A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

by Nicholas Fisk

Genres: YA Fantasy

Synopsis

At the end of the 22nd century, following a nuclear accident, the birth rate is falling.

Faced with a rapidly shrinking human race, governments come up with a solution: new people from old. Cloning.

But these Reborn people are kept closely monitored, in controlled scenarios. Will they really fit into futuristic society? What other secrets are being hidden outside of the worlds in which they are contained?

Release date: November 30, 2023

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

The Chancellor who led Brin through the corridors was nobody important: just an elderly man with various bits of coloured ribbon on his white tunic to show how distinguished he was. Or had been. He was too old to matter now. Brin was young enough to matter.

The corridors were long, high-arched, and splendid. The tall windows were radiant and mellow with moving pictures, constantly changing, showing historical achievements of the western world. Brin wanted to slow down, to look at them properly – but the Chancellor shuffled on anxiously, towing Brin along. ‘Quickly, young man!’ he said, ‘they’re waiting for you! The Seniors are waiting!’ Brin let himself be hurried, smiling at the humped old back and the gasping voice. After all, the Chancellor was old and useless. Brin was young and priceless.

‘In there, boy!’ said the Chancellor and opened the great doors. Before Brin was the Council Chamber of the Western Elect. In the Chamber were the Seniors of the Western Elect. They ruled the whole western world – one third and more of the planet Earth. They were important, yes: but they were all old.

The Chancellor gave Brin a nervous push towards a solitary white chair set in the middle of the great horseshoe curve of the Seniors’ desk. Brin made the Sign of Politeness and sat down in the white chair. He did not ask permission to sit and he did not hurry as he settled himself. Comfortable, he stared at the Seniors. Silent, they stared at him.

The Chancellor – his voice shaking with respect and awe – announced Brin. ‘Brin Tuptal,’ he said, ‘Young Citizen First Grade, 3/HM 160 –’

‘We know all that,’ said one of the Seniors, peevishly. This Senior sat in the middle of the horseshoe desk: ‘the senior Senior,’ Brin said to himself. The Senior Elect. He had a long nose. He looked much older than he did on the viddy screens – but even on TV he looked old enough. ‘Let the boy speak for himself,’ said the Senior Elect. ‘Well, Brin?’

‘Well,’ Brin replied, ‘I am Brin Tuptal and I’m twelve. I am cleverer than most people.’ He stared straight at the senior Senior, who scratched his nose, apparently uninterested. Brin shifted his stare to a brown-faced Senior, a woman. She looked Indian, her hair was blue-black and her skin brown. She smiled at Brin. To her right was another woman Senior, a horse-faced elderly woman. She too smiled at Brin, showing long white horsy teeth.

‘What is your IQ, Brin?’ she asked.

‘180 when I was tested by the Broningen rating. But it may be even higher on other ratings. Probably I’m a genius.’

Brin thought he heard the Senior Elect mutter, ‘Probably not,’ – but no doubt Brin misheard. Old people were not rude to young people.

Brin looked around him. Domed glass above him: a clear curve, showing the blue sky. It would not rain until Thursday. Today was Tuesday. He looked at the white, curved walls of the Council Chamber – the electronic displays, the illuminated, moving maps, the always changing readouts. Gadgets. But there were no gadgets on the Seniors’ desk. The nine Seniors made a bleak, bare picture in their white robes. Their faces supplied the only colours. One almost black, one brown, one golden yellow, the rest white.

‘Well?’ said the Senior Elect. ‘Go on. Don’t waste time. Talk.’ There was no respect in his voice, no politeness. Brin was surprised. He shrugged and said, ‘Talk about what?’ He looked from face to face and began to recite, ‘You are the Senior in charge of internal social affairs. And you, you’re the Senior in charge of food production – agriculture, fisheries, hydroponics, climate –’ He rolled off the words glibly, sure of himself, until the Senior Elect said, ‘Enough. Talk about yourself. And don’t be childish.’

Childish! Brin was shocked. He was seldom spoken to roughly. In Babyland, the state had taken care of him, gently. In Primary, it had been all Finger-painting and Experiences and Wonder of Living. Never a cross word, never a frown. And now he was twelve, and rare, and important – and grown-up people were being rude to him.

The horse-faced Senior prompted him. ‘You were saying you were a clever person – a person of high intelligence. Tell us more, Brin.’ She smiled invitingly, arching her long neck to one side.

Brin said, ‘I knew I was different from the others. Even in Primary. They messed about and played stupid games all the time. I learned things. Lots of things.’

‘What sort of things?’ said the Senior with the only face Brin liked – the golden-faced Chinese-looking woman.

‘Anything,’ Brin told her. ‘Everything.’

The Chinese-looking Senior laughed. ‘Everything?’ she said. ‘You learned everything?’ Brin was not sure that her laughter was kind.

‘I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t mean that!’ he said. He could hear himself getting rattled, hear his own voice rising to too high a pitch. ‘I don’t mean that I know everything, just that –’

‘Get on, get on,’ said the Senior Elect. Other Seniors were smiling privately. Brin was confused. He was not used to being laughed at. Sulkily, he refused to speak.

At last, the Chinese-looking Senior said, ‘So you learn very fast, do you?’

‘Very fast indeed. Faster than anyone I know. Faster than anyone in the Teens. I’m twelve, but they’ve put me with the Teens because I know so much. I’m brilliant, they say I’m brilliant. I can learn anything –’

‘Oh dear, oh dear, he won’t do,’ said the Senior Elect. ‘Swell-headed little ape,’ he seemed to add, in a mutter. (But that, Brin knew, was impossible. No one dared be that rude to a young person.) The black Senior yawned. The horse-faced Senior looked over Brin’s head. Brin was not used to being ignored.

The black-faced Senior suddenly snapped. ‘What’s Politics? What’s Ecology? Quick!’

Brin jumped. He was almost frightened. No one ever spoke to him like that. ‘P-politics,’ he began, hearing himself stutter, ‘is the art and science of ruling people – of ruling peoples –’

‘Well, well,’ sneered the Senior Elect. ‘Try Ecology.’

‘Ecology is the science of preserving the place we live in – seeing to the environment and –’

The Senior Elect cut him short. ‘What are Reborns?’ he demanded.

Brin gaped at him. Had he heard rightly? Had he really said ‘Reborns’?

‘Reborns, Reborns, Reborns!’ said the Senior, leaning forward over the table. ‘Tell us about them!’

‘But they mustn’t be talked about! –’

‘Oh yes they must. Here and now. Quickly!’

‘Reborns are manufactured people,’ Brin began. ‘New people made out of old people.’

‘How?’ said the Senior Elect.

‘There could be several ways, I don’t know if –’

‘You told us a moment ago that you’d learned everything,’ said a youngish Senior, a woman, who had not spoken before. She had big eyes and a small mouth, a tight little mouth, but now it was open, showing small white teeth. The round eyes were staring at him. He was not used to being stared at.

Brin sat back in his chair, feeling his back meet the soft pad. He settled himself deliberately: braced his mind and body and said, ‘You’re all rude and stupid. You’re rude to me. You are the Seniors but you behave like bad children. I’d like to go now.’

‘That’s better!’ said the Senior Elect, rubbing his narrow hands. He actually smiled. ‘Go on, boy. Tell us about Reborns.’

‘Only if you obey the Rules of Politeness,’ said Brin, making the Sign of Politeness used by all Westerners when a discussion goes wrong and a quarrel might start – a touch of the fingers to the head, where the brain is; then to the heart. It was an old sign, an ancient sign, the Christians had used something like it until a few centuries ago. You were supposed to reply to it.

Most of the Seniors made the sign back, but two of them didn’t, probably deliberately. An insult! Brin got to his feet and prepared to leave.

The voice of the Senior Elect stopped him. The voice was gentle now, completely changed, soft and low and pleasant. ‘Please sit down, Brin.’ The Senior made the sign and Brin automatically replied. ‘Tell us about the Reborns. Tell us what you know and don’t know. We are on a friendly footing now –’

‘We had to test you,’ said the golden-faced woman. ‘You see we have to try and find out if you are the right person to do the work we want done. But tell us about Reborns.’ She smiled. Her face was charming.

Brin settled back in his chair and began.

‘First,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what I know – what people are saying, that is. Because we don’t really know anything, only what you let us know. Anyhow …

‘In the last century, there was an accident at the Euronuclear power plant. A leakage. After the accident, the birth-rate began to fall. Many people who wanted to be parents could not have children. Children became very – very valuable, because there weren’t enough of them. Of us. So we had to be taken care of. Educated carefully, brought up to be healthy and so on.

‘Then,’ he continued, ‘the damage proved worse than anyone thought. The accident affected the whole world. There were . . .