Short Story: X Is For Xenotropic

Short Story: X Is For Xenotropic

Gorvan extracted the data download. In a few minutes time he would convene an Exceptional Summit; only the eighth since his tenure as Lead Viral Archivist at Project Human began thirty years ago. Seventeen years had passed since the last time he had received and archived X data. It might be another seventeen before a similar lead, however intangible, turned up. And yet, he thought, according to the Sevens, Project Human was nearing a conclusion.

Somehow Gorvan doubted this. The Project would run and run. Perhaps forever, he thought? His five-times-generation father said so. And that was two hundred years ago when some of the Sixes first suggested Project Human more than ninety-nine per cent complete.

No one knew for sure exactly what one hundred per cent amounted to. That was the problem, if you could call it a problem.

Whilst more data arrived almost every day, most of it described Polytropic viral sequences. It was X data Project Human needed, Gorvan thought to himself, always X. Evidence of complete Xenotropic viral sequences to finalise a definitive time-line of the species-jumping retro-recombinants - porcine, ovine, caprine, simian, bovine, canine, equine, feline, and of course the most damaging, the most elusive of all, murine.

Evidence.

Speculation about X was all well and good if you were a Five, but Gorvan was a Six, and most everything the Five's tried to pass off as evidence was ordinarily declared invalid.

Gorvan liked the Five's. They were a funny lot, he often thought, but eminently even.

At any point in time during the fourth millennia, he supposed, a Five could have ruled a continent, or a First-Tier Corporation like Jayscorp. Today they were lucky if they got to run a Third-Tier orbiting retreat, like Cyber-World Eleven or Disney Towers.

Man had moved on.

Gone were the days when efficiency and production were the benchmark that defined his progress.

The days numbered many hundreds of thousands since Arnold Freiburg performed the first cerebral augmentation experiments and subsequently the Two's had borne the first viable mutations, the Threes.

Threes appeared long after Freiburg was just a memory and so on and so forth, Gorvan thought, down the centuries, until the first Fours, the first true geniuses began to disassemble the human genome, cut away the junk, the sleeping cancer that were the dormant endogenous viral sequences activated by the Xenotropics in ill-conceived lab experimentations utilising animal cell lines.

'Exceptional-Summit Eight,' Gorvan said, still thinking deeply about what had passed for science an eon ago. 'X Data download received today 210 day, 4356, ready for open discussion.'

'Gorvan, this is Kranet here.'

'Kranet, how is the day?’

'The day is even, Gorvan.'

'Kranet, thoughts on the X Data?'

'Fictional account.'

'Reliability?'

'High Gorvan. Cultural references I believe suggest maximum probability of first-rate evidence.'

'Have the Literates examined full aspect time-ratio's yet?'

'That will take forty-six hours to complete but they are confident authenticity will be proven.'

'Cav here, Gorvan, Kranet. Is your day even?'

'Even.'

'Even here Cav' Gorvan said, 'are we ready to proceed?'

Kranet and Cav both indicated that they were ready.

'Hologram re-enact file coded Jules' Gorvan said.

A three-sixty holographic projection lit with mid-twinkle stars, sprung to life. Insect noises, animal cries, and the strange sound of twenty-third century chatter filled Gorvan's Hemi-Globe. Revolving images, trees, birds, two early human figures, one male, one female, sat by a tree, were augmented by the synthetically generated smell of damp leaves, wood smoke and bodily odours.

Cav and Kranet viewed the same imagery as Gorvan.

Kranet said, 'The male is handsome.'

'The female,' Gorvan added, 'is slight with even beauty.'

'Your reflections Gorvan,' Cav said, 'you are watching it again I take it?'

'No,' Gorvan replied, 'my first encounter.'

When the male figure stood up Kranet said, 'He is massive, must be more than two metres tall?'

'On average,' Gorvan said 'twenty-third century humans, Anthro-Archives inform me, were forty per cent taller than present day Sixes.'

'Quiet now everyone,' Cav said, 'it looks as though the dialogue is about to begin.'

They were quiet. And when around ten minutes later the file coded 'Jules' had run its course, and Gorvan, Kranet and Cav saw their respective holographic three-sixty screens go blank, it was Gorvan who was first to speak. 'Now Kranet,' he said, 'non-specific reflections first please?'

'Our ancestors were defined solely by emotion?'

'They sounded like...' Cav paused before he added, 'animals... I think?'

'Not entirely true Kranet, but yes, man was very different back then; and you are correct Cav - man was arguably less human given that he possessed around six percentage points endogenous retroviral DNA compared to less than one per cent today in the few remaining Fives. Whereas most Sevens have but point one per cent murine DNA left.'

'Yes' Cav said, 'less than point one.'

Kranet said 'I feel... I don't know. I don't have a word to express my experience?'

'Primary drives were dictated by sexual desires' Cav said, 'it remained so, or very similar until the Threes.'

'In a précis,' Gorvan informed them, 'the Literates defined the opening exchanges between Jules and Kensz as courtship.'

They were silent a moment.

'Onto the X citation, Kranet?' Gorvan said, 'what is the belief?'

'An intriguing manifestation of the murine interloper viral sequence, which undoubtedly initiated the retro-plagues, which led to the proliferation of the cancers' Kranet replied, 'created we believe, by the ignorant-arrogants?'

'They dabbled,' Gorvan said, 'yes, of that there is no doubt.'

'Arguably before their time?' Kranet added.

'The Feral called Jules knew about bad blood fighting bad blood' Cav said, 'but how? Twenty third century humans in the primitive era knew little of what had befallen their ancestors?'

'That is even,' Kranet said.

'I think how is not meaningful, Cav,' Gorvan said, 'where and when is the goal for Project Human.'

'Yes Gorvan, that is even.'

'Is this future fiction or a retrospective?' Cav said, 'Jules also held knowledge of infectious periods of pathogens via sexual transmission, the ones she called X and P?'

'Even question, Cav,' Kranet remarked, 'if this is future fiction, which I suspect it is, it will date from much earlier than the twenty-third century. I suggest from around the cusp of the plague era?'

'My thoughts, too,' Gorvan said, 'it assembles logic and we have data, although not even data, to back that up'.

'What data?' Cav said.

'It concerns the Dylan minstrel man Jules and Kensz argued about.'

'I see. What do Ancient History Archives indicate?'

'Best guess suggests Dylan was a revolutionary figure in the Americas who defeated Consumerism late twenty first or early twenty second century? And before you ask Cav' Gorvan continued, 'Cultural Archives state; high smokes were thought-altering substances, usually inhaled, sometimes injected intravenously, sometimes ingested.'

'What for?' Kranet said, 'why did they wish to skew their perceptions - it is not even!'

'Archives believe life was not even back then and as a result around ninety-five per cent of earth's populace indulged in high-smokes or similar.'

'How strange?'

***

Several hours after the Exceptional Summit ended Gorvan closed his eyes. He wished to reconsider the X data. He decided he would listen to the narrative this time, rather than observe the Holographic imagery.

The Jules story fascinated him, not because of it's likely significance to Project Human, the possibility that it could lead to discovery, which could conceivably pinpoint the rogue recombinant murine retrovirus in the void era, before the primitive times, but because he had never heard a story before.

Fragments of the text, found on a primitive, digital storage device, were missing, or had been deleted, or perhaps censored, however, in this regard, Gorvan experienced an unusual event; filling the gaps in the story by utilising his minds eye when the audio halted momentarily.

Later a scan would reveal to him that a portion of his brain; thought to be totally redundant in Sixes, had temporarily come to life.

The 'story' he, Kranet and Cav witnessed together, began again...

Sit back down and say to Jules ‘Better start swimming Jules or you’ll sink like a stone’.

‘Feral was doing fine before Kensz tagged along.‘

‘Didn’t tag along,’ I say to her, ’you chose Kensz!’

Hear something-like mockery in Jules voice when she fair sings Kensz name.

‘What Jules?’ I say to her.

‘Don’t get misty-eyed for old days‘ she says, ’force Jules to rip on Kensz forever-addled by high-smokes minstrel friends?’

‘Not misty eyed at all.‘

’Better than all of ‘em put together is why I chose you.’

’Was Kensz family Jules…before you.’

‘Ach Kensz, family’s something-like fecksome Dylan songs you sang in conurbation – belongs to days afore First Republic, nearly-but-no four centuries ago!’

‘Aye Jules, days of prophets who foresaw.’

‘Foresaw Kenszie, aye, but no fore-stalled. Seas still rose with hordes dying in chaos times.’

Want out of this I think. Was fecksome loon to poke prickly thing like Jules in first place. Fever-head fried thoughts, no alibi for spur of moment spirit boldness earlier forsaken with good reason when took up with Feral kind.

Sneak look at her now in wariest fashion and spy fierce face scowling back at Kensz. Feel dread rattle through body something-like first season buck tiptoeing out of tree thickness into opening-out vistas of pasture land and think Jules isn’t done with Kensz.

Not by long chalk.

Little Feral says ‘Prophets knew ‘bout nearly-but-no dead, rest-of-days-malaise, body-rotting mouse-to-man retroviruses did they Kensz? Or is big minstrel man baiting Feral bitch with stupid better start swimming Dylan lyrics just for sport?’

’Monkey on Kensz bac,k’ I say to her despite all and for no good reason other than I know it will tick her right off.

Has done for sure.

Bitch flies off-of ground onto springy little feet bouncing on spot within kicking distance of Kensz.

See arms by her sides with balled-fists.

See feet kicking up dirt and stare at feet clad by master cordwainer in swift and dainty double-lined linen, leather laced ankle boots, with deer-hide sole and pointy bronze toe-cap. And keep staring, as stopped looking at Jules face when said to her; monkey on Kensz back; stopped, because I seen wild eyes afore when tinker man thought he’d gone and diddled her with fake precious stones and little Feral fair kicked bastard-swindler from pillar to post till fat old biddy cried like not-yet weaned chabby.

Above nimble feet kicking earth, shins with hotchpotch bruises scattered there, and above slight shins, scabbed knees, which buttress solid-looking thighs firmed to cured-timber hardness by trekking miles.

Sight of Jules muscled legs speeds hot blood-rush to nearly-but-no hard man-staff… but is no use thinking about that as oftentimes I think, that will never happen, and Kensz be a hundred, no, a thousand miles better off abandoning fearsome little Feral to drift back to oblivion place - easy world of hard-earned constants like strong drink and high-smokes; Row Concs in conurbations who kneel for silver.

Sometimes less.

No more days on road.

No more…

‘What say you minstrel man? Jules a monkey on Kensz back is she?’

‘I say…‘ only to Kensz own self and not to Jules face; Kenszie’s word is good.

I say if nothing else about Kensz is right, at least I keep vows sworn.

Minstrel man stay here with you, you little Feral bitch!

Stay till you make it North; stay here now with backbone against chestnut tree, thick arms hard about knees.

Small.

Waiting for fierce Feral Jules to boil up and over and be done with fury.

No point standing, I think. Even on feet towering over her, Kensz is small.

Stay in a roundness, let Jules kick Kensz right and proper.

Don’t see toecap glint-flash forewarn – instead hear leaves scatter underfoot and after sharp jab of pain and close-to all-of-breath body winding, wince at soreness leeching into ribs.

Eyes water.

What little is left of Kensz held-in breath putters out in wet cough.

‘You scared Kensz?‘ Jules says

Look up and see face with wild eyes.

‘Going to sick up?‘ she says.

‘Scared?’ I laugh ‘What of?’

’Big music man feared of little Feral bitch is he?’

See dried up scab at elbow get picked off and tough fingers that did picking get spread over nearly-but-no sticking out of skin, jutting hips.

‘You so thick’ she says with impish face I witness first time ever, ’so thick you can’t count past forty-nine?’

’Eh?’

’Yesterday - forty-nine, Kensz. Today – fifty.‘

’Fifty!’

Feral kicks again. Not so hard this time. And not in ribs.

’Get up you fatty lump of offal!’ she says, ’ankle is mended isn’t it?’

Scramble up onto feet and think; Jules is right – no pain to stand. Kensz ankle is healed and today is fifty day – stopped counting at forty-six when head went to sweat-torrent feverishness.

Shake now. No because of fever. Fever is gone; abstinence time past - all forty-nine stinking days of it, so why am I waiting?

Grab Jules shirt at shoulders and arms gets raised, fingers pointing out pinpricks of sparkly whiteness in inky black above us. And yank off shirt and hear noises funnel up out of Feral’s throat – sounds something-like scolded dog.

Stand back and thrill at body delicate – quivery little rounds of chest-flesh, which side-shimmy something-like washed-up on sands jellyfish buffeted by strong winds in wet season when Jules reaches back for fancy hair clasp skewed out of kilter from pulling off shirt.

Moon-cold milky-white light shivers Kensz skin even in hot air of night time.

Darkest swathes edged in silvery wisps of moonlight, wrap around woman curves, halo-crown teased-out nipples.

Behold! Fierce Feral Jules – a demon-sprite conjured from beneath-world!

Nearly-but-no naked form afore Kensz is no apparition I think.

It grapples with hair clasp.

Swears. Stamps feet. Snarls when I reach for it.

Stand back, I think, and wait for Jules.

Wait for last of fear dregs to rise off-of Kensz and silent-cheer when into void space walled-up craving gushes.

See clasp with purple-veined john-stones is firmly in Jules hand.

Double head-shake and close-on arms length of wavy coal-black hair spins out.

Down on knees little Feral shoves clasp into drawstring bag (holder of all things precious), springs up onto feet in sprightliest fashion, something-like always too fast to snare long-legged jumping insect.

Hair gets tossed scarf-like twice around bird neck.

Step in and grasp chest-flesh with both hands.

Noises less animal-like, less out of throat than before escape her thinness. Snake hand around waist that wriggles something-like rapid-water biting eels fleeing cold slippery fingers, and get inside mouth, and grab top leg muscle where it meets half-moon flesh at sweated line of leg-parting and heft giddy little demon-sprite onto toes and in hot-wash of mouth spittle taste gritty berry seeds still sweet with fruit sugar, and free still lodged berry seeds from between small white teeth with burrowing tongue.

Swallow seeds.

(MISSING TEXT estimated time-lapse 2 seconds)

... feel Jules body shudder-storm, see Jules look a-lot-like spirit-infested Shaman in final ecstasy throes.

Pull off own tunic, unclip and toss aside own leather man-skirt, lay back on shared fern bed (fern is less springy than remembered) and close eyes, and hear Jules kick off boots – boots hit ground and feel stump of knotty grass dig into shoulder bones and ribs throb where Feral bitch toe-ended Kensz.

Open eyes. See demon-sprite is tall over Kensz.

(MISSING TEXT estimated time-lapse 3 seconds)

On knees red-nailed toes dig into soft earth. Little Feral teeters over Kensz man-staff with spine bent, something-like pulled back cord of archers bow held in readiness of release.

Hair frees itself from twist around neck and tumbles over shoulder, dangles onto Kensz shin.

Tickles it.

I want to scratch skin.

Cannot reach.

Watch instead Jules mouthing incantations with tongue zipping back and forth. Listen to hiss-hiss sound of secret whispers escape full-blooded lips and startle when grey-brown wood-mice in fern-throttled-by-ivy, flee bed; Feral prayer a portent they cannot understand, but waste no time heeding.

Small-winged birds stirring in canopy above makes Kensz look to sky and clouds that slide over it where I see moon is darkened out of existence. Close eyes and smell leaf mould. Smell Jules and feel nose twitch something-like wolf-stalked meadow hare before it hurtles off in last-of-life streaking run.

I want to sneeze off smells. Stop Jules hair tickling shin.

Open eyes – see face. Forget about hare, mice and birds and above little Feral see clipped-away moon has snuck out of cloud smatterings, leapfrogged past broken limb in highest tree canopy.

Circle-patch of forest floor around us is faint white, something-like wet season frostiness, and dirt is streaked diagonally across Jules bony self from shoulder to hip where she drew it with fingers and I see wild face upon Kensz and fingers that crudely stop and go, stop and go on flute, nimbly juggle...

(MISSING TEXT estimated time-lapse 6 seconds)

I am sore. Jules is bloodied.

Too lazy to ward off near-at-hand sleepiness I stay on fern-bed whilst leg-weary Feral wanders off to clear-water stream about hundred paces below gully, where she bathes for an age of time during which time I pass fully into nearly-but-no sleep-hinterland with water sounds backdrop teasing thoughts. Wake in time to see Jules return with armful of leathery looking water-borne leaves clutched to goose-bumped chest-flesh and canteen of water tap-tapping against hip.

Hill-water is used sparingly on Kensz, with leaves, after which herbs are found to soothe redness - Jules is tender as much as fierce, I think; fierce Feral Jules is a mender not a breaker.

When ritual cleaning is done Jules wanders off into ivy and long grasses and I hear ferns snap in swift-darting rushes short way distant in low trees.

Hear mouse-squeak sounds. Mouse, I think, who did not heed.

Killed with faster than eye-blink thumb pinch at brittle-boned neck, now forever-silent mouse is tossed onto tree stump and Jules heads over to yon Sycamore, dead with time.

Draped over low branches there, is hanging moss.

After harvesting sticky plant-choker little Feral carries it to tree stump where she unpicks tangled moss and knits it into stubby finger shape before mouse is gutted with sharp twig and moss finger-shape drenched in mouse blood.

Jules looks down at leg-parting...

(MISSING TEXT estimated time-lapse 3 seconds)

Avidly viewing I am non-seer but thinker – thinking back on sister Janie’s lunar-cycle bleed and forever-stained boiled rags left out to dry.

When no longer thinking I see Jules is looking.

I look away.

Too slow with looking away I look back at Jules.

‘Feral’s fight fire with fire’ she says ’bad blood with bad blood.‘

’Aye,’ I say, as if I know this.

’Dose with vax-meds to be double-safe when fifty-day abstinence broken to keep nearly-but-no dead malaise and body-rotting cancer at bay,’ is what she says before shirt with no sleeves goes back on and she comes and lays on fern bed and head gets butted into Kensz chest with sinewy arm reaching across sweated chest muscle till fingers find warmth in armpit.

Ask little Feral how she knows mouse blood and moss keeps X and P retro-viruses at bay?

Don’t ask when Feral slight sounds warn of nearly-but-no sleeping.

Don’t ask because Kensz head swims smelling Jules thick hair and water still drying in it, and in close-to no time stop thinking about asking, but still wonder - what ancient wisdom lies behind Feral code? And feel tortured with skewed-thinking in nether-world sleep place, but grasp even in that not-real place won’t trouble Jules with needless questions when head gets straightened out in full wakefulness.

Or ever after that, I think!

Know that some things are.

In nearly-but-no asleep moments I worry Jules wavy hair in gentle fingers, drag it over high-boned cheeks of beautiful face presently picture of quieted thought.

When Feral bitch whimpers at hair-tease Kensz laughs to his-self at slightness of something-like dog-puppy sounds, shushes away sounds, and soon after little Feral returns to quietness, I think; in time, forget days one to forty-nine with Jules, but always remember fifty day. When I grow flabby body of many seasons and hair is tough and grey, and Feral wears saggy pillowed-paunch that comes with clutch of babies, remember fifty day. Fifty day kept fresh in mind always, forget long days on dry road, traipsing over woodland track, around hedge fringed fallow land, beyond cotton and maize as far as man’s eye can see, with nose curled to rank smelling cabbage fields in lower climbs, and forget, too, swift trekking past tobacco and high-smoke leaf plantations guarded with dogs and crossbow, and never think again on time spent rounding coffee bush clad hills, weeks of pentupness which drove Kensz within whisker of crazydom. Forget, too, all of Kensz grown-man seasons passed before that, days spent haggling and fighting in crowded dirty streets of old-world conurbations, nights of wasted other-place head spinning from high-smokes, paying Concs for tricks and always think; life began for Kenszie at fifty day.

Gorvan paused the recording. When he opened his eyes, he thought to himself, someone had invented Jules and Kensz, but why? To document what had gone before or to carry a message to the future?

The likelihood that he would never know the truth initiated illogical thoughts. Thoughts he could not dislodge. His mind did not feel even.

Whilst there were no further clues as to the origins of the X virus contained in the remainder of the story, Gorvan experienced an desire to hear it through to its conclusion.

If, he thought, it could be called a conclusion.

Again he closed his eyes, pressed a hand against a console. The story resumed...

In cool air of nearly-but-no morning Jules removes poultice from Kensz now-healed ankle.

‘Is clean,’ is all she says and we gather and fill bags with stuff strewn, render fire safe and are off before sky goes to proper blue.

Leaving Central Territories behind us, we continue north-east towards low seas of few-peopled free-coast and over coming days make three settlements.

People in this neck of woods are good-natured and welcoming (even of Feral kind) and pay us in stock wine and that day fruit bread, last season’s shed-dried tobacco and goat cheese (if we think to ask for it).

At one hamlet we are packed off with cut-away side of small ham and first season woodpigeon, and when departing happy place look back to see children race along after us and scale livestock corrals, to balance on top rungs and cheer and wave until we are lost to them in thickness of trees.

Do they wonder, will minstrel and acrobat return one day?

Try not to think about one day. For time as is, keep to time now spent.

Find each night in villages nearly-but-no repeat happenings.

After dark, when most crooked ones and all chabbies gets bunked down, and fire is at high-blazing, I play foot-tapping flute tunes whilst spring-heeled Jules, somersaults over fire with congregated villagers mindful to dangers of flesh-scorching flames, ooh-ing and aah-ing each scary body tumble and high-flying twist.

After second rounds of rich tasting berry wine is doled out, this time with first goes of spicy lamb or goat broth, served in close-to finger-scorching hot tubs, Jules performs feats of acrobatic prowess, balancing on chairs, balanced on more chairs, swinging from ropes suspended high above ground from sturdy trees, whilst I drum-rolls each trick-finale on hung round neck tied-together tam-bongs.

Finish off with more music.

Jules plays flute as best she can whilst I sings old Dylan songs Feral thinks foolish, but, which villagers seem to like.

Nights sandwiched in between passage to next village, sleep in forest depths as far away from trail as beat up legs take us.

Jules is less fierce; sometimes trapping squirrel, more often bringing down slow-to-wing game birds with nets, whilst I collect roots, berries and wild garlic, kindling for cooked supper.

This season’s March time is hot and heavy. Nights nearly as bone-sapping as days. Wet months is done too soon and is shorter than last time and time afore that.

One night Jules cries whilst sleeping.

Another night when not very far distant from trail we hear travellers pass on wheeled cart pulled by oxen.

In long days traversing open pasture and low hills, we see dragonflies ride hot winds industriously seeking water, whilst dense shifting clouds of mosquitoes far less busy and adventurous in outlook, claim still waters as their own.

Today, we pass many miles with sore feet in good-feeling silence till I sees boar piglets – count litter at eight, maybe nine, trundling single-file through overgrown trail.

Crossing last clearing bordered by stream fringed with willow trees before we reach yon grassy hill, and beyond, not yet in sight, stillness of vast lake, Jules grabs Kensz arm.

Kenszie’s belly-laugh at little pig family gathering stops when Jules thumbnail nips skin.

’Kensz!’

Whisper is loud with warning tone.

‘Sow-boar!’ she says and out of drawstring bag in darned hemp flourishes bone-handle gutting knife not seen by Kensz afore.

Stock-still we cast around.

Turn back to Jules and see tan-leather sheath drawn away from face-reflecting blade and take piss-toughened leather off-of her and after much time spent unmoving in crouched stance little Feral finally beckons we move on.

Half a mile creeping, wary of stone crunching footsteps and no drama besets us. Sow-boar is away somewhere in dark-depths of forest I think.

Stand atop grassy hill and look back to where first saw little pigs, and catch first sight of grey-pink hulking fatness emerge out of long grass with taller reeds flanking nearly-but-no dried up brook.

Sow-boar steps into sunlight; stops to sniff air before bumbling along.

Jules raps Kensz on shoulder, bids I face north.

’See over yonder?’ she says.

Look at Jules instead of over yonder and witness stepped lines break over coppery brown head-brow skin and long black lashes that skirt eyelids, dither in harsh light.

Jules nudges Kensz and I see Feral face set to fairness but as yet unsmiling.

‘Don’t look at Jules,‘ she says, ‘look over yonder.’

Troublesome eyes cannot pick out what little Feral is pointing at.

‘Where Jules?’ I say.

‘There Kensz, see?’

I get in close. Follow arm and finger pointing.

‘Water has fallen,’ she says.

Take twenty paces forward, pull up short of craggy overhang and see many grey roofs streaked orange and green, and two yellow stone spires, which mark sunken world of once many-peopled conurbation. Shield stinging eyes to skin-toasting sun and look all around spires and rooftops at surrounding orange waters and see rusted carcasses litter steep slope-away banks; nightmarish hollowed-out beasts huddled together in clumps, as if somehow, gathering in one spot affords them shelter from leg-sapping sun.

East side of rank waters see all-manner and shape of ugly flesh-stripped creatures are piled high one atop another and another.

When Jules turns and sniffs air, something-like sow-boar in readiness of fight, she looks fierce again.

As best I can, long-scan object strewn shoreline, but see no boats in orange water or near it.

‘Where now?’ I say, turning back to face her, ‘you can’t swim!’

‘Swim!’

Jules laughs - thumps Kensz arm.

‘Even Kenszie would sink like a stone in those waters - not even safe to go across in row boat - even if there was one. Toxins in water vapours no man can breath.’

‘Head due north then?‘

‘Aye,’ she says and I feel Jules hand take Kensz hand and we move off. Further on see a spring. That night, sleep nearby it.

Before sleep, I roll on top of Jules with fast-rising man-staff pressed up against heat of leg-parting and drag shoulder of vest down over her slight but muscled arm and smother salty chest-flesh in kisses.

Feral bitch heaves Kensz off-of her.

‘Tomorrow Kensz we scramble over rocks as big as two hundred men. Need full legs for long morn walk, yes?’

‘Aye, Jules,’ I say and turn over.

Before I am in sleep little Feral uses stop-go...

(MISSING TEXT estimated time-lapse 7 seconds)

Magpies scrapping over long dead hedgehog wake us afore sky brightens in first shades of blue.

No clean water for three or four days Jules reckons.

Brim-top canteens at spring and some way beyond terraced line of sapling-trees, squat and empty in shady ditch without flies, beneath crumbling white-rock overhang crippled by legions of crevice seeking fern.

Make two-hundred-score strides before sun is in fullness. When sun dallies high above, Jules slows, stops, and with slatted-eyes scavenges all-seen vistas for sheltering place. Tumbledown site of red bricks spied on next-but-one tree-less ridge is place to settle.

After polishing off what is left of salted ham, we abandon refuge and climb stony ground where soon-to-be heather-grazed shins are fly-bitten in muscle-burning ascent.

Bronzy flesh turns browner still.

Ahead of us narrow gullies and deep hollows; pot-holes that go down then up again blanketed by warm wind ferrying more flies. Short cuts sign-posted by hashed score-markings on rain-polished stones guide us to holes safe to travel down.

Heavy legs brought us here, but it is close-to dead legs that see us over scattered rocks and through last of twist and turn gullies on towards a cold supper. Cold because woodpigeon bad smells drifting up out of Kensz shouldered bag warn of skitter-runs; cold, as visions of fresh-kill meat, char-blackened over fire, melt faster than candle wax left out in middle of day sun, as yon goats that canter on highest ground are always too far distant to risk forever vanishing of precious knives.

‘Aren’t goats good omen?’ I ask Jules.

‘No bears is what you mean.’

Think back to when I had but seven dry seasons counted and saw wordless child carried off by enormous bear.

Still see never-to-be-forgotten boy most nights in depths of nether world sleep mind-stories gliding around star-flecked sky vastness, before landing on great hunch-backed bear, which boy rides, one hand raised above him, other hefting a handful of neck fur.

One time no-noise child roars a lot like bear he rides and I want to scream, too, when I see long pointy teeth crowding boy’s bloodied mouth are miles too big for his tiny mangled head.

After two more days ranging over heather, and fathoming out least troublesome routes through stony gorges and creviced spaces, we arrive in less tortuous climbs and come upon rough-walled settlement a little way below us in midst of many-seasons untilled pasture land.

‘Should make good here,’ I say to Jules as we gaze down upon village which has at its hub, covered well, and count more than forty townsfolk busy crossing small square.

Fifteen score people live within walls, I think, maybe more.

‘Big enough place to wangle a two night gig,‘ I say to Jules. ‘What you reckon?’

‘Aye,’ is all little Feral says to Kensz before she takes off down scree-slope in graceful arcing motion, with slate-grey shale-tide racing over ten-to-dozen scampering feet and arms held out side-a-ways with outstretched fingers pressed together, something-like imitation of huge eagle birds that circle-drift high skies, with Kensz swooping behind her, mimicking rarely-seen playfulness.

Enter village through unmanned gate, us displaying always-expected pageantry entrance, and hear children-buzz, and see them race and push and pull, and bully one another until villager about size of ridden-bear appears out of stone hut with wind-ragged awnings, knobbly staff of oak in thick fleshy hand, punting dust from ground, scattering little ones to mother skirts and safer fringes.

I cease rhythm beat on tam-bongs hanging from neck, when bear-man strides over to us laughing.

Jules’ last forward tumble ends a stride short of his feet, where she curtsies with ceremony, drops hemp bag on ground and tumbles a double back-flip.

Bear-man clapping loudly drowns out village sounds.

Clapped heavily on back, Kensz staggers, rights his-self in time to thump out finale beat on tam-bongs.

When I smile at bear-man his expression changes.

Eying Kensz from under bushy eyebrows nearly-but-no as big as hairy-back caterpillars, he says ‘No a story-teller are you friend?‘

’Minstrel,’ I say to him proudly.

He nods at Kensz, turns to Jules and says, ‘All manner of entertainers welcome, except story-tellers. Minstrels will do, but what Gareth really likes is…’ clouded eyes that eat up Jules legs, settle on her nearly-but-no seen chest-flesh ‘… fit-for-sorest-eyes acrobats?’

With show of small white teeth, little Feral respects chief’s oily tribute and further honours him with long-held ritual of muteness.

I say to bear-man, in less revered way common of two strangers man-to-man talk, ‘One act for bed, board and two days supplies. Two nights for three days is our bargain mister?‘

Bear-man side-nods Kensz.

Eyes that are blood streaked in grey-white surrounds fix on Jules not I.

’Aye…’ he says, and I see ugly furred up tongue is nearly-but-no a stranger to his big-lipped mouth when he turns back to Kensz and growls ’if you like… minstrel?’

Quick-quick heartbeat slows when teen-girl with braided, fawn-coloured hair appears, and we are led away in silence to small tent bordering square.

I claim straw bed without dispute, sleep on it till light fades.

First darkening of skies herald hot dry winds that badger tent cords to free themselves from iron peg moorings.

Get up, grab both canteens, and leave Jules painting eyes darkest-night blue, nails fiery red, and walk around square a bit smiling at children, nodding at old folk.

Young men look sullen I think, and tired; animals well-fed.

At tiled-roof well I draw bucket and dunk first canteen into icy water.

No one minds Kensz save for a few goggle-eyed children.

I see a bow-legged old man passing by well stumble and fall. No one minds him either and he rights his-self quickly enough, dusts off yellow-grey pony-tailed hair tied back with faded black ribbons and is away chuntering to his-self before I have time to stopper Jules canteen and go help him.

After canteen is sealed, reach down for Kensz own canteen, laid on ground, whilst same-time woman sidles up to Kensz at well-side and dips small wooden bucket into large bucket on rope I hold steady on uneven stone rim of over waist-high well wall.

‘You travel with Feral woman’, she says to Kensz.

‘Aye,’ I say, and turn to face her.

A column of coiled bronzy-red hair two hands high is inclined to Kensz at an angle such that I only view tip of rounded nose, and chin with well-remembered dimple (not as yet placed).

Fancy hair construct is run through with half a dozen costly-looking bejewelled silver pins, also well-remembered.

’Take Jen with you’ woman says, ‘anywhere away from here, Kenszie!‘

Woman called Jen who slowly lifts pretty face smiling is one-time pay-in-bagged-silver Conc; favourite of big-noise trader men. Conc I once saved from nearly-but-no last-of-life beating in most-peopled Metropolis conurbation. Woman with price on head I risked plenty to smuggle into westbound caravan just leaving.

‘I have strong liquor…‘ soft-palm long-nailed hand is at Kensz back, ‘… high-smokes, and if Kensz wishes it…’

Understand two tugs at tunic is signal to follow Jen away from well and into yon alleyway.

Follow her there.

On one side of alley see stone buildings, some with timber roofs; ramshackle mud and wattle affairs on other.

‘Must not let Gareth see Jen with you’ Jen whispers in confines of narrow no-paved no-peopled pathway, where she beckons Kensz through thick curtained doorway into opulent stone dwelling with no-leak thatching roof and inside, soft-material hanging drapes dyed yellow and blue.

When Jen holds aside nearly-but-no see-through drapes, I look upon room-for-three wooden bed with feather stuffed quilt and giant pillows on it.

‘Where are smokes‘ I say to her, ‘and hard liquor promised?’

‘No promised‘ she says, still smiling at Kensz, ‘but you will see them tomorrow… if I travel with you?’

Should not be here, I think; Kenszie is too kind and fecksome with it!

‘I cannot say…’ I tell her, ‘if you will travel.‘

‘Because of Feral?’

‘Aye Jen…’ look at her and witness hateful eyes seen many times afore, ‘… because of Feral.’

Aye Jen, I think; Kenszie goes with Feral bitch – what of it?

After long silence I say to her, shaking head in doubtful manner ‘Kenszie will speak with Jules, but she will not agree.’

When Jen looks away from Kensz she makes ugly scoffing noises, shrugs as though she cares close-to nothing what Jules says, and over at yon comfy-looking bed she...

MISSING TEXT (estimated time-lapse 4 seconds)

‘I am bound and sworn‘ I say to her, ‘I cannot…lie?‘

’Jen is clean of X and P Kensz’ she says, ‘you know it?’

Kensz sees hateful eyes mellow and later on that night when drawing on too-tight paper rolled tobacco, smells Jen’s flowery body oils on smoky fingers...

Gorvan felt certain there was more to the story. It wasn't logical that it ended there, in Jen's quarters?

His next thought alarmed him.

Project Human is pointless.

He did not understand why he thought this. No logical thought process had brought him to this conclusion – he just thought it.

Who needs Eights, he asked himself, there are no viruses left to harm us, so what does it matter our DNA is tainted by junk viral sequences left over from the primordial era?

What mattered to him, now, was the fact the arrogant-ignorants had wiped out millions of people, his ancestors (who he had never given any thought to previously) by their cavalier experimentations.

Why he cared about his ancestors, he was not sure. The decimation of mankind had occurred more than two millennia ago.

Gorvan decided he would ask a Five why this notion troubled him. Fives were in a relative sense, illogical, and it required an illogical mind, he thought, to understand emotionally mediated thought. He no longer cared about X data. He no longer cared about substituting junk DNA with 'intelligent' DNA. He cared about... Kranet's voice enter his Hemi-Globe.

'Gorvan, Kranet here.'

'Yes Kranet?'

'You know some of the Fives, don't you?'

'The story does not conclude evenly,' Gorvan said, 'does it?'

'No Gorvan' Kranet said, 'and this fact initiates unclear thinking.'

'My friend Miko is a five' Gorvan said, 'she writes fiction for other Fives.'

'Will she conclude the story to our...satisfaction?'

'Yes,' Gorvan said, 'I believe she will.'

'We have lost something Gorvan, haven't we, an element of something that was not human but which ironically made us more human?'

'Yes Kranet. Things today are not as even as we might have it'.

'I felt something strong today, Gorvan - it was not even.'

'And now?'

Kranet said 'I am almost even again.'

And you wish you were not, Gorvan thought to himself, that, I understand.

**

Eight days later Gorvan received the additional text. Miko explained to him she had spent six days studying with Literates, one day alone, walking through forests, and less than two hours writing.

I hope you are not even today, Miko's message read, to experience irreversible satisfaction, imagine what I have left out, but accept also, there is no end to this story.

Gorvan thought about forwarding the reconstructed text to Kranet. He decided not to. He did not feel even about his decision. He wanted to be first. He placed his palm on the console, closed his eyes, opened his mind's eye...

When return to Jules, find her asleep on bed of hay, wrapped to the waist in rough linen sheet.

Air in tent smells unhealthy, which makes Kensz wonder when last time fresh hay was laid?

Two plates of food set on crudely fashioned low table are untouched. I sit on floor, eat fruit and leave cold meat and cabbage for Jules, as despite full-jitteriness from long-morn walk, appetite is lost.

Finally, little Feral stirs, yawns and stretches.

Sky is all black now.

Good time to tell Jules about Jen, I think, whilst little Feral eats spiced meat on bone and drinks water I collected from village well.

‘What family?’ she says.

‘On father’s side. Cousin of some sort.’

Jet-black eyebrows reach to head brow as impish Feral face looks up at Kensz from greasy plate.

‘You lie Kenszie,’ she says licking animal grease off long fingers.

Jules wipes fingers on chequered square of material laid alongside plate.

I says, ‘Father’s eldest sister, his half-blood, had three boys. Jen is first born of first boy and about three seasons older than Kensz. Used to live on outskirts of Metropolis Conurbation.’

MIKO'S SUPPLEMENTARY TEXT REMOVED (imagine for 15 seconds)

Kensz says nothing to that and Jules goes back to picking at bones, gnawing out some marrow. Feral eats all of cabbage, afore cleans fingers again and then standing, strips off no-sleeve shirt and fixes hair with treasured clasp and wraps tiny leather skirt with silver coloured bells sewn into it around waist not much bigger than a child’s.

A little later, stood at frayed door curtain, Jules looks out.

I go over and get behind her, tinkle bells on skirt.

‘People have gathered’ she says ‘a fire is already built.’

Look over at people-circle around fire and at others tending spit-roasted goat and see bear-man bedecked with shoulder-wrap fox furs sitting in high backed chair swigging from leather-bound flagon, and at his enormous feet, leggy thin-boned hunting dog sleeping in a curl.

On low stool to his right Jen is smoking thin shaft clay pipe staring at flames with eyes that look glassy.

A gaggle of children all with less than eight dry seasons on their backs dance when Jules plays flute and I sing. Older girls are unkempt in never-darned rags; few young men I see, hanging back in shadows. Older boys, mostly slow and unappealing in nature, dawdle at outskirts of village square. Apart from dark-skinned woman who serves wine, young women give off slatternly vibes as though nightly gone on variety of cultivated leaf, high-smokes.

Only Gareth applauds when Jules swings from ropes, balances upside down with head atop crooked assembly of crates before spinning off into flash- through-dark-sky, back somersault.

‘Kensz will be glad to leave,’ I whisper to her when show is done and we make ritual bow to Jen, who must be, we both think, Gareth’s first-in-line woman.

‘Has to be tonight,’ Jules whispers back to Kensz, now bowing to our host, Gareth ‘did you see what...

MIKO'S SUPPLEMENTARY TEXT REMOVED (imagine for 7 seconds)

‘I will grab what food I can’ I say to Jules, ‘meet you in tent straight after.’

‘Be quick about it Kensz?’

First time seen little Feral look feared makes Kensz grow tall.

‘Canteens need filling, here,’ I say handing them to her, and over Jules trots to yon well.

Village square is nearly-but-no empty now, save for a few young women and one old man still drinking. At well see Jules tip bucket of water over her head, wash away face paint and soot-marks that criss-cross trembled legs and muscle burned arms. Gather ropes and bundle them, and when I turn back to well, see Jules is gone, which is urgent cue for Kensz to start back for tent. Stride off in that direction and same-time see Jen skip away from drinkers in knot by fire.

‘Well…‘ she says in haughty high-station manner, waylaying Kensz.

‘Well what Jen?’

‘Is Jen coming with you in morn or not?’

Cast around for signs of bear-man Gareth and only when I am sure he is not in ear-shot say to her, ‘Kenszie will go find Jules now, ask her‘.

‘Really?‘

‘Already lied to her we are cousins, Jen.’

Wine filled tankard is snatched up off-of ground. Jen downs it, laughs at Kensz, head back-teeters as she laughs, and I jump forward and grab her arm just below no-jewelled hasp-bangle in plate silver when I see she is off-kilter and about to fall. For Kenszie’s troubles, I get hauled in with wet-lipped mouth seeking Kensz tongue.

Kisses tasting of dark wine, goat-meat and tobacco don‘t excite Kensz at all.

‘Sleep well Jen’ I say, shouldering her off.

‘Sleep for Jen depends on you Kensz.’

‘Tomorrow Jen’ I say, ’tomorrow’.

With head down try to step around her and make for tent, but Jen is oddly quick of foot for one hammered by high-smokes and wine, and blocks path with hand to chest.

Is strange, I think; did not taste high-smokes in Jen’s mouth?

‘Does minstrel man speak for his-self‘ Jen says, laughing again at Kensz, ‘or is he lowest of low man-serf, oddly indebted to a Feral?’

‘Tomorrow…’ I say with no prejudice in voice ‘… Kensz will give you an answer.’

‘Aye tomorrow,’ she says, waving a sloppy hand.

Look beyond Jen some way distant at lodging tent not seen clearly from where I stand.

No sign of little Feral.

‘Why leave Jen,’ I say to her, ‘is it so bad here?’

‘You’ve seen Gareth?’ she says ‘you’ve seen people too?’

Try to make light when I ask her ‘Will no one challenge him?’

Jen turns about, nods into yonder dark sky.

‘Last one who did,’ she says, ’is over there.’

I follow painted nail ring finger pointing.

’Where Jen?’ I say to her.

Dismal long-sight Kensz only physical failing one-time Conc remembers from days spent in conurbation and so with arm snug around waist she guides, and at last I pick out thick-branched tree less than a furlong west of village where I see rotting nearly-but-no no-flesh corpse hanging from it, slow-spin on hefty looking rope.

‘Stealth Jen?’ I say, ‘there are ways.’

‘I know,’ she says.

In same-time as Jen speaking, something squirms inside Kensz stomach. Something whirrs, falls into place in Kensz head.

Spin Jen around and grab shoulders and look into beguiling almond shaped eyes and see they are not hazed by clay-pipe high-smokes as was thought earlier, and in same-time thinking, wonder why I did not taste high-smokes in Jen’s mouth?

Neither gone on high-smokes or drunk - Jen is one-time Conc, I think; this is all an act!

Hear fierce Feral Jules scream Kensz name.

Hear fierce Feral Jules scream.

Stop screaming.

Faster than eye-blink toss Jen aside and bolt for tent, trip, roll, but am back on feet in less time than it takes to click fingers to race to yon tent with Jen not far behind blundering through last of drinkers with young woman dodging out of Kensz way falling flat on her drunken face.

Another frightened shriek from tent as I burst in and see bear-man, Gareth, hunched over Jules, who is pinioned to low table, left arm bent painfully to boniness of spine, mouth incarcerated by filthy hand something-like bear paw. Look down and see Jules toecap glint, see it rake down Gareth’s blood-streaked shin as same-time fiercely struggling Feral reaches across table for hemp bag. Take two strides towards bear-man and swing boot between tree-trunk legs aiming for weighty ball-sac dangling.

Gareth roars like carried-off boy in Kensz nightmare.

Bulls-eye!

No longer captive Jules spins around, same-time hulking figure crashes to ground, taking her with him.

I jump forward; roll bastard off-of Jules, who is spattered in blood.

His blood I think.

Laid flat out on broad fleshy back looking something-like washed-up whale, bear-man skitters noisily under his-self with spilling out guts of swollen belly held in by paw-like hands with bone handle of Jules gutting-blade sticking out of him.

Fitting body thump-thumps against ground.

Grab Jules off-of ground and into arms whilst behind us Jen’s shrieking laughter sounds are nearly-but-no hysterical in nature.

Bear-man’s brown skitter-stink floods over dry cracked earth as same-time stream of steaming yellow piss rises up from his now-falling man-staff in comical fashion.

Jen stops laughing, pushes past us, kicks Gareth’s head, with blood from ruptured head vein spurting over her beautiful leg.

No more sounds in tent until I yell ‘You!’ pointing finger into Jen‘s face; ‘Kensz was fecksome fool to ever pity you. Stealth always be thy name!’

With Jules arm limply coiled around her shoulder, Jen eases battered little Feral off-of Kensz and is away out of tent.

Wander around square in near daze of thoughts not tolerated without drink, till I find squat bottle, nearly-but-no brim-topped with purple-red berry wine under crate near fire and drink from it till emptied. Word spread through all-of dwelling places faster than Gareth’s last-of-life skitter swam across tent interior that loathed by all-of village, bear-man chief, is dead. All vessels to hand are fetched out and filled with water, to be ferried from fire when hot, by legion of willing villagers, to Jen‘s best of village dwelling place where earlier she knelt for Kensz, and where now, I am told, she washes blood and muck off-of Jules shock-shivered, bruised, nearly-but-no defiled body.

Later, dark-skinned woman comes for Kensz and I stagger drunkenly into Jen’s quarters and see little Feral unmoving in Jen’s bed and get in beside nearly-but-no not breathing body and fall asleep, head hurting from wine.

In full-light of morning wake to see Jen slip silently through door curtain and pull aside drapes.

Jules sleeps on.

I hear children outside.

I tap bed and Jen sits on bed nearest Kensz.

’Kenszie understands why you set up Jules with bear-man’ I say and reach out to touch her hand.

‘You do?’ she says squeezing Kensz fingers.

‘Aye,‘ I say, ‘Jen saw Kensz - saw her chance.’

‘No Kensz,‘ she says, ’Jen saw Feral - saw her chance.’

After Jen leaves I sit up in bed and see assorted trinkets are piled in doorway and mob of little ones gathered there, peer in, giggling at us.

Gareth, I am told later on that morning by one wee girl who wants Kensz to grab both her tiny hands and swing her round in head-swooning circles, was burned in night whilst we slept and later still, village dogs, led by bear-man’s own hound, feasted on his blackened carcass until only too-charred-to-eat bones, scattered all around, remained.

Spend three more nights in Jen’s village before reaching free-coast seven nights after that.

MIKO'S SUPPLEMENTARY TEXT REMOVED (imagine to infinity)

**

Project Human is complete when the Sevens announce it is. Gorvan never hears another story. When the last of the Fives die out less than a hundred years later, no one ever writes another story.