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//: A Correspondence of City Mice: York. Dear Brothers, "You okay, kid?" York shook his head, looking up at the store owner. His tail stiffened vaguely, not sure if he was being accused of something or not. "Uhm." "You're that mouse kid, from the university, right?" "Yeah, I'm studying at Iowa state," York replied, trying to smile. He put the pack down, scratching the back of his neck. You remember when we were kids, how Wednesday nights were with Dr. Takahara? Those big 'family' dinners, Ms. Betchett looking in on us before she drove home for the night. Then television. Remember that comedy show, Grass Greene, before it got cancelled? "It was on the newsfeeds," the store owner replied, smiling, lips quirking. "How they treating you up there?" "Okay, I guess. I get stared at a lot." "Well, we don't see much of your type. Kind of far from San Iadras." York nodded quickly. "There's only a few scholarships that could help me and my brothers, so we had to travel far, sir." "Mitch. So what are you studying, anyway?" "Electrical Engineering. It's kind of difficult. Our logic prof prefers class discussion." York twitched an ear uncomfortably. "Aww, well, second semester's just started. I'm sure you'll fit right in. What are you looking for?" The storekeeper asked, moving around to stand beside York at the store's aisle. "Uh. Rat poison. They keep scritchin' around in the dorm walls," York admitted, dry swallowing. He shut his eyes for a moment. "Can't get any sleep and nobody's doing anything about it. Which one uses the anticoagulants?" While we were all watching Grass Greene, he used to fondle Kiev. "You want some of this," the Store keeper replied, picking up a neon-orange box marked with 'Ratterminate' or some other cutesy brand name. "It's pretty humane stuff. Curl up and pass out quietly, bleeding internally. Hardly any suffering at all." "That's... that's good, thanks, sir." "Mitch," the store keeper replied with a smile. Me and Monaco were playing chess on that scrap of paper we had, and he came up, timid and worried. It was confusing, we all thought it was something medical. I mean it's not like any of the other research staff explained what the hell sex was, or what abuse might be, you know? York pulled his tail up, wrapping it around his knees, glancing up as the girls walked by. One glanced at him and giggled. "But wouldn't that be, like, bestiality?" one sniggered, breezing past. York bit his lip and stuck his nose back into his data pad. He's dead now, and so am I. We don't talk enough. We don't share. We all curl up and try to forget what happens. But it's not just us. It's every fur out there. It's not so much denial as just not mattering to anybody. We're the freaks of nature, and we get treated like it. Who gives a damn if the family dog gets run over? Not the driver that did it, and these days, generally not the family either. After all, insurance policies let you get a new clone for what, fifty, sixty new dollars? Who's going to give a damn about the pets nobody even owns anymore? "Hey, York! Aren't you going to be late for class, man?" one of the students in his class yelled from the open back of his convertible. Hands wrenched together, York finally managed to point down the street. Yeah, I, uh, missed the bus, and-" The traffic light changed, and the car's autopilot started rolling along. "Hell, well, get the next one, man, you don't want to be late!" York turned his head to watch the speeding machine, three of its seats empty. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Don't want to be late." This isn't going to change just because any of us wants it to. Furs, despite receiving more social assistance than any ethnic group in history per capita thanks to the money squeezed out of Estian after they made us, are still consistently in the lowest economic brackets. And people doing serious thinking on this, economists and world leaders, are saying what? "Birth certificate?" "I don't-" "Well there has to be some kind of record of your birth, for the records?" "You see the documents are tied up in the courts, and because of the appeals process the judge won't let any of it be released..." A helpless smile. "I'm sorry, I can't help you apply. Next, please?" "But-!" "Next, please." 'They just weren't made with the drive to succeed, like a human would. Why should we change our economic policy to fix that?' "You don't understand, I can't afford this textbook, sir." The professor looked up coldly, tapping his fingers together. "You're on a scholarship, aren't you?" "Yes, but-" "It's one textbook, you don't have to pay for anything else, get a job or something." "But nobody-" "No buts, Salcedo." 'They can't fall in love, like a human would. Why should we change our society like that?' It was a cold night on the quad. York edged his arm around her shoulders, the soft little brunette. "You okay, Lianne?" She felt warm. "I'm fine, York, thanks for helping me," she replied, shutting her datapad down on the textbook screen. She looked up, smiled invitingly. He leaned his head closer, lips parted slightly. "Oh, god, are you..." "Lianne?" "I.. I'm sorry York, this is just too... you're, you're not even-" She pulled away abruptly, clutching the data-pad. "-you're like an, an animal, I..." York froze, an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, unable to lift his eyes to her. His arm fell off her shoulder and thudded at his side. "I... I'm sorry, York. My room mate's probably... oh, oh God, I'm sorry," she stuttered, backing away. 'They don't have souls, like a human would, because they weren't made by God. Why should we change the scripture of our church to alter that?' "Yeah, back when we were kids the Padre at the orphanage we were held in said that because God hadn't made us, we don't have souls, so-" "I think it's sick. I bet Jesus wouldn't even want to save you, Catholic." York forced up a quivering smile. "I'm not a Catholic, they didn't want us." "Only Man was made in God's image," the perky girl replied, moving off with her cronies, all carrying dedicated datacards printed with 'Holy Bible'. York looked down at his feet, wrenching his hands together. "I was made in Man's image," he finally said, long after they'd gone. It's like Guy Fawkes said. I'm sorry, brothers. The little neon-orange box wouldn't tear open right. York lifted it, about to bite into it to try and rip it open, but hesitated. After all, it was poison. He laughed, suddenly, squeaking out helpless giggles. He bit open the box anyway. Monaco, you can keep the chess set. Hold onto it for me. The park tables were covered in windblown leaves, but it was okay. Monaco cleared them off with the back of his hand. "You got the chess pieces, York?" Dallas, I just finished reading that new Truman series, so don't feel bad about monopolising the data chip. It's good, you'll like it. "I like the stars. They don't care who I am, they're pretty for everybody." Florence. I don't have any nice clothes you'd like, so I got a gift certificate for Whitney's and Shaw in London. They already have your (our) measurements, so once you get to them with the code they'll be able to tailor something for you pretty fast. Florence laughed, twirling around and around in his new jacket. "Isn't it great? Jake gave it to me." Denver, I'm sorry I couldn't finish helping you edit your essay. But it's really good, I liked the insight into French economics. I got you a couple of books on it, they're in the chipset I'm giving Dallas - get him to copy them out for you. Denver gnawed on the end of his computer stylus. "Is that really how to spell it? It's not any good, is it..." Osaka. I know you keep talking about fixing things at the genetic level. Don't try and pretend this is in our genes somewhere, it's not. Estian did better on us than they realized. I couldn't think of anything I could get you, but I started an E-petition to get them to release our research records. Maybe one of the journalists poking into our lives can get some attention for that. "If we'd just," Osaka wept, waving a hand. "If they'd just given us better immune systems it wouldn't have happened. Oh god, Houston." Nagoya, I'm going to miss you telling us about Australia and practising your accent on us. I got Fred to start stocking that Carlton Draught stuff you were talking about, I hope everyone enjoys it. "They're all crazy," he grinned from the screen. "It's like, Guh-day mate. Guh-dyay-May-yit." Paris. Hat man bemerkt, daß im Himmel alle interessanten Menschen fehlen? (For everybody else, before you start leaning on the translators, 'Has anyone noticed that in heaven all the interesting people are missing?' Natch, it's Nietszche.) I guess there's another place for us. Your shoes are all worn out from walking, take mine. "I'm kinda busy," Paris replied, scratching at an ear before holding up the book. Real paper, not just a data card. "They had it from the library, and it's even signed. Signed! Nobody wants paper anymore, so they let me buy it for twenty nudies," he grinned, holding up the german-titled book. Also sprach Zarathustra. "Isn't it great?" Dakar, Orleans. I know you two are practically running the immunology department at Guangzhou now, so I thought you might like my gas mask. Sorry, Monaco, I can't use it anymore, but they certainly can! The two of them leaning over a set of blueprints. "No, we've gotta put the pump there or it's just gonna airlock." "Yeah, but if we do that then we have to get more pressure here and-" Lagos, come home. We all missed you at Houston's funeral. Please, don't miss mine. Come home. I've sent open tickets. An empty seat at the funeral. He'd been crying over the phone. Troy mailed him the hymnal and pamphlet anyway. Toledo, it's kind of convenient that these tumours are coming up now, huh? By the time you guys get this and get the local services to put me on ice, most of the stem cells should be okay, so that's my gift to you, macabre as it is. Toledo grinned, pulling out the data-chip from under his shirt. "Doctor Hawes snuck it to me. He said it's a comic! Who's got a data pad? I wanna see what a comic is!" Saigon, I'm going to keep writing you. It'll all be back dated, but it should keep you going for another year or so. "It's so cold up here," Troy read aloud. "And I'm lonely. It's difficult to know when a plane or ship can get me out, so I'm not going to make our birthday. But I think getting to study in Antarctica is probably the best thing that's ever happened to me. The penguins are really funny! I miss all of you a lot." Philadelphia, I found a Franklin Half-Dollar! It's taped to the frame of my Mona Lisa print, you might want that too. Philadelphia scratched his chin. "Nah, you can't just send your knights in like that, York," he said, leaning over the console, pointing at the screen. "It was all about the charge, gotta give them time to line up. What is this game, anyway? Can I try?" Nashville, I put together some commentary on that algorithm you sent me. I want you to code it out. I think if you graph it right the waves are going to come out beautiful. It'll be great for your presentation. Nashville bit his lip. "You can have mine, York," he eventually said, pushing his portion of pudding over the table. "It'll help you feel better," he concluded with a smile, lashing his tail from side to side. "Just don't tell the dieticians about it, 'kay?" Turin, hang in. Maybe they can attach one of mine for you, and if the optic nerve really is too damaged I promise there'll be money to get a bridge installed one day. I wrote to a half-dozen funds, I'm sure one will reply. Turin sat on the edge of the examiner's table, shaking like a leaf, fresh bandages taped down over his shaved back where they'd taken out the sockets, a patch over his eye. "But what if it gets infected again? I don't want to go blind." Oslo, I know you're sick of fish, so I sent you a little memory-plastic one. Apparently it'll swim from warm spots to cold spots, but I haven't tried it out. It seems like a neat toy. Oslo folded his arms. "I don't want another injection! It hurts, and I'm not sick like Troy is! I'm not gonna get sick, either!" Boston, there's a heap of my laundry minus my shoes for you to deal with. Good luck fixing the washing machines. Boston scratched his head confusedly. "There just isn't enough time, I mean. Look, classes nine to five, without any breaks, and then I've gotta do homework, and... when am I going to have time to eat, or wash my clothes?" He put his hands to his face. "I never shoulda triple-majored." Sydney, I sent you some links. Did you get them? If not, I sent some more for a really good web-theatre group you'll like. Sitting on a bus bench outside the orchestra in San Iadras. Another bus rolled by. "It's school tomorrow, we gotta get home," Dallas complained, bleary-eyed. "The Padre's gonna yell at us." But the music was so sweet, even if faint. "I just wanna listen another couple minutes. There'll be another bus..." Troy. You're smart. I can't think of what to do with the rest of my stuff, pass it around as best you can. I don't have much money left but I want you to keep it, you keep running out of travel money. Please say a few words. I know you hate it, but you're good at it. Troy looked awful, the cables splinted to what was left of his arm. He grimaced up at the auditors from the Tri-Corp Special Interest Group. "Yeah, I'd call it gross medical misconduct." Everyone else was silent. He pulled the sheet of paper close, a crayon picture of being in surgery, big red splotches of wax, keeping the paper firm with the stub of his arm as he pointed at it. "I read the guidelines for hygiene treatment. They keep surgery more sterile for real lab mice than for us. They pump us full of antibiotics instead. Not that I legally count as having an opinion, do I?" he spat, throwing the drawing at them, marked with 'Toledo - Age 10' in the corner. There's a few names I'm missing from this list, but just in case Padre Munez was wrong and we do go to heaven or hell, just like the rest of them, I know I'm not going up there - suicide is a sin, remember? So you'll have to pass on my words for me. The little pellets of rat poison were bright pink, like some kind of luminous candy, each one printed with a dark x for poison. He fished one out, and swallowed it with a glass of water. Then another, drinking them one by one. He snickered. "Dangerous remedy. Heh." He tried crunching the next one, to see if it tasted like candy too, but it nearly made him throw up. He washed his mouth out with some of the water, spitting into the trash can before swallowing another. Houston, I guess your count keeps having to get revised. It's five, now, and only nineteen escaped. I hope that doesn't change. "The padre taught me a rhyme," Houston grinned. "Hickory Dickory Dock, the mice ran up the clock, the clock struck one, and down the mouse ran. But actually it's three, and twenty-one escaped with minor injury," he giggled. Kiev, I'm so sorry for telling. But someone had to, we have to talk about this now. "Uhm, guys? Does Doctor Takahara ever, like, touch you when it's TV night?" Kiev asked, shivering uncomfortably. "Like at a medical exam?" Berlin, N to F3. I don't know how you're going to get back to me on this, but I've been meaning to finish that game with you for a long time now. "I mean I don't feel sick," Berlin complained, staring down at the board they'd drawn on a spare bit of cardboard. They were using pills as chess pieces. He moved over a dose of Elethrex with a pointed finger. "Q to F3," he offered distractedly, hugging himself." Springfield. I... it's not your fault. It's not my fault, please see that. They made me. They made me. "Dallas gonna be okay?" Springfield asked, trying not to wail. The scalpel went through his skin all too easily, and the researchers told York to stop crying, or he wouldn't be able to see properly. If I had any integrity at all I'd do this like I swore I would after they made me kill you. You died in suffering, bleeding to death, and so should I. I killed my own brother, I should suffer for that. Cain and Abel, except there's no mark of Cain on me except 'BLMver3-80-18' on my gums. York stuck out his tongue at the mirror. The little neon-orange box was empty. There was a little blood in his saliva, making his tongue kind of orange. He shivered, even though he felt warm. He pulled on a sweater and switched on the radio. It's still bleeding to death, in a way, though. York looked down at the keyboard. Blood had been dripping out of his nose. He mopped it up with a tissue. Not long now, he hoped. It's not our fault that I did this. It's theirs. I didn't suffer. It feels kind of warm, actually. I put on the radio, and the music is relaxing, and I'm crying, but I'll be okay. Promise. I want my mail sign-off as an epitaph, like Houston had. Just don't let them cremate me. It would be too much like going into the incinerator. He hit send, and then he lay down, pulling the blankets up over himself protectively. He brushed blood off his nose, from where it trickled down, and went quietly to sleep. - York 'A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy.' - Guy Fawkes. For once, he didn't have any nightmares. York Salcedo 2080 - 2099