Again and again he studied the room and still he did not have the strength to force an exit. The building was empty, abandoned, probably unused for a year or two. It would be weeks before he would have the energy to attempt to escape from his prison. He stretched out beside the feeder mound, using the backpack as his pillow, and closed his eyes. He needed the curative effects of sleep. The king rat and his followers did not stir until after he was sound asleep.
~~~
Joseph was fitter now, and although not fully recovered, he was far more able to move. He did not know with any certainty how much time had passed since he had been locked in the kitchen. His estimate was weeks rather than days. Indeed, it could be months. The weather seemed cooler, and he worried about the impact of winter as the season progressed.
His earlier self-dosing in trialling the PCN had initiated some internal changes and, he thought, probably commenced a build-up of nanites in his body. He suspected it was that build-up which had saved his life. The task of those early nanites was to protect him, to ensure his well-being, and to repair his body. His injuries from the assault by the thugs were so extensive and so life-threatening that his existing nanites had worked together with the PCN feeder nanites, the only way they could ensure his recovery. As a result, the combined population had taken control and penetrated his body, holding him alive while they carried out repairs. He thought he had probably co-operated with them at some fundamental DNA level. He now also realized the PCN stock itself had been and was still mutating; at some stage, while he had been unconscious and near death, it had reacted to his needs, triggering significant changes, because of the protective directives he had designed and built into those pharmacological structures. When he collapsed onto the PCN mound which had spilled out of his rucksack, it seemed he had become its host body, absorbing or at least benefiting from the composite chemical and nanite pharmacology in one super dose. That dose had consisted of twenty pounds of PCN, when a milligram or two would have ensured his well-being for at least a week. He estimated there was now well over a hundred pounds of PCN in the mound and still it continued to increase, absorbing the protein of some of the strangers among the incoming rats.
Of course, now, he was totally dependent on this pharmacology, and he knew he would not survive if he was ever to be separated from the PCN nanites in any permanent manner. They had healed him and now they would kill him, if he lost their support.
The mutative nanite processes initiated using rat protein, he began to realize, had also triggered major evolutionary changes in the rats and, he later discovered, to a similar degree in mice. Some of the PCN nanites had drifted throughout the warehouse interior and gradually to the exterior of the building, where they also began impacting other animals. In addition, some of these New Rats and New Mice, distant from the warehouse, had been killed and possibly eaten by cats or other animals. These uncontrolled drifts and transfers of nanites were spreading its mutative effects across a significant vector of animals and, in some instances—although to a far lesser extent—to humans.
***
Chapter 4
The casual observer standing at the rail along the quayside would have seen a flock of birds and thought they were perhaps pigeons, although these were large and oddly shaped. They were gliding, swooping, turning, sometimes diving, as they exhilarated in their flight, their winged silhouettes sharp against the deep blue sky. If the casual observer had continued to watch this aerial ballet performance, he would have seen a lone pigeon intrude into the airspace of one of the aerial performers, followed by a brief skirmish as the intruder was attacked and repelled, tail feathers fluttering down to the sea as the bewildered bird fled in shocked surprise. Later, as the performers swooped closer to the roof of the ferry wharf, the same casual observer would have been intrigued to see the leader swerve clumsily when the ferryboat master unexpectedly signalled with three loud siren blasts his coded intention to reverse the ferry out of its dockside mooring.
Cedric the Rat was very happy with his day. Well, he was King of Rats, after all. He had bruises and cuts and scars to show from the vigorous process of attaining his lofty position. And he knew he was Cedric, King of Rats, because he could spell his full name. He had a lot of Rs. He was certain no other rat had as much Rs as he did. And their guide and mentor Joseph, The Man in the Kitchen, had assured him he was now the king, so there it was.
Cedric’s flying skills were improving, as were his team’s: they were becoming very capable flyers. Aware that some alarming intruders had taken over their territories, the birds were commencing retaliatory actions. Both seagulls and pigeons were showing unaccustomed aggression; today, a pigeon had attacked a team member on the flight’s return to the wharf’s landing ledge. It had been Cedric’s intervention with a swooping, aggressive dive that had saved the poor flyer. The startled pigeon had fled squawking, protesting the trespass.
Cedric landed and then struggled to get out of his hang gliding suit. It had been carefully constructed from silk and rayon, and finished off with stolen tail feathers now somewhat ruffled from his flawed descent. The suit gave an overall impression of a very bedraggled pigeon, albeit with a short brown tail supplementing the tail-feathers. He had not expected the ferryboat siren, and the sharp blasts of noise had distracted him just as he was about to touch down on the ledge at the top of the awning on the wharf building. As a result, he had to scramble to grip the ledge, and had torn his suit slightly. He would need the tailoring team to do some repairs. He shrugged out of the thin silken straps and tugged the empty suit into a semblance of order, using forepaws and teeth to manage the soft fabric as he carefully structured the final folds.
He moved along the ledge, inspecting his fellow hang glider pilots one by one, ensuring their hang glider frames were properly anchored, and checking their suits, enforcing his authority with his inspection and paw signals. The team of twenty was trying to stand to attention, some still pigeon-suited, all with equipment requiring some degree of repair. Their flight training activities were strenuous, and the suits were not as resilient as they needed to be. Their New Mice tailors were going to have a long night of it, he thought, because the flight team had to be ready again for flight practice in the morning. Still, they—the Mice—were fed daily, and should show their gratitude by working their little paws off. If not, well, a tender mouse was always a tasty addition to his diet. He wiped his whiskers with a forepaw. He was feeling hungry.
Using a mixture of paw signals and squeaks he gave instructions to his flight team, and then handed over his suit to the waiting landing crew, so that it could be taken with the other suits for repair by the Mice tailors. The landing crew consisted of absolute beginners; they were tasked with assisting the more advanced and proficient flyers. Their time would come, and they would advance to trainee status as soon as they showed an understanding of flight discipline and manoeuvres.
The laborious communication process frustrated Cedric; he was beginning to realize their communication methods were far too primitive, and so far, progress to improve them was slow, if not non-existent. No matter how much he tried, no matter how many attempts he made, speech still eluded him. This lack of progress angered Cedric, and he squeaked, baring his teeth in a sharp snarl. He could feel the words bursting from his brain; however, he lacked the physiology to give them voice. The startled landing assistant backed away, his head bent, his throat exposed, submission evident in his stance. Cedric signalled his peaceful intentions and shrugged into his colourful waistcoat. Cedric had started a fashion, and now all the flight team members were wearing fancy waistcoats as a badge of their prowess. New Mice had worked overtime to get so many produced from the small scraps of silk which New Rats had plundered from an old warehouse beside the wharf.
He needed to focus on important matters, Cedric thought. His immediate task was clear: the hang gliding team needed to improve their equipment, perhaps by improving the shape of the fabric wing or by reducing the weight of the frame, so they c
ould improve their flying abilities.
Also, Cedric needed to visit Joseph, the Man. Now that Cedric had learned to write, he always thought of the Man’s title in mixed case. The Man in the Kitchen. Joseph. The Man who was so important to his plans. Joseph, the Man who was captive, who was unable to escape. Joseph, the Man who was helping Cedric with his campaign.
It was Joseph who had inadvertently started Cedric’s campaign to rule all New Rats, a campaign for which his election as King was only the beginning. Cedric wondered if fighting all-comers really was the best way to hold an election. It was a thought he would explore once his campaign was complete. There must be simpler ways to hold elections, he thought. He brought his mind back from its ramblings.
The Man was invaluable to Cedric and his tribes. Not just The Man, but also the strange food which had created such a change amongst the Rats. Cedric’s Rats, Cedric’s tribes. He now had dozens of tribes, perhaps hundreds; he had not counted them. Cedric’s great, great, great grandfather had been the leader of the tribes at the beginning, well before Cedric was born. The Man had explained this when Cedric was old enough to understand.
That first day, after strangers had locked The Man in the building, while he was still unconscious, rats had succumbed to the siren call of the spilled PCN stock. They had eaten the nanite-chemical mixture and then collapsed, unconscious, as nanites carried out their various protein harvesting and DNA-altering tasks. Survivors had awoken the next day, well before The Man had recovered. Although dazed and bewildered, one or two realized something momentous was taking place. The mind-enhancing nanite pharmacology had been designed by The Man to target humans; however, the pharmacology worked for rats as well. A number of those first arrivals had died, fatally overdosed, while other rats had never recovered their normality. These latter rats were unable to cope with the drug-induced nightmares, they had been locked in some strange mental world not of their making or understanding. The drug experience had given the survivors a glimpse of that other world, a world where rats could dream. And as time passed, the rats discovered their dreams could be realized.
His great, great, great grandfather, who was also called Cedric—so The Man recounted—had acted quickly. The first Cedric somehow had intuitively realized there was a link between The Man and the dreams, and he had decided to continue to hold The Man captive. As a result he had taken on the responsibility to keep The Man alive, to feed him, to protect him. He had not realized this compulsion was driven by chemobiological processes, and that his dreams were generated by the need to ensure The Man survived his injuries.
Subsequently, Cedric’s great, great grandfather, then his great grandfather, grandfather, father, and now Cedric, ensured rats guarded The Man night and day to keep him safe from harm, and also to prevent his escape. There was always at least half a tribe on watch duty, upwards of a thousand New Rats. They stayed there in the kitchen, night and day, arranged in serried ranks, sitting on ledges and along the tops of cabinets, their eyes red in the dim light, watching, always watching. The Man had told him that he had estimated half a tribe to be over five hundred rats, which was an insignificant number for Cedric to arrange for watch duty, especially now that he was king. The watch tribe had important tasks. They lived in the kitchen, and their food was brought in by other Rats. The watch tribe’s tasks were far too important for them to be searching and skirmishing for food, so Cedric had arranged for food scavengers to bring the watch tribe enough supplies to keep them well fed. This was in addition to the edible food and other supplies Rats brought in for The Man.
Rats had their own ways into the kitchen, along pipes and drains, through holes, bypassing doors and windows entirely, and Cedric now scrambled along the rafters inside the wharf roof towards a rusty downpipe as he made his way towards The Man.
He was accompanied by his selected Companions, ten of them, big and burly Rats, almost as big as Cedric himself. They were the survivors of those who had challenged him in his rise to king. His Companions were both his enforcers and his bodyguards. As his enforcers, they spoke for him, the elected King; and as bodyguards, they protected him. They ensured there were no more challengers; he wanted to avoid those distractions while he developed his campaign to build his kingdom.
The small group was almost invisible to any human who might be watching. Their cautious movements and their colouring against the backdrop of dark timbers in the gloom of the rafters provided excellent camouflage—or at least had, until they commenced wearing their vibrant waistcoats.
Cedric dived into a cast-iron downpipe. His companions followed, dropping twenty feet to an elbow in the pipe, and then they scooted along until they were able to access drains under the roads and walkways. He avoided the wiring which The Man had instructed them to install, wiring which fed electrical current from external overhead wires into the warehouse kitchen. Cedric’s navigation was unerring, and he popped out beside the Man in The Kitchen. His Companions quickly followed, scattering off-duty watchers who had fallen asleep alongside the small drain opening.
He stopped, nostrils twitching, checking, absorbing the scene. Half the watchers were on duty, while the younger ones, pre-adolescents, were sitting around their small television set, intently watching a program. He watched with them for a moment. It was a documentary on peregrine falcons in the wild. He was almost distracted enough to stay with the younglings. Another group, adolescents, was in the corner under the washbasins. They were learning to write under the supervision of one of the older rats, Yia, a female who almost rivalled Cedric with her intelligence and her new abilities. The students were using torn squares of paper, and they had pencil leads scattered everywhere. Other adults were all around the kitchen: some sitting on the window ledges, some curled into the crevices between pipes and the walls, and others perched high on the tops of cabinets. All were watching every move of The Man.
The Man in The Kitchen was Cedric’s advisor, and Cedric was always relieved to see The Man was still in the kitchen when he returned from his ventures. He feared that one day he would arrive to discover The Man had escaped or had died. His loss would be devastating to Cedric’s plans and ambitions.
The Man in The Kitchen was large, and even when he was sitting on the bundle of rags he used for a cushion he loomed over the Rats. His clothes were showing signs of wear: torn, thin, and threadbare. Rats had brought him replacements, stolen from shops in the city. Sometimes The Man was pleased with their efforts, and sometimes he was terribly angry. His face was bearded, and his hair was long and matted. He had lost the will to keep himself tidy, and he bathed in the running water from the sinks only at irregular intervals. Solitary confinement—solitary, that is, unless you counted the rats—had taken its toll.
Cedric skipped across to the shelf holding a row of charged e-readers and memory cards. The Man had taught him to read and write, and Cedric was excited to be near so much knowledge. The readers were a distraction; he had to remind himself they were not the reason for his visit. He found a small pencil lead. It was soft lead, and he could use it to write and draw lines, although these activities required significant mental effort and concentration. He selected a blank sheet of paper from the bundle set beside the Man for Cedric to use for his communications. The Man watched him warily, his eyes bloodshot and weary.
Cedric thought for a moment. The words were there in his mind, almost within reach. He squeaked his anger. His Companions looked around, ready to explode into action. The other Rats all sat up, awake, alert to danger. Cedric forced himself to relax, forced the fur along his spine to unruffle. He wrote carefully, using roughly sketched block letters. The letters were uneven and the words incomplete; however, his text was readable.
“HW D I DFND AGINST ATTCK?” Cedric had been amongst the first Rats to learn to read and write, although now there were many who had at least a smattering of these skills. The Man taught them with an abbreviated alphabet, although it had not helped their spelling. Cedric had been an intelligent and enthusiasti
c student, and was learning more as he used the e-readers.
“What?” The Man exclaimed in surprise. “Are you expecting to be attacked? What is this about?”
Cedric thought for a moment and wrote the letters carefully. “WILD RATS. ENMIS. FOS.”
The Man sought verification. “Wild rats? Enemies? Foes?”
Cedric squeaked his affirmation and emphasized it by jumping up and down. “ENMIS LNG TIM. OTHR TRBS KILL,” he wrote.
“These other rats have been enemies for a long time? They are after your tribes? They will kill you—all of you?”
Cedric squeaked his confirmation. His spies had been very clear. The enemy tribes were preparing for war and they intended to attack Cedric’s tribes and kill all of them, taking everything Cedric had gathered, everything he needed for his campaign. “THY R MANY TRIBS. WE ND TO BE REDY. I KOW.”
“Damnation.” The Man thought for a moment. “How much time do you have? When will this happen? How many days? Can you count that many?”
Cedric drew short strokes in two blocks of five. “11111 11111” He pointed a forepaw at the block and squeaked five times.
“Fifty days. Are you sure?”
Cedric traced the pencil lead under the block and squeaked twice more.
Shen Ark: Departure Page 3
