The Third Science Fiction Megapack Read online

  And afterwards he would take his chances and sneak over for a couple of hours with Liv.

  * * * *

  He pulled the front door closed behind him.

  The air smelled of dust and neglect, the East wind whipping bits of paper into the air. Turning his collar up he stared at St. Mary Redcliffe, its spire now dwarfed by the ultra-highs soaring from their islands on the nearby river. The windmills that had given the hill its name were back, now with giant blades shaped like hundred-foot-high Spitfire propellers. He listened for a minute then satisfied, set off alongside Victoria Park, whose grounds were scarred with Snarkhills, passing the burned out wreck of an old petrol-engined Skoda.

  YouGov’s SnarkWatch site showed the locations of each Snark attack. Theory was that they returned to the scenes of their previous kills, and that people who travelled by the same route all the time were more likely to be attacked. But no one knew for sure, even now, a decade after Animal Lib warriors mistakenly let them out of Orton Industries’ bio-research labs, instead of the mink and chinchillas they’d targeted. That the liberators had signed their own death warrants had been scant consolation to the thousands of victims since.

  Thom walked quickly, humming some thrash-metal to set a pace, keeping close to the terraced houses, and skipping across the road as he reached the lamp-post which had never worked as far as he could remember, but was a useful landmark and impromptu gallows when necessary. He passed another Snarkhill, the soft new asphalt forming a miniature volcano cone. Another lesson learned the hard way—pedestrians should avoid new tarmac, which was fractionally softer than older road surfaces.

  Crossing into the next street he heard a rumbling, and held his breath. Rumour was that Snarks weren’t the worst bio-weapon to have escaped the labs, that there were things that would eat their victim’s brains and leave them superficially unharmed and ready to be used as a zombie against the Asiatics, others that would paralyze and use their prey as a live host for their offspring. Thom guessed that that was just bollocks fed to the plebs by The Daily Mail and its sister rags.

  The Snarks were bad enough and unlike the urban myths were actually out there. They had the digging ability of a mole crossed with super-fast reflexes and a rapacious appetite. That was bad enough. Thom wondered what maniac would design an animal that could also out-breed rabbits and survive where cockroaches couldn’t.

  “The Old Cold War made people do some bad things,” Marian had said in her dogmatic way when he’d voiced such a question. “And the war’s worse this time round.” He wondered how she knew.

  He saw a dog ahead and froze. Feral or domestic, he wondered, and was answered when it scratched at a door. When there was no answer, the mangy poodle barked. Thom tiptoed even more lightly, while trying to speed up as well. He reached the next corner just as he heard the rumbling, saw the slight pressure wave pushing up the tarmac, and just as the door to the house opened, and the old woman reached out to drag it in, the paving slabs mushroomed upwards, and something shaped like a mole -but whose head was as big as the old woman- exploded out of the ground, taking them both in one bite of more and bigger teeth than any animal had a right to have.

  While it was busy dragging its prey back down into the hole, he was off and running to Auntie Beth’s house. His head was splitting, and he felt as if he would be sick at any minute.

  * * * *

  “It was almost on the front doorstep,” he called to Auntie Beth, pouring boiling water into the kettle. “Never seen one so close to a house. They don’t like the concrete.” No one knew if that was true. Orton’s prompt arrest and suspiciously speedy suicide, and the lynch mob that had stormed Orton Industry’s labs meant that people didn’t know as much as they should about them. Some such as Thom’s mates down the pub said that that was deliberate.

  Up in her bedroom he gently pulled the old woman’s skinny legs out of bed. She groaned, and noticing the bed sores he resolved to move her more often. “The shakes are bad today,” he said, referring to the palsy that made her limbs quiver. On her few good days, Beth Hyde was still the same woman who had raised him after her staunchly Christian sister and brother-in-law had been shipped off to a camp. Luckily, their teenage son had already started to behave in ways that made it obvious that he didn’t share their unfashionable -and by the end of the Jihad increasingly provocative—views, so he escaped their fate.

  Today was like most days, though, with Beth no longer able to remember who she was, who he was, and worst of all, where the toilet was. Sniffing, he winced, and chattered as he guided her to the bathroom. “It’s the people who keep to routine who seem to get caught by the Snarks.” Looking away as he lifted her nightie to nominally preserve her dignity, he sat her on the lavatory.

  “Marian’s got a promotion,” he said, realizing that today was a bad day—Beth could barely stand- and breaking off some of the cheap toilet paper. “We can eat meat four times a week.” And spoon-feed Auntie the left-overs the next day, as he would today, after washing and dressing her. Once, the Government had paid carers an allowance, before the pensioner’s numbers exploded and those of the carers dwindled. “I don’t know what her job involves,” he added. He had stopped asking; something clerical at the Department of Work and Pensions. It had needed a first-class Honours degree to get it, and he was grateful they were so lucky, if tired of feeling so useless. She often told him he shouldn’t resent the Official Secrets Act precluding her discussing it with him—that it kept him safe from the hardened criminals looking for information from partners such as him. “A shame Marian’s such a stickler for the rules,” he thought aloud as he turned Auntie around. “It’d be nice to have some bloody idea of what she does.”

  * * * *

  He pushed through the Jobcentre doors with a minute to spare for his interview -being late would have cost him a week’s money- then had to wait forty minutes to see his Benefit Provider; it gave him time to get his breath back. The pink and turquoise chairs had been gaudy when they were installed two years earlier, but now were as drab as before the last overhaul.

  From the jobcentre he took the new raised walkways across to the pharmacist, where he dropped in the prescription, proved that he was her proxy and signed that he would pick up the medicine the next day. All of which could have been done electronically, he thought sourly, but it filled up the day. But he had the rest of it to himself. He hummed a jazz revival of Every Time You Say Good-bye.

  * * * *

  Liv opened the door with a smile. “You took your time.”

  He kissed her. “I had to take a detour.”

  As they fell into bed, Thom told her about Auntie, and Liv’s face clouded. “If you moved in with me—” he hushed her with a finger to her lips. It was an old discussion. Liv’s parents had had to use every trick in the book to reduce the inheritance tax on the sixth-floor flat, but still, although it was all she would ever have, there wasn’t room for her, two boys and Thom and Auntie.

  They spent the next two hours in bed, though as the afternoon wore on and they dressed Liv slowly grew ever more tense, as she did every afternoon he’d spent with her; the school her sons attended took every precaution possible, using Thumpers to simulate footsteps but though attacks on buses were rare, they still happened from time to time—some of the Snarks seemed to be able to recognize the decoys as fakes.

  When the boys burst through the door Liv’s relief was as palpable as always. Thomas the younger son gave Thom a toothy grin, but Dan only grunted, doggedly showing no sign of friendliness -even after a year.

  “I’ll be going,” Thom said. She begged him to stay, but he shook his head. “I need to get home. Good little man must have the dinner waiting.”

  * * * *

  Rush hour usually brought with it increased Snark attacks though today’s trip home was uneventful. Thom noticed more people wearing respirators than usual, despite the air quality being much better than in summer. He asked Marian about it when she came through the door, pulling her own
mask off.

  “Been an outbreak of Blacktongue,” she said.

  While she ran a bath—she would soak in the water as if to wash away the stains of the day- he cooked vegetables to stretch the Lasagne further. “Good day?” He asked when she emerged from the bathroom, hair turbaned up with a towel, dressing-gown half undone, though it didn’t arouse him. He had to think of Liv on the few occasions when he and Marian made love.

  She didn’t answer, but retreated to the bedroom to dress.

  He shrugged. “I guess not, then.”

  They ate dinner in front of the television, Marian forking Lasagne into her mouth like a machine.

  Another evening passed almost silently with a woman he didn’t love but couldn’t leave, barely four miles away from the woman he loved but couldn’t afford to be with.

  He went to bed too early, pleading a headache. It wasn’t completely a lie; his limbs were aching.

  * * * *

  The prey are getting harder to catch; they wrap themselves in fast-moving metal boxes that taste foul and are often too quick to trap. Yesterday you caught two at once, an old one with a small furry thing that was barely a bite on its own but served as an appetizer for the main meal. Even had you been already full—rather than starving—it would have only satisfied you for a few days, though they are better than the morsels that flock through the spaces below. But you need to feed again, and soon.

  Dinner is moving around up there, you can sense them, share their feelings sometimes, smell their fear as they go about their lives.

  “Have you got any cash?” Thom asked. He could have stayed in bed, but sharing breakfast gave him company, and he sensed that Marian liked it.

  “Again?” Marian asked, though he sensed she secretly liked him asking. It gave her power.

  “I lost a bit on a dog yesterday.”

  “Oh, Thom, you’re not turning into a gambling addict?”

  He shrugged. He had actually given the money to Liv, who didn’t have enough to live on. He was finding it hard to think this morning so instead of replying, he just stared at her over the cereal.

  She gave him a fifty. “I should transfer it to your card.”

  “A lot of places don’t like taking cards,” he said.

  “Leaves too many traces,” she said with a nasty smile.

  “Not like they can’t tell where we are by tracking our phones, anyway.” They were the government, police, anyone in authority who formed an amorphous, resented mass in Thom’s mind.

  He studied Marian, tried to see her as she had been when he’d met her at Uni; before he’d got such a crap grade that he was unemployable and the laughter and sex had soured. Ten years on she had barely changed physically, though she dressed better and styled her hair regularly. The only real difference, he decided, was the permanent downtown in the corners of her mouth.

  “What?” She had looked up and caught him gazing at her.

  “Nothing much,” he said.

  She didn’t pursue it. Once she would have. Instead, she asked, “When are you going to see Auntie?”

  Before he could answer his mobi warbled. He stared at the caller-avatar in surprise before answering. “Amir,” he said to the cartoon Bollywood idol. “How you doing?”

  “Good, mate. Long time, eh?” Before Thom could reply, Amir added, voice so loud that Marian could probably hear every word. “I got a bit of a problem, and wondered if you could help me.”

  “Long as it’s legit,” Thom said, aware of Marian’s gaze. He grinned at her, and she raised her eyebrows with a smile.

  “Course, it is, man. I ain’t gonna offer you no Black, not with that Gauleiter Missus of yours.”

  Thom mouthed sorry at Marian and said, “She’s only civil service, mate.”

  “Might as well be the fecking Stasi, pal. They all the same; all talk-talk-talking to one another trying to drive us on-tre-pren-oors out of business. Listen, I got a man had an accident overnight, left me shorthanded. I’m doing the full eco-refit on an old terraced place in Bishopston. It’s only one day’s work, if my man turns back in tomorrow.”

  You mean, if you can get someone else to work on the Black, Thom thought. Cash in hand would never be driven out, not while men like Amir were around, despite all the government’s efforts, which had led some to complain that penalties for untaxed income were almost as bad as for murder. “You’ll need to make it worth my while,” Thom said. “They’ll dock me a day’s pay, plus I need to arrange a sitter for Auntie, and there’s the cost of getting there.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Amir said. “I’ll cover your dole plus a tenner plus the cost of the fare. Get the Bedminster mono across to Zetland Road and we’ll pick you up.” The line went dead.

  Marian smiled. “Looks like your day’s taken care of.”

  He felt absurdly cheerful. “Looks like it is.”

  * * * *

  It felt odd walking with Marian to the monorail station, changing his normal semi-random shuffle to her more ordinary pace. But while her walk was regular, she always thoroughly checked the route so that they avoided previous kill-sites.

  She and most of the rest of the crowded compartment left when they reached the City Centre. “I’m working late tonight.” She gave him a farewell peck.

  He had bought a Ten-journey card—it was only marginally more expensive than a return. “Just in case Amir’s man doesn’t turn up tomorrow,” he had explained to an amused Marian. With it burning a hole in his pocket, he toyed with the idea of sneaking off to meet Liv, or even riding the mono out to journey’s end at Filton for the sheer fun it, but he squashed both ideas.

  But as soon as he was alone he rang Marian, sans avatar.

  She also answered Bareface. “You’re up early.” She smiled.

  “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

  “Flannel merchant,” she said, her colour rising, but she could only half-hide her pleasure.

  “I’ve got a job.” He pulled an apologetic face. “Sorry.” He added, “It’s only for today, I think.”

  She said, “I can’t expect you to turn down work to see me. But if you keep doing it…” she raised an eyebrow in mock-threat. “What about Auntie Beth? Will Marian take care of her?”

  Will she bollocks, Thom thought. “No, she’s tied up. I’ll go across at lunch-time.”

  “Why don’t I visit her?” Liv said.

  “You sure? I don’t want to put you to any trouble….” It was an unexpected relief. He’d half-expected to not be able to call in on Auntie at all.

  “I wouldn’t offer if it was any trouble,” Liv said with a smile. “Where did you say you kept the key?”

  “Third brick below the doorbell,” he said. “You’re an angel.”

  * * * *

  When he descended the steps of the Zetland Road terminus Amir was waiting for him with four other men, two of them in the cab of a flat-bed, two more sitting in the back. Amir clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. The others nodded, but didn’t speak. They barely talked all day, except to ask for tools or help as they fitted the sleek black panels. Thom guessed that Amir had warned them that he was married to a civil servant and therefore suspect.

  The redbrick house was merely one in countless rows of bay-windowed Edwardian terraces with stained glass over the front door whose ground floor was now uninhabitable without Snark-proofing.

  Amir’s men had already covered the entire ground floor with a concrete-floored recycling tank into which flowed the run-off from dishwashers, washing machines, baths and showers while the water doubled as Snark-proofing. The conversion required the lounge to be moved up a floor and the bedrooms to the attic: Inevitably some space was lost, but it saved lives.

  “What you going to do with the tiles?” Thom asked Amir in the afternoon, as they stacked them in the flatbed while the others clamped the solar panels to roof joists in their place.

  “Sell ’em,” Amir said. “It’s added profit. You interested?”

  “Nah, thanks” Thom said
. “We’re panelled up with Solars.”

  As Thom finished stacking the tiles, Amir hefted the turbine, a compact version of those covering Windmill Hill. “We’ll fit this and we’re done - we made better time than I expected. Fancy a pint?”

  Thom weighed up how long it would take to Liv’s. “Not just yet,” he said. “I have something to do first.” He gave Amir a little wink.

  Amir grinned back. “That’s more like my old school-mate.” He clapped Thom on the shoulder. “I was beginning to worry that Marian was turning you into a saint.”

  * * * *

  The boys were at late-class as usual on Tuesdays so Thom was able to snatch a stolen hour with Liv. But too soon she was kissing him good-bye, fastening a shirt button that he had missed. “You ought to get Auntie to the Doctors. She didn’t look too good.”

  “Tomorrow,” he promised. As they kissed again, he groaned. “Oh can’t I stay?” He sang falsetto, “Just a little bit longer?”

  “You promised to meet Amir and the boys,” She said. “Go!”

  Riding back on the mono, Thom saw Marian. He was about to call out to her, but she looked so furtive that when she changed lines he instead followed her. She was dressed in a scruffy jacket without the Pashmina he had bought her for her last birthday, minus the make-up she normally needed to face the world and wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses -as a disguise, he guessed from her behaviour.

  She walked briskly to a large Georgian building facing an open square paved with flagstones, emerging an hour later in her usual clothes. He tailed her until he was sure that she was going home. Only then did he resume his journey.

  * * * *

  Next day was back to normal, though it was hard to adjust after a day of having some purpose, of making something. In fact, having worked even for one day made it harder to cope with his usual lack of a central purpose.

  “Did you have a good night?” Marian seemed to crunch her cereal with extra ferocity, but it was probably his hangover making it sound so loud.

  “Yep,” he said, and to forestall any complaints she may have made about drinking his earnings away added, “Amir was buying.”