Looking further ahead, many optimistic commentators predict a new spirit of co-operation in the world, with countries abandoning armed force and focusing instead on resolving the environmental problems made so starkly clear by the kangasaurs. Those still denying that climate change exists, or claiming that if it exists it is an entirely natural process, or that even if humanity is involved there is nothing that can be done about it anyway, are now in a tiny minority. A new sense of urgency and determination appears to be developing, with the mass production of the simpler examples of kangasaur technology already underway. Whether this heralds a new chance for humanity, or is “too little too late”, remains to be seen. While there are signs that the rate of pregnancies in the developing world is dropping sharply, the world’s population will remain well over what environmentalists claim is the “sustainable limit” for decades or even centuries to come. That is one problem which will not go away in our lifetimes.
I logged off the news service, closed the laptop on the plain wooden table and rubbed my eyes tiredly. I got up and walked across the stone-flagged floor, ducked under the low door lintel and straightened up to enjoy the view. Turf kept short by the half-wild sheep swept down to a beach of white sand, glowing in the evening light. The ocean, moderately calm for once, stretched away towards the sunset, dotted with rocks and islets. I turned and surveyed the area, scanning with my eyes and mind as was my habit. The land rose behind the long, low, whitewashed and turf-roofed house, sweeping up to a low hill. There was not a soul within range, and not a sound except for the crying of the gulls against the background of the soughing breeze.
I turned and ran up the hill, taking my customary evening exercise. At the top there was a jumble of rocks, too even in size to be natural, presumably the remains of some Iron Age broch. I stopped and surveyed the wider scene, focusing my scan into a tight, far-reaching beam which swept over to the larger island looming to the east. No boats were visible; this part of the Outer Hebrides was not on the popular tourist track and there was no reason for anyone to come to this small, deserted island except for the shepherd at shearing time. I went through my usual exercise routine until I was breathing hard, then ran back down the hill to my refuge from the world.
It had been Richards’ idea, when it became clear that Freya and I had become anathema to the world at large. He had identified the private island, rapidly repaired the old shepherd’s hut, and installed one of the highly-efficient saurian power systems, consisting of advanced solar panels which produced electricity to break down water into hydrogen and oxygen. The hydrogen was then stored and used to feed a fuel cell whenever electricity was needed to run my laptop or power the satellite internet link.
I had gritted my teeth in the interests of maximum security and submitted to being flown with Freya in a private jet to Scotland. I had been there ever since, serving out what I regarded as a period of exile until such time as I could reappear in public without causing an instant riot.
Freya had, in a way, been luckier. The saurians had prepared another patch which, over a period of just a few weeks, had taken the desired twenty years off her physical age (which delighted her), replaced her blonde hair and blue eyes with red and vivid green respectively (which intrigued her), and changed her tanned skin to a paler colour with freckles, which she hated – but she had to admit that it all added up to an impenetrable disguise. She had left shortly afterwards since, as I pointed out, there was no need for her to share my exile when she could pass unrecognised.
My motives in sending her away were not entirely those of noble self-denial. I was worried about her state of mind. She had, I realised, always been sociable and popular, and had been shattered by the deluge of vitriol which had poured out of the television and internet once the relationship between her world lecture tour and the spread of the saurian virus had been identified. She tried to shield her emotions from me, but I would wake to hear her crying quietly in desperate misery, and knew that she could not stay.
The ever-efficient Richards had found her a new identity, a job and a place to live in Edinburgh. I reflected with a trace of old bitterness that his continued contrition over Sophie was still proving very useful. The saurians had helped with some intensive training in masking thoughts so that Freya’s real identity would not be suspected by those she came into casual contact with. Her freedom came at a price, though; she would never be able to drop her barriers for a full mind-link without revealing her identity.
Sometimes I wondered why I was not much affected by my isolation and pariah status, but put that down to my phlegmatic saurian genetic inheritance. The saurians had offered to develop a patch for me which would change my appearance back to the human norm, but I had rejected it. Probably in order to survive with my sanity intact, I had long ago come to accept the way I was, and was content to stay that way for the duration – however long or short that might be.
In a way, I was relieved to be out of the turmoil, of the need to make hard, world-changing decisions. It was pleasant to be taxed only with deciding which fruit and nuts to eat that day. I was in contact with one or other of the saurians every day, but more for social reasons than anything else. Like me, they were waiting for the situation to settle down. My routine was broken only by a weekly food delivery: a small boat arrived and the pilot left a box on the beach, while I kept out of sight.
I switched on the computer again to check for messages. As usual, there were none. I hardly expected any, since the only people with my email address were Richards and Freya. At first, Freya had sent messages every day to tell me about her new life, but these tailed off after a while and I could read the signs plainly enough. She had become an exceptionally attractive young woman, and was no doubt not short of company. I was a reminder of the old days, of violence and terror and hate. She was too far away to mind-link directly, but could have done so via the saurians had she wished. She chose not to, and I gathered from Tertia that she rarely linked with the saurians these days. I wondered if she sometimes thought of me, in the dark of the night.
The next morning the westerly breeze had stiffened and the sea was being driven onto the beach in a rhythmical crash of breakers and hissing backwash. It was hard to imagine that spring was well on the way. It was two years, I realised, since the accident which had transformed me. I ran across the beach and into the water in my usual routine, swimming quickly out beyond the breakers to the swell beyond, before diving to the bottom and working my way around the familiar rocks. I tweaked the giant old lobster which lived under one of them, amused as always by a body language which seemed to indicate affronted dignity. A little further out I met some of the grey seals which were normally based on one of the rocky islets in the bay. They had got used to me, and gave me only a cursory once-over. I surfaced ready to swim back, and casually scanned the area.
My alertness rocketed up the scale as I sensed people approaching, fast. I turned quickly and saw the helicopter coming in low from the west, I guessed to avoid being spotted from the main island. I felt an old fury revive and my lips curl back in a savage rictus as I gathered my power and prepared to force the pilot to slam the helo into the sea. Just in time, I read her mood and realised that this was no killer, there were no fanatics on board. There was just a pilot, doing her job – and Richards.
I trod water for a few seconds, shocked by the instant surge of violent rage which had broken my usual calm. I had obviously been more affected by the past than I realised. I turned and swam back to shore, watching as the helo settled on the beach in front of the house, its rotor slowly winding down. By the time I walked through the tumbling surf, Richards was wandering about impatiently, coat collar turned up against the sharp wind, and the pilot was doing stretching exercises on the beach. She looked up as I approached, a moment of shock and understanding as she recognised me replaced by a flash of amusement. I was puzzled by her reaction until Richards saw me and registered embarrassment. Then I remembered that I was naked – there had been no point in wearing any clothes on my deserted island. I nodded to them, went into the house, pulled on some shorts, and went back out again to face them. The pilot was looking at me with a slight smile on her face. Judging by her speculative mood, I didn’t think she was contemplating shoes and handbags.