A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (146 page)

 

We drove back to the LiteraTec office in silence, and as soon as we got in, I called Landen. My wedding ring, which had been appearing and disappearing all morning, had been solid for a good twenty minutes.

“Yo, Thursday!” he said enthusiastically. “What happened to you yesterday? We were talking, and you just went quiet.”

“Something came up.”

“Why don't you come around for lunch? I've got fish fingers, beans and peas—with mashed banana and cream for pudding.”

“Have you been discussing the menu with Friday?”

“Whatever made you think that?”

“I'd love to, Land. But you're still a bit existentially unstable at the moment, so I'd only end up embarrassing myself in front of your parents again—and I've got to go and meet someone to talk about Shakespeares.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Bartholomew Stiggins.”

“The neanderthal?”

“Yes.”

“Hope you like beetles. Call me when I exist next. I lo—”

The phone went dead. My wedding ring had gone again, too.

I listened to the dial tone for a moment, tapping the receiver thoughtfully on my forehead. “I love you too, Land,” I said softly.

“Your Welsh contact?” asked Bowden, walking up with a fax from the Karen Blixen Appreciation Society.

“Not exactly.”

“New players for the SuperHoop, then?”

“If only. Goliath and Kaine have frightened every player in the country except Penelope Hrah, who'll play for food and doesn't care what anyone says, thinks or does.”

“Didn't she have a leg torn off during the Newport Strikers v. Dartmoor Wanderers semifinal a few years back?”

“I'm in no position to be choosy, Bowd. If I put her on back-hoop defense, she can just growl at anyone who comes close. Ready for lunch?”

 

The neanderthal population of Swindon numbered about three hundred, and they all lived in a small village to the west known as the Nation. Because of their tool-using prowess, they were just given six acres of land, water and sewage points and told to get on with it, as if they needed to be asked, which they didn't.

The neanderthals were not humans nor descendants of ours, but cousins. They had evolved at the same time as us, then been forced into extinction when they failed to compete successfully with the more aggressive human. Brought back to life by Goliath BioEngineering in the late thirties and early forties, they were as much a part of modern life as dodos or mammoths. And since they had been sequenced by Goliath, each individual was actually owned by the corporation. A less-than-generous “buyback” scheme to enable one to purchase oneself hadn't been well received.

 

We parked a little way down from the Nation and got out of the car.

“Can't we just park inside?” asked Bowden.

“They don't like cars,” I explained. “They don't see the point in traveling any distance. According to neanderthal logic, anywhere that can't be reached in a day's walk isn't worth visiting. Our neanderthal gardener used to walk the four miles to our house every Tuesday and then walk back again, resisting all offers of a lift. Walking was, he maintained, ‘the only decent way to travel—if you drive, you miss the conversations in the hedgerows.' ”

“I can see his point,” replied Bowden, “but when I need to be somewhere in a hurry—”

“That's the difference, Bowd. You've got to get off the human way of thinking. To neanderthals nothing is so urgent that it can't be done another time—or not done at all. By the way, did you remember not to wash this morning?”

He nodded. Because scent is so important to neanderthal communications, the soapy cleanliness of humans reads more like some form of suspicious subterfuge. Speak to a neanderthal while wearing scent and he'll instantly think you have something to hide.

We walked into the grassy entrance of the Nation and encountered a lone neanderthal sitting on a chair in the middle of the path. He was reading the large-print
Neanderthal News
. He folded up the paper and sniffed the air delicately before staring at us for a moment or two and then asking, “Whom do you wish to visit?”

“Next and Cable, lunch with Mr. Stiggins.”

The neanderthal stared at us for moment or two, then pointed us towards a house on the other side of a grassed open area that surrounded a totem representing I-don't-know-what. There were five or six neanderthals playing a game of street croquet on the grass area, and I watched them intently for a while. They weren't playing in teams, just passing the ball around and hooping where possible. They were excellent, too. I watched one player hoop from at least forty yards away off a roquet. It was a pity neanderthals were aggressively noncompetitive—I could have done with them on the team.

“Notice anything?” I asked as we walked across the grassed area, the croquet players moving past us in a blur of well-coordinated limbs.

“No children?”

“The youngest neanderthal is fifty-two,” I explained. “The males are infertile. It's probably their biggest source of disagreement with their owners.”

“I'd be pissed off, too.”

We found Stiggins's house, and I opened the door and walked straight in. I knew a bit about neanderthal customs, and you would never go into a neanderthal home unless you were expected—in which case you treated it as your own and walked in unannounced. The house was built entirely of scrap wood or recycled rubbish and was circular in shape, with a central hearth. It was comfortable and warm and cozy, but not the sort of basic cave I think Bowden expected. There was a TV and proper sofas, chairs and even a hi-fi. Standing next to the fire was Stiggins, and next to him was a slightly smaller neanderthal.

“Welcome!” said Stig. “This is Felicity—we are a partnership.”

His wife walked silently up to us and hugged us both in turn, taking an opportunity to smell us, first in the armpit and then in the hair. I saw Bowden flinch, and Stig gave a small, grunty cough that was a neanderthal laugh.

“Mr. Cable, you are uncomfortable,” observed Stig.

Bowden shrugged. He
was
uncomfortable, and he knew neanderthals well enough to know that you can't lie to them.

“I am,” he replied. “I've never been in a neanderthal house before.”

“Is it any different to yours?”

“Very,” said Bowden, looking up at the construction of the roof beams, which had been made by gluing oddments of wood together and then planing them into shape.

“Not a single wood screw or bolt, Mr. Cable. Have you heard the noise wood makes when you turn a screw into it? Most uncharitable.”

“Is there anything you don't make yourself?”

“Not really. You are insulting the raw material if you do not extract all possible use from it. Any cash we earn has to go to our buyback scheme. We may be able to afford our ownership papers by the time we are due to leave.”

“Then what, if you'll excuse me, is the point?”

“To die free, Mr. Cable. Drink?”

Mrs. Stiggins appeared with four glasses that had been cut from the bottom of wine bottles and offered them to us. Stig drank his straight down, and I tried to do the same and nearly choked—it was not unlike drinking petrol. Bowden
did
choke, and clasped his throat as if it were on fire. Mr. and Mrs. Stiggins stared at us curiously, then collapsed into an odd series of grunty coughs.

“I'm not sure I see the joke,” said Bowden, eyes streaming.

“It is the neanderthal custom to humiliate guests,” announced Stig, taking our glasses from us. “Yours was potato gin—ours was merely water. Life is good. Have a seat.”

We sat down on the sofa, and Stig poked at the embers in the fire. There was a rabbit on a stick, and I gave a deep sigh of relief it wasn't going to be beetles for lunch.

“Those croquet players outside,” I began, “do you suppose anything could induce them to play for the Swindon Mallets?”

“No. Only humans define themselves by conflict with other humans. Winning or losing has no meaning to us. Things just are as they are meant to be.”

I thought about offering some money. After all, a month's salary for an averagely rated player would easily cover a thousand buyback schemes. But neanderthals are funny about money—especially money that they don't think they've earned. I kept quiet.

“Have you had any more thoughts about the cloned Shakespeares?” asked Bowden.

Stig thought for a moment, twitched his nose, turned the rabbit and then went to a large rolltop bureau and returned with a manila folder—the genome report he had got from Mr. Rumplunkett.

“Definitely clones,” he said, “and whoever built them covered their tracks—the serial numbers are scrubbed from the cells, and the manufacturer's information is missing from the DNA. On a molecular level, they might have been built anywhere.”

“Stig,” I said, thinking of
Hamlet,
“I can't stress how important it is that I find a WillClone—and soon.”

“We haven't finished, Miss Next. See this?”

He handed me a spectroscopic evaluation of Mr. Shaxtper's teeth, and I looked at the zigzag graph uncomprehendingly.

“We do this test to monitor long-term health patterns. By taking a cross-section of Shaxtper's teeth, we can trace the original manufacturing area solely from the hardness of the water.”

“For what purpose?”

“We recognize this pattern,” he said, jabbing a stubby finger at the chart. “In particular the high concentration of calcium just here. We can usually trace a chimera's original manufacturing area solely from the hardness of the water.”

“I see,” said Bowden. “So where do we find this sort of water?”

“Simple: Birmingham.”

Bowden clapped his hands happily. “You mean to tell me there's a secret bioengineering lab in the Birmingham area? We'll find it in a jiffy!”

“The lab isn't in Birmingham,” said Stig.

“But you said . . . ?”

I knew exactly what he was driving at.

“Birmingham imports its water,” I said in a low voice, “from the Elan Valley—in the
Socialist Republic of Wales.
”

The job had just got that much worse. Goliath's biggest biotech facility used to be on the banks of the Craig Goch Reservoir, deep in the Elan, before they moved to the Presellis. They had built across the border due to the lax bioengineering regulations; they shut down as soon as the Welsh parliament caught up. The lab in the Presellis did only legitimate work.

“Impossible!” scoffed Bowden. “They closed down decades ago!”

“And yet,” retorted Stig slowly, “your Shakespeares were built there. Mr. Cable, you are not a natural friend to the neanderthal, and you do not have the strength of spirit of Miss Next, yet you
are
impassioned.”

Bowden was unconvinced by Stig's précis. “How can you know me that well?”

There was a silence for a moment as Stig turned the rabbit on the spit.

“You live with a woman whom you don't truly love, but need for stability. You are suspicious that she is seeing someone else, and that anger and suspicion hangs heavily on your shoulders. You feel passed over for promotion, and the one woman whom you truly love is inaccessible to you—”

“All right, all right,” he said sullenly, “I get the picture.”

“You humans radiate emotions like a roaring fire, Mr. Cable. We are astounded how you are able to deceive each other so easily. We see all deception, so have evolved to have no need for it.”

“These labs,” I began, eager to change the subject, “you are sure?”

“We are sure,” affirmed Stig, “and not only Shakespeares were built there. All neanderthals up to Version 2.3.5, too. We wish to return. We have an urgent wish for that which we have been denied.”

“And that is?” asked Bowden.

“Children,” breathed Stig. “We have planned for just such an expedition, and your
sapien
characteristics will be useful. You have an impetuosity that we can never have. A neanderthal considers each move before taking it and is genetically predisposed towards caution. We need someone like you, Miss Next—a human with drive, a propensity towards violence and the ability to take command—yet someone governed by what is
right.
”

I sighed. “We're not going to get into the Socialist Republic,” I said. “We have no jurisdiction, and if we're caught, there will be hell to pay.”

“What about your plan to take all those books across, Thursday?” asked Bowden in a quiet voice.

“There is no plan, Bowd. I'm sorry. And I can't risk being banged up in some Welsh slammer during the SuperHoop. I
have
to make sure the Mallets win. I
have
to be there.”

Stig frowned at me. “Strange!” he said at last. “You do not want to win for a deluded sense of hometown pride—we see a greater purpose.”

“I can't tell you, Stig, but what you read is true. It is vital to
all
of us that Swindon wins the SuperHoop.”

Stig looked across to Mrs. Stiggins, and the two of them held a conversation for a good five minutes—using only facial expressions and the odd grunt.

After they had finished, Stig said, “It is agreed. You, Mr. Cable, and ourself will break into the abandoned Goliath reengineering labs. You to find your Shakespeares, we to find a way to seed our females.”

“I can't—”

“Even if we fail,” continued Stig, “the Neanderthal Nation will field five players to help you win your SuperHoop. There can be no payment and no glory. Is this the deal?”