Unnatural Selection

by Tim Lebbon

  He only wished they could do something about their drainage.

  And today the water did not seem quite so inviting as normal. Not with a thirty-foot alligator prowling the city.

  Abe was riding in a police motor launch, crossing the choppy waters of the Grand Canal, and trying to ignore the stares of the two uniformed policemen accompanying him. The detective, Marini, was different. He could accept Abe's peculiarities, having already worked with another strange guy — Hellboy — on a case back in 1992. "Yeah, the old 'feces in the floor' case," Hellboy had said when Abe mentioned the detectives name. "That was a fun one. Never did catch that ghost." He had warned Abe to watch out for Marini's bad jokes, but so far the detective had been very quiet and subdued.

  Abe stared unblinking at the two young officers until they looked away. He could always beat a human in a staring contest.

  "And how many times has it been seen?" he asked.

  "At least twenty times before yesterday," Marini said. "And then yesterday the incident near the Rialto Bridge, and there were dozens of witnesses. That poor woman ... the German ambassador is already turning it into a diplomatic incident."

  "He's blaming your government for a giant alligator?"

  "The woman was his niece. At present, he only has an arm to send home for his sister to bury. I can understand the man's heightened emotions."

  "Hmm," Abe said. "Quite."

  The boat skipped from wave to wave, hull thudding with each impact, and Abe suddenly wondered how easy it would be for an alligator thirty feet long to tip them over. But this was a city built on water, it survived through water, and the first thing he had noticed upon his arrival was that the canals were as busy with traffic as ever. They could let this freak occurrence cripple them as a city, or they could defy it. So far, defiance seemed to be working.

  "How is Hellboy?" Marini asked.

  "Moody as ever," Abe said.

  Marini lit up. "Ahh, not moody, Mr. Sapien. Deep. That's a very different thing. Hellboy has depths, I'm sure you know, and he frequently spends time trying to plumb them. That's where his moodiness comes from. That and the fact that there are no Italian shoes that fit him." He laughed at his own joke.

  "He did tell me to beware of your sense of humor," Abe said.

  "Did he really?" Marini shook his head and spoke quickly to his officers in Italian, still laughing. They smiled nervously, glancing at Abe as if he were about to bite their faces off. "Well, did he tell you about the time I painted an L and an R on his horns while he slept?"

  Abe shook his head, aghast. "And you're still alive?" If Marini were telling the truth, he was lucky still to be in ownership of all four limbs.

  The detective waved a hand, guffawed, then shook his head and looked down. "We only worked together for a couple of weeks, but we had much in common. I, too, never knew my parents."

  I know how you feel Abe almost said, but he let it lie.

  The launch powered down and nudged roughly against the dock. The young policemen jumped up and secured the mooring lines, then stepped back and watched in fascination as Abe went ashore. Marini finally seemed to lose his temper with his subordinates. He fired a few harsh-sounding words at them, and they scampered off, ducking into the nearby police station and letting the door drift shut behind them.

  "Forgive them," Marini said.

  Abe raised one webbed hand and smiled. "Of course. I can hardly blame them."

  "Now, to business. We will consult the incident map inside. I've plotted the location of every sighting, investigated possible hiding places, and from all that I think we can decide where would be the best place — "

  "I think right here," Abe said. He had turned away from the detective to see what was causing a commotion out on the lagoon. A gaily painted tourist barge seemed to be floating at the whim of the tide, drifting sideways with the waves, and shadows and shapes waved and danced on deck. Screams of fright and pain came their way. Balancing on the edge of the boat, head thrashing from side to side, mouth filled with tourist, was the largest lizard Abe had ever seen.

  * * *

  "But what can you do?" Marini asked. Abe was perched on the edge of the dock, webbed feet just inches from the tips of the waves. The screams continued from across the water, and now he could hear the splashes of people leaping into the lagoon. Bad move. The alligator would love that, and if he didn't do something soon, then Marini would spend the time between now and his retirement pulling body parts out of Venice's canals.

  "I'm not sure yet," Abe said, "but I have to try something. You have guns in there?" He nodded back at the police station.

  "Of course." Marini pulled out his revolver.

  "No," Abe said. "Big guns."

  "Yes."

  "Get them." Before Marini could say more, Abe launched himself into the Venetian waters.

  As ever, he relished those first few seconds of immersion. He breathed in deep, aware of the tang of pollution in the water but enjoying the feeling of his gills opening and closing. This was really breathing. The water was murky and filled with muck, but no more so than the air up there. This muck was more visible, that was all. He kicked out and started swimming.

  He could hear the sounds of the alligator attack. The human screams were muffled but louder than they had been above water. There were more than one. He could hear the frantic kicking and slapping at the water's surface as people tried to swim away and the calmer, more contented thump, thump of the alligator's great tail. Abe could also sense the grind of its jaws and the crunch of bones, and that was not good news. Lets hope this one isn't an ambassadors niece, he thought, but immediately berated himself. He'd been claiming for years that Hellboy's dry humor was rubbing off on him.

  Abe struck out for the alligator. He kicked with his feet, pushed with his hands, slid through the water. Instinct steered him when sight could not; there was only a vague glow of daylight above him, and below and to the side the water was cloudy with oil and filth. He could barely see his hands when they swept out in front of him.

  Instinct also judged his distance, and when he thought he was close to the tumult — the sounds were louder, the vibrations of violence stronger in the water — he surfaced.

  He looked ahead first. The alligator was still propped on the side of the barge — good for him, bad for the tourists. The monster's small front legs were hooked over the gunwale, its weight tipping the vessel and making its remaining occupants slide toward its thrashing jaws. Blood smeared the deck. A few rags hung from the lizard's fist-sized teeth, the only remnants of the woman Abe had heard screaming from the shore. He turned in the water. Detective Marini was already jumping into the launch with his two staring officers, all three carrying something big and gray and nasty-looking.

  Good. Abe would only have to keep this thing occupied for a couple of minutes, at most.

  He ducked under and swam deep, passing beneath the alligator's swaying tail and hindquarters and pausing underneath the barge for a few seconds to check the situation. To his left Abe could see the dangling legs of the tourists who had flung themselves into the water. They hung there as if embedded in the lagoons pale gray ceiling, some of them swimming away, many more simply doing their best to tread water. One or two were in trouble, but others seemed to be helping them for now. Abe's main concern was to his right: the staggering bulk of the alligator.

  Its stomach was as wide as most creatures of this sort were long. Its rear legs were as long as a man was tall and tipped with claws that could rip Abe to shreds. Its hide was warty and thick, and Abe had no idea just what he could do to draw its attention.

  Something scratched his foot. Abe looked down, and for once he gave thanks for humans' disregard for their environment. An old bicycle, wheelless and rusted, protruded from the lagoon bed beneath him. Death by bike, he thought, and the words were in his old red friend's voice. Abe could already imagine the conversation they would have over this one.

  He could hear the buzz of the police launch app
roaching now. The alligator, consumed by its feeding frenzy, appeared not to have heard, and Abe wanted to keep it that way. He grabbed the bike, kicked away from the lagoon bed, and gave thanks when it plopped from the silt. No time to think. He turned and kicked out for the lizard, metal frame held out in front of him, rusted ragged and sharp, and a second before he struck the beast, Abe thought, Not enough momentum, won't even scratch it.

  He was right. The frame sank into the belly of the beast, stretching its hide, and sprang straight back out.

  Abe floated there for a second, wondering what the hell to do now, and then the alligator slipped from the boat and sank down to his level.

  Its head was the size of a small car.

  Oh crap, Abe thought, and he vowed to spend less time around Hellboy.

  The alligator was incredibly fast for its size. It twisted in the water, bringing its wide mouth around to gulp him in, jaws opening, teeth ragged with torn flesh and snagged clothing. Abe dropped the bike and struck upward, passing just over the tip of the monster's snout, surfacing briefly before diving back down. Marini and his men had arrived and were taking aim, and it couldn't be soon enough for Abe.

  No gunshots. His brief appearance must have confused them, and now they were holding back in case they hit him. Shoot shoot shoot, he thought, kicking hard and slinking beneath the hull of the barge. But the alligator followed, and within seconds Abe had led it to the other side of the barge, out of Marini's line of fire ... and straight into the area of dangling legs. He felt it chasing him, the great pressure wave of water pushed ahead of it setting the webbing between his toes vibrating, and he knew that he had maybe seconds in which to act.

  He spread his fingers and toes and stopped dead in the water. Turned. Kicked out at the shadow bearing down on him. The impact sent him spinning, but he felt the grumble of pain from the lizard as his foot glanced from its nose and scraped across its eyes. His kick had been lucky, and maybe he would not find that luck the next time. He struck upward and, with two powerful strokes, broke surface. He held onto the side of the barge for a couple of seconds until he felt the pressure wave of the alligator rising toward him, then hauled himself up onto the boat.

  An immensely fat woman with purple hair and wearing a bright yellow dress screamed, and Abe screamed back.

  Water erupted behind him and then settled again, and he closed his eyes, relieved that the gator had not simply come up out of the lagoon for him. It had tried to second-guess him, as he had hoped ... but he was way ahead.

  "Detective! Get ready!" Abe shouted as he crossed the barge, almost slipping in the bloody mess on the deck. Marini and his men aimed down at the water on their side, Marini glancing up nervously at him.

  This was make or break.

  Abe grabbed up the remains of one of the dead tourists — a bloody torso minus limbs and head — and lobbed it into the lagoon between the barge and the police launch.

  A second later the alligator rose up and clasped the torso in its jaws, probably wondering why it did not taste fish-man flesh.

  "Marini!" Abe shouted, but there was no need.

  Marini and his men fired. The reports were tremendous, sounding over the water and echoing back from the surrounding buildings. Five shots each, six, and by the time the alligator sank out of sight, the echoes were crossing each other. One of the men continued firing until his rifle clicked on an empty chamber, and Marini had to press the man's arms down gently. The young officer was crying. He looked up at Abe and this time did not look away. Perhaps having faced the monster, he could recognize humanity when he saw it.

  Abe nodded, and the man returned the gesture.

  "Do you think we got it?" Marini shouted. "Is it over?"

  The echoes of gunshots faded away, but the fat lady still screamed.

  "Ask her to sing instead of screaming in my ear, and it will be."

  Venice. Abe Sapiens favorite city. Damn.

  * * *

  Air Crash Investigation Center, Lausanne, Switzerland — 1979

  "IT'S A PREDICTION more than anything," Richard Blake said. "The Book of Ways was written so long ago that Zahid de Lainree obviously couldn't have been specific, but he's quite clear in the implications." He and his brother sat on the hillside overlooking the acres of hangars and smaller buildings. Lake Geneva glittered in the distance, and the air was crisp, cool, and clear. And still. Waiting for something to happen. Richard had the Book of Ways opened on his lap, his hands shading it from the sun. Such old parchment, so brittle, found exposure inimical.

  "So there's no way of saying for sure that they're the cause of every crash?" Galileo Blake said. "And it's all just supposition anyway?"

  "No way at all. And yes, it's prediction and supposition on de Lainree's part. But why is that a problem? We've been chasing myths for years, and what are they if not supposition written down or passed on through word of mouth?"

  Gal leaned back, raised his face to the sun, and sighed. "Nobody likes a smart-ass."

  Richard ignored him and scanned the page of the Book of Ways. He closed his eyes and muttered a spell of course, and when he looked again, the words seemed to have altered. They led this way instead of that, said one thing and not another, and Richard smiled as he started relaying the relevant information to Gal.

  "Small spirits, and minor," he said, "and yet possessed of flesh and blood and bone. Helpful to most, merely mischievous to others, they know the way of metals and powers, the stretch of tools and the magic of fixings. Their pleasure is in building, and in helping humans discover new ways and means. This manner may continue, and it may not ... though if the humans disregard the spirits and claim their own inventions, the spirits may rise up. Mischievous will become nasty, creativity will give way to persistent deconstruction, and the humans will live to regret their ignorance and arrogance."

  "Sounds about right," Gal said. He leaned over and stared at the page Richard was examining. The parchment was almost bare but for three curving lines, each spanning a different axis. At their center was what looked like an image of the sun. It glowed. "It says all that there?" he asked.

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "Looks like a lot of lines to me."

  "That's why I read, and you send. I'm the brain, and you're the muscle." He grinned at his brother and rolled aside to escape the playful punch he knew would come.

  "Let's go, then," Gal said, standing and brushing down his trousers. "No time like the present. And we haven't sent the old man anything in a while."

  "He liked the dragons tooth," Richard said. "That was a real treat for him."

  Gal grinned as he started walking down the hillside. "And it'll be a real treat for someone else, too," he said. "Such a treat."

  * * *

  From Egypt the feather of a phoenix, from England a dragons tooth, and now in Switzerland they sought something else entirely. They had not seen their father for four years, and yet they felt closer to him than ever.

  When they were children, he had not been there. Benedict Blake — great scientist, philosopher, explorer of arcane mysteries, environmentalist, and naturalist — had never been a great father. Their mother brought them up and protected them, and she often told them what a wonderful man their father was. But not to them. For Richard and Steven — as a boy, he had not found cause to change his name, for he had not yet been wronged — Blake was simply an absence in their lives. He lectured around the world and wrote books and articles, but he had never once spent a Sunday afternoon in their back garden playing football, drinking lemonade, and planning the long walk they would take that evening. He had never ventured into the woods with them to help them dam a stream, or grabbed a kite and run into the wind out on the moor, or sat with them on either side of him while he read a bedtime story or listened to them talk about their school day. He was a great man wrapped up in his greatness, and it squeezed out true time. They watched him waste his life when he should have been living it. And their mother, beautiful and mournful, was as sa
d as they.

  And then the fire, and the murder and accusations, and for the first time in their lives, their father had looked after them. They had run, and while on the run, he told them what he wanted to do. How he wanted to seek vengeance. And he gave them both something very special before sending them on their way, something that, in retrospect, did not surprise them one little bit.

  He gave them magic.

  * * *

  The site was not especially well protected. There was a security fence, but something had burrowed beneath one section of it long ago — a fox or a dog — and Gal and Richard managed to squirm their way underneath. They paused while Richard cast a spell of haze at a couple of security cameras, waiting for a few minutes for the enchantment to take effect. When the lenses of the cameras whitened with cataracts, the brothers hurried across the open ground, coming to a standstill up against the closest hangar. They looked around, waiting for the shout or whistle that would signify their being sighted, but all was silent.

  The air was still, as if nature held its breath. Perhaps soon it would. When they had collected everything their father needed, maybe then the whole world would hold its breath. And when Benedict Blake had finished with it, the planet would start to breathe itself clean once again. That's how Richard and Gal thought of it; they were helping the earth to clear its lungs. Humanity was the bad habit, and the planet needed to give it up.

  The hangar was huge. They had to scamper around its perimeter for a while until they found an open door, but once inside, the scale of the enclosure became apparent. It was at least the size of a football field, the ceiling maybe a hundred feet high, and the open space it created was unhindered by columns or supports. At its center sat the charred remains of a passenger jet. The aircraft had plunged into the Alps a week before, killing more than a hundred people. If only the investigators could reassemble those lives so easily ... but they did what they thought was the next best thing. Found out what went wrong, and why.