Something rotten (35 page)

“Then what, if you’ll excuse me, is the point?”

“To die free, Mr. Cable. Drink?”

Mrs. Stiggins appeared with four glasses that had been cut from the bottom of wine bottles and offered them to us. Stig drank his straight down, and I tried to do the same and nearly choked—it was not unlike drinking petrol. Bowden
did
choke, and clasped his throat as if it were on fire. Mr. and Mrs. Stiggins stared at us curiously, then collapsed into an odd series of grunty coughs.

“I’m not sure I see the joke,” said Bowden, eyes streaming.

“It is the neanderthal custom to humiliate guests,” announced Stig, taking our glasses from us. “Yours was potato gin—ours was merely water. Life is good. Have a seat.”

We sat down on the sofa, and Stig poked at the embers in the fire. There was a rabbit on a stick, and I gave a deep sigh of relief it wasn’t going to be beetles for lunch.

“Those croquet players outside,” I began, “do you suppose anything could induce them to play for the Swindon Mallets?”

“No. Only humans define themselves by conflict with other humans. Winning or losing has no meaning to us. Things just are as they are meant to be.”

I thought about offering some money. After all, a month’s salary for an averagely rated player would easily cover a thousand buyback schemes. But neanderthals are funny about money—especially money that they don’t think they’ve earned. I kept quiet.

“Have you had any more thoughts about the cloned Shakespeares?” asked Bowden.

Stig thought for a moment, twitched his nose, turned the rabbit and then went to a large rolltop bureau and returned with a manila folder—the genome report he had got from Mr. Rumplunkett.

“Definitely clones,” he said, “and whoever built them covered their tracks—the serial numbers are scrubbed from the cells, and the manufacturer’s information is missing from the DNA. On a molecular level, they might have been built anywhere.”

“Stig,” I said, thinking of
Hamlet,
“I can’t stress how important it is that I find a WillClone—and soon.”

“We haven’t finished, Miss Next. See this?”

He handed me a spectroscopic evaluation of Mr. Shaxtper’s teeth, and I looked at the zigzag graph uncomprehendingly.

“We do this test to monitor long-term health patterns. By taking a cross-section of Shaxtper’s teeth, we can trace the original manufacturing area solely from the hardness of the water.”

“For what purpose?”

“We recognize this pattern,” he said, jabbing a stubby finger at the chart. “In particular the high concentration of calcium just here. We can usually trace a chimera’s original manufacturing area solely from the hardness of the water.”

“I see,” said Bowden. “So where do we find this sort of water?”

“Simple: Birmingham.”

Bowden clapped his hands happily. “You mean to tell me there’s a secret bioengineering lab in the Birmingham area? We’ll find it in a jiffy!”

“The lab isn’t in Birmingham,” said Stig.

“But you said . . . ?”

I knew exactly what he was driving at.

“Birmingham imports its water,” I said in a low voice, “from the Elan Valley—in the
Socialist Republic of Wales.
”

The job had just got that much worse. Goliath’s biggest biotech facility used to be on the banks of the Craig Goch Reservoir, deep in the Elan, before they moved to the Presellis. They had built across the border due to the lax bioengineering regulations; they shut down as soon as the Welsh parliament caught up. The lab in the Presellis did only legitimate work.

“Impossible!” scoffed Bowden. “They closed down decades ago!”

“And yet,” retorted Stig slowly, “your Shakespeares were built there. Mr. Cable, you are not a natural friend to the neanderthal, and you do not have the strength of spirit of Miss Next, yet you
are
impassioned.”

Bowden was unconvinced by Stig’s précis. “How can you know me that well?”

There was a silence for a moment as Stig turned the rabbit on the spit.

“You live with a woman whom you don’t truly love, but need for stability. You are suspicious that she is seeing someone else, and that anger and suspicion hangs heavily on your shoulders. You feel passed over for promotion, and the one woman whom you truly love is inaccessible to you—”

“All right, all right,” he said sullenly, “I get the picture.”

“You humans radiate emotions like a roaring fire, Mr. Cable. We are astounded how you are able to deceive each other so easily. We see all deception, so have evolved to have no need for it.”

“These labs,” I began, eager to change the subject, “you are sure?”

“We are sure,” affirmed Stig, “and not only Shakespeares were built there. All neanderthals up to Version 2.3.5, too. We wish to return. We have an urgent wish for that which we have been denied.”

“And that is?” asked Bowden.

“Children,” breathed Stig. “We have planned for just such an expedition, and your
sapien
characteristics will be useful. You have an impetuosity that we can never have. A neanderthal considers each move before taking it and is genetically predisposed towards caution. We need someone like you, Miss Next—a human with drive, a propensity towards violence and the ability to take command—yet someone governed by what is
right.
”

I sighed. “We’re not going to get into the Socialist Republic,” I said. “We have no jurisdiction, and if we’re caught, there will be hell to pay.”

“What about your plan to take all those books across, Thursday?” asked Bowden in a quiet voice.

“There is no plan, Bowd. I’m sorry. And I can’t risk being banged up in some Welsh slammer during the SuperHoop. I
have
to make sure the Mallets win. I
have
to be there.”

Stig frowned at me. “Strange!” he said at last. “You do not want to win for a deluded sense of hometown pride—we see a greater purpose.”

“I can’t tell you, Stig, but what you read is true. It is vital to
all
of us that Swindon wins the SuperHoop.”

Stig looked across to Mrs. Stiggins, and the two of them held a conversation for a good five minutes—using only facial expressions and the odd grunt.

After they had finished, Stig said, “It is agreed. You, Mr. Cable, and ourself will break into the abandoned Goliath reengineering labs. You to find your Shakespeares, we to find a way to seed our females.”

“I can’t—”

“Even if we fail,” continued Stig, “the Neanderthal Nation will field five players to help you win your SuperHoop. There can be no payment and no glory. Is this the deal?”

I stared at his small brown eyes. By the quality I had seen of the players outside and my knowledge of neanderthals in general, we would be in with a chance—even with me locked up in a Welsh jail.

I shook his outstretched hand. “This is the deal.”

“Then we must eat. Do you like rabbit?”

We both nodded.

“Good. This is a speciality of ours. In Neanderlese it is called
rabite’n’bitels.
”

“Sounds excellent,” replied Bowden. “What’s it served with?”

“Potatoes and a . . . tangy, greeny-brown, crunchy sauce.”

I can’t be sure, but I think Stig winked at me. I needn’t have worried. The meal was excellent, and neanderthals are quite correct—beetles are severely underrated.

31.

Planning Meeting

Common Cormorants’ Numbers Decline

A leading ornithologist claimed yesterday that bear-bird incompatibility is to blame for the cormorant decline in recent years. “We have known for many years that cormorants lay eggs in paper bags to keep the lightning out,” explained Mr. Daniel Chough, “but the reintroduction of bears to England has placed an intolerable strain on the birds’ breeding habits. Even though bears and birds rarely compete for food and resources, it seems that wandering bears with buns steal the cormorants’ paper bags in order, according to preliminary research, to hold the crumbs.” That the bears are of Danish origin is suspected but not yet substantiated.

Article in
Flap!
magazine, July 20, 1988

S
o what do you know about the Elan?” asked Bowden as we drove back into the town.

“Not much,” I replied, looking at the charts of Mr. Shaxspoor’s teeth. Stig reckoned he had lived in the Elan for a lot longer than the others—perhaps until only a few years ago. If he had survived that long, why not some of the others? I wasn’t going to raise any false hopes quite yet, but at least it seemed
possible
we could save
Hamlet
after all.

“Were you serious about not being able to think of a way in?”

“I’m afraid so. We could always pretend to be water officials from Birmingham or something.”

“Why would water officials have ten truckloads of banned Danish books?” asked Bowden, not unreasonably.

“Something to read while doing water-officially things?”

“If we don’t get these books to safety, they’ll be burned, Thursday—we’ve
got
to find a way into the Republic.”

“I’ll think of something.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon fielding calls from numerous sports reporters, eager to get a story and find out who would be playing in what position on the field. I called Aubrey and told him that he would have five new players—but I didn’t tell him they’d be neanderthals. I couldn’t risk the press’s finding out.

By the time I returned to Mum’s house, my wedding ring was firmly back on my finger again. I pushed Friday around to Landen’s house and, noticing that everything seemed to be back to normal, knocked twice. There was an excited scrabble from within, and Landen opened the door.

“There you are!” he said happily. “When you hung up on me, I got kinda worried.”

“I didn’t hang up, Land.”

“I was eradicated again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Will I be again?”

“I’m hoping not. Can I come in?”

I put Friday on the floor, and he immediately started to try to climb the stairs.

“Bedtime already, is it, young man?” asked Landen, following him as he clambered all the way up. I noticed that in the spare room there were two as-yet-unpacked stair gates, which put my mind at rest. He had bought a cot, too, and several toys.

“I bought some clothes.”

He opened the drawer. It was stuffed with all kinds of clothes for the little chap, and although some looked a bit small, I didn’t say anything. We took Friday downstairs, and Landen made some supper.

“So you knew I was coming back?” I asked as he cut up some broccoli.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, “as soon as you got all that eradication nonsense sorted out. Make us a cup of tea, would you?”

I walked over to the sink and filled the kettle.

“Any closer to a plan for dealing with Kaine?” asked Landen.

“No,” I admitted, “I’m really banking on Zvlkx’s Seventh Revealment coming true.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Landen, chopping some carrots, “is why everyone except Formby seems to agree with everything Kaine says. Bloody sheep, the lot of them.”

“I must say I’m surprised by the lack of opposition to Kaine’s plans,” I agreed, staring absently out the kitchen window. I frowned as the germ of an idea started to ferment in my mind. “Land?”

“Yuh?”

“When was the last time Formby went anywhere near Kaine?”

“Never. He avoids him like the plague. Kaine wants to meet him face-to-face, but the President won’t have anything to do with him.”

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, suddenly having a flash of inspiration.

“What’s it?”

“Well ...”

I stopped because something at the bottom of the garden had caught my eye.

“Do you have nosy neighbors, Land?”

“Not really.”

“It’s probably my stalker, then.”

“You have a stalker?”

I pointed. “Sure. Just there, in the laurels, beckoning to me.”

“Do you want me to do the strong male thing and chase him off with a stick?”

“No. I’ve got a better idea.”

“Hello, Millon. How’s the stalking going? I brought you a cup of tea and a bun.”

“Pretty well,” he said, marking down in his notebook the time I had stopped to talk to him and budging aside to make room for me in the laurel bush. “How are things with you?”

“They’re mostly good. What were you waving at me for?”

“Ah!” he said. “We were going to run a feature about thirteenth-century seers in
Conspiracy Theorist
magazine, and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you think it’s odd that no fewer than twenty-eight Dark Ages saints have chosen this year for their second coming?”

“I’d not really given it that much thought.”

“O-kay. Do you not also find it strange that of these twenty-eight supposed seers, only two of them—St. Zvlkx and Sister Bettina of Stroud—have actually made any prophecies that have come remotely true?”

“What are you saying?”

“That St. Zvlkx might not be a thirteenth-century saint at all, but some sort of time-traveling criminal. He takes an illicit journey to the Dark Ages, writes up what he can remember of history and then, at the appropriate time, he is catapulted forward to see his last revealment come true.”

“Why?” I asked. “If the ChronoGuard gets wind of what he’s up to, he’s never been born—literally. Why risk nonexistence for at most a few years’ fame as a washed-up visitor from the thirteenth century with a host of unpleasant skin complaints?”

Millon shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought you might be able to help
me.
” He lapsed into silence.

“Tell me, Millon—is there any connection between Kaine and the Ovinator?”

“Of course! You should read
Conspiracy Theorist
magazine more often. Although most of our links between secret technology and those in power are about as tenuous as mist, this one really is concrete: his personal assistant, Stricknene, used to work with Schitt-Hawse at the Goliath tech division. If Goliath has an Ovinator, then Kaine might very well have one, too. Do you know what it does, then?”