Only Human

by Tom Holt

  The minder shook her head, making her earrings jangle. ‘We’ve got that taped,’ she said. ‘The animals for the photos’ll all be dead. You know, stuffed, cutened up a bit. We had the zoo people get some done for us. Lifelike dead, naturally. They’re very good at it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fraud nodded. ‘That’s all right, then.’ He leaned back, pleased with himself for having spotted the potential problem. Years ago, when he was still just another extremely wealthy lawyer, he’d heard it said that the key to statesmanship was attention to detail, and he’d taken it very much to heart. It was, as he saw it, his duty to the ineluctable upwards tide of history; a right fool he’d look if the manifest destiny of the nation was thwarted by a hyperactive incontinent hamster.

  ‘While we’re at it,’ he said, following through on the train of thought, ‘have a quiet word with the curator bloke, tell him we’ll sort out some funding for another furry animal thing, something I can come and open in five years’ time. Tell him if he calls it the Dermot Fraud Cuddly Animal Sanctuary he can be an earl or something. All right?’

  The minder nodded. ‘Will do. Right, we’re nearly there. Speech?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not completely helpless, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, I was just wondering what you thought about the endangered species bit. I wasn’t sure we’d hit quite the right . . .’

  ‘What?’ Fraud sat bolt upright, like Frankenstein’s monster in a thunderstorm. ‘What endangered species bit?’

  ‘The bit about making sure Britain’s in the vanguard of the fight to preserve endangered species,’ the minder replied anxiously. ‘You did see that bit, didn’t you? Only we’re using that as a feed for a Channel Four spot a fortnight Wednesday, so it’s quite important . . .’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake - here.’ He thrust the rolled-up script under the minder’s nose. ‘Highlighter pen, quickly. Dear God, woman, you’ll be a bloody endangered species if you pull another stunt like that one.’

  It was, Fraud reflected later, a tribute to his ability to stay calm in a crisis that in spite of the last-minute panic, when the moment came he delivered the endangered species bit absolutely flawlessly; almost, in fact, as if he’d thought of it himself. Really, it was a shame nobody’d ever know how well he’d coped, because it surely boded well for the future of the country. As it was, he’d excelled himself, picking up quite impromptu the fact that the little furry corpse he’d been given to cuddle - little rat-like chap with orange whiskers, reminded him of a judge he used to have lunch with occasionally - was a Tunisian vole, one of the endangered lot. As a result, they could use the photos for the trailers for the Channel Four thing in the TV magazines. Shrewd, he couldn’t help thinking, or what?

  The TV cameras had finished and the last few stills flashes were popping. He gave the dead rat a final surreptitious tweak (if he hadn’t been a statesman he’d have made a damn fine puppeteer), handed it back to the zoo bloke, waved a last fatherly wave and was about to head back to the car when—

  Quite probably, no one will ever know which of the thirty-seven animal rights groups who claimed they’d planted the bomb were the ones who actually did the job and put their hands in their pockets for the cost of Semtex, fuse, timing device, etc.; particularly since they all later denied responsibility when the full reports came through pointing out that they’d made a pig’s ear of their basic blast vector calculations; with the result that no people were hurt but the entire cuddly animal house was reduced to brick dust and a few fragments of limp fur. As the minder said to the zoo person in the ambulance, it is possible to make omelettes without shredding chickens, but it doesn’t make nearly such good television.

  The only semi-serious casualty, in fact, was Fraud himself; and it wasn’t the bomb per se that knocked him silly. What happened was that the bang made the minder drop her laptop, the tube of which ruptured with a sharp pop!; which in turn gave Fraud the impression that someone was shooting at him, sending him diving for cover and nutting himself on a low wall. It was nevertheless, as the minder was quick to point out, quite the best thing that could have happened to a struggling premier mid-term. The footage of Fraud being shoved into the meat wagon, the a nation’s vigil headlines with pictures of anxious crowds gathered outside the hospital (they’d actually come to hand in a petition about waiting lists, but the picture was sensational) - as far as the trade were concerned, it was the bomb that put Dermot Fraud back at the top of the opinion polls, no question about that. In fact, the only unhappy voices at party HQ were those of Fraud’s intended successors demanding of their minders why the hell they hadn’t had bombs of their own.

  Squeak.

  Dermot Fraud raised his head and twitched his whiskers. It was dark, and something was lying across his back, preventing him from moving.

  Squeak! Squeak squeak!

  No answer. He closed his eyes and fought back the panic. Somebody would come soon, surely; they couldn’t leave the Prime Minister of Great Britain lying trapped under a fallen telephone, scarcely able to move his tail . . .

  Huh?

  Review that. Highlight the motifs whiskers, tail, telephone and squeak.

  ‘Hold on,’ said a voice above him, ‘I’m coming. Just stay still, I’ll get to you as quick as I can.’

  Thank God for - no, wait a minute. What the voice had actually said, as opposed to the gist of the message which had filtered through to his brain, was Squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak.

  Something above his head moved, and a shaft of light broke through the gloom, revealing a pointed triangular head with round eyes, a pink nose and whiskers.

  ‘Got you,’ it said (freely translated). ‘Have you out of there in a jiffy. Don’t go away.’

  The head withdrew, leaving Fraud to reflect that he’d just been spoken to by, and perfectly understood, a large rat.

  No, not that sort of rat; the four-legged, plague-spreading kind, the sort that have the sense to leave sinking ships rather than try and get elected to run them. An actual rat.

  Bloody big rat, then; because its head was about the same size as mine. Just as well it seems like it’s on my side, really.

  A little dust fell on him, there was a sound of grunting and heaving, and quite suddenly he could move again. He rolled over on to his side, gasping for breath and scrabbling with his paws, as the rat shouldered aside the remaining debris.

  ‘Oh,’ it said. ‘One of you. Needn’t have bothered, need I?’

  Fraud scowled and bared his teeth. ‘God,’ he squeaked, ‘what is it with you people? I’m human too, you know.’

  The rat frowned. ‘No you’re not,’ it said, puzzled. ‘You’re a lemming.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Hence,’ the rat went on, checking Fraud for broken bones with the tip of its nose, ‘there not being much point in my rescuing you. After all, why should I risk putting my back out when as soon as you’re back on your feet you’ll be trotting round asking directions to the nearest clifftop? Anyway,’ it added, ‘for what it’s worth, you’ll do. Ironic, really. You and me the only survivors; I’m a burglar and you’re a ruddy lemming. It’s probably an allegory or something.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘And if you were thinking of saying it can’t be an allegory, they all live in the reptile house, then don’t. It’s been a long day and I still haven’t found anything to eat.’

  ‘Just a—’

  The rat sniffed. ‘Present company excepted,’ it added. ‘If I had half a brain, I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to pull you out of there. Still, that’s instinct for you. Guess it explains why we’re not the ones who live in houses and make cheese. Go on, shove off before I change my mind.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Did you just say lemming?’

  The rat nodded. ‘Did you get a bit of a bang on the head, then?’ it asked. ‘Here, how many paws am I holding up?’

  ‘No, listen.’ Fraud could feel panic tugging at his sleeve like a small child in need
of the lavatory. ‘I’m not a lemming. I’m the Prime Minister of Great Britain. You’ll have heard of me, my name’s Dermot Fraud. Dammit, I just opened this building, you must have seen—’

  ‘Nasty bang on the head,’ muttered the rat. ‘I think you’d better come home with me, get my wife to take a look at you. Fortunately we live underground, so if you do get the urge to jump out the window you won’t come to any harm.’

  ‘I . . .’ Fraud hesitated. A hundred times a day? A thousand? He had no idea how many times he said ‘I’ in the course of an ordinary day. Up till now, he’d always had a pretty good idea who it referred to. Now he wasn’t quite so sure. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he’d just imagined that ‘I’ referred to a keen, thrusting, ambitious politician, destined to be remembered as the light at the end of the tunnel of the twentieth century, when all along it had meant a small rodent with pale brown-spotted fur. Perhaps all the things he thought were memories were just hallucinations, caused by this bang on the head he’d apparently had. For the first time in his life, Dermot Fraud didn’t have an opinion; and it frightened him. Like all politicians (except maybe he’d never been a politician) he was used to having an opinion based on no evidence whatsoever, in the same way as fish, or Jesus Christ, are used to getting across the water without a boat. Now, for the first time (possibly, unless of course he really was a lemming dreaming he was the Prime Minister), he was examining the facts before making up his mind. And they weren’t even proper facts; proper facts come from TV and newspapers, the way proper food comes from the supermarket. All he had to go by was what his eyes and ears were telling him, and the cupboard-under-the-stairs mess that comprised his memory. Eeek!

  ‘Hey,’ he said feebly, as the nice rat helped him towards the mouth of its hole, ‘are you sure I’m not the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ replied the rat.

  ‘Ah.’ Fraud thought for a moment. ‘Why?’

  The rat twitched its whiskers. ‘Because if you had been,’ it said pleasantly, ‘I’d have left you there to die. Be reasonable. I may be a rat, but there are limits.’

  >DO YOU WANT THE GOOD NEWS?

  Kevin lifted his head out of his hands and looked up at the screen. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very much.’

  >THE GOOD NEWS IS, THERE’S STILL SOME THINGS

  YOU HAVEN’T MADE A COMPLETE PIG’S EAR OF.

  ‘Huh?’

  >SEVERAL OF THEM.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ Kevin growled. ‘Look, what about getting the communications back? Any progress?’

  >DEPENDS ON HOW YOU DEFINE IT, REALLY. I’M

  WORKING ON IT, CERTAINLY.

  ‘You are?’

  >OF COURSE. YOU’LL BE PLEASED TO KNOW I’VE

  GOT THE VENTILATION SYSTEM GOING, SO THERE’S

  NO DANGER OF USING UP ALL THE AIR AND SUFFOCATING.

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  >NOT REALLY. NOBODY ROUND HERE USES THE STUFF.

  STILL, IT’S A COMFORT TO KNOW IT’S THERE IF YOU

  EVER DID FIND A USE FOR IT.

  Kevin stood up. His knees were shaking a little. ‘That does it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to call Uncle Ghost. He’ll make you say what’s going on, and then perhaps we can get it sorted out.’

  >GOOD IDEA. I SUPPOSE.

  ‘What d’you mean, you suppose?’

  >FROM YOUR POINT OF VIEW, I MEAN. LIKE, IF THERE’S

  ANY LIFE-FORCE IN THIS REALITY CAPABLE OF

  MAKING A WORSE MESS OF THINGS THAN YOU’VE

  JUST DONE, IT’S YOUR UNCLE GHOST. I’M JUST NOT

  SURE THAT’S WHAT’D BE BEST FOR THE COSMOS AS

  A WHOLE. SORRY, DON’T TAKE ANY NOTICE, JUST

  THINKING ALOUD, REALLY.

  Kevin sagged like a punctured water-bed and flumped back into the chair. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Look, isn’t there anything you can do to speed up getting the phones back on line?’

  >NOT REALLY. YOU SEE, SINCE THE SYSTEM’S

  DESIGNED TO BE OPERATED BY OMNIPOTENT

  PERSONNEL ONLY, NOBODY’S EVER GIVEN ANY

  THOUGHT ABOUT HOW TO GO ABOUT MENDING

  IT IF YOU’RE NOT OMNISCIENT. LIKE THE LIGHT

  SWITCHES.

  Kevin nodded, acknowledging the validity of the comparison. There are no light switches in Heaven; to make the lights come on, you say Let there be light, and there is.

  ‘I know.’ Kevin’s eyes lit up. ‘What about Uncle Nick? He’d know what to do.’

  The computer didn’t answer; a telling enough comment in itself. Originally the franchisee, then Dad’s business partner, now (following the management buy-out) nominally captain of his own ship, Uncle Nick’s relationship with the family and the whole of Topside was uneasy at best. There had always been that little niggling aggravation on his part; that, just because he wasn’t Family, no matter how good he was at his job he’d never really be accepted as an equal, One of Us. Even now, the golden share clause in the buy-out agreement meant that his independence was largely illusory, since he couldn’t take major policy decisions without the family’s approval (as witness the awful row when he’d wanted to redevelop Purgatory as a health club and fitness centre, and Dad wouldn’t let him). A good man, they all agreed, one of the best; but not really a team player. And besides, what could he do? Try and make things better? That’d be like trying to heat your bath by dumping the electric fire in it, or asking a lawyer to help you solve a problem.

  Kevin was just coming to terms with that when there was a knock at the door. Once he’d finished jumping out of his skin, he got up and opened the door a crack.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s only you.’

  It was, indeed, only Martha, doing her morning round with the tea trolley. Kevin relaxed.

  ‘You got any empty cups in there?’ she asked. ‘Your dad, he’s a terror for collecting empty cups.’

  Kevin shook his head. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘not meaning to be rude, but would you mind, because we’ve got a bit of a crisis here and . . .’

  He hesitated.

  Well, why not?

  Yes, but . . .

  True, Martha was just - well, the char, the skivvy; the nice, cheerful old bat who came round with the tea, washed the cups, flicked around with a feather duster now and again (there is, of course, no dust in Heaven; but actually having someone dust the place makes it seem cleaner, somehow) and generally made Heaven feel more homely. A bit like having a chimney in a centrally heated house; completely unnecessary, but it improves the ambience.

  She was also the closest thing Kevin had ever had to a mother. Back in the misty dawn of pretheology, it had been Martha who’d taught him to tie his shoelaces and brush his teeth, who’d ordered him to tidy his room and eat up his nice carrots, who’d tucked him up at night and read him a story.Yes, when you came down to it she was only a servant; but he was Kevin Christ, younger begotten son, by definition the most useless sentient being in the entire Universe.

  ‘Actually,’ he said.

  She was also the only person in the Universe who called him Kevin; not ‘Son’ or ‘Our Kid’ or ‘Kiddo’; she called him by his proper name. More than that. She was fond of him; not because he was the son of God, but because he was Kevin, who used to show her the little misshapen Adams and Eves he’d made out of Plasticine.

  Not that there was anything she could do. She couldn’t even begin to understand the problem, being only a servant. But just telling someone would be a start.

  ‘I haven’t got all day, you know,’ she said. ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No. I mean . . .’ Kevin took a deep breath. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I’ve done something to the computer, and everything’s going wrong, and I can’t phone Dad and I don’t know what to do.’ His lower lip wobbled. He sniffed. Martha reached up her sleeve and gave him a piece of crumpled tissue.

  ‘First things first,’ she said. ‘Blow your nose.’

  ‘Yes, but Martha—’

  ‘Blow your n
ose. And then,’ she added, as Kevin made a faint honking noise, like a Fiat horn, ‘we’ll have a look at this computer of yours and see what we can do.’

  The machine—

  Neville—

  No, because I’m not either of them any more. Leonardo, then. No, still not right.

  Ah, right. Got it.

  Len. I shall be Len, Short for Leonardo. And Lengine. Sorry, where were we?

  Len turned on the light and looked around. So this was where Neville lived. What a mess.

  But never mind, not important. First things first; some chemical fuel and basic maintenance work, then we can get down to business.

  This involved eating and drinking, going to the lavatory and having a bath, and, to his great relief, Len found he knew how to do them. The basic hard-disk memory was still there, so he was able to find the fridge, cut a sandwich, et cetera. He couldn’t help thinking that there was almost unlimited scope for improved efficiency in pretty well all departments - these people can put a man on the Moon but they still wipe their bottoms with bits of hand-held tissue paper - but that’d keep till another day. His first priority was to rob a factory.

  For which he’d need a few bits and pieces: scaffolding pipe, an arc welder, some quarter-inch plate, couple of yards of three-eighths rod, a bench drill, a set of taps and dies, a lorry, just the basics really. Nothing you wouldn’t expect to find in any normal human being’s garage.

  Except that Neville lived in a flat and parked his motorbike in the street. He did have a hammer, a jam-jar full of pesetas and a tin-opener, but that was about it. Damn, Len muttered. Everywhere you look, new problems.

  So, step one, substep one, acquire basic equipment. Humans, he noted, acquire things by theft, serendipity or purchase, the latter being the most socially acceptable method.