Menagerie Part 1

MENAGERIE.

by Martin Day.

Prologue.

When Jenn Alforge was young she had built elaborate mazes for a group of white mice. Her father had given her the creatures, but they were gifts given in embarra.s.sment rather than pleasure. It wasn't difficult to see why.

The mice had been genetically manipulated as part of a programme to develop antibodies to the second great s.p.a.ce plague. These specimens were on the verge of viability: one had only three legs, another a tail that ended with three blunt p.r.o.ngs.

But they were hers. Jenn treasured them with an ignorance of disability that transcended normal human responses. The mazes that she diligently constructed from spare sheets of plastigla.s.s were very different from the cruel experimental machinery of her father. The mice enjoy running down these corridors looking for cheese, she remembered thinking, as much as I enjoy building the mazes.

Her little subjects became more and more astute, getting to know the various doors and short-cuts, rejoicing in the rule of a benign, thoughtful monarch. She had looked down on the mazes like a child-G.o.d.

She was older now, and the nature of the maze she observed brought disregarded tears to the edges of her eyes.

In front of Jenn there were a number of projectors, throwing up 3D presentations in garish, flickering colours.

Taken together they showed a computer-generated cityscape reduced to a table-sized maze, populated by toy soldiers.

She pa.s.sed her hands over a number of sensors, and the scale changed. The toys expanded in size and became men - only their unblinking stares reminded her that they were androids - and the walls almost seemed real. But the accuracy of the cityscaping was not the point of the exercise, and neither was the technical sophistication of the androids.

'm recording now,' she announced into a small communications device. 'Release the creatures at will.'

Despite the guns they carried, despite their gigabytes of military training, the android troopers were mere mice in a maze. And now their pursuers were being set free, released into random areas of the synthetic city.

Jenn soon saw the true objects of her study in action. A soldier was patrolling a gunmetal-grey corridor, his features rigidly impa.s.sive. He rounded a corner and came face to face with a creature. Instantly he released three rounds at point-blank range and - the animal's arms powered forward - reached with his free hand for his comm unit.

His hands found s.p.a.ce where his right shoulder and upper chest should have been.

The bloodless arm clattered to the floor, spasmodic mechanics flexing the hand and drumming against the grip of the rifle.

The android pitched forwards, the pink lips babbling with grotesque disinterest. 'Human death would have occurred approximately two seconds ago as a result of ma.s.sive haemorrhage to the shoulder and -'

'Save the reports for later,' snapped Jenn. 'Increase realism for all other androids to maximum: turn off automatic cauterisation, take emotional simulation up to maximum.'

The sound of laser fire soon brought others running. With the enhanced programming the men and women looked tense. Beads of desalinated sweat clung to their brows.

The creature seemed to have vanished. The 'dead' android was motionless.

'Can't have gone far,' said the leader of the group, looking about him. 'We've not been pa.s.sed, and with this length of corridor . . .' He trailed off, and looked upwards, gun raised at the tall roof.

There were only shadows.

'Thank G.o.d for that,' he muttered. 'I thought that -'

A man at the end of the group exploded in a shower of red. A creature, cool and dripping, stood in his place.

A volley of blaster fire ripped into the monster, but not before it had effortlessly torn two women to pieces, their choking screams swamped by the noise of the guns.

The leader raised his weapon, but he was furthest from the monster and unable to fire without risking hitting the other troopers.

He had a few seconds to admire the creature. Although humanoid, four ma.s.sive arms extended from its shoulders and chest, the lower two bent back on themselves like the claws of a mantis. Its entire body appeared to lack a covering of skin, strong silver muscle and sinew rippling as it moved. Genetically bred to prioritize its own survival above all other considerations, it wasted no time bellowing at the pain it felt as one arm was torn from its body by the laser fire. It ran forward on triple-jointed legs. The leader noticed for the first time a rough hole in the floor near the ruptured feet of the second dead man, and a similar half-concealed hole near the corner. The creature had tunnelled under the floor, and simply forced its way up again, through the soldier that stood there.

The creature reached out for a trooper with an arm as powerful as an industrial piston. Its clawed hand plunged into the chest of the soldier, moving effortlessly through the synthetic tissue. The claws withdrew and the man fell silently to the floor. The other arms lunged forwards. A trooper threw herself towards the ground and away from the outstretched talons.

There was a gap now, through which the leader could aim. Instantly he added his fire to that of his companions, and the stench of burning meat filled his nostrils. The creature was collapsing at last, its huge claws flailing blindly. One trooper got too close to the animal's death throes and lost most of his lower leg.

Soon all that remained of their attacker was a single grey leg and part of an arm, blackened and twisted. Traces of the lower face could be seen, awash with blood that was not its own.

The leader tapped his comm unit as the remaining soldiers fanned out from the broiling haze surrounding the corpse. 'Trooper twelve to Centre. One test subject destroyed. Four troopers lost, one severely injured and unlikely to survive.' The man nearest to the burning creature was whinnying deep down in his throat, holding on to what was left of his leg.

'You'll never play the piano again,' said a woman, looking down at the injured man callously.

'They were less impressive in a city scenario,' reported Jenn soullessly, pausing the 3D replay. 'As you saw there, the creatures tried to use their normal tactics when attacking multiple targets - tunnelling, stealth, and so on - but were impaired by the non-organic nature of the location.'

and the kill ratio?' queried one of the men towards the end of the darkened table.

Jenn consulted the tabular information on a recessed screen in front of her. 'Just over six point five to one.'

again,' came another voice, 'you have to remember that the test involved unarmed creatures taking on combat-ready troops. A civilian ratio would be much higher.'

'Those creatures would simply tear the non-military population of a city apart,' said Jenn.

There was a pause, and eyes began to turn to the large man at the far end of the table. His fingers drummed slowly against each other for a few moments as he stared at the final freeze-frame, deep in thought. Then he smiled.

a most exciting presentation, Dr Alforge,' he announced.

'Quite the most chilling thing I've seen in a long while. I think my colleagues and I will be able to draft an encouraging report.' He took a few sips from a small tumbler of water. 'Yes, I do believe that Project Mecrim could have a crucial effect on the war. Do my learned colleagues agree?' His eyes scanned the lower end of the table in a way which hinted that he expected no dissension.

'Thank you for visiting our establishment,' said Jenn, trying to avoid the man's eyes. 'We are pleased to know that you esteem our work so highly.'

The man's eyes twinkled as he rose, but he said nothing more. The observers and scientists slowly filed out, leaving Jenn alone. She tried to imagine the monsters let loose in cities swarming with Draconian women and children, but could only see the Head Observer's gloating face as he watched the half-real carnage.

Jenn ran to a hand basin, wanting to be sick, but nothing came.

- she was running through a cardboard tunnel something was so close behind her she couldn't turn around to see just felt its breath on her neck and the sound of its feet something huge she was crying out suspecting something deep within but unable to break through just kept running dead end suddenly huge glaring eyes eyes that accused her shocked her to her very core something someone she once recognized but no longer knew betrayed betrayed betrayed

The comm unit buzzed again. Jenn groaned. Her fingers skimmed the control as she fell back into the bed. It was only - 'Half five, yeah, I know,' said the voice, antic.i.p.ating her thoughts as usual.

The dream had faded sufficiently for Jenn to realize that there was tension in the voice. She reached for the first nicotinesub of the day. 'What's the matter, Nik?'

'Routine testing has turned up something non-routine. I think that you should come down.'

'Okay.' She switched the unit off without asking whether Nik had been working late or had started early.

She hoped that the shower would settle her but, as she stood under the stream of water, she became more and more aware of a pain in her lower stomach. It felt different from the nervous tension that had surged through her body over the last couple of days as she had waited for the arrival of the observers. She tried to ma.s.sage the ache away but it didn't budge.

It would have to wait. She reached for another nicotinesub as she pulled on her clothes, still puzzling over the pain. Maybe she'd be the first woman to discover that 'sub was carcinogenic, too. That really would be a terrible way to start the week.

Confidential Memorandum

From: Dr J. Alforge, Dr J. Alforge, To: To: C. Y. Dugied, Pr. Mecrim

Control 429 Date: 2417,0706,22:30 (WST).

Subject: Mecrim gut microbe 23D Mecrim gut microbe 23D (see memos 0405, 2805, 0406)

Ciaran -

Must insist that your reply 0606 simply isn't good enough. I don't believe that we can wait that long. Nikolas has done some more tests; appended to this memo. I'm sure that you now appreciate the nature of the problem that we face. Two dead already.

I request immediate evacuation.

'We who have no history have made our history a thing of pain. We have always been, and will never cease to be. pain. We have always been, and will never cease to be.

There is no beginning, no end, just a terrible, cyclical now.

'Yet, for the purposes of writing, it is helpful to a.n.a.lyse the slight changes, the slight s.h.i.+fts in the now that gives us the slight changes, the slight s.h.i.+fts in the now that gives us our life - our sense of life. For, without progress, we are our life - our sense of life. For, without progress, we are mere animals - but progress, it must be remembered, is a mere animals - but progress, it must be remembered, is a mere fading change in the now, not something we make of mere fading change in the now, not something we make of our own volition. our own volition.

The heretic might say: "Does not the light of the sun and the darkness of its absence enable us to a.s.sign names to our the darkness of its absence enable us to a.s.sign names to our lives and to the development of our people?" lives and to the development of our people?"

'But they do not understand, my children. Each one of us carries with him a sense of awesome wonder, a sense of the carries with him a sense of awesome wonder, a sense of the long existence of our race - a long existence because of not long existence of our race - a long existence because of not in spite of our absence of progress. How can this be? How in spite of our absence of progress. How can this be? How can this be when each generation pa.s.ses on less than can this be when each generation pa.s.ses on less than nothing to the next? nothing to the next?

'Progress is an illusion. We have always been, will always remain here - and our "history" (which might best always remain here - and our "history" (which might best be defined as our irrational sense of the slight movement be defined as our irrational sense of the slight movement within the cyclical now) is a phantom. A phantom no less within the cyclical now) is a phantom. A phantom no less real for being exposed. real for being exposed.

'What then shall we say to the heretic? That changelessness is a virtue, an att.i.tude, a moral imperative changelessness is a virtue, an att.i.tude, a moral imperative to be grasped? Of course, but such words cannot convince to be grasped? Of course, but such words cannot convince the evil-thinker. Our words fall down on their heads like the evil-thinker. Our words fall down on their heads like rain from the skies but are barely a hindrance. Their souls rain from the skies but are barely a hindrance. Their souls must change to find the true now, the ongoing is-ness of life must change to find the true now, the ongoing is-ness of life that death merely ripples. We must pray that the sinners that death merely ripples. We must pray that the sinners change, and, if they do not change, we have no option but to change, and, if they do not change, we have no option but to encourage them to enter into a new stage of being. encourage them to enter into a new stage of being.

'This fills them with fear. It is so difficult, my children, to tell them that to truly attain that most beautiful sense of the tell them that to truly attain that most beautiful sense of the undeviating constant involves the casting-down of our fear, undeviating constant involves the casting-down of our fear, of our conception of beginning and end, of dawn and dusk. of our conception of beginning and end, of dawn and dusk.

'Yet it seems self-evident to me that the nature of our life, as I hinted previously, does indeed lead to the illusion of as I hinted previously, does indeed lead to the illusion of change, of progression. We lack history, and yet we know of change, of progression. We lack history, and yet we know of the concept of "history": we lack true change, and yet we the concept of "history": we lack true change, and yet we acknowledge that it could exist. acknowledge that it could exist.

'But what could exist is mere fancy in the face of our undying nature. The heretics have their ideas, and try to undying nature. The heretics have their ideas, and try to read them into the world. Much better to do as generations read them into the world. Much better to do as generations have done, as generations will do, as generations are now have done, as generations will do, as generations are now still doing, and look first to the constant, the immutable. To still doing, and look first to the constant, the immutable. To do otherwise is to talk to a mirror or gesture to a blind man do otherwise is to talk to a mirror or gesture to a blind man - the ultimate in folly.

'We are alone. We are all. We have no beginning and no end. We will pa.s.s on nothing, and will inherit nothing. end. We will pa.s.s on nothing, and will inherit nothing.

'These words write themselves: I commit them not to any sense of time (thankfulness to the "past" or a legacy to the sense of time (thankfulness to the "past" or a legacy to the 'future") but to now. These words have always been written, and they were never even dreamt of - never, even in our and they were never even dreamt of - never, even in our most diffuse dreams of change.' most diffuse dreams of change.'

Extract from the introduction to Systematic Approaches to Systematic Approaches to the Thoughts of the Kuabris the Thoughts of the Kuabris, written by Grand Knight Magisuan. Subsequently banned and destroyed by order of Grand Knight Uscolda.

One.

Over the years the city had developed in a rain-soaked valley, banked with fog. Even on those days when the clouds receded the damp buildings and blunt green spires looked like an ancient conurbation discovered beneath the lapping waves of a great ocean.

The smaller buildings shrank back from the strident winds and thunderous rain clouds. The narrow pa.s.sages between the overhanging houses were flickering with activity, as men and women pulled on furs and woollen garments and went about their business. They no longer noticed the constant background patter of the drizzle, but, heads bowed, shoved their feet forwards through the grime and sodden refuse that sat in putrid layers over the cobbled streets. Their downcast eyes avoided the watching black castle, the largest of the handful of buildings tall enough to split the lowlying fog. Three large towers were set into the broken rocks of one hillside, surrounded by bulbous turrets and buildings and a double skin of thick concrete walling.

Occasional windows glowed through the myopic fog.

The other ma.s.sive building was known as the Furnace. It was some distance away from the castle and seemed to avert its face from the fortress, retreating into the dark hillside as if too heavy and bloated with water to support itself. It was a squat edifice of dull brown brick topped with blackened chimneys, from which flowed a constant breathing cloud of steam that merged with the fog, occasionally giving it a poisonous tang. Groups of black-coated men wearing simple cotton masks walked the area, leading huge horses tugging at sledges containing wood and coal. Inside the main building cavernous furnaces were fed, flames occasionally leaping out of the boilers with a spit of soot and flame. Steam hissed and escaped as huge turbines moved in groaning agony, smaller pistons pounding with fragmentary bursts of power.

In the city itself even the shuddering percussion of the engines was lost to the constant wash of the rain.

Defrabax emerged from his darkened house, extinguis.h.i.+ng a candle in the window, and cursed the incessant downpour. Squas.h.i.+ng a floppy hat over his thinning grey hair, he stared at the twin extremes of the city - the Furnace to his left and the castle to his right - and seemed to snarl at them both, before setting his course and moving out into the streets.

The houses he pa.s.sed were clumsy wooden constructions, leaning at crazy angles and seemingly close to collapse. The last great storm had thrown odd tiles down into the street; young boys had combed the refuse, and were already attempting to sell them back to the populace.

'Lovely roofin' slates, perfect for your storm-damaged 'ome.' A group sat in the gutter, laughing and joking with the pa.s.sers-by. One lad ran in front of Defrabax, carrying an example of his wares, his face full of desperate pleading.