Deathhunter

by Ian Watson

Genres: Science Fiction; Alien Contact; Dystopian; Genetic Engineering

Synopsis

The regions that have survived the holocaust in Watson's new novel have largely transformed themselves from prewar violence into a peaceful utopia, without either conflict or art. In place of belief in a religious afterlife, the old and ailing accept euthanasia at Houses of Death where priestlike guides counsel them. One of these guides is Jim Todhunter, who pursues research into the nature of death despite official censure. When he is assigned to guide that rarity in the new world - a murderer - he finds a natural ally in the obsessive Nathan Weinberger, himself an ex-guide. As usual with Watson, the initial impression of a green and pleasant land is revealed to be only one facet of a more complex and disturbing reality.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 167

Sample

AS THE SINGLE-CAR monorail train from Gracchus sped out of the last black tunnel into the honeyed sunlight of the valley, Jim Todhunter caught his first sight of Egremont, and his heart rejoiced.

The valley and its community looked as idyllic as their reputation, and if Jim regretted the suddenness of his reassignment from Gracchus, with the consequent interruption of his death researches in the city, to be sent to Egremont could hardly be regarded as a punishment. On the contrary, it seemed more like a consolation prize.

Jim unfolded the local map which Noel Resnick, Master of the House of Death in Egremont, had sent him just before his departure. While the monorail car sighed down towards the suburbs he tried to match the configurations of the map to the rich detail of the scene before him.

Except where a few green tongues of pine and fir forest encroached, the surrounding hills were a glory of orange, red and gold. To the north glinted the blue mirror of Lake Tulane over the dam. Even at this distance he thought he could make out the red and yellow butterflies of racing yachts.

An inviting scene indeed: orchards, farms, tree-lined avenues ruddy with the fall of the year, fountains splashing spouts of silver outside apartment blocks, little electric vehicles beetling about, the public transport pods swinging along a wire like beads, the geodesic domes of the micro-electronics factories …

And Downtown itself: which building was which? Was that the cable TV station or the Census Office? Which was the House of Death? Realizing that he was wasting this virgin moment, he tucked the map away as the train began to slow down automatically.

Jim was the only passenger. He wore a red bow-tie, loosely knotted: a dandyish touch which offset his otherwise plain suit—dun-coloured, appropriate to a death guide. However, the mood of his costume was not dour; it was quite unlike the gloom of priestly black. It suggested, perhaps, sand dunes coming into being and passing away in the wind, always changing, giving way to others. Jim’s sand dune, though, was speckled with fire at the throat.

He stretched his legs from the two-hour journey, then stood—bowing slightly—and hauled down his valise. He was a tall, raven-haired man in his late thirties, with a permanent slight stoop as though he never trusted doorways to be quite high enough to let him through.

A woman waited on the platform. This must be Marta Bettijohn, whom Resnick had promised would meet him. She was a cheerful, plumpish person with a rosy face and bright blue eyes. A buxom woman. She wore a yellow corduroy dress and brown tweed jacket. In her buttonhole was the silver insignia of the House of Death.

Jim tapped his own little silver rosette with his thumb, and grinned. He dropped the valise, and the two of them shook hands.

“A wonderful day, Jim! And a specially wonderful day for Egremont.”

He was taken aback.

“That sounds excessively flattering.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean …! Oh, I’m sorry—of course we’re all delighted to have you here! But Jim, what I meant was: Norman Harper is retiring today. Our P and J: our Pride and Joy! Didn’t you know that? The TV people will be beaming this ceremony out everywhere.” She glanced at her watch. “I couldn’t possibly miss it.”

“Well, I’ll be—! I must have missed the announcement. I’ve been pretty busy these last few days.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“Well, well! Quite an auspicious moment to arrive, indeed! Norman Harper, eh? Of course, I knew that he lived here in Egremont … Who’s in charge of his death, in the House?” As soon as he had said this, Jim regretted it. It sounded as though he imagined that he ought to walk in and guide the poet’s death by rights just because he had come from the city. The remark smacked of pretension or vanity, but Marta Bettijohn seemed not to notice.

“How can any of us really guide his death?” she said. “Alice Huron is the lucky one, but I guess she’ll learn more from him than he from her. Not that Alice isn’t good—I don’t mean that. But he’s, well, Norman Harper. He’ll show her the way.”

Then Marta proceeded to show Jim the way: out of the station to a waiting electric runabout. Jim folded himself awkwardly into the passenger seat. Overhead, Egremont people were waiting briefly on the Beadway platform and hopping into transport pods that came by at half-minute intervals.

“This is Harper Street,” announced Marta proudly, as the runabout purred forward over a pastel mosaic of rubbery tiles. She pointed out the Farming Go-op and the Library, both in neoclassical style, the latter conveniently near the school complex: a glass and steel design resembling several ziggurats colliding with each other. Of course, most of the Library’s stock could be accessed directly on screen, she explained; but the borrowing of actual books was encouraged in Egremont—another example of Norman Harper’s influence over the community. A poem couldn’t be entirely appreciated on a screen.

As they passed the complex, a class of children was spilling out, laughing and shouting. Or perhaps a mixture of several classes, for there were older faces and younger faces. The children waved to the runabout, and Marta waved back as the youngsters raced up the steps of another Beadway terminal.

“I’m a guide at the school,” Marta told Jim. “Most of the kids will be watching Norman’s retirement on screen, but we’ll have some of them there in person: youth bidding adieu to age. Not too many, though! This isn’t a circus.”

“Hardly!”

“We held a class lottery. It’s something they’ll always remember. Down there is the Mall—you’ve heard of our Mall?”

It was a long cross-avenue, arcaded in crystal. Ferns, trees and tall cacti grew in troughs between the shops for as far as Jim could see, and at intervals milky fountains sprayed. Only a few people were about in the Mall this afternoon.

“You really must try the Three Spires restaurant down there. Finest food around: fish, French and country style.”

“You’ll be my guest?”

Marta wagged a finger at him.

“Oh, I wasn’t hinting. Besides—I oughtn’t to tell you yet, or you’ll hardly keep your mind on Norman’s ceremony—but we’ve fixed up a ‘get-to-know-you’ barbecue out at the lake this evening. Grilled trout! And a few bottles of the local white, from the Vinehouse.”

“Sounds great.”

They passed the Peace Office, an octagonal edifice in stone with a massive portico and a gravelled courtyard where standard bay trees alternated with cypresses in large terracotta pots. A few marble statues stood about like pillars of salt. Or like the frozen dead, erect. But there wouldn’t be any freezer freaks in Egremont. This community was happily adjusted … Perhaps that was why he had been transferred here: so that some of the adjustment could rub off?

“I’ll have to check in there.”

“No hurry, Jim—not this afternoon! You’ll see quite a few of the officers at the ceremony, anyway. A thousand guests—that needs handling with dignity and honour.”

A further five minutes’ drive brought them to the House of Death itself. Here passengers were descending from the Beadway every half-minute, down on to the wide gravel paths between the green lawns. Thirty or forty runabouts were already parked on the concourse between the House and the Hospital.

Both the Hospital and the House were stone and glass pyramids with gardens growing up over them, tier above tier. The coiled serpent of the physician rose from the peak of the first, and from the tip of the second its partner, the familiar and friendly insignia: a silver rosette, with all the petals of life gathered at just the right moment.

A blue moat flowed around the House of Death, dappled with water-lily leaves bearing one or two late blooms. A single bridge crossed this water of detachment. From a grassy knoll in a far corner of the grounds a thin line of smoke rose like incense, beneath which would be the crematorium, Jim decided. A faint odour of synthetic sandalwood hung in the air. A small domed pavilion of contemplation, in marble, stood in another corner; a few elderly people and a pale child were watching the gathering crowd from it.

A dais had been erected on the main lawn with half a dozen chairs and a microphone. Music was issuing from remote loudspeakers: a golden Brandenburg Concerto. As the thousand spectators were marshalled by Peace Officers in their white uniforms into receding rows, cross-legged, upon the turf, six people filed up to the dais and sat listening to the music of Bach.

“Come along.”

Marta tugged Jim by the arm, down through the ranks of the audience to the very front. They settled themselves on the short soft grass.

“That’s Norman Harper on the left,” whispered Marta.

“I recognize the face.”

“Of course.”

Norman Harper was a stocky, white-haired man with rutted features like eroded limestone. His eyes twinkled infectiously.

“And Noel. Noel Resnick.”

The Master of the House was a big, burly man, but even so there was a considered, conscious grace about his movements and gestures that seemed to render his weight negligible. Jim thought that there was something vaguely cartoon-like about Noel Resnick—as though an elephant should take up ballet dancing and so completely mesmerize its audience that it fully convinced them of its gracefulness. Resnick looked pleased with himself.

“That’s Alice Huron on the right.”

Jim stared at the woman who was to guide the poet. She had long black glossy hair, dark eyes, an equine nose, and a pronounced chin. Her fingers were noticeably long and slender, with several chunky rings on them. She must be almost six feet tall, which saved her chin from seeming too exaggerated, as did the fact that she held herself perfectly upright—without any of Jim’s defensive stoop. He found himself envying her: both for her coming duty, and for her deportment. Door lintels would raise their hats to her, instead of trying to bump her brow.

“And Lama Ananda.” A shaven-headed, saffron-robed man. Possibly he was just a westerner in eastern dress.

“Dr Claudio Menotti—our chief euthanaser.” The fat, ruddy-faced fellow exuded bonhomie; he looked like an operatic baritone.

“And Mayor Barnes. Mark Barnes.”

The Mayor of Egremont was a tall, middle-aged negro with a neatly-shaped vandyke beard. He appeared to scan the few fleecy clouds in the sky, wondering whether they could possibly have the impertinence to cast a few spots of rain down on the occasion. It hardly looked likely, though. Then the Mayor glanced round as though checking the whereabouts of the news gatherers, who stood with electronic cameras locked on their shoulders and aiming lenses pasted to their foreheads.

The music continued until everyone, including the children, had arrived and settled.

Finally Mayor Barnes rose, and silence fell.

“Friends,” he began. His voice was proud and passionate.

“THE MISSILES ARE all gone, the doomsday machines are dismantled, the day of the gun is over—long since! But we’ll never forget the debt that we owe to people like Norman Harper, who helped to make this possible …”

The poet inclined his head modestly. Perhaps he only saw himself as a poet, but to other people he was a legislator of mankind—an acknowledged one.

“We were going to destroy the whole of this fair world of ours and all the people in it because we couldn’t come to terms with death. Death was something that never happened to us, but only to the other fellow. We expelled the dead from our lives. We made them into strangers, who had nothing to do with us. We pushed death abroad beyond our personal frontier—into enemy territory. And when that happened, strangers—foreigners—all spelt death to us. Oh, we fantasized about an afterlife, even about reincarnation, but we never gave a thought to the business of our own dying which brings this life to an end …”

Jim sat up and took notice. The Mayor’s speech was going out across the whole land. In view of the recent accident in Gracchus, did this represent the opening word in a campaign against afterlife studies? To be sure, the idea that a soul might survive enriched the death encounter of those people who still believed in such a thing. So the notion of survival had its discreet uses. But if people could hope to survive death, wasn’t that equivalent to a denial of death?

“Defence—which was actually all directed against Death the Stranger—became one of the biggest forces on Earth. And oh boy, did we prosper! Did we get rich, on the bombs and warplanes and bullets! And what a lot of media fun we got from the spectacle of the other fellow’s death!”

If there was a campaign in embryo, perhaps it was directed against the freezer freaks? No frozen body had ever been revived, or ever would be, and the few rich people who opted for this course invariably retired from life gracefully. Still, they represented a kind of privileged opposition to the Houses of Death and the policy of timely euthanasia. Possibly some of these people imagined that they could live through’ the age of Good Death into some future death-denying era? That might well be their secret ambition. But obviously they did not believe in the survival of a soul, or else they would not have had themselves frozen when they became fatally ill or when the Census Office pulled their card. The soul was a horse of a different colour.

A horse—or a nightmare?

“Friends, we thrived on war—because the survivors of a war had magically defeated death. Soldier boys returning home were our immortals. They’d put off the evil hour. They’d outlived the other side. So we began to plan the biggest war of all—the total war. If we could live through the doomsday of the whole darn world, we really would have punched death in the eye! And we would just have been punching ourselves in the eye, hitting out at the death that is in all of us …”

“Too true,” murmured Marta Bettijohn, and Jim nodded automatically. He wished he could totally believe. The afternoon was so golden. The fact that Norman Harper had chosen to retire on the very day that Jim arrived in Egremont was surely a sign.

But had the poet exactly chosen to retire? Or had he been encouraged, as a political example …? Jim rejected the thought. Norman Harper looked absolutely at peace with himself. Maybe the ‘campaign’ was all in Jim’s imagination. Everything that Mayor Barnes said was so true. One day, when death really was second nature to everyone, perhaps this sort of oratory could wither away because it had become unnecessary.

Looking round at the audience, Jim realized the extent to which death had already become second nature, particularly for the younger people present. He felt momentarily like an anachronism, something out of date; then he shucked off the sensation. The sun shone down, gilding his spirit. He too was a guide in the House of Death, and a good one. He concentrated on believing—in the path which had saved perhaps a third of the human race from the fate of the rest. How could he be an anachronism? The world had been this way for most of his life.

“But some people understood: people like our own Norman Harper. They got us to shake hands with friendly, natural death again. Along with some others—who equally deserve our praise and thanks—he started the great movement which has led to the Houses of Death and the reconstruction of our whole society. So at last the Big Fear went away. Now that we accept the death that is part of us, we have a future again. For that we thank you, Norman, from the heart.”

Mayor Barnes sat down, to quiet applause.

“The man’s eloquent,” whispered Marta. “He could be a guide himself.”

“No, he’s an orator, a politician. You shouldn’t make speeches to the dying.”

“Well, of course not. But even so.”

Noel Resnick, Master of the House, rose next. He performed a slow mesmeric dance about the focal point of the microphone while he spoke, lifting himself up on right tiptoes then on left tiptoes. Jim recalled that stutterers occasionally ‘danced’ like this to lose their stutter.

“… there was no dialogue with one’s own death,” Resnick was saying in a firm voice. “Consequently so-called ‘men of good will’ spoke out against this country, or that group of people. Traitors were sought and pilloried as scapegoats. All this, because these men of ‘good will’ placed their own death out there. They drove it like a stake into the hearts of the enemies they manufactured. Confrontation and victory were the watchwords. So was ‘putting up a fight’—for freedom, for the individual, you name it—even if it meant mass death for everybody. And the real name of their enemy was always Death itself. But it just so happens that there is no enemy alien named ‘Death’. There is no war. There is no other side. There is only here, and us.”

Obviously Resnick too was something of a politician. Was he in competition with Mayor Barnes? The answer hardly interested Jim, yet he noted the existence of a question. He noted, too, that this Resnick was a tough Master—even if he had overco. . .