Alex Scarrow - The Eternal War

The eugenic looked up from his carcass. ‘You are both our prishonersh.’

‘Did you say prisoners?’ asked Lincoln.

‘Yesh.’

Sal peeled the last of the husk away and hungrily nibbled some of the ears of corn off the cob. ‘But why?’

‘Sholdiersh … will be coming here shoon.’

‘Soldiers?’

‘One of the other bandsh, they killed shome people. Very shtoopid.’ Samuel looked at them. ‘Killed humansh, like you. That will make the sholdiersh come here. I know thish.’ He shook his head and casually slapped his forehead. ‘That wash very shtoopid.’

Shadd-yah … how human a gesture was that? It was just the sort of daft thing Maddy would do, exasperated and stressed out over something.

‘We are to be hostages?’ asked Lincoln.

Samuel cocked his head. ‘Hosh-tagesh? What doesh that mean?’

‘You will use our lives … to bargain for yours.’

‘Perhapsh.’ He nodded slowly, ideas forming and reforming behind his big eyes. ‘If we give you back, shafe and shound … maybe they leave ush all alone?’ He hunched narrow shoulders. ‘We don’t normally kill humansh. It meansh trouble. Shomething bad musht have happened.’ He carefully tore another chunk from the cooked rat.

Sal saw how carefully he chewed. Careful to keep the loose irregular flaps of his lips free of his teeth. She dared herself to ask.

‘What happened to your mouth?’

Samuel shook his head. ‘I wash birthed with a normal mouth. Jush like yoursh, Shaleena. I wash deshigned to work on machinery.’

‘Designed?’

‘Yesh … made by shmart men in a faraway town called Oxford. They grow ush genicsh over there in them big vatsh — ’

‘Genics?’ Sal frowned. ‘Do you mean you’re genetically engineered … things ?’

‘You say you worked on machinery,’ said Lincoln.

He nodded. ‘Mechanic,’ he said with a hint of pride. ‘A mechanic genic. Very clever, me. My genic type fixesh broken machinery in factoriesh. Make them work very shmooth again. But … me and my big mouth …’

Sal figured he was grinning, but it was hard to tell.

‘I got in shome big, big trouble.’

Lincoln pulled corn from between his teeth. ‘Trouble?’

‘Yesh, one of the big worker genicsh got crushed and killed by one of the factory machinesh. I shaw what happened. It wash a humansh fault. The machine wash shet up all wrong. And I shaid sho. But the humansh wouldn’t lishen to me.’ He shrugged casually. ‘Sho I told all the manual-worker eugenicsh they should put down their toolsh and shtop working until they fixshed the machine and put it right. Otherwishe, there’d be another one killed … and another … and another.’

‘What happened?’

‘They shewed my mouth up with a needle and thread. Shaid I wash a troublemaker. Shee, they don’t like it when a genic talksh back at them! That and when they turned over my bunk room they dishcovered I had booksh. They didn’t like that at all. Didn’t like how I taught myshelf to read. Very dangeroush. Givesh all the other eugenicsh big …’ Samuel struggled to say the next word carefully. He just about managed to say it without a lisp.

‘… ideas.’

He took another careful bite. ‘They shtopped making the very clever type like me yearsh ago. Too much trouble with all the talking back!’

‘I still do not understand how they make you?’ said Lincoln.

‘At firsht, a century ago it wash breeding one animal with another to make new animalsh. “Shelective breeding” they call it. But now they know how to make a creature from nothing . I heard shomeone shay the shmart men in Oxford can play with the “code of nature”. Shome might even shay … it’sh the code of God! The proper term for thish technique, though, ish eugenology !’

Samuel finished his rat and discarded the wooden skewer with nothing more than the rodent’s blackened bones and a few rags of sinewy meat left on it.

‘They write thish code then they grow ush … jush like tomato plansh … in a big factory farm.’

‘ Grow … like plants?’

‘Yesh … in large tub of shtinky gunky shtuff they call pro-teen growth sholution.’

‘ Shadd - yah ,’ whispered Sal, ‘just like Bob!’

One of the other eugenics called out Samuel’s name. ‘Uh-oh, shomeone needsh me.’ He looked at their uneaten corn. ‘Eat it. You will need your shtrength for later.’ He got up and padded across the cellar on his knuckles and flat feet, leaving Sal and Lincoln alone.

‘Good God, his story is remarkable,’ uttered Lincoln. He looked at Sal. ‘Grown, just like a field of beans? Unless he is making fools of us?’

Sal shook her head, biting into the corn cob again. ‘He’s talking about genetics … it’s a pretty big technology in my time. Everything’s genetically modified. Just like Bob.’

‘Bob? Your big friend?’

‘Uh-huh, designed just like these … then grown in a large tube of gunk.’

2001, New York

‘Colonel James Wainwright?’

He refused to stand to attention and salute the British officer. The man had rudely, arrogantly, strode into his room without even the courtesy of knocking. Wainwright did, however, bother to look up from signing the stack of requisition forms in front of him.

The officer looked to be about half his age, barely into his twenties, and yet sporting a rank above his.

‘Yes, what is it?’

The officer bristled at Wainwright’s dismissive tone. ‘It is customary to salute a senior officer.’

Wainwright sat back in his chair casually and splayed his hands. ‘Well? What do you want?’

He didn’t recognize the young man’s face. He must be a relatively newly commissioned officer. The collar and chest insignia denoted he was from SSID — Signals, Security and Intelligence Division — the group of officers carrying out the inspection along this section of the front line.

The young man stepped forward, pulled a chair out from under the desk and casually sat down. ‘Colonel Wainwright,’ he said quietly, ‘serving commander of the 38 thVirginia Regiment.’

‘I know who I am, thank you.’

‘Let’s dispense with formality, if you wish. You can call me Rupert.’

Wainwright said nothing. He studied the young officer with barely concealed contempt.

‘How long have you been in command here, Colonel Wainwright … roughly?’

‘In command? Nine years, three months and seven days if you must know. But I’ve been staring across this infernal piece of river at the enemy for nearly twenty years.’

Rupert steepled his fingers thoughtfully. ‘A long time.’

‘Far too long.’

‘Well — ’ the young man lowered his voice a little — ‘it should be a relief then.’

Wainwright looked sharply at him. ‘Relief?’

‘You know … things are in motion. The Powers That Be have a feeling this stalemate, this cold war, has run its course, served its purpose, and now they’d like to be finished with it.’

That caught Wainwright’s attention. He sat forward. ‘Good God, a truce! Is that what you’re talking about?’

Rupert chuckled at that. ‘No, of course not. A push , Colonel. A final push. And we’re going to make that push into the Northern heartland through what’s left of this pile of rubble.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry … did I say “rubble”? I meant through what’s left of New York .’

‘That’s madness! They’re dug in as deep as ticks on a dog’s back. Any infantry landing on the far side would be mown down — ’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that, old chap. Between the sky navy’s pounding and the experimentals we’ll be sending in alongside your boys, I think we’ll — ’