Beyond Extinction: Even the Concept of Truth is a Lie

By John Keeble

The year is 2077 and the planet is reeling from centuries of human abuse. Worldwide, humans and a new race, genetically-evolved numans, compete for survival as water and food become increasingly scarce. Humans face the prospect of extinction at the hands of the numans who, like Homo sapiens when they pushed Neanderthals into extinction, have a small but decisive edge.
Investigative author Jack Janis and his golden retriever Max find themselves at the center of world events after they fall for Alice Algafari, an alluring but enigmatic researcher, in their quiet rural village. Jack's hopes for an idyllic life with Alice and Max crash amid conspiracy and lethal risks when Alice's boss tries to ensnare them. Alice, Jack and Max are forced to run for their lives.
Meanwhile, Mark Milner is squeezed out of his job at the Numan Broadcasting Corporation, once the British Broadcasting Corporation, and heads for a new life in FedOz as part of a numan government scheme to push humans into emigrating. The life he discovers is far from what he was promised.
Alice's boss, a powerful genetics scientist, is caught in the jaws of numan rebellions, World Council politics and the Military High Command's ambition to let civil authorities fail and then take control. His most dangerous enemy, however, is in his own research center.
A final showdown between compassion and science erupts in Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilization, with Max emerging as a key to shaping the future of the planet

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Keeble
• Release date: Jan 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370572236

John Keeble

John Keeble has been writing all his adult life, first as a 17-year-old reporter for a weekly newspaper in East London, England, and then in various journalistic posts in UK national newspapers, including the London Evening News and The Guardian.He added scripting and making video reports and writing books when he left his last paid work and started a decade of volunteer media work in Southeast Asia.He has written three novels, a good-natured spoof about writing critique groups, a photography how-to, and thousands of articles, many illustrated with his own photographs.He divides his time between England and Ecuador, which he uses as his writing and travelling base.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A honey bee labors through the fragrant southwest English air, over the trimmed lawns of Dorset, lingers at the delphiniums to feast on the nectar, and flies on around a seventeenth-century cottage garlanded with hollyhocks and primroses.

Jack Janis feels her pass, follows her with his eyes and memories and fears and then absent-mindedly sips his second gin and tonic as he turns his attention back to his mediamat. He sits, as still as the lizard basking in the 107-degree sun by his pond, fragments of his life floating unbidden past his mind's eye.

A natural bee, he says with wonder. A symbol of all that has been lost from our world.

Max, Jack's three-year-old golden retriever, is following his own trails with yelps and twitches as he sleeps in the shade of the sprawling horse chestnut tree. It is nearly noon and Jack half expects Alice Algafari to call in, as she said she might, to talk about the village's amateur dramatics troupe.

Today, for once, he is not in a writing mood, not up to the daily struggle, and instead he filters his thoughts into some kind of cohesion. He should be bitter about his losses, but he is wildly optimistic about his future. He has been robbed of his past but handed the means of a vibrant new life of ease and plenty – and time and resources for his writing. If it lasts in this changing world.

Jack is not yet forty, has two degrees in genetic destructionism, and an insatiable drive to delve into the unknown. Though he has an IQ in the top one percent of humans, he is unemployable in his field of expertise. The numan kids surpass him on every heading: education, IQ, work output, even employment cost. The numans – new men – are so like humans in some ways but so different in other ways that make them frighteningly more efficient. Where and how did they originate? How have they, in less than half a century, come to dominate the planet?

He shrugs off these disconcerting thoughts. Now that he is over the pain of being forced out of his job and his home by numan expansionism, he can see new doors opening here in quiet, pastoral Abbotsford. And no one ever expects a job or a home – or even a marriage – to last for life, do they?

Hello Great Writer, he hears, feeling her hand briefly on his shoulder and seeing Max leap up from a deep sleep. Jack grabs Max by the collar and gets dragged off his seat towards Alice Algafari, looking entrancing and moving just out of range of Max's enthusiasm.

What a lovely dog, she says, beaming at them both and unperturbed by Max. I hope you don't mind me coming in to find you. I did buzz your phone but got 'Jack has left me in the kitchen. He's in the garden playing with his mediamat.'

Damn phone, Jack says while hanging on to Max. It knows more about me than I do. He holds out his free hand, quickly drawing it back as he realizes it is covered in Max slobber. Thanks for coming, Miss Algafari. I'm sorry I didn't hear you.

It's a pleasure to be here. I'm always trying to encourage more support for The Players. She hesitates, still smiling, as he wrestles with the ebullient Max. Why don't you let him go? she says. He can say hello to me and then he will settle down.

Okay. If you are sure. Are you ready? She laughs and nods, and he lets go. Max cannot believe his luck as he rushes at her and Jack cannot believe how quickly she has him calmed and under control.

Amazing, he says as Max sits at her feet and twists his neck to gaze lovingly up at her gazing lovingly down at him. She's so lovely.

Alice, still Miss Algafari to him in socially correct Abbotsford, drew him into the Abbotsford Village Players a few months ago when he decided he needed to get out, join local organizations and start building a new social life. Everything about her reaches into his dreams: her enigmatic smile, from her sensuous lips to the warmth and kindness of her hazel eyes; her strong elegant hands, butterflies in the air as she emphasizes a point until landing, captivatingly, on the welcoming warmth of his bare arm. Her scent, too, enslaves his attention as soon as she moves anywhere near. And as much as he loves her fast mind, it is her slim body, always bright with life in simple human clothes, that tantalizes his senses. Even her height is perfect, at a couple of inches fewer than his six feet. I wonder what it would be like to kiss her lips.

They have found a few things in common – enough for him but maybe not enough for her. They are both in their late thirties, with similar education, but she has kept her job as a genetics researcher and analyst while he has been thrown on the science scrapheap. She always laughs at his jokes and he supports her view that The Players should try a pantomime for the christian winter festival at the end of the year – even if he did shy away from playing a lead part dressed as a woman.

She eases herself into the garden chair near Jack and Max claims his place between them. Mary, the house servant, trundles out with iced drinks and Alice takes one from the proffered tray. She sips it, pulls an impressed face. This is good. Your servant met me at the gate. She said you were drinking gin and tonic, so I gave it a try. I'd never heard of it before.

Bit old-fashioned. Like me. But refreshing on a hot day. In November, when the seasons switch, and it's not quite so hot, I'll introduce you to an old alternative – whiskey mac.

I hope I'm still here to try it, she says.

You're leaving Abbotsford? He hopes she cannot hear his disappointment.

I've got to go on a course. Not sure when or for how long. My boss – you remember Galen, he was at The Players' fundraiser – wants me to take a senior organizational role that means specific training.

Jack's smile fades and he looks away.

This is so relaxing, she says, clearly in no hurry to talk about The Players, and that suits Jack perfectly. You must love living in your cottage and this beautiful garden.

I do. It's even nicer to have a guest to share it.

They realize, as their hands touch, that they have been stroking the ears on either side of Max's enormous, beautiful head. This is his heaven, Jack says.

Mine, too.

An hour and another gin and tonic later, after some friendly talk about how Jack can get more involved with The Players and about his efforts to grow edible bananas in his garden, Alice tells him, I think I should go and let you get on with your writing.

Why not stay for lunch? I've got a casserole in the oven. I bought a couple of bottles of imported Shiraz. We should test one. Just to make sure it's worth fifteen pounds a bottle.

Fifteen? she protests playfully. Fifteen! It will taste like vinegar.

No, it won't. It was a special sixtieth-anniversary offer at Perry's store. Same vineyard's Shiraz that they sold for fifteen pounds when they opened for business here in 2017 – today's bottle usually costs sixty pounds.

I'll believe it when I taste it, she sniffs, a reprise of her upper-class wife role in The Players' spring offering.

Great, he says.

Is your kitchen a good cook?

Yes, he replies casually, as if he had not annoyed every appliance by slaving in the kitchen before she arrived. My kitchen is an excellent cook, but I felt like cooking it myself today. Mary, the servant, is watching it while it cooks. In fact, they are all watching it – my kitchen is a cauldron of egos. The food chopper, the oven, the refrigerator, the dishwasher. They all want a say. And my damned phone always tries to get the last word.

He waits for her to stop laughing and adds, Okay, let's go and see what we have all created. He gets up, and she takes her cue. They head for the door to the kitchen, Max with them. The door opens for them and Jack says politely, Thank you, Hubert. Please remember Miss Algafari and let her enter whenever she wishes.

Yes, sir. I hope you enjoy your meal, Miss Algafari. It seems to have kept my colleagues in the kitchen occupied all morning.

The aroma of cooking animal meat envelops them, Jack sniffing appreciatively, Alice taken aback.

Pmeat or animal meat? Alice asks hesitantly.

Animal. Bought the last of what Perry's had.

Thought it might be. She smiles, and he knows he has made the right choice.

*

At last, recognition. Mark Milner contemplates his future. He is only thirty-five years old and he is already a senior film editor at the Numan Broadcasting Corporation, formerly the British Broadcasting Corporation.

Mark is proud to still have work despite artificial intelligence replacing eighty percent of human jobs – education handled by AI personal assistants, transport and production purged of humans and worker numans alike, even mass media writing and comment sanitized by digital origination and control. But Mark's skills are in demand. He still earns. He is not living on starvation-rate federation handouts while numans scoop all the cream.

Numans are clever. I'll give them that – but I don't believe their propaganda. No one knows where they came from, but they didn't just evolve from humans in Africa. They're not even black. In any event, I've learned to live with them. I can make a good life for Chrissy by doing things the numans can't do. I can add a human touch to their video editing.

Mark walks into the ultra-speed elevator and experiences that strange pseudo-gravity as it carries him from his floor, twenty-six levels below ground, to the bosses' eyrie thirty-two floors above ground. Numans think the gravity sensation is the same stationary, rocketing up or plummeting down. But to Mark, as one of the few humans still working for the NBC, it feels like being gripped in sticky rubber. Acceptable but not realistic.

His whole working life seems like that sometimes: acceptable but not realistic, until he remembers his valued position in this esteemed organization. Sometimes, it is no more than difference: numans are small, with slightly darker skin tones, eyes that flash with colored rimming on the irises. Occasionally they have shocking blond hair but usually it is dark. They always wear gowns sewn with symbols and patterns, and shoes that wrap around the feet as they are slipped on. Some even have communicator arrays latticed into their gowns' arms or shoulders. And they all have endless supplies of emoney. It will be different when I'm a team leader. I'll have money to spend on meals and drinks.

Mark hums happily to himself. He has known about his appointment with the NBC Numan Resources Assistant Director for the past eighteen hours but he has not told Chrissy. I'll confirm that I have the job, and the extra pay, and then tell her. It might make her a little happier with our life here.

He can do the job. I'll be a great team leader. I'm always popular. I can chat up anybody. Everyone likes my wavy hair, my sparkling blue eyes and my smile. He might not be tall or heavily built but many people, especially women, like the slight, charming type of man. I can dazzle the Assistant Director. The Mark Milner charm never fails.

The elevator stops and Mark steps out, adjusting his eyes to bright natural light. This light is not possible! We are at Stansted Drone Zone Media Park south of Cambridge in SubFedEngland. The air is never clear. It's either the smog from the human slums in London blanketing everything or storms raging in from the North Sea.

A numan receptionist catches his eye. He is rigidly self-contained, slim and coldly superior in his NBC uniform robe with its weave showing his rank, family affiliations and achievements – a typical support-staff numan. The numan film cutters are a lot easier to get on with; we are all the same down there.

I'm— he begins.

Milner, from media editing, says the receptionist. I know who you are and who ordered your appearance here. Follow me.

The windows... he tries to say as he trails after the numan.

They are not windows, says the receptionist flatly. They are the latest in surround-screen illumination which is being fitted in the above-ground levels where senior staff run the NBC.

Mark considers the gulf between the higher-level managers and the below-ground staff. That's reasonable enough. Top people always get the best of anything going. I expect they will catch up with us sooner or later.

The receptionist turns into a cul-de-sac of open media suites, each with its moveable floor screen. In the center, one suite dominates. A figure sits in front of a mediamat. The quality, cut and patterning of his robe mark him as very senior, the equivalent of a commander in the military or spookpolice. A wave of insecurity ripples through Mark. This is the Assistant Director; he probably is a commander in the spookpolice.

At the last moment, the receptionist shunts Mark into a suite in a crowded corner away from the Assistant Director. A numan official, a junior wearing a dreary robe, ignores Mark and carries on reviewing something on his mediamat miniscreen.

Mark shuffles awkwardly. He does not know whether he should stand or sit. And the receptionist has melted away as if he had never existed.

Do you want me to sit, sir? he asks.

No. This will not take long, Milner.

Yes, sir.

Mark waits, eyeing the immediate area and the surround-screen illumination. It's accurate enough: the drone zone view, Cambridge to the north, London smog to the southwest.

Milner, says the official, his cold brown eyes on Mark.

Yes, sir?

I have reviewed your application for team leader status. We have had our eyes on you since the BBC was reinvigorated as the NBC.

I am delighted, thank you, sir. I've been doing my best to produce good results.

"Your re-editing of the educational documentary Natural World introduced serious political errors, says the official. The censorship and public order departments complained to us. We intended the documentary to show the natural and inevitable process of dividing the world into federations governing themselves without controversy or conflict."

Yes, sir, but... protests Mark. My voice! I sound so weak!

You said the World Council reorganization was politically motivated. In particular, you claimed the Numan Military High Command took control of independent states and regions and reorganized them as dependent federations answerable to the political control of the World Council and the military control of the Military High Command.

But sir, that was the official definition in the BBC style book, which was still in use at that time, Mark says.

In addition, continues the official, an executioner going about his business, you recently claimed to have found errors in two immigration promotional videos. For example, you changed 'FedOz,' the correct NBC term, to 'Australia,' the unnatural and defunct term propagated by the BBC.

Mark, alarm rising in him, can see his error. He should not have changed FedOz. He had his doubts when he did it but... Yes, sir, but I can explain, he says urgently. I spent a lot of time – some of it my own time, after my other duties – and reported to my team leader in depth because the errors cast doubt on both videos. You see, they were not believable.

My team leader was content! He said he would take my report and the edited videos to his boss. He must have agreed. He likes me. He wouldn't do anything to damage my chances in the NBC.

We read your report and evaluated your editing, which did not accord with our assessment of the videos. We disregarded your tampering and gave the videos to a numan editor who understood what he was seeing and who produced first-class edited films. Your team leader recommended him for promotion and his appointment will be announced later today.

But sir...

Your job application reminded us of your presence, and the risk posed by letting you have access to our video editing. We have decided to terminate your employment as of this moment.

This can't be happening! There must be some mistake. My team leader was very content when I found the unbelievable propaganda. I was just making it more believable! But sir, if I can...

The receptionist, who had vanished only minutes earlier, is back at his side, gripping his elbow. The official glances at them and tells the receptionist, Eject this human animal.

No! You can't do that to me! There must be a mistake! Mark looks around desperately, fearful and angry. No one looks up. The Assistant Director is drinking tea. Pressure, just short of pain, increases with the receptionist's grip on Mark's elbow and he allows himself to be led to the elevator. I'll go to my mediamat and appeal. This is not fair!

The elevator door opens and two security guards, burly and eager for opposition, reach out and drag Mark in. I want to go to my work suite, he insists as he tries to free his arms, but they have him pinned. I must get free; I must escape!

Ahhhh! An excruciating pain shoots through him. His knees buckle and the guards catch his weight. Through the haze of shock, he tries to wriggle free but, having zapped him with their pacifier, the guards have his arms pinned tight and one is tugging and twisting his ear.

In a second, the elevator reaches the ground floor. The door, an old-style force field with projected decorations as facings, vanishes and the guards drag him towards the building's main entrance. Numans and the occasional human walk past as they casually avoid the drama. Despite the shock, the sacking and the pain, Mark is embarrassed by his humiliating ejection.

Report to the spookpolice office for your neighborhood, snarls one of the guards. On the last word, they fling him with practiced ease onto the concourse in front of the building.

Mark lies there, stunned, half-expecting someone, maybe a colleague, to come by and help him to his feet. But life, tranquil and orderly, goes on around him as if he does not exist.

In a numan way, he does not exist. It is one thing to lose his job – that is bad enough – but it is something else to be sent to the spookpolice. That means my identity file has been marked as subversive and unsuitable for employment.

He drags himself to his feet and trudges off towards his neighborhood and the spookpolice. I might as well get it over with.

*

Jack proudly ladles out the beef casserole and then offers Alice the almost unobtainable Jersey potatoes, fresh beans and carrots carefully arranged on a platter. The Shiraz spills into his Amazon crystal glasses as Alice smiles in anticipation.

She teasingly lifts her glass and sniffs. Smells all right, she says mock doubtfully, then sips it. Tastes all right too. She dazzles him with a smile, the glass raised. To us and expensive wine sold cheaply.

I'll drink to that – or anything else.

They eat silently, he savoring the casserole, she the Jersey potatoes. Jack looks up thoughtfully. Last of the beef from the village, he tells her quietly. Perry's is closing its animal meat counter in a reorganization of the store. The numans won't touch animal meat and the cost has forced our local humans into printing their own.

I've noticed how few people are buying animal meat.

Changing times, changing tastes.

Maybe it's not so bad, she says, picking up his mood with a sad smile. You said you go into Dorchester sometimes. You can buy there. Or you can get Google to deliver it. You could just buy the Amazon pmeat cartridges and print your own like almost everyone else in the village. I usually eat pmeat.

It's the future, I know. Soon only pmeat will be available to people like me. Rising sea levels have already taken the lowland areas around the country, much of it rich farming land. Food output has fallen everywhere and prices have risen faster than the sea. Almost all of East Anglia and eastern England, prime food growing areas, are under the North Sea. Only Ely Cathedral, high on its hill and long called The Ship of the Fens, is defying the waves while its medieval foundations melt away. And historic Cambridge... Maybe the new seawall will be enough to save some of it.

I could buy my meat in Dorchester while it's available or I could print pmeat, but that's not the point, is it? he says gently. It's about our life here and how long it will last before we are crushed by people being forced off the coasts and the numans buying up everything. Our society, our way of life, is becoming extinct. The human race is becoming extinct. At the very least, we'll be moved on in a year or two.

Moved on where? she asks, more rhetorical than inquiring. The numans are increasing their population exponentially with their two-wives, ten-children way of life. They say numans are popping up everywhere from Land's End to John o'Groats.

He had once tried to argue, during his time in Cambridge University intellectual circles, that numans had a domination gene that plays out in their population expansionism and their work concentration. He could see that, so why could the brightest and best in Cambridge not see it?

The latest reports on population changes point out that human fertility is in steep decline through pollution and poor nutrition. Most humans can no longer afford to eat adequately or bring up families: shortages, high prices, very little employment for humans after artificial intelligence replaced manual tasks and then thinking jobs. Health care discrimination. No education. Numans flooding areas. All the money in the world seems to be funneled into their needs.

It's amazing that you and I survived and got educated, isn't it? he says, knowing Alice would understand.

How do you feel about it all, Jack? It is the first time she has used his first name. Somehow it softens the bleakness he is feeling. Humans seem to be lingering on the edge of... what was your word? Extinction?

Damn, this is going in the wrong direction. I want her to see me as someone whose company she can enjoy, someone who is fun, someone with a future.

How do I feel about it? he brightens. Great. I feel great. I'm ready to take on all-comers, anything. If our way of life changes, fine – who wants to become a boring old fart living in the same cage for the rest of our lives?

Outside, a slight rumble disturbs the peace as a Google delivery vehicle goes by – in Jack's mind, a driverless electric van, as if anyone saw any other kind these days. He pours more red for Alice and then for himself. He can feel the earlier dose of Shiraz pleasantly dancing with the gin in his brain.

Did you hear about the Harrisons? she asks quietly, almost tentatively, gauging his spiking tension.

Yes. Sold out to numans. Ed Harrison said the offer was so high they couldn't refuse. They're going to emigrate to a new life in FedOz. Though how much of FedOz is left after the rise in sea levels, I don't know.

That's what I heard too. The new family is moving in when the sale goes through on the thirty-first. The father is going to work with us at the research center.

How old is he? Twelve? Jack fills it out with a laugh but the specter of bitterness is there, the joke that is no joke.

She reaches over impulsively, takes his hand. Not quite that young. He is twenty-eight, and quite brilliant according to Galen. He got his first degree at sixteen, his second at eighteen and a third at twenty. His wives are pretty smart too but not smart enough to avoid having five children each by the time they were eighteen.

A very clever man, Jack agrees, the pleasure of her touch distracting his fears of extinction. But, even so... Numans have the evolutionary edge on humans, like Homo sapiens had the edge on Neanderthals 30,000 years ago. It's just a matter of time.

His stress is showing but he wants her to know he is stable and, if anything develops between them, that she will always be able to rely on him. Not as family. Not as a colleague. Not as a member of his community. Not even in accord with some behavioral code. She can always count on him because of the way he feels, already, about her. Can she cope with that?

She gently disentangles her hand. When we have finished our meal, I think we should walk Max, she says. My old dog died and I miss walking him.

Max, sprawling patiently as he waits for his share of the meal, suddenly perks up. Max! says Alice. You clever boy! You know what I'm saying!

*

It is early evening. Max, his tail beating the air, forages among the bushes, the grasses and the field-edge flowers that grow in wild profusion in the monsoon season's heavy rainfall and sauna heat.

Alice and Jack saunter along, keeping an eye on him as the path winds between rolling hill-rice fields that were once covered in grass and filled with cattle for milking and slaughtering.

A cluster of robotic insects descends on the modified wildflowers that blaze unlikely colors and shapes along the field edges. Why would anyone want to redesign wildflowers? But he knows why. Because it is numan art and business. It's not all bad – they genetically re-engineered my horse chestnut and modified the English cottage flowers to survive in 120-degree temperatures.

A bee emerges from the tangle of flowers and Jack holds his breath as he tries to see if it is real. He pushes his grim thoughts aside. Tonight is for Alice. Let her see me as someone to enjoy.

This is wonderful, says Jack, turning towards Alice, his hand brushing hers as they walk, comfortable together. He is delighted with how the day has gone.

It is wonderful, isn't it? she says simply. She has a way of synchronizing with him, sharing his emotions, understanding his ways of experiencing his human nature. Or am I imagining it because that's what I want?

They plan to walk for another half hour and then, with Max ready to rest, idle away a couple of hours in the Smugglers' riverside garden, snacking on traditional Dorset fare and drinking pints of Pickled Partridge beer. It is one of the few pubs left that sells alcohol – and then in only one small area, with the rest catering to alcohol-free numan tastes.

Your numan recruit: what does Galen think about employing a numan? Is he the first?

I don't know, she answers. Galen never says much. He has a very demanding job – nearly two hundred and sixty people work for the research center and he has to keep them all together as a team.

Do you think he will take on more numans?

Numans are perfect for his needs, she says defensively. They are smarter than humans. They think only about their tasks during working hours, so they get more done. They can be paid less because the United Gulf States World Bank subsidizes families for the first five years of employment.

Money is power. Power is survival. Lack of power is the track to death and extinction. What is the United Gulf States World Bank? asks Jack, keeping his eye on Max sniffing in the undergrowth. The bank's name is everywhere but that's all. No location, no names for directors, no indication of where it gets its investment money. Just its name and endless forms for money grants and loans. All for numans; nothing for humans. I expect your finance people know the bank details if employees are subsidized.

I know a little, Jack, but the bank and its money are not my responsibility. Director Galen has the only link to the bank.

Alice, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. I'm just so frustrated with research dead ends and that's one of them.

I can tell you what I know. The bank system was set up by the supercomputers before we isolated them and stopped them controlling us. The World Council controls the banking system now. It takes money from human sources and processes it to support numans.

Why? Why not support numans and humans?

The function of the system seems to be to extract liquid wealth from humans and give it to numans to enable them to replace humans in work and home ownership. The bank also controls the expansion of electronic money but I have never seen how much is in circulation. The bank is a form of control: it requires numans to buy homes from humans, who usually take the money and go to FedOz. When the humans sign on for their FedOz immigration cruise, they have to deposit their money with the FedOz NewLife Bank. The United Gulf States World Bank owns the FedOz bank and so gets back the money it gave to numans to buy the human homes. It also gets any other cash assets owned by the humans – so it makes a gain on the investment funds it uses for numans. I don't know what happens when humans get to FedOz. How does that make you feel?

Jack, a victim of this systematic asset stripping, nods. Not good, but that's all in the past for me. He fights down the temptation to push for more information and raises a placating hand. She's what's important. I'll find out about the bank some other way. Let's not talk about the numan-human question, he says. But he cannot let go of it and continues, You know what happened to me in Cambridge?

Yes, I know. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve it, but it's the effect of market forces. It was the same in Oxford. That's why I took Galen's offer of a job here. She pauses, half-smiles at him. It's such a nice evening. Let's not spoil it.

No, I'm sorry. I get a bit intense sometimes. It's not just losing my career and where I lived. He stops talking, throws a stick for Max, buying a little time. It's also the book I'm writing. I don't want just the cold facts... I'm... He pauses, looks into her eyes, held by a moment that even Max cannot break. I'm thinking myself into the minds and emotions of the human victims of the numan takeover. I'm trying to do the same with animals being destroyed to the point of extinction. It's emotionally draining. I feel the threat of extinction; I fear numans are deliberately using their two wives, ten children system to squeeze us out of existence.

Like the populations of humans have squeezed every other animal out of existence?

Precisely! This is what I want to say in my book.

I would like to read some of your book.

That would be great. You can tell me what you think.

I will be honest but kind, she says with mock solemnity, and they both laugh. Max joins in by jumping at her but she deftly deflects him, takes the stick and throws it a good ten yards.

Nice throw, says Jack admiringly, though as much for her grace and shape as for her strength.

I've had a lot of practice.

They fall into a comfortable silence, lulled by the pleasures of the walk.

The increase in the numan population is staggering, says Alice thoughtfully, breaking the mood. We get the figures at the Center and we can see the statistics organizations are only just beginning to get accurate data. I think it is shocking everyone – politicians, economists, and researchers like me.

She watches him as his stress spikes again. Is she testing me to see what happens to me under pressure?

Are they finally solving the mystery of where the numans came from? he asks her, not expecting an answer. And how they achieved in fifty years what humans took 30,000 years to do. I'd love to take apart their DNA.

We've done it at the Center: numans are ninety-six percent human, partly mutated. We are still working on the other four percent.

He tries to catch her eyes as she is speaking but she avoids it and follows Max. Is she telling me the truth? Why would she lie?

On the number of numans, she says, it looks like the earlier statistics failed to identify them as numans. They came out of Africa and many other sparsely populated areas, first as refugees and migrants and then in unstoppable waves. At first, they were listed as humans from their countries of origin rather than numans. It was only after numan culture developed that they were seen as one homogenous group. It was then—

Suddenly, Jack's phone pings. Jack, you are taking me out of signal range, it announces querulously. Either turn back now or I'll be useless.

No change there then, snipes Jack.

Right, I'm going offline.

Jack sighs. That damned phone. He looks at the grinning Alice.

Does your phone have a personality problem? she asks.

Forget him, says Jack. Let's talk about numans. Do the new figures give a world total? I shouldn't ask her but I need to know.

Yes, she says quietly, watching him intently. The latest Office of Statistics and Projections report is still to be finalized but there is a figure, not yet final, in the draft.

Office of Statistics and Projections?

It's a closed network. Never named or quoted directly. The political people will garble a public statement from the final report and attribute it to one of their ministries.

Jack chews it over. He has never heard of the Office of Statistics and Projections despite months of research. And Alice is revealing fascinating data that probably should never be known beyond the very heart of the World Council's most trusted and powerful elite.