say she does not know.

  "I don't know much about these things, but numan society is less transparent than it looks," she replies, hitting ground everyone avoids in public. "The three social levels – numan4 elites, numan2 workers, and humans – are publicly governed by the World Council and kept safe by the Military High Command. But secret government groups and bodies have enormous powers, I think. Galen says that beyond the World Council, there is a secret government making decisions in the shadows. One of those runs the spookpolice and even numan4 elites are frightened of them."