Sheep Lie! – Barton Paul Levenson

Sheep Lie!

by Barton Paul Levenson

“The project started out with a good vision,” Cindy Lou said. “I love the animals, especially Ellen. But they’re killing them. They’re committing murder, even if it is legal under Wesley-Mitchell.”

“You’re right,” Jim said. “Damn it. I wanted to like this project. All right, I’ll do it. I’ll call a press conference—”

“No, you won’t,” a third voice said.

Cindy Lou screamed. Jim turned to see a brown-furred giant in green Army fatigues, its head scraping the ceiling. The bear casually pushed Jim aside, then swung one massive paw at Cindy Lou’s face. Her head struck the overhead cabinets with an audible thunk. She slid to the ground.

The Bear turned to Jim. “They said she’d be alone. I guess you’re a witness. That means you go, too.”

The bear raised its paw. Jim darted out of the kitchen to the porch, leaped over the railing and ran like hell for the forest. One thought screamed in his head: A bear can outrun a man.

Dr. James McCracken was the most famous science writer of his day. One in ten adults might have recognized his name. He was to North America of the 2040s what Carl Sagan and Stephen Jay Gould had been in the last century—the Man who Explained Science. His testimony helped secure funding for the SETI revival and the Manned Europa Mission. Scientists considered both causes a little dubious, but the public loved them.

Jim celebrated his thirty-sixth birthday the day before the Foundation for Experimental Biology called him about a publicity tour. A decorative, blonde young woman with a strong Texas accent met him at the airport. “Doctor McCracken?”

“That’s me,” he said, grinning as he shook hands. “Are you with the Foundation?”

“I surely am.”

“I like the Foundation already.”

“Don’t let looks deceive you, Doctor. My name’s Cindy Lou, I’m a natural blonde, and everybody tells me I look like a movie star, whatever the hell that means. But I ain’t no movie star. I’m Doctor Cindy Lou Phillips, and I have a Ph.D. in genetics and another in applied biology.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean anything.” He wondered why he had never heard of her.

“Not a problem. Come with me.”

He went with her to airport parking. Cindy Lou drove a car which went with the dumb-blonde stereotype—a lipstick-red convertible with the top down.

“Uh, are you going to keep the top down in this heat?”

“You want air conditioning? You won’t need it. The project—my part of it, anyway—is halfway between Amarillo International and the Panhandle. It’s mostly forest. High altitude, nice and cool.”

“All right,” he said.

“Cindy-Car doors open,” she said. The car’s doors swung open.

“I’ll be damned. Voice activated? I thought that went out in the ’20s.”

“I like it. And I need it for the phone. Car phones are still legal in Texas, you know.”

“I assume you mean a phone built into the car and not a handheld.”

“Of course. We’re Libertarian, but we ain’t stupid.”

The drive took less than fifteen minutes—most of it, as promised, through forest. The project headquarters was a small complex of buildings surrounded by meadow.

“Lemme go ahead and clean up a little. House’s a mess.”

“It’s a private house? You actually live here?”

“Technically it’s owned by the Foundation, and I own my own house in Amarillo, but I do stay here a lot and it does get cluttered. Give me just a minute.”

“Surely. And I didn’t notice a gate, or security guards—isn’t this more or less a secret project?”

“It’s isolated, we don’t publicize our address, and there are bears in the woods out there.”

“Yikes.”

Jim got out of the car and stretched. Cindy Lou went into the nearest building, an ordinary house. A single sheep stood grazing on the lawn close by. Jim went over to it. “Hi, sheep,” he said, bending down to pet its head.

“Hi, man,” the sheep replied, looking up. Its voice was thin, squeaky, but clear.

Jim’s mouth opened. He laughed briefly. “I’ll be damned. I’ve never met a talking sheep before.”

“Do you have a potato?”

“What? A potato? No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“I really like potatoes, but most of the time I have to eat grass.”

“Well, the next time I see you I’ll try to remember to bring a potato.”

“Thank you,” the sheep said.

Jim stretched again, and looked around. Cindy Lou came down the wide front stairs of the house. “You can come in now. House’s still a mess, but it’s better’n it was.”

“Thanks.” Jim followed her. A wide, verandah-style porch went around most of the house. Near the door lay a pile of junked scientific equipment—a terrarium with a heater, an electric furnace, a small nucleotide sequencer. Cindy Lou opened the front door. Jim followed her into a wide kitchen with white cabinets and butcher’s-block counters. “That sheep out there speaks English.”

“Sure does. Ellen is one of our successes. Increased brain efficiency, slightly larger head size, Broca’s and Wernicke’s areas, proper vocal cords. She ain’t as bright as most humans—scored 65 on her last IQ test—but she’s a damn sight brighter’n most sheep.”

“A sheep like that could be a tremendous success as a pet. Kids would love a talking sheep.”

“Would they?” Cindy Lou asked. “And should an intelligent, self-aware creature be kept as a pet, you think?”

“Uhhh. . . Hm. No. I guess not.”

“Why not?”

“Uhhh. . . Because it would be slavery, I guess.”

“Got it in one.”

“Well, what does the Foundation for Experimental Biology want with me, then? I assumed you wanted an essay slanted toward a particular political position. What’s the issue, funding? You want more money?”

She said slowly, “I want you to shut us down.”

“The Foundation wants me to—”

“The Board wants you to look around, see how wonderful we are, and get us more Congressional funding. But that’s not what I want. What I want is for you to shut us down.”

Jim said, “Look I think something like Ellen is wonderful. I like Ellen. She’s not a threat to humanity. And I’m not some kind of raving anti-science nut like—”

“That’s why your word would carry more weight. You’re strongly pro-science. You helped get funding even for things like SETI and the Manned Europa Mission which don’t make a lot of scientific sense.”

“I think they do.”

“I won’t argue with you. Point is, the public sees you as pro-science. I need a pro-science voice if I’m gonna stop this thing.”

“I don’t have any problem with genetic engineering. Genetic—”

“I know, damn it! Will you listen to me?”

Jim had his arms crossed. “All right.”

“Ellen’s the property of the Institute. A chattel.”

“Well, I don’t see that they’re mistreating her.”

“She wasn’t the only one.”

He hesitated. “Oh?”

“Ellen is the one big success of Project Dolittle. The project aimed at creating intelligent, talking animals; that’s where we got the name. What you don’t know is that it took over 1200 conceptions before they got it right. The improvements came about largely because they grafted parts of the human genome into the sheep genome used for the project. Eleven hundred of the concepti died in the petri dish. All right, I ain’t a pro-lifer, I don’t think them microscopic things had souls. But the other hundred grew to various stages before they died or had to be euthanized. Basically trial and error, over and over again. It was only fifty or so times before Ellen that they started growing to a healthy adulthood. And as usual with developmental studies, most of them were sacrificed to see how they were developing at various stages. Killed and dissected.”

“Well, that’s how the process works.”

“But don’t you get it? Many of those sheep were self-aware. They were people by any sensible definition of the word, and they were slaughtered like animals.”

“Oh.” It finally hit him. “Oh.”

“Ellen is a person. A person, self-aware, like you and me. But that won’t stop them from killing her after a while so they can dissect her brain. Project Dolittle is still ongoing and the sheep are slaughtered at the birth-equivalent stage, at 10 and 20 days, one, two, six and twelve months, and two and three years.”

It took a moment for the words to register. “Oh, Lord.”

“Exactly.”

“Uh, how long do sheep live?”

“Twelve years on average. The record’s twenty-three. Ellen’s four. They’re gonna kill her at six to see how her brain and other organs developed.”

“You’re right. This has to be stopped. But I don’t see that it’s necessary to shut down the Foundation. If it’s just made illegal to kill a self-aware being once it’s reached, um, the birth-level stage or so—”

“Don’t you see the project is inherently wrong? Ellen’s legally a chattel. The Wesley-Mitchell Bill specifies that unless the majority of an organism’s genome is human, it’s legally an animal. That’s the wrong criterion.

“Hell, the whole idea is wrong,” she said. “It’s gonna lead to a new slavery. Can you imagine chimpanzee miners with, say, a 25% human genome? Gorilla soldiers? Snakes trained to carry grenades across a battlefield? It’s all legal under the present laws. As long as an animal has less than 50% human genes, it’s a slave. It might be able to talk, think, plan for the future, hell, it can write poetry—but its owners can do what they want with it.” She went to the kitchen window and looked out. “There are rumors—just rumors—that there’s already a military branch of the project working on bears. It’s plausible. There are still bears in the woods around here. We’re not supposed to walk around in the forest.”

“Still, I’d hate to shut the project down altogether. We wouldn’t have any more people like Ellen.”

“The project started out with a good vision. . .”

They talked. The bear came in. It killed Cindy Lou. Jim ran.

He sprinted as fast as he could, expecting the bear to grab him from behind at any moment. He hadn’t run this far, this fast in years, but panic gave him strength.

The edge of the woods was close. The forest terrain sloped uphill right away. Jim charged to the top, dodging trees— fortunately there wasn’t much undergrowth. An old-growth forest, his mind insisted, inanely giving him science-writing tidbits even when it was pointless. He skipped and slid down into the ravine ahead and sprinted down the little creek, splashing water.

He started to slow down, legs aching, out of breath. He risked a look behind. Twenty yards back, the bear roared at him. Jim cried out and ran.

The creek went around a copse of trees. Jim came to a widened waterway rushing over large stones in a waterfall, forest to the right, heavy undergrowth to the left.

Thinking vaguely about briar patches and wondering if he was being stupid, he turned left and crashed into the undergrowth. He stomped vines and whipped through thorn branches, scratching his legs through the thin pants, stumbling and barely keeping on his feet.

“I got you now, Jack!” roared the bear.

Jim’s side hurt like hell. Breath shrieked in and out of his lungs. He felt like throwing up, but he kept running, kept running. Darkness: Trees. He dodged in among them, stomping plants. The undergrowth thinned. He tried to put trees between himself and the bear, weaving in and out.

He looked back. He had temporarily lost the bear. Good! But he kept running, to put as much distance between himself and his pursuer as possible. Suddenly he went over a drop. He pushed hard with the one leg still touching the ground, converting his fall to a jump onto a thick tree branch near the rise. He grabbed another branch and hauled himself up, one knee over. He rolled face down. A stump of branch jabbed him in the crotch. No time for the pain; he scrambled upright, grabbed the next branch. In a minutes he was fifty feet up.

He watched for the bear. It came over the rise and scanned the depression below.

Why didn’t he catch me?

The ache in his genitals made him feel nauseated.

He’s on two feet. Must have human genes mixed in with the bear. Bears are faster because they go on all fours. He’s too stupid to use his bear ancestry.

Absolutely essential to make no sound, to not move. One move and the bear would look up and see him.

The bear rubbed a paw over its mouth, a very human gesture. He pulled a cell phone out of a back pocket; delicately touched a key with a claw tip. “Ben to base, Ben to base. I have taken Doctor Cindy out of the picture.”

The phone said something unintelligible back.

“Because there’s a witness. I’m in pursuit now. In the forest. He’s around here somewhere. I saw him just a minute ago.”

Please God, please God, please God, Jim thought incoherently.

Another response from the phone.

“I’ll smell him out. I’m a bear, remember? I’ll smell out his trail and I’ll break him in. . . half. . . Uh, yes, sir. Yes, um. . . Yeah, I guess he could be. Yes sir. Sorry, sir.” The bear closed the phone again, gently put it back in its pocket. “Jerk,” it said conversationally. It lifted its head, sniffing the air.

Jim’s head ached. His sides were killing him. He didn’t know why the bear hadn’t already heard his heavy breathing. He felt hot and sweaty. His legs itched terribly where thorn branches had scratched him.

The bear turned in a half circle, sniffing. He shook his head. “Trail. Find his trail.” He bent to the ground, sniffing again. “Goddam you, where are you? I’m gonna beat the crap out of you when I find you.” Sniff.

The bear stood up again. It carefully made its way down the drop-off, holding onto tree branches to steady itself.

Jim sagged. Orange and black spots danced in front of his eyes.

You will not faint! Faint and fall, and he’ll hear you and he’ll kill you. So stay awake, buddy boy.

He tried to slow his breathing. It was getting easier. The ache in his crotch had subsided to a dull throb. He rested, face against rough bark, knots and gnarls pressing his neck, chest, stomach, legs. Maybe when the bear went away he could get to the car. . . Spin out and leave the bear far behind. . .

Jim woke up. He had fallen asleep after all, but he hadn’t fallen out of the tree.

“Peek-a-boo,” a voice said.

The bear clutched the trunk below him. For a moment Jim froze. Then he frantically tried to climb higher, trying not to get too near the tree trunk, which meant near the bear.

“I’m gonna kill you, buddy,” the bear said.

“Hold it right there, pal!”

Jim looked down. A young policeman with a mustache stood there holding a big, double-barreled shotgun.

“Outta the tree, buddy! I mean now!”

“Oh, thank God!” Jim said. He hated how his voice broke.

“It’ll take more than that little gun to stop me,” the bear said.

“My friend, don’t be stupid,” the cop said. “I’ve seen this thing fire right through a brick wall. I don’t think you’re made outta brick, so climb down outta that tree. Right now!”

Fuming, the bear climbed down. Jim followed.

“You okay, buddy?” the cop asked Jim.

“I-I think so. Just exhausted.”

“There’s paramedics coming.” The cop said “March,” to the bear, and followed it out of the forest.

Jim trailed behind. “How’d you know I was here?” he asked. “There wasn’t anybody around for miles. It was the perfect spot for a murder.”

“Got a phone call from a concerned citizen,” the cop said.

They met another cop halfway—a middle-aged woman, her pistol drawn. “You found ‘em, I see.”

“Sure did,” the cop with the shotgun said.

“Does he really talk?”

“Sure. Got a mouth on him, too.”

“You can’t do anything to me,” the bear said. “Under Wesley-Mitchell, I’m not legally human. I don’t have to follow your laws.”

“Then maybe the judge’ll decide you’re a public menace and have you put to sleep,” the cop said.

“Cuffs?” the woman asked.

“Wouldn’t fit.”

They approached a police van. Ellen the sheep stood there. She said, “That’s him, Officer! That’s Ben! He killed Doctor Cindy!”

“Sheep lie!” the bear said. “Sheep lie! Sheep lie!”

“I do not, you liar,” Ellen said.

Two more vans came down the dirt road to the house. They pulled up next to the police van. One was marked EMERGENCY SERVICES, the other, CORONER.

“Can I take Ellen home with me?” Jim asked one of the cops.

“Huh? You into sheep?”

“They’re going to kill her. I was going to hold a press conference to let the public know. Somehow they knew Cindy—Doctor Cindy Lou Phillips, the woman who picked me up—had turned against them. That’s why the Institute sent the bear after her. I saw him kill Cindy. If Ellen was the one who called—”

“She was. Used the car phone in that red convertible. It’s voice-activated, or you woulda been outta luck.”

“Then she saved my life. I don’t want to leave her here where they can get her.”

The cop addressed his partner. “What do we do, call animal control?”

“May as well let him take the sheep.”

“Wouldn’t it be theft?”

“She’s a person,” Jim said. “She can go where she wants. She’s not property.”

“Let him take the sheep,” the female cop said.

“Okay,” the male cop said. “Never let it be said I separated a man from his sheep.”

“You can’t believe that sheep,” the bear said.

“Get in the van, buddy.” The male cop motioned with his shotgun. His partner went to the back of the police van and opened it.

“Sheep lie,” the bear said.

“It’s a tough old world,” said the cop.

Barton Paul Levenson has a degree in physics. Happily married to poet Elizabeth Penrose, he confuses everybody by being both a born-again Christian and a liberal Democrat. His work has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, ChiZine, Cricket, Cicada, the New York Review of Science Fiction, and many small press markets. His novels, “Parole” and “Max and Me,” can be downloaded now from Lyrical Press or amazon.com. “Year of the Human” is coming in paperback from Solstice Publishing. Barton was prohibited from entering the Confluence Short Story Contest again after winning first prize two years in a row.

 

Sheep Lie! - Barton Paul Levenson, 4.7 out of 5 based on 11 ratings