'Bug?'
'No thanks.'
'So what can we do for the Literary Detectives?' he asked, attempting to eat a beetle that didn't really want him to and was chased twice around Stig's hand until caught and devoured.
'What do you make of this?' I asked as Bowden handed him a picture of the Shaxtper cadaver.
'It is a dead human,' replied Stig. 'Are you sure you won't have a beetle? They're very crunchy.'
'No thanks. What about this?'
Bowden handed him a picture of one of the other dead clones, and then a third.
'The same dead human from a different viewpoint?'
'They're all different corpses, Stig.'
He stopped chewing the uncooked lamb chop and stared at me, then wiped his hands on a large handkerchief and looked more carefully at the photographs.
'How many?'
'Eighteen that we know of
'Cloning entire humans has always been illegal,' murmured Stig. 'Can we see the real thing?'
The Swindon morgue was a short walk from the SpecOps office. It was an old Victorian building which in a more enlightened age would have been condemned. It smelt of formaldehyde and damp and the morgue technicians all looked unhappy and probably had odd hobbies that I would be happier not knowing about.
The lugubrious head pathologist, Mr Rumplunkett, looked avariciously at Mr Stiggins. Since killing a Neanderthal wasn't technically a crime no autopsy was ever performed on one – and Mr Rumplunkett was by nature a curious man. He said nothing but Stiggins knew precisely what he was thinking.
'We're pretty much the same inside as you, Mr Rumplunkett. That was, after all, the reason we were brought into being in the first place.'
'I'm sorry—' began the embarrassed chief pathologist.
'No, you're not,' responded Stig, 'your interest is purely professional and in the pursuit of knowledge. We take no offence.'
'We're here to look at Mr Shaxtper,' said Bowden.
We were led to the main autopsy room, where several bodies were lying under sheets with tags on their toes.
'Overcrowding,' said Mr Rumplunkett, 'but they don't seem to complain too much. This the one?'
He threw back a sheet. The cadaver had a high-domed head, deep-set eyes, a small moustache and goatee. It looked a lot like William Shakespeare from the Droeshout engraving on the title page of the first folio.
'What do you think?'
'Okay,' I said slowly, 'he looks like Shakespeare, but if Victor wore his hair like that, so would he.'
Bowden nodded. It was a fair point.
'And this one wrote the Basil Brush sonnet?'
'No; that particular sonnet was written by this one.'
With a flourish Bowden pulled back the sheet from another cadaver to reveal a corpse identical to the first, only a year or two younger. I stared at them both as Bowden revealed yet another.
'So how many Shakespeares did you say you had?'
'Officially, none. We've got a Shaxtper, a Shakespoor and a Shagsper. Only two of them had any writing on them, all have ink-stained fingers, all are genetically identical, and all died of disease or hypothermia brought on by self-neglect.'
'Down-and-outs?'
'Hermits is probably nearer the mark.'
'Aside from the fact that they all have left eyes and one size of toe,' said Stig, who had been examining the cadavers at length, 'they are very good indeed. We haven't seen this sort of craftsmanship for years.'
'They're copies of a playwright named William Shakes—'
'We know of Shakespeare, Mr Cable,' interrupted Stig. 'We are particularly fond of Caliban from The Tempest. This is a deep recovery job. Brought back from a piece of dried skin or a hair in a death mask or something.'
'When and where, Stig?'
He thought for a moment.
'They were probably built in the mid-thirties,' he announced. 'At the time there were perhaps only ten biolabs in the world that could have done this. We think we can safely say we are looking at one of the three biggest genetic engineering labs in England.'
'Not possible,' said Bowden. 'The manufacturing records of York, Bognor Regis and Scunthorpe are in the public domain; it would be inconceivable that a project of this magnitude could have been kept secret.'
'And yet they exist,' replied Stig, pointing to the corpses and bringing Bowden's argument to a rapid close. 'Do you have the genome logs and trace element spectroscopic evaluations?' he added. 'More careful study might reveal something.'
'That's not standard autopsy procedure,' replied Rumplunkett. 'I have my budget to think of'
'If you do a molar cross-section as well we will donate our body to this department when we die.'
'I'll do them for you while you wait,' said Mr Rumplunkett.
Stig turned back to us.
'We'll need forty-eight hours to have a look at them – shall we meet again at my house? We would be honoured by your presence.'
He looked me in the eye. He would know if I lied.
'I'd like that very much.'
'We, too. Wednesday at midday?'
'I'll be there.'
The Neanderthal raised his hat, gave a small grunt and moved off.
'Well,' said Bowden as soon as Stig was out of earshot, 'I hope you like eating beetles and dock leaves.'
'You and me both, Bowden – you're coming too. If he wanted me and me alone, he would have asked me in private – but I'm sure he'll make something more palatable for us.'
I frowned as we walked blinking back out into the sunlight.
'Bowden?'
'Yup?'
'Did Stig say anything that seemed unusual to you?'
'Not really. Do you want to hear my plans for infil—'
Bowden stopped talking in mid-sentence as the world ground to a halt. Time had ceased to exist. I was trapped between one moment and the next. It could only be my father.
'Hello, Sweetpea,' he said cheerfully, giving me a hug, 'how did the Superhoop turn out?'
'That's next Saturday.'
'Oh!' he said, looking at his watch and frowning. 'You won't let me down, will you?'
'How will I not let you down? What's the connection between the Superhoop and Kaine?'
'I can't tell you. Events must unfold naturally or there'll be hell to pay. You'll just have to trust me.'
'Did you come all this way just to not tell me anything?'
'Not at all. It's a Trafalgar thing. I've been trying all sorts of plans but Nelson stubbornly resists surviving. I think I've figured it out, but I need your help.'
'Will this take long?' I asked. 'I've got a lot to do and I have to get home before my mother finds I've left a gorilla in charge of Friday.'
'I think I am right in saying,' replied my father with a smile, 'that this will take no time at all – if you'd prefer, even less!'
21
Victory on the Victory
RAUNCHY ADMIRAL IN LOVE CHILD SHOCK
Our sources can reveal exclusively in this paper that Admiral Lord Nelson, the nations darling and much-decorated war hero, is the father of a daughter with Lady Emma Hamilton, wife of Sir William Hamilton. The affair has been going on for some time, apparently with the full knowledge of both Sir William and lady Nelson, from whom the hero of the Nile is now estranged. Full story, page two; leader, page three; lurid engravings, pages four, seven, and nine; hypocritical moralistic comment, page ten; bawdy cartoon featuring an overweight Lady Hamilton, pages twelve and thirteen. Also in this issue: reports of the French and Spanish defeat at Cape Trafalgar, page thirty-two, column four.
Article in the Portsmouth Penny Dreadful, 28 October 1805
There was a succession of flickering lights and we were on the deck of a fully rigged battleship that heaved in a long swell as the wind gathered in its sails. The deck was scrubbed for action and a sense of expectancy hung over the vessel. We were sailing abreast with two other men-of-war, and to landward a column of French ships sailed on a course that would bring us int
o conflict. Men shouted, the ship creaked, the sails heaved and pennants fluttered in the breeze. We were on board Nelson's flagship, the Victory.
I looked around. High on the quarterdeck stood a group of men, uniformed officers in navy blue jackets, cream breeches and cockade hats. Among them was a smaller man with one arm of his uniform tucked neatly into a jacket festooned with medals and decorations. He couldn't have been a better target if he'd tried.
'It would be hard to miss him,' I breathed.
'We keep telling him that but he's pretty pig-headed about it and won't budge – just says they are military orders and he does not fear to show them to the enemy. Would you like a gobstopper?'
He offered me a small paper bag which I declined. The vessel heeled over again and we watched in silence as the distance between the two ships steadily closed.
'I never get bored of this. See them?'
I followed his gaze to where three people were huddled on the other side of a large coil of rope. One was dressed in the uniform of the ChronoGuard, another was holding a clipboard and the third had what looked like a TV camera on his shoulder.
'Documentary-makers from the twenty-second century,' explained my father, hailing the other ChronoGuard operative. 'Hello, Malcolm, how's it going?'
'Well, thanks!' replied the agent. 'Got into the soup a bit when I lost that cameraman at Pompeü. Wanted an extra close-up or something.'
'Hard cheese, old man, hard cheese. Golf after work?'
'Right-o!' replied Malcolm, returning to his charges.
'It's nice being back at work, actually,' confessed my father, turning back to me. 'Sure you won't have a gobstopper?'
'No, thanks.'
There was a flash and a burst of smoke from the closest French warship. A second later two cannon shots plopped harmlessly in the water. The balls didn't move as fast as I had supposed they would – I could actually see them in flight.
'Now what?' I asked. 'Take out the snipers so they can't shoot Nelson?'
'We'd never get them all. No, we must cheat a little. But not yet. Time is of the essence at moments like this.'
So we waited patiently on the main deck while the battle heated up. Within minutes, seven or eight warships were firing at the Victory, the cannon balls tearing into the sails and rigging. One even cut a man in half on the quarterdeck, and another dispatched a small gang of what I took to be mannes, who dispersed rapidly. All through this the diminutive admiral, his captain and a small retinue paced the quarterdeck as the smoke from the guns billowed around, the heat of the muzzle flashes hot on our faces, the concussion almost deafening. The ship's wheel disintegrated as a shot went through it, and as the battle progressed we moved about the deck, following the safest path in the light of my father's superior and infinitely precise knowledge of the battle. We moved to one side as a cannon ball flew past, moved to another area of the deck as a heavy piece of wood fell from the rigging, then to a third place when some musket balls whizzed past where we had been crouching.
'You know the battle very well!' I shouted above the noise.
'I should do,' he shouted back, 'I've been here over sixty times.'
The French and British warships drew nearer and nearer until the Victory was so close to the Bucentaure that I could see the faces of the staff in the staterooms as we passed. There was a deafening broadside from the guns and the stern of the French ship was torn apart as the British cannon balls ripped through it and down the length of the gun deck. In the lull, as the cannon crews reloaded, I could hear the multilingual cries of injured men. I had seen warfare in the Crimea but nothing like this. Such close fighting with such devastating weapons reduced men to nothing more than tatters in an instant, the plight of the survivors made worse by the almost certain knowledge that the medical attention they would receive was of the most rudimentary and brutal kind.
I nearly fell over as the Victory collided with a French ship just astern of the Bucentaure, and as I recovered my balance I realised just how close the ships were to one another in these sort of battles. It wasn't a cable's length – they were actually touching. The smoke of the guns swirled about us and made me cough, and the wheeezip of musket shot close by made me realise that the danger here was very real. There was another deafening concussion as the Victory's guns exploded and the French ship seemed to tremble in the water. My father leaned back to allow a large metal splinter to pass between us, then handed me a pair of binoculars.
'Dad?'
He was reaching into his pocket and pulling out, of all things, a catapult. He loaded it with a lead ball that was rolling across the deck and pulled it back tight, aiming through the swirling smoke at Nelson.
'See the sharpshooter on the most forward platform in the French rigging?'
'Yes?'
'As soon as he puts his finger on the trigger, count two and then say fire.'
I stared up at French rigging, found the sharpshooter and kept a close eye on him. He was less than fifty feet from Nelson. It was the easiest shot in the world. I saw his finger touch the trigger, and—'
'Fire!'
The lead ball flew from the catapult and caught Nelson painfully on the knee; he collapsed on the deck while the shot that would have killed him buried itself harmlessly in the deck behind him.
Captain Hardy ordered his men to take Nelson below, where he would be detained for the rest of the battle. Hardy would face his wrath come the morning and would not serve with him again for disobeying orders. My father saluted Captain Hardy, and Captain Hardy saluted him back. Hardy had marred his career, but saved his admiral. It was a good trade.
'Well,' said my father, placing the catapult back in his pocket, 'we all know how this turns out – come on!'
He took my hand as we started to accelerate through time. The battle quickly ended and the ship's deck was scrubbed clean; day rapidly followed night as we sailed swiftly back to England to a riotous welcome from crowds lining the docks. Then the boat moved again, but this time to Chatham, where it mouldered, lost its rigging, regained it and then moved again – but this time to Portsmouth, whose buildings rose around us as we moved into the twentieth century at breakneck speed.
When we decelerated we were back in the present but still in the same position on the deck, the ship now in dry dock and crowded with schoolchildren holding exercise books and in the process of being led around by a guide.
'And it was at this spot,' said the guide, pointing to a plaque on the deck, 'that Admiral Nelson was hit on the leg by a ricochet that probably saved his life.'
'Well, that's that job taken care of,' said Dad, standing up and dusting off his hands. He looked at his watch. 'I've got to go. Thanks for helping out, Sweetpea. Remember: Goliath may try to nobble the Swindon Mallets, especially the team captain, to rig the outcome of the Superhoop, so be on your toes. Tell Emma - I mean Lady Hamilton – that I'll pick her up at eight thirty her time tomorrow – and send my love to your mother.'
He smiled, there was another rapid flash of light and I was back outside the pathology lab with Bowden, who was just finishing the sentence he had begun when Dad arrived. '—trating the Montagues?'
'Sorry?'
'I said, do you want to hear my plans for infiltrating the Montagues?' He wrinkled his nose. 'Is that you smelling of cordite?'
'I'm afraid so. Listen, you'll have to excuse me – I think Goliath may try to nobble Roger Kapok and without him we have even less chance of winning the Superhoop.'
He laughed.
'Xeroxed bards, Swindon Mallets, eradicated husbands. You like impossible assignments, don't you?'
22
Roger Kapok
CONTRITION RATES NOT HIGH ENOUGH TO MEET TARGETS
That was the shock report from Mr Tork Armada, the spokesman for OFGOD, the religious institution licensing authority. 'Despite continual and concerted efforts by Goliath to meet the levels of repentance demanded by this authority.' said Mr Armada at a press conference yesterday, 'they have not managed
to reach even halfway to the minimum divinity requirements of this office,' Mr Armada's report was greeted with surprise by Goliath, who had hoped their application would be swift and unopposed. 'We are changing tatties to target those to whom Goliath is anathema,' said Mr Schitt-Hawse, a Goliath spokesman. 'We have recently secured forgiveness from someone who had despised us deeply, something that counts twenty-fold in OFGOD's own contrition target rules. More like her will soon follow.' Mr Armada was clearly not impressed and simply said: 'Well, we'll see.'
Report in Goliath Today!, 17 July 1988
I trotted up the road to the 30,000-seater croquet stadium, deep in thought. Goliath's contrition rate had been published that morning and thanks to me and the 'Crimean Mass Apology Project' their switching to a religious status was now not only possible but probable. The only plus was that in all likelihood it wouldn't happen until after the Superhoop, which raised the possibility – confirmed by my father – that Goliath would try to nobble the Swindon team. And targeting the captain, Roger Kapok, was probably the best way to do it.
I passed the VIP car park where a row of expensive automobiles was on display and showed my SpecOps pass to the bored security guard. I entered the stadium and walked up one of the public access tunnels to the terraces, and from there looked down upon the green. From this distance the hoops were almost invisible, but their positions were marked by large white circles painted on the turf. The ten-yard lines crossed the green from side to side and the 'natural hazards', the Italianate sunken garden, rhododendron bushes and herbaceous flower beds, stood out clearly. Each 'obstruction' was scrupulously constructed to specific World Croquet League specifications. The height of the rhododendrons was carefully measured before each game, the herbaceous border stocked with identical shrubs, the sunken garden with its lilies and lead fountain of Minerva the same on every green the world over, from Dallas to Poona, Nairobi to Reykjavik.
Something Rotten Page 18
