Peter - Chapter 12. Bunsen Burner

Peter - Chapter 12. Bunsen Burner
Didn't it sadden him? Of course it bloody did. Lady Harrington had hit a nerve. Of prime concern was who had squeeled? Those who bought tickets also signed contracts. Sworn to secrecy. Any of loose lip should know, if and when word got back, death would follow. His organisation had agents of loyalty to the Noah project, in all circles. Major governments. Royal families. Aristocratic networks. Business collectives. Davos. And far darker global elites. Anyone could be found and terminated. His phone had an app able to set such a process in motion.
Not only sadden him but the projects success depended on those included talking about it only to other passengers. A few generations back these problems would never have happened. A Lord or Duke no more chose his birth than a peasant of the field. God chose the ruling class. And their common loyalty was beyond question. Man could not hope to understand the Lord Gods mysterious ways. Of course those born into poverty must feel some jealousy along with their admiration for their betters. But they only had themselves to blame. To regard gods scheme unfair was of such arrogance. No man could know the mind of God. His ancestors humbly accepted the position God had placed upon them. And with good grace, lesser folk accepted his just selection.
His generation shared this sense of entitlement, indeed, Rupert Bunsen was a believer. God helped the good. These last few decades had seen great changes. Lady Harrington still had her title, the farm house and it's dozen workers cottages, the London house, the Paris town house too. But Harrington Hall and much of her family's estate had to be sold. Her father struggled with the family business. Enjoyed the casino, the horses, well respected for his whoring too. On inheriting the place she discovered the severity of his debts. It took a hefty chunk out of the accounts to pay off. What irritated her beyond measure were those of simple needs. The lower ranks could never imagine the burden of a stately home, they could never endure such suffering, the maintenance costs, staff wages, animal feed. The stable hands alone cost over a thousand a month. But she was of sterner stuff. The twelve million it sold for doubled her funds. An artist. A northerner had bought it. But good breeding saw her head held high. She still got invites to the parties of her class. Over champers on the lawn at Ruperts last summer they'd discussed changing times. Rupert had begun with less than her but invested well. It was the fault of that damned Darwin fellow. Survival of the fittest. The gates were ajar. Broadly speaking the same families ruled the roost. But some had slipped. Lesser folk replacing them. Russian oligarchs, Arabian oil sheiks. Rupert assured her these gate crashers weren't loved. Uncouth, embarrassing purchases, no conception of understatement. Inept in correct cutlery sequence. Nevertheless, Rupert had a furrowed brow, he took no pleasure in refusing her a ticket. But she must understand his position. It was an embarrassment to them both that she didn't have the required funds, even once all her property was sold. He nodded in sympathy as her explanation and promises of further funds she might access continued. But his mind had drifted off. Now she knew she'd have to be silenced. The thought of another American taking her seat was far more unsettling.
Still, if God was an illusion, it meant his vast financial port folio was down to animal laws. Of course all felt concerned by famine overseas. Deeply concerned. But natures course left weaker organisms extinct, as the finest blossomed. The markets had become free to follow Darwinian determinism. Wealth drifted towards the cream of humanity. His personal opinions counted for nothing. Indeed, such was his concern over the famine footage that featured on TV news he would often have to turn it off. The world could be a dreadful place. Still, no point worrying over problems you couldn't solve.
Harrington, however, had a point. The Noah project was eating up money. Their network had first offers, but they could only buy half the hundred or so places. These Russian oligarchs were a troublesome necessity. Most had been KGB thugs. Before other Russians had grasped market economics, their small number had divided the nations riches. Arabs too. Primitives born in the oil fields. But titles weren't sufficient. This project took serious funding. It had taken fifty years to engineer this situation. Sixty percent of the planets wealth owned by one hundred people. And, what's more, in the nick of time. Such vast finance accumulation took difficult decisions. They'd had to not let emotion get in the way. They'd had the wisdom to use all available resources to fund this. For a time, as climate change became evident, as the biodepletion began to destabilise planetary systems, they'd invested a lot of money in scientific research disproving climate change. But, after a while, even the most gullible could see. The flooding, storms, hurricanes, monsoons, after two decades without snow, even the dumbest Englishman had to admit things had changed. The planets population had doubled in Ruperts life. Everyone knew it was going to become uninhabitable in many regions.
Thinking back he remembered the meetings, business leaders, government heads, people of power. Those who knew. Some tried forcing agreements on emissions. But anyone with a brain who'd played cards knew someone would always cheat. This could not be stopped now. So after such emission targets signing summits, after the righteous had flown home, there'd be the regulars, still chatting at the bar. Together deals were struck. Hands shaken. If the world was going down, if the resource race had begun, they best be in the running. The super super rich. Now an international elite of just one hundred great men.
Bunsen had invested in space tourism. Rich people paid a pretty penny for a swift jump above the atmosphere, an hour to look into the dark depths, to look back in wonder at this beautiful planet. This brought in money but had further purpose. The technologies that were being tested had other objectives.
His secret summit, attended by the planets elite, was a historic moment. All who were invited felt like gods. The history of evolution had led to this point. Planet Earth. The host body had aligned all resources for a single goal. The host was only the systems means of refining every mineral, every gene, everything, refined and used to reach this single point. The host would die having distilled all humanity to the finest few. As the host died, her seeds would be shot out in to space. Bunsens Noah space craft. The culmination of human ingenuity. The greatest scientific minds, the centuries of learning, technology leading to mans ultimate creation. A spaceship of light speed capacity. All history led to this. Civilisation from Ancient Greece, mans destiny. It's winning hundred clapped, many in tears, hugging new equals, nationalities, religions, cultures no longer mattered. Inclusion in this select circle, the hundred that were earths zenith. Together, in Noah, they would bravely cast off. The planet burning below, natures rejects dying together, as they looked to the stars. To find the new planet. A virgin place. The new Eden.
Rupert Bunsen would have to clear up this glitch. Harrington, his workers would persuade her to tell who had snitched. They'd find him. He would disappear. Of course she would have to go too. Anyone else that shouldn't know. He'd call them together, another summit. Of course it was exciting. The most exciting event in history. But for it to go smoothly to plan, each and everyone of this sealed group, must be patient. Their loyalty now was to each other. Family, friends, children, anyone who was not coming on their journey, these were no longer important. They would be dying together. The function in this magnificent process, fulfilled. But only the bravest, humanities finest, could dismiss sentimental notions, infantile emotions must be mastered, to step together, from men of earth, beyond, to higher beings. Supermen. To not look back at our animal past, but forward to the stars.

Returning his phone to his pocket, this leek had his operatives already in action. He'd asked that once Lady Harrington had informed all details that she be humanely put out. Great men shouldered a heavy burden. Their greater perspective was what defined them. Bit of a chore, she could be if he was honest, she would soon be free of her self pity.
She'd reminded him of his strange journey. As children they had played. Hide and seek at Highgrove, fond memories. He'd begun to feel a stirring of lust for her in those final months of childhood. His parents, like others of his class, we're so loving they'd put their personal self interest away, overcome emotions to send their offspring to boarding schools. The high born boys deserved the best education money could buy.
He could only have been eight or nine, when they waved him off. In his mind he could still see from the rollers back window, Mamar, Dear Pater, waving for a moment then walking indoors as Chivers drove him off. He'd felt a tear trickle down his cheek as they neared the school. Chivers spotted his worry in the rear view mirror so pulled into a layby. Remember your station, the driver insisted. Slapping his cheeks to return the boys composure.
"Any boy sees that snivelling, and you'll find they'll all have license to do what they want. There's no shame in being ones mentors fag, but don't be the school buggery boy."
Chivers warning was valuable as the new years intake were assembled. The Masters assigned each an older boy as mentor. Any problems they were to go straight to their mentor who would help them out. If the problem was beyond his scope, he'd report it to the form master.
The early years were the making of him. A journey from boy to man, when they would leave Eton. Their bonds made for life. Family businesses linked up. Political groupings that would last a lifetime. Indeed, all boys schools had a downside. The sexual awakening, in a male only environment, soon clarified the mentoring system. But those days of sore bottom were soon over and he was buggering his own fag.
By only admitting boys of specific parental means, the financial nucleus of the nation was preserved. The connections they made ensured the preservation of the status quo where money remained within the tight knit upper class network of families.
But Rupert had always been something of a tairaway. He had an eye for the future. Society was changing. His hair smart but a good half inch longer than most. The fifties were a hard time. The war had left the country broke. Only the topper most families felt no pinch. Ruperts school friends knew not to show off their wealth. People were all in it together. Rubbing the serfs noses in it was undignified. He'd met uncles who'd returned from the wars. The lower class, before the war, were little understood. Oddities in filthy rags, the curious could find photos in the anthropology section of the library. Their dialects virtually impenetrable. Of course they knew these rough fellows worked damned hard to keep the boat afloat. Short lives spent down mines, digging coal to power the industries their family wealth depended on. Building ships that had been crucial in creation of the empire for them. They never met but knew they had pride in their contribution.
The wars change everything. His uncles, his father too, had seen service. Officer class, leading these fellows into battle. For both tribes this meeting was something of an illumination. Both found the other was brave. Officers died leading futile attacks. Privates, corporals laid down their lives for the nation.
On return his father and uncles told him stories. These brave creatures, living miles underground, in total darkness, dying young. And war tales of mad little fellows. Couldn't understand a word but charging fearlessly, shooting and bayonetting krauts. And other differences, the singing of tribal song. A unity. An innocence. An equality. They'd receive letters from home, openly cry, whilst a buddy would hold him like a child. An almost animal lack of inhibition. Puppets of their emotions. Acting in direct response to situations. Quite unlike their kind. Disciplined, in control. Any new situation, stop, keep a poker face, think it through, then deliver a considered response. Such differences.
This curiosity infected Rupert.

Following the war, the Earth flexed sending a ripple of pagan force through America and Britain. They were poor but proud. They'd pulled off a task of historic proportion. This spiritual boost came as response to the pagan darkness they had defeated. A clash of opposite gods. Nazism, a twisted Darwinian misreading. Barbaric nationalism. The deification of the fictitious people. Mythical ideas of blood purity. Eugenics. Racist evil under a pretend science. Cloaked in righteous historic redress of imagined persecution, the Germanic people's tried to rule the world. The cancerous philosophy drew those of weak identity, into its drive. Turning the poor majority against aliens, any minority it could demonise. A murder machine. Killing gypsy, Jew, artist and gay.
Frances leaders allowed occupation. It's heroes fought back in hidden pockets of resistance. For a while Britain stood alone. In delusions of military superiority the nazis attacked Russia. Russia fought back. America finally entered. Together, this evil was destroyed.
The victors had little left. Just freedom and pride. A poor boy in the Deep South of North America, raised on gospel, felt the animal spirit channeled through his body. His twin, invested with even greater power, buried alive. His story I've written as Skree and Lipton found his empire.
Above him, his twin, in demonic girations, channeled the serpentine earth powers, a sexual rhythm that swept western civilisation. Others feeling this magic picked up guitars. Rock and roll. Music for the poor. Simple, stripped down animal yells, a primal scream of the hormonal rush of teenage feelings.
Young men in England's broken cities, heard the call from over the ocean. The war had linked America back to its previously rejected parent. A revolution of animal feelings. None verbal, or tribal words, to a pagan beat. And a generation could feel it within, without restraint or shame, abandoned reason, to dance. This explosion of animal hunger, confused the establishment and older generation. Only the hormonal injection of early teens, in response to music, elevated in dance. A pagan dawn. Music of instinct and innocence. Spiritual in essence, not of the intellect, straight from the heart, from the crotch. An emotive yell, a rebellion of the soul.

These young men were shifting serious units. Rupert caught on quick. Travelling to dark northern towns. Hidden in raincoat. He'd enter clubs, stand at the back, and study. Much like film he'd seen in anthropology class of African tribes, drumming and dancing themselves into some sort of trance. Taking notes, impressed by a power invisible to him. Simplistic rhythms, music of basic structure but passion. His taste was more Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Wagner and Bach. Symphonic complexity that stimulated the mind. And these young men found female adoration. They spoke and joked as though with mates in the common room, after the school masters were out of earshot. One weekend, asking Ginger Fortesque to cover for him, Bunsen slipped away. Taking the Windsor train into town, then a short taxi ride before the long journey to Liverpool .
As the Home Counties slipped past and night fell, leaving the places he knew so well, into theses strange new worlds. In biology they had learned there was no detectable differences yet found to seperate people of his class from the working class. True, scientific leaps were being made each day, any time the gene or brain structure that clarified the intuitive. But as yet, all appeared one. In the dorm, his friends often scoffed at him for believing such bunkum. Some qualities were obviously there, like the affection a boy has for his fag, but, if they could be discovered as some gland, the new money, outsiders who were increasingly slipping through, could have then surgically inserted.
He thought of George Orwell. A boy who had brought shame upon the school by living amongst the lower ranks. But amongst some of the more modern boys, of which he felt one, he was something of a hero. His books were banned, but with Mayfair, Penthouse they were circulated secretly. Battered copies, hidden under the mattress where Matron wouldn't find them. He'd read Animal Farm. All animals were equal. These northern pigs every bit as equal as the fine thorough bred stallions like himself.
Tonight he hoped to see girls at play. Of course he knew about girls, his sister was one. Before school he'd played with them. From eight to eighteen, he'd be boarding, but these years would shoot by. Mayfair, the fags readying him for interactions in later life.
As Rupert entered the Cavern he imagined he was with earthy folk, going down a mine to gather coal. The sound was deafening. A tribal frenzy of young men and girls, lost in trance, dancing as a singular mass. Leaning against the back wall he met a young fellow who claimed to be their manager. Not one had classical training, instead they'd bought and stole instruments, left school and worked in Germany for years, refining this beat sound. He thought of his clarinet lessons. Curious of the figures involved, he grilled this fellow, Brian his name was. The maths quickly formed into figure patterns. These boys could be very rich. Brian far more so.
With his dorm chums he formed a band. They applied their love of Brahms, Tchaikovsky, to the format, their music tuition gave them a head start.
His father was deeply concerned to see his hair grown long. The seventies had arrived and new prog rock bands. Like Maroon Underpants, his own band, Python inspired. Not the short fast animal music he'd heard up north. Their audience would sit in serious contemplation. Their longer works, twenty minute pieces, journeys of the mind. The rock and roll sexual thrill was the rough inspiration, but the crowds they drew had not been schooled with girls. The long hair, a quiet wisdom and cannabis smoke, the girls they slept with need not be listened to. They were gurus. Forty minute drum solos displayed the percussive genius, synth experiments, conceptual stories that took three LPs to follow.
He'd first met Mike Oldpasture at a party held at Lord Baths place, Longleat. The set up their went on to launch Glastonbury. A festival that Arabella Churchill, Eavis and others grew to make fortunes from. The free festivals where poor folk gathered, leaving the towns in old vans and buses focussed annually at Stonehenge. In the eighties the police closed it down leaving a gap in the market. Michael Eavis was swift out of the stocks. Inviting all to Glastonbury for £20 each. For the early years the travellers were given free passage as the solstice celebration was theirs. Soon, young and old from all over the country were coming down. The travellers had served their purpose and were told to go and don't come back. A vast wall, inspired by Eavis travels to Israel, sealed the party off. The price increased to keep out the unworthy. Millions of pounds were made. The New Age travellers he'd known all those years ago were rooted out by police. Heroin and alcohol destroying any remnants.
But back in 71, at Longleat, Bunsen was sat with other long haired ex public schoolboys. All knew who had been to where but these unspoken bonds were connections any strays who'd entered weren't to know. Oldpasture spoke of a musical work he'd recorded, all instruments played himself, no vocals, just a single piece. Prog perfection. After reciting a few Python sketches, Bunsen agreed to visit him at the studio his parents had built for him on their grounds.
The music he heard was Bunsens epiphany. Stripped entirely of the tribal energy of rock and roll. This was ethereal, celibate, intellectual perfection. Music to sit in silence, candles burning, joss sticks scenting the air. Oldpasture told him the piece was called the Tuberous Bellend.
Bunsen was straight on the phone to father. Reluctant at first, but hearing the enthusiasm in young Ruperts voice, his financial acumen opened to the possibilities. Rupert knew the rise of the genius was often hard. The Beatles had spent five years, playing clubs in England and Germany before their first hit. This reflected the hard journey he had fought through, pleading with father for over half an hour before he agreed to help. Buying him a studio and small record label, a shop in London and offices to run the corporate side. Employing staff to run things. Any business starting from scratch was tough. Despite these difficulties, obstacles that would have seen most give up, take their seat on the board of their fathers business, Rupert Bunsen arrived. Racing the length and breadth of the Home Counties, ferrying Oldpastures from TV studio to hotel, buying interviews with top broadcasters. The Tuberous Bellend launched Bunsens label with a bang. The album became one of the all time best sellers, staying in the top 40 for three years, Bunsen buying bulk orders during sales lulls to keep it in the charts.
There were less successful releases, Tarquins Pig sold very few copies. The public school prog bubble delivered fewer quality acts than he'd hoped. Aubergine Sandles, Beef Wellington, Clementine Hosiery, Velvet Pomegranate, Aubreys Toadstool, Crispin and the Sausages of Pluto, Turquoise Plumworm, Babbingtons Carrot, all recorded multi disc masterworks that sailed way over the heads of most music fans. Many became cult heroes, their rare albums discovered like lost treasure in second hand vinyl emporia in Cambridge, Oxford and Winchester. Played in the dormitory mid night tuck feasts. Joints smoked, volume low so as not to disturb matron.
Prejudice from the lower ranks found Bunsen releases tainted with class. Prog was not everyone's cup of earl grey. In a master stroke, Rupert reconnected to the people by taming the most feared band in the land. EMI, A&M records had signed and sacked the Pis Sextals, a band of street urchins, collected by a freind who was schooled at Harrow. Malcontent MacLalley had got his boys to get into trouble as publicity to sell their album. But they'd overdone it. No one dared release their record. Rupert made him an offer. The money was tiny, but their moment of notoriety wouldn't last. Ignore the Balls sold like hot cakes. Feeding the bass player drugs on Bunsens advice proved genius. Malcontent rang Bunsen, bursting with excitement, he'd botched together a new album of out takes, split the band so all royalties would go to Rupert and Mal, and, to crown it all, he'd got the bass player to murder his girlfriend. Rupert knew this was great news. Talking into the night they agreed, Rupert would have the record printed, however poor it was, Mal would make sure his lad committed suicide to time itself for the records release.
From here Rupert Bunsen moved in to airplane transport, trains, mobile phone networks, so many projects. His fortune grew year on year. The planets problems saw him buying private islands. But as conditions got worse, the Noah projects engineers began its early planning.

The islands cove hid a bay, a timber and steel jetty stretched towards the sea. The cliff face that rose steeply above, had a doorway, disguised in rock veneer, invisible until stood two metres close. Inside a tunnel had been dug, a stairway fitted leading into the basement of the islands main house. A modernist cubic building with large glass faces facing out to the ocean. A cluster of yachts formed two neat lines. The outermost vessels were in regular use by the various guests and some super rich clients that hired out the handful of dwellings that had been built at various points across the island. The inner cluster of luxury vessels were fixtures disguising a subterranian, sub aqua centre of operations. James Bond, in his many escapades of earth saving heroics, would have been impressed. The interior was twice the size of the island itself. The technological development workshops and chemical laboratories beneath the island was a hive of activity. The CERN particle accelerator had a comparable atmosphere. A meeting point for the select brains, drawn from across the globe, an international centre of cutting edge science. The work taking place at cern was beyond the understanding of the majority though it was open and most regarded it as of common value. Bunsen Island, however, was funded far more, private investiture from the Noah elite. The scientific minds took blood oathes of silence, the reward to work on projects financed without limit. But, the arrow point of human technology drew few of materialist motivation. Nowhere on earth offered an opportunity like this. Limitless financial support to realise the extremeties of their imagination. Einsteins theoretical space time theories could now be explored in practice through engineering technologies. A hotspot more potent than the desperation of the wars where leaps took place in weeks and days, that peacetime change took decades to produce. Cosmic distances, once revealed, placed astral voyage firmly in dreams and science fantasy. Hawkings speculations on black holes could now be tested. Wormholes linking points in space light years apart. Gravitational forces revealed a dimension, invisible to man, where space time densitys could be measured. This new topography of curve and flow, undulation, parabolic envelopes where linear distance could be overcome through locations of apparent separation, when approached from the other angle, close neighbours. Propulsion systems of quantum form. Material from flesh to steel, encoded to molecular particles, recreated light years away meant man could be summed up as a formula or collection of data, stored, shipped then summoned back into existence in galaxies far away.
Beyond the corridors of laboratories, test zones, engineering workshops, design studios and fabrication rooms was an open plan leisure space. A cafeteria with eating areas, upholstered furnishings, exercise contraptions. Small groups sat eating lunch, discussing breakthroughs or picking the minds of experts in other fields. Others, more relaxed enjoyed an ambience, less pressured where speculation grew. Some working out to balance the intellectual endeavour with cardio vascular work. Odd figures lay horizontal, grabbing forty winks to reboot tired heads. Each wall a singular screen, holographic synthetic windows of tropical beaches or rain forest scenes. The space beneath the island continued the length again twice, reaching out below the fixed yacht shield and beyond below the sea. Access from the leisure zone was restricted by security guards, policing two doors. It was here the conclusion to the Noah project sat. Glass walls either side and above created a terrarium. The undersea world around, a fascinating view as coral sea bed, seaweeds and plants, all manner of crustacean, sponge, shoals of fish shifting in pattern like starling murmurations, sweeping rays, predatory creatures, sharks hunting isolated fish, an unusual subs train of conger eel more vicious than the Sharks, lobsters crawling, sea anemone, prawn, shrimp, urchin. Rupert would spend hours, lost in fascination at the ecosystems beauty. A sanctuary from his business appointments. The interplay of ocean life was such a wonder of nature, Rupert thought to himself. Such a fragile harmony.
Turning away to look to the centre of this vast submerged glass box, he saw a far greater wonder. Tapping an app on his phone brought the hidden sound system alive. The Tuberous Bellend still sounded perfect. A mirror finish on the bodywork reflected his bearded smile. Here sat the Ark. Her curvaceous flanks of titanium alloy. The elegance of her tail. The power of her rocket propulsion. The quantum particle dissimulator. The culmination of all human engineering. From Flint axe to this. Pride flooded his being. Moments of wonder that were the mystical rest points all humans felt throughout life, when the trivia of mental chatter, the countless niggles and concerns were swept away for brief windows. Moments where the raw transcendent oddness of being clears all else revealing the sublimity of life. A swallow in flight. A hind with fawn, unaware you're watching, drinking from a pond at dawn. Such feelings of common man were a piss in the ocean of personal pride he felt. Life on Earth, from amoeba, single cell organisms, evolution, a pyramid growing from the primordial soup to the top point, Rupert Bunsen. And here he stood. By the side of the Ark. The journey of western civilisation, from Ancient Greece, through Christianity, into the enlightenment, the birth of reason, the scientific method, the hidden forces of the universe, submitting to mans genius, their secrets revealed, technological innovation, concluding in this vehicle. His chariot, his steed. Everything that had gone before had led to this moment, when earth ejaculated the refined distillation of all life. A hundred people to find the new world.
As his mind wallowed in self glory, the vibrations from his mobile disturbed his upper thigh.
Bunsen: "Bunsen Securities?"
Operative: "The Ladies Mantle has been uprooted."
Bunsen: "What?"
Operative: "The flower bed has been weeded."
Bunsen: "eh."
Operative: "The Harrington jacket is back in the wardrobe."
Bunsen: "Look, here. Talk sense man!"
Operative: "Lady Harringtons now dead, sir."
Bunsen: "How many times? Not on the phone!"
Rupert Bunsen smiled. Loose lips sink ships. Harrington would now be at rest. Walking the sea floor in concrete wellies. Two years from now he pictured himself far across the galaxy. No mere island but a continent for each of the pioneers. A planet of sumptuous life. An untouched garden of Eden. On an evening, as the star set and both moons rose, a meal of new meats and vegetables settling in his belly. Perhaps he'd sit outdoors with a cigar and brandy. He'd look through his telescope, figuring out which of the stars was the sun his planet of birth orbited. And as those left behind saw humanity drawing to a close, they'd look back, telling stories of his Ark that they'd all contributed toward. These days of waiting were like a chrysalis. The people of earth caterpillars. His hundred passengers, butterflies, floating away from their past. Rupert felt exceedingly good.



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