End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity)

by David S. Wellhauser

  “What’s this? Runaway from the pens?”

  “This one is new. Look at the way he’s dressed—and he had this.” Quiet voices he could not make out.

  “Okay—get a picture and pass it on to Intelligence.” At this Matt stirred, but there was a stabbing pain in his leg and this time he did lose consciousness.

  ***

  A sharp, blunt pain broke through the black sleep and consciousness snapped back, but unclearly. There was a slap and a voice came in loud and hard. “Wake up.” Another slap. “Wake up, you sonofabitch!” Matt knew the voice.

  “You would know ‘bout that.” A hard kick to his abdomen and his stomach surrendered. “Hi, mom.” Matt smiled through the convulsions.

  “You are not my son!” Shea shouted, slapping him again. “After Edwards, you’re nothing to me.”

  “Would but that were true.” A hard, but pliant, object struck him on the head. It hurt, but he wasn’t stunned by the blow. As he moved to look up, Feargal realised his hands and legs were free. As another of the blows headed his way he grabbed the spongy tentacle, but inside there was something hard and unyielding—segmented bone? There’d been an evolution in the woman’s physiology since Salt’s cabin—there, though strong, the tentacles had not appeared to have an endoskeleton. With eyes focusing, he could see on the ends of these what looked like the beginnings of a gripping mechanism, crossed with a rudimentary foot. Though this wasn’t simian in nature it appeared, in time, this could do a considerable amount of damage. For the moment he thought it might be arachnid, but those used scopulae—tiny hairs—for climbing walls. There were none of these on the pinkish-grey organs.

  Nonetheless, they were getting increasingly powerful and Shea had become far more adept at their use. Even as he held this one, two more slammed his chest back down onto the floor, while the first was wrenched from his grip. The musculature in these was significant. No further blows followed, so he took the opportunity to see what had changed in the woman. There were now six tentacles, though they did not appear to have gripping suckers as he had expected. These all appeared to be attached to the Meta’s back on or near the spine. Over the years her eyes had gone from an amber-brown to a yellow gold and become very narrow and long. The seam was a purplish-red and appeared to be loosely held together. Much of the woman’s body had either dwindled or become exaggerated—her cup had gone from a C to an A; her legs had become both increasingly slender and muscular, as had her arms; the nails on the woman’s feet, now exposed, and hands were flint in colour—appearing virtual talons.

  There were a few other alterations as well—most notably his mother’s forehead had risen and the hairline receded. This exposed 25% more of her skull. Shea’s hair, though, remained dun, wavy and thick; it had grown much longer in the intervening years—down to the small of her back. The albino flesh had made this more dramatic than it had been in life. There, he thought it. Life—the woman, to his mind, was no longer alive. No longer the woman who’d raised him. For all of her faults, rage, depravity, abuse, and, at the bottom of it all, fear she had been recognisably his—and he hers. What stood before him now was only a shadow of this; the rest was mind-numbing rage. The fear, then, was still there, but what this inhabited was an alien sarcophagus housing the ruined shell of the woman’s identity. Thanks, Pop.

  As Shea seemed about ready to strike him again there was a long flash of blond hair and another voice he recognised. “Stop—the Master will want him alive.”

  “But its death has been ordered?” An acquiescing grumble from the sordid mutation. Here he wondered if she had been experimented on in the manner Patrick Wilson had, but for a variant aesthetic affect.

  “Still, Master Botrous will want to see him now the boy has been taken. There may still be—uses.” Shea smiled at the emphasis Hannah had put on the last. Turning back to her erstwhile son the woman’s smile climbed high in her face, but there was no pleasure in this—at best it seemed a great and continuous malignancy, born from the rupture of the species. Matt did what he could with a glamorous wink, but this, he feared, communicated his fear better than any grovelling might have.

  The fear was real and Shea and Hannah appeared to recognise this in the glamour. If Shea’s look was triumphant, there was something sad to the point of tenderness from the younger Meta. Hannah had not altered in the way Shea had. Her hair was still blonde, only wavier, and down to her waist. The woman’s eyes were the most dramatic. The sclera of these had gone from white to a cobalt blue—again a popular Meta colour. The irises, nonetheless, had maintained their hard, Ukrainian blue—with a delicate webbing of red blood vessels which did not make them appear angry, but, rather, provocative. Her seam was a delicate line down the centre of her face and of a light, purplish hue. Her breasts, as Shea’s, had been reduced, but they were at least a B and attractive. Matt was certain she’d notice the impact on him because her smile softened.

  On seeing this, his mother renewed the attack, but Hannah pulled her off him again with the threat of Zakara’s anger. This seemed to cut through her anger and the woman appeared genuinely terrified. Feargal was not surprised by the fear—all he had seen of his father, or whatever was wearing his skin, seemed to reinforce this. If it hadn’t been for China and Leonor, Matt would have experienced the same fear. As it was, all he feared was not being able to save them—this did not make him brave so much as focused. With that thought Matt spoke up. “Where’s Leonor?” The mother offered another malignancy.

  “Monterrey—being prepared.”

  “You’re her grandmother.”

  “At least you did that much right.”

  “Protect her.” He pleaded.

  “Her sacrifice is necessary—now more than ever.”

  “What...you mean the change?” Hannah nodded at that and spoke up when Shea did not seem prepared to do so.

  “The change has frightened some and inspired others. The Master said it was a sign from the Cinn—but I don’t believe he knows why it has happened.” With that his mother struggled with the blond, screaming sacrilege.

  The two women tussled a moment, but Hannah was no match for Shea and the younger took a significant smack down. Once Burda had surrendered, covering face and head and curling into a foetal ball, Feargal’s mother slowly relented until, spent, she folded her arms about the younger and wept. Matt was certain this had not been something he’d been meant to have seen and tried his best not to by laying back, turning his head away, and closing his eyes—attempting to find sleep again. When most needing this sleep would not come, so he lay there listening to the pair weep and murmur indistinctly. Following this, there was a heavy silence caressed by the occasionally stuttering intake of breath.

  This ended abruptly as Shea, with the meaty thwack of her supplementary appendages, rose from the supine Burda. “The Master,” the older woman’s voice thick and low, “needs to be told we have the human.” Same Ferengi twist as the H+ Metas threw down on the noun. “You stay here and watch him—if he escapes it will be on you. Understand?” Burda murmured something unintelligible and Shea left, as she passed him, Matt saw the baleful look. There was no love lost there any longer. His mother now wanted him and his daughter dead. He for failing to transform and Leonor as the sacrifice necessary for bringing the Cinn into this world, and because of the pain it would cause him. In all probability it would be more for the latter than the former.

  ***

  Matt lay where he was, not moving. This would be the time, if he wanted out there would be no moment better than now with the rage in Hannah, towards Shea, making her vulnerable. But he didn’t move—Cynthia was still out there and she knew what needed doing; Jonah was down in Monterrey, or thereabouts, and he knew what needed doing; then there was Zakara. Matt had to see him again—to finish, if he could, whatever was going on between the two of them. As he waited and hoped everyone else would play their part, Hannah stirred. “You okay?” Asking without looking over at her.

  “Far from the worst I’
ve received.” At this he rose on an elbow. “Your mother has a temper and what Edwards did to you has tainted her, as far as Master Botrous is concerned. Others have followed his lead and Shea’s position has been rapidly declining. Her only hold on power is Leonor. If this works with Leonor then her position will be restored”

  “If.”

  “There are a few things which have R&D concerned. They,” Burda went on to explain, “are the ones that convinced the Master that she could pull it off—but the cost would be...”

  “Extinction.”

  “Yes—not just dead but extinguished.” As Hannah rose, gingerly, Matt could see she was in more pain than she let on. “Part of your mother and Master Botrous are happy with that bit.” As he looked over sharply she continued. “They want revenge for what you had Edwards do to you and what you’ve been doing to us all these years.”

  “Pissed a few people off?” A bark of cynical laughter escaped the woman.

  “You know they all want you dead now—especially the Master?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “You’ve become too dangerous—even with that genetic material you’re carrying about.”

  “What do you want?” As she checked her wounds—nothing more than a few bumps and bruises.

  “To turn the clock back six years.”

  “I don’t know, poppet. Your situation wasn’t good back home—you were going nowhere and had become self-destructive.”

  “Yes.” Sitting on a swivel chair, gingerly, to examine the scraped back of a calf. “Better than here—you saw what she did to me, and that was gentle.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sterile—that’s why I didn’t get pregnant with you that time.”

  “Least you’re not breeding stock—that’s something.”

  “That leaves me good for but one thing—whoring.”

  “What do you...?”

  “Botrous,” it was the first time she’d spoken disrespectfully of Zakara and there was venom tipping the words, “has put me in his harem—we’re all sterile. It’s what he prefers.”

  “Why can’t you conceive?” He’d rather not think what Shaitan was getting up to with the women. As with most children, Matt had a healthy disinterest in his parents’ sexuality.

  “The transformation sometimes does that to people—men too.”

  “I’m sorry.” He genuinely was that, because it seemed as though the woman wanted a family from the tone of her voice—least she had wanted his child. Feargal supposed that was for the status it would bring—even if that meant sacrificing her child, as Leonor was about to be. With this realisation, he, again, wished she had conceived back in Dilmun—if that had happened he now would be with China and Leonor. So the world changed—he’d still have his family.

  Matt was well aware how selfish and destructive the sentiment was, but it was a truth most would recognise and, privately, sympathise with. “I could have ended up worse.”

  “Well...”

  “You don’t know what they do to those rendered infertile.” Her jaw jutted out in the way it did when she was looking for a fight. Feargal remember those nights in her basement apartment all those years ago. At the time all he wanted was for her to want him, in the way he’d wanted her—later to be free of her, Shea, and Dilmun—short of this for her to stop using him. This flashed in and out of his mind as the woman spoke; when she’d finished he understood a response would be needed.

  “What?”

  “You’ve seen the valley, the Thin Men, the Houyhnhnms, the cockroaches.” He nodded and understood.

  “Punishment?”

  “Sometimes, but, mostly, if they cannot reproduce—create new Metas—then they are deemed of no value.”

  “So, Patrick Wilson...”

  “No value and a lot more trouble than he was worth. Wilson considered his wealth, position, and power had value in the Master’s world. It didn’t.”

  “Patrick was sterile?”

  “Worse—he was uppity.” The adjective had a historical sensibility which Hannah, he was certain, would not understand—at least she’d not be conscious of. Though the use of this fed into his perspective on what the Metas were to the Cinn, and especially Shaitan.

  “Causing trouble then is equal to sterility?”

  “If your father has to deal with it. In the beginning, however, he’d been very useful and Wilson’s contacts were of particular value. But once the Master had these,” she’d, Matt noticed, returned to the respectful term as though she’d reasserted control of herself, “and his wealth then Patrick cease being of value and began to become, with his attitude and sense of entitlement, an impediment.”

  “Bet it took little time for Zakara to determine what to do with him?”

  “Not much,” standing she came over and sat next to him and began to put a balm on his wrists which had been cut by the zap straps, “and so he was one of the first Thin Men. The first of the successful transformations.”

  “The others?” The balm cooled and soothed his wrists.

  “The forest.” Putting the cap back on the tube.

  “What of afterwards?”

  “Patrick?” He nodded. “He was more helpful afterwards—as though the transformation had neutered him. In a way I believe it does everyone. Those who come through here,” referring to the R&D complex, “are never the same again.”

  “Not just changed?”

  “Yes, afterwards they are the Master’s creatures—utterly devoted.”

  “What does devoted mean?”

  “I’m not,” placing a hand on his upper arm, when Matt didn’t pull back she placed her head on his shoulder, “exactly certain. We’re not allowed near anyone who works here and they keep to themselves, so no one really knows what happens. Though it is supposed there is a combination of genetic manipulations—that’s obvious enough—combined with some form of psychological deconstruction. Whether this is done at the genetic level or with drugs and programming no one is certain. Most expend a lot of energy trying to stay out of this place, and not pissing your father off.”

  “He’s a temper?”

  “It is much more than that. Over the last couple of years it has come to seem as though he is no longer the man whom recruited us in Dilmun. Some feel the pressure has changed him, but others believe it is because he carries the leader of the Cinn in him.”

  “You’ve heard of that?” This was something he supposed not many, or any, knew of.

  “Yes, many of those who’ve been with him since, or before, Dilmun know—or suspect. Things have been mentioned on occasion and after Blaine he had a bit of a slip. He was very upset with you.” This she cooed. Hannah’s technique had developed some since their last encounter, but not all that much. On the other side of that, it did not matter since she was sterile—supposedly. Even if she wasn’t, Matt’s concern for the moment was to gather Intelligence and give Cynthia enough time—he hoped—to do what needed doing. What happened in another six years was of no concern to him. If he couldn’t stop Monterrey it didn’t much matter what happened any longer. This wasn’t what China would want to hear, but it was how he felt.

  “Seems pop has always been upset with me.” He allowed her to unbutton the middle of his shirt and slip her long fingers in with their sharp tipped nails. She turned these on to his nipple with expert care.

  “Is it true?”

  “What?” Question little more than a murmur.

  “That he cannot harm you?”

  “Not with his magic.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the woman as he revealed the secret he had not thought would have been one. Then, the idea Zakara was not all powerful would have greatly diminished his hold over the Meta—even the Transhumanists and H+. There was something here he could use against his father. Matt didn’t really think of him as that any longer, but the habit remained. Part of him would like to think he could separate the one from the other, but even as he considered this he knew it would not be possible. No matter what Fe
argal might think of Halton now, this much he believed him about.

  As Hannah’s hand slipped down toward his abdomen two of Matt’s shirt buttons popped, with this the woman slipped her mouth over his and Feargal, needing her to relax and trust him, allowed himself to be pushed back. Straddling him, mouth pressed tighter to his—and the tongue more expert than he remembered, the woman pulled her shirt open, tearing the buttons on this. Burda’s flare for the dramatic hadn’t eased with the years. With her pelvis grinding into his there was a slip he’d only ever felt with one other. In the slip the division between self and other faded and he could feel their selves flood one into the other. Even if he’d wanted to, he could not have stopped this.

  “Whore!—get off him!” Shea shrieked from the door, and Hannah was slammed against the wall by the tentacles. When these released her, the woman slipped to the floor. If she were conscious it was only just.

  “Mom...” But he never finished as another of the supplements lashed out at him. Having expected this he ducked in time and rolled behind a heavy Metal table.

  “She’s mine!—Master Botrous gave it to me!” With his history of the woman still fresh in the man’s mind Matt was surprised. “Besides, the Master is particular who gets you.” From the safety of the table Feargal watched his mother brutally beat Hannah.

  Spent, Shea leaned over the bleeding Hannah and cradled her head and shoulders in her arms. The saurian supplements fixed to her spine wound about the rest of Burda and picked her up. At this the woman’s eyes fluttered open—Hannah cringed from the woman and turned to Matt. There was a beseeching look in these, but the man wasn’t about to get involved with what was going on. For the moment his concern was whether or not Hannah had dug deep enough to pull out Cynthia; he supposed not, but couldn’t be certain this was the case. Besides, Matt needed to see his father and he was certain Shea yet remained in control, even if this were a black rage founded in sexual jealousy.