CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tannhäuser

Lucretia Cutter had agreed to see him. This was his chance to talk to her about Novak. Barty took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway. The mezzanine floor above the laboratory reminded him of a lobby in an expensive hotel. The long bar against the back wall led to a viewing gallery, looking out into the Arcadia dome. Lucretia was standing with her back to him, looking into her Eden. In the middle of the floor stood a grand piano. Glancing down to the floor below, he could see the lab, the glass wall and the base of the pupator.

‘What do you want, Bartholomew?’ She didn’t need to turn around to know that he was standing behind her.

‘I’m not comfortable about forcing Novak through another pupation,’ he said. ‘It could kill her.’

‘Don’t think of the girl as a human with a name. Think of her as a genetic experiment. She only got a name because she lived. For a while I called her Handbag.’ She laughed.

‘I cannot.’ Barty shook his head. ‘I will not.’

‘I do so enjoy your weaknesses,’ she laughed softly. ‘Do you know, your inability to kill is one of the reasons I don’t see you as a threat? Your hopeless belief that good will out makes you impotent and harmless.’

‘Novak is a child.’

‘Enough. The girl will experience the full pupation,’ Lucretia snapped. ‘I cannot become who I wish to be without another metamorphosis, and I cannot be sure it will work until it is tested. It has to be tested on her because she is my genetic mirror. We are the only two humans to have gone through the pupation and survived. My mission is too important to take the risk with my own life, so she will go through a second metamorphosis whether you like it or not.’

‘Please, Lucy, have a heart,’ Barty begged. ‘Whatever you call her, she’s your daughter.’

Lucretia snorted. ‘Novak’s pupation will take place tomorrow. If you don’t want to be there, that is your choice.’

There was a long silence.

Barty walked over to the piano. ‘Do you still play, Lucy?’ He ran his fingers over the ivory keys, playing a random series of notes. ‘I remember you were really rather good once.’

‘That’s gratifying to hear.’ She tipped her head back. ‘Yes, I still play. Music is the soul’s expression, after all.’

‘You still believe you have a soul, then?’

‘Souls aren’t exclusive to humans, Bartholomew,’ she replied. ‘Elephants, monkeys, beetles, all living creatures have souls. I believe trees have souls, don’t you?’

Barty levelled his gaze at her unreadable compound eyes. ‘What you are planning to do, what you are already doing, is going to result in the deaths of millions of people. You are committing genocide. I fail to see how you can talk about expressing your soul through music, when you set about committing mass murder with a smile on your lips.’

Lucretia’s nostrils flared with anger. She swept over to the piano in a series of lurching steps, and sat down. She placed her two human hands on the keys, nails painted black, fingers weighed down by diamond rings, and began to play.

‘Is everything so black and white to you?’ she said softly as she played the first notes of a tune that Barty faintly recognized. ‘Aren’t humans, as a species, committing mass murder on an immeasurable scale? Forty per cent of all of the earth’s animals have become extinct in the last fifty years. Aren’t our population growth and addiction to wealth killing this planet? We are hastening our own demise, fighting wars over fossil fuels and nuclear weapons.’ She played a series of chords, the music building. ‘What is there about humanity that you think is worth saving? Doesn’t your heart grieve for the last elephants, the last giraffes? Don’t you wonder what will be left for your grandchildren? Don’t you want to stop it all?’

‘But of course . . .’

‘You don’t see how. Do you? You lack vision. The meek shall inherit the earth, the Bible says, and we think that means meek humans, but why are we so obsessed with our own species? Yes, the meek shall inherit the earth; in fact, I plan on giving it to them. I plan on giving it to the beetles.’

Barty felt her words like hammer blows to his chest. ‘Do you really think you can take on all the governments of the world?’

‘I already have.’

‘Lucy . . . they will send nuclear bombs.’

‘Ha!’ She laughed and played, and played, lifting two beetle legs on to the higher and lower octaves of the piano. ‘The big boys with their bad bombs, we must all quake when the bullies shake their fists. Well, not me. The Biome is a self-sustaining environment with a hyper-oxygenated atmosphere. The hexagonal design of each panel of military grade glass – used in the windshields of stealth bombers – is impenetrable. But even then, more than half the facility is underground. We are safe here. If they bomb me, I’ll destroy more of their crops, like I did in India. If they use nuclear weapons – well, the Amazon rainforest is the lungs of the earth, they may as well be bombing themselves. They’d destroy their soil, their harvests and their water supplies. I have turned the planet into a giant chessboard, and I have them in checkmate.’

‘But why?’

‘I am going to change the course of the human race, Bartholomew. I’m going to wipe out the human population. I’m going to re-wild the planet. The humans that will be allowed to live will be the ones that put the environment before their own meaningless lives.’

‘I can see how you think this might be a solution, but . . .’

‘There is no solution to global warming. We have pushed the planet far beyond the point of no return.’

‘That is absolutely not true, Lucy.’ Barty moved round the piano so he could see her face. ‘You will be punishing the weakest first. The poorest and the youngest will die from starvation.’

‘That can’t be helped. I’m not here to save human beings. I’m here to save the planet – I’m the only one who cares enough to do anything about it.’

‘You’re wrong.’ He brought his fist down on the piano lid, but she kept playing, the rhythm of the music becoming more insistent. ‘There are millions of people who care.’

‘Where?’ she hissed. ‘What I see is people protecting the wealth and power they have by electing politicians who keep the rich rich and make the poor poorer. They do not care about the environment, and choose not to believe in climate change.’

‘That is not everybody,’ Barty argued.

‘Where are the revolutions?’ she cried. ‘Where are the human beings insisting that the environment be the key issue upon which a government is elected? I can’t hear their protests.’ The melody folded and doubled, becoming feverish. ‘Humanity is weak, and that is why the earth needs me. Humanity is a plague. It’s not just climate change; it’s sheer space. We’re running out of places to grow food for the human horde.’

‘There are other ways to tackle population growth.’

‘None that will have a big impact, fast enough – and anyway, the people in power won’t allow it. This is the only way, Bartholomew.’ She smiled at him, a ghastly leer. ‘Just think of how beautiful this planet will look when I’m done with my cull and the giant insects return.’

‘Who made you God?’ he whispered, shaking his head.

‘I did! And the people will worship me and carry out my edict, or die.’ She leant forward, taking a deep breath in through what was left of her nose, the music rising, as a waterfall of notes cascaded down the keyboard.

Barty suddenly recognized the tune. It was the overture to Tannhäuser. Lucy had taken him to the Royal Opera House to see it a long time ago. She’d always loved Wagner. He stepped forward and placed his hand on her shoulder, closing his eyes as she played.

‘Are you really not afraid of their bombs?’ he asked softly.

‘Let them do their worst.’ She leant into the keyboard, her body moving with the music. ‘The underground superstructure of the Biome can seal off the upper glasshouses. We would be untouched by an explosion and free from the impacts of nuclear fallout. We are equipped to survive for some decades here – although the effect on the rest of the planet would be terrible.’ She laughed. ‘You know that old adage that the cockroach is the only creature that could survive a nuclear holocaust? Well, it’s not true. The beetle is.’

‘You’ve thought of everything.’

‘Bartholomew,’ she looked up at him, ‘you opened my eyes to the beauty of this planet. You dragged me to the cliff’s edge and made me open my heart and mind to the natural world, and then you abandoned me to stare down and watch humanity extinguish species after species, bulldoze and burn habitat after habitat. How many more miles of the Great Barrier Reef can you stomach losing? How much more plastic must be found in the guts of whales? How many square miles of rainforest traded for oil? It has to stop. The human cull is coming, and the planet will heave a sigh of relief when I’m done. It will thank me, and that is all the thanks I need.’ The music fractured into patterns of notes and she closed her eyes. ‘I know you feel the same way I do, Bartholomew.’ She sighed. ‘And that is why I trust you.’ She played the final refrains of the piece, letting the last note hang in the air.