Devolution

Unsuccessful in his attempt to sleep, 3 had given up trying. The beaming moon transcended into sunshine as the sun awoke to begin a new day, and 3 had watched it all through the window of the bus bound for Sydney. Officer one had left him alone until they arrived at Central terminal where they were all permitted to leave the bus and carry on their business as if nothing had happened- all except for 3 who was escorted to a waiting transport. He assumed it was an unmarked police vehicle.

Gliding along the crowded sidewalk, it might have been his imagination but 3 was again discomforted by the nagging feeling he was being stared at. He had done it to others particularly attractive women of all tribes. Staring at them, admiring them, occasionally lusting after them until for some reason they turned in his direction forcing him to quickly turn away and hope he had not been caught. He often wondered what made them turn around. Was it that same feeling he had now? An extrasensory suggestion that he was being ogled?

Was he now to be continually the subject of haunting and accusing looks making him feel like a criminal. He wasn’t a criminal, and had in fact done nothing seriously wrong all his life, but under the pressure of constant glaring, the feelings were undeniable.

Searching around the terminal for other Newtonians, 3 was further dismayed not to find any. Friendless, very alone. It was well and truly time, if only it were possible thought 3, to leave this mission or should he call it a misadventure, and go home back to the safety of a familiar city and family and Newtonian friends. It wasn’t that he felt threatened by Veena or Joshua, or that there was any animosity between them, but he had to face the simple fact that he was different and even though that had been true all his life, the incident in Narrendra, the ticket inspection in the middle of nowhere, and the enmity he felt emanating from every non-Newtonian now and since then, his being different from others was now a serious problem. A problem which may actually pose a risk to his life. But worse than that; a threat to his dear friends. How could he live with the guilt of having hurt them?

Officers one, two and three stood expressionless beside the car as 3 was loaded into the rear seat like a parcel into a delivery van by another officer. 3 noticed the faintest of cold smiles on the face of officer one as the transport pulled away from the curb and joined the light flow of traffic through the streets of Sydney. The trip was completed in silence after the first few minutes when 3 had asked the officer several times if he could tell him where he was being taken, and was not answered.

To escape, 3 let his mind run through the open field of fantasy. He imagined sweet Veena and her welcoming voice.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, smiling warmly, overflowing with genuine concern and tenderness. For some reason the dream he’d had, that fateful morning when his father had been killed came back to him again and as he looked at Veena he saw her hair cut short. He could almost hear her telling him to put some clothes on. He hadn’t told either her or Joshua about that dream and with all that had happened since then it been imprisoned deep in his subconscious, but here it was, resurfacing twice within twenty four hours. Was there any meaning attached to that? Should he ever tell Veena? Or Joshua? Maybe they could help him unravel its mystery.

Maybe not though. Back to reality; the thing was that being with Veena when there seemed no hope of anything more than friendship was driving him crazy. Maybe that’s what the dream was about. At least the part of it when she commented very coolly on his nakedness. It seemed a logical metaphor for unrequited love.

‘Ted, did you hear me?’ she had once said to him as he sat quietly beside her.

He was often lost in her presence, paralyzed by barely controllable emotions, and the more time he spent with her the deeper in love he fell but it just couldn’t be. 3 was unable to hide the frown of frustration that filled his face and contradicted his words every time she asked and every time he answered with the same lie, ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘You spend an awful lot of time living with yourself inside your head these days,’ she would reply without malice.

‘It’s the safest place I know.’

The journey over, 3 was led into an elevator in an underground parking lot, which carried them to the twelfth floor. Opposite the elevator was a door with no numbers or signs on it. Inside was a small room furnished with two lounge chairs, a sofa and a coffee table, where 3 was deposited and left alone to admire the artificial plants and thumb through old issues of allegedly popular magazines.

3 clicked on the VDU in the corner of the room, turned on his audio receivers and tuned to the frequency of the newscast. The news was not good, and if he was hoping for some light distraction or relief from the intensity of feelings coming upon him, he was disappointed.

‘This is Karen Mason from Toronto, Canada,’ said the young lady on the screen. ‘In scenes reminiscent of the officially sanctioned pogroms against the Jews in Europe in the mid twentieth century, Toronto’s Newtonian population were rounded up by the police, now minus their Newtonian officers, and taken to the small southern suburb of Yaya. Along the way they were subjected to vitriolic abuse and physical intimidation.’

‘This is Vladimir Nureyev from Moscow, Russia,’ said the next people’s newscaster, standing in front of a burning building. ‘I am standing in front of the Moscow headquarters of the now infamous NOAD Mission which was attacked by arsonists during the night following overnight reports that the Newtonians are responsible for agitation and promotion of civil unrest.’

Uncomfortable was an understatement, as 3 knew that the compelling images and reports appearing on VDUs around the globe, would quickly and effortlessly turn more people against Newtonians. The reports went on for half an hour from every corner of the earth, presenting an almost indefensible case against the Newtonian tribe. Some of the allegations were plainly exaggerated and possibly even false, but the slur attached to them delivered in a climate of suspicion was highly influential and dangerously inflammatory. True or not, much of the mud being thrown would stick.

They may as well have been throwing knives into his back. How did this happen wondered 3? Who was responsible for the lie about a Newtonian conspiracy, or was it a lie? Now he wasn’t too sure. How could he be sure? He really wanted to talk to his dad. Sadly of course that was no longer possible.

Fully depressed now, 3 aimed the remote control at the VDU and was about to switch it off when a familiar face caught his eye. Over the top of a picture of Adrian Jacobssen lying in a hospital bed, came the report.

‘Chief Inspector of police in Mumbai, Adrian Jacobssen, is recovering today in a Sydney Hospital after surviving a terrorist attack at his hotel room this morning. No information has been released as to the reason for Inspector Jacobssen’s visit to Sydney but doctors say he will be discharged tomorrow due to the quick healing of his injuries.’

What was Jacobssen, his father’s old friend from the police force doing here? The very same man assigned to track down and arrest those responsible for his death. A coincidence surely. He couldn’t be following them, or looking for them, could he?

After the official news, bland and uninformative came the people’s webcasts. How often these reports seemed more about self promotion and grandstanding as opposed to serious and objective commentary.

‘This is Danny Ryan. I’m outside Sydney City cop shop and the word is that the inspector from Mumbai is here on official business; a criminal investigation relating to the deaths of Senators Singh and 1-11-15. My source says this guy did not tell the local cops he was coming and he is in trouble because of it.’

‘Samantha Chang at St. Vincents Hospital. Chief inspector Adrian Jacobssen is here recovering from burns to his eyes, nose and throat. He has not had any visitors.’

’This is Ervin Walters outside St. Vincents Hospital in Sydney. I have just come from the hotel where inspector Jacobssen was staying and police do not, I repeat do not believe it was a random terrorist action which injured Jacobssen and partly damaged his room.

‘The suggestion is that an organization attempted to kill Jacobssen because of his ongoing investigation into the deaths of Senators Harish Singh and 1-11-15.’

‘This is Detective Hatsis from Sydney City Local Area Command.’

3 tuned back in. Was this guy really a policeman?

Hatsis continued, ‘Speculation about the reason for Chief Inspector Adrian Jacobssen’s visit to Australia and the subsequent incident in which he was involved at the hotel is not only false, uninformed and unhelpful but also potentially dangerous, in the sense that the release of amateur guesswork may impede the successful prosecution of this case. I would appeal, as I have done many times in the past, for webnewscasters to stop spreading gossip and misinformation. Such practice is highly counterproductive.’

‘Emma Pfizer from Kingsford Smith International Airport, Sydney. Unconfirmed reports suggest Chief Inspector Jacobssen may be in Australia searching for three young fugitives from Mumbai. Described as an odd looking and unlikely group, the trio are wanted for questioning in relation to the deaths of senators Singh and 1-11-15 during last week’s third congress of Earth’s parliament.’

Unable to believe what he had just heard, 3 sat forward in his hoverchair with his mouth wide open. Murder suspects? That’s what it sounds like. Do the officers who seized him and brought him here know about that? Is that why he was in custody? Well, if they didn’t know before then they certainly knew now. Or did they? Yes, decided 3, it was naïve in the extreme to even consider the possibility of continuing anonymity. It would only be a matter of time before his picture appeared on the webnews and what would happen then?

As he switched off the VDU, a door slid open and in walked one of the officers who had brought him here. He strolled over to a vacant lounge chair and sat down heavily, sighing as he did so.

‘That was interesting, wasn’t it?’

‘What was?’ said 3 dumbly.

‘You are wanted for murder.’

‘I’m not! They didn’t say that. Only that I was wanted for-’

3 could have kicked himself. That was too easy for the opposition.

‘Go on,’ said the officer. ‘Don’t stop now while you are in such an obviously chatty mood.’

3 didn’t answer as he spun his chair around to the left and glided as far away from the officer as he could possibly get in this small room.

His visitor immediately left him alone again.

Hours later he fell asleep from sheer boredom as his mind grew weary of wrestling with unanswered questions, and his body succumbed to the restless ache of sleep deprivation.

Alighting from a bus on the corner of George and King Streets, Joshua and Veena took a moment to look around. Sydney was clean, fast and furious. It was a model of efficiency, a triumph of perfectly juxtaposed style and substance, a city renowned around the world as the epitome of twenty second century urban development. Well cared for by a large team of maintenance workers who continuously roamed the streets tidying, washing and repairing faults with automated street furniture including the automated toilets, newsstands and information kiosks.

Coming from the political capital of earth, the two friends were nevertheless impressed by this awesome city in the Great South Land. Joshua in particular seemed overawed, and the scale and beauty of the place seemed to disorient him and enchant him.

Wide footpaths filled with a throbbing mass of people divided sheer mountains of steel, concrete and glass from the street. There were no private vehicles on the street, passing as they did under the city through to their destinations to the north, west and south or stopping in the parking stations and riding elevators to street level or in some cases right inside some of the more significant public buildings in the city; like the Opera House and Sydney Tower. Electric trams scuttled around the streets and laneways taking people who could not walk or who did not want to walk to their various destinations. Many people traveled along the wide uncluttered sidewalks, peacefully jostling or dodging one another.

‘Okay,’ said Veena breaking the spell, ‘Where to now?’

Joshua lifted his wrist watch up close to his face and punched a couple of small buttons, eliciting quiet beeping from the device. ‘I need to get to 500 George Street and ask for a man called Stein.’

They walked to the nearby tram stop and waited a few minutes for another tram to arrive having just missed one. The driverless vehicle stopped and lowered itself down to sidewalk level before the door opened with a swish revealing a wide aisled and clean interior. Its capacity was ten people all seated, and it quickly filled. The door swished closed behind the last passenger, the body lifted up from the sidewalk and it moved off, a digitized female voice announcing the name of the next stop.

The unblinking eyes of surveillance cameras watched from every corner. Meant to be reassuring, Veena was unnerved by them or maybe she was just permanently on edge now. If the seemingly harmless little town of Narrendra had proved so lethal, how would this great city, the jewel of the Southern Hemisphere, the City of Lights, treat them.

They walked silently along King Street to the corner of George where Joshua moved away from Veena and asked directions from a very tall man in a dark business suit. The man did not look at Joshua but nodded his head and mumbled something. Rejoining her, he said, ‘Okay, Veena. I have to go alone again from here. Two blocks down there’s a plaza, Martin Place. Find a seat as near to the kiosk as you can and wait for me there.’

Veena didn’t budge.

‘Please Veena, don’t start this again. Just go there and wait for me.’

‘Alone?’

‘You will be perfectly safe. Sydney CBD is crime free. There are plainclothes police officers everywhere.’

‘Can we trust them?’

‘Don’t be paranoid, Veena. I’m telling you you’re safe, no worries, okay. Just go to Martin Place and wait for me.’

Reluctantly, Veena turned and began to walk down George Street without looking back. Good girl, thought Joshua. When she had melded into the crowd, Joshua began walking in the same direction, but stopped after only fifty meters out front of number 1103.