Disclaimer: Mr Marx and Mr Watson are property of Aldous Huxley, as well as the idea of the ‚Brave new world'. The Falklands are property of either Argentine or the UK or themselves.
Warnings: None at all. Can you rate anything PG because of political or philosophical content?
AN: So here it is. The very first "Brave New World" fanfiction in history. Or so I think. I skimmed the net and could not find a single piece written to this novel. Why? There is a whole bunch of 1984 fiction. Maybe because there is no film. Or only a very bad film.
But after reading the book for the third time, I had to write. It is, somehow, just a continuation of the story, about Bernard and Helmholtz on the Falklands. Maybe I'll write more.
If there is anybody out there who knows the book, or is interested in fanfiction, then REVIEW, please. Tell me. I would like to know J
(bagheera)
"Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old customs make this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court!
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
The seasons difference; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winters wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it"
(William Shakespeare)
Island
From a pinpoint of brownish green shade amidst the waste grey of stormy ocean it had risen to a twin island of two mirrored shapes of rock and mountain, of snow and clouds. Its coast was frayed, the whole island looking not much more than a rock falling apart, eaten by the sea.
But when they had stepped out of the rocket, they had been in heaven. Real heaven. Or more like, in the sky. Never had he seen a place where there was so much endless sky, even the ground was sky, sky reflected by numerous shining clear lakes, by the sea, by the ice, the whole island so endless and pure it was like sky itself, rather than earth. Only seeing this made him want to speak in verses, to sing in rhymes, to .... but before he could utter a single sound, his breath was taken away by a breeze that was hardly a breeze at all. It was a wind so harsh that it tore away the air from one's mouth and made it hard to breathe. But only at first. Then it reached your lungs, violently fresh and cold, like you had just breathed for the first time in your life.
And all the scents - or was it the absence of scent? Nothing here, he was absolutely, positively sure, was synthetic. All there was the scent of cold, of ice and snow, the chaste scent of wind in winter, the wild note of salt and sea mingled with it.
And it felt like you were expanding into every direction, freed from any restriction and restraint, into sky and into the wind and into the lakes and the sea and the stones and the ice, into all the empty, empty space... like suddenly you were becoming something much bigger than you had ever been before.
To Helmholtz Watson, the Falkland Islands were beautiful.
It had been August, when they had left London, and here it was winter, but not like the winters he had known in his old life, the shallow mild winters of London, the winters of heating and surrogate-silk umbrellas. It was snow that was white, and it was not surrogate-snow either, it was ice that was freezing cold, it was a winter that crept into every fibre of your bones, it was a winter that claimed you, that made your eyes teary and your nose red, a challenging, fierce winter, a real winter. He had been right, very right, to choose this exile. What were the tropics but another childish playground?
Then they had checked out of the Mount Pleasant – what a name! – Airport and finally into the real world of the exiled. How small, how old the buildings. Mending seemed to be much preferred from ending in this place. The streets narrow, no helicopters, cars it were, little, nearly soundless electrical cars. They were fetched by one that hardly could contain the two men and their few – well in Bernard's case not so few – possessions. The smaller man had brought everything that he could possibly carry in a last fit of greed and fear. The driver of the vehicle was, to Helmholtz utter surprise, not a lower caste man, but indeed somebody who had to be Alpha or Beta – but he was not wearing neither grey nor orange, no, he wore not uniform at all.
"Welcome to the Falklands, Mr...Watson, is it?" the broad-faced, dark-haired driver asked. His look was one of calm and polite interest. He had looked up his name on a sheet of paper he had produced from his shirt pocket while driving.
"Yes, thank you very much, Mr .."
"Evan. Albert Evan. I'm the local director's secretary. And you are Mr Marx, I suppose?" he turned to Bernard who sat on the backseat, staring out of the little window. As soon as he heard his name, his expressionless face became glum and he visibly shrunk into himself.
"Bernard Marx," he said as if this name alone was a reason to pity him.
But Evan seemed satisfied and turned his face to Helmholtz once more. Maybe he had Indian ancestors, Helmholtz thought, as he studied his narrow, black and sharp eyes and his dark complexion. Evan was probably older than they both were, his body still appeared young as everyone's, but his face had the most curious little lines. But maybe that was the wind. He had read somewhere that people could get wrinkles from constantly being exposed to the weather (which might have been a reason that everyone preferred to be inside if the weather was bad.)
They drove from the airport to Stanley, the capital of the Falklands, which had been destroyed during the Nine Year War and build up only much later when the Falklands had been turned into an outpost of civilisation destined for the exiled, as Evan explained to them in an even and pleasant voice. But neither Helmholtz nor the brooding Bernard were all too attentive. Only when they reached the "city" they were startled into attention.
Stanley was smaller than any of the London suburbs, smaller than even a small town in the countryside. In fact, Bernard thought with a groan, it was even smaller than the reservation settlements. And the houses were stunted and old, like bent dwarves among the rocks and wiry grass, crouched in the snow, shying away from the cold and the weather. No glass surface, no shining steel, no chromium. The only house that stood over these small ones was a very little tower, like a miniature skyscraper, blunt and grey. They drove until they stood directly in front of it and could read the plain white letters stating :
'FALKLAND ISLANDS ADMINISTRATION CENTRE'
"There we are. Follow me, if you would," their driver said with a somehow wry smile. Helmholtz jumped out of the car, smiling grimly at the rough wind that was now blowing little snowflakes at him, and Bernard followed them, hunching his shoulders and sending nervous and at the same time contemptuous glares at everything and nothing in particular.
They were lead up a small staircase, into a spacious and somehow cosy office, that struck Helmholtz as unusual although he couldn't quite place in which way. Only at the second look did he notice the small man by the window who stood with his back to them.
"Our new guests, Director Erlenmeyer," Evan announced and then retreated into the hallway, closing the heavy doors behind him and thus making Bernard look even more nervous. His previous meetings with Directors of any facility had never been pleasant.
Erlenmeyer turned around slowly, revealing the small, but very intelligent face of a man in his late fifties – but neither of the two young men had ever seen a man in his fifties, and so they looked most alarmed, Helmholtz for once even more than Bernard, for the psychologist had at least seen the savages. The director had dark hair and thick, jet-black eyebrows that were made to frown in a contemplative manner, a long, aquiline nose and lined cheeks and the most calm but sharp dark eyes, very much alike Evan.
He studied the two young men in front of him, Helmholtz in all his proud and confident height and handsome features, and Bernard, glum, defiant, mistrusting glare. He smiled.
"Watson and Marx," he said without having to look at any file or paper.
"Transferred to me for 'indecent behaviour in the public', 'subversive ideas' and 'unorthodox thoughts'. The usual, I dare say," he said with a good-natured humour that reminded Helmholtz instantly of the World Controller Mond.
Bernard made a motion as if to speak up, but remained silent.
Erlenmeyer went to his desk and sat down in a rather plain chair, motioned them to sit down in two old and rather hard and squeaky leather-surrogate armchairs and folded his hands. He had extraordinarily nice, long fingers.
"My name is Erlenmeyer and I am what you could call the director of this place. I will also personally be responsible for you and will see to it that you find your place in our little society. As you might know, the Falklands are what we call an 'Island State'. That means that we are, not economically, but politically autonomous. All the people have been sent here for different reasons, but let me tell you that yours are not uncommon. Also, we are only Alphas, Betas and an occasional Gamma. Lower caste people are not sent to islands. Once you are here, you are free to do and to behave as you like, as long you don't hurt other members of our society in doing so. We call that 'freedom of the individual'." Helmholtz nodded in acknowledgement and also with growing enthusiasm, Bernard remained mistrusting.
"But once you are here, you also will never go back. Your conditioning is considered a 'failure' and therefore you are considered a 'danger to society's happiness.'" Bernard snorted desolately at this.
"No protest? Good." The director smiled encouragingly at the pair.
"So you are Alpha plus, the two of you. Mr Marx is a specialist in hypnopaedic conditioning – I'm afraid, Mr Marx, you'll be out of work. We don't have children here, nor do we intend to use emotional conditioning on anyone." He turned to Helmholtz.
"And you, Mr Watson, I have heard say, are an extremely talented Emotional Engineer. I'm very sorry to say, but I believe there is no work for you either." Helmholtz looked for a moment lost and insecure, which was very unusual. Bernard noticed and felt a small triumph. Even Helmholtz was not always lucky. But, as if to spite him, Helmholtz beamed at the Director with his handsome smile and said:
"Well, I didn't want to continue my work anyway. I rather intended to focus on my own writing."
"Your own writing?" The director looked intrigued.
"Yes. I do write for my own pleasure," Helmholtz bravely and proudly admitted his sacrilege.
"Fascinating. Yes, we do have artists from time to time... poetry or prose?"
"Verses. I write rhymes. But maybe I will try prose as well." Bernard envied his friend for his confidence that he indeed would write.
"I'll be pleased to hear them some time," Erlenmeyer said with a friendly smile and an almost wink. Bernard goggled.
"And you Mr Marx? Do you have plans as well?"
"I-" Bernard rasped and fell silent. He did not. He shook his head, awaiting the inevitable disapproval. But Erlenmeyer only nodded to himself as if making a mental note and then got up.
"Are there any questions left?" A short silence.
"Where will we live?" Bernard asked.
"Evan will show you to your apartment. Anything else?" Erlenmeyer suddenly coughed, and did recover only after a short while. Both young men felt uncomfortable for they were not used to illness or weakness.
Then Helmholtz suddenly and dynamically got up and shook the directors hands.
"Thank you very much, Director Erlenmeyer," he said with honest gratefulness, while Bernard only nodded, and "I'm sure there will be other questions, but for now I think we are both tired."
"Of course. Evan will show you everything. Ask him anything, he knows as much as I do. And of course you are always free to come to me," he added with a wink.
"Good evening, Mr Marx, Mr Watson." He smiled and guided them out of his office. In front of the administration building, Evan waited at the car, getting in when they arrived. They followed hm and soon they were driving again, while the sun was setting early, and in colours that were more beautiful than any synthetic image could ever have been. Helmholtz was happy, and tired and for the first time in his life, it seemed, happiness was not something shallow and incomplete.