Gene Wars

Searching for Van Gogh at the End of the World

A short story first published in French in the anthology Destination 3001.

"Are you sure this is New York?"

"That is where I told the index to take us."

"The first time you told the index to take us to New York, Seven, we ended up a thousand years adrift."

"The coordinate system is trickier than I was led to believe, but I was able to correct the error, was I not? And just in time, too. I think that the indigens of that primitive era wished to remove our heads"

"Nonsense. They were over-excited by our sudden appearance, that's all. At least no one seems to be taking much notice of us here."

"That is because we are where we are supposed to be, Fifteen. Look at the index. This is definitely the end of the Second Millennium"

"Yes, but are you sure this is New York? I mean, shouldn't it be on an island?"

"You are thinking of Shanghai."

"And the buildings should be taller."

"Or Singapore."

"I really do think that the buildings should be taller, Seven."

"There are tall buildings across the river. And if you would only look at the index, you would see that it is quite definite as to the date." "I thought all the buildings would be tall. 'The cloud- capp'd towers of Manhattan'."

"The index says -- "

"I don't care what it says, Seven! You don't know how to make it work properly, and our master warned us that its records are not always accurate. And why is it so dark? Surely we were supposed to arrive in daylight. This must be one of the Dark Ages."

"I believe that was the era we just left, the one where the indigens were brandishing sharp-edged agricultural instruments with fell intent. Do you think that these people are carrying weapons?"

"Stop worrying about the indigens. They are all far too busy damaging their brains with chemicals to bother with us. You think too much, Seven."

"I cannot help it. It is the way I was made. If you don't believe the index, Fifteen, we could always go back through the portal, just to make sure."

"Not until I know where we are. Look at that man! I think he's vomiting. Yes, that really is vomit. Amazing. There must be something very badly wrong with this era if its inhabitants have to take brain damaging chemicals to get themselves through the day, especially when they suffer such horrible side-effects. Or perhaps that man belongs to some kind of crazy religious cult that believes vomiting puts you closer to God."

"They are ingesting drugs because they are celebrating the end of the -- Wait! Fifteen, wait for me! What are you doing?"

"Excuse me. Sir, excuse me. Where is the Metropolitan Museum?"

"The wha'?"

"The Metropolitan Museum. I believe it is on Fifth Avenue."

"That's a great dress you almost wearing, doll. Have a drink. It's the end of the century. You and me, we'll drink to the end of the century."

"Please remove your hand from my breasts, sir. I don't believe that it is appropriate behaviour, even in this horrible era. Seven, you had better make him stop. I think he's attempting sexual congress."

"Ow! Ow! Tell fucking Sherlock Holmes to let go!"

"That's enough, Seven. You have already broken his arm. I think he's got the idea."

"You fucking bitch. You fucking crazy bitch. I'm calling the police."

"Sir, there is no need to make a fuss. A little misunderstanding between our cultures can surely -- " "Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes. Police! Police! I tol' you, leave me the fuck -- "

"Oh dear."

"I think you've broken more than his arm now, Seven."

"I'll tuck him out of the way. There. Now, I believe that we should remove ourselves from the scene, Fifteen, as quickly as we can. I think that we have attracted attention."

A little later, the man and the woman have fought through the dense crowds to the top of a stone bridge. They lean together breathlessly in the lee of a bus shelter. People stream past on either side. It is two hours before midnight. On barges moored midstream, technicians are checking the timed fuses of the public munitions, but plenty of rockets and roman candles are shooting out from the crowds along either bank and exploding over the river's black water. Camera flashes make random constellations. Music thumps from brightly lit pleasure boats.

The man puts his hand to the small of his broad back and straightens and takes a deep breath and says, "I told you that your dress is inappropriate for this era, Fifteen."

"It is quite in keeping. Unlike your cloak and your, what do you call it?"

"It is a stovepipe hat. And the cloak is an Inverness Cape. Both are accurate reconstructions."

"As is this dress."

"Yes, but shouldn't you be wearing undergarments too?"

"Not according to the wardrobe thing."

"I am beginning to suspect that the wardrobe thing has a sick sense of humour, Fifteen. Judging from the people around us, it would appear that covering of genitals and breasts may be mandatory in this era."

"Let them look."

"Also, your wig is a trifle askew."

The woman adjusts it. It is very long, and its almost luminous purple violently contrasts with the silver discs which have been wired together to form her very skimpy minidress.

The man says, "I believe that it may have been your attire which so excited the indigenous inhabitants of the Dark Age."

"That really doesn't matter now. We must find the museum before it starts to burn."

"If this is the Hudson River, and we are looking south, then the main part of Manhattan must be across the river."

"I think we are looking north. And in any case, Seven, I'm still not sure that this river is the Hudson River."

"If you do not believe me, then we can return to the portal and try again."

"No. There's the Grandmother Paradox for one thing, and for another, we can't keep using the index to hack the portal. Jade might realise that we are not who we are supposed to be."

"As if running for our lives with a mob of angry peasants had not already raised her suspicions."

"Our rapid exit from 1000 AD can be explained away as joie de vivre. But if we keep going back and forth, we'll alert the monitors, and one of them is bound to ask us if we need help. And then our real identities will be exposed, and our master will have lost his wager."

"I have a bad feeling, Fifteen. I feel that our master has not adequately prepared us for the task." "We'll do our best, Seven. That is all we can do. We'll cross the river and find Fifth Avenue. It should be easy enough if we're where we're supposed to be. New York is based on a simple grid pattern."

The bridge is packed. People who have already taken up positions to watch the end-of-millennium firework display defend their folding chairs, windbreaks, portable TVs and picnic tables with ferocious determination, forcing those who are attempting to cross the river into the middle of the road.

The man and the woman are halfway across the bridge when the man shouts out excitedly. "A thief, Fifteen! I have found a thief!"

He holds the arm and the throat of a slender young man who is crushed against him by the pressure of the crowd. The young man's face is white with pain.

"If you hold his throat with just a little less force, Seven, he might be able to speak."

"This is just a mistake. No need for any trouble."

"He had his hand in my pocket, Fifteen. I would not have known, except the index squealed when he touched it."

"Just let me go, okay? You'll never see me again."

The man says, "But this is a most excellent coincidence, young man! We are also thieves. We are part of your brotherhood."

"Brotherhood?"

"Guild. Clan. Union. Association. Sir, we call on you for assistance."

"Look, brother, I don't know what you're talking about. I made an honest mistake. I thought your pocket -- Ow! Ow! Okay, let go, I admit it. I'm a dip. You caught me fair and square."

"A dip?"

"A dip, a lifter, a pick-pocket. What are you going to do about it?"

The man says, "We are also thieves. We call on the hospitality of your guild."

"I'm working alone here, okay?"

"You do not belong to a guild?"

"Look, brother, go easy on the wrist, okay? I need it to make a living. I wouldn't be doing this, but I couldn't get a job after university and I have to pay back my student loan. You caught me fair and square, but why not let me go and call it even? I swear that after this night I'll go straight. Or do you want to spend the last hour of the Millennium filling in a report at a police station?"

"You will help us," the man says decisively.

All three are moving step by step towards the shore, pushed along inexorably by the dense crowd. The young man has to twist his head to look up at his captor.

"You're working too? In those get-ups?"

"Our costumes are not appropriate? You see, Fifteen, I warned you about the wardrobe thing. It has a sick mind."

"Your girlfriend's Emma Peel, and you're Sherlock Holmes. Right? Except you should have a deerstalker, not that top hat."

"I have already heard a reference to Sherlock Holmes. But I do not know of Emma Peel." "You don't mind her, sort of, flaunting herself?"

"It is her idea, not mine."

"I am quite happy with my costume. You're sure this is a good idea, Seven? How can he help us?" "To begin with, he can show us where the Metropolitan Museum is located."

"The Metropolitan Museum as in the Metropolitan Museum of New York? The Met?"

"Just so, young man. Why are you laughing?"

"You'll have to get a plane, but there won't be any scheduled flights to the States until tomorrow. If the Millennium Bug doesn't fuck up the computers, of course."

"This is not, then, New York. You see, Seven! I was right all along!"

"If it is not New York, where is it?"

"Where are you from, brother? What drugs are you on?"

"Please humour me, sir. Or I may have to apply pressure to your throat again."

"No. No, it isn't New York. It's London. This is Waterloo Bridge. That's the Thames. Those are the Houses of Parliament, and that big piece of junk on the other side of the river, all lit up by laser beams, that's the Millennium Wheel."

"London as in London the capital of Europe?"

"London as in the capital of England."

"Several thousand miles east of New York, Seven. That's why it's so dark! We are in the wrong time zone!"

"There is no need to shout, Fifteen."

"And that's why there aren't enough tall buildings!"

"Yes, yes. I do understand."

"You guys aren't really on drugs, are you?"

"Of course not," the man says. "It would interfere with our mission."

They have at last reached the other side of the river, although the Embankment is scarcely less crowded than the bridge. The young man looks left and right, as if thinking of running, then says, "Okay, I'll buy it. Tell me about this mission of yours."

Thirty minutes later, the three have given up trying to make their way along the river, and are hurrying through the huge, noisy funfair which is pitched along the Mall, all the way up to the gates of Buckingham Palace.

"Do look, Fifteen," the man says. "I do believe that those are the fabled law officers of this troubled era."

"I see them. You would have seen plenty of them by the river, too, if you hadn't been fussing with the index."

"I was checking it because of your persistent questions, Fifteen."

"Or killing the drug-crazed indigen." "Their throats must be more fragile than ours." The man is struck by a sudden notion. "I am a murderer, Fifteen! I am a fugitive from justice!"

"Don't stare at the filth, brother," the young man says, and hunches into his black leather jacket when the one of the policemen glances at the big man in the top hat and cape.

"The filth?"

The pigs. Old Bill. The police."

"He's right, Seven. You're hardly blending in with the indigens."

"I guess you don't have any police where you come from."

"There are monitors. But they are machines, and unlike your law officers cannot hang you high or engage you in duels to the death."

"Duels? You really don't have much of a clue, do you?"

The woman says, "We were given extensive conditioning."

"Yes, and you're walking around with no knickers on."

"That's the fault of the wardrobe thing."

"And if you don't have any police where you come from, I suppose you have any laws, either."

"There are customs," the big man says. "There are the protocols of public and private spaces. There is a consensus."

"But what you want to do, the thing you have to do to win the bet, isn't that the consensus?" "We are doing it for our master. It is he who made the wager against Jade."

"Who is the host of a party to celebrate the Third Millennium. Which is connected to the Second Millennium by some kind of time gate." The young man laughs, and claps his hands together in delight. "The portal connects a number of eras, for the amusement of the guests."

"You really are celebrating the Third Millennium?"

"Jade has thrown a party because she is interested in the myths of the Christian Era. That is why her party is linked through the portal to celebrations in the deep past. You might say that, just for this one night, 3000 AD has spread through the primitive eras of the past. Of course, only an antiquarian like Jade is interested in antiquated numerology. She is enamoured of the ancient. That is why she accepted our master's wager so eagerly."

"You're telling him too much, Seven."

"I've got to admit, it's a great little story. And you're both a couple of what, androids?"

"We are both human. We were made this way. Our master made very careful preparations before he made his wager with Jade."

"Clones, then."

"Not exactly."

"Whatever. I know, I know, I wouldn't understand if you tried to explain. Come on. We'll cut across St. James's Park."

As they near the river again, they can hear the noise of the crowds echoing down the mostly empty streets.

The woman says, "Are you sure this place has what we need?"

"I bet the Tate has more of them than the Metropolitan Museum of New York. You can take your pick. You know, if you don't mind me saying so, it's the one part of your story that's a bit cliched. I mean, people from the future almost always seem to want to steal -- "

"You know of others like us?"

"Hey, go easy, brother. You don't know your own strength."

"Seven knows exactly what he is doing. Answer the question." "I was talking about stories. Science fiction. Sci-fi. The Outer Limits? Dr. Who? I guess you don't know. Anyway, I watched a lot of those TV shows when I was banged up. Excuse me, when I was in jail. Enough to know that you people from the future all come here wanting the same thing."

"Ah, you were unfortunate enough to be incarcerated in the prison hulks of the Thames."

"Prison hulks? You got your centuries mixed up again, brother."

"You were incarcerated, nevertheless."

"Well, yeah."

The woman looks at him and says, "Before or after university?"

"Okay, okay, I admit the university story was a ploy to get some sympathy. But I'll be straight with you now, seeing as we're partners. That is, if you can get inside. If you aren't a couple of nut jobs. If you really are from the future."

"I fail to understand why you do not believe us."

"You don't have much of a sense of humour, do you, brother?"

"He can't help it," the woman says. "He was made that way."

There's a fence of tall iron railings at the rear of the art gallery. The big man takes out a tiny silver box and points it at the railings. There's a pleasant, soothing hum, and lengths of iron drop into dust, opening a round hole in the fence.

"Fucking hell," the young man says. "A disintegrator ray!"

"It neutralises the bonds between atoms," the woman says. "Like I said. Can it fix the alarms, too? This place has plenty of alarms."

"We can deal with them if you show us where they are."

When they have found one of the sensor boxes of the security system, the big man blows a handful of silver dust into it and says, "This will take a little while to do its work."

The young man flinches as fireworks boom in the darkness nearby. "What does it do? Can't you just, I don't know, blast the wires with your disintegrator ray?"

The big man says, "The dust is very clever. It will analyze the structure of the alarm and neutralise it."

The woman says, "Our technology must seem like magic to you."

"I've seen better on TV."

"I do not trust this man, Fifteen. He shows no sign at all of future shock."

"This TV seems to be a window into the future, Seven. Besides, I think he still believes that we're either liars or insane."

"Even so. I think we should go on without him. He has served his purpose."

"Hey. Hey! Put me down, brother! Hey! I got you here, you're going to kill me?"

"Seven won't damage you too badly. Just enough to knock you out. You can do that, Seven, can't you?"

"I will attempt to use less force on our associate than on the unfortunate man who accosted you, Fifteen."

The young man talks rapidly, his voice constricted because one of Seven's large hands is at his throat. "I thought we were partners. In the same gang, the same guild. You need me. What about when you get inside? It's a big place. Do you know exactly where to go? Even with the alarms out there will still be security guards. You won't have much time to find what you want."

Seven relaxes his grip and says, "He is right, Fifteen."

The young man straightens his jacket. "Where's the harm? You get what you want. I get something too. A Turner or a Constable. Something better than a souvenir postcard, anyway. Jesus. Just to prove I'm on your side, you can have your disintegrator ray back."

"How did you -- "

"When you were throttling me. Don't sweat it, brother. Hey, look at the box. It's lit up like a Christmas tree. Does that mean your magic dust has fixed the alarms?"

"What will we do, Fifteen?"

"Let him help us, I suppose. But I still don't trust him."

"You two never heard of the expression 'honour amongst thieves'? Come on. Use that disintegrator ray. We don't have all night."

The man in the cape uses his tiny silver box to make a hole in a basement door. Before he steps through, the young man takes off his leather jacket and knocks out the flames which have caught in the wood. "We don't want a fire," he says. "Or at least, not yet."

The woman says sharply, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you told me you planned to take stuff from the Metropolitan Museum in New York because you think it will burn down tonight. So strictly speaking you're not thieving: you're on a salvage mission. The Tate here isn't scheduled to burn down, but you'll have to cover your tracks."

"He may be right, Fifteen."

"I don't know. It won't happen unless we cause it happen. It sounds like a Grandmother Paradox." "You mean like when you go back, kill your grandmother before she has your father, so you couldn't have been born to go back and kill her? Look, relax. It's just another thing I saw on TV."

"This TV is far too educative for my liking," Seven says to Fifteen, as they follow the young man inside. The young man shines a small flashlight this way and that as he leads the two time travellers through storage basements where pictures hang in great racks, to a service door that opens into the dark, shuttered restaurant. "You wait here," he says, and races away up the curve of a flight of stone stairs.

"I still think you should have knocked him out."

"We must cleave to the ideal of thieves' honour, Fifteen."

"I don't -- "

"Hush. He returns."

"Piece of cake. The guards are all at the front desk, drinking whisky and watching TV instead of their security cameras, the poor sods. What a night to be working, huh? You two come along now. I know just where to go."

They creep like mice through dark, lofty rooms hung with paintings. The noise of the crowds along the river can be faintly heard.

"There it is. What do you think?"

Even in the faint, wavering light of the torch, the petals are as bright as orange flames around the sunflower's gorgeous yellow disc.

"It's the real deal. How are you going to get it out?"

Seven lifts a long metal tube from inside his cape

"That's good. And I guess you know that each painting is rigged up to an alarm system."

"Of course. We will use the dust."

"You guys have pretty much thought of everything," the young man says, and punches a small red box by the door.

The faint tinkle of glass is immediately drowned by the tremendous clang of the fire alarm. The young man shouts over the noise: "You're wrong about the Metropolitan Museum! Jade told me to tell you that it won't burn down for another century!" And then he laughs and sprints away into darkness.

Seven and Fifteen chase after him, almost run straight into the guards, and double back in dismay. Seven disintegrates a hole in a fire door and then they are running across a wide, floodlit lawn towards the railing.

Halfway down the street, Seven stops and plants his hands on his knees and takes great whooping breaths. There is no sign of the young man.

"We can't stop here, Seven!"

"I was not made for running, Fifteen. You go on."

"Go on? Where would I go on to?"

"Then I think we must risk using the portal one more time." Seven reaches into his pocket for the index, and then with a growing look of alarm pats at all his pockets.

"I have a confession to make, Fifteen."

"He has the index."

"I am afraid so."

"Which means we can't use the portal."

"We will have to wait until those of Jade's guests who chose to come here begin to return to the main part of the party."

"We will have to throw ourselves on their mercy. Our master's plan will be revealed." "It may be worse than that."

"How could it possibly be worse?"

"Did you not hear what the young man said about the Metropolitan Museum? I fear that he may have been an agent of Jade's. I fear that Jade knew that our master was preparing to make a wager, and made preparations of her own. I fear that her research into this era was more thorough than our master's."

"You think too much, Seven."

"I cannot help it. It is the way I was made. Consider this. The index warned me when he tried to steal it on the bridge, but it did not warn me the second time. I fear he allowed the index to warn me the first time so that he could gain our confidence."

"At least he didn't get the painting."

"No. Not at the Tate. But I think he has already moved on a hundred years, to the Metropolitan Museum."

"Oh."

"Indeed. Ah. I believe that it must be midnight."

Overhead, the sky explodes in falling flowers of fire as the whole world rushes into each other's arms. "These people really are crazy," the woman says. "It's like the end of the world."

Sirens wail, growing louder and louder. Two white vehicles suddenly fling themselves around a corner in the road. Lights flash cheerily on their roofs.

The woman says uneasily, "Is this part of the celebrations?"

"Oh dear. I do believe that the pigs have arrived."

The vehicles screech to a halt. Policemen tumble out into the street, and the man and the woman make a run for the future.

HOME