The first personnel disaster occurred when a new team of Rat security guards arrived. The newly hired receptionist suffered hysterics when she found herself surrounded by ten Rats, all speaking fluent English, dressed in finely tailored uniforms, and carrying a range of firearms. New Mice had found a new demand, and Rats were lining up for new, fashionable clothing, while the Rat military had discovered firearms. “We are the new security guards,” the lead Rat had explained. “We will live in; the basement has been designed and furnished for us.”
The receptionist, Joseph’s personal assistant, and the doorman all handed in their notice that same day. Other staff seemed either unaware of or complacent about the nature of the new security team. The housekeeper-cook volunteered to arrange food orders for the new guards, who planned to do their own cooking, and she also welcomed another team of Rats tasked with maintaining and cleaning the building.
Joseph decided that in future all job applicants should see either security guards or maintenance Rats before their interview with him. Such encounters were staged as accidental. One or two putative recruits almost immediately decided they were at the wrong address; others simply ignored the presence of Rats, as though their presence was entirely a normal situation for them. Undoubtedly various television programs about Rats—especially those produced by the new Rat media company—were starting to influence humans. Additionally, Joseph was reminded of experiments where subjects were shown videos and asked to identify anything unusual as they watched; a majority of test subjects displayed a form of inattentional blindness, for example ignoring a large gorilla in an unexpected context while concentrating on other events. Undoubtedly, he thought, as humans observed more and more Rats on the City streets they would become more accepted by Londoners.
Eventually the build-up of staff began to reflect the structure Joseph was seeking; he had Rats and humans functioning and working together to keep the building and his embryonic Institute running smoothly. Now he was ready to recruit technical people. The first task, he thought, would be for his research team to produce a detailed assessment of both Rats and Mice, building a baseline against which their future evolutionary advances could be measured. Another research task which he regarded as critical was an exploration of the factors which had created the aggressive Rat intolerance in Cats. He kept adding to his list of research needs; he wanted to measure evolutionary advances occurring in humans, and also to examine the current structure of the PCN nanites; he was convinced that over the years, subtle and perhaps not so subtle changes had occurred in the underlying nanite material. Finally, he wanted to support the Rat’s public relations company, ensuring favourable publicity and treatment of New Rats and Mice. Yes, he concluded, he had enough to do and enough to challenge a team of researchers.
***
Chapter 8
Young Sam was an independent youngling, small for a New Rat, although he was almost knee-high to a human. Though he had not yet reached his final growth spurt, he was far taller than an old rat. One week after he had turned three, old enough to commence senior school with others of his birth group, he woke early in the morning and decided to leave the Nest. He did not regard this as a major decision; he did not take days of careful deliberation to reach it. Sam took only seconds to decide, and only minutes to prepare. He packed his small collection of rabbit cards into his small backpack, washed behind his ears, slipped on his sandals, gathered up his short sword—which was really a very sharp steak knife—and donned his protective leather and Kevlon waistcoat. Then he clipped a very small cell phone with its charger to his belt and added a bag of dried apple slices to his backpack. Finally he tugged a leather cap over his ears in case it rained or was cold, hefted his backpack onto his back and was ready to go.
Sam had explored the world outside the Nest a number of times and had been disciplined for missing many classes as a result of his unauthorized absences. However, his punishments had not stopped his wanderings. As a result, he now knew every street, alley, and lane within a half day of walking from the Nest, and also knew to avoid the areas where protesters and refugees camped, even now, five years after the Great Food Riots. Those riots had devastated London when protestors destroyed much of central London and suburbs north, burning building and vehicles, injuring and killing many innocent people as they waged their war against authority. Their motives were difficult to assess, their excuse was to protest food rationing, and the results were death and destruction. The food shortages had been caused by droughts and floods across England and Europe, while the commencement of the North American Ice Age had removed that continent as a major supplier of food to the world. The Eastern Bloc countries were not interested in trade outside their immediate borders, Australia was in the middle of a decade or more of drought conditions, and South America was barely self-sufficient, compounding the shortages.
Major riots had broken out in London, Newcastle, and Leeds, and spread across England. The rioters had declared rationing and other restrictions were denying their basic rights, and their destructive activities were almost mindless in their violent lack of focus. London had suffered more than most cities, and still bore physical scars of destroyed buildings; the protestors still had encampments in Regents Park through to and beyond Hampstead Heath, and in other northern London areas.
At last Sam set out, without telling any of the seniors of his plans to experience the world; he did not leave a note, because New Rats are very self-sufficient. Besides, he did not know what to write. He crossed over Chelsea Bridge and walked along Chelsea Embankment. He then idled along familiar streets, almost without direction, enjoying his outing. Later in the morning, near Chelsea Park Gardens, he spied a rubbish bin on a street corner and after checking that the bin was clean, he decided it would make a very good, if perhaps temporary, home. He climbed inside and worked industriously, sorting the contents and throwing away scraps he did not want, pushing them out through the opening at the top as he prepared to settle down for a well-earned rest. He was not concerned that he was re-distributing the rubbish which people, humans, had carefully tidied away. If ever you walk past a rubbish bin and wonder why the candy wrapper you tried to flick into the bin curved its trajectory and bounced onto the pavement, it probably is because there is a young Rat inside, rejecting those items he does not need. Empty candy wrappers have little appeal to brave young Rats who are on their first adventure.
At last Sam was satisfied with his tidy-up, so he removed his waistcoat and hung it on a rusty rivet. He sat down to unpack his backpack, whistling softly to himself, happy with his new home. Suddenly an empty plastic bottle and a bundle of candy wrappers tumbled down onto his head.
He scurried up the inside wall of the rubbish bin and stuck his head out. “Hey!” he shouted. “Stop throwing your rubbish in here.”
A small human face peered back at him. “Why not?” it asked. “This is a rubbish bin, and that was rubbish.”
Sam was somewhat perplexed. “It couldn’t be,” he muttered, “and anyway, this now is my home.”
“No, it’s not,” asserted the young face, not at all discomfited to be holding a conversation with a Rat; he had seen them on television. “The sign on the side of the bin says Refuse. Rubbish goes into bins labelled Refuse. Everyone knows that.”
Sam climbed out further, prepared to debate this point. Sam’s reading ability had not progressed as far as it should, which might be why he was unhappy with the idea of attending senior school. He had thought the sign said “Re use”, and had been planning on doing just so, confident the solid construction of the bin would serve him well. He perched on the top of the bin and peered down at the letters on the side. “Are you sure?” he said, trying to read the word again from his upside down position.
The young boy was scornful. “Can’t you read? Look, it spells r –e –f –u –s–e, refuse. Although the ‘f’ is scratched a bit, anyone could tell it is a rubbish bin. They are all over London, and people put rubbish into them.” He pushed ano
ther handful of candy wrappers into the opening. “Just like that.”
“Hold on,” protested Sam. “Hold on. This is my home you’re filling up with your rubbish. Find somewhere else to put it.” He climbed back down inside and re-appeared, dragging the plastic bottle. “Here, take this.” He thrust the empty container back at the young human.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“Hey, you can talk,” the young boy exclaimed in belated surprise. “I thought rats only talked on television!” He had recently watched a number of television documentaries featuring Rats, often focusing on their growing intelligence and abilities.
“Humph,” snorted Sam. “You may know about rubbish bins, but they’re not the entire world, you know.”
“I know a lot more. I am almost eight, and I think eight is very old,” asserted the young boy. “And I go to school every day.”
“School?” queried Sam, instantly alert. “You have school, too? What do you learn?”
“Stuff. All kinds of stuff,” replied the young boy. “Look, I’ll show you some of my ebooks, and you can see.” Neither Sam nor the young boy noticed the sparkling dust which drifted from Sam onto the boy as Sam climbed down the side of the rubbish bin.
They spent the next twenty minutes or so looking at the contents of school-supplied ebooks, lecture notes, and exercise sheets from the young boy’s backpack and in so doing gradually spread themselves and the papers across the pavement. Sam had by now learned his new companion’s name was Freddie and they were totally oblivious to passers-by and the fact they were almost blocking the footpath. Then, abruptly, Freddie jumped up and started to re-pack his belongings.
“I’m late. I should be back—they’ll wonder where I am,” he tried to explain. “It was lunch break, and it’s almost over. Quick, I need to hurry back to school, help me put everything back into my backpack.”
It was quickly done. Then, on the spur of the moment, Freddie added Sam and his belongings to his burden and headed back to his school in a rush, while Sam peered from the top of his new friend’s backpack, bouncing as Freddie hurried along. He reached the school gates just as the end of break bell was ringing.
“Thank goodness,” he said over his shoulder to Sam. “The teachers were meeting and it has only just ended. They were planning a strike, I think.”
“A strike?” asked Sam. “Are you at war?”
“No, don’t be silly,” chided Freddie as he rushed along the corridor to his classroom, joining the throng of older children heading in the same direction. “The teachers want more money, and some teachers want to stop work to force the issue.”
“That is silly,” countered Sam. “It doesn’t make sense to stop work for more money. It makes sense to do more work for more money. Are you sure you know what you’re talking about?”
“Shhh,” cautioned Freddie as he entered his schoolroom. “Don’t talk now, or we’ll get into trouble.”
Freddie made his way to his small desk, set his backpack beside the chair and sat down, ready for his lesson. Sam sniffed and twitched his whiskers. The sounds and smells surrounding him were exciting. He identified fresh apple in the welcoming odours, and his stomach rumbled, reminding him he had missed lunch. He decided it might be more prudent to eat some of his apple slices instead of searching for the apple which was calling out to him. He sniffed, turned upside down and burrowed down into Freddie’s backpack, searching for his own dried apple slices.
Time passed. Sam slept. Freddie attended diligently to his lessons. At last Sam, refreshed, raised his head out of Freddie’s pack. He climbed up the side of the chair and stuck his head under Freddie’s arm and carefully examined Freddie’s desk. It looked just like his own desk, except it was larger and had more papers scattered around.
“What are you doing,” he asked, as he combed his whiskers
“Shhh,” urged Freddie in an urgent whisper. “Don’t let Miss Gilbert see you. She’ll have a fit. I don’t think she likes animals.”
Sam’s interest was piqued. “Animals? Where?” He looked around, unaware he was attracting the attention of other students in the classroom.
One of the girls giggled. One of the boys whispered. “Look, Freddie has a rat.” The statement caused a louder ruction as the older boys and girls near Freddie turned and stared at Sam, while others strained to see what the commotion was about. It was like a row of dominos falling over, until inevitably the last falling domino reached Miss Gilbert.
Miss Gilbert belonged to the old school. Strict and stern, she ruled her class with a rod of iron. However, most of the time it was with a long wooden ruler, which now she snapped smartly on her desk; the noise echoing around the room, stilling the older students. She struggled to her feet, age and weight fighting against her actions as she stood, one hand resting on the desk, the other grasping the ruler. She frowned as she peered through her glasses at her class.
“Freddie Jones,” she identified the miscreant. “So it’s you, again. What do you have there?”
“I told you to stay quiet,” Freddie chastised Sam in a whisper. “Get back into my backpack, quickly.” Then, louder. “Sorry, Miss Gilbert. Nothing, Miss Gilbert.”
“Come to me. Bring your pack to me, now.”
“Yes, Miss Gilbert.”
Freddie packed up his notes and stepped forward, watched by his silent and sympathetic peers, all of whom were probably thinking they were glad they were not in Freddie’s shoes. As usual, they felt sorry for Freddie and because he was the youngest and smallest member of the class, they more often than not regarded him as their class mascot, someone to be protected. This time there was nothing they could do. Freddie lifted his school pack and placed it on the desk in front of Miss Gilbert. Sam listened, his nose and whiskers twitching, while he watched from under a corner of the flap.
“Well, young man. Explain yourself.”
“I—I was just sitting there, Miss. I didn’t do anything.”
“Lies will get you nowhere.” She snapped the ruler against the desk, again, impressed with the feeling of power it gave her. The noise made young Sam jump. “You know the penalty for disrupting class, don’t you?”
The young Rat pushed his head out from under the flap. He was not going to permit a friend of his to be falsely accused. “Freddie’s not telling lies,” he explained. “It was me—I was just looking around the room.”
Miss Gilbert dropped her ruler and screamed. Two of the more nervous school girls echoed her, just to be safe. The rest of the students looked on with avid interest.
“An animal. An animal in class. Oh dear, oh dear.”
She fanned her face with her free hand. Sam checked the schoolroom, searching again for the animal everyone kept talking about. Freddie chewed his fingernail. Only later would Miss Gilbert wonder at a talking rat; for now, she was overwhelmed at its presence. Even later, she would convince herself she was completely mistaken, the rat had not spoken, she had been in a state of shock brought on by the presence of an animal in the school room.
“Go. Go to the headmaster’s office. Here, take everything with you. Tell Mr. Greepinshaw you are to be sent home for disrupting the class.” She urged young Freddie from the room, from her sight. He sighed and picked up his belongings and slowly left the room.
Freddie lectured Sam on the way home. “You can stay with me, but you’ll need to be careful. Keep to my room unless everyone is out, or you can visit my Uncle’s workshop, but don’t let him or my Mum see you. They just won’t understand. You see, they may know rats can talk, but they haven’t met any, and they will probably panic and claim you’re an animal, too.”
“Can I go to school with you?”
“No—you saw what happened with Miss Gilbert, and Old Creepy won’t understand, either.”
“Old Creepy?”
“You know, Greepinshaw. The headmaster. We all call him Old Creepy.”
“Oh.” Sam dismissed the issue, as he wanted to focus on more important things. “Ca
n I read your ebooks? And your homework?”
“Oh yes,” agreed Freddie. “We can do my homework together. Also I have a computer we can use.”
“A computer? All to yourself? Connected to the Net?” Sam was jumping up and down with so much excitement his cap fell down over his eyes. He straightened it up as he continued to jump up and down. Computers were very popular in the Nest, and computer time was carefully scheduled so all Rats had an opportunity to access the Net, or to play games, or to do programming, or send emails, or research homework. The list was exhausting, and sometimes so was Sam, thought Freddie.
“Yes, yes,” affirmed Freddie. “Now hide away in my pack and don’t show yourself whatever happens, or I’ll be in trouble, understand? Uncle Charles will be relaxed about my having to report to the headmaster, but Mum may be a bit annoyed with me.” He went on to explain to Sam how his father had been caught up in the Great Food Riots when he, Freddie, was only two years old. His father had tried to protect the bakery where he was employed as master baker; however, the rioters had overwhelmed him in a violent assault, and he had not survived his injuries. “Then, when I was about five, Uncle Charles moved in to keep Mum company. He’s not really my uncle, though.”
Freddie’s punishment was to mow the lawn for a month. He had expected worse and was relieved. Uncle Charles smiled his sympathy and his mother pretended not to notice the exchange. At last, Freddie was able to go to his room where he unpacked his class notes and worksheets and Sam recovered his back pack.
“Sam, you can sleep in the bottom drawer.” He pointed to a chest of drawers positioned across a corner of his room. “It will be easy for you to get into it. I have some old clothes we can use to make it into a comfortable bed.”
Sam dropped his pack, removed his cap and jacket, placed them carefully in a tidy heap and looked around. He ignored the overflowing bookshelves—for Freddie enjoyed reading paper books as well as ebooks—and did not notice the toys and puzzles; he was interested in only one thing. “Where is your computer?”
Shen Ark: Departure Page 6