Chapter 3 #4
“Tell me why,” he says. Her ears go flat, eyes hard.
Full-on obligate carnivores are supposed to freak you out.
Another cross-species language. Disruptive enough that it’s why most of the Strains got discontinued, in the city.
They do things different out in the sticks, though.
Remind me never to go there. “Some mouse. Who even cares?” Except everyone apparently does.
“He’s a very bad mouse, Herr Skotch,” she says.
She has a collar, he sees. She’s official, then.
A farm employee from one of the Country Clubs, as they call them.
It even has lettering on it, and he’s flush enough with Plangent that he can read her name there.
Szerky, stamped onto the metal. Szerky the Stoatweasel.
“I could tell you that I represent very powerful concerns, Herr Skotch,” Szerky purrs.
He can feel the buzz of her voice box, in her long throat.
Like the turtles, stoatweasels don’t really make words much with their mouths.
That’s the business end of the animal, the weaponised part.
“I could tell you about how things will go, for a lone raccoon outside any guild or company, if he disappoints a lady.” And she nips him, just at the fur of his throat, and he jolts back, feeling a maelstrom of conflicting instincts and chemicals warring it out over his reactions.
“But instead I’m going to tell you that you think the farms are food and vitamins and all good things, but you never gave a thought to just how much poison and mutagenics and contamination go on under that nice happy label of ‘agriculture.’ Just what a bad little country mouse might learn and, getting old and bitter, might decide to export to the big city. ”
Skotch goes still, considering. Yes, you hear rumours.
The farms, genetic mods, chem weapons, biohazards.
The things that humans ban but, through the back door, also buy.
Things supposed to stay under lock and key because of the colossal fallout there would be if anyone started playing with them in, say, an enormous and biologically underpinned conurbation.
“I don’t think you want to catch this mouse, Herr Skotch,” Szerky says. She coils back from him. Not grinning, because there isn’t a Gehirner in the city who thinks baring your teeth is a sign of good humour. Showing him her carnassials though. The specialised dentition of a carnivore.
For a moment, mouse had actually been off the menu.
The very instant prior to her parting words, he was absolutely convinced that staying well clear of Doctor Meece was good for his health.
But there’s that smug edge to her voice, the upper-class carnivore sneering down at Working Joe Trash Panda. His pride kicks.
When she’s gone, he looks up at Ikelos’ silent form, tucked into his polished shell, and thinks, You were some help.
And Szerky is bad news, and he’d far rather be living in a city without her in it, but at the same time she’s told him something very important.
Something he could have guessed, but it’s nice to have the confirmation.
Because her turning up here and putting the frighteners on a poor raccoon means that Benson’s spiel about being contracted by the farms is baloney.
Or else there are multiple farms after the same mouse, and last Skotch heard, the Country Clubs were all happy just to be rich together.
Like the stoat said, the food trade is where the real profit margin is.
Agriculture was one of the industries to get a big shakeup, during the deindustrialisation.
Too much land, too many chemicals, inefficient, ecologically disastrous.
The new Farm Projects just tick along, turning out enough to fill everyone’s cupboards plus enough luxury surplus for all Neuwien’s fancy restaurants.
Human food, needless to say. What Skotch eats, the stuff most Gehirner eat, that’s the SLG from the Separation Plants.
Guaranteed nutritious and that’s about the best you can say for it.
And if Szerky’s right in her insinuations, even more reason for Skotch to get to the mouse first. It’s his city too.
It’s where he keeps his stuff and it’s most certainly where he drinks his water, which he’d prefer to be free of plague or toxins.
Maybe the mouse has a head full of poisons, but he’ll need facilities before he can turn that into something tangible.
Time enough for a resolute raccoon to track him down and find out what the hell his deal is.
After which Skotch can decide whether he really wants Benson to get his scaly claws on whatever is in Meece’s head.
It’s time for Skotch to go onto the streets and just hope he can get where he needs to before Szerky gets there first. Or that he can get there without Szerky just using him as a stalking horse and following him in.
When he finishes up at Ikelos’ terminal, there’s a dog waiting for him outside, the terrier mongrel, Sly’s messenger.
Skotch takes the filmy paper message from its jaws, shakes off the slobber, and reads.
Sly’s information network has come through for him.
The last words: Careful, mate. It’s all about to blow.