[ This has always been one of my most popular Science Fiction Stories, when it has appeared in various small publications - I hope you enjoy it.]
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TERMITES' TOMORROW
It all started when something unfathomable drew my attention to this innocuous card in an estate agent's window and, without thinking twice, I walked right into it, whatever it was:
Hillside Cottage
A secluded country residence of character, set in thirty hectares of mature woodland. Featuring an extensive dry basement with large external door, wide tarmac access ramp, new concrete flooring and generous headroom.
In a rich chocolate voice, she repeated the words on the card, quoting from memory, her expert fingers still flying through the particulars-rack. “Ah yes!” she continued, pouncing on the relevant tract:
Ref: 27034 - Cot-res-liv-din-kit-bth-4bed.
Offered with immediate vacant possession, under a special directive from the Ministry of Defence.
Reduced for quick sale.
“Just what you're looking for,” she finished, glancing up.
Our eyes met and, at once, I knew she was right. The beautiful ‘Genevieve’ (according to her name badge) was well trained in the art of persuasion. But why did I feel like a rabbit in the headlights? After all, the property was displayed in the window. I'd almost decided to purchase before entering the property-shop; the culmination of a strange compulsion that had been dogging me for days. In fact, I could almost swear that this girl, this Genevieve, was the one who had visited the most vivid of my recent dreams.
Recovering from the impromptu reverie, I found the reality gazing up at me, expectantly. A flick or two of her lashes seemed to cover me in butterfly kisses. I imagined running my fingers through the silky chestnut curls of her long flowing hair.
I was hooked! Again she spoke of the cottage, her soft whisper reflecting the texture of her skin. Discarding years of hard-won business caution, I swam into those large brown eyes, murmuring, “I'd love to see it,” then basked, carefree, in the warm chocolate of her gaze. Her lashes applauded my decision. I sighed. Then, just as I was getting used to their delicate caress, she looked away. Suddenly I felt cold and alone.
“Friday morning, ten-thirty?” she enquired, urgently windowing her diary, “Meet you there?” her bright fingernails clicked on the keyboard, then hovered expectantly.
Yeah! I had a date - “Er! Yes, that'll be fine,” I stammered.
What was I thinking about? I was supposed to be buying a cottage with my illgottons, not playing emotional games with a professional cock-teaser, half my age. Nevertheless, when Friday came and I got there exactly on time, my cardiac condition was verging on dangerous. And it wasn't from climbing the hill.
“This is Malcolm,” she said, as I entered the hall, “He's here to take any vital measurements you might need.”
A chaperone, very wise. Not that I”m any particular hazard to young ladies, however deep their brown eyes. “I've got a tape, thanks,” I grunted.
It had sprung into my hand, like a dueller's rapier. I drew a measured metre of slim silver blade to counter the few centimetres of chipped, yellow steel-tape, which Malcolm was cracking between his fingers. He rapidly retracted and re-holstered, rather sheepishly I thought. Round one to me? No, he was obeying a flash from those chocolate eyes.
With the pecking order properly established, Genevieve started the tour. The living area merged into the dinette, which in turn merged into the kitchen, then we were back in the hall. From there, she led the way upstairs; my fleeting fantasies and I followed the tight skirt. Behind me I thought I detected a snigger from Malcolm. The four bedrooms, with fitted wardrobes, were acceptable. The bathroom, complete with bidet, also included a luxurious outsize shower.
I grunted my approbation. She smiled. I glowed. Next we descended two flights, the normal one we had come up and the long, laborious one beneath that. After three more doglegs, we reached the featured basement. Yes, as advertised, it was dry, recently re-floored and, at one end, had a large external roller-door, easily big enough for an army lorry or even one of my refuse vehicles. In fact, the place looked as if a truck is what it had been designed to garage. Now I understood the length of the stairs. For a basement, it was certainly generous, but not what I would call extensive.
“Is this all of it?” I enquired.
Malcolm indulged in a second snigger, as if he thought me facetious. Genevieve bathed me in brown questions, but said nothing. I had the feeling she expected more of me.
“Measure the floor thickness, Malcolm,” she instructed.
He rattled open the roller-shutter and dropped down onto the tarmac drive, which as advertised, ramped up and away between tall concrete retaining walls. From his sudden loss of apparent height, I judged the recently added concrete floor to be almost half a metre thick. I thought it had been lucky for the former owners - hadn't the particulars mentioned the Defence Ministry? - that the door had been a type that could cope with such an alteration in floor level.
Genevieve's brown eyes were more quizzical than ever, what on earth did she want me to glean from this. “You would need to alter the drive, add a concrete slope or something, if you intended to use this as a garage,” she said.
Was this significant or was she just making sales conversation? Yet again, I found myself a hostage in her strangely hypnotic eyes. “I'll take it,” I said, somewhat to my own surprise.
She needed my solicitor's address. We shook hands and departed. I stopped on the road and looked back. The cottage huddled against the wooded hilltop, looking lonely, almost abandoned. I wanted to move in immediately, just to comfort it. A passing doubt dribbled into my head. Why should it hold such an attraction for me. It was miles from anywhere, nearly at the top of a hill and what would I do with that white elephant of a basement. Then I remembered Genevieve and the doubt dribbled out again, leaving a warm welter of chocolate fantasies.
I was stunned when the formalities only took a couple of weeks. The survey and searches came back virtually by return of post. Like a dream, the solicitors consistently agreed with each other. I almost felt cheated without the normal snags, delays and cock-ups to add a bit of drama to the purchase.
Then came moving-in day. On the way I caught up with a rattling pantechnicon grinding up the hill. As I overtook, I winced at the thought of what might be happening to my collection of antique china. Pulling up by the front door, I strolled in possessively. Somehow I'd been expecting Malcolm to be there for the hand-over, but it was Genevieve who welcomed me. We went into the kitchen to sign for the keys. The fitted fridge contained a beribboned bottle of champagne. She opened it, produced glasses and poured.
“Your new cottage,” was the toast, the sparkle in my glass echoed the sparkle in her eyes. Yet again, I couldn't help but dive straight in.
“Where do you want this, this and this?” nagged the removers dragging me ashore. I've never hated anyone so much in my life. From then on, for hours I was busy, arguing practical portering versus interior design. Why shouldn't I have all the heavy stuff upstairs? Miraculously, the china had survived. Then the lifters, grunters and complainers had gone.
Thinking myself alone at last, the proud monarch of my new domain, I staggered into the kitchen, a strong coffee was what I needed, but not what I got. Genevieve was still where I had left her, fresh champagne bubbling in the glasses.
“You didn't know it,” she cooed, kissing me on the cheek, “But I come with house.”
My brain reeled, I stood stock still in a chocolate silence. All I could say was, “I hope the deal doesn't include Malcolm!”
She smiled, “I”m afraid it does! He's in the basement with a hammer drill, but don't worry about him now.” She put down her glass, stepped into my personal space and undid a couple of the pearl buttons decorating the cleavage of her soft silk blouse.
“W-why me?” I asked, taking half a step backwards into the angle of the work-top.
“You bought the cottage, silly! And only you hold the keys.”
“But you already had the keys,” I would have retreated further but she had me cornered.
“Not those keys; I mean the ones to the future's problems. You're in rubbish, aren't you?”
“Waste Wranglers PLC, that's me. What's that got to do with it?”
“Termites thrive on certain sorts of rubbish. Malcolm's a termite.”
“Malcolm's a TERMITE?” I repeated.
“Well actually he was a termite, in the future.”
“In the FUTURE?” I reeled again. What did she mean by ‘was’ and ‘the future?’
“I mean we come from the future. I'm a future man and Malcolm is a future termite.”
“You're a MAN?” - Finishing every sentence in a shout was becoming a habit.
“Please don't shout,” said Genevieve. “You're quite safe and it's all very simple.”
“A man!” I groaned, chocolate dreams shattering like a cheap Easter-egg.
“Well not really a man, not as such.” - she sounded comforting - “In the future there are no men, not men like you, that is. All humans are the same, they all look more or less like me. We dropped the ‘wo’ bit when we gave up the womb.”
I choked in disappointment, “Well then, you won't need me, or anything I can offer,”
She stroked my cheek. “When I say we, I mean the human race, not me. I'm special. I've got everything you could ever want, including a very healthy desire to give it a test run.” - she undid the rest of her buttons and continued.
“You've got two things, no three, that the future needs: This cottage, rubbish and the lost gene.” - her skirt slipped down to join the blouse on the floor - “I'd like to collect some of the latter now, if you feel like it.”
Her thumbs were inside the waistband of her panties, total exposure was imminent. My heart pounded as my eyes slid effortlessly over the exquisite peachiness of her body.
She had three navels. I fainted.
I woke in the bathroom. Somehow the place seemed full of cushions, then I realised my head was on her breast. We were sitting in the shower under a fine warm rain. She was naked and all I had left were my underpants.
“There, there,” she whispered, “It's all right, moma's going to take care of you.” She reached for my waistband. I struggled to my feet, desperately hanging on to my pants.
“I”m all wet!” I complained.
“You passed out. I had to bring you round.”
“If you needed water, there was plenty in the kitchen. Why bring me up here?”
“You were all sweaty from the moving and I thought this would be more fun than the kitchen.”
She started soaping me down, whispering, “I want that gene, but I want it clean.”
Under such an assault, I had no choice but to remove my pants. She put her hands on my shoulders, I looked into her eyes, then at her lips, neck, breasts. I didn't dare look any lower; not after what I'd seen last time. Her nipples were chocolate too. I sighed, slid into her embrace and took charge of the soap. “Which gene did you have in mind?” I murmured.
“Just give me all you've got,” she whispered, moving in for the kill, “I'll sort 'em out later.”
Later, with my ‘all’ delivered and graciously accepted, I got round to wondering where my rubbish and recycling business came in to it.
“What about the rubbish?” I asked as we dressed each other with an amusing assortment of unsuitable clothes from my upended suitcases.
“We seem to be wearing it,” she giggled, posing in front of the mirrored wardrobe. “Now its time for Malcolm.”
Hoping fervently that termites had no need of lost genes, I followed Genevieve's buoyant dance down and around the dogleg stairs. As we descended, we were deafened by the sound of serious hammer-drilling.
Once in the basement, it was obvious that Malcolm had an insatiable appetite for destroying concrete. The floor was littered with ragged drill holes. Here and there, the underlying original surface was showing through; it was checker-plate steel.
“Haven't you found the hatch yet?” asked Genevieve.
“Sniggle sniggle, snot!” grunted Malcolm, or at least, that's what it sounded like.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“NATO HQ (Rutland) UK,” she replied. “Now abandoned and concreted over.”
“It's under here? I own it?” was all I could manage.
Then - “SNIG!” The disguised termite had struck lucky. Malcolm, if that was his real name, threw down the drill and to my horror, stripped-off to reveal the almost humanoid evolution of the future Termite Race.
Looking like a sort of elongated, six legged Michelin Man in a rubber mask, he danced a little dance of triumph, then yanked off his face, the final vestige of human appearance. Flinging down the scrap of fleshy latex, he dived into his most recent excavation.
We rushed over and stared down at the rusty steel ladder disappearing into echoing darkness. Malcolm's multiple footsteps receded rapidly below us. The ladder clanged for several minutes, then fell silent. A distant engine clanked and roared. The shaft lights flared, apparently he'd found a generator. Again, the ladder clanged and rattled, Malcolm was on his way back to us.
The lift-shaft was the same size as the basement, except it looked at least a mile deep. After a few moments, the termite shot out of the hatch and started refilling all the abortive holes resulting from his search. My stomach was not pleased to note that he appeared to be using a masticated mixture of broken concrete and resinous spit. The sudden stench was appalling!
Genevieve watched him for a moment, her pert nose wrinkling, then turned to me and announced, “We need wastepaper, garden rubbish, wood-pulp, old furniture and any other vegetable matter we can get our hands on. Everything that termites love to eat. This shaft, side galleries and empty missile silos must be filled. The future of the Races depends on it.”
“I don't understand,” I complained. “What races?”
“It's simple. I told you. The future's full of humans and termites, the two great Races. We love to think, plan and design. They love to work, manufacture and build.”
“You mean like old HG predicted? Eloi on the surface and Molocks under the ground?” I said.
“No, if the film version is to be believed, Mr Well's fictional future humans were uselessly pretty and his workers unpleasantly crass. Our two Races are flowers of civilisation and culture. The future world is like a global cathedral reaching out to the sky. Unfortunately, the termites are about to run out of food and raw materials, leaving it incomplete. To solve the problem, many of us have returned to this past to fill all the NATO bunkers with waste fibre, plastics, scrap metal and all the other things you are intent on dissipating as pollution. In our time, these bunkers are still sealed. When we know they will be full, we will return to that future and open them as treasuries of unbelievable wealth.”
“Where do I come in?” I asked, watching her rummaging among the ex-Malcolm's clothes.
“You've got the contacts,” she said, handing me his mobile-phone, “Waste Wranglers can get us the trash.”
“What about the lost gene? What will that mean for the future?”
“It uniquely survives in you, an accident of evolution. In my future our technologists will use it to fuse humans and termites in one glorious genetic unity.”
I looked at Malcolm's pulsating pallid segments, then at Genevieve's delicious peach and chocolate loveliness. Somehow their mating, however impersonal, didn't seem right. Something snapped in my head.
“I think I'd like my genes back, if you please!” I growled, grabbing the drill.
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Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©1997, ©1999 & ©2007. All rights reserved.
