Be that as it may, we can only imagine the surprise of the murderers when they discovered that Dr Chandra Kalk was not in fact an impostor, but a fully formed autogenetic male! If the killers had seen the mouth in Kalk's stomach prior to their vicious act, perhaps they would have shown mercy. We shall never know.
The twisted logic that led the professor to pretend to be human for so many years has been the subject of much debate. It may well be that only by doing so could he overcome the prejudice that allows only 5 per cent of Autogens to enter the scientific community, despite their natural ability in that area. Perhaps some other factors, psychological for instance (from which Autogens are known to suffer more than most), can be blamed for his dissemblance. Whatever, it certainly explains his success at pretending to be one of their kind during his research!
Did he, I wonder, try to 'be himself' at the final moment? Or was the professor so lost in the layers of disguise by then that he could not find his way out in time?
The final pretence concerns his work itself. The Perfumed Machine, a book which established in the public's mind the exotic lifestyle of the Autogens, has now been shown to be a tapestry of lies.
Was this, finally, the cause of the murderous revenge? That Kalk had made a vast fortune out of nothing more than his own twisted imagination?
Here then, are the facts: Autogens are capable of three different kinds of reproductive activity, each of which leads to a different kind of offspring. The first (which Kalk freely admitted to) is a rudimentary copy of the human sexual practice, where a male and a female between them create a child. Following the natural process, this baby receives half its genes from one parent, half from the other. This technique is used in times of affluence, when prospects allow for the nurturing of a long childhood.
The second type of reproduction (which Kalk merely hinted at) is used more in times of slow economic growth. This is the autogenetic process in its purest form. The female of the species reproduces without the need of the male. This produces a child more or less identical to the parent, one who very quickly (a matter of four years or less) grows to full maturity. These offspring are always female, and can be 'stacked up' in the womb; that is, a foetus may already have a foetus of its own inside it, and so on, down to an undiscovered break-off point.
The final type of reproduction (of which Kalk said nothing) is concerned with the so-called stomach-mouths in relation to which the Autogens suffer their greatest prejudice. It seems that the purely human will always be disgusted by this aspect of autogenetic physiology, and not without reason. The female has a male mouth in her stomach, the male a female one. Each mouth has a tongue, sometimes known to be over eight inches long, and a rudimentary set of teeth. Kalk claimed that the act of 'kissing stomachs' is merely an intimate greeting, or else a form of foreplay. It is now known to be the most desired and most difficult of the reproductive methods.
The female's stomach-tongue is placed within the male's stomach-mouth. It is believed that the female's 'sperm' is present in her saliva. It is the male that becomes pregnant. A small egg is formed in the stomach, which becomes a kind of male womb for the process. The egg is ejected, again by use of the stomach-tongue, and then taken over by the female, who warms and protects it (outside the body) until the hatching takes place. This can take up to two years. The resulting baby is always male, and takes fully thirty-five years to reach puberty.
This strange sexual process has a 98 per cent failure rate. Of those successfully conceived, many die within the egg. Those managing to be born are always weak and sickly; many more die before becoming fully grown. For these reasons the 'hatched' are considered more precious than the other two kinds of Autogen. Their very existence can bring about intense feelings of jealousy within the more 'normal' children. The hatched often become figures of power and authority, despite the fact that they are the most prone to psychological problems. Then again, they often become criminals or outcasts.
There now seems little doubt that Professor Kalk was such a child.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE USE OF
The following incomplete document (from the Museum of Fragments) has been provisionally dated as belonging to the early twenty-first century. Although various theories have been put forward regarding the nature of the 'device' referred to, none of them has yet gained universal credence.
(text begins)
1c. The device is not to be used by children under the age of fourteen, or adults over the age of thirty-nine.
2b. If device is to be handheld, click button B to 'portable'.
2e. If device is to be shared, activate 'protection' mode.
3a. Device to be used only four times a day, unless authorization granted.
3b. Any one session not to exceed sixty minutes, or the onset of auto-shutdown by device, whichever duration is the shorter.
3c. Do not attempt to use device after auto-shutdown, unless a period of at least thirty minutes has passed.
4d. Special dispensation required for use of device in public place.
5b. In case of such breakdown (see 5a), owner of device completely to blame.
5c. In case of legitimate breakdown, device should be removed from body, and returned to point of purchase.
5d. Under no circumstances should corrupted device be left attached to body.
6a. Under no circumstances is device to be left unattended during 'dispersal' procedure.
7c. Unprotected dispersal can lead to infection of receptacle.
(text ends)
PART THREE
POISON'S FLIGHT PATH
GETTING HOME SAFELY
(in the mix)
Gone two in the morning and a gang of us were leaving a Megadog gig at the Academy on Oxford Road, Manchester; There was me, and four people from the bookshop where I worked, and some strangers we'd got talking to. Eight of us in all, trying to get a taxi, but none would stop for such a large number, so we all start walking down the road towards the Royal Northern College of Music.
It was a Saturday night and the streets were crowded with people trying to get home. When we get to the college, the taxi rank is buzzing. I think there must have been over a thousand people in the queue. Now I don't know if you've ever seen the taxi rank that they've turned the College of Music into? The taxis leave from the basement, and the queue starts on the roof. From there you have to walk around the outside edges of the building, dropping down layer by layer till you. reach the basement level.
I think we're on the second level down, in this long curving snake of people, when I look over the balcony and see my friend Rikki on a lower level. Now Rikki used to live in Manchester, but he moved to London about a year ago and I haven't seen him since then. So I tell the party I'm with that I'm going to go see my friend.
I climb down the side of the building. Eventually I reach him, and we chat for a while. I look over the balcony again, and this time I see Ian, another friend who also moved to London. I haven't seen Ian for at least fifteen years, and he was my best friend way back then. I don't even have his telephone number, so I'm desperate to get down another level to see him. I set off climbing, but somehow climb too far, so that now he's above me, looking down. He throws a paper towel down towards me. It blows around in the wind a bit, but I catch it easily and it's got his number on it. By now I'm worried that I've lost my original party.
The next thing I know, all eight of us are in a taxi, heading for Levenshulme where I live. We're going very fast, way too fast for a taxi ride. And when I look through the window I see we're going through Droylsden, where I was born. This is wrong, because you don't go through Droylsden to get to Levenshulme.
Then it hits me. I'm in a dream!
I tell my party this news, but they all laugh at me, and say that I'm drunk. So I set out to prove it to them. I tell them that there are eight of us in the taxi, when only five are allowed to travel in one. No way would the driver let eight of us in. This doesn't convince them, so I remind them that the College of Music
is not a giant taxi rank, and thousands of people don't queue for taxis all at the same time. I tell them that we're going through Droylsden, which is the wrong way home. I tell them that I've just seen two friends I haven't seen for years, both in the taxi queue. Too much of a coincidence. Then I start to hear voices...
(for my seventh birthday)
But my friends are still laughing at me. (for my seventh birthday I asked me dad to steal us a bike) So I explain the feeling I'm having, the sudden realization that it's a dream. A very specific feeling, you only get inside a dream, (not any old model mind) You never get that feeling in real life. This finally gets their attention. (Boomerang Mountain 509) Some of them are looking worried, others are getting angry. I think they're starting to realize that it's my dream, and that when I wake up, they'll simply vanish. They don't want to vanish. They're fighting against it. Still hearing these voices . ..
(not any old model mind, Boomerang Mountain 509)
(not any old model mind, Boomerang Mountain 509)
I offer to prove it to them, once and for all. I tell them I'll open the taxi door and step out, even though we're moving at top speed on a very busy road, (steal us a bike, steal us a bike) I tell them that no harm will come to me, because it's only a dream.
(hearing these voices, lost in the mix)
So I open the door, (pixel face boomerang) The road is just a speeding blur. I prepare to put a foot down on the road. As I step out I see a large truck hurtling down towards me.
(Boomerang Mountain 509)
Nonetheless, I do step out, only a little scared ...
PIXEL FACE
For my seventh birthday I asked my dad to steal us a bike. Not any old model, mind, but the Boomerang Mountain 509. Mustard-cloud finish, all the trimmings. The forty-seven Japanese gears, the bolstered Californian frame, the Great British air tyres. Fractal steering.
'I can't locate that shit,' he says. 'How about a new computer?'
I tell him I've got two already and if he doesn't deliver the bike, I'm telling the cops about him.
'Give Melvin what he wants, you useless twat,' my mam says.
I like my mam, she can swear.
'You get to work,' my dad says to my mam, 'before we all go starving.' Then he turns back to me, saying, 'Steal your own fucking bike, you want some flash. Haven't I taught you good enough?'
Anyway, he gives in to my wishes eventually, with Mam's help, but only to turn up with a lilac-finish, nineteen-geared Wombat 207! Put stabilizers on it, I couldn't be more embarrassed.
'Well say something, you fucker,' says my dad.
'Thanks, Dad,' I say, but thinking really you should get arrested for stealing such shit.
'Happy birthday, Melvin,' says my mam. 'Go on now, you'll be late for school.'
But I had my own wheels now, and the school could go fuck itself. So I ride myself over to the old biscuit factory on Hamlet Road. It was raining like forever and the factory looked great against the sky, like a hollow skull with a thousand broken windows for eyes. My dad had his last real job there, making tons of custard creams and bourbons and digestives. But now that place didn't make crumbs, even.
Anyway, there's this waste ground behind the factory. Where they pulled down the hospital and didn't put up shit to replace it. There used to be a pond there but that got drained and now there's just a hole.
Just a fucking great hole in the ground. Absolutely!
The crew was out there, circling the hole, making a noise and riding down into it like crazy stuff off a vid game.
I hang around the edges for a while, thinking it's now or never and then whoosh! Activate burners! Check co-ordinates! Commence manual override! I'm making like Xterminator 7 meets Whizz & Chips in the House of Krazy Mak Robokat, down down down! I'm shouting something loud and stupid, I can't quite remember what.
Fucking floating, man! Aye, I bet that's what it was.
Shit, the Hang 5ers think I'm the cops! They scatter like chickens till they realize it's only me. Then they get angry. Dazzle and Spike start laughing at me.
'Pouf bike or what!' says Dazzle. 'What is that? A Wombat 205!'
'207,' I answer, trying to make something of it.
'Looks more like a pram!' says Spike, and Matchstick starts to laugh and twitter along.
Matchstick was a loony. He hardly did nowt but laugh and twitter.
And then the whole crew's laughing except for Flute, who's a girl and Dazz's girlfriend, so she just hangs back, saying nothing. But even Flute has got a better bike than me, so I'm like totally embarrassed.
'What you after?' says Dazzle.
'He's after getting twatted,' says Spike, swinging his dad's hammer.
'I wanna be a Hang 5er, Dazz,' I say. 'I wanna steal some stuff.'
'Let's see that pram go ride!' says Spike, making faces.
Dazzle and Spike live on the same street as me, King Lear Walk in the Shakespeare Estate, five miles out from Namchester. A right dump, Shakespeare is. No big shakes and certainly no spears. Just a slagheap or two, some dirty sparrows and a mangy blackbird. All the streets are named after stories by this William Shakespeare guy. Dazzle taught me that fact, not that he'd ever met this William Shakespeare or anything. He was quite kind to me, Dazzle, when he wasn't hanging five with the crew, and I was always after joining.
'You're too fucking young,' he says now.
'I'm seven today,' I answer.
'You've gotta be eight to join.'
'I've got a bike,' I say.
'Wowee!' says Spike. 'It's the fucking Melvmobile! Wobble on it!'
'Fucking wobble!' says Matchstick. Which is a bit much, coming from him.
'Shall I take him out, Dazz?' says Spike.
'Enough,' says Dazzle. 'Let's do the biz. Hang 5 alive!'
'See ya around,' says Spike, laughing.
'Around and around,' echoes Matchstick. He was seriously in awe of Spike, and all he ever said was just a slight copy of Spike's curses.
The crew pull down their hats, tug up their collars, pull down their hoods, adopt their balaclavas, ride on out of there.
Alone as forever, just the rain and the biscuit factory.
So I ride over to school, figuring I can make some excuses for being late. Of course, I never quite make it. Instead I head for the Caliban Mall. I spend the morning there, eating crisps and watching the free shows in the TV shop. Krazy Mak Robokat and Xterminator 7. Watching television in a shop window is much better than watching it at home, because the TV shops have like loads of machines all tuned to different stations, whereas my dad only ever has the racing on, or else the porno on cable. Of course, you don't receive the sound in a window, but who the fuck needs to listen to Whizz & Chips to get the message?
Anyway, I'm happy just hanging out in the mall, until some woman sits down next to me on the bench, spoiling the pleasure. 'You not in school today, Melv?' says this woman and it's only when I look that I realize it's Jackie Flint sitting next to me, eating a ham and pickle sandwich.
Jackie is Dazzle's older sister, like eighteen years old. She's the white sheep of the Flint family, because she's actually got a job. Not a job like my mam's got a job, down at the bingo hall, I mean a real job. She was working at this techno shop in Caliban Mall, selling videocams and computers and cd-rom players and such.
'The teachers piss me off,' I reply, nonchalant.
'Why's that, then?'
'They don't teach you the real stuff.'
'Fair enough.'
I often thought Dazzle's mam must have shagged someone else to produce Jackie, because she was so brainy. Jackie had a ton of computers and various gadgets, up in her bedroom. It was great, cause she could always break into the latest rom-game to give us shortcuts. She could break any code going.
Anyway we both just sit there, watching the silent TVs for a while. It was Jackie's dinner hour. A security guard comes along and tells me that bikes aren't allowed in the mall. Jackie says it's all right, I'm with her, which makes me smile
out loud, and the ape gives in to her straight away. I just knew that he was fancying Jackie something rotten, and why not? So would I if I was old enough.
I'm thinking how easy it would be to nick stuff from the shops in the mall, maybe that would impress Dazzle enough, when Jackie says to me, 'You best go now,' and she turns to kiss the guard, mouth still stuffed with ham and sweet pickle.
I can't understand why she's doing that, but I leave them to it, because what else can I do? It's too late for school now, and what does a day lost add up to ? Nothing much, so I ride around town for a bit, just getting the hang of the bike, making the best of a bad wheel job.
I get home at the right time, just like I've been to school, and the next day I turn up at the hole again, but this time I keep away until the Hang 5 crew actually ride out of there. Then I follow behind, keeping my distance just like in the films. They head for the Pitstoppers garage on Macbeth Street. I watch them all getting into position.
Dazzle's the leader. He was old, like nine already. Almost past it. He was itching to get a drug-runner job with the Namchester lads. Out to prove himself worthy. He never did any stealing any more, he just directed the traffic.
A posh car drives into the forecourt, parking behind a dingy red Mini.
Matchstick was the decoy. He was eleven years gone, but going on four. The poor kid was totally out of his mansion, which made a good diversion. Now the loony is wobbling into the forecourt, on-bike and singing a little song.
A posh guy gets out of the posh car, moves over to the pump. He turns to look at Matchstick as he trundles by, howling wild. Good sign.
Flute was acting as the lookout. Eight years old, a real good-looker in a tracksuit and a balaclava. Dazzle liked a girl who could handle a bike, and this was a beauty. She's no doubt got one eye on the securicam, the other on the bloke behind the counter. Hopefully, he's busy dealing with another customer, the one from the red Mini.