⚒️ The Announcement

⚒️ The Announcement

by Joel Glover

“As a girl, I spent every Sunday morning at church. There I heard that God created man in his own image.”

Most scientists would hesitate to quote Genesis in their landmark conference speech. The next line in my prepared remarks put me onto more familiar ground for the audience.

“I was lucky enough to receive a scholarship to University College right here in my hometown of London to study Biology. The fact I had turned away from my upbringing suited me to a career in science, to questioning fundamental assumptions.”

My words echoed through the wide open space of Ancient Billingsgate Market, amplified by the microphone pinned to my lapel. The cast iron and glass above us was once a temporal temple to commerce, long since turned to a floating cathedral of conversation. Behind me my employer’s famous logo, the stylised cerulean hydrogen atom glowed on a white background.

“When the theories of survival of the fittest and evolution were first conceived, the men proposing and studying these ideas were informed by Christianity. They knew as an article of faith that God created man in his own image, and reconceptualised this as less a physical creation but more a spiritual and moral one. Of course, some clung onto the older ideal, and others used this new thinking to continue to justify cruelties and injustices which still continue to this day.”

I watched a ripple of discomfort run through the room. Here I was raising questions of justice and cruelty to an audience paler than me, and the people of the city I stood in.

Cavendish had flaws, as an employer, but three things had compelled me to accept their offer. 

Many of my peers and friends had dismissed the whole thing as the maniacal projection of a billionaire’s ego, had sent me podcasts deriding anyone who bought into the grand vision that it represented. But I believed. 

Another thing I believed is that Valerian St John, for all his aristocratic privilege and advanced years, was determined to have diverse minds around him, regardless of caste, colour, or creed.

And he and I both believed in the power of cold, hard, cash. You could buy a lot of certitude with the amount of money that landed in my bank every month.

“For generations, mankind, whether men of science or men of faith, has thought of itself as nature’s perfect solution.”

Charlotte Ahlfeld was the Head of Marketing for Cavendish. If she was shorter than 6’2” in her stockings I would be almost as shocked as I would be to see her out of steepling stiletto heels as slim as she was. But to dismiss her as a pretty face would be to ignore her enormous capability and sharp wit. 

She had given me as much input into this event as I had desired, and had smiled a wicked smile when I explained why the location was so apposite.

I had gotten a full guttural Germanic laugh when I started making menu suggestions.

“And yet, in our arrogance, the answer to evolution’s question was with us all along.”

The waiters and waitresses were circulating amongst the tables, black trousers and white shirts framing young faces from a rainbow of backgrounds. I had been very careful to dress brightly, opting for a cheongsam in ivory with piping in kente patterns.

I did not want to suffer the microaggression of being confused for staff at an event I was hosting.

Since the start of the slow death of the journalism freesheet, writers and content makers had been keen to attend any event with free meals, and the collapse of the latest tech bubble had made some particularly ready to sup at their masters’ tables.

Small plates of canapes were delivered to each attendee. Concessions to halal and kashrut sensibilities had been made by replicating the shellfish in choux and sesame.

“The Cavendish Company launched its first space probe almost a hundred years ago, sending constant signals back to Earth through our proprietary relays and buoys. That’s “boo-ees” for the Americans in our audience.”

A polite ripple of applause greeted the perfunctory two nations divided by one language jibe.

“Last year we made an unexpected discovery in these signals, and without further ado to share that discovery with you I would like to invite my friend Valerian St John to the stage.”

You could have cut the noise with a chainsaw, if you had one to hand. You’d have needed something petrol driven, with horsepower. There was applause, a roar of approval from some, gasps of shock from others, babbles of speculation and chatter.

As a young man Valerian had been a dynamic physical presence, formally dressed in contrast to the standard scruffy tech-ingenu CEO, adding a twist with his choice of bright coloured fabrics from top tailors. Now he was trapped in a wheelchair, his body failing him, those elegant hands calcified into arthritic claws. Some might say he was a shadow of his former self, an impression he played up to in sartorial choices of greys and blacks. His mind was still brighter than a neutron star though. It had been him who untangled the encryption.

I was responsible for giving meaning to the discovery. 

“I do not do much public speaking any more.”

He had modelled his voice synthesiser on a famous mathematician from the 20th century. 

His self-deprecating joke got its sought for laugh.

“A picture tells a thousand words. How many words is a video worth?”

The screen behind us changed.

The word is carcinisation.

From the deck of a ship that could never be conceived by a human mind the crab from another world waved at the audience.