Fluke

By Colin Hayward

"Fluke" opens in the year 2050, Ishmael introduces himself as 'an orphan with three parents.' Born twenty years before, he was one of the last offspring of a human race ravaged first by SIVA, an airborne spermicidal virus that has spread unchecked throughout the planet. He is part whale part human.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adambooks
• Release date: Dec 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9780981001654

Colin Hayward

Colin Hayward [bio]Colin Hayward has been publishing stories and travel articles for over twenty years including a book of stories published in 2006 called Other Times Other Places. A review in Prairie Fire says, “Hayward's stories are worth reading. Often dark and sad, even frightening, the author's creations are microcosms of the human condition. The stories allow us to see into the human psyche, to realize that the various parts of the world where we seek our pleasure are not so different from our own.” His next collection, Dark Enough to Dance, is due to be published in 2011.Hayward’s love of scuba diving and sailing, led to the writing of Fluke, a novel featuring the strength, intelligence and beauty of the belugas that populate our northern waters. The novel shows us a possible future and is a must read for anyone with an interest in the forces that affect our planet.

Book preview

FLUKE

by

Colin Hayward

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PUBLISHED BY:

ADAM BOOKS on Smashwords

Fluke

Copyright 2010 by Colin Hayward

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Early Wanderings

The One That Got Away

The Long Shot

No branch of Zoology…

AdmiraltyInlet

Longitude/Latitude:South of Halifax HarbourGulf of the St.Lawrence mouth of the Saguenay River

Tynmouth, St. Mary's Bay, Nova Scotia

FLUKE

Tuesday 25 January 2050

Ever since Ben died I have lived alone and, on the whole, it has suited me. No more hair-flecked soap scum in the sink or pubic hairs like dusky spirochetes decorating the toilet's white enamel, not even my own. Even before Ben died, I had lost the last of my body hair. Alopecia Praecox. Not that it matters, but a few stubborn nose hairs were the last to go. A series of sneezes worthy of the Egyptian god Tefnut's creation of the world out of divine nasal slime finally dislodged them.

Although solitary, I am not without company. I do not count the worms, of course, as they are a commercial enterprise rather than pets. The fat-bellied robin is, I suppose, a marginal companion since I went to the trouble of naming him Willy. Not that he takes much notice of me except when I am worming. No, it is MAC, my Media Access Companion, that burns the edged off my loneliness without cluttering up the bathroom. Even during power cuts and brown-outs, growing more frequent lately, he keeps the grow beams and hydroponics fully powered. He once tried to explain how he had rewired himself to create a chargeable cell in his bowels but I was lost by the third printed circuit. Perhaps his organic parts simply gave birth to it.

Oh, call me Ishmael.

MAC does. In fact, he christened me himself after carefully assessing my personality, background and prospects. He claims that human offspring are(I stare bemused at what I have just punched in-a slip of the tense) were named with haphazard abandon by their parents. Whole tribes of Debbies and Jasons, Pierres, Moniques and Johns dotted the continent divisible only by surnames. But even here there were problems. Successive Swedish governments had for years tried to persuade the population to abandon the three or four family names that eighty percent of them shared but without success. And need I mention the Wongs, Singhs, Ivanovs, Smiths, Joneses, Murphys and Millers? Eventually governments despaired and, bureaucratic bliss, gave us all non-transferrable numbers on implanted chips. The implants and DNA databases were instituted to combat crime the authorities told us. As an added incentive, the chips would give access to the paltry government assistance program.

Being officially deceased I lack the necessary access code but I get along quite well by using Ben's. He is, after all, actually deceased and no longer in need of it. Of course, I had to bribe the morgue attendant to retrieve Ben’s chip before incineration and then pay an old man, a former vetinarian, to implant the thing in my own body.

Ishmael. After walking round the name and looking at it from every angle, I had to admit it was a fitting alias. I was born of a surrogate mother fertilized in the cozy comfort of a white-tiled laboratory. The geriatric father, 'hereinafter referred to as the sperm donor', was not even present for the loving act that twirled their DNA helixes together to produce, eventually, me.

In the subsequent court case over the right to non-custody, I was referred to in the media(with a touch of irony no doubt) as Baby Omega. The patchy orange hair(I had some then though not in the expected places) that festooned my dimpled bum, my lack of external ears, my eyes of odd colours and the sight of my left arm, or rather lack of it since the webbed hand grows directly from the shoulder, rendered me an object of supreme disinterest to all parties, a dismal prospect on which to lavish the craft of parenting. In the end the state picked up the tab and I became an orphan with three parents. Ishmael, bastard son of Abraham, should have been so lucky.

Still, I think it was the dream of Ix that really tipped MAC's circuits to christen me Ishmael. What's in a name? More of that later. MAC is tipping me a polite wink.

What is it, MAC? I ask.

A message from Ben, he tells me in that soothing voice of his.

Any vid? I demand, knowing there won't be.

No vid. Only a still pic, Ishmael, MAC confirms. The aud is good though.

Store it for a couple of minutes, MAC, I tell him. I want to think about this.

All right, Ishmael, agrees MAC sympathetically. I will wait until your process of ratiocination is completed.

Ben is dead. Has been for two years. I get up and walk to the window. Large flakes of snow spinning down like helicopter gunships blast the fire escape and parking lot white. Slowly it dawns on me. It is two years ago today, Robbie Burns Day, that he died.

Wad some pow'r the giftie gi'e us

To see oursels as ithers see us.

I told you, Ben, until I was blue in the face that the way you walked gave you away as a raving pansy. Tight buttocks and a hip swagger like the macho vidheroes and you would still be here today.

A black cat is crossing the roof lifting each foot from the snow with a shake of distaste. Two years since Ben went out after dark to meet 'a friend' and never came back. The sight of his body when I had identified him(as Ishmael) made me retch. Even now, the memory makes me queasy. Beaten to death by a gang of Fundachrists, the man had said, but his tired eyes told me that was merely a guess. No-one was ever caught, of course. The snouties are getting old like the rest of the population.

The city scape blurs and I realize I am weeping. I try to concentrate on the messages which began one year ago. I have questioned MAC closely about them but he swears that he does not make them up, that they really do arrive from some untraceable source. Is he capable of lying to me? If he thinks it is for my own good? No way to tell, none of the clues that humans give off- shifty eyes, shuffling feet, tightness in the voice, over-confidence in the delivery.

No closer to a solution, I blink away the tears and slump back into my chair. So what is Ben's message, MAC? I ask.

MAC flashes up a still picture of Ben dressed in a kilt and, despite my blue mood, I can't help smiling. Greetings, Ishmael. It is Ben's voice right enough but from what dimension? Here you are, chapter and verse. Seek out Genesis Chapter 21, Verse 18, and then seek ye out Genesis Chapter 1, Verse 21. Good luck, Ishmael, father of the lost tribes... I miss you, you hairless bastard.

The still picture disappears and I sit back wondering. When he was alive, it had been a game we played, leaving cryptic Biblical messages for each other with MAC, a legacy of Ben's theological training.

Do you want me to display the references, Ishmael? inquires MAC softly.

Yes.

King James' version as usual?

That's the one Ben always used, I agree.

I watch MAC's main screen as the texts scroll up: Gen.21,18: Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand; for I will make him a great nation. Gen.1,21: And God created great whales and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good.

The first verse, I muse aloud. It is the promise that the angel made to Hagar when he found her in the desert, cast out by Abraham. it predicts that her son will become father of the Ishmaelites... Can you suggest any other interpretation, MAC?

The last phrase may contain a certain semantic ambiguity when regarded out of context, MAC comments. It could be interpreted as meaning that God will create a great nation for Ishmael. That is, the great nation mentioned might not be sired by Ishmael but rather established separately so that later he joins it, perhaps as leader... Such an interpretation would not, of course, conform to standard exegesis but the statement is, after all, rendered out of context.

You should have been a rabbinical scholar, MAC, I tell him and somehow he conveys his satisfaction. By an increase in his electro-magnetic field? Whatever it is, I feel it, understand it, respond to it. Ingenious interpretation, MAC, I continue, ladling it on with a trowel, especially since the chances of me, or anyone else now, fathering any sort of tribe are astronomical.

Do you want me to compute the odds? MAC asks.

Laughing away the suggestion, I say, No, MAC, thanks. The second text seems straightforward though. The great whales must be the key, I think. Do you agree?

Yes. I would submit that it is connected with your dream of Ix.

So somehow I am to lead or join a school of whales? I muse half to myself.

It is one possible meaning of the two texts taken together, says MAC hedging his bets. I will submit the statements to semantic, logical and grammatical analyses to further determine their inter-relationship if you wish.

O.K., MAC. Good idea. Now check on the worms and the hydroponics and give me some aud... ah, Faure's Requiem.

For Ben. The great brass chord rings out and fades away as the choir enters pianissimo. I lean back and think of Ben. I miss you, you hirsute bastard.

Early Wanderings

How old is he now?

Seven, doctor.

Big for his age then. Might be attributable to the mutations of course.

Most of the other mutants have been quite small.

Must be about thirty still surviving. How many at your institute?

Five but one won't last more than a few weeks, I'm afraid.

Mmm. Well, anyway this mutant seems as healthy as a horse. I'm finished now. Tell it to dress and then how about a drink before you go. I've got some scotch, not that Jap stuff either.

Mutant. A new alias for Baby Omega. The doctor snapped off his rubber gloves and tossed them into the cinerator. I dressed quickly despite my truncated left arm and sought out a seat in the corner to perch on, invisible. I was already used to being talked about as if I were deaf, to sitting quiet while adults conversed. Only recently had I realized that there were no children any more, at least none that would grow up to look like the adults. There was Jerry, for instance. His mutations were more severe than mine. Jerry was dying. I would sit by him at night listening to the rasping breath and wish it were me.

Here you are, matron. The doctor handed her a glass and held up his own, silent for a moment. Not much to toast to, he said at last, taking a sip and glancing in my direction. I sat still and stared out the window. Cars were passing in silence on the street below. Still a lot of cars then. Hell of a way for the world to end. Not with a bang but a whimper, eh?

Matron smiled nervously and sipped her drink. I could tell she wanted to make a face but didn't. Perhaps they'll find a cure, she said.

Better be soon then, said the doctor sourly. Another few years and all females will be past child-bearing age.

Is the mandatory sperm testing programme having any results? asked matron diffidently.

Hm? Oh, none so far. The spermicidal virus from the Eugenics lab mutates so fast we can't keep up with it.

Matron hurriedly finished her drink and thanked the doctor. We have to be off, I'm afraid, she told him. Wouldn't do to be caught in the city after dark. God knows what they would do to him.

Might be better all round, muttered the doctor.

He's not deaf, doctor, or stupid, said matron, the blood rushing to her cheeks at her own sudden boldness.

I have always remembered matron as a kindly soul. Mother, I called her to myself, even if that was already an obsolete term. At least she was not afraid to touch me.

I was almost seventeen before I reached puberty, a two-meter tall soprano. By that time, female fecundity was trembling at the edge of menopause as AIDS and rogue genes in the food chain further diminished an aging population. Waves of religious hysteria, suicide cults, mob violence, female chauvinism and government repression shuddered through the planet. My ginger hair fell out but my looks did not improve. And my voice dropped, at first falling into great cracking chasms of rumbling sound and climbing out just as suddenly but finally settling in the basso register.

At last I had joined the world of grownups which everyone else had entered long before. It should have been a hollow feeling but curiously it was not. Only one thing worried me, worried me to the extent that I began to have bad dreams. Soon I would have to report for the mandatory AIDS test and sperm count. If they found even one blind swimmer I reasoned, the authorities would have me sterilized. No-one would allow the human race to be carried on by mutants.

So I escaped. No, no, too melodramatic. I walked away with a bagful of stolen food. Two days later I reached the outskirts of the city and found that whole sections of the suburbs had been abandoned. The houses had no heat or light but some had woodstoves and even running water. I chose a backsplit at the end of a cul-de-sac because it backed on to a wooded ravine through which I could come and go unobserved.

Eating was less of a problem than I had feared. When my food got low, I would sneak out after dark pushing a baby carriage I had found in the garage and explore the neighborhood. Once or twice I would see other shadowy figures bent on the same errand as myself but we would make no attempt to meet. By raiding abandoned houses, I could usually fill my pram within a couple of hours with canned goods, dried pasta, even cans of Pepsi and half-empty bottles of booze.

I lived that way for eighteen months. For most of the time, I ate well, entertained myself by reading old paperbacks, educated myself on textbooks I found, watched the night sky with a Schmidt Cassegrain telescope the owner had abandoned, and generally enjoyed myself. Once I even came across a stack of old skin magazines, long since banned, and dragged them back to my lair. For two whole evenings, I leafed through them fascinated at the changing shapes of female pulchritude. The few males that appeared did not change much through the years. Nearly always they were surrounded by women frantic to become acquainted with the magnitude of their members. Teasing my own, I speculated that, in the old days, I too might have enjoyed a measure of popularity with the opposite sex despite my other deformities. Well, I was naive in those days. The women, I noticed, had metamorphosed through the years, sometimes sporting breasts like melons and sometimes muscled and oiled like weightlifters. Youth was the only constant and, apart from the few of us mutants that yet survived, that treasure had melted away.

Many of the books I read glorified youth or decried its follies but rarely denigrated it. One line I remember: Youth is wasted on the young. Irony of ironies I