by Kris Schnee
Sala was still obviously an animal running alongside him on four hooves that kicked up the sand. "It's not so bad, is it?"
It wasn't, so far, but Tom was still trying to wrap his mind around the thought of becoming one. Foyle, and other people he'd talked to, had said he'd stay bipedal and humanoid, so there was no danger of becoming a wild animal... supposedly. The company didn't exactly give him a strong impression of safety and trustworthiness. Tom wasn't sure which part of the change was the most startling. "How am I ever going to get back to my normal life?"
"I hear they have little disguise gadgets you can wear, to look human."
That was something, anyway. After they went inside and had a drink at the cafeteria (turning some heads when Sala trotted in and knocked over a table), Tom bugged the Customer Support department. It turned out to have a cyborg on duty tonight who promised him help with "corrected documentation" and if necessary, "discreet relocation services".
That night Tom woke up from a dream of running across the savanna to discover that the nanite-induced alterations were flowing around his hips, nudging them wider, and that he was rapidly becoming a complete mare. He stared in fascination at his changing body until sleep took him again and he dreamed of stallions.
* * *
He woke up, stretched, bounced, and went wide awake. He staggered up to his feet and noticed he was standing tiptoe. The striped hair only reached down to his thighs but it was getting tough to lay his feet flat on the floor already. Hooves were on the way, it seemed.
A box was sitting just outside Tom's room when the door whooshed open. In it was a black jogging bra and a note from Sala, saying, "I hear these are comfortable when gals exercise. Looking forward to seeing you again!"
Tom blushed as he figured out how to put the thing on under his shirt. It really was helpful not to feel himself jiggle with each step. He supposed he'd end up as a near-twin of Sala once they'd both finished changing. Herdmates, she'd said. Sounded like fun.
For someone who'd spent her whole life as a wild animal before becoming a test subject, Sala was fun to be around. She was a quick learner who'd demanded a bunch of science books as part of Tom's attempt to lean on the company for compensation, and they'd already had a long conversation yesterday about genetics. It was going to be a shame to be done with this unintentional volunteer period and part ways, leaving Sala to do whatever it was the company had planned for her.
They met up for lunch. Sala was grumbling and bandaged from going through several medical tests. "Can you understand me?" she said. The computer she wore to translate her grunts into speech was turned off.
Tom ruffled the zebra's ears with his hoof-fingers. "You're making progress! Still sounding rough though."
"They said I'll improve." Sala's throat hadn't fully changed, so she was still half nickering and snorting when she spoke. "And look!" She reared up on her hindlegs, showing off how her forelegs could now waggle to either side like arms. Each one ended in a hoof that had split into the beginnings of fingers. Sala lost her balance after a few seconds and fell back over onto all fours, making the floor ring with the impact.
"It's just getting to your hips, I guess, to give you an upright stance."
Sala nodded. "Can't quite walk like you, yet. Ooh, you're getting hooves?" She peered down at Tom's feet. He'd given up on wearing shoes and was going around in socks, standing on his toes. They were starting to click with each step and his toenails felt bigger.
He said, "Soon. What do you want to do today?" Something flicked at the base of Tom's spine; his tail was starting to grow in.
"Science!"
"Science," Tom said. "Well, there's a lab building educational products on the third floor."
It turned out to be one of Genetech's better ideas: an elaborate virtual reality theater where they could do all kinds of practice experiments from baking-soda volcanoes to smashing asteroids into planets. Since Sala didn't have proper hands yet, Tom had to use some of the controls for her, and had to learn for himself how to work with fewer fingers. They spent hours together talking about stars and atoms and Genetech's desert colonization work. (The projects in that sub-department ranged from building more efficient irrigation systems, to turning people into lizardmen.) The two of them were doing the company a favor by testing the theater out before its commercial release.
By the end of their session Tom had trouble wearing the VR goggles. Sala had her own custom set but Tom's were made for a human face, and he was starting to grow a long equine muzzle. Even his teeth felt different, gradually smoothing out into flat grindy things. "I need a cheeseburger while I'm still confident I can eat it," he said.
Sala grinned. "Don't worry about your stomach. I tried one already and it was great. But let's go get some burgers anyway."
* * *
That evening once the researchers were done messing with Sala for the day, Tom and Sala met up for a run. They were outside the complex on a fine dry track, just two zebra-folk trying to help each other walk on two legs.
Sala was gorgeous tonight. The hot wind blew through her mane and tail. She leaned against a greenhouse wall, obviously still having some trouble on two hooves, and smiled at Tom. "You look stunned." Her voice had gotten smoother too, a nice deep tone. She'd even started wearing shorts, which he supposed were all Sala needed in public until her chest finished changing.
Tom stammered an apology. When had he started thinking of Sala as a person instead of just a clever animal? Really, the answer was, before they even met. "Want to run?"
They did. Or staggered, anyway. Tom's coordination was shot, what with walking on what amounted to one big toe per foot. He soon gave up on the socks and set his hooves free to thud along the sand. His tail blew straight backward with his two-legged galloping and tickled him whenever he stopped for breath. Sala needed a lot of help too, since she was still trying to master standing up.
"Whoa!" said Sala, wobbling and flailing her arms in a way no wild zebra could.
Tom hurried to her side to steady her. Sala was still pretty brawny for a human of her height, but the stripes helped disguise that. Tom had kept a lot of muscle on his own new female frame, maybe thanks to the equine genes. He flicked his big ears and balanced carefully. "These long legs are like stilts."
"Yeah. Having four was easier. Hey, check out the moon!"
A big full moon was on the horizon, white on the black sky. After staring at it for a while, Tom noticed he was standing comfortably, at last. His ropy little tail was idle instead of trying futilely to help him balance. Slowly he let his arms drop and leaned against Sala.
"It's like this on the savanna, some nights."
"Same way north in Montana." He looked into Sala's big, dark eyes. It felt like he was looking slightly upward what with the muzzle in the middle of his vision. "Are you going back to Africa?"
"I don't know. I should stay here a while, and get used to living like a human. The researchers are saying we might both be worth keeping around as employees."
Tom twitched his tail, thinking about the possibility. It'd certainly be warmer here than back home, and the company had plenty of exciting (and/or terrifying) things to work on. It'd also help with fitting in among humans, although it sounded like Genetech was about to make a lot of strange technology public so that people like him wouldn't be too shocking. He could be part of that life and have Sala around for it. "Thanks for making contact with me. The zebra thing isn't too bad."
"You're thanking me? I owe you my hands, my voice, my —" She gave a nickering laugh and a snort.
"What?"
Sala grinned and balanced her hooves carefully on the sand, then wrapped her arms around him in a powerful hug. "I think that cell sample you provided had a few side effects. Try out that big nose of yours, former human guy."
Tom sniffed the other zebra, and got a whiff of a powerful earthy scent, registering somehow as deep, strong, manly... His gaze drifted down toward Sala's shorts.
Sala saw his e
xpression and gave him an equine slurp on the nose, and a quick human kiss. "Yep."
"Huh? When did — you didn't tell me —" Sala had let go of him and started running away, stumbling and laughing while Tom sputtered. "Get back here and explain, stallion! I'm telling your doctor!"
Sala led him in a chase all around the Genetech complex. A herd of two galloped through the desert by moonlight, starting out their life together.
Doom Of the Pun-Mage
Eamon wandered in search of adventure, but right now his quest was for beer and a bed. He deserved a break after slaying a third-rate dragon for a sackful of copper. A smell of kelp and fish led him to a peaceful seaside town — a welcome change from Chamberpot City's air! Still, Eamon's backpack hurt his shoulders, and swords and potion-bottles clattered on his belt. No inns in sight. Two buildings stood out from the huts: a giant clamshell with doors, and an overgrown sandcastle.
The castle wasn't nearly large enough to be a real fortress; it was more of a mansion. He walked around its walls of sand and glass, admiring the intricate knotwork sculpted into the columns. How had it been built? The front doorway's glass-bead curtain clacked in the seabreeze.
"Hello?" Eamon called out, and stepped inside. The room's main light was a gleaming coil of silver inside a fountain. Water burbled and splashed from inside the spiral, coming from nowhere. There had to be enchantment involved.
"Do you like it?" asked a voice from upstairs. "I was tired of fetching water last winter, so I used this spring to prepare a light refreshment."
Eamon's brow furrowed with the feeling that something was wrong about this place. He looked up and found a pale man coming down to greet him. The castle's owner wore a vest of many pockets over his tunic, which held a quill and a blue leather notebook.
"Is this the inn?" asked Eamon. His traveling gear was crushing his shoulders.
"An inn? No, this is a magic shop." With a wave he indicated shelves of odd toys and a counter covered with gadgets. Then he leaned forward to peer at Eamon. "Hey, you're one of those wandering adventurers!"
Eamon nodded. It was only afternoon, but bed or no bed, he was about five minutes from collapsing.
"Well, we're into April, so let me show you..." The man ran off in mid-sentence to fetch a piece of fruit from a pantry. To Eamon's surprise, he hurled it towards a corner of the room! The fruit splattered, but the fragments swirled and stretched until there was a big rectangular shape lying there instead, with sheets and a pillow.
Eamon stared. "Nice spell! But what sort of wizard attaches an instant shelter effect to food?"
The spell-dealer smiled. "It's not an ordinary shelter spell. It's a very specific one. An April-cot."
"Not your standard, useful chromatic magic then."
At this the man reared his head back and tugged officiously at his vest, looking offended. "Sir, my enchantments are useful. You've come to the shop of none other than Klamath the Pun-Mage!"
Eamon only blinked, unimpressed. "Huh," said the wizard. "I thought I was better-known."
Eamon yawned and looked away, vaguely embarrassed for him. "That's nice, O wizard. I notice that I have coins, and you have a cot."
The mage nodded. "For an adventurer, of course I do! I can even warp the cot upstairs if you'd like. This is a harbor village, so a tele-port effect works well. Don't try stealing anything though."
Eamon shoved his adventuring gear beneath the cot and flopped onto it, mumbling, "I'm not that dumb." Not after the time he had to spend a week as a rabbit.
* * *
When he woke he was in a different room, one cluttered with burlap sacks of grain and dried flowers. He stood up worriedly and found his possessions where he'd left them, beneath the soft mattress. A bead-curtain clacked against his hand. Beyond it he saw the main castle room with its fountain.
He yawned, tugged at his wrinkled tunic, and froze. Klamath was talking to — something. There were two figures in front of him. Flowery shirts worn by shapes that seemed made of crashing water in human form. Elementals? Eamon reached for his dagger in case there was trouble.
It was hard to hear what was going on, over the burble of the fountain and the sloshing of the water-men. Eamon waited a moment. Soon he saw the creatures turn and leave through the sandcastle's front entrance. He put his knife away, approached Klamath, and asked, "What were those?"
Klamath shrugged. "They collect ingredients for me along the beach, and help me run the castle's sand-bar. I made them from the tide."
Eamon said, "So you're a water-mage as well as a fruit-mage?"
"Pun-mage, I said. Mine is a versatile field, ripe with possibilities." He tilted his head, thinking. "Especially when produce is involved."
Eamon's eyes narrowed. "I've never heard of this. How did you create those water-men if you're not a water specialist?"
Klamath said, "I said, they're made of tide. They're my serfs."
At least Eamon had gotten a good — he looked outside and saw it was early morning — sixteen hours' sleep before having to listen to this man again. "I could use a drink and you mentioned a bar. Have you got anything... normal?"
Klamath went behind a counter that was made entirely of compressed sand, and brought out a crudely-made glass bottle. "Try this one on the house." It bounced several times to jump over toward Eamon.
Eamon muttered, "Hops," and drank. It was decent beer, and cold, and that was all he could ask for right now. "Thanks. So, you do this stuff all the time on purpose?"
"Of course!" said the wizard. "Wordplay is my main source of power."
Eamon folded his arms. "That's just nonsense. Wizards use crystals, talismans, maybe corpses. Things like that."
"But why not words?" asked Klamath. "Here, look." He tossed Eamon a couple of little blue cubes.
Eamon looked at the things and saw dots on them. "Dice?" He rolled one on the nearby countertop, got a five, and suddenly felt a chill in the air.
"D'ice," said Klamath. "Handy to have with you — that's now set to five degrees of cooling, for five hours. A n'ice thing to have when exploring a volcano, yes?"
"Hmm. That could actually be useful." And he did have coins to spare.
Klamath was already rummaging through the shop's drawers to show off other things. "Or how about this, in the same vein — a V'hat, the headgear that holds ten gallons of hot soup without burning your head? Or a Mane-Gauche, a dagger hidden invisibly in your hair? Or this stylish red Capable, tripling your odds against stampeding ungulates?"
Eamon said, "Those sound... weak."
Klamath paused in the middle of his sales pitch, looking deflated. "Well, yes. The power of the enchantment depends on how complex the underlying wordplay is. I could explain the full origin of this sandcastle, but then you'd have to kill me."
Now Eamon couldn't help trying to figure it out. "There are knot designs on the outside, on the columns..." Klamath raised an eyebrow encouragingly, and Eamon said with a scowl, "It's supported... by the tied?"
"That's a key part of it. Excellent! You can appreciate the potential of my skills, then."
"So, what — you just come up with the words, and the enchantment suddenly works?"
Klamath shook his head. "My technique is a supplement to traditional magery, not a replacement. The pun itself is only a trigger, usually setting off long hours of preparation by more normal wizardly methods. Sometimes by accident."
"I see. And you make your living this way."
"Yes. I have some investments" — he tugged at his vest — "or hedge funds, from working as the local hedge-wizard. That is, a solver of problems in needlessly complicated ways. But it doesn't pay as well as you'd think, and I'm still fending off loans from my education."
Eamon looked skeptically at him. "Someone taught you to do this?"
"Not exactly," Klamath said with a sheepish downcast look. "I was studying a traditional set of wizard skills when I stumbled across the punnish arts, and was thrown out after writing a hex improperly."
"What, was the school that strict?"
"Strictness wasn't the problem. You see, it was destiny that I would be hex-spelled."
Eamon groaned.
Klamath reminisced. "Then I transferred to Roak Island Thaumaturgy, but repeated my mistake and accidentally hexed the whole landmass. I was hex-isled."
"Stop that."
"After that, I tried teaching at Midgard University. I was banished for trying to breed big, rideable versions of some flightless birds that lived there."
Eamon held up a hand. "No, don't tell me."
"I was formally ostrich-sized."
"No, really, stop it!"
Klamath sighed. "I'm sorry; I get carried away. I've suffered for my art, you see."
As did everyone else, thought Eamon. He went back to the storeroom and found his bag of cash. Maybe buying something would distract the wizard from any more truly bad explanations. "Listen. Your work is obviously... powerful, and I could use some extra enchantments in my travels."
Klamath's eyes lit up. "You want me to come with you?"
"Oh. Well." Eamon scratched his head, looking aside. "See, I'd love to bring you along, but I'm meeting up with three others in a tavern next week and you can only have four in a group. Union rules."
Klamath straightened and tried to look mighty. He might pass as a lion among accountants. "Where are you going? Maybe I could tag along for a spell."
"I don't quite know yet, but it's bound to be dangerous. High-level stuff. Nasty creatures."
"Oh, I can do creature-control work! Just last winter there was an invasion of furious sea otters. I threw my own name at them in a way that multiplied a feast of clams, piscifying their ottrage, and then got them to help the fishermen with their boats. I schooled them in anchor management."
Eamon stood there with his jaw hanging slightly open. "That must've been a mighty enchantment."
Klamath shrugged modestly. "Underwater work tends to leave me feeling down and under pressure."