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.’
CHAPTER 51
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 38th Virginia 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 –’
‘Experimentals?’
Rupert smiled coolly. ‘Yes. Eugenics.’
‘You’re mixing eugenics with my men!’
‘Don’t panic, Colonel. These aren’t like the old varieties. Far more reliable.’
Wainwright stood up, leaning over his desk towards the young man. ‘We had a promise from High Command! A cast-iron promise! No more military-purpose eugenics. No more of those … those monsters!’
‘Tsk, tsk. They’re not monsters, Colonel. They’re just tools for a specific job. Just tools from our tool box.’
‘A tool, lad, doesn’t turn on its owner. A tool doesn’t rip to shreds the enemy, then turn on its handler and rip him to shreds … and then, when there’s nothing left to kill, rip itself to shreds.’
‘Oh, please, you’re referring to that Preston incident, aren’t you?