Chose Read online

  'The Beautiful Ones captures the human predicament through the overpopulation lens with fearless clarity. O.M. Faure weaves the interconnections of overconsumption by the wealthy, environmental degradation, racism, and poverty, into a thriller that moves from today to 2081 and lays clearly at the readers’ feet a challenge for all of us to change current behaviors now.'

  Paul Ehrlich, author of The Population Bomb and Bing Professor of Population Studies at Stanford University

  * * *

  ‘A tremendously ambitious, thought-provoking and worthwhile project. O. M. Faure has conjured up a colourful cast of characters caught up in an entertaining story in which action is informed by important ideas about our global past, present and future. An impressive achievement!’

  Sue Belfrage, author of Down to the River and Up to the Trees

  * * *

  ‘The Beautiful Ones is a story that people need to read and a discussion that needs to happen in society. The characters feel like they’re alive. The book made me laugh out loud a lot… and it also made me tear up. I would keep the clapping going for a great story with a compelling idea and a gripping narrative.’

  * * *

  Tony King, author of Fishing for Music and Australian Songwriter of the Year 2009

  * * *

  ‘Captivating, unsettling, bold. O. M. Faure's The Beautiful Ones isn’t afraid to hit you hard with the “first they came for them and now they're coming for you”. With such authenticity and heart, this trilogy will touch your life and spark many conversations.’

  * * *

  Isabelle Felix, author of Deafinitely

  * * *

  ‘In The Beautiful Ones, O.M. Faure offers us a chilling glance into a world not so very far from our own, and paints a compelling picture of a dystopian future that may be closer than we think.’

  Clare Kane, author of Dragons in Shallow Waters.

  Contents

  Also By O. M. Faure

  Chosen

  Prologue

  1. Olivia

  2. DeAnn

  3. Olivia

  4. DeAnn

  5. Olivia

  6. DeAnn

  7. Olivia

  8. DeAnn

  9. Olivia

  10. DeAnn

  11. Olivia

  12. DeAnn

  13. Olivia

  14. DeAnn

  15. DeAnn

  16. DeAnn

  17. Olivia

  18. DeAnn

  19. Olivia

  20. DeAnn

  21. Olivia

  22. DeAnn

  23. Olivia

  Also By O. M. Faure

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By O. M. Faure

  THE CASSANDRA PROGRAMME SERIES:

  The Disappearance (prequel)

  * * *

  THE BEAUTIFUL ONES (TRILOGY):

  Book 1: Chosen

  Book 2: Torn

  Book 3: United

  Chosen

  Book 1 of The Beautiful Ones trilogy

  O. M. Faure

  Forward Motion Publishing, Ltd.

  Copyright © O. M. Faure, 2019

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  The right of O. M. Faure to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-1-9164370-5-0

  * * *

  Published by Forward Motion Publishing, Ltd.

  * * *

  Cover design by Books Covered & Micaela Alcaino | Cover images © Shutterstock

  The events in this book are an extrapolation of what the future could be, based on real scientific data, UN forecasts and current studies.

  * * *

  However, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  If you would like to know more about the sources and data, please consult the bibliography at the end this book. A list of book club topics will also be provided to readers who subscribe to the newsletter.

  * * *

  Visit www.omfaure.com to join the conversation today.

  For my godfather and mentor Alastair Pugh (1928–2019).

  At his side, flying became possible.

  ‘Anyone who believes in indefinite growth on a physically finite planet is either mad, or an economist.’

  ― Sir David Attenborough

  Chosen

  Prologue

  Poolesville, Maryland, USA, December 1970

  * * *

  Alastair parked the mustard-coloured Mercury Comet and looked up at the large red barn. It seemed vaguely forbidding, in the eerie silence of the snowy landscape, looming in the twilight of this long, tiring day.

  The car made small ‘pling, twing’ sounds as it cooled down. Alastair sighed, not looking forwards to this meeting. He’d left this visit for last, as he didn’t like giving bad news. But he could hardly prolong his trip any more. It was nearly Christmas and he needed to go back to London, to be with Vanessa for the birth of their first child.

  He wrapped himself tightly in his fashionable camel coat, regretting once again his choice of clothes. He always forgot that the US had worse winters. He stepped out gingerly into the slush, picking his way to the barn door.

  The smell was, as always, overpowering: piss and fermented faeces, the decay of cadavers and the odour of thousands of small bodies.

  ‘Ah. There you are, Sagewright.’

  ‘Good evening, Professor. Sorry I’m late. You know… the weather.’

  Calhoun waved away Alastair’s apologies, as if dispersing a cloud of smoke. He signalled for the young man to follow him to his office.

  They passed by a blue, square box about one hundred inches wide and sixty inches high; and Alastair, holding his breath, sneaked a peek over the edge.

  Hundreds of mice were milling around a complicated set of tunnels and nests, arranged like rays from a central sundial.

  ‘How many left?’

  ‘About a thousand,’ the Professor said with a pronounced Tennessee twang.

  ‘Only?’

  Calhoun harrumphed and held the door to his office open while he waited for the young man to enter. Alastair suddenly felt preposterous with his long sideburns and his tight trousers flaring at the ankles. The old Professor must think him a ridiculous young fop, who thought he could tell him how to run this experiment.

  Inside the cramped office, Alastair shifted stacks of papers from a chair and sat down. Calhoun was already sitting behind his desk, his light blue overalls spotted with mud. He pulled a bottle of whisky and two disgusting-looking glasses from a drawer. With a wave of his chin, he put the question silently and Alastair accepted with a nod. Words sometimes seemed superfluous after nearly three years.

  ‘So it’s happening again, I take it?’

  The whisky burned in Alastair’s throat and he started feeling warmer almost immediately. He relaxed and leaned back in the orange chenille chair.

  ‘Mmh. Yes, all four phases: Strive, Exploit, Stagnation and Death.’

  ‘They can’t have already transitioned into Death, surely?’ Alastair asked, aghast. Calhoun threw a frustrated look at him.

  ‘Of course they have, they always do,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘But I thought that, for sure, this time… I mean we created an environment that was ideal, a mice utopia… Did we make a mistake? Were all the conditions respected?’

  ‘Yes, of course, boy! Who do you think I am? The box was escape-proof; the temperature was maintained betwe
en seventy and ninety degrees Fahrenheit; the mice had all the water, food and nesting material they could possibly need. No predators, of course, and they were all selected for their excellent health.’

  ‘How did they do this time?’

  ‘Well, as usual, their numbers exploded exponentially, doubling every fifty-five days until they reached their ideal population size: six hundred and twenty. That’s when the shit started to hit the fan, as it always does.’

  The young man winced at the American’s profanity. But whereas Alastair was just starting out his career as a venture capitalist for scientists, the professor was respected and much older than him, so he smiled politely and listened.

  Calhoun pulled out a pipe and stuffed it with grimy fingers. His salt-and-pepper hair was too long at the back and he needed a shave. He pulled a few puffs from the pipe and smoothed his moustache reflexively a couple of times.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why the experiment always fails. From day three hundred and fifteen to day five hundred and sixty, they doubled in numbers only every one hundred and forty-five days, but all the behavioural sinks started happening again as they neared the two thousand individuals mark.’

  ‘Like last time? The widespread aggression among males and females alike?’

  ‘Yes, exactly like all the twenty-four times before this experiment. Vicious attacks.’ The old man looked even older all of a sudden. ‘The fathers stopped defending the nest and left. The mothers, left on their own, became aggressive and started filling traditionally male roles. Then it worsened and mothers abandoned their young; the rearing and weaning period was cut short, and sometimes the females even ate their young.’

  Alastair felt bile rising in his throat and swallowed.

  Calhoun sighed, took a gulp of his drink and poured himself another glass. He pointed the bottle’s neck towards Alastair, who shook his head, thinking of the road ahead, probably dark by now.

  ‘In the Stagnation phase,’ Calhoun explained, ‘the young don’t receive the nurturing necessary to achieve proper emotional development. So when these young come of age, they try to form normal relationships with the other sex, but they’re always interrupted by other mice, because of the overpopulated conditions.’

  Alastair suddenly thought of the young disenfranchised populations of London but pushed the thought away. They were only experimenting on mice here. There was no reason to believe that humans would react in the same way.

  Calhoun continued, rubbing his face despondently. ‘By now, in Stagnation, the young don’t enjoy social interaction because it’s fragmented and unfulfilling. So they don’t know how to court, how to parent, how to fight correctly.’

  ‘I see,’ Alastair said cautiously. Although, to be honest, he was not at all sure that he saw anything besides the broken old man before him, who wouldn’t make him any money at all. He stole a glance at his watch.

  ‘After the Stagnation phase, they entered the Death phase.’

  ‘But I simply don’t understand why, Calhoun. How come they die? Are you sure it’s not from disease?’

  ‘No, of course not. In the Death phase, they just stop mating, stop interacting, stop caring about each other at all. They grow old and die out.’

  ‘How do you know when you’re about to start the die-off phase?’ Alastair asked.

  ‘A group appears; there are just a few of them at first. They withdraw from all social interaction. They position themselves in isolated places and watch the rest of the overcrowded population fight each other for resources.’

  ‘Well, that sounds sensible to me.’

  ‘It ain’t, son. Withdrawal from all social interaction means they’re mentally deficient. They just spend their time eating, drinking, sleeping and grooming themselves. No sex, no interest at all in social interaction. They’re broken.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Calhoun shrugged. ‘Even when we took a few antisocial specimens from the Death phase and put them in another less congested environment, with female mice that hadn’t been in the overcrowded space, they didn’t know how to be normal anymore.’

  ‘What do you mean, normal?’

  ‘They displayed no social skills whatsoever. They just continued to take care only of themselves and groom themselves obsessively until they died.’

  ‘What do you think it all means?’

  ‘That humanity is doomed.’

  Alastair, who had been debating having another drink, looked up from his empty glass in surprise.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I think it’s like the Book of Revelation said…’

  Alastair groaned internally and tuned out as Calhoun launched into a convoluted metaphor about the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. The poor man had dedicated his entire life to this failed experiment. Complete population annihilation every time. No wonder that he was losing his marbles and turning to the Bible.

  ‘… So you see, mankind is exactly like these mice.’ Calhoun counted on his fingers and held out his thumb. ‘One: we live on a planet that is inescapable and that has finite space. Two,’ he said, extending his forefinger, ‘we have food and water in abundance for all. Three: we’ll soon eradicate all diseases. And four: we no longer have any predators. By my calculations, we’ll hit the beginning of the Stagnation phase very soon.’

  ‘And then what?’ Alastair asked, suddenly worried about his unborn child.

  ‘Then, like the mice, son, at first it will look like the fertility rates per couple are dropping but the total population will continue increasing.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that when we reach seven billion, we’ll hit the Stagnation phase and behavioural sinks will start to manifest.’

  ‘What? Aggression and all that?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. And even worse, son, I estimate that the next stage will start when we reach fifteen billion.’

  ‘What you mean the Death phase and inevitable extinction?’

  ‘Yes, son, exactly.’

  Alastair laughed. ‘Fifteen billion! That’s science-fiction, Calhoun. Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll never reach such an unthinkable number! We’ll be fine.’

  Calhoun reached for the bottle again, thought better of it and grabbed Alastair’s forearm instead. Alastair glanced at Calhoun’s grimy fingers on the sleeve of his Savile Row blazer.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ said Calhoun. ‘I’ve tried twenty-five times. Twenty-five! Nothing can stop the progression.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m sure! That’s why I can’t sleep anymore! As soon as we enter the Stagnation phase, it’s the point of no return: humanity is finished.’

  ‘So do you mean to say that once we reach seven billion, we’ll be doomed, there’ll be nothing we can do?’

  Calhoun hesitated. ‘Well… if we could infuse the young with a sense of purpose, maybe. Give them something to do, somewhere to go…’

  ‘Where? There’s only Earth, that’s our own universe twenty-five enclosure, our own mice utopia; there’s no escaping it, we’re out of predators and there’re already too many of us.’

  ‘Maybe space exploration… I don’t know, son, I don’t know anymore.’

  ‘Well, all that seems very unlikely to me.’ Alastair chuckled uncomfortably. ‘I can’t believe we’d behave like your mice. We’re much brighter than they are, for one.’

  Calhoun looked at the younger man, his eyebrows raised. He opened his mouth then pressed his lips together, shaking his head.

  * * *

  Alastair drove back carefully in the snow, his headlights barely lighting the road. Fat snowflakes swirled in the beams of light. He couldn’t shake a deep sense of unease following this latest meeting with the Professor. Towards the end of it, he’d had to deliver the bad news that he wouldn’t be funding the experiment anymore. Alastair just couldn’t see any way to commercialise the findings.

  As they’d walked out of the lab, Calhoun had stopp
ed to show him something. Alastair held a handkerchief to his nose and looked distastefully at the enclosure. Scarred, maimed mice were swarming at the bottom of it, heaped on top of each other. They were dirty, smelly and smeared with faecal matter. The animals walked all over each other, snapping at each other, in the overpopulated pen. While he was watching, a one-eyed mouse attacked another and ripped its tail right off. Disgusting creatures. Alastair had glanced again at his watch, anxious to get back on the road.

  ‘See the mice there?’ Calhoun said, pointing to a group of twenty or so white rodents, which had retreated to the higher levels of the cage. Their coats were shiny and immaculate, their demeanour calm.

  ‘Those?’ Alastair asked. He thought they looked much better than the wounded, dirty ones who were fighting for space below, all covered in scabs, scars and filth.

  Calhoun tapped his pipe against the side of the enclosure. ‘Yes, these. They’re the deeply impaired ones who spend their time eating, sleeping and who care only about themselves. They’re incapable of normal social interaction and lead the way for their species’ extinction.’