The Ultimate Jungle

by Michael G. Coney

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

"Mankind will cease to exist at 6pm GMT on 28th March 3256". A computer prediction which threw the world into panic. What to do? Build a starship and take the chosen few to a new home in the stars. Or search for an alternative timestream where mankind goes on forever. Matt Helm is to captain the last space shuttle carrying passengers to the starship, but his irrepressible desire for Fern Angelus corrupts his sense of duty. He agrees to take part in her time experiments. Set against a background of passion and longing, Matt's uncanny success with mind projection meets unforseen complications. He projects his mind to a future Earth: a world of shallow, extensive seas, mutated trees growing in layers on each other's branches, and strangely evolved animals like snappersnouts, humpers and energy creatures. Matt's strange visions eventually meet reality when he discovers that the last load of passengers for the starship has been left behind; and he is one of them.

Release date: October 2, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 224

Sample

By the time I left the Station the sun was low on the horizon so I took the coast road home. About two miles further on, where the road turns to skirt the clifftop, a figure stood with arm raised. The ocean was in sight now; the sun crimson and low and casting spears of light towards me so that the hitchhiker appeared as an enigmatic silhouette. It was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman, whether it was young or old, whether it was likely to soil the upholstery or engage me in endless, fruitless conversation. Without analysing my motives I stopped, a few metres beyond so that he or she had to hurry forward with the sun in his or her face, so that I could drive on quickly if necessary.

It was a man. He looked clean. I leaned over and opened the door.

“I can take you as far as the Templeton Hotel.” This was about seven kilometres away.

He grunted something, got in and shut the door, volunteering no conversation as I drove on.

The coast road from the Station to Templeton is a beautiful drive and I was content to admire the view. Over the past week or two there had been increased solar activity and tonight the sun was surrounded by five or six freckles, clearly visible at this time of day as tiny red stars, detached flares. They sparkled on the horizon, outshining Venus. I glanced at my companion; he too was gazing out to sea, face intent and ruddy in the pink glow. I judged him to be around 40 years old; he was dressed in neat but worn clothes, like an unsuccessful salesman.

“Car break down?” I asked him.

He looked at me, looked away. He mumbled something about a stabiliser and I suddenly knew that he was furious, so overpoweringly furious that he didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even a guy who’d done him a good turn. Probably least of all a guy who’d done him a good turn. I was uncomfortable in the presence of so much fury—his knuckles rested white and clenched on his knees—almost to the extent of feeling apologetic that my own vehicle was in perfect running order.

Unknowing, I said something which cost him his life.

I said, “Listen, I’m only dropping in at the Templeton for a drink. Then I go on to Walthurst. You could call a garage from the hotel, then I’ll take you on to Walthurst, if that’s any help.”

He sealed his fate by saying, “Thanks.”

No further conversation was exchanged and eventually I turned into the hotel park and switched off. As the car sank to the ground the man got out and hurried straight for the visiphone booth nearby. I shrugged and made for the bar. If the guy wanted to give the impression of being an ignorant bastard that was up to him. Maybe in a few minutes he’d correct that impression by offering me a drink; meanwhile I had better things to do than watching him stabbing buttons. I entered the bar.

The place was full. I recognised a few people from the Station; Phil Ernst was there, and Jaqsinthe Sak. Others sat around; technicians, clerks. There was a fair sprinkling of Etherealists too, in their loose, faded clothing and sandals. I avoided everyone and seated myself at a quiet corner of the bar, having no wish to talk shop or politics. The first was boring, the second dangerous …

I ordered myself a vodka martini and began to unwind the moment the glass was in my hand. I think my travelling companion had got me uptight; some of his tension had rubbed off on me during the last few kilometres. Now however, as the first sips of liquor hit my empty stomach, I began to feel sorry for the guy. He’d spent the day trying to interest hotels and motels and probably the Station in industrial cleaning fluids, he’d accumulated enough orders to feed himself, his wife and kids for just one more day, and now his goddamned hovercar was a crippled hulk down some obscure side road, and he needed it tomorrow to sell more cleaning fluid. It was too bad.

“Listen, are you going to be long?” He was standing at my elbow.

“Not long,” I replied, sympathy evaporating.

“Then I’ll wait in the car,” he said, and left, pushing his way rapidly through a knot of Etherealists.

I stared after him, my quiet unwinding drink spoiled. The bastard had placed me under an obligation.

I decided to have one more drink, which was my normal custom, and drink it at my normal pace, as though there was no impatient stranger in my car. This I did, and around twenty minutes later I strolled out to the carpark sniffing at the cool evening air. The door to my hovercar hung open; at first I thought my passenger was considerately dissipating his aphrohale smoke, but then I saw the dark inertness stretched on the blacktop.

I am not accustomed to death. When, after a hesitant, scared examination I decided that the man was dead, I didn’t know what to do. My body took over from my mind and I threw up violently, but that didn’t solve anything.

Samantha greeted me at the door. “You’re late, Matt.” As I stepped inside she was still watching me. “What happened? You look terrible.”

“There was a dead man in the carpark at the Templeton.”

She uttered a conventional sound of horror. “Couldn’t they get a mediman in time?”

“He … He’d been killed.” I gulped, seeing again that terrible face. “He was all smashed up. Samantha, I’d given him a ride. There were a lot of Etherealists about.”

She took my arm, led me into the living room. “Have a drink and tell us all about it,” she said. “You’ll feel better, then.”

Mom and Dad sat near the window, and Ma sat against the opposite wall, like opponents. I had no desire to explain the events to our parents and I was quite sure it wouldn’t make me feel better, but now I had no option. “What’s that about somebody dead?” Dad piped. Despite the progress of medical science, the notion of death was always to the forefront of the old folks’ minds.

I explained; the lift, the visiphone call, the drinks, the discovery.

“Goddamned Etherealists,” snapped Mom.

“I hope we’re not going to have trouble in Waltham,” said Dad. “It’s spreading from the east, you know. They showed riots on 3-V again today. We shouldn’t be exposed to this kind of danger, Matt. Maybe we’ll have to move.”

Ma came to life. “I’ll have to speak to your father about this, when he comes home,” she informed Samantha sternly.

Sam said to me, “Did he do anything to provoke the Etherealists? I mean, the thing seems senseless, Matt.”

They watched me, waiting for a reply. I said at last, “He was sitting in the car, and the car has a Station logo on the side. They thought he was a Materialist … I reckon they thought he was me.”

“We must be protected, Samantha,” stated Ma firmly. “I shall ask your father to throw a cordon round the house.”

Whenever Ma referred to her husband, Admiral Franklin S Laker, she addressed herself to Samantha, as though my auditory senses were not refined enough to receive his name.

Samantha said, bless her, “I’m sure Matt can arrange a guard for us.”

“Your father is still at his office,” Ma was implying that I was in the habit of quitting early. “I’ll call him right away.” She cruised across the room in the direction of the visiphone and within seconds the impressive countenance of Admiral Franklin S. Laker was on the screen. He listened gravely to his wife’s account of the tragedy. I was not called upon to give my views.

Finally he said, “This is extremely serious. We’d had suspicions that activists were moving west, ever since things got too hot for them in the City. If matters become worse we may have to move all service personnel and their families within the confines of the Station. They’ve already been forced to take this measure in two northern Stations. It means living virtually under a state of siege. However …” He sighed, shuffled some papers on his desk, barked an order to someone off screen, and was gone.

Somehow the room seemed dull and ordinary without his presence. We looked at each other unhappily although I found time to be thankful that I’d married a girl with a father in high places. But I often had the feeling that my career had been helped along unobtrusively by the Admiral. This was only natural. A man has to look after his own, and the Admiral dotes on Samantha.

And this family bond assured us all of a place in the starship Endeavour, when the Great Voyage began.

We sat in the skydome after supper. The Admiral was with us now, and Mom and Dad had gone to bed. I think they felt uncomfortable in the presence of the Admiral who always managed to make it clear that he and Ma were doing us a favour by living with us.

I could still remember the day the Euthanasia Bill became law, and Welfare Credit was withdrawn for anyone over 60. Mom and Dad had been living in a little apartment on the south side of Waltham; suddenly they couldn’t afford to keep it up anymore and they moved in with Samantha and I. All over the town, old people were going to the Chambers of Rest. Sometimes landlords would take pity on an old woman and forget to collect the rent, but still the food had to be bought. Or medicines, Senior citizens would try to get jobs, but they were too old to work on building sites, and too slow to be cashiers again, and too senile to go back to the office. For a while they would make like the junkies on skid row, and sit in the shade under the crumbling overpasses begging for handouts—but then the pain would become too great and they couldn’t afford the drugs, or the winter would come and they couldn’t afford the fuel, the clothes … So they would go to the Chamber of Rest and sign the release form …

Or their family would take them in. Their children would return the favours of years ago, and provide shelter and food for the old folks. Who then turned into tyrants … Because once in possession of their own room, no matter how insidiously they interfered between husband and wife, no matter how autocratically they took over, and began to run the household, they couldn’t be evicted. Because to evict would be to kill …

A few marriages survived. Samantha rarely complained about Mom and Dad, and for this I was grateful, because the old people could be irritating. I think they were dominated, though, by the Admiral and Ma.

Yes, the Admiral and Ma did us a favour by living with us. The Admiral earned twice as much as I, and until recently Ma had worked as Chief Liaison Officer at the Station, earning more than me, too. Samantha didn’t work. With my income, and the contribution from the Admiral towards expenses, she could afford to stay at home and look after Mom and Dad, who couldn’t care for themselves too well.

So we were closely-knit and interdependent, and if Samantha’s parents had decided to live elsewhere, finances would have become tight. It was the type of situation which had caused many a salary-earner to leave home, in despair at the pressures and responsibilities. I intended to stay, however. I was in love with my wife, I still had some sort of feeling for my parents, and I wanted to be assured of my ticket for the Great Voyage …

It was dark in the skydome and we could see the glittering shape of the starship Endeavour directly overhead, tiny with distance, bright even against the stars on that clear night. I could make out the Admiral’s face as he sat opposite, chair in the reclining position, gazing reflectively at the object of his command. It was at times like this that I could feel some sort of empathy with the man. I knew how he must feel, the pride, the love even, as he gazed at that vast orbiting hunk of machinery which would take us all to the stars.

It was a pity the moment had to be spoiled. That evening in particular, Samantha and I were holding hands like young lovers as we lay back and looked up, and after a while she got up to pour more drinks and I found I had a crick in my neck. I sat up too, rubbing the place, and the spell was broken.

“Huh? Huh?” grunted the Admiral, coming out of his trance.

“I think it’s time for the news, Frank,” said Ma.

“Switch it on, Matt,” said the Admiral.

Perhaps it was a subconscious resentment on my part which caused me to select a channel notorious for its sympathies towards the Etherealists. The 3-V alcove sprang into luminescence and a woman was sitting in the corner of our room, behind a desk. She wore dark clothes and was surrounded by the paraphernalia of the popular scientist; the toy molecules, the gyrating model solar system, the close-ups of the sun’s surface. She looked intensely serious and it needed no announcer to tell me she had a string of letters after her name. She looked like the epitome of those experts who make terrifying pronouncements which, fortunately, we forget ten minutes later.

I never forgot that woman’s pronouncement, however. She held a computer print-out before her like a scroll and, after a few unimportant preliminaries designed to establish her complete non-involvement with political issues, said.

“I must make it quite clear that the information produced by the computer is based on a mass of information which is not always self-consistent, gathered and evaluated by scientists from all over the world, over a considerable period of time. The margin for error is great. Personally, I would not have undertaken the programme which resulted in this,” she raised the scroll, “since I regard the results as largely meaningless, misleading and, if misrepresented, inflammatory. However, the work has been done and the results obtained, and I feel it is my duty to put them before you. If I don’t,” she smiled a wintry smile, “somebody else will. And they might not give it to you straight.

“This computer was asked to predict the future of mankind, bearing in mind many factors, among them population growth, the present apparent instability of the sun, agricultural production, the Materialists space emigration programme, the Etherealists more recent proven results, the incidence of certifiable insanity, the suicide rate, the crime rate, the observable rise in ocean levels … And many other factors. Every factor that you could think of. Many that you don’t know about, and that I hope you never do.

“And the computer came up with its answer.

“Mankind will cease to exist at 6 pm GMT on 28 March, 3256.”

The Admiral called the meeting to order.

We were evenly divided, if you were able to ignore the Admiral, who was acting as chairman. Six Etherealists sat on one side of the table, dressed in motley. Six Materialists including myself sat opposite; we wore the uniforms of the World Emigration Commission and I think we looked a little more impressive than our opponents. The Admiral spoke.

“This is the sixteenth of a continuing series of meetings at which we have tried to reach a mutual understanding of each other’s aims and objectives. I like to feel these meetings are of value, and I must remind you that we are not discussing global policy. We are merely trying to get to know one another on a regional basis, and to solve regional problems as and when they arise.” He subsided, and made a note on a piece of paper.

Discussions opened.

Beside me, Ernst addressed the Etherealists. “Perhaps you’ll tell us what the hell was the meaning of that doomsday broadcast last night. Even you must be able to understand the effect a goddamned stupid announcement like that will have.”

A man replied, an old, bearded man like Father Time. “Nobody said the world would end tomorrow. The date was 28 March, 3256. That’s over 1,200 years from now.”

“You’re a cunning old bastard, Boniface.” There was a grudging admiration in the voice of Annabel Foo, Materialist. “We all know there was a double purpose in that announcement. First, you wanted to upstage this meeting, because you knew we were going to make capital over that idiotic killing at the Templeton Hotel. Second, you knew it was good enough copy to be carried world-wide, as I understand has already happened. And you knew it would unsettle people. What you’ve done is to tell the human race when it will die. It doesn’t matter how far in the future the event is, the effect is the same as telling one man when he will die. Suddenly, things are finite. Suddenly, long-range projects appear futile, even projects near fruition, like the Great Voyage. The bottom drops out of things. Religion gets a new hold on people.” The little Oriental woman emphasised her points with sharp taps of a stylus on the table. “And that’s exactly the kind of atmosphere that you Etherealists thrive in.”

“This is no regional matter,” Ernst emphasised. “For Christ’s sake, do you people realise what you’ve done?”

A woman beside old Boniface spoke; a newcomer to the Etherealist team. As she shook a mass of jet-black hair back from her face I saw brilliant green eyes in a perfect, rather pale face.

“We’ve upstaged this meeting and we’ve unsettled people,” she said calmly. “Of course we know what we’ve done. We’ve forced people to ask questions, and we have a few questions of our own that you’ll be hearing in the next few days. Like: What’s the average age of the prospective emigrants in this regional unit? The ones whom you’ve actually lined up for the voyage.”

Admiral Franklin S Laker said, “That’s out of order.”

Green-eyes said, “Have the excuses ready for your next 3-V appearance, Admiral. The answer is 47. That’s 47 years old, understand? These emigrants we’re using up all our resources to send to the stars, these adventurous young couples who will seed the distant planets with our kind, their average age is 47. That’s pretty old for fruitful fucking, huh?”

“Boniface! Will you get this woman out of here!”

“Not until I tell you the reason for this anomaly, Admiral. It’s because the world is run by old rich people, so it’s old rich people who are saving themselves. They hold on to their power and their money and they use it to buy the world. And then they strip this world of its resources to build their fleet of getaway ships. And when the crunch comes, they’ll be all comfortable in deepsleep, on their way to a safe new planet.”

It seemed a good moment for me to further cement my relationship with Admiral Franklin S Laker. I said, “That’s all garbage. There’s no immediate danger. The computer said we have 1,200 years. But that’s just an average. Hell, it could be 12,000 years. Or …” I hesitated.

She smiled at me, that beautiful Etherealist did, and there was no malice in her smile. “Yes. And it could be 12 years.”

“Crap,” said somebody loudly.

“Each factor was carefully analysed,” she continued calmly. “Then the computer was programmed to examine each one in the light of all the others. Interestingly, a significant factor which was thrown up, was the result itself. The original doomsday date was sometime in 3509. Projected public knowledge of that date brought it back to 3433, and if that date became generally known, it would also become obsolete. It would become 3382. And so on, until the date finally stabilised at 3256, on the assumption that people were told that date. So the fact that we broadcast the date made no difference.”

Away to my right, somebody laughed. “That’s the kind of twisted reasoning I’d expect from an Etherealist.”

She said quietly, “It was the computer’s reasoning, not mine. The same computer that gave Admiral Laker and his men a few interesting prophesies, some years ago.”

“What the hell do you mean?” snapped my father-in-law.

“Please don’t deny that your department programmed the computer, back in ’65, to give a series of weighted probabilities based on forty years’ intensive solar observation. You remember that study, Admiral? You ought to; you were in it from the start. The results were never published, but I think it was quite significant that the World Emigration Commission came into being at the same time that the study was finally wrapped up.”

She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Tell us all, Admiral. When is the sun going to explode?”

“How the hell should I know? Don’t be stupid, woman.”

“But right there in your mind is a series of probabilities, and you’ll never be able to forget them. Particularly that unlikely terrible earliest date. Not until you’re out of range …”

The woman’s name was Fern Angelus, and in the space of a few minutes she had succeeded in making us Materialists mistrust one another. I glanced covertly at the Admiral a couple of times, wondering what he was thinking and I know the others did the same. Fern Angelus was a psychophysicist, but it seemed she was also a pretty good psychologist.

We recovered, of course, and counter-attacked. But we fought nervously, and kept coming back with the questions which plagued us all: In what manner will Mankind cease to exist?

“That date was merely an average of all probabilities of all catastrophes,” replied Fern Angelus patiently.

But how can such a prediction allow for the factor of the Great Voyage?

“Maybe the Great Voyage is doomed never to leave the solar system,” replied Fern Angelus mischievously.

All pretence that the meeting should deal only with regional issues was dropped, of course. The Etherealists pressed home their advantage on a broad front.

“Perhaps, Admiral, you’ll tell us all just how you visualise the situation here on Earth, after you’ve all gone.” This was from Alfredo Boniface. “You will leave behind a planet stripped of its principle resources, and a people demoralised. You will leave behind rioting and starvation and a gradual reversion to a primitive existence. Is that how you see it?”

Fern Angelus was watching me with those brilliant eyes of hers. I’d been intending to jump to the Admiral’s defence, but her gaze demoralised me. The Admiral replied,

“We are acting on behalf of Mankind. It has always been our destiny to spread to the stars. Some sacrifices must be made.”

“Why not postpone the voyage for a few years?” suggested Boniface. “Our own scientists are close to a breakthrough. There’s nothing selfish about the Etherealists getaway plans. As many people can go as want to.”

“Go where?” The Admiral laughed shortly. “Into the astral plane? The ether? Transylvania? For Christ’s sake, man, credit me with a little intelligence. You have no scientists worthy of the name. Hell, I thought that was the whole standpoint of your organisation. You believe in spirits, mediums, ghostly voices, all that crap. That’s not going to get you anywhere. No, if Mankind is going to progress, it must be outward. To the stars.” He was a pompous fool, but he was right, I guess.

“If you go, our work may be lost in the chaos which will inevitably follow.” Boniface could be pompous when he chose, too.

The Admiral finally collected himself. “We’re not here to argue these points. Hell, you know quite well that I can’t influence world policy. I suggest we return to regional matters. What do you Etherealists propose to do about these goddamned activists who are going around killing people?”

And so the meeting descended to its accustomed level, and the detailed wrangling began.

Throughout, Fern Angelus watched me steadily, thoughtfully.

To me, beauty depends on function. There is no beauty in the Waltham Museum, with its expensively-preserved façade of genuine nineteenth-century brick, arched windows, stone scrollwork, although many people seem to think so. And historic porcelain with its intricate decorative patterns and representations leave me cold. But show me a brontomek, huge and functional, lurching across the agricultural preserves on giant balloon tyres, reaping superrice in a ten-metre swathe while it simultaneously pulverises the dirt, fertilises, and plants the crop of winternut; all the time spitting bolts of lethal light at fleeing field rodents—show me this brute of a machine, and I’ll show you beauty.

So the pleasure I derive each morning from the sight of the shuttleship Grasshopper rising tall against the sky is understandable. It stands squarely in the centre of the station, dwarfing the pigmy buildings still in course of construction; indeed, straddling the hibernation building, which itself is six storeys high. The Grasshopper is a silver dart whose tail splits into four strong legs; she is lined out in pale green with the letters WEC in a darker shade, far up in the sky so that you have to squint against the sun to see them. Around her steel feet shrubs grow, juniper and fuchsia and a few roses planted by the Station personnel.

I’ve watched people walking about the Station, and it’s always been a source of surprise to me that they pay more attention to the flowers than the Grasshopper. Their gaze travels horizontally or slightly downwards, pausing at the bright bloom, an attractive member of the opposite sex, a notice board. They never look up. Sometimes I think that if the Grasshopper was removed, leaving just the bottom eight feet of amputated legs sticking in the ground, they’d never notice she was gone. That huge, sleek, beautiful piece of machinery, the reason for everyone’s presence, means nothing to t. . .