by Darrell Bain
On the other hand, there was a clandestine trade in monstrosities, supported by persons of jaded wealth and appetites and little moral sense. And there was always the criminal class of course, dealing in exotic creatures for sex, amusement or combat. He loathed the way those groups perverted a basically benign aspect of genetic engineering for their own profit.
Gary steered the little electric car out of the drive and pointed it toward the Freeway. Their home was in a suburb north of central Houston. He had picked the area more or less at random, wanting only to be removed from the squalor and crime of the main city and to live in a neighborhood with its own security force. Outside the boundaries of gated living areas, one either paid the criminals for “protection” or became one. Neither option appealed to him, and he was quietly grateful that he had been born into a family that had enough left of an inheritance to not only pay for his education but enabled him to live now where he wanted to.
Traffic was very light going into the city and he passed up the computer control option in favor of steering himself in the outside lanes. There was a momentary slowdown as they passed a line of barricades being constructed in a great arc around the city. Eventually each end would tie into the seacoast. The hope was that the giant barrier would stymie the influx of enhanced animals that had gotten loose and were multiplying so prolifically in the wilds. No satisfactory solution had as yet been found, simply because the pets and laboratory and farm animals had been altered to be as resistant to disease as younger humans, such as himself were. The changed animals were so much smarter than their un-enhanced cousins that they were quickly displacing the indigenous population.
Gary sometimes wondered how it would all end. He felt responsible in a way, but not enough to worry about it. The same techniques that his parents had opted to use on him, the ones that made him much superior to his twentieth century ancestors, were simply variations of the techniques that made escaped pets and lab animals such a plague in the countryside. At the moment, he felt as if it had been a fair exchange, but he was still uneasy at times. Amelia was more than uneasy. She had begun agitating for them to move somewhere inside the barricade line. Gary didn't think it was necessary yet, though he admitted to himself that it might come to that in the future.
“You're being awfully quiet tonight,” Amelia said.
“I usually am."
“Well, I hope you stay that way at dinner. Don't embarrass me with any of your wild notions."
“Such as?” Gary asked, beginning to feel a slow burn.
“You know how Dad feels about most things. Just don't aggravate him."
“Aren't I entitled to my own opinions?” Gary realized that he was irritated and wanted to bite back the remark. It would only lead to an argument.
“Where we're going, they won't count,” Amelia said.
“You're right about that,” Gary admitted. He was going to feel as out of place as a blackboard in a computer room while mingling with guests of Deacon Pilkington's ilk.
Amelia sniffed and Gary was happy to leave further conversation alone. He wished that he could have a nice relaxing drink before dinner, but there was little chance of that. Finding liquor at the Deacon's home would be roughly analogous to politicians leaving unspent government money in the bank. And besides, he figured he would probably need a drink more after the dinner than before, if previous experience served as a guide.
Gary passed the airport exit, noting the absence of the huge jets of his youth and the presence of swarms of the much smaller solar-magnetic floaters, moving about with a dexterity almost like the flitting of bats at feeding time. He took an off-ramp to the east. The deacon lived in an upscale development centered around the People's Church of Houston, a denomination of a national sect that took the Bible literally in some interpretations and convoluted the meaning of other parts of it in ways that would have astounded the originators had they still been around to see it. Gary never cared what other people believed in, feeling rightly that it was their business. He could even tolerate proselytizing so long as it wasn't overly aggressive, but he drew the line at judicial measures designed to force others into behaving contrary to their own beliefs, such as The People's Church advocated. It rankled him as few other things did.
There were few cars parked around the deacon's spacious home. Most of the congregation lived close enough to use the moving sidewalks and it was a fine Spring evening, with the humidity not up to its usual muggy standards. Gary parked along the curb near the house and locked the car after they got out.
“You don't have to lock up in this neighborhood,” Amelia stated righteously.
“Just habit,” Gary answered, not believing her for a minute. He always secured the car for the same reasons he always carried a gun. There were simply too many drug addicts, starving refugees and vicious youth gangs roaming the city to ever feel completely safe. Not to mention the occasional enhanced carnivore that wandered into the city. They walked up to the door, which opened before he could ring the bell.
“Good evening,” Deacon Pilkington greeted them. He hugged Amelia and gave Gary a perfunctory handshake. His nearly bald head glistened under the porch light.
“Hello,” Gary said, taking back his hand as soon as he gracefully could. Shaking hands with Amelia's father always reminded him of how it might feel to pick up a hunk of warm bacon. He went into the living room with Amelia, noting the prosperous looking couples engaged in animated conversation. He would bet a month's pay already on not being interested in any of them, nor what they might have to say. He caught fragments of dialog as he followed Amelia to the punch bowl and poured both of them cups of a sickly sweet concoction.
“—the little tramp had the nerve to—"
“—just wait, Bradshaw will change all that, you mark my words—"
“—and he had the nerve to say they had souls. I told him—"
Gary let the words roll off his thoughts like drops of grease on Teflon. He wondered what on earth he was doing here with these people. He had never had the slightest tendency to believe in organized religion. He thought it made so little sense and went so against all available evidence that he thought the geneticists had pegged it rightly as an ancestral survival trait that was still hanging on even after it was no longer needed. He knew intellectually how much culture could influence expression of genes and gene complexes, but nevertheless he couldn't for the life of him understand how otherwise intelligent people could be so utterly convinced of some of the more bizarre religious teachings. It was a puzzle that he had given up trying to understand, other than an amused observation that what most religions had in common was that they each professed to be the only true one.
“You're Mister Daniels, aren't you?"
Gary turned sideways to see who was addressing him. He didn't know the man. He was short and fat, with rosy red cheeks and cheerful eyes.
“I'm Gary Daniels, yes,” he said, leaving it at that.
“You must be very proud to be the son-in-law of Deacon Pilkington. He's a fine Christian man and I can assure you that the government will listen closely to the recommendations that his congregations and others like his send us."
“What government is that?” Gary asked politely, tongue firmly in cheek.
“Why the federal government, of course. Senator Bradshaw will certainly be elected, then we can start doing something about these evils that have been fostered upon us."
“And I suppose you will be a member of the new government?"
“Of course,” the little fat man said, pulling at the lapels of his too tight jacket. “My appointment has already been pre-confirmed. I'm Wiley Collins. I'll be in the science department, once we get the resignations of the ones presently occupying the administrative positions. Or mis-occupying, I should say."
“Are you a scientist?” Gary asked.
“Me? Heavens, no!” The man looked horrified. “I'm an administrator. We're going to remove the scientists from policy making completely, and put them bac
k to work in their laboratories where they should have been all along."
Gary had no interest at all in the conversation but he found himself continuing it for lack of an easy escape.
“What do you think the scientists should be doing?” He asked.
“Why, it's obvious! They should be working to relieve world hunger and disease, not creating monstrosities that are contrary to the will of God. I'm sure you agree that altered humans and those enhanced animals are abominations, spawned by Satan himself!"
“How can you be sure I agree when I haven't said so?” Gary said. He had been here for less than fifteen minutes and already he was anxious to leave. This was no place for him and he knew it. He tried to think of an excuse to take Amelia home but none came to him.
Wiley Collins seemed to sense Gary's disinterest but he forged ahead. “You must be joking, sir. Any man married to Deacon Pilkington's daughter must agree with our policies. Why, I'll bet we could find a place for you in the new administration. It would be good for a young man like you, regardless of your present occupation. What line of work are you in now?"
“I design four-breasted prostitutes for tit-happy preachers,” Gary said the first thing that popped into his mind. He remembered Amelia's admonition but his present mood kept him from following her directions. The mood had been building up he realized, and this evening had only brought it to fruition, starting with Amelia's failure to feed Booger Bear.
He turned his back on the sputtering administrator and began searching for Amelia. He spotted her in the crowd and began weaving his way through the bodies, intending to tell her that he was leaving this gathering, with or without her.
Why should he have to stay and listen to his profession being berated by child-minded idiots who couldn't tell a gene from a geranium?
They are like children, he reflected as he got closer to Amelia. They believed whatever an authority told them with undiscerning trustfulness, like a child's faith in Santa Claus. He came up behind Amelia as she was talking to the Deaconess. Pilkington's wife was heavy-set, unlike her daughter, and radiated an air of authority, totally unhampered by reason.
Gary heard her saying, “—there is no room for compromise, dear. You simply must make him get rid of that ungodly animal. Simply being around that spawn of the Devil would be too much for me to bear. It is a poor reflection on us as well; just ask your brother—he's even more adamant about it than I am. You must tell him, Amelia."
Gary's rebellious mood grew even worse at hearing these remarks. He interrupted brusquely. “Are you talking about my cat?"
The Deaconess turned to face him. Her voice was sharp. “Devil cat, I should say!"
“He certainly is,” Gary said pleasantly. “Why, the way he tortures mice before he kills them is positively inhuman. And what he does to rats is so cruel it can't even be described in polite company. And birds! He just loves to eat those poor little sparrows without even taking their feathers off first. Oh, he's a Devil cat all right. If there was such a thing as witches he'd be right there with one, sitting on her broom."
The Deacon's wife snapped her mouth closed into a narrow, white-lipped line of dislike. Amelia drew in a breath, then closed her own mouth in a countenance that promised fire and brimstone later.
Gary shrugged and headed toward the dining table as Deacon Pilkington announced that dinner was being served. He still was not quite ready to carry out his plan to leave, perhaps because he knew that if Amelia came with him, the rest of the evening would consist of nothing but argument and derision from her. Right after dinner, he promised himself.
Gary stood behind his place-matted seat at the table and rested his hands on the back of the chair, knowing that a lengthy prayer was in the offering. A thought trailed through his mind on the prevalence of blessing food among almost all religions. He knew that it originated far back in history, when hunters gave thanks to forces they couldn't comprehend for allowing them to partake of the bounty of earth, and that present day blessings were merely a continuation of the tradition, melded smoothly into religions like liquid butter into a recipe. To his way of thinking, it was silly but harmless in the main if that was what a person believed in. Certainly it was of no consequence in his own life he thought, right up until the next moment.
“Gary, would you mind asking the blessing for us?” The Deacon invited, but with a tone in his voice that held no room for dissent. Gary had politely declined similar requests in the past but this time his mood made him speak up much more forcefully.
“Yes, I would mind,” he said rebelliously, “but if someone else wants to make a fool of himself I'll be glad to wait while they do."
The Deacon's face turned as red as a Montana beet. “A fool! You say it takes a fool to ask God's blessings on the food He has provided? Young man, I won't have that attitude in my home!"
“Fine,” Gary said, still speaking in a pleasant tone of voice. “I'll go somewhere else and let you folks go right on destroying such civilization as we have left."
“Gary, how could you!” Amelia exclaimed. He could see that she was chastising him more to protect her place in the family and church than over any surprise at what he had said. He guessed she had been building up a mood of her own, antithetical to his.
“It was easy. The Devil made me do it,” Gary said, then laughed at the varied expressions he could see on the faces around the table. The laughter was misinterpreted, of course. They thought he was laughing at their beliefs when in reality the dumb-struck expressions on their faces had caused a joyous sense of release within him.
“Get out! Amelia, I forbid you to go with him!” Pilkington shouted. He turned to take in the assured support of his wife and daughter.
Gary laughed again. “I was leaving anyway. My cat has an appointment at the local voodoo and juju convention. Don't wait up for me, dear. I hear Montrose calling."
The Montrose section of Houston hadn't changed much over the years. It was still an area catering to gays, artists, theatrical aspirants and seekers of sex, drugs and adventure from other parts of the city. Lately, it had also become a refuge for altered humans and owners of enhanced pets, one of the few places in the metropolis where either of them were safe and welcome.
Gary didn't click his heels as he left, but it wasn't because he didn't feel like it. A burden had just been lifted from him, one he had been only vaguely aware of since his marriage. He started the car and spun out of the driveway, happy for the first time in months.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
Gary turned south on the freeway, intending to head to the Montrose area of Houston but within a couple of miles he changed his mind. He took an off ramp and wheeled back around, absorbing some bumps in the process. Only the main thoroughfares were being kept in any semblance of repair. He headed back toward his house—he doubted that he could call it a home any more. The thought of Amelia and her mother discussing Booger Bear had given him pause. He thought it might be a good idea to pick up his pet before Amelia got there—if she did. She might not even return tonight for all he knew, and he really couldn't care less right now.
He remembered a small bar down on Bissonet Street that a year or so ago had catered to Genetic Engineers and their hangers-on, and which ignored health regulations so far as letting enhanced and altered animals into their establishments. As he thought more about his circumstances he decided to just go ahead and pack up, take what he needed for a few days and make arrangements to store the rest until he found a smaller place to lease. He couldn't imagine Amelia wanting to live with him any longer after his behavior at her parents’ home, and his ebullient feelings now had no place for her anyway.
Gary was miffed that his usual parking place was taken. He started to enter the license number of the miscreant into his computer and report the person to management, then said to hell with it. He wouldn't be parking here any longer anyway. The door opened automatically as it retrieved his code from his computer that he wore as a necklace. He entered
and called out, “Booger! Come here, Boy! We're moving!"
There was no answer and he paused, puzzled. Booger had the run of the house, though he usually stayed in his own room and away from Amelia while Gary was away. But he should have come bounding through the door of the back room to greet him when he heard him calling. And he shouldn't be out in the yard; he had strict orders to stay in the house when no one was home. There were too many crazies in the city for him to be allowed to wander around by himself.
Gary walked purposely through the door to Booger Bear's room and saw that it was empty. That left only the yard. He spoke to the room to tell it to turn on the outside lights and opened the door into the yard.
A laser beam flamed the woodwork an inch from the side of his face. It was so unexpected that he was dazed for a moment, blinking his eyes against the after image. He fumbled for his own weapon but it would have been far too late had it not been for his pet. Before the intruder could get off another shot, the cat leaped from a concealing bush where he had been hiding. He landed on the back of the gunman's neck, claws curling around to seek his eyes. The next shot went high, the bullet following the laser beam and exploding above the door.
Gary didn't hesitate any longer. He had never killed before but his instincts were working fine. He pulled the trigger of his gun past the aiming beam and laser beam and all the way to where it fired a tiny rocket-assisted slug directly into the chest of the cat-entangled man. The slug's shaped charge exploded inside his body with a sound like a melon dropped onto a hard surface, driving splinters of its tip into his chest in all directions. Booger Bear leaped free as he collapsed with a smoking hole marring his torso. The cat had his hair fluffed fully out. He gave a yowl of triumph as he arched his back, spitting out his rage.
“Booger! Are you okay?” Gary asked shakily, thinking how easily a piece of the slug could have hit his pet, and not concerned at all about the man. He supposed the intruder was a burglar, seeking cash or goods he could trade for drugs or food. Then he stopped to wonder how he had gained entrance. So far as he knew, only he and Amelia possessed the code to enter their home. How had the burglar gotten in without setting off an alarm?
