Devolution

‘The Minister for Education will speak.’

Senator 1-11-15 moved onto the speaker’s podium as though he owned it, as though it was made specifically for him. Like a king long destined for glory ascending a throne to bathe in the awe of the common people, he sat tall in his hoverchair, head held high and swept the chamber with a haughty look. At the invitation of the Speaker of the House, the Senator was to speak for fifteen minutes on the issue of inter-tribal education. It was an unprepared speech, coming from the heart and spoken many times before to whoever would listen. There were of course slight variations, extra emphasis on particular aspects of his argument or adjustments in language use depending on who he was talking to, but the central message remained the same. Inter-tribal education was a cancerous growth which must be cut out of society.

As minister for education, 1-11-15 was a heavyweight in Earth’s parliament, and revered by his own tribe, the Newtonians. Having served in government for twenty years he was also a hardened veteran, and a well connected man, unafraid to use whatever means may be required to achieve his goals. As far as he was concerned, the old adage about winning not being the most important thing was a pitiful excuse for failure, a justification for lack of effort, a badge of weakness. Winning was everything. This attitude made him almost as many enemies as friends. Some of his parliamentary colleagues feared him, others loathed him, but from all, he commanded respect.

Sitting in his hoverchair at the podium, he silently contemplated his audience for a few moments before he began. He reached for the glass of water on the lectern, took a long deliberate sip, put the glass down, then cleared his throat unobtrusively.

‘The persistent efforts of some in our society allegedly represented by men and women in this house, to maintain inter tribal schooling has had disastrous consequences. Contrary to the propaganda pushed out by advocates of this archaic method of education, our children, have suffered as a result of policies which do nothing to advance our society. The purity and uniqueness of the tribes must be preserved in order to...’

The senator coughed to clear his throat. ‘In order to…’

He began to choke on the words, coughing as though an invisible hand had fastened around his throat. Reaching for his glass of water, he found he could not see it properly and with his airways constricting rapidly, he panicked and started waving his large hands frantically in the air. With his eyes bulging and bloodshot, his lean body spilled out onto the floor as his hoverchair lost power and crashed at the foot of the podium.

Screams and roars of disbelief and mayhem filled the chamber as members sprang from their chairs and buzzed around wildly in all directions inside the triangular chamber. Knocking each other out of the way as they scrambled for the exits, their cries filled the chamber. Shouts of ‘call an ambulance’ and ‘let’s get out of here’ and ‘what happened’, and ‘is he all right’, and finally by those who spoke in ignorance, ‘the senator is dead’. There were a few doctors in the house and two of them rushed to the stricken Newtonian’s side but they were unable to determine what was wrong let alone help him. By the time police and paramedical services arrived, 1-11-15 was dead, and the great hall of democracy in Mumbai was like a cemetery on a bleak wintery day.

Police began conducting interviews with the few remaining people, while others began to examine the dead man’s body. Nothing definitive would be revealed until an autopsy had been carried out but initial observations and descriptions of the event from witnesses, forced the police to consider foul play a definite possibility.

‘What do you think, Mike?’ Chief Inspector Adrian Jacobssen towered over the body of Senator 15, he dragged his large right hand across his unshaven cheek and onto his chin. He waited for an answer though it was painfully obvious to him what had happened and equally clear that this man had no shortage of enemies who might have been responsible for his death. His question was addressed to the chief forensic examiner, Mike Kuczynski.

‘His heart stopped by the sound of things,’ said Mike, standing so as to not have to crane his neck to look at Jacobssen. ‘I haven’t seen his medical records yet, obviously-but from what I hear he was as healthy as an ox, in his prime. Without any external signs or marks on his body, and based on what witnesses say, a sudden massive heart attack seems the most likely cause of death.’

Jacobssen stared at the corpse as if it might suddenly solve the mystery for him by a brief resurrection. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

It was impossible for Jacobssen to not entertain thoughts of murder, even without the degree of inside knowledge he had on this victim. It was in his nature to be suspicious, and here was certainly more than enough fuel for his suspicions. Foul play meant assassination, and not just of any politician but a prominent and powerful minister, albeit a controversial one. The fallout from his death would be hard to contain and impossible to predict, but whatever transpired, it would not be good. However, all that was not Jacobssen’s concern. He was a detective and his job was to find the truth. Catch the bad guys; his only purpose in life these days.

Still sitting in his armchair in the center and front row of the Adonite’s side of the triangular chamber, was 1-11-15’s greatest political opponent, leader of the Adonites in the parliament, Harish Singh. Feeling as though he had been punched in the stomach repeatedly for hours, Singh was unable to move or breathe properly in shock at what he had just witnessed.

Jacobssen saw Singh and quickly threaded his way through a crowd of policeman who were interviewing witnesses, towards him. Strange, thought Jacobssen, to find him still sitting here alone. Why would he react so differently from the majority of other parliamentarians who had fled like chickens responding to an unwelcome visit by a fox?

‘Excuse me Senator.’

Singh looked up slowly to see a tall man of heavy build holding out a badge for his inspection.

‘Chief Inspector Adrian Jacobssen, Senator. Are you all right?’

Singh moved his head slowly, but Jacobssen was uncertain whether that meant yes or no to his question. Before he could ask another, Singh spoke.

‘Such barbarism…’ he paused to claw the fingers of his left hand through his long beard as though he wanted to rip the hairs from his chin. ‘Weak word, isn’t it? But I can’t think of a better one. It’s unthinkable in these enlightened days. Debate can get very heated and even personal but never violent. Senator 1-11-15 was a man in the prime of health, a fine example of a Newtonian. He had never suffered illness of any kind since surviving meningicoccal disease as a child in the north of India. He was fanatical about high standards of health and fitness. It was his idea to establish regular mandatory health examinations for all members of parliament.’

Jacobssen regarded the Senator critically, and thought his words sounded like a well prepared eulogy. ‘My forensic guy reckons it was a heart attack,’ he said.

Singh laughed briefly, pathetically, tears welling in his eyes, then shook his head.

Many years ago in the innocence of youth he and 15 had been friends. Decades passed and they both became powerful men whose diametrically opposed political views shipwrecked their friendship. Under different circumstances, in another lifetime they may have remained the best of friends for life. Fate had determined they be enemies instead, and fate, Singh realized, was not one to be argued with or challenged.

Someone called out to Jacobssen who turned and nodded at the officer signaling for him that it was okay to remove the body now, which they did.

Watching the strange looking corpse leave the chamber, Jacobssen wondered how the Newtonians survived in those pitiful bodies anyway. As a member of the only egalitarian branch of the government, Jacobssen understood the limitations experienced by the Newtonians but he also understood the advantages they gained over others in the trade-off and he respected the path they had chosen for the future of their tribe. He had many dealings with 1-11-15 over the years and although he could never quite trust him totally, he respected his authority and believed him to be a man of great integrity.

A junior detective, a Deist came over to his boss. ‘Everyone’s saying he was murdered, poisoned.’

‘It’s a bit early to be saying anything isn’t it?’ said Jacobssen. The words spoken harshly and accompanied by a withering look caused the young man to recoil.

‘It was murder all right,’ asserted Singh, suddenly extracted from his melancholy again. ‘That man was the healthiest in the chamber, there’s no way it was anything but murder.’ Looking up at Jacobssen again, Singh repeated himself. ‘It was definitely murder, detective.’

Waving the junior officer away, Jacobssen sat down beside Singh and pressed his communication badge. “All right if I record this?’

Singh nodded absently.

‘Tell me about it.’

Tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, Harish again marveled at the artistry involved in the decorative mural which he himself had commissioned for the house some fifteen years earlier. It was a classic piece, painted in the style of the nineteenth century, when art was beautiful and spiritual, depicting a battlefield immediately after the cessation of hostilities. Critics had argued against the work, questioning the beauty and value of war, but Singh had held his ground, the mural he said was not a glorification of war but a celebration of peace. Peace, the ever elusive dream.

‘Senator?’

Reluctantly tearing his gaze from the ethereal view, his eyes met the burly detectives and he sighed. ‘This is worse than just murder, it’s worse than assassination, it’s a-’

‘Senator,’ interrupted Jacobssen, ‘If you could tell me what you saw.’ Bloody politicians, he thought. There were times when their inability to get to and stick to the point was amusing, but this was not one of them. He had a crime to solve and was not remotely interested in philosophical rhetoric or nostalgic musings.

‘Of course,’ said Singh.

The two sat quietly amidst the hustle and bustle of police and forensic scientists as they sifted for clues and posed hypotheses and shared theories and questioned witnesses, gathering evidence. Singh answered the questions honestly while continuing to insist that his colleague was the victim of a murder.

A loud bang interrupted them and Jacobssen sprang to his feet. A muffled explosion followed, causing all the police to reach for and draw their electroguns. It was nothing. The noise, it turned out was caused by a malfunction in a piece of forensic investigation equipment.

Both Singh and Jacobssen snapped their heads back to face each other. Sharing their mutual relief in a glance.

‘Okay,’ said Jacobssen, switching off the digital recorder. ‘Thanks for your cooperation.’

Standing to his feet despite still feeling shaky, Harish shook the detectives hand and wished him well with the investigation. Leaving the chamber, he looked around at the empty chairs and pictured them full of earnest ministers and members of parliament, all listening politely to 1-11-15 even if they disagreed vehemently with his views. The parliament was a place where men behaved with decency and respect for each other and where there was genuine desire to do what was best for the citizens of Asia. Opposed as they may have been on numerous issues, none could doubt or question the sincerity of the others. The highest ideals of humanity were championed here until this day, when someone desecrated its sanctity, and set the parliament on the road to disintegration. Literally and figuratively.

Outside parliament house, unnoticed among the large group of people who were standing around either talking to each other or to police or uploading information onto the Web, a solidly built Adonite with strangely thick legs and clean shaven head, wearing a tracksuit spoke into his phone using an alpha-numeric code. Unconcerned about being interrupted or approached by anyone, the man nodded with satisfaction as he filed his report on the incident.

‘Senator 15 is dead. It was over very quickly, my compliments to the manufacturer of the poison. You may initiate stage two and I will await payment at the agreed time into my account. Good to do business with you.’

Satisfied, the man smiled to himself and imagined how he would enjoy spending the money soon to be transferred into his account. Lie around on some Pacific Island for a few weeks or a few months, whatever. Relaxing, unwinding. This job had been difficult to orchestrate, his hardest challenge yet, but despite the problems and the complexity of the schemes he had to use to get to the Senator, it had come off smoothly. There would be nothing to link him to the murder, not a trace of evidence.

So busy congratulating himself was the assassin, that he failed to notice a Newtonian glide up behind him, place an electrogun against the back of his head and squeeze the trigger. The dead man crumpled to the ground while the Newtonian moved to the curb and entered an unmarked, unregistered black RV which sped off down the street before the door was closed.

Back inside Asia Parliament, Harish Singh turned for one last look into the chamber, before trudging down the long white marble hall sighing as the enormity of what had happened bore down on him like a heavy load.

He would be a suspect, would undergo intense scrutiny and public speculation about his role in the death of 1-11-15. Legally he was completely innocent, he had nothing to do with the crime, but morally, Singh was as guilty as sin. He had lost count of the number of times he had wished his opponent dead, or somehow permanently out of the scene. Why that notion should bother him now, he was not sure but there it was, nipping and biting at his thoughts like a blue heeler dog at a sheep’s legs. It would have been so much easier to push his agenda without 15’s interference, and proficiency at getting his own way.

At the exit to Parliament House, Singh entered the identification booth and had his eyes scanned as the computer logged his exit in its memory. Outside under a dull sky, the humidity pawed at his skin as he hurried to a waiting government RV and climbed into the back seat. Giving the driver directions, Singh nestled into the leather seat and closed his eyes allowing the cool air from the air-conditioning to wash over him as they drove away through the crowded streets of Mumbai. If only it could have washed away the guilt and despair he felt.