Unknown

Sex-crazed stallion

CHAPTER ONE

His hands trembled slightly. Yet his appearance was one of outward calm, a methodical thoroughness that obliterated emotional reactions.

There was no room here for the indistinct grey region of emotions, of moods, of feelings.

No. Here, there could be only precision. Calm, detached precision.

Magnificence cloaked in the simplicity of scientific accuracy.

A magnificence he alone could attain.

They had expelled him from their midst. Now, he would return, triumphant.

It would be he to whom they came, pads in hand, bubbling over with questions, with pleas for guidance, pleas for his forgiveness…

Maybe, he would grant it. Maybe.

But he would have no need for them now. He had learned to do without them, they had proclaimed him expendable and now it would be his privilege to return the favor.

He noticed the slight trembling still in his hands, his wrists, as he dipped the pipette into the clear liquid, then carefully, ever so carefully let it empty into the small glass dish. He flicked a button and a bright light shot through the dish, while at the same time, a previously blank screen flickered, cleared and slowly came to focus.

The object was hazy still, a kind of patchwork worm seen through blurry eyes. That's how it looked. Ah, but that patchwork… that would be his ticket back. It would make the world stand up and take notice. It would make the name of Lucus Simpson once more not just one of the leading names in medical science, it would make him the leading name. He would rule.

A slow turn of a dial on the console in front of him sharpened the image to the point that separate segments became noticeable… links in a chain, pieces in a puzzle, fragments of a text…

It was a molecule. A living reproducing molecule. Some would say it was the essence of life itself. A chromosome. Messenger of life. The ordering structure of heredity.

But a chromosome like no other on earth. One that he and he alone had created. True, it was still a small scale operation. But the major line had been crossed. Ahead lay difficulties in logistics, but the fundamental problem had been solved. The answer came finally to focus before his eager eyes.

A living chromosome, forced to accept and duplicate genes of a wholly different species. A mutant. A life form never before conceived.

Sure, there was work going on all over the world; using bacterium, splicing in this genes to fool the organism into duplicating insulin here, interferon there, maybe a few illegal drugs now and again… the possibilities were endless.

But the fools. They'd strapped themselves into a straight jacket. Would you ask a neurosurgeon to work wearing boxing gloves? Never!

Yet, the entire industry had done exactly that, by declaring human manipulation off limits.

He shivered every time he thought of those vast international cartels with their virtually unlimited resources playing around with microbes while the true work of their calling gathered dust on the pages of obscure publications and texts.

But for himself.

Man was the laboratory.

Man was the experiment.

Man, was the product.

Like Nietzche, he believed that man was something to be transcended. He, Lucus Simpson, would be the bridge. The human race would forever and for all time sing praise to his foresight, his knowledge, his daring, his genius…

There was so much left to be done. Still such a long road ahead, he felt constantly weighed down by the task. Yet his heart was light. And his mind clear. Quite clear.

This simple chromosome was but a start. There would come an embryo. Then more, each with a greater and greater blend of genes, a fuller and more equal mix until he could predict with accuracy which traits from which species would appear in the mutant. His pulse quickened at the thought of it. No longer would we need to rely on unstable population pools for the human resources so necessary to the growth of the system as a whole.

Now, people could be bred specifically for the tasks required. Qualities envied in other species could be matched with the superior intellect of man producing unimagined benefits. It was so obvious as to be painful. A tool so awesome surely must have applications never yet conceived.

And as long as his fellow scientists ignored the path of the future, it would be up to him, Lucus Simpson to lead the way.

He looked back at the chromosome. Not alive, yet vital, vibrant, filled with possibilities, able somehow, by an incomprehensible blend of physics, biology and sheer magic to duplicate itself exactly, atom for atom, molecule for molecule, gene for gene.

A human chromosome. With a few stray genes added in. Taken from the blood cells of a horse.

It would develop no further. But others would follow. The tests would become more and more complex. But the first and most crucial stage had at last been reached, and banished from his own kind, he had been forced to develop the capability and the technology all on his own.

He had succeeded. He would continue to succeed. Nothing would stop him now.

It was some time later that Lucus Simpson emerged from the depths of his laboratory.

From the living room came the sounds of Chopin. His daughter Sherry paused in her practicing as she heard her father shuffling down the hallway to his room.

She sighed. He would be about due again. It had been almost a week. And it was her turn this time. Carrie had taken the last two sessions and had let her know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't going to go again until Sherry had taken her turn.

Dear little Carrie. She was so headstrong. Of course, Sherry could easily understand her sister's reluctance to indulge their father's strange little quirks, but he was so weary from his work these days, and he had been spending so much time down there. It seemed a simple thing to ease his burden, however slightly. True, he did get a little rough at times, but that was only when he took too much of the drug. Usually he was docile as a lamb, putty in her hands.

He seldom took them both at once anymore. Probably a general lessening of his stamina.

But he could still be a wild man when the feeling grabbed him.

For years, they had been his only release. They had served his needs, they had been his… his women. Sherry was old enough to understand. She had been six when their mother left. That was after the bad time, the time of reporters and newspaper articles and police and investigations and inquiries and an entire collage of images and recollections that she simply filed away in her mind as BEFORE. Now, it was AFTER, and had been for years. Almost as long as she could remember, and certainly longer than Carrie could remember.

He had taken them away. He had run, taking them with him, into hiding. The years had been hard, awkward, at times dangerous, but he had managed to keep them alive and safe and clothed and fed, and now they had this beautiful house in the wilderness that she had grown so to love. It seemed at times that there could be nothing to interfere with the idyllic life their father had carved out for them. Nothing, except that unexplained stubborn streak in Carrie. Sherry had noticed it long ago, though she doubted her father was aware of it yet.

But Carrie was becoming restless. She was becoming dissatisfied. She was starting to wonder about the rest of the world. She was asking questions.

"How do other people eat, Daddy? Do they grow all their food like we do?"

And their father would patiently explain about the evil of cities and civilization and of other people and she would listen but Sherry could see that she really didn't hear.

But most dangerous, she was beginning to wonder about other men. And why there were none around. Or any people. Their father had seen to their education. He had instructed them well in the way's of civilized society. He didn't want them to feel like they were prisoners here. He wanted it to be their choice. He wanted them to realize that there was only evil and pain and suffering beyond the safety of the Eden he had created for them in the mountain wilderness.

Where else could one breathe clean air, catch fish in an unpolluted lake, fish without chemicals, fish from water you can swim in. These questions and hundreds more he would patiently confront Carrie with, but she was still unconvinced.

It saddened Sherry, because she knew that at the final point, their father would never permit them to leave. He had learned to need them. To depend on them. They would sign his death warrant should they leave. Sherry knew that. She had almost, in her own way, made peace with the fact. It was a beautiful place to live. And it was so easy, so simple, so undemanding an existence…

She heard him coming down the hall again, his gait a little less steady.

When he came into the room, she could tell by the slightly out-of-focus stare in his eyes that he had taken the drug. She had no idea what drug. Once, he'd confessed that it was some kind of extract from a mushroom, varied according to his own special formula. He claimed to have bacteria in petri dishes working overtime to produce the stuff. Sometimes she worried about him, worried that maybe he was taking too much of it.

But the poor dear, it was the only real recreation that he enjoyed. And it seemed to be the only way he could arouse himself…

"Come to me my dear," he said in the characteristically thick voice of his drug induced euphoria.

"Would you like me to finish this Chopin Etude, Daddy?" she asked, knowing that he would show no interest.

As expected, he simply shook his head and held out his hand. She rose from the piano bench, carefully folded her music and stacked it in a neat pile, then she turned to face her father.

It was easy to understand how someone, male in particular, would find her an appealing sight. That this male happened also to be her father could perhaps be forgiven in light of the fact that until recently, the young woman standing before him had been the one and only woman to cross paths with Lucus Simpson for close to ten years now. In the early years when it had been necessary to rely on his considerable intellectual powers merely to avoid detection, it had often been necessary to exist right in the midst of the very people who would have screeched for his capture in the shrill tones of hysteria so typical of the general uncomprehending populace.

Hide where they'd least expect it!

And he'd done it with his usual success.

Except he knew that there would be less and less safety for them. Eventually, whether or not by design, something would slip. He was, after all, no fool. He knew the law of averages, he could calculate odds. A chance meeting (remember, according to chain-letter enthusiasts we're never further than five people through a chain of acquaintance from anyone else in the country), some connection of links totally beyond the powers of prediction, and it would be over.

At its peak, his case had been a national story, and when one spoke of the peak, one spoke actually of three separate events, spaced apart by six weeks or so, that assured Lucus Simpson of initiation into that select circle of the near-famous, the nefarious and the infamous whose names trigger a spark of recognition in most of the populace. And if the trigger's sharp enough, it can even conjure up details of the case itself.

Would they remember?

He wondered.

There certainly was enough to remember.

"SIMPSON THE BABY-RAPER says fearful wife"

Headlines of a similar nature filled the hinterlands and the cities, with enough follow-up reports on national news to keep him up nights worrying about that one stray fool who'd actually remember…

And he'd had no doubt that somewhere, someday they would meet. No matter that there had never been a single shred of evidence against him that would stand for a moment on its own support in a court of law. No!

Never mind the fact that not a single eyewitness raised a voice against him.

Ignore his record of brilliance, of dedicated service to his profession, the long list of credits, his awesome credentials.

Who among the mad mob could recall any of those?

But the lurid details… the pictures of those poor children… The anguished cries of heartbroken mothers… The circumstantial evidence…

He knew there was no shortage of morbid ghouls spread across the entire land who soaked up precisely such facts as a way of life almost, trying to season the bland stew of their own dull existence with the blood and sweat wrung pitilessly from the pages of magazines, tabloids, non-fiction thrillers…

He had no stomach for it, and knew that ultimately the final disappearance would be necessary.

It had happened, precisely for the same reasons that he had managed to slip away unnoticed in the first place.

There were still a few, a very select few who believed in him, who knew of him, of his work, who even now were ready to lend whatever assistance they could manage.

No, Lucus Simpson was not without friends.

But he was without human contact. He had planned it that way, structuring his life so that it became a closed box, a sealed jar, a self sustaining system.

Their terrarium needed no attention now.

There were no outsiders.

No one to recall old nightmares.

No one to betray, no one to lie.

No men to prey upon the two jewels of his daughters, no one to soil the perfect life he had fashioned.

He had kept them pure. He had kept them unsoiled.

He had kept them for himself.

Since she'd been aware of her body, Sherry had regularly been called upon to ease her father's tensions.

"I'm tense, daughter, yes, I'm tense indeed. Ease the tension in my loins girl, come to you father and ease my pain."

He would whisper it to her in her sleep, he would call to her in the afternoon from the porch as she played in the yard, he would read to her at night and at the close reach his arms out to her: in short, she was at his command whenever he felt need of her.

It wasn't a conscious decision on his part.

It simply evolved into the custom.

Tradition starts with a single act.

The act had been placing her small hands on his swollen cock, letting her squeeze it, pull on it, jerk it until the fountain of white jism spurted forth and coated her arms, her chest just beginning to blossom with breasts.

She stared wide-eyed.

"What happened? What did I do to you Daddy? Are you bleeding?"

She was petrified.