The Histories
September 2069
The young girl touched the Old One’s forehead. There was no fever but the coughing that persisted through the night had used up the last of the medication and she was getting worried. Calling the hospital this morning hadn’t done much to alleviate her anxiety either. They said they weren’t sure when the next doctor would be able to get through, as the roads between Melbourne and Warragul were still impassable. But the good news was that additional crews from the city were expected to help with the storm clean-up so it was only going to take days and not weeks. The best thing, the duty nurse advised, was to keep the patient warm and comfortable, adding that if a fever did develop, then the girl should call back and they would consider sending an emergency rescue team.
Thanking her, the girl hung up, and considered her own predicament. Last night, despite the storm, they had enjoyed a pleasant, relaxed dinner, but today the reality of her decision to stay and continue the interview was beginning to sink in.
If she had known what she was getting into, would she have agreed to do this interview in the first place?
What was supposed to be a simple, first hand account of The Great Upheaval and the times leading up to it, had taken an unexpected turn over the last two days and it wasn’t only because of the back to back storms or the unexpected nursing requirements. It wasn’t even because the Old One she was assigned to interview turned out to be stubborn, irascible and belligerent. No, the real problem was that the Old One’s version of events not only contradicted the approved texts, they were so controversial that there was no way the girl could submit them to the MelbU admissions council. The girl wondered if this was the real test devised by her advisor? If so, she was failing miserably. Looking at the box of memorabilia, she could feel her chances of getting into the masters program slipping away; that and her chance to escape from Warragul to the big city. Maybe she should reconcile herself now to a life of poverty and ignominy?
Stoically, she began setting up her equipment. From behind the curtain she could hear the sounds of the Old One’s laboured breathing, interrupted by short sharp sighs. It stopped and started like a bad recording. Then it occurred to her. Maybe she needed to treat the Old One’s historical account the same way – like a bad recording. She could edit them, removing the offensive bits and there might be enough useful viva voce left to pull together a decent testimony. If the admission committee gave her a little leeway because of the storm, then she might have enough time to finish her assignment. That was if, and it was a big if, she could keep the Old One focused on the facts. Inspired, she realised that maybe, just maybe, she would be able to finish this assignment. She grabbed paper and pen, and sitting in front of the recorder, decided to get right to work.
The Old One’s account of the Desolation, was salvageable, describing the disease as hitting in tsunami like waves. The first ripples had spread out from its epicentre in Brazil to the rest of South America, then gaining momentum, it had raced northward, descending on Mexico, cascading into the U.S. and finally inundating Canada. But once it had crossed the Atlantic, that’s when everyone agreed that it really picked up speed, quickly swamping Europe, Asia and Africa. The last to get hit were the island nations of Oceania. They had locked their borders early and The Old One said they had hid, like a frightened child in the cupboard, holding their breath, but in the end it didn’t matter. The disease still washed ashore in the wake of the second wave, then crashed with catastrophic effect as the third wave made one final sweep around the world. As the final wave receded, the last known adult male was thought to be Kurt Voltz, a 39 year old recluse who lived on a small island in the Whitsundays. But that, according to the Old One, was a lie.
The girl put the disc labelled Day 1 into the recorder and pressed play. At the start of the recording, the Old One had wandered a bit, talking about how history had no easily defined beginning, so the girl moved the forward and back buttons until she found the spot where she thought the actual interview should begin. Taking a piece of paper, she jotted the time displayed on the recorder along with the notation START HERE.
Pressing play, she heard the Old One’s voice tell how devastating it was for the women who survived. She fast forwarded, until she found the section she was looking for:
“At the beginning of the Desolation, researchers around the world searched for the cause of the disease. Was it environmental or viral? Or was it some new strain of bacteria released by the melting permafrost? Or perhaps it was leaked from some bio warfare lab? But every avenue they searched led to a dead end so they finally decided they needed a plan B. You see, without knowing the cause, they couldn’t find a cure. And if they couldn’t cure the disease, then all they could hope to do, was save as many of the essential individuals as possible; leading scientists, educators, industrialists and of course politicians. They even tried to preserve their special military personnel, but what for? Everyone was dying already. Anyway, they created safety zones where they isolated the men they hoped to save. Scientists, for example, were sequestered in their research facilities while key military personnel were transferred to off limits barracks. As for the rich and famous, well, they retreated to their own hideaways. There are probably still bunkers out there with the decaying remains of men who thought they could out smart the disease. As more and more men succumbed, government scientists rounded up the remaining survivors and put them into quarantine camps so they could be looked after. That’s what everyone was told but the real reason was so they could be isolated and studied.”
The girl paused the recording and considered whether mentioning the survivor camps was likely to ruffle any feathers. They weren’t mentioned in the orthodox texts but did acknowledging their existence upset the accepted history? The bit about studying the survivors would need to be removed, of course. She listened further.
“While the government employed specially selected female scientists to study and sample the survivors, the disease progressed unabated. Independent research facilities, having lost over half their workforce and almost all their administrators, began to close. One by one they collapsed, like the men they were trying to save. As the last wave subsided, only a few increasingly isolated researchers remained and most of them worked in the government’s now secretive facilities.”
“In the short span of three years, every adult male in the world was dead. Or so the general population believed, because that’s what they were told. I assure you, Kurt was not the last man to die. The men who survived were sequestered away in those quarantine camps and those safe havens became their prisons while the scientists in those government controlled facilities became complicit in hiding the existence of the last surviving males.”
Pressing pause, the girl decided to remove the entire section on the camps. It raised too many damning issues so she scribbled in the new edit times, with the notation -CAMPS.
She continued.
“As for the surviving women, whose husbands and sons and brothers lay dead, they faced a harsh world that needed a lot of fixing but now had a lot fewer fixers. Those post pandemic years you would know as The Transition. That’s the term Evelyn Perkins coined when she claimed that they had come to an end. During those dark years--,”
A series of deep wrenching coughs interrupted the monologue. This was followed by the sound of the Old One sucking water through a straw. The girl considered editing this out but then decided it could stay because it added a bit of drama, and might also be useful in justifying the short recording. After a brief pause, the reedy voice began again.
“Evelyn Perkins was the one that inspired everyone. She kept the government in tact, organised work groups and set priorities. The citizens of Melbourne rallied around her. The mere sight of Evelyn Perkins and her black walking stick, the one with the head of a lioness, inspired hope. Many referred to her as St Evelyn because without her saving grace, the Greater Melbourne Republic would have dissolved into chaos, like so many other areas. I remember her famous Stability to Rebuild speech in 2047. That’s the one they quote in all your history books. The one they claim marked the end of the Transition but, like I said, there are no clear beginnings and endings in history. That speech was intended to be Evelyn Perkins’ retirement speech and officially, she did retire, handing the role of Premier to Doris Anderson. Behind the scenes, however, Perkins still controlled the New Order Party and they were, until 2050, the only party.”
Pressing stop. The girl pressed back. The claim that Evelyn Perkins retained control of the NOP, was unsubstantiated so this bit would definitely have to go. Pressing play, she needed to figure out how much to remove.
“I remember meeting Premier Anderson, you know. She was a moderate within the New Order Party which should have made her popular but those were highly polarised times even before her death, what with the Traditionalists thinking she was too progressive and the Progressives thinking she was too traditional. Personally, I think she was just an ordinary politician pretending that everything was fine when it wasn’t. But that’s not what got her killed. Her murder was ill-fated bad luck, plain and simple.”
At this point there was a slight chuckle, and the girl wondered if she should cut it out. She made a quick note – EDIT?, while the playback continued.
“It was such a small act really in the grand scheme of human history. After all the hordes of deaths that the living had survived, what was one more really? But, just as the murder of Abel poisoned Cain’s land with his brother’s blood, so the murder of Melbourne’s Premier poisoned the Transition’s hard won stability with the blood of innocents.”
On the recording, there was the sound of tapping on an empty glass and a click as the young girl stopped the recording. She hadn’t wanted to waste her batteries while she went to refill the Old One’s water glass, but in hindsight, this was as good a place as any to make the next cut because this was the section where the Old One claimed that the premier was murdered by survivors escaping the prison on French Island. The incident as recounted was clearly fabricated because, as everyone knew, the Premier had been murdered by lancers.
On the recording, the girl heard her own voice challenging the Old One, but the response was as swift as it was acrimonious. “Is that rumour still prevalent?” Then, sarcastically, “I’ll bet you also believe that in 2049, when Premier Anderson announced that Melbourne was ready to hold its first elections in twenty years, that she intended them to be democratic.”
The girl’s voice replied, “Of course they were.” But her counter argument was drowned out by an even more virulent response, “But how could you have democratic elections when a huge portion of your population was denied the right to vote. And it wasn’t only the vote, they were denied.”
The girl marked this spot, labelling the edit with – VOTE.
The recording continued:
“And so now we come to the last few days of 2049, when events converged, forcing individuals who had finally settled into their nice safe lives, to make a choice that was nothing short of the future of humanity.”
From behind the curtain that had been used to create a makeshift wall in the otherwise open cabin, the girl heard the Old One stir so she stopped the playback and leaving her notes, went to check. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she asked, “How are you feeling?”
The dry, cracked lips croaked, “Water.”
Quickly, she retrieved a glass from the kitchen, then helped the elder to sit up and drink.
“What’s the time?”
“Nearly ten.”
“So late!” Agitated, the Old One pulled at the covers. “Well, help me up and we’ll get back to work.”
“Food, then work,” said the young one.
“Nonsense. We--,” the Old One stopped mid sentence and gasped for breath. Fearing the onset of another coughing attack, the girl grabbed the puffer from the bedside table but the elder pushed it away.
“Save that for later. Now help me up.”
“How about you wait here and I’ll bring you breakfast.” Gently she pressed the Old One back onto the pillows and straightened the blankets. Then, before there could be any further disagreement, she was gone.
Left alone, the Old One pondered last night’s dream which hadn’t yet faded and wondered if time really did heal all wounds and if so, had enough time passed? Was it time for the ghosts of the past to face their judgement day?
A sunbeam crossed the foot of the bed, a sign that last night’s storm had passed and that the new day was going to be fair. It was reminiscent of another sunrise where hope and uncertainty sought to counter balance each other.
