At last McGregor settled on his real targets.
"Tom! Hunca! Front and center!"
Tom Thumb and his mate Hunca Munca came shakily forward. The two mice hung their heads wearily, knowing full well what was to come and the futility of resistance.
At this moment a fox appeared in the doorway. Fully as tall as McGregor, the Garden's second-in-command wore a brown suitcoat, vest, and cravat. He carried McGregor's cane.
Mr. Tod, the fox, smiled now, showing sharp teeth.
With the mice a foot or two from McGregor, he assailed them. "When you wrecked the dollhouse at the three o'clock show, you broke a dish!"
Tom Thumb looked at Hunca Munca, and she looked at him. Their relatively small and shiny brown eyes caught the light from the ceiling fixtures. Then the male mouse spoke.
"We are supposed to break a dish. We discover that the ham is plaster. We chitter angrily. I pick up the tongs. I hit the ham-"
"You broke the wrong dish! You broke an empty dish!"
"No, I am sure I hit only the ham-"
"Enough! Give me the cane!"
The fox, his bushy tail held stiffly erect, his claws clicking on the floor, crossed to McGregor and handed him the cane.
McGregor twisted the cane's top to Setting Eleven.
He began to beat the mice. The lightest touch of the cane sufficed.
They squealed and cried. Others among the watching splices began to weep too. But it was no use. The blows were unrelenting.
Hunca Munca had collapsed to the floor. Trying to keep her head low, she raised her scut high.
McGregor's genitals began to emerge.
Gestation Jest
McGregor's mum was a limited's crick,
And her solo son was a pro's best trick!
She ran his specs on a micro-fab,
And bent her egg in the company's lab!
A few months later the lad emerged,
Stylish toy of the maternal urge!
Paraparenting
Her smart card toted megamiles on the Suborbital Express,
As she did thirty minutes' work, Bangkok to Baltiscandia,
Leaving once again, Mum spared McGregor one thought– less brief caress,
Before passing him to a Ciba-Geigy nurse-much handier!
A Song of Youth
Nurse was a cocktail of 'possum and' roo,
Attentive, loving, and sweet.
McGregor spent hours out of view,
Pouched and on a teat.
When older, his mum began to feel
His education must begin.
Tropes and boosters and Digireal
All were funneled in.
One day he was living virtually,
When something happened unheard-erous.
The digiverse was suddenly, hurtfully
Amok and truly murderous!
Electron fangs and claws raked the lad,
As the cuddly characters, all beasts,
Picked up crosstalk from a channel bad,
Where kingfans held their gory feasts.
By the time he ripped away the set,
McGregor was a neural wreck.
And worse, he found his mouth all wet
With blood from Nurse's neck!
The rehab boys plied their pills,
And then pronounced him sane.
But really McGregor's creepy ills
Were still hidden in his brain.
Whimper While You Work
Now he's grown and wants employment.
Might as well mix work with enjoyment!
Digireal's fine (when it's not all bollixed!)
But folks still crave some solid frolics.
'Round the globe the epcots sprout-
Watch the classix acted out!
What better place for McGregor to live
Than among those where he can stick his shiv!
Peter came into the barnyard around three in the morning. The epcot had minimal security, directed mostly against human intruders, the occasional lone vandal or thrill-seeking metroplex posse. The system presented no challenge to the guerrilla skills of one who had trained with the Sequoia Revenge Squad at their camp hidden in the Cascades. As for potential escapees, their biological tethers were deterrence enough. It was a rare splice who could summon up the courage to flee into a society where all authority was ranked against him, where his very sustenance was a controlled substance.
But it was Peter's task tonight to convince his compatriots to do just such a thing.
Hill Top Farmhouse was quiet and dark. On the first floor lived Mr. Tod; on the second, McGregor. Peter bristled at the thought of the pair. With luck, he could accomplish his goals without ever encountering the wardens.
At the barn door, he paused. Sniffing, he found only fading traces of McGregor's scent, sweat, and spume. But Peter's nose was half-ruined from fags, and he hardly trusted it. Still, in conjunction with the winking out of the Farmhouse lights he had witnessed, the evidence was enough.
Possessed by an urge to mark this territory he was about to conquer, Peter slid his cock from its sheath and pissed
briefly against the door, imagining it as McGregor's face. The earth absorbed the steaming urine hungrily as Peter worked the latch.
The door creaked slightly as he slid inside.
The noise was enough to wake Squirrel Nutkin.
''Krrrk, krrrk, krrrk! It's the old Peter, the old Peter!"
Quiet, you sodding rodent! Oh, damn!"
Nutkin's cries had roused all the sleepers. Peter had hoped to wake a few of the more solid types first, those who in his judgment had the most initiative and could help him deal with the more timorous and confused. Too late for that now, though.
Lights flared on. Luckily, the barn's windows existed only as holo trompe l'oeil. McGregor would receive no alert that way.
All eyes– big and wet, small and glittering, nictitating and night-seeing-were fastened on him. Peter let them absorb the full meaning of his presence: a runaway splice had survived, even prospered.
The collie dog, Kep, was first to speak.
"Why do you return? We have a new Peter now. Have you put yourself under human control? Where is your mark?"
Peter held himself proudly erect. "I'm no slave, I'm a free var, equal to any proking fifty-oner. And I'm here to set all of you free too There's a van with a driver just a mile off. We couldn't bring it any closer without being detected, and we didn't want to mount a full raid if we needn't do so. All you have to do is follow me, and by tomorrow morning you'll all
be your own masters. The Tailor of Gloucester will unkink your chromos."
Nervous babble broke out among the splices.
"What will we eat?" asked Tom Kitten.
"Who will clothe us?" asked Mrs. Tittlemouse.
"What will we do with ourselves all day?" asked Samuel Whiskers.
Peter was disgusted. "None of your questions matter! Trust me, the CLF will see to all your needs. What matters is escape. Now!"
Duchess, the black dog, spoke. "How do we know the CLF can protect us?"
"We are powerful! Our leader is brave and wise. Even now he plans a powerful strike against the humans in Nova England! We have many friends and allies. The Ahimsa League, the underground arm of the SPCC-Have you not heard of Celesteville? The Anzanian government has deeded us a preserve, where all splices may live freely. Those who do not want to participate in the armed struggle may settle there. King Babar needs good citizens."
"You lie! You want to lead us to our deaths!"
Peter turned.
He confronted himself.
The replacement Peter stood next to his mate, Flopsy. Unlike the renegade Peter, he was finely groomed and plump, the buttons of his jacket all polished. Every line of his furry countenance indicated how thoroughly he had been indoctrinated in subservience by a supplier eager to