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Jack O Crumpet, his tattered robe stirring up clouds of thick dust, scurried even more frenetically—despite the weight of his clubfoot— along the edge of Fort Helix’s protective inner fortress wall; his Cello-Phone buzzed. A breathless voice jabbered hysterically into Jack O’s ear: it was Twirtle: “Bloody drama ‘ere mate. We think we see big fuckin’ desert lizards …”
“You have bleedin’ laser cannons in your Sand Wagon so use the mothers to take out the bastards…” snarled Jack O, cutting Twirtle short.
Nasty indifference served Jack O very well in this cruel world. He had many times ordered Helix lab staff shot for even buggery or minor disobedience; Jack O was only looking for efficiency because it translated into profits – though he hid his mercenary desires from the Brethren. It would not pay to let on that he was building an army of killer mutants to help them fight the Good Lord’s Fight solely in the name of filthy cash.
Shrugging his shoulders, Jack O Crumpet glanced at his watch. Damn: another scheduled freak meat cargo was supposed to be here shortly, along with a Very Important Person, Agro the Esteemed, an alleged emissary from Magnifico the Divine. Twirdle and his team were now on their own; and it really made no difference anyway; the stranded transpecies shipment ( and Twirdle and the handlers) would soon be eaten by desert lizards. At least he would not have to feed these useless workers any more. If they could not even handle a routine cargo haul of freaks, they were not cost effective. Cut your losses while you can.
Approximately forty minutes later, Fort Helix’s gates slammed behind the solar–powered truck – an odd boxy-looking vehicle with sun panels jutting out like massive, upraised palms – towing large silver metal freak meat pods. Behind the controls was Agro the Esteemed, also the handler and the pilot. In the Magnifico’s world, even messengers of his Divine Word still had to get dirty and sweaty.
Jack O slid gracefully forward on his clubfoot, with a small bow, and said in an agreeable tone, “Come in kind sir; we truly welcome you as a respected messenger from the Most Honorable, Most Holy One. We exist here to serve Him and his sacred mission.” Agro’s purple helix-shaped tattoos, emblazoned on his naked arms, suggested that this driver-handler wielded considerable power within the spiritual ranks. (Often an unlikely person, no matter how crude or stupid, was granted emissary authority by the Magnifico—especially if that person pleased Him during sex. Jack O looked at Agro’s hunchback and shuddered at the thought of the Magnifico’s sweaty, passionate fingers running over that greasy hump.)
“So lead me,” said Agro, “to ‘deese Brethren who can speak truly of The Change of the Soul – and also speak”, he added grimly, “without buggering the sacred power of the Holy One and his God-words.”
“These holy worthies will enhance not defame His Divine Mission I can assure you,” Jack O Crumpet groveled worshipfully.
Agro merely grunted, dropping his self-righteous tone: “Let’s first free the queer meat.” Rattling his keys, he went around to the convoy’s trailer to collect the cargo of trans-species for in-processing. Jack O made another mental note to ask about his cash.
Jack O Crumpet, waving his strobe lamp, like a baton, inched forward in the Helix Hives’ gloomy, chilly underground, leading Agro and a small retinue of dwarfish servants who pushed the four metal, casket-shaped freak pods, bouncing on wheeled carts.
Groveling before such useless creatures was the price he paid for maintaining his business contacts with the Magnifico. Mutant Re-Coding was becoming a growth industry in the Battle against Evil waged today by numerous wacko religious cults. Magnifico just happened to have the most money and organizational strength: the biggest dick in town always ensured Jack O Crumpet’s allegiance in the War of Good versus the Evildoers.
“This tunnel is ringed by genetic Change Rooms,” Jack said loudly, trying to sound authoritative, despite his non-technical management role at the Fort, “but there is a meaning here that goes deeper…”
“What pray may that be?” scowled Agro, his one normal cool green eye suddenly sparking angrily. “Only the Magnifico is the Way and the Path and can speak of where to find da sacred meanings.”
Remembering how quickly Agro had angered when Jack O Crumpet had kept the Esteemed One waiting – he emissary obviously had the passionate, indeed dangerous, ambitions of the fanatical and single-minded – Jack calmly replied, “I rely simply on local interpretations of the uses of these Hive technologies as offered by our Fort’s illustrious teachers, trusted scholars whose canonical opinions have been ratified by the Magnifico himself…”
Jack O Crumpet loved uttering these pompous words in order to subtly mock Agro’s obvious ignorance of Fort Helix‘s spiritual culture. Jack wondered if there was any particular reason why Agro had not been properly briefed on the details. Since everything Magnifico did and said often had multiple meanings, Agro’s mission perhaps had secret purposes. Possibly this was a clever ploy, the Magnifico using Agro as a spy to find out if Jack was fomenting heresy far from His Holiness’s watchful eyes. (After all Fort Helix, used to bioengineer the harmlessly deformed into killing machines, was a central cog in the Magnifico’s war against the forces of darkness. And the Brethren, as a valuable ally, needed to be watched and protected against subversion or insurgency.)
However, Jack O really had no real interest in puzzling all this out, or exploring Agro’s “real” intentions. As far as Jack was concerned, Agro was a cheap, two-bit operator, career bootlicker and spiritual elitist wannabe who was nothing else than a pain in the ass – Jack’s ass….Political infighting and ambition bored him to tears; he was a businessman with no patience for fools.
But Jack knew how to play mind-games with this arrogant prick Agro. A little holo-trickery might do the job.
Using his laser wand like a pen, Jack made scribbling motions in the tunnel’s frosty air: flat, cartoonish monk-like figures appeared, and then began automatically fleshing themselves out into three-dimensional, realistic hooded shapes, grouped into choir-like rows. Rich, booming voices swelled forth in poetic hymn:
“The Brethren are indisposed at this moment,” Jack said, “uh…in deep prayer, so this simulation will have to suffice. These are High Worship Days at Fort Helix. You actually chose a bad time to come here.”
“You mean I drove all dis way,” Agro whined, “ to just ice da queer meat without even gettin’ to see the operation or break bread with da local Holies?”
“We have an iron rule here, Your Graciousness” (Jack O mentally winced at his shameful humility). “Before touring the Hives, you have to have a purification blessing, and only the Brethren can dispense that,” Jack replied. “Besides, the Genetic Re-Coding process is secret; only a small cadre of Select Brethren – lderly, technically astute, trustworthy, beyond reproach – that have been personally vetted and chosen by The August Magnifico Himself are privy to our dear Fort’s inner sanctum. At best Agro you would get only a cursory walk-through of the Vats—without special access rights— even with the prescribed blessing…”
Jack smiled inwardly; he could almost feel the air whooshing out of Agro’s over inflated, arrogant ego. Clearly, this miserable creature had had no special office granted to him by Magnifico, as Jack had first surmised; those tattoos must be fraudulent, not signifying any valid spiritual dispensation. To be so uninformed about the Fort’s High Worship Days clinched Jack’s belief: Agro was nothing more than small beans—despite his pretentious title and airs.
Now Jack regretted his earlier fawning before this low-life—but then one could never be too careful. Agro’s minor associations with the spiritual elite had clearly convinced him that he had a future as something more important than a mere lackey.
(When Jack wrote his official report about this visit, he would report his suspicions about Agro’s false tattoos to the Brethren.)
Better not, Jack thought, push Agro too far—the creature was ill-tempered and troublesome. “Nothing keeps you from seeing other parts of the process; your time here won’t be wasted, but first”, said Jack, clearing his throat significantly, “we need to talk about money”.
The black beasts, their long sweaty fur flowing like dreadlocks, heaved, snorted and lumbered about the fenced-in training field, constructed adjacent to Fort Helix’s administrative centre. Bush Dwarfs, chittering happily, bounced and scampered, doing back flips, feints and generally tormenting the Killer Kangaroos by skittering around their feet. (An occasional shrill yelp indicated that a ‘roo had gotten lucky and thumped one of his tormentors.)
Jack stood with Agro on a small observation deck overlooking the action. The retinue of dwarfs had been fetched to the Hives with the freak pods.
Grumpy, after a complementary tour of the Hives’ boring anterooms—far away from the forbidden, more interesting, processing areas—and having failed to meet any of the real-life Brethren, Agro glared sullenly at the kangaroo/dwarf antics.
Jack O, delighted to see that he had gotten under Agro‘s skin, explained the scenes before them with the gusto of a tour guide. “Agro my good mate this is the warm-ups: the Smalls are here to piss off the Killer ‘roos; then we bring in the recoded weird meat to fight them. It is part of their “killer instinct” training since, as you know, most pure genetic freaks normally are cowardly and panty waist wimps … ”
Agro’s voice flat, ignoring the veiled insult, interrupted, “I know, but you—we—spend a lot of time ‘an trouble capturing and codin’ dis bait; how da you keep da ‘roos from killing ‘em?”
“Well it rarely happens, but, just in case, we keep some shooters handy,” Jack motioned toward three very muscular hunchbacks lurking on the edges of the training field like tree stumps, “to take out any ‘roo who gets too hyper manic”.
“So show me some real action….I didn’t drive through bloody Hell’s hell to see a fuckin’ circus act,” grumbled Agro.
Jack O quickly hid a gleeful smile with his hand: “No worries mate”.
With a wave, Jack O signaled for the release of the trainees. The Bush Dwarfs scattered.
Six bow-legged, pink-eyed albinos softly loped onto the field chased by three handlers, whips snapping. Two of the albinos, crying and trembling, suddenly broke from the group peeing and vomiting on themselves. One of the hunchbacks fired; the first crumpled and fell. Tripping on its own feet, the second went sprawling. Before either could be dragged away, an especially aggressive Bull kangaroo bounded in one leap and kicked the second albino in the ribs. Barfing a splash of blood, the agonized mutant shrank into the fetal posture. Another hunchback fired; the attacking ’roo, fatally wounded, spun crazily across the field, splattering against a far fence.
As if on cue, the other re-coded freaks, drawing laser pistols, rushed the herd. Agro grunted with sadistic pleasure: “Finally!” Barely attending to the violence, Jack O was quickly figuring the cash value of four properly genetically modified products. The numbers made him smile.
The End
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