Chapter 4. The Aberration of Genetics

Musa’s awareness drifted, barely conscious within the blackened vestige of the shattered capital. 

This strange accident of birth, this lottery of destiny that divides us so. 

His thoughts threw him back to that moment during his childhood. Even now, as the latest wave of forces arrived, he sensed the scratching of excavators from far above. But for now, helpless, crushed deep within rubble, no doubt losing blood, waiting for an externality, a variable of change that could transform his present circumstances. Discipline prevented self indulgent introspection; survival demanded that thoughts of others be demoted. The immediate danger was to self and any remedy required his survival as its prerequisite. Was it truly time to retreat into distant thoughts? Musa’s every instinct yearned for introspection, perhaps its distraction might sustain him long enough to survive. 

What was that thought now? 

The strange accident, that was it, and was he eight, or even younger? It was hard to be sure. But even then, he remembered, his gifts had dazzled whilst instilling uncertainty amongst the adults around him. This aberration of genetics, circumstance, and random chance. From his earliest memory, the numbers had seemed to come so easily; by six his Uncle, an engineer from a former life, returned to care for the orphan boy in the heat and isolation of their small corner of the refugee camp. Amongst his mercurial patriarch’s few precious belongings that survived the chaotic flight was a worn copy of Euclid’s elements. It had served as their escape, his rediscovery of life before the horror. But for a child it was a first peak into understanding a language that decoded the seemingly infinite complexity into formulae. A pinhole through the fog of being. The child’s appetite was voracious; when neither pen nor paper were to hand, or as was more often the case, the old man simply craved respite and perhaps an hour more sleep, the child began to visualise. He created his own worlds of intersecting lines, brackets, and numerals. The imagined visualisations immersed him, their complexity surrounding his bleak bedside in a spectacle that swarmed infinitely beyond the gloom of the dwelling. That original worn textbook gave way to more contemporary works, at first borrowed from the classroom; but when his uncle requested ever more advanced texts from teachers and camp volunteers, there were simply none to be found. 

How strange that buried in what would surely serve as his tomb, he remembered that forgotten chapter. The would-be uncle had so tenderly nurtured his raw talent; a last relative, who despite all the uncertainty had taken it upon himself to tutor the orphan personally. He vaguely recollected thirdhand tales of having exhausted the camp’s library. But word had spread of this prodigy. It was clear something would have to be done, who was after all really consuming these works at such a pace anyway? No student could possibly have progressed this fast, it was unprecedented. Suspicions arose around the old man. Perhaps he was yet another chancer, stealing the books and perhaps trading them for his own benefit? Although upon reflection there didn’t seem to be a black market for advanced mathematical textbooks, especially in such war-ridden, forlorn circumstances.

And so it came to pass that the old man was finally invited to bring his little prodigy to the encampment that served as headquarters to the relief agency. They wanted sight of the small boy, although it became evident upon his arrival that no-one amongst the hastily assembled jury was equipped to even know where to begin. How even to assess the depth of the boy’s gift? But then happenstance or was it perhaps serendipity? The friend of a friend, someone an aid worker had met whilst negotiating with the peacekeeping forces. An officer of sorts, based in the forward command, but due to return home shortly. 

Was he even still in-country? 

A technical officer who, it had been said, was also some kind of genius in his own right. A like mind within a hundred miles in this chaos was sign enough, given the circumstances. How far from these events would that have been? His mind wandered listlessly, measuring terrain and topography. It was adjacent, strange that it had not occurred before, the sense of return, the connection of points on a map. Would this be his last place of rest? He felt the warmth of seeping fluids turn cold, numb, how long now? Then something deep within urged sleep, and he resisted, but its voice grew louder, a command. And he obeyed.

Edited by Kathy Pelich

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