The pair entered a maze of cholla. The famously vicious Southwestern cholla cactus, whose sausage-link segments bore thorns the size of fishhooks, had been rumored from time immemorial to leap free from sheer spite and stab travelers. A soupcon of Venus Flytrap genes had turned this Pecos Pete tall-tale vaporware into grisly functionality. Ribo Zombie had to opt for brute force: the steely wand of a back-mounted flamethrower leapt into his wiry combat-gloves. Ignited in a pupil-searing blast, the flaming mutant cholla whipped and flopped like epileptic spaghetti. Then RZ and the faithful Skratchy were clambering up the limestone leg of the Federal cache.
Anyone who had gotten this far could be justly exposed to the worst and most glamorous gizmos ever cooked up by the Softwar Department’s Counter-Bioterrorism Corps.
The ducts of the diatom structure yawned open and deployed a lethal arsenal of spore-grenade launchers, strangling vegetable bolas, and whole glittering clouds of hotwired fleas and mosquitos. Any scab worth his yeast knew that those insect vectors were stuffed to bursting with swift and ghastly illnesses, pneumonic plague and necrotizing fasciitis among the friendlier ones.
“This must be the part where the cat saves him,” said Tupper McClanahan, all cozy in her throw-rug on her end of the couch.
Startled out of his absorption, yet patiently indulgent, Fearon McClanahan froze the screen with a tapped command to the petcocks on the feedlines. “What was that, darling? I thought you were reading.”
“I was.” Smiling, Tupper held up a vintage Swamp Thing comic that had cost fully ten percent of one month’s trustfund check. “But I always enjoy the parts of this show that feature the cat. Remember when we clicked on those high-protein kitty treats, during last week’s cat sequence? Weeble loved those things.”
Fearon looked down from the ergonomic couch to the spotless bulk of his snoring pig, Weeble. Weeble had outgrown the size and weight described in his documentation, but he made a fine hassock.
“Weeble loves anything we feed him. His omnivorous nature is part of his factory specs, remember? I told you we’d save a ton on garbage bills.”
“Sweetie, I never complain about Weeble. Weeble is your familiar, so Weeble is fine. I’ve only observed that it might be a good idea if we got a bigger place.”
Fearon disliked being interrupted while viewing his favorite outlaw stealth download. He positively squirmed whenever Tupper sneakily angled around the subject of a new place with more room. More room meant a nursery. And a nursery meant a child. Fearon swerved to a change of topic.
“How can you expect Skratchy Kat to get Ribo Zombie out of this fix? Do you have any idea what those flying bolas do to human flesh?”
“The cat gets him out of trouble every time. Kids love that cat.”
“Look, honey: kids are not the target demographic. This show isn’t studio-greenlighted or even indie-syndicated, okay? You know as well as I do that this is outlaw media. Totally underground guerrilla infotainment,virally distributed. There are laws on the books—unenforced, sure, but still extant—that make it illegal for us even to watch this thing. After all, Ribo Zombie is a biological terrorist who’s robbing a Federal stash!”
“If it’s not a kid’s show, why is that cute little cartoon in the corner of the screen?”
“That’s his grafitti icon! That’s the sign of his street-wise authenticity.”
Tupper gazed at him with limpid spousal pity. “Then who edits all his raw footage and adds the special effects?”
“Oh, well, that’s just the Vegas Mafia. The Mafia keeps up with modern times: no more Ratpack crooners and gangsta rappers! Nowadays they cut licensing deals with freeware culture heroes like Ribo Zombie, lone wolf recombinants bent on bringing hot goo to the masses.”
Tupper waved her comic as a visual aid. “I still bet the cat’s gonna save him. Because none of that makes any difference to the archetypical narrative dynamics.”
Fearon sighed. He opened a new window on his gelatinous screen and accessed certain data. “Okay, look. You know what runs security on Federal Biosequestration Sites like that one? Military-grade, laminated, mousebrain. You know how smart that stuff is? A couple of cubic inches of murine brain has more processing power than every computer ever deployed in the twentieth century. Plus, mouse-brain is unhackable. Computer viruses, no problem. Electromagnetic pulse doesn’t affect it. No power source to disrupt, since neurons run on blood sugar. That stuff is indestructible.”
Tupper shrugged. “Just turn your show back on.”
Skratchy was poised at a vulnerable crack in the diatom’s roof. The cat began copiously to pee.
When the trickling urine reached the olfactory sensors wired to the mouse brains, the controlling network went berserk. Ancient murine anti-predator instincts swamped the cybernetic instructions, triggering terrified flight responses. Mis-aimed spore bomblets thudded harmlessly to the soil, whizzing bolas wreaked havoc through the innocent vegetation below, and vent ports spewed contaminated steam and liquid nitrogen.
Cursing the zany but dangerous fusillade, Ribo Zombie set to work with a back-mounted hydraulic can-opener.
Glum and silent, Fearon gripped his jaw. His hooded eyes glazed over as Ribo Zombie crept through surreal diorama of waist-high wells, HVAC systems and plumbing. Every flick of Ribo Zombie’s hand-torch revealed a glimpse of some new and unspeakable mutant wonder, half concealed in ambient support fluids: yellow gruel, jade-colored hair gel, blue oatmeal, ruby maple syrup....
“Oh, honey,” said Tupper at last, “don’t take it so hard.”
“You were right,” Fearon grumbled. His voice rose. “Is that what you want me to say? You were right! You’re always right!”
“It’s just my skill with semiotic touchstones that I’ve derived from years of reading graphic novels. But look, dear, here’s the part you always love, when he finally lays his hands on the wetware. Honey, look at him stealing that weird cantaloupe with the big throbbing arteries on it. Now he’ll go back to his clottage and clump, just like he does every episode, and sooner or later, something really uptaking and neoteric will show up on your favorite auction site.”
“Like I couldn’t brew up stuff twice as potent myself.”
“Of course you could, dear. Especially now, since we can afford the best equipment. With my inheritance kicking in, we can devote your dad’s legacy to your hobby. All that stock your dad left can go straight to your hardware fetish, while my money allows us to ditch this creepy old condo and buy a new modern house. duckback roof, slowglass windows, olivine patio—“Tupper sighed deeply and dramatically. “Real quality, Fearon.”
* * * *
Predictably, Malvern Brakhage showed up at their doorstep in the company of disaster.
“Rogue mitosis, Fearon my man. They’ve shut down Mixogen and called out the HazMat Squad.”
“You’re kidding? Mixogen? I thought they followed code.”
“Hell no! The outbreak’s all over downtown. Just thought I’d drop by for a newsy look at your high-bandwidth feed.”
Fearon gazed with no small disdain on the bullet-headed fellow scab. Malvern had the thin fixed grin of a live medical student in a room full of cadavers. He wore his customary black-leather labcoat and baggy cargo pants, their buttoned pockets bulging with ziploc baggies of semi-legal jello.
“It’s Malvern!” he yelled at the kitchen, where Tupper was leafing through catalogues.
“How about some nutriceuticals?” said Malvern alertly. “Our mental edges require immediate sharpening.” Malvern pulled his slumbering weasel, Spike, from a labcoat pocket and set it on his shoulder. The weasel—biotechnically speaking, Spike was mostly an ermine—immediately became the nicest-looking thing about the man. Spike’s lustrous fur gave Malvern the dashing air of a Renaissance Prince, if you recalled that Renaissance Princes were mostly unprincipled bush-league tyrants who would poison anyone within reach.
Malvern ambled hungrily into the kitchen.
“How have you been, Malvern?”
said Tupper brightly.
“I’m great, babe.” Malvern pulled a clamp-topped German beer bottle from his jacket. “You up for a nice warm brewski?”
“Don’t drink that,” Fearon warned his wife.
“Brewed it personally,” said Malvern, hurt. “I’ll just leave it herein the kitchen in case you change your mind.” Malvern plonked the heavy bottle onto the scarred formica.
Tupper, who had been well-brought up, gave Malvern the admiring glance that her kindly stratum of society reserved for all charmingly transgressive dissidents. Fearon remembered when he, too, had received adoring looks from Tupper—as a bright idealist who understood the true, liberating potential of biotech, an underground scholar who bowed to none in his arcane mastery of plasmid vectors. Unlike Malvern, whose scab popularity was mostly due to his lack of squeamishness.
Malvern was louche and farouche, so, as was his wont, he began looting Tupper’s kitchen fridge. “Liberty’s gutters are crawling!” Malvern declaimed, fingersnapping a bit to suit his with-it scab-rap. “It’s a bug-crash of awesome proportions, and I urge forthwith we reap some peptides from the meltdown.”
“Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted,” countered Fearon. He herded the unmannerly scab back to the parlor.
With deft stabs of his carpalled fingertips, Fearon used the parlor wallscreen to access Fusing Nuclei—the all-biomed news site favored by the happening hipsters of scabdom.
Tupper, pillar-of-support that she was, soon slid in with a bounty of hotwired snackfood. Instinctively, both men shared with their familiars, Fearon dropping creamy tidbits to his pig while Malvern reached salty gobbets up and back to his neck-hugging weasel.
Shoulder to shoulder on the parlor couch, Malvern and Fearon fixed their jittering attention on the unfolding urban catastrophe.
The living pixels in the electrojelly cohered into the familiar image of Wet Willie, FN’s star business-reporter. Wet Willie, dashingly clad in his customary splatterproof trenchcoat, had framed himself in the shot of a residential Miami skyscraper. The pastel Neo-Deco walls were sheathed in pearly slime. Wriggling like a nautch dancer, the thick, undulating goo gleamed in Florida’s Greenhouse sunlight. Local bystanders congregated in their flowered shirts, sun-hats and sandals, gawking from outside the crowd-control pylons. The tainted skyscraper was under careful attack by truck-mounted glorp cannons, their nozzles channeling high-pressure fingers against the slimy pink walls.
“That’s a major outbreak all right,” said Fearon. “Since whenwise was Liberty City clearstanced for wet production?”
“As if,” chuckled Malvern.
Wet Willie was killing network lagtime with a patch of infodump. “Liberty City was once an impoverished slum. That was before Miami urbstanced into the liveliest nexus of the modern Immunossance, fueled by low-rent but ingenious Caribbean bioneers. When super-immune systems became the hottest somatic upgrade since osteojolt, Liberty City upgraded into today’s thriving district of artlofts and hotshops.
“But today that immuconomic quality-of-life is threatened! The ninth floor of this building houses a startup named Mixogen. The cause of this rampaging outbreak remains speculative, except that the fearsome name of Ribo Zombie is already whispered by knowing insiders.”
“I might have known,” grunted Malvern.
Fearon clicked the RZ hotlink. Ribo Zombie’s ninja-masked publicity photo appeared on the network’s vanity page. “Ribo Zombie, the Legendary King of scabs—whose thrilling sub rosa exploits are brought to you each week by Fusing Nuclei, in strict accordance with the revised Freedom of Information Act and without legal or ethical endorsement! Click Here to join the growing horde of cutting-edge bioneers who enjoy weekly shipments of his liberated specimens direct to their small office/home office wetwarelabs...”
Fearon valved off the nutrient flowline to the screen and stood abruptly up, spooking the sensitive Weeble. “That showboating scumbag! You’d think he’d invented scabbing! I hate him! Let’s scramble, Mal.”
“Yo!” concurred Malvern, “let’s bail forthwith, and bag something hot from the slop.”
Fearon assembled his scab gear from closets and shelves throughout the small apartment, Weeble loyally dogging his heels. The process took some time, since a scab’s top-end hardware determined his peer-ranking in the demimonde of scabdom (a peer ranking stored by retrovirus, then collated globally by swapping saliva-laden tabs of blotter paper).
Devoted years of feral genetic hobbyism had brought Fearon a veritable galaxy of condoms, shrinkwrap, blotter kits, polymer resins, phase gels, reagents, femto-injectors, serum vials, canisters, aerosols, splat-pistols, whole bandoliers of buckybombs, padded cases, gloves, goggles, netting, cameras, tubes, dispensing cylinders of pliofilm— the whole assemblage tucked with a fly-fisherman’s neurotic care into an intricate system of packs, satchels and strap-ons.
Tupper watched silently, her expression neutral shading to displeased. Even the dense and tactless Malvern could sense the marital tension.
“Lemme boot-up my car. Meet you behind the wheel, Fearo my pard.”
Tupper accompanied Fearon to the apartment door, still saying nothing as her man clicked together disassembled instruments, untelescoped his sampling staff, tightened buckles across chest and hips, and mated sticky-backed equipment to special patches on his vest and splashproof chaps.
Rigged out to his satisfaction, Fearon leaned in for a farewell kiss. Tupper merely offered her cheek.
“Aw, come on, honey, don’t that-way be! You know a man’s gotta follow his bliss: which in my special case is a raw, hairy-eyed lifestyle on the bleeding edge of the genetic frontier.”
“Fearon McClanahan, if you come back smeared with colloid, you’re not setting one foot onto my clean rug.”
“I’ll really wash-up this time, I promise.”
“And pick up some fresh goat-milk prestogurt!”
“I’m with the sequence.”
Fearon dashed and clattered down the stairs, his neutraceutically deviated mind already filled with plans and anticipations. Weeble barreled behind.
Malvern’s algal-powered roadster sat by the curb, its fuelcell thrumming. Malvern emptied the tapering trunk, converting it into an open-air rumble seat for Weeble, who bounded in like a jet-propelled fifty-liter drum. The weasel Spike occupied a crash-hammock slung behind the driver’s seat. Fearon wedged himself into the passenger’s seat, and they were off with a pale electric scream.
After shattering a random variety of Miami traffic laws, the two scabs departed Malvern’s street-smart vehicle, to creep and skulk the last two blocks to the oNGOing bio-chernobyl. The federal swab authorities had thrown their usual cordon in place, enough to halt the influx of civilian lookyloos, but penetrating the perimeter was child’s play for well-equipped scabs. Fearon and Malvern simply sprayed themselves and their lab-animals with chameleon-shifting shrinkwrap, then strolled through the impotent ring of ultrasonic pylons. They then crept through the shattered glass, found the code-obligatory wheelchair access, and laboriously sneaked up to the ninthfloor.
“Well, we’re inside just finewise,” said Fearon, puffing for breath through the shredded shrinkwrap on his lips.
Malvern alertly helped himself to a secretary’s abandoned lunch. “Better check Fusing Nuclei for word on the fates of our rivals.”
Fearon consulted his handheld. “They just collared Harry the Brewer. ‘Impersonating a Disease-Control Officer.’”
“What a lack of gusto panache-wise. That guy’s just not serious.”
Malvern peered down streetward through a goo-dripping window. The glorp cannon salvos had been supplemented by strafing ornithopter runs of uptake-inhibitors and counter-metabolizers. The battling federal defenders of humanity’s physiological integrity were using combined-arms tactics. Clearly the forces of law-and-order were sensing victory. They usually did.
“How much of this hot glop you think we ought to kipe?” Malvern asked.
“Well, all
of it. Everything Weeble can eat.”
“You don’t mind risking ol’ Weeble?”
“He’s not a pig for nothingwise, you know. Besides, I just upgraded his digestive tract.” Fearon scratched the pig affectionately.
Malvern velcro’ed his weasel Spike into the animal’s crittercam. The weasel eagerly scampered off on point, as Malvern offered remote guidance and surveillance with his handheld.
“Out-of-Control Kevin uses video bees,” remarked Fearon, as they trudged forward with a rattle of sampling equipment. “Little teensy cameras mounted on their teensy insect backs. It’s an emergent network phenomenon, he says.”
“That’s just Oldstyle Silicon Valley,” Malvern dismissed. “Besides, a weasel never gets sucked into a jet engine.”
The well-trained Spike had nailed the target, and the outlaw wetware was fizzing like cheap champagne. It was a wonder that the floor of the high-rise had withstood the sheer weight of criminal mischief. Mixogen was no mere R&D lab. It was a full-scale production facility. Some ingenious soul had purchased the junked remains of an Orlando aquasport resort, all the pumps, slides and waterpark sprinklers. Kiddie wading pools had been retrofitted with big gooey glaciers of serum support gel. The plastic fish-tanks were filled to overflowing with raw biomass. Metastasizing cells had backed up into the genetic moonshine somehow, causing a violent bloom and a methane explosion, as frothy as lemon meringue. The animal stench was indescribable.
“What stale hell is this?” said Malvern, gaping at a broken tub that brimmed with a demonic assemblage of horns, hoofs, hide, fur, and dewclaws.
“I take that to be widely variegated forms of mammalian epidermal expression.” Fearon restrained his pig with difficulty. The rotting smell of the monstrous meat had triggered Weeble’s appetite.
“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” snorted Malvern. “You’re point-missing me. Nobody can maintain a hybridoma with that gross level of genetic variety! Nothing with horns ever has talons! Ungulates and felines don’t even have the same chromosome number.”
Babylon Sisters Page 30
