Beautiful Humanoids

PROLOGUE: A SECRET GARDEN

Day by day, mutant tropical growths began to spread across the Richmond Peninsula like the sprouting tendrils of a gigantic honey fungus. It was here, that as a girl, Marie Moreau would search the smothered oaks and seas of fronded ferns for the eggs of exotic birds and the shallow nests of sleeping lizards. Although much of the Peninsula had always been public parkland, it seemed to Marie that the winding pathways and leafy glades were all part of her secret garden and that the flora and fauna grew and flourished for her alone. So, it was with tender care that she watched the plants transform and the creatures mutate in response to the increased radiation.

For Marie it was a magical time. Defying all predictions, the tropical zone had reached Europe in just a few years and the temperature and water levels were rising daily. But it didn’t matter to Marie that London was now beneath the swollen Thames, for here on the Peninsula, high above river level, the landscape was blossoming as the refuge for strange new life forms.

Although she didn’t realize it at the time, Marie was a lonely child. A passing stranger might have thought she was the ghost of some murdered child, so pale was her skin, yet Marie felt she was as dark as the shadows beneath the dripping leaves, her mind brim full with slowly moving shapes, an organic soup of new growth.

She had almost forgotten her parents who some years before had seemingly disappeared into the hologram suite of their villa and never returned. Her virtual teachers and online friends only existed in cyber-space, she had never actually met any of them in the flesh. So, for Marie, life was something that went on around her and beyond her. She was frustratingly detached from it, watching it change and evolve as though she was some Olympian goddess peering down from behind the clouds. Yet, she yearned to be an essential part of the world, to love it passionately, to be in touch and feel it like the sensitive skin of her own adolescent body. So, too, as she lay amongst the giant ferns listening to the screeching of the macaws and breathed in the psychedelic cocktail of rogue bio-attacks and flooded chemical plants that rolled in waves of fog off the Thames, she dreamt that one day she would grow a boy in her garden. She would watch him dance like the birds of paradise courting beneath the trees and lay mutant eggs in secret nests. She would watch him fall in love with her without knowing why, as if hypnotized by the wand of an invisible magician. Her creation would exist just for her as a new species in a new world.

By constant exposure her thoughts and dreams began to melt into this secret and luscious garden, imprinting her essence upon it. Like a doting gardener, she would nurture this renaissance boy so that he would naturally love this gardenscape as though it was part of himself and in so doing become her true lover, or maybe her only son. Perhaps he would meet other girls, but he would never be allowed to know who they really were. He would love them like the jasmine and lilies that suffused the garden with their heady perfumes, or like the feral Siamese cats that hunted amongst the undergrowth, lusting for the blood of fledgling birds: all integral parts of her expanding mindscape.

However, what emerged as the succulent dreams of a terminally lonely child were later to explode like seed pods buried in a barren wasteland and awakened by the flood of ever rising seas. Perhaps it was that the ancestral burial chambers in the lava tubes of Mars were revealing the culmination of their dreams desperately trying to escape the millennia of dust and decay. As Marie stretched out her arms with an eerie cry to the howler monkeys swinging in the canopy above, her golden eyes stared intently into the shadowlands that constantly flickered and moved so strangely beneath the boughs of ancient oaks and the yet unexplored depths of the seething jungle floor…

Chapter 1 — MARIE’S CHAMELEONS

As the shuttle landed, dawn was breaking, and as Mallory looked towards the horizon, he could see a chain of ancient mountains touching low rolling clouds. Elysium Mons was a barren volcanic area where the space station rested like a mound of white pebbles left heaped on a drained and desolate beach. Now, so far from home, he felt that at last he could leave the past behind him. His life had been dominated by strange and beautiful women, which had left him scarred and unstable; wounds etched into his frown. Had he ever been younger than he was now? It seemed that the pointed nails of slender hands had scored his back with trenches of blood. Even so, he hoped that this new beginning could be a renaissance for him. Like a reflection of his inner self, he could identify with this lonely red planet. He would step out onto its bleak surface and empty his mind onto its already stained deserts, feeding the dust, embedded with the seeds of exotic plants and the eggs of creatures he had never dreamed of.

Early each morning, from her window in the Bradbury Complex, Marie would watch the myriad insects crawl from beneath the rocks that lay scattered over the expanse of red sand. As the light caught their glistening bodies it would have been easy to assume that the swarming insects wore sequins and jewels in readiness for some unearthly fashion parade. No sooner had the iridescent display begun, gushing in rivulets between the rocks, than a flock of pink gulls swept down from the heavy cloud cover to scoop up the teeming hoards with their sharp yellow beaks, like taking silver fish from the ocean waves and scattering them amongst the billowing dust.

          Marie, herself a second-generation GM product, had come to Mars three years earlier to study the unfolding genetic mutations experienced by the creatures only recently introduced to the red planet. It was the first time that scientists had attempted to terraform a planet and many unforeseen difficulties were arising, which was fascinating, but not yet, alarming. Indeed, it was not the effect of the raging dust storms, or the battles for survival of the rapidly evolving creatures that disturbed Marie’s studies, but an infatuation for a technic. It was a taboo subject to talk about the origins of technics for they were outcasts from Earth, but here they held a certain respect and glamour because of the dangerous work they were expected to undertake.

          Mallory was outwardly a quiet and thoughtful man, his unknown history adding a mysterious quality to his personality. He seemed to distance himself from the people around him and this was often misinterpreted as haughtiness. On closer inspection it could be seen from his dark eyes there was more to him than that, as if at some time he had suffered a terrible trauma. Only days after his arrival, a deep shaft mine worker had reported seeing Mallory’s face glowing luminescent on the rock face like the ghost of a Martian god. But hallucinations were common at these depths, challenging the miners to keep a firm grip on their minds. There was a constant battle raging in Mallory’s mind too. There was a continual process of self-analysis that led to the disassembling of his head, piece by piece and this internal surgery had somehow damaged the individual parts making them difficult to slot together again. The long journey to Mars had given him a lot of time to think. Anybody first meeting him remained oblivious to these hidden layers of suffering, his calm exterior painting a different picture altogether.

          Marie’s stress levels had been rising dangerously over the past few weeks owing to the problems she was having with the feathered chameleons. She had taken on the task of finding the reason why these reptiles were breeding so fast and occupying territory set-aside for the iguanas. In fact, the chameleons, having escaped their nursery in the biosphere, were reaching plague proportions and had become as common as geckos within the Bradbury Complex itself. Looking rather pale and weak, her colleague Burroughs, who took a particular interest in her, suggested she should go for a workout in the gym, and that’s when the real trouble began.

          It wasn’t Burroughs that caught Marie’s attention in the gym, but a man who reminded her of her childhood, now running hard on a treadmill towards a distant horizon. Or, was he running away from one? She couldn’t be sure. But she could see from his taut muscles and determined look, that there was something both wonderful and alarming about him. Was this the boy she had known on the Richmond Peninsula, or was he a clone without her shared memories?

          Soon after, freshly showered and oiled, she had sat next to him in the rest room, and whilst sipping her orange juice, struck up a conversation with him. At once, Marie had felt excited in Mallory’s presence and later in the privacy of her room, she would repeatedly replay her body cam holo-clip of their first meeting, smiling as she reduced his size to a doll balanced on her arm.

          Hi, my name’s Marie… Marie Moreau.

          Ah, Marie… I’m Mallory.

          They shared smiles, Marie eager to hear more of his deep soft voice.

          Have you been here long? Mallory asked, to break the growing tension between them.

          Yes. I came here over three years ago during Phase Five, as soon as the labs were set up.

          Umm…Have you done any sightseeing, or gone on safari yet?

          Well, yes and no. Only working expeditions. My work focuses on genetic mutations. There’s too much for us to do. There are problems here that nobody envisaged.

          You may be right there, but don’t you take a break sometimes?

          A break? What are you suggesting?

          Well, surely it’s not necessary for you to take on so much. Can’t somebody else share your workload for a while?

          I’d rather not. In fact, it’s my passion.

          Ahh…I see. Tell me, do you ever feel homesick?

          It’s funny you should say that. Only the other day, I was sitting beneath some date palms in the biosphere studying the behavior of the chameleons, when I thought I could hear the river. As a child, I would often play amongst the lush vegetation of the Richmond Peninsula and watch from the hills as the sweeping fogs came up the swollen Thames. The mists were psychedelic and would unfold to me strange shapes and stories of foreign lands beyond the seas, or of alien landscapes on distant planets. I always felt that somehow the river would take me on some exotic adventure and would keep me safe on the long journey. Now, it seems the river is reminding me that one day I shall have to return.

Fascinating. Tell me more about this place. Somehow it seems familiar to me.

          Marie slid back into the foam chair, her eyes wandering across the ceiling. Actually, I’ve been thinking more and more about it recently. I suppose it’s often the case that people identify with their childhood homes as though there are invisible threads that attach them to that time and place. I guess that whether these attachments and memories are pleasant or unpleasant determines to what extent an individual might want to hold on to them. It seems to me that this lost environment encloses our minds and in effect we live there for our whole lives. So, you see, I had thought that in one sense I’m not on Mars at all, but still searching the paths and leafy hills of the Richmond Peninsula. As a child I’d always thought that the lush landscape, the psychedelic mists, and the swollen river was where my mind existed, only using my head as a kind of focal point in order to function as a human.

Interesting, Mallory intervened, mentally noting that Marie was just like many of the intellectuals he had met, far too introverted. But, please go on…

          Half closing her eyelids, Marie began to open herself to him.

          One of the most seducing factors of these memories has always been the colours. The different shades of green of ferns and leaves in deep summer: the browns, reds and gold of fleeting autumn, but most of all the rainbow mists that roll up the banks of the Thames overwhelming your mind with fantastic images. But, strangely, lately the colours seem to have faded, as if the Peninsula has somehow been bleached, drained of its vibrancy. It makes me feel as though my mind is wearing out, losing its colour like paint washed away by encroaching grey clouds and persistent rain.

          Marie looked so sad Mallory was afraid she was about to cry. Her descriptions of the Richmond Peninsula had saturated his mind, as though they were his memories too, yet uncomfortably lying dormant, just waiting to be revived.

          You must try not to dwell on this too much, he said, sympathetically. When we’re living in such isolation our minds can play funny tricks on us. You’re not the first person to describe such feelings to me. Only yesterday a technic told me that she could no longer visualize her parents. She used almost the same words as you, saying that she was frightened they had just ‘faded away.’ I can’t be certain, but I think it’s a kind of acute homesickness. After all, we’re all pioneers here, voluntarily or involuntarily. This is the first major planetary colony if you don’t count the Moon. We must expect a few surprises. The thing that nobody wants is for terminal loneliness to set in. What I’m suggesting is that maybe we should all try to develop our social relationships more than we’ve been used to. In other words, we should get out and enjoy ourselves more, whether in the holo-suite or in reality, meet other people, relax. There’s no quick fix for this, unless you want to go back to designer drugs.

          Well, doctor, Marie quipped. You think it’s as easy as that?

          What do you mean?

Mary shrugged her shoulders. I had thought it was in some way connected to the terraforming process. I mean, these sudden blooms of plants and creatures that’s always followed by their steep decline. It’s as if their lifeblood is being drained into the Martian dust. It disturbs me. I know this is our first attempt at terraforming a planet, but it doesn’t fit any of the models.

          Isn’t it possible that life’s just more complex than we ever imagined, and getting the right balance, particularly on a planet new to us, is a tricky thing to achieve?

          Marie was fully alert again, the problems playing on her nerves.

          Mallory, sensing her excitement and blind to what he might be getting into, found himself saying, Why don’t you meet me later for a drink and we could talk about it some more?

          I don’t know…

          Ok, well, I’ll be in the bar on level 3 at twenty-one hundred tonight. If you feel like it, come along…

          Mallory’s smile was certainly inviting. It wasn’t so much his mouth that smiled, but his eyes also. Initially, Mary thought him genuine and caring, or was it a different attraction?

          I’ll see, she said as she got up to leave, knowing in her mind that she was curious to see where this path might lead. She didn’t look back. She knew he would be watching.

          Later that evening, as Mallory was sitting in the bar watching a dust storm raging outside, he was given quite a shock. The lights of the Bradbury Complex were penetrating the swirling dust up to about thirty metres. Of course, it would have been foolhardy to venture out in such weather, particularly without any protective clothing, but there on the other side of the thick glass window, stood his father, staring back at him.

          Mallory’s father, Joseph, had died in a plane crash some twenty years previously. Or, had he? Naturally, at first, he assumed he was hallucinating, yet the apparition was disturbingly convincing. Perhaps, Mallory thought, he had been doing secret work and wanted to disappear. The body was never found. But no, the way he stood there dressed so casually, as if impervious to the weather, just didn’t make sense. Within seconds, he was gone, a shower of dust and small stones buffeting the windows, obscuring the direction he might have taken.

Mallory rubbed his eyes. I must be tired, he mumbled to himself, or is it these recycled drinks playing tricks on me? A more frightening thought suddenly hit him a hammer blow, Did my father ever exist at all?

Just then Marie breezed in, finding a seat by his side.

          Momentarily startled, Mallory thought a giant chameleon had settled next to him. Marie was wearing a tight fitting metallic green skin suit that subtly changed colour in response to body heat. As she reached over to touch Mallory, her arm was shimmering green and silver and her fingers were as cold as ice. Looking at him, her eyes bulged, as though desperately searching for something: was it sex or food? Mallory was uncertain, but maybe the answer was that she possessed a deeper gnawing hunger that even she was unaware of?

          Ah, glad you could make it, he said, trying to shake off the vision of his father and readjust to this reptilian lady. He couldn’t avoid letting his eyes stray over the contours of her body. The first time he had met her, he hadn’t noticed how thin she was. Perhaps she’s suffering from anorexia, he thought. Her body looked undernourished, the bones of her shoulders and hips jutting out sharply; her breasts, the size of small plums glued to her flat chest. Her fingers, now resting on his hand, were long and fragile, the skin almost transparent. Her hair was tightly braided, just reaching her collarbone, hanging loose and interspersed with tiny bells. The sound was like the clinking of prisoner’s chains, and for fleeting seconds, Mallory found himself lying beneath her tied to the bed by her coiled hair.

I hope I didn’t startle you, she laughed. I thought I’d get out of my work suit for a change.

          No, no, of course not. The strangest thing just happened. Just before you arrived, I thought I saw my father outside the window.

          Outside?

          Well, it couldn’t have been him of course. He’s dead anyway!

          What?

          I must have been hallucinating. Fatigue, probably.

          What kind of fatigue? Too much work and travelling or unexpected meetings?

          Mallory chuckled. Maybe it’s a special kind of Martian fatigue. I haven’t been here long, and it seems I’m already suffering from an acute attack! There’s just too much red everywhere, it’s claustrophobic. Whoever did the interior design for the Bradbury Complex must have had a giant skeleton in mind; all the white upholstery, the ivory plastic everywhere, stairs like colossal ribs. Perhaps one day, the swirling red dust outside will transform into blood and we will all be absorbed into the heart of the planet!"

          Oh, you’re so dramatic! she grinned, tossing her head back. Well, at least I’m green, she added, touching his arm with her sleeve, though as she did so, veins of red crept up to her shoulder as his body heat transferred its energy to her.

          Mallory smiled at this, for the first time feeling a surge of desire growing inside him. He felt like kissing her hard on the lips, crushing her body against his chest. This unexpected feeling of violence suddenly overwhelmed him, causing him to smash his glass on the table, spilling the contents on Marie’s skin suit with a spray of blue spots.

          Oh, I’m sorry… he began, wiping the spots with his bare hands, feeling the taut skin beneath her suit. His touch seemed almost everlasting, and he knew that he was not really brushing away the drink at all but caressing her body. Where his fingers touched her, the fabric turned a rich crimson and they both began laughing uncontrollably.

          Interrupting their intimacy, a gaunt young man came over to them.

          Sorry to but in, but you’re wanted in the lab, Dr. Moreau.

Marie, wiping the tears from her eyes, introduced her colleague Burroughs to Mallory. Although he politely shook his hand, Mallory took an instant dislike to Burroughs, cybernetics expert or not, distrusting his hawk-like eyes, instinctively guessing the man was a heavy drug user.

          Suddenly, Mallory was alone again, with a lot more to think about than when he had arrived at the bar. But he didn’t order another drink, or join his fellow technics waving to him from a distant corner of the room. Instead, he walked slowly back to his quarters, absently counting stray feathered chameleons scuttling along the corridors or frozen to the walls.

Cursing the air-con, Mallory slept badly that night, waking early, drenched in sweat. Still not admitting to