Science-fiction | Vengeance
The Immortals
If the wealthy could live forever…
The hum of the crowd gradually quietened to expectant silence as the solid silver knife clinked loudly against the cut crystal wine‑glass. Torkan slowly looked around to where the Chairman of the Consortium rose to his feet, the smug contented smile of the well‑fed and intensely powerful smeared across his face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Consortium! Your attention please!” said the Chairman, beaming at the assembly, resplendent in sequined gowns or dinner jackets beneath the shining chandeliers. Like them, the Chairman’s face was flushed with the glow of the planet’s finest wines and aperitifs. Torkan glimpsed around the room. Ladies? he thought. Precious few ladies. They might have been better off if Janie had survived instead of him, he reflected. His recollections of her were now always combined with the smell of blood and cordite. Most vivid in his memory was the vision of Janie being thrown back as though in slow motion, her red hair swinging upwards, her right arm spiralling away. She was, perhaps, the only thing he had ever cared about.
“It has been well over twenty years since the discovery of the human obsolescence gene,” continued the Chairman. “Furthermore, it has been almost ten years since the nullification of that gene was accomplished, making those of us present as immortal as gods!” The assembly called out in approval.
“Hear, hear,” someone called. Torkan slowly looked across the room again from his vantage at high table, next to the Chairman. He couldn’t help but imagine a fragmentation grenade landing among the assembly. His mind pictured the effect as the explosion tore apart the tables and chandeliers, throwing bodies in tattered pieces across the room. Shrapnel filled the air and people screamed as the white hot metal tore into their faces. The Chairman smiled broadly, waving down the audience benignly.
“In that time our numbers have grown considerably from the few directors, scientists and shareholders of Curran Biodynamics, to include noted industrialists, thinkers, and scientists from across the world.” Rapturous applause greeted the Chairman’s words. Torkan suddenly imagined a gun coming up behind the Chairman. With a shattering explosion and an acrid smell the gun fired, inches away from the back of his head. The entry hole was quite small, but the explosion in his brain blew away all the Chairman’s frontal bones and most of his face.
“As the guardians of this planet’s well‑being,” the Chairman continued, “we have used our tremendous skills in corporate management, science, and philosophy to improve our planet. This has required a great deal of soul‑searching by those of us on the Board. We had to decide what was best, even if it seemed that people had to suffer. Through it all, we have been driven by our collective vision. A vision of the Earth as a beautiful green planet, where all species, including humans, had their place. A vision in which humans could thrive, but not at the expense of the long‑term good of the planet. Many of us in business and industry have also suffered through this vision.” Torkan couldn’t help but picture a frenzied sikh leap to the table. A hail of bullets ripped the sikh to shreds, but not before the razor‑sharp blade of his talwar had swept down the body of the Chairman in a perfect draw‑cut. The Chairman’s bowls sank to the floor to rest with the mangled sikh.
“To think of the great wealth that could have been made from some of the populations now declared redundant,” the Chairman continued, mournfully looking around the room. “But we recognized that we had to make sacrifices also, to preserve our vision.” The crowd murmured in recognition of the Chairman’s sacrifice.
“One group which has always contributed tremendously to the execution of our vision, but has never been included in the Consortium, is the military. This is, of course, because most militaries around the world have been committed to preserving the old order, and also to using environmentally destructive weapons. Many of us here can still remember things like nuclear bombs, chemical warfare, napalm, and other short‑sighted devices. With the development and growth of the Consortium’s own Peace Corps, we now have the opportunity to include individuals who share our vision. Individuals who have made heroic contributions to our efforts at creating a better planet. With this in mind, it is with great pleasure that I recommend for acceptance into the Consortium and immediate elevation to the Board, John A. Torkan, Commander of the Consortium’s own Peace Corps.”
Rapturous applause and wild yells drowned out the Chairman’s last words as Torkan got up and smiled thinly at the crowd. Rows of hands being raised up and brought together reminded him of the pleading Redundants of Madras. There were more women there, and children. But that was after Janie went out, Carelson too, and Torkan wasn’t feeling merciful. He could almost feel the jolting, bucking, heavy machine gun in his hands as he looked about the room, the jarring sound drowning out the cries and pleading. Torkan sat again, but while the Chairman droned on he remembered Janie again at Madras.
“It’s the pressure,” she had said. “It will either turn your heart as hard as diamond, or it will crush you.” Janie was a geologist in a former life, a life before the Peace Corps, and often used geological metaphors like that. It probably reminded her that she wasn’t always in the trade that a scaled‑back economy had put her in. She liked to tease him about his own previous life, studying ancient history. Most of the Peace Corps personnel had lived different lives before as the real soldiers were already spoken for. God, but he loved her so much. Applause broke Torkan from his reverie, his muscles tensing as though expecting attack.
“John has served the Consortium’s vision across the world,” the Chairman continued, “including all the main theatres where ground troops were needed to effect dismissal of Redundant populations. This has included across South and West Asia, and in Latin America. It has been said that he is personally responsible for releasing a considerable amount of the world’s surplus population, apart from the considerably greater numbers dismissed under his command. Certainly not a large number when compared to some of the scientists in the room. But when you consider that it was entirely done by mechanical means, it remains a formidable accomplishment.” Polite applause rippled around the room. Out of the corner of his eye Torkan saw Carelson walk up and execute someone at the back of the room, a single shot in the temple. But when he looked more closely, he could see he was mistaken.
“That accomplishment alone would qualify John for inclusion,” continued the Chairman, “but it must be stated that the Board needs a few people of John’s demeanour. We need to put a bit more iron in our resolve for the task ahead.” There were a few whoops of agreement mingled with the enthusiastic applause. Torkan thought he heard one or two agonizing death‑screams also. “The sort of iron that cleaned up Tehran. Street by bloody street. Putting an end to a threat to the Consortium, and solving a problem unsolvable by our scientists.” Thunderous applause followed, or was that a tank about to rumble through the walls?
“No one knows the field problems that remain better than John, and with him in the Consortium itself we will be better equipped to solve them. But few of you know that John also has an academic background, which is true of most of the command personnel in the Corps. John, I believe, studied classical history, while there are also many other disciplines represented. Many bright young people who have answered the call for the good of the planet. I remember one young woman, a very pretty one I might add, with red hair, who had been a geologist. You probably know her John?” Torkan nodded.
Most assuredly, he knew her. He had almost told her he loved her, when Janie allowed that woman and her two young children to get past the cordon around Madras. He had almost gunned them down himself, thinking they had slipped by unnoticed. But Janie shrieked to let them go, tears streaming down her face. He wanted to say he was sorry, to embrace her and say he understood, but she just swore at him and walked off. He almost followed, but couldn’t somehow. Perhaps his heart was of diamond already, a cut diamond with sharp facets. The next day she was dead. The day following, not a soul lived in Madras. Applause woke Torkan again.
“Therefore without further ado, I recommend John Torkan for inclusion in the Consortium, and call on Professor Harwood to second.” Vigorous but measured applause accompanied the seating of the Chairman and the arising of another man, with oily receding blonde hair and thick spectacles. As the professor gazed around, mouth open, eyes blinking myopically, Torkan could see a camouflaged arm quickly curl around from behind the Professor’s back. In a flash of metal a black‑bladed knife was drawn across the Professor’s neck, cutting the jugular and vocal cords in one sweep.
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said the Professor. “As the Chairman rightly said, many of us scientists have indeed gone great strides in solving the problems that afflict this planet. I personally have, of course, released far more of the population. My Peking virus cleaned up about twenty percent, which I believe remains as the record.” Polite but unenthusiastic applause pattered about the room. It reminded Torkan of the monsoon rains falling among the corpses floating in Aden harbour.
“But even work such as that of myself and my colleagues are facilitated by Mr. Torkan’s contribution. It was his prescience that warned us of the Tehran problem. The suicide attack that killed professor Anderson and destroyed his labs at MIT could have been prevented had we had Mr. Torkan on the Board earlier. Anderson was working on a highly promising successor to his Mombasa virus, and the loss of his contribution will undoubtedly prolong suffering in Africa.” The light glinted off the professor’s glasses as he turned back and forth across the room. They were oily and unclean. Like the bulging eyes of a corpse that Torkan had seen on the road out of Nairobi. Yes, Torkan thought, the Mombasa virus had been highly effective.
“But apart from the Peace Corps’ defensive role, they will increasingly be needed to complete the plans of the Consortium, to create a better world for our collective future. This is because certain redundant populations are genetically so close to populations that are required, primarily for the maintenance of the standard of living of the Consortium, that selecting them for large scale dismissal is impossible. For this we need the Peace Corps, and people like Mr. Torkan. Across most of Asia and Africa our virologists can create diseases which target broad genetic groups without threat to the Consortium. The few people of these ethnicities which we need may be supplied with antidotes. But across south and southwest Asia, north Africa and south America we need more precise but less refined tools. In the final stages of our plans, the refinements that will require the Peace Corps’ attention will increase. Hence Mr. Torkan’s inclusion on the Board is inevitable. So, in conclusion, I would like to add my voice to that of the Chairman, and second the recommendation of inclusion.”
For the first time the Professor’s words were met with enthusiastic agreement, and he was almost smiling when he sat down. Again the Chairman rose, and gestured for the clamouring crowd to desist from their enthusiasm.
“Thank you, Professor. Now, without further ado, I would like to ask if there are any dissenters?” Torkan’s hand surreptitiously rested on the grip of the pistol under his jacket. It was not noticed by the crowd, but it made Torkan feel better. That hard sinuous feel, the exciting texture enabling a safer grip. It always felt good to have a firm grip.
“Good,” continued the Chairman. “As I suspected. There is no‑one here in the mood to cross John.” They all laughed in an uproarious fashion. Tears seeped from eyes and backs were loudly slapped. Tears were familiar to Torkan, but he was more accustomed to hearing a cracking sound when seeing a back struck.
“Then I would like to welcome Commander John A. Torkan into the Consortium, and onto the Board.” Again thunderous applause, sustained and rhythmic. More like a heavy helicopter gunship this time, rather than a tank.
“In the morning,” continued the Chairman, “when he is sober!” He pauses for humorous effect, accompanied by general laughter. “John will report to the laboratories of Curran Biodynamics, to have his obsolescence gene revoked!” Again general applause, this time accompanied by calls of “Speech! Speech!” Torkan slowly rose from his chair, and looked about the room. He had a subtle smile, but the room was sufficiently warmed by alcohol that the audience found it enough to appear amicableThat is insufficient!.
“About three thousand years ago, the great Achaemenid Empire spread from central Iran to include Western Asia from the Indus to the Dardanelles, together with the great civilization of Egypt and also part of Greece.” A lot of Torkan’s audience were clearly left behind by this point, but he carried on anyway. “The foremost fighting unit of the Achaemenid Empire was known as the Immortals. They created a great empire, a peaceful empire, where learning and culture flourished. It was, of course, swept away by Alexander the Great. But that fact is as much an endorsement of the good order of the Achaemenid realm as it was of Alexander’s generalship. Tomorrow, I too shall become an Immortal, and together with you, the Immortals of the present day, we will build a realm of similar grace, where there will be peace and prosperity enough for all.”
Suddenly the audience grasped the point of the history lesson, brows quickly unknotted and faces brightened with enthusiasm. The clapping and cheering returned with a vengeance, and Torkan’s smile actually looked quite warm. Behind his smile, Torkan was glad that no‑one had bothered to ask what the “A”, his middle initial, actually stood for. His family had called him Alex when he was a boy, to distinguish him from his father, John Philip Torkan. But none of these people would know that, and if they had, they would have forgotten. Just as they had forgotten how industrialists and scientists like them had been trying to consume the earth within a generation only twenty years before. But that was before they knew that they could live forever. No, there were no historians here, no‑one to teach the lessons of history: no‑one except Torkan. His mind pictured in vivid detail a squad of heavily armed Peace Corps soldiers bursting in and ripping the Immortals to shreds with their assault weapons. Not yet, he thought. Not yet.
