Incarnations ~ Part 2 of 3

Incarnations ~ Part 2 of 3

By Len Morgan

 The Earth they returned to was a far different place to the one they’d left five years earlier.  

“Something is wrong,” said Harley.  

“I think our clothes must be out of fashion.”

“Judging by the looks we’re getting it’s more than that Stig.” 

A young woman wrinkled her nose in distaste, “Filthy Retro’s.”

Stig shook his head in puzzlement, and they hailed a hovva-cab.

“Hylton hotel.”  They jumped in the back and watched the hovva’s altimeter rise to sixty feet, in the blue zone, they accelerated fast.

“Some things never change,” said Stig.

“Such as?” said the hovva jockey.

 “Blue cabs have two speeds, full, and stop.”  

The hovva jock grinned, “New Birmingham.”

“How did you know?” Harley asked.

“Nobody in Lonton would be seen dead looking like you.”

Stig looked at his suit, then at Harleys, and shrugged.

“So you were right after all,” said Harley in disgust.

“You’re Retro’s,” the jock said noting their puzzled expressions he grinned.  “Those are your original birthday suits.  You don’t see many bodies over twenty-five in Lonton these days.   Word to the wise, you need to get yourself an upgrade and have your minds CM’ed soonest; you’ll be lucky to gain acceptance anywhere if you don’t.   Most hovva jocks won’t even pick up a Retro – unhygienic,” he said tapping his nose knowingly.  Hormones, pheromones, sweat; I’ll have to decontam when I drop you off.

“Ah!”   Realization dawned.   “We’re just back from Mars station.  Been away for five years, are things really that bad?”

“Do yourself a favour guv,” he said in jock-speak, “here’s a copy of the Lonton visitors guide, you need to do some serious reading bring yourself up to date.” He handed a laser coin to Stig, “just three sov’s I’ll add it to your bill; there are readers in every room at the Hylie.”

“The what?” said Harley.

“The Hylton.   Here we are sir, that’ll be thirty-five... er thirty-eight sov’s,” he swiped Stig’s card and the cab was gone before their feet hit the walkway.   They confirmed their reservations, sent their luggage up, and set out to discover what had changed so drastically.

‘WHY SETTLE FOR LESS THAN PERFECTION?

 WHY LIVE ONE LIFE, 

WHEN YOU COULD BE FOREVER YOUNG!’

  The advertisements glared - in multicoloured Tri-dee - from every available external wall and skyspace within the city.   A seductive female voice reinforced the message, in their minds, as they passed within ten paces of each Tri-dee display.

‘BE ATTRACTIVE TO THE OPPOSITE SEX, BE FOREVER YOUNG AND VIRILE, REGAIN YOUR SEXUALITY!’

CHANGE YOUR GENDER.

.-…-.

They arrived at ‘Scott’s forever Jazz’ an infamous Night Club that had been the home of British Jazz for more than a century.

“How much?”

“Thirty sov’s to you.”

“How much to them?” Stig asked.

“Twenty,” the doorman answered challenge revealed in his eyes.  “They’re Synth’s you’re Retro’s.   Won’t be long before your sort are eradicated altogether.  Thirty, take it or leave it.”

Harley handed over sixty sovereigns, and they entered the darkened barroom following the distinctive smell of certain illicit substances.  They were drawn by the allure of the decadent lyrical music so well beloved by them both.

“I don’t like the looks we’re getting.”

“Ignore them, enjoy the music,” said Harley.   “Two beers here please.”

They waited five, ten, fifteen minutes.   “Beer please,” Harley chanted for the tenth time.   As the barman passed for the eleventh time he grabbed his lapels.

“You don’t get it, do you?  You’re not welcome here.   You Retro’s are trouble waiting to happen.   Piss off!”

“Really?   So, what sort are we then?” Harley raised his voice.

The barman gave a nod to two waiting bouncers, “these gentlemen are leaving, show them the door!”

“We paid sixty sovereigns to get in and we haven’t even had a drink yet,” said Stig.

“Will you leave quietly sir?”

“Will you refund our admittance?”

The man towered over Stig grabbing his coat collar.  

“Hands off the material!” Stig’s slow even tone served as a warning.

The answer was a tug on his collar.   He responded by gripping the little finger of the bouncer’s right hand and pulling hard.

“Aaagh!”

Another man appeared from a back room.   “Give em a drink Kendall, they’re our guests, none of your racism here, drinks are on the house gentlemen.”

.-…-.

They left the club in the early hours of the morning, a little the worse for wear.   They’d called a hovva but it never arrived, after ten minutes standing around, they started to walk.   They’d walked about a mile in the general direction of their hotel.   The streets were quiet.

“I think we could be lost, partner.”

“I’m the navigator,” Harley said, “We’re not lost until I say so.”

“Ok, which way do we go then?”

“I don’t know.   We’re lost!”

“Ah!”   They turned a corner and saw a group of people ahead.  “We’ll ask directions.”  As they walked they could hear a police siren in the distance, but coming closer.   The vehicle swerved around the corner, and the group scattered.   Stig and Harley were alone.  Surrounded by armed police in full riot gear.

“Lay on the ground with your hands above your heads!”

“What are we supposed to have done?”

“Get down, now!”   Harley complied but Stig stood defiant.  “Take him down!”  There was a hissing sizzling sound, and taser wires hit Stig in the chest and he went down.   They were bundled unceremoniously into the back of a black van.   At the police station, they were thrown into a cell with six others.

“What are we supposed to have done?” Harley yelled.  

“It’s what you haven’t done,” said a voice behind them.   “We’re Reto’s that’s reason enough to bring us in.”  

Stig regained consciousness slowly, and Harley helped him into a sitting position on the floor.   “They’re not allowed to do that, they have to warn you before they fire those things, that’s the law."

“Not anymore, according to these guys.   Not since the Conversion Party came to power…”

“We’ve been off-planet for the last five years, what’s happened while we were away?” said Harley.

A young woman took up the story with relish. "The old political parties were more conservative and wanted to outlaw total cloning for cosmetic purposes. Their view was to allow a gradual conversion on a needs basis.   But, worldwide conglomerates were geared up for it and although it was outlawed in Europe and the America’s they simply went into Asia and set up shop there.   Suddenly tourism to that continent increased a hundredfold.   I can’t believe you guys missed all that, it started four years ago in 2185?”

“We were out in the asteroids busy making money.   Didn’t much matter to us who was in power down here, none of them did anything for us,” said Harley.   “We did hear something about a landslide victory by the Conversion Party (CP), Stig here said it must be a misprint.”

“The CP are just conglomerate lackeys.   With them in power, there are no constraints on what the new industries can get away with.”

“When the cloning technologies took off, it was CRAAM Industries that cleaned up with their mind transfer technology and their (Crystal Memory) 'CM mind storage cubes'.  Miccasoft and Hartington Industries engineered genetically perfect clones from their clients own DNA.   They are beautiful cosmetically screened replacements for the imperfect creations of nature; catering to all tastes fads and fantasies of Earth’s most discriminating consumers.”

“But, it happened so fast.   How could people allow it?” Stig asked.

“Because overnight, there were no old or ugly people.   Suddenly everybody in the city was aged between twenty and twenty-five.   Those who cannot afford an upgrade sell their souls to get one.   Then, to further boost sales the industry manufactures fads and new selling angles.   Sex changes are no longer formidable or irreversible.  The very rich have more than one body, and can change sex daily.”

“You’re joking!”

“Yes I am, but it’s only a matter of time.  People who resist the sales pitch are made to feel inferior simply because they are ageing and display a few wrinkles.  Age and decay, they say, are imperfections.  Society considers the elderly to be, disgusting unhygienic and vulgar perverts.  Old people are attacked openly in the streets and refused medical aid.”

”Since we returned we’ve not seen any old people,” Stig said.

 “It’s accepted practice to discard your natural body in your mid-twenties, then plan to replace it every ten to fifteen years.   By convention, new clones start life at the age of twenty.   They age three to four months for each year that passes.   So, anybody over the age of twenty-five is considered to be old.”

“But, there are plenty of young people under that age.”

“Because, it’s illegal to replace the body of a person under the age of twenty, except in extreme life-threatening circumstances such as terminal illness, accident trauma, spinal injury, drug or alcohol dependency, they all came under this category.

The tendency was to have children by natural childbirth whilst still in a natural body, but in the interests of hygiene, this is on the decline.   There are plenty of sperm and egg repositories so new life can be created on-demand.”

They were all released without charge, the following morning.  But, the government’s policy of continual harassment was a constant reality.

.-…-.

They were awakened by room service, mid-morning, and went down to the dining room for lunch.  

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”  The waiter wrinkled his nose in distaste as he handed them menus then beat a hasty retreat.

A waitress returned to take their orders.  

She kept her distance and avoided physical contact with them. 

When they had eaten, Harley broke the silence.  “I think it’s time we started looking for somewhere to live, outside the city.”

Stig nodded, “We need a property in the country, something large and run down, something affordable.   We can carry out renovations with the help of our friends.”  

“Or, we could go back to prospecting the asteroids,” Harley suggested.

“No,” said Stig, “let’s buy a bus and get as many Anti-synths as possible out of here and start a Colony.  Let’s get the transport first, and take it from there.”

That was exactly what they did.

.-…-.

  Stig and Harley moved out into the Essex countryside and founded their colony.   Six months later they began to face up to the establishment; the big three who had a stranglehold over what remained of humanity: 

The conglomerates - Hartington Industries the worlds major clone manufacturing multinational.

The giant CRAAM Company that had long enjoyed a monopoly in CM, storage devices and on mind transfer technology.

Then finally the Miccasoft Corporation who specialized in manufacturing the raw materials used in the production of synthetic flesh. Able to grow twenty-year-old clones, to order, in just one week.

 When peaceful means proved ineffective the Anti-Synth’s became militant, industrial saboteurs, thorns in the side of the establishment.   They were named as Terrorists and hunted down.  They existed outside of normal society, underground, and outside the major cities.  They suffered from one major disadvantage, unlike the Synths, they could not change their appearance or aroma.   So, inevitably they were ferreted out, one by one, by mechanical sniffer dogs.  

The Governments/Conglomerates were engaged in a secret project to send a colony out to the stars.   Legislation was passed to allow the transportation of antisocial groups to Mars station, there to be pressed into the service of the star-ship Orbitar.

   On arrival at Mars station, they were transhipped and joined the crew of the Orbitar, the first deep-space migration probe.   Many others, so-called undesirables became passengers on that ship.   Together, they embarked on a one way trip to the stars.  Most of the travellers were Anti-Synths.   But, ironically, of the thousands of idealists who embarked on the journey of the Orbitar only one was destined to reach their journey's end.

Copyright Len Morgan