In the Flesh and Other Tales of The Biotech Revolution [SSC] Read online

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  In the Flesh

  - and Other Tales of The Biotech Revolution

  By Brian Stableford

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  Borgo Press Books by BRIAN STABLEFORD

  Algebraic Fantasies and Realistic Romances: More Masters of Science Fiction

  Beyond the Colors of Darkness and Other Exotica

  Changelings and Other Metamorphic Tales

  A Clash of Symbols: The Triumph of James Blish

  The Cosmic Perspective and Other Black Comedies

  The Cure for Love and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution

  The Devil’s Party: A Brief History of Satanic Abuse

  The Dragon Man: A Novel of the Future

  Firefly: A Novel of the Far Future

  The Gardens of Tantalus and Other Delusions

  Glorious Perversity: The Decline and Fall of Literary Decadence

  Gothic Grotesques: Essays on Fantastic Literature

  The Haunted Bookshop and Other Apparitions

  Heterocosms: Science Fiction in Context and Practice

  In the Flesh and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution

  The Innsmouth Heritage and Other Sequels

  Jaunting on the Scoriac Tempests and Other Essays on Fantastic Literature

  The Moment of Truth: A Novel of the Future

  News of the Black Feast and Other Random Reviews

  An Oasis of Horror: Decadent Tales and Contes Cruels

  Opening Minds: Essays on Fantastic Literature

  Outside the Human Aquarium: Masters of Science Fiction, Second Edition

  The Path of Progress and Other Black Melodramas

  Slaves of the Death Spiders and Other Essays on Fantastic Literature

  The Sociology of Science Fiction

  Space, Time, and Infinity: Essays on Fantastic Literature

  The Tree of Life and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution

  Yesterday’s Bestsellers: A Voyage Through Literary History

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  The Borgo Press

  An Imprint of Wildside Press LLC

  MMIX

  Copyright © 1980, 1993, 1997, 1998, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009

  by Brian Stableford

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  FIRST EDITION

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  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  In the Flesh

  A Chip off the Old Block

  Taking the Piss

  Another Bad Day in Bedlam

  Dr. Prospero and the Snake Lady

  Casualty

  The Trial

  The Gift of the Magi

  The Incredible Whelk

  The Piebald Plumber of Haemlin

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  INTRODUCTION

  Seven of the ten stories in this collection belong to a loosely-knit series tracking the potential effects of possible developments in biotechnology on the evolution of global society; the ones that do not (the last three items) deal with biotechnological themes of a more fashionably fanciful and apocalyptic stripe.

  Most of the stories in the main sequence involve relatively moderate variations of the future history sketched out in a series of novels comprising Inherit the Earth (1998), Architects of Emortality (1999), The Fountains of Youth (2000), The Cassandra Complex (2001), Dark Ararat (2002) and The Omega Expedition (2002), all published by Tor, which was itself a modified version of a future history mapped in The Third Millennium: A History of the World 200-3000 A.D. (Sidgwick & Jackson 1985, written in collaboration with David Langford).

  The broad sweep of this future history envisages a large-scale economic and ecological collapse in the 21st century brought about by global warming and other factors, followed by the emergence of a global society designed to accommodate human longevity (although that is not necessarily obvious in stories set in advance of the Crash). Other stories of a similar stripe can be found in two earlier collections, Sexual Chemistry: Sardonic Tales of the Genetic Revolution (Simon & Schuster U.K. 1991) and Designer Genes: Tales of the Biotech Revolution (Five Star, 2004), and in two companion collection from Borgo, The Cure for Love and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution and The Tree of Life and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution.

  Two of the featured stories were first published in Interzone, “The Gift of the Magi” in number 122 (August 1997) and “The Piebald Plumber of Haemlin” in number 130 (April 1998), and two in Asimov’s Science Fiction, “Taking the Piss” in the June 2004 issue and “The Trial” in the July 2007 issue. A shorter version of “The Incredible Whelk” first appeared in Ludd’s Mill 16-17 (1980). “Another Bad Day in Bedlam” first appeared in Christmas Forever (Tor, 1993) edited by David Hartwell. “In the Flesh” first appeared in Future Histories (Horizon House, 1997) edited by Stephen McClelland. “A Chip off the Old Block” first appeared in Postscripts 2 (Summer 2005). “Dr. Prospero and the Snake Lady” first appeared in Millennium 3001 (DAW, 2006) edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Russell Davis. “Casualty” first appeared in Future Weapons of War (Baen, 2007) edited by Joe W. Haldeman.

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  IN THE FLESH

  Martha was in the middle of icing Jennifer’s birthday cake when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t making a very good job of it, but until the doorbell rang it hardly seemed to matter. Once the doorbell had rung, of course, interrupting her in mid-squeeze, the fact that it was a bit of a mess suddenly became the fault of whoever was at the door, and an occasion for resentment. She cursed under her breath as she moved into the hall, wiping icing off her fingers with the hem of her apron.

  When she opened the door and saw that it was a boy in his early teens the curse rose to her lips again—but it died when she realized that the boy was wearing dark glasses.

  It was a sunny day, in spite of being Friday the thirteenth. There was no reason why a boy his age shouldn’t be wearing dark glasses—but the fact remained that he was wearing dark glasses.

  He was also carrying a small parcel, about five inches square and two deep. The wrapping-paper enclosing the box was glossy, the color of red wine. It wasn’t wrapped in pink ribbon or tied with a bow, just sealed with sellotape—but it still looked suspiciously like a present.

  “Yes?” she said, trying hard to sound neutral, if not actually pleasant.

  “Mrs. Mortimore?”

  “Yes.” Martha was still trying to sound neutral, but even she could hear the note of anxiety in her second yes. She told herself that there was nothing to be scared of—but she had told herself that far too often for the telling to have any effect, even though it had nearly always been true.

  The boy shifted slightly; he was embarrassed too. So he should be, Martha thought. If being a fourteen-year-old boy isn’t enough to cast you into a Hell of permanent embarrassment, what is? She tried not to look at the dark glasses but she couldn’t do it.

  “I don’t know if Jennifer’s mentioned me,” the boy said, in the slightly fluty tone of a child who might have been slow to learn to talk. “My name’s Carl Ulick.”

  Martha didn’t have to ask him to spell it. Jennifer hadn’t “mentioned” him. Jennifer hadn’t “mentioned” anyone at all. Jennifer found it absurdly easy to keep secrets.

  “I’m afraid not,” she told the boy.

  Because she knew that it wasn’t what he wanted to hear she had no difficulty in keeping her voice straight, but she couldn’t help feeling that she was a bit of a bitch for being able to find satisfaction in the imparting of bad news. She knew that she couldn’t keep the c
onversational initiative for long, though—that ominous package he was carrying, all done up in fancy wine-colored wrapping, gave him the advantage. He lifted it up slightly to draw her attention to it, although there wasn’t any need.

  “I’ve brought her a present,” he said. His fluty tone made the words trip lightly from his tongue, as if he might have been anybody bringing a gift to anyone.

  “A present,” Martha parried, hopelessly.

  “A birthday present. Today is her birthday, isn’t it? She’s sixteen, I believe.” The tone was more anxious now, and Martha knew exactly why. Carl Ulick couldn’t be absolutely sure that it was Jennifer’s birthday. He couldn’t be absolutely sure that she was sixteen. He probably hadn’t even been absolutely sure that her name was Jennifer until Martha had let the name pass unchallenged.

  On the Net, Martha knew, people lied. They lied about everything. On the Net you could change your name, your sex, your age, your state of mind and your state of being. Carl Ulick might have been tap-tap-tapping at Jennifer for years, with Jennifer blink-blink-blinking back as fast as she could flutter her eyelashes, but for all Carl Ulick really knew, Jennifer might be an incontinent old man with emphysema and a sick sense of humor. Didn’t they have a saying nowadays? The truth is in the flesh. Oh yes—the truth was in the flesh all right. The truth of Jennifer was flesh through and through. Frail flesh.

  As it happened, though, it really was Jennifer’s birthday and she really was sixteen. This was the thirteenth of the month, and it was Friday. Poor Geoff would be stuck on the M4 somewhere near the junction with the M25. Come four o’clock on a Friday all the trouble in the world was focused on the junction where the airport traffic met up with the commuters streaming out of London, and this was the thirteenth: Disaster Day. Poor Geoff, late for his daughter’s birthday. If no one else complained about the higgledy-piggledy icing he would. He had no idea—no idea at all.

  “Mrs. Mortimore?”

  The troubled gaze of whatever was behind the dark glasses was boring into her. For all she knew, Carl Ulick had eyes like Superman’s, able to see right through her apron and her blouse, her bra and her breasts, all the way to her beating heart. It has to be gold, she thought, with all that vitriol flowing through it. But she was being unfair to herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, rallying. “That’s very kind of you, Carl. I’ll give it to her.” She stuck out her hand with all the parental authority she could muster, even though she knew full well that he wasn’t going to hand it over.

  “I’d like to give it to her myself, if I may,” said the boy, disguising his adamantine stubbornness with all the politeness a boy his age could muster. “I’ve come quite a way, you see.”

  Martha had always known that the greatest advantage of the Net was its vast range. On the Net, you could talk to people in Timbuktu and Tokyo as easily as people in the next street. In the Global Village, everyone was a neighbor—which meant that no one you knew was likely to pop round for a cup of sugar. The downside was that if anyone ever did take the trouble to call, they’d expect the kind of welcome that befitted someone who’d come “quite a way”.

  How much, Martha wondered, has she told this boy? Which lies need protecting? Am I supposed to let him in, just like that? How am I supposed to know, when she hasn’t taken the trouble to tell me? “Really,” she said, without moving aside to let the boy into the house. “Where from, exactly?”

  “Oxford,” he replied.

  In Global Village terms, Oxford was practically next door. Why couldn’t the silly little slut make friends in Adelaide or Vancouver? Martha thought—but she immediately felt ashamed of having called her daughter a slut, and then felt more deeply ashamed as she realized that it might have been a Freudian slip. People had sex on the Net, or so it was said. They tap-tap-tapped and blink-blink-blinked all kinds of dirty stuff to one another, working themselves up to....

  “Well, that’s very thoughtful of you,” Martha said, severing her own train of thought with calculated brutality, “but you really should have phoned first. Jennifer’s asleep, I’m afraid, and she really isn’t able to receive visitors even when she’s....”

  “She told me not to,” Carl Ulick said, wincing slightly as he realized that impatience had made him interrupt. “Phone, that is. I would have...only she told me not to. She invited me. I was hoping....”

  “That she’d told us,” Martha finished for him, feeling that her golden heart might be slowing in its paces—but the obligation to continue the scrupulously polite conversation still remained.

  “Well, she didn’t,” Martha continued. “I think she knew well enough that we wouldn’t—couldn’t—have allowed it. We have to be very careful, you see. Everyone agrees that it’s better for her to be at home than permanently in hospital, but we do have to be very careful. She had no right to ask you to come.” It sounded feeble even to her, in spite of the fact that it was true. Unfortunately, the gaze of whatever was behind those dark glasses was still boring into her like an electric drill.

  “I understand how you feel,” the boy lied. “You don’t have to worry, Mrs. Mortimore—I really am a friend. I know all about Jennifer’s condition. I’m not going to be surprised, or horrified. I’ve been helping her, you see—ever since she got the eyes. It was easier for me. I got mine when I was three, and the visual cortex had plenty of time to adapt to the interface. I didn’t even have to learn, not really...but they put me through the program anyway. Jennifer has a much more advanced model, of course. I almost wish I could trade mine in, but the adaptation’s set now. I really have been able to help her, to talk her through. I know she can do even better than she has, Mrs. Mortimore. I know how much the human brain can do, under the pressure of necessity.”

  The torrent of words left Martha numb. She hadn’t even attempted to follow the meaning of the sentences, although she had heard every word. She had been too busy thinking: I have to let him in. I can’t say no. I have to let him in. She told herself again, truthfully, that there was nothing to be afraid of, but she still couldn’t quite accommodate the fact.

  “You’d better come in,” she said, colorlessly. She let him past and closed the door behind him. He waited politely until she ushered him into the living-room. He sat down on the sofa, in response to another gestured invitation. There was nothing wrong with his common-or-garden eyesight, whatever else his shades were hiding.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Martha asked.

  He wanted to refuse, and nearly did, but he obviously came to the conclusion that it was best to play it by the book in the hope of smoothing things over. He wanted everything to go well. He wanted everyone to be happy. He wanted the moon on a stick, and he probably had the means of getting it, even though Jennifer had a much more advanced model.

  “Please,” he said.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until my husband gets home,” Martha said, seizing the only initiative that remained to be seized. “When he comes...well, perhaps....” She left it at that. Carl Ulick nodded politely, as befitted a boy who’d just sat down on someone else’s sofa in someone else’s living room and accepted a cup of tea.

  Martha left him there, and hurried to the kitchen.

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  As soon as she’d plugged the kettle in Martha whipped the phone from its cradle and stabbed out the number of Geoff s mobile. He answered immediately—which was ominous in itself. Martha listened for the sound the engine made when the Helvetia was bombing along in fast-moving traffic, like a squadron of bumble bees at the bottom of a well, but she couldn’t hear it.

  “Where are you?” she demanded, without preamble.

  “Stuck just west of junction eight. Accident. Bastard must have turned sideways or something—only one lane left. Yellow jackets in sight, but they’re filtering half a dozen at a....”

  Martha wasn’t interested in technicalities. “How long?”

  “I’ll still be early,” he protested. “I left at three, as promised. Not my
fault if...”

  “There’s someone here,” she told him, trying to keep her voice down in case Carl Ulick could hear her over the hiss of the kettle.

  “What kind of someone?” Geoff made no attempt to hide his exasperation.

  “A boy. He says Jenny invited him. He’s brought her a birthday present.”

  There was a pause. Geoff always made a point of pausing when someone told him something he didn’t want to know, to give the impression that he was deep in thought. It was a habit he’d picked up at the office.

  The kettle switched itself off. Martha wondered whether to get the teapot out of the cupboard under the sink, but decided not to bother. It was only a boy, after all. She did fetch cups down, though, putting aside the mug she usually used for herself. She flipped a tea-bag into each cup and poured the water on

  “Okay,” said Geoff. “You tell him Jenny’s asleep. You take the present off him and tell him that we’ll give it to her when she wakes up. Thank him kindly, give him a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive and tell him we’re sorry.”