“And aren’t I lucky to have a friend in high places?”
“The stratosphere, to be precise,” said Xuly Beth.
MCGREGOR
1. The Tale of Peter Rabbit
Peter Rabbit stubbed out his cigarette on the rock upon which he sat, sent the dead butt spinning with a flick of a stubby claw, and sighed.
It was night. The fragrant country air around him carried cleanly the noises of noncultivar life, poignant cries, lonely calls, sly rustlings.
Frogs, but no Jeremy Fisher.
Owls, but no Mr. Brown.
Badgers, but no Tommy Brock.
Hedgehogs, but no Mrs. Tiggywinkle.
These, his fellow splices, were penned, not free to roam as was he.
Peter reached up to the tip of one long ear, the left. That ear had been illegally docked two years ago, shortly after Peter’s escape from the Garden. This had been the only way to remove the silicrobe owner-tattoon, the Warne licensing mark, which had been injected at the Schering- Plough biofab facility, on behalf of McGregor’s gembaitch, before Peter was shipped. Afterwards, the ear had been regenerated. But the new part had always felt foreign. Peter had a tendency to finger it when he was nervous, as he was now.
His perch was high on a hill in the Lake District, near the village of Sawrey, in the western bioregion of the European Community. Below, the village was lit by the delicate glow of low-photonic reradiants. To the south Peter could see the grounds of the Beatrix Potter epcot, otherwise known as the Garden.
How long ago his life there seemed.… He had spent only thirteen months in the Garden, but it had felt like forever. The silly skits, the gawping EC, NU, and CoPro tourists, the tasteless food—Through kinky proteins or rebel peptides, he had found himself totally unfit for his servitude.
The two years —a fifth of his warrantied lifespan—since his flight into the arms of the CLF had been packed with activity. On death’s very doormat from lack of diet-supplements, he had stumbled upon the London nucleus of the CLF just in time. After the docking and the standard course of trope-training and soma-toning, he had been ready to play his part in transgenic liberation.
He had participated in the infamous Corrida de la Muerte massacre in Madrid during the first part of ’31. He had helped slag the board of directors of Hedonics Plus, the greedy human prokes, at their annual meeting in Geneva. He had been trapped in a shootout with the Brazz branch of the IMF police in the Jibaro maximall, barely escaping with his life. He had even assisted the CLF’s leader, the legendary Bad Splice, Krazy Kat, in Chicago, as they sought to turn the Big Eaters against the municipality
In short, Peter had lived a full life in the past two years. The things he had seen and done had made him a hardened rabbit.
Yet now, contemplating the notion of facing McGregor again, remnants of his old factory conditioning surfaced, nearly rendering him helpless as a kit.
He had asked for this assignment. But that didn’t mean he had to relish it.
Peter reached inside the pocket of his tarnished-brass-buttoned blue coat for a dose of angst-banger and swallowed it dry. Tugging at a whisker, he sought to focus his mind on the task at hand. As the renegade splice watched, the big holosign outside the epcot winked out, and the last tourbus skimmed off.
Now the only human (mere 51 percenter that he was, he still legally merited that status) left in the Garden was McGregor.
Now McGregor would begin to indulge in the “perks” of his position.
Now the splices had cause to fear.
Peter repressed his anger at the thought of what would be starting down in the Garden at this moment. The blocker was kicking in, and it helped him to be calm. He could not enter the Garden until McGregor retired for the night, some hours from now. Till then, there was nothing to do but wait.
Peter lit up another cigarette.
Filthy human habit.
But he would never live long enough to get cancer.
2. The Tale of Two Bad Mice
McGregor leaned on his cane, waving to the departing tour-bus in his creaky, lovable-irascible, old farmer way. When it had rounded the curve, he verbed off the holosign.
Then he straightened.
Standing erect, McGregor no longer radiated an air of cantankerous decrepitude. He seemed to bulk out, filling his suit of simulated brown homespun with limbs and torso powerful as one of the Deere-Goldstar auto harvesters that reaped the surrounding fields. The big white beard cascading to his shirtfront looked completely incongruous now, as did his spectacles and cane.
Of a sudden, with an uncanny howl, McGregor tossed his cane skyward. It soared higher than the chimney pots on Hill Top Farmhouse. Off came the glasses and beard, as well as the clothes and hat. (The animatronic beard crawled a few inches, then halted.)
Revealed was a body whose torso was plated ventrally and dorsally with tough overlapping armadillo-like scales. McGregor’s arms and legs were wrapped with muscle, like those of a dock-ape. His skull was hairless; silicrobe patterns pulsated just under the scalp, synced electro-myographically with his extra cortical matter. His genitals, retractable, were hidden.
McGregor spun to face the darkened barn.
“Your act died today!”
There was no sound from the barn. Only a subliminal emotional quivering seemed to emanate in cold waves from the structure.
McGregor stalked to the splices’ after-hours residence.
He banged the big door open.
The inside of the old-fashioned structure, which was not part of the tour, was one large open space walled and floored with seamless arbo-poly, for easy cleaning. D-compoz waste units stood out in the open in one corner. Cots were placed dormitory-style along the walls, each with a small footlocker for whatever personal possessions the splices had been allowed to accumulate: curry combs and liniment; sweets from the Ginger and Pickles concession stand, tossed to them by the patrons; a change of clothes.
By each cot stood its occupant, at full attention.
The smallest of the transgenics—the mice, the frogs, the squirrels—stood on their altered hindlegs as tall as McGregor’s waist. The next largest—the rabbits, the dogs, the cats—came as high as his shoulder.
McGregor let the property sweat for a whole minute. Then he whirled and pointed a finger at Pigling Bland.
“You!”
Tears began to well from the pig’s eyes, runnelling to either side of his snout. He dabbed at them with the sleeve of his brown frock coat.
“Please, sir, my pig license is all in order.…”
But McGregor had already rounded on another victim.
“Puddleduck!”
Jemima’s beak opened and closed several times in stupefaction, before she could finally clumsily articulate, “My bonnet is tied, my shawl is neat. My bonnet is tied, my shawl—”
At last McGregor settled on his real targets.
“Tom! Hunca! Front and center!”
Tom Thumb and his mate Hunca Munca came shakily forward. The two mice hung their heads wearily, knowing full well what was to come and the futility of resistance.
At this moment a fox appeared in the doorway. Fully as tall as McGregor, the Garden’s second-in-command wore a brown suitcoat, vest, and cravat. He carried McGregor’s cane.
Mr. Tod, the fox, smiled now, showing sharp teeth.
With the mice a foot or two from McGregor, he assailed them. “When you wrecked the dollhouse at the three o’clock show, you broke a dish!”
Tom Thumb looked at Hunca Munca, and she looked at him. Their relatively small and shiny brown eyes caught the light from the ceiling fixtures. Then the male mouse spoke.
“We are supposed to break a dish. We discover that the ham is plaster. We chitter angrily I pick up the tongs. I hit the ham—”
“You broke the wrong dish! You broke an empty dish!”
“No, I am sure I hit only the ham—”
“Enough! Give me the cane!”
The fox, his bushy tail held sti
ffly erect, his claws clicking on the floor, crossed to McGregor and handed him the cane.
McGregor twisted the cane’s top to Setting Eleven.
He began to beat the mice. The lightest touch of the cane sufficed.
They squealed and cried. Others among the watching splices began to weep too. But it was no use. The blows were unrelenting.
Hunca Munca had collapsed to the floor. Trying to keep her head low, she raised her scut high.
McGregor’s genitals began to emerge.
3. Appley Dapply’s Nursery Rhymes
Gestation Jest
McGregor’s mum was a limited’s crick,
And her solo son was a pro’s best trick!
She ran his specs on a micro-fab,
And bent her egg in the company’s lab!
A few months later the lad emerged,
Stylish toy of the maternal urge!
Paraparenting
Her smart card toted megamiles on the Suborbital Express,
As she did thirty minutes’ work, Bangkok to Baltiscandia,
Leaving once again, Mum spared McGregor one thoughtless brief caress,
Before passing him to a Ciba-Geigy nurse—much handier!
A Song of Youth
Nurse was a cocktail of ’possum and ’roo,
Attentive, loving, and sweet.
McGregor spent hours out of view,
Pouched and on a teat.
When older, his mum began to feel
His education must begin.
Tropes and boosters and Digireal
All were funneled in.
One day he was living virtually,
When something happened unheard-erous.
The digiverse was suddenly, hurtfully
Amok and truly murderous!
Electron fangs and claws raked the lad,
As the cuddly characters, all beasts,
Picked up crosstalk from a channel bad,
Where kingfans held their gory feasts.
By the time he ripped away the set,
McGregor was a neural wreck.
And worse, he found his mouth all wet
With blood from Nurse’s neck!
The rehab boys plied their pills,
And then pronounced him sane.
But really McGregor’s creepy ills
Were still hidden in his brain.
Whimper While You Work
Now he’s grown and wants employment.
Might as well mix work with enjoyment!
Digireal’s fine (when it’s not all bollixed!)
But folks still crave some solid frolics.
’Round the globe the epcots sprout—
Watch the classix acted out!
What better place for McGregor to live
Than among those where he can stick his shiv!
4. The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies
Peter came into the barnyard around three in the morning. The epcot had minimal security, directed mostly against human intruders, the occasional lone vandal or thrill-seeking metroplex posse. The system presented no challenge to the guerrilla skills of one who had trained with the Sequoia Revenge Squad at their camp hidden in the Cascades. As for potential escapees, their biological tethers were deterrence enough. It was a rare splice who could summon up the courage to flee into a society where all authority was ranked against him, where his very sustenance was a controlled substance.
But it was Peter’s task tonight to convince his compatriots to do just such a thing.
Hill Top Farmhouse was quiet and dark. On the first floor lived Mr. Tod; on the second, McGregor. Peter bristled at the thought of the pair. With luck, he could accomplish his goals without ever encountering the wardens.
At the barn door, he paused. Sniffing, he found only fading traces of McGregor’s scent, sweat, and spume. But Peter’s nose was half-ruined from fags, and he hardly trusted it. Still, in conjunction with the winking out of the Farmhouse lights he had witnessed, the evidence was enough.
Possessed by an urge to mark this territory he was about to conquer, Peter slid his cock from its sheath and pissed briefly against the door, imagining it as McGregor’s face. The earth absorbed the steaming urine hungrily as Peter worked the latch.
The door creaked slightly as he slid inside.
The noise was enough to wake Squirrel Nutkin.
“Krrrk, krrrk, krrrk! It’s the old Peter, the old Peter!”
“Quiet, you sodding rodent! Oh, damn!”
Nutkin’s cries had roused all the sleepers. Peter had hoped to wake a few of the more solid types first, those who in his judgment had the most initiative and could help him deal with the more timorous and confused. Too late for that now, though.
Lights flared on. Luckily, the barn’s windows existed only as holo trompe l’oeil. McGregor would receive no alert that way.
All eyes—big and wet, small and glittering, nictitating and night-seeing—were fastened on him. Peter let them absorb the full meaning of his presence: a runaway splice had survived, even prospered.
The collie dog, Kep, was first to speak.
“Why do you return? We have a new Peter now. Have you put yourself under human control? Where is your mark?”
Peter held himself proudly erect. “I’m no slave, I’m a free var, equal to any proking fifty-oner. And I’m here to set all of you free too. There’s a van with a driver just a mile off. We couldn’t bring it any closer without being detected, and we didn’t want to mount a full raid if we needn’t do so. All you have to do is follow me, and by tomorrow morning you’ll all be your own masters. The Tailor of Gloucester will unkink your chromos.”
Nervous babble broke out among the splices.
“What will we eat?” asked Tom Kitten.
“Who will clothe us?” asked Mrs. Tittlemouse.
“What will we do with ourselves all day?” asked Samuel Whiskers.
Peter was disgusted. “None of your questions matter! Trust me, the CLF will see to all your needs. What matters is escape. Now!”
Duchess, the black dog, spoke. “How do we know the CLF can protect us?”
“We are powerful! Our leader is brave and wise. Even now he plans a powerful strike against the humans in Nova England! We have many friends and allies. The Ahimsa League, the underground arm of the SPCC—Have you not heard of Celesteville? The Anzanian government has deeded us a preserve, where all splices may live freely. Those who do not want to participate in the armed struggle may settle there. King Babar needs good citizens.”
“You lie! You want to lead us to our deaths!”
Peter turned.
He confronted himself.
The replacement Peter stood next to his mate, Flopsy. Unlike the renegade Peter, he was finely groomed and plump, the buttons of his jacket all polished. Every line of his furry countenance indicated how thoroughly he had been indoctrinated in subservience by a supplier eager to redeem itself for its defective model. Knowing the other rabbit was bound by his conditioning, Peter held no enmity toward him. And in truth, his attention was fixed more on the seductive figure beside him.
He had almost forgotten what a beautiful doe Flopsy was. Her bib was thick and creamy, her haunches strong, her nose sexily moist.
Peter’s years of self-sacrifice had included little time for romance. Now, the nights he and Flopsy had spent rutting together, enjoying the only solace available in captivity, returned to him with almost punishing force.
Realizing that he could not let the other rabbit spook the indecisive slaves, acting out of both expediency and jealousy, Peter hopped at the cowardly rabbit. The substitute Peter raised his forepaws awkwardly in defense. But he was no match for the martially trained outsider. In a trice, muzzle bloodied, the other rabbit lay on the floor.
The splices were stunned into silence. The hum of the ventilation system sounded like a hurricane. Peter tensed himself for further violence.
Flopsy spoke, her eyes shining at the return of her first mate. “The meek die on the
ir knees! We walk on two legs! All power to the CLF!”
A chorus of acclamation gradually swelled. Peter was too proud to caution them. They would be gone soon anyway.
He put his arm around Flopsy, feeling the desire to cover her stir in his loins.
Out in the world, her fecundity restored, they would breed free kits that would make mankind tremble!
5. The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit
McGregor, cradled in his organiform bed on the second level of Hill Top Farmhouse, was dreaming. In his dream, he was sitting in a comfy squirmonomic chair, wearing a Digireal set, laniering virtuality. A dream within a dream.
The virtual-ware was a standard Microdelrey scenario, all reassuring arcadian simplicity. McGregor’s virtual self was five years old. He walked hand-in-hand with Nurse and Mum down shaded paths, butterflies flittering, the scent of hay in his nostrils.
Suddenly, from behind a shrub leaped a giant animal, a slavering rabbit with a mouthful of fangs! In an instant he was joined by another, and another!
The rabbits grabbed his guardian and his mother, and began to bite their necks and rend their flesh.
McGregor screamed/twisted in his chair/writhed in his bed.
The rabbits, finished with the lifeless corpses of the adults, their snouts incarnadined, turned on the little boy.
He bit his tongue/bit his tongue/bit his tongue, till blood flowed/flowed/flowed.
The monitors in the bed finally kicked in, and the system administered a dose of RU-9000.
McGregor felt the killers’ claws and smelled their meaty breath/pulled off the Digireal set/awoke with a jolt.
The taste of his own blood was like sucking on an antique drycell. Sitting up, he spat red and the bed absorbed it. Then, he listened.
The fading echoes of noise from the barn drifted through an open window with the breeze.…
What the breeding fuck was going on with those vars? Was it some argument among themselves, a fight over rut or sweet? He had warned them about excess activity after lights-out. By arnie, he’d iraq and pakistan their worthless hides!
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