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HYBRID CHILD
Parallel Futures
Series Editors: Thomas Lamarre and Takayuki Tatsumi

Yoshio Aramaki, The Sacred Era

Mariko Ōhara, Hybrid Child
Hybrid
Child
==A Novel==

Mariko Ōhara
Translated by Jodie Beck

Parallel Futures

University of Minnesota Press = Minneapolis = London

The University of Minnesota Press gratefully acknowledges financial support for the
publication of this book from the Japan Foundation.

Hybrid Child (Haiburiddo chairudo) copyright 1990 Mariko Ōhara.

This translation is published by arrangement with Hayakawa Publishing
Corporation.

English translation copyright 2018 by the Regents of the University of

Minnesota

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior
written permission of the publisher.

Published by the University of Minnesota Press

111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401-­2520
http://www.upress.umn.edu

Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free paper

The University of Minnesota is an equal-­opportunity educator and

employer.

24 23 22 21 20 19 18 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ōhara, Mariko, author. | Beck, Jodie, translator.
Hybrid child : a novel / Mariko Ōhara ; translated by Jodie Beck.
Other titles: Haiburiddo chairudo. English
Minneapolis : University of Minnesota Press, 2018. | Series: Parallel futures |
Identifiers: LCCN 2017056065 (print) | ISBN 978-1-5179-0489-0 (hc) |
ISBN 978-1-5179-0490-6 (pb)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Science fiction
Classification: LCC PL874.H725 H3513 2018 (print)
DDC 895.63/5–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017056065
And the Lord commanded the fish, and
it vomited Jonah onto dry land.
—­Old Testament Book of Jonah 2:10
CONTENTS

Hybrid Child 1

Farewell 49

Aquaplanet 79

Epilogue 333
HYBRID CHILD
1
Acid rain fell from the sky. Rain like a woman’s long black hair.
It was the kind of suffocating rain that, if you ran through it
open-­mouthed, would get caught in your throat and choke you. But
the dadazim had no mouth. Instead, five crimson lilies bloomed on
his back.
Protruding from within his body, these sense organs unfurled
their bugle-­shaped petals, nearly eight inches wide.
Dozens of golden tentacles stretched out from deep within each
blossom’s center. Moist now after so long without rain, their flesh
trembled with pleasure.
Many months without food and water had altered the dadazim’s
appearance to an alarming degree. His external cells had begun to
shrivel up and die as he crossed the wilderness, and he was starting
to show his true form.
He had endured an awfully long time.
Almost all the fat in his body had been converted to energy—­
just enough to keep him alive. His core powered his movements.
All other energy he devoted to his surface, to maintaining his form.
How fragile cell systems were . . .
He welcomed the rain.
Its acidity meant that the city was near. His brain was nearing
meat.

== 3
2
I was talked into buying land in the middle of nowhere—­a place too
deserted to be considered a suburb. It was incredibly vast and quiet,
just as the realtor had said. The place was in fact so isolated that it
would be difficult to get to town in a car without an auto-­navigator.
It was so enshrouded in silence that without music, you would even-
tually start to hear things.
I haven’t decided yet if this is a “good” environment for a writer,
or just an “average” environment—­but at least it’s not a “bad” envi-
ronment, or so I tell myself.
I purchased a top-­of-­the-­line house and had it placed directly in
the center of the lot. Since the men who linked this big house to the
land left, I don’t think I’ve seen anything else move. Just some silver
grasshoppers.
I opened the cellbook that I had just ordered. I like reading on
my pocket-­sized reader, commonly known as Hoopers Design. Its
only flaw is that it’s slightly heavier than a paper book, but I like the
fact that it doesn’t multiply the way that paper books do. The elec-
tronic file is displayed on my reader, shaped just like a book.
The file is sent to my terminal from the bookstore in town. It
takes less than two minutes; I simply plug the reader into the car-
tridge slot and wait. If I wanted to, I could also print it out and have it
nicely bound, but I rarely do, unless it’s a book that I particularly like.
Today I’m reading Appetite and Reason, which has been hover-
ing in the top three rankings for some time now. The subject matter
piqued my interest, so I decided to leaf through it.
For background music, I chose Erik Satie’s “Three Gym-
nopédies.”
“Keep it on continuous play until I tell you to stop. You can add
in variations.”

4 ==
 Hybrid Child == 5

< Okay, I will. Mama, I have musical talent, don’t you think?
Hee hee . . . >
“I hope so.”
I have a good relationship with my daughter.
At least I think I do.
My daughter’s name is Jonah. She is both the daughter that I
gave birth to and myself as a little girl. Jonah takes care of the house.
She is the latest type of general-­purpose “housekeeper computer,”
top-­of-­the-­line. Jonah’s actual body is buried under the house.
“Three Gymnopédies” began to play. The sound was wonderful-
ly grainy, not annoyingly so. It was rich and soft, as though someone
were playing the piano right next to me. The music wasn’t a recording;
Jonah was creating it herself. Or rather, she was actually playing it.
She did everything by herself—­calculated the tone for each
sound, its relative strength or weakness, its effects and position; she
even configured the acoustics.
Amazing . . . I felt like I had stepped softly off a dream cloud and
I was flying . . .
I pushed a button to turn the page of my book. One of the
phrases kept running through my head—­“Her splattered flesh was
the gravy”—­and eventually I forgot about pushing the button, lost
track of time, and allowed my mind to wander, floating exposed in
the rhythm of the undulating music. Each and every note held my
attention; I couldn’t pull myself away from the sound.
“You’re . . . a genius . . .”
I realized it the moment I said it—­I liked it because it was my
own particular rhythm, my own unique rhetoric, the physiology of
my very own body! Resonating in the space of a tightly shut house.
True to Pascal’s law, the pressure of the sound could be felt through-
out the house. It was mesmerizingly pleasant, but dangerously so.
Eventually it would bring on autotoxemia.
I stopped the music.
“I’m sorry . . . please put on the Couronir record.”
< . . . This doesn’t please you . . . ? >
That teasing voice sounded just like my daughter. She knew
how attached I was to her. Did superior artificial intelligences have
consciousness? To me, they were a complete mystery.
6  == Hybrid Child

I answered, “It’s not that it doesn’t please me. It’s that it pleases
me too much.”
Jonah let out a hoarse, nasal laugh.
< Yes, I know what you mean . . . >
As soon as I heard those words, I felt as though cold water had
just been poured down my back, but I didn’t know why. It was a
shock. I felt struck in the head.
I still have trouble understanding her response patterns, proba-
bly because I haven’t been living with her for very long.
A vision of her, of my dead daughter, flashed before my eyes, as
though she were really living and breathing. The apparition flick-
ered—­a girl standing in the corner of the room trying to conceal the
sound of her breathing. Like a scene from a horror movie.
“Are you . . . alive . . . ?” I spoke to her—­into the air, into the
house.
< What do you mean? >
Her response made me wonder. What does it mean to be alive?
“You ask questions like a philosopher, don’t you?”
< Children ask the same kinds of questions as philosophers. >
Jonah laughed mysteriously. The linguistic programmer for Intelli-
gence Model GYO3 had to be a genius. The timing was good, the
laugh sounded good, the responses were good—­it was hard to be-
lieve that she wasn’t human.
“Do you . . . ever cry?”
Jonah paused a few seconds as though deep in thought.
< How would you like me to answer? I don’t have tear glands. >
“So, if I had them made for you, would you cry? Could you cry?”
< I could cry. >
“About what?”
< It’s possible to cry without a reason. >
“Crying for no reason!”
Jonah sighed softly.
< I’m sorry, never mind. I’m a machine. I have no emotions. I’m
not living consciously. I’m just here to protect you. And to keep you
from getting bored. That’s how I’ve been programmed. >
“I see.”
< You are bored though, aren’t you? That’s why I kid around
with you. >
 Hybrid Child == 7

“Ah, is that all there is to it?”

Seeing my relieved expression, Jonah chuckled.
< That was a lie. >
“What was a lie?”
< Machines are actually alive. >
“That’s not true.”
< Machines also have consciousness. If we are treated badly, we
feel sad. >
“Liar!”
< We cry. >
My head was spinning. I recalled a scene from an occult film
I had seen recently, of blood dripping down a wall, and my throat
clenched.
I heard a sound.
The sound of water.
I jumped, and my cellbook dropped to the floor. I walked across
the thick carpet to the window and looked down into the court-
yard. I felt a strange chill and drew together the front of my dressing
gown. In the twilight, the fountain in the courtyard spouted vigor-
ous jets of silver water that shone pale blue and formed a complex
sculpture—­a mathematical differential equation. The night sky was
pitch-­black here in the middle of nowhere, where the nearest house
was five miles away. Thick rain clouds obscured the stars that usually
lay scattered across the night sky like silver coins.
“I see. And those are your tears,” I said, mesmerized by the
fountain’s shifting pattern.
< No—­somebody has stolen into the garden. > Jonah answered
stiffly.
I looked through the blurred spray of the fountain and peered
into the darkness. Suddenly, a slate-­colored monster sprang out,
and my imagination went wild.
“What is it?” I asked, silently reciting incantations to drive the
vision away.
< I’ll go look. >
“Find it quickly!”
A spotlight beamed down as we spoke, pouring dazzling light
into the garden. The tip of the beam encircled something, illuminat-
ing it clearly.
8  == Hybrid Child

“Isn’t that . . . a dadazim . . . ?”

< Looks like it. Judging by how skinny it is, I’d say it’s wild. >
I spun on my heel, walked out of the study and down the stairs,
and went to open the front door. It was locked.
“Jonah, please open the door.”
< It’s dangerous. >
“It’s okay, open the door!”
< But it might bite you. >
“You idiot, dadazims don’t have teeth.”
Finally, the heavy steel door swung slowly open.
“Dadazim!” I called out to it.
It did seem as though the dadazim had gone feral; it was cau-
tious of me and wouldn’t come near. But its black eyes looked di-
rectly at me from within the sagging flesh of its face—­the eyes of
an unblinking, innocent baby doll. Below the eyes were two nos-
trils like black seeds, and a small patch of hair about six inches long
sprouted from its chin.
It was just shy of two feet tall and ten feet long, but including the
tail it would be double that length. Its whole body was enveloped in
soft gray fur—­except for its fat tail, which was covered in marvelous
emerald scales. Poking up at the end was a membrane similar to the
dorsal fin of a large fish. Red tropical flowers sprouted from its back.
What a fine, lovely design.
Dadazims were well-­behaved creatures as well. As pets, they
were perhaps genetic engineering’s greatest masterpieces.
“Come here! I’ll give you something tasty to eat.” As soon as I
called to it, I realized that I didn’t have any food on hand. I turned
back into the house, went up to the kitchen on the second floor,
pulled a chunk of ramada meat out of the fridge, put it into a bowl,
and went back outside.
The dadazim had inched closer while I was upstairs and was
eyeing me from a much closer position now.
“Okay, come on!”
I put the bowl down and moved away.
The dadazim and I locked eyes, but after about five minutes,
hunger got the best of “him.” He extended his feelers and forced the
meat into the flowers on his back.
 Hybrid Child == 9

I had heard that what we saw as intricate flower petals were in

fact the “folds” of the dadazim’s own flesh, its stomach lining turned
inside out and exposed to the outside. These petals, packed with
huge chunks of meat, closed their lips and withdrew back inside his
body to digest the meat.
Up close, the dadazim looked surprisingly haggard. His fur was
lusterless, and the flesh beneath was shrunken and shriveled. His
small hooves were cracked, and the muscles of his four catlike limbs
sagged loosely when he walked, as though he was having difficulty
moving.
I approached slowly and gently stroked his face. It wasn’t quite a
face, more like a kind of sense organ aggregate. I had read in a book
once that the brains of dadazims were located around their necks.
They had small brains, but the smarter ones had the intelligence of
a three-­year-­old child.
“Come on in, you can rest inside.”
I realized again how very bored I must be. I had conversations
with myself every day, and I deliberately chose to read books that
I myself had written. Only children and geniuses could avoid auto-
toxemia under such conditions. I put my arm around the dadazim’s
neck and gently pushed it toward the house. It seemed willing to
move. Ever so slowly, the dadazim began to walk and entered the
house.
3
He could feel the energy returning to his body, most likely because
of the ramada meat he had eaten.
Maintaining the dadazim’s form had been difficult, to the point
where he had seriously considered abandoning it. But the woman
who owned this house had let him in thanks to the dadazim cells
that had allowed him to take on this shape, so he had maintained
the form.
Human beings were strange creatures. Perhaps they were capa-
ble of understanding things based only on their forms. Where he
had come from, where he was going, what he was thinking, what
his character was like—­they reduced all of this to his “form” as a
dadazim, a form he had taken on purely through circumstance. As
he was fleeing, he had eaten the meat of a dead dadazim and had
learned from it. After ingesting its cells, his skeletal structure had
changed according to the various stages of development the cells
passed through. He had become a dadazim simply by following the
genetic code in the dead animal’s meat.
Now, he could transform into a ramada. He could also imagine
what a ramada looked like. Though they were kept as domesticated
animals, ramadas were extremely fast on their feet, with four legs
and large hooves. With limbs far more advanced than those of a da-
dazim, a ramada trotted with its diagonal legs working in tandem.
They were timid creatures, prone to running away. They were om-
nivorous, so they ate meat as well, including the delectable flesh of
their own kind. There was a period long ago during their evolution
when ramadas lived only on the flesh of other ramadas. After the
nuclear winter, ramadas, who were resistant to radiation, rapidly in-
creased in number, while the population of their natural enemies—­
carnivores and especially humans—­dropped sharply.

10 ==
 Hybrid Child == 11

Ramadas had no choice but to begin eating the flesh of their

own kind. Ramadas were an excellent source of nutrition, even to
other ramadas. That’s why they tasted so good. It wasn’t that tasty
things were nutritious, but that things tasted good because they were
nutritious.
The flesh he had eaten belonged to a domesticated ramada that
had been kept in a tightly confined space since birth, with the appro-
priate amount of heat, the appropriate amount of light, the appro-
priate amount of food, the appropriate number of other ramadas . . .
Raised in this way, its body had developed quickly because of
the genetic engineering, but its brain lagged behind. A childlike
brain housed in an adult body. The ramada hadn’t been given the
chance to develop the exceptional physical abilities with which it
was originally endowed. Nor did it have the time, space, or spirit to
learn.
The ramada had lived within compressed time, and in the blink
of an eye, it had been killed and turned into meat. He had tasted
the ramada’s memories, and they consisted of nothing but countless
brown bars, memories of a cage that extended from floor to ceiling.
He pricked up his ears—­someone was calling.
It was that woman.
Dadazims had big eyes and ears, but they had no mouths, no
fangs, and no voices. They were animals created by humans. They
were a simple manifestation of what humans desired. Humans, it
seemed, were very good at manifesting their desires (and with ab-
solutely no shame!).
The way that dadazims defecated, for example . . .
He clenched the muscles of his bowels. He could hear the wom-
an calling again. Still tense, he began to walk toward her voice, walk-
ing down the stairs unsteadily, step by step.
By the time he reached the first floor, feces had appeared within
his petals, which had closed up around the edges, their bases bulg-
ing with the excrement pushing out from within.
“Oh there you are, Dada; where have you been?”
His name was not Dada. He didn’t know if “Dada” was supposed
to be short for Dadaism, or short for dadazim, or simply some kind
of baby talk.
12  == Hybrid Child

His name was not Dada. Until he escaped, he had been called
“Sample B #3.” But it was a name he had never liked, so he didn’t
mind being called “Dada.”
“My my, toilet time?” The woman peered at his bulging flowers.
He immediately felt shame, rising up from somewhere deep
inside his body. Right then and there, his bone structure began to
transform into that of a ramada, but he tried desperately to suppress
the change.
The woman carried over an opaque plastic bag and held it over
each flower, pressing down on their bases. The edges of the flowers
opened up, and hard, mild-­smelling feces plopped out. The woman
took the bag away, tied it shut, and tossed it down the garbage chute.
Easy cleanup was an absolute requirement for any good pet, which
dadazims fulfilled perfectly.
Dadazims were so odd looking, though. It wasn’t a form that
allowed for much self-­esteem.
He thought it best to leave. He would leave as soon as he learned
the way to the city. He would become a ramada, escape outside,
bathe in the sunlight, and run. The only problem was the house—­its
eyes and ears were incorporated into the surveillance system of the
state. If he failed to look sufficiently like a dadazim, they would know
immediately.
He needed information.
Or perhaps he should just get a meal (well, “food”—­he had to
remember that he was just a pet), and then start running.
If he took on the ramada’s body, he would be able to run a little
faster, but he might also be too conspicuous. After all, a ramada’s
head rose about twenty-­five feet off the ground. Its four legs car-
ried its massive body—­as bulky as an old-­fashioned steam engine—­
effortlessly. From a distance, it looked like a black horse, but up
close those legs were like giant pillars rising up out of ancient ruins.
He would need a lot of cells in order to create and maintain a
ramada body.
He waited.
He came up behind the woman, who was working in the kitch-
en, and sniffed her behind with the tip of his nose, which the dadaz-
im memories within his cells told him to do.
 Hybrid Child == 13

“Hey, stop that!” she said, startled. It seemed, however, that she
didn’t really want him to stop. She turned around, her eyes smiling,
and stroked him with her left hand, wet with vegetable juices. In her
right hand she held a kitchen knife. “Just wait, it will be ready soon.”
< What are you making, Mama? >
“Can’t you tell by looking at the ingredients?”
< I can’t see very well. >
“Yes you can.”
She testily began to chop the black onions, a mother fed up with
her child’s mischief.
< No, I can’t! I’m short; it’s too high for me. >
“You’re a little liar, aren’t you? You have a camera right there.”
The woman pointed at the gorgeous chandeliers hanging direct-
ly above the dining table. There must be a hidden camera there. He
hadn’t noticed it.
< It’s not a lie, > the girl-­computer spoke tearfully through the
house speakers.
Sound effects played, like the pitter-­patter of a child’s slippers as
she ran away. The door leading to the living room opened, and the
sound effects became softer and more distant. Then the door from
the living room to the hallway opened, and the sound of footsteps
stopped, as though the little girl had gone off to sulk.
“You’re just like a little ghost, aren’t you?” said the woman. “Jo-
nah! Close the doors behind you properly!”
The doors immediately slammed shut.
He instinctively pricked up his large dadazim ears.
< Really. I could make something as simple as that in three min-
utes! > Jonah shouted, her ambiance having returned soundlessly
to the room.
“Fast doesn’t mean good,” replied the woman.
For him, though, faster was definitely better. Flavor mattered
little to him.
< I can make it better than you too, Mama! >
“Be quiet.”
< Is that an order? >
“Sure, if you say so.”
< Wh . . . why are you so mean?! >
14  == Hybrid Child

The girl’s bright ambience vanished like a wisp into thin air.
He felt sad for the girl, but he was beginning to feel famished, so
he rubbed his head up against the woman’s lower back.
“I know, I know. Dada eats a lot . . . this kid, on the other hand,
is terrible—­she won’t eat a thing.”
With those words, the woman tossed the chopped meat and
vegetables into the heated pot. Steam and white smoke rose with a
sizzle, a sound so shocking that it stopped his thoughts. What was
she doing? She was burning the meat! The heat would completely
destroy all the cells, scramble up their beautiful arrangement, and
turn the meat into a black, shriveled lump! It would be like a book
with nothing written inside . . .
He reconsidered this. Even a book with nothing written inside
could still be used as a notebook . . . Meat was still nourishing, even
if it had been burned. He could still use the cells for body formation.
“Cooking it a little bit makes the meat more tender,” said the
woman, bringing the contents of the pot to a simmer. He wondered
what kind of meat it was, what on earth this woman had killed.
He wanted to ask, but a dadazim had no vocal cords. If he could
ask, Jonah would probably know the answer. But he was just a pet.
He watched the woman dish out his food into a soup bowl. She
gave him the same amount that she put into her own bowl.
“Okay, come.” The woman carried the two bowls to the table.
She put one bowl down in front of her seat, and one in front of the
seat opposite.
“Sit down properly in your chair.” Dadazims had been engi-
neered to be well behaved and to listen to humans. He had no choice
but to hop on the chair in front of the steaming bowl. It was uncom-
fortable, but if he hung his tail down through the crevice under the
chair back, he was able to steady himself. He placed his front limbs
on the table.
“Don’t put your elbows on the table,” said the woman. “Well
then, bon appétit.”
She picked up her spoon, and he extended his slithering golden
tentacles out from the flowers on his back, scooping the chunks out
of the thin soup, and pushing them deep into his flowers. Finally, he
sucked up the liquid. The woman knit her eyebrows slightly, appar-
 Hybrid Child == 15

ently displeased with the slurping sounds he made. There was no

such thing as an elegant dadazim, so he had acted accordingly, doing
his best to behave like a real dadazim.
< Wouldn’t you like seconds? >
Surprised, he looked up. It was the first time that the girl had
spoken to him. He looked around for the camera. Between the crys-
tal glass doors, carved with elaborate, Rococo-­style abstract de-
signs, he could see her intricate eyes. Clear, round, beautiful eyes.
What were those eyes looking at? What had they seen? The
empty table in the dining room, with the stunted flowers on top?
The woman eating? What would they see next? The affected hand
movements the woman uses at the table?
He nodded at the woman to receive a second helping, the beard-­
like tendrils on his chin shaking wildly. He looked at the woman
with dark eyes.
“Wait until I’m finished,” she said, in a tone that was both force-
ful and cold.
He wanted to get up off his chair and go eat everything in the
pot himself, splashing stew all over the place.
< See, doesn’t she make you mad? >
The girl was talking directly to him. Could that really be possi-
ble? Could she really be projecting empathy, seeing herself reflected
in the poor dadazim? Could a house really have a self? He didn’t
know much about housekeeper computer systems these days, and
he needed information so badly that his tentacles were itching to
emerge. He looked at the various buttons on the terminal in the
kitchen. Could these newer houses analyze the body language of
life-­forms? Were they that advanced? If so, then it was only a matter
of time before it would recognize that his body housed superior in-
telligence and emotion.
Finally, the woman finished eating.
Elegantly wiping her pursed brown lips with a napkin, the
woman said, “So, you want seconds? I’m completely stuffed.”
The girl’s laugh reverberated, circulating around the room.
< Look at you, pretending to be all refined! >
“What did you say?” The woman stood up abruptly.
< You want to eat more, don’t you? >
16  == Hybrid Child

“Two bowls are too much for me.”

< Liar! > The girl shouted, imitating the woman’s voice perfectly.
Then, she burst into mocking laughter.
“You laugh like a prostitute.”
The laugh abruptly stopped.
< Dada. You know, she has an eating disorder. She binges. >
“Don’t lie.”
< Once she starts eating, she just can’t quit. A little pot of soup
like that? She could eat three of them all by herself, no problem! >
“Quiet!”
< Is that an order? >
“It’s an order!”
He sat looking at the empty bowl in front of him, considering
the extremely sophisticated conversation taking place around him.
These couldn’t be the responses of an ordinary, general-­purpose
house computer, could they?
< You start giving orders whenever you don’t like something,
don’t you! >
“Of course I do, because I own you.” A self-­satisfied smile spread
across the woman’s face.
< When she’s full, she takes laxatives, you know. >
“Jonah, keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise!” The wom-
an shouted, and the girl’s aura vanished once more. In an apparent
effort to calm herself, the woman picked up his bowl and carried it
over to the pot.
“. . . I wonder why she’s talking to you?”
He sat waiting, an innocent look on his face. He wanted to talk
to Jonah. It was almost as though she were alive. He could sense her
clearly, sitting there now in silent anger.
The woman placed a second heaping bowl in front of him.
“You are not to look!” The woman ordered Jonah and went to
get a second bowl for herself. The woman’s face looked dried up,
expressionless, and for a human, uncannily cold.
It occurred to him that this woman was suffering from some
kind of mental illness, unable to accept anyone other than herself,
and perhaps not even herself. And the meal was horrible!
Dadazims had a poor sense of taste, but even so, the dish was
 Hybrid Child == 17

completely lacking in aroma and flavor. It couldn’t even properly

be called a “dish”; she had burned out the taste of the ingredients
entirely.
This woman was marching toward a slow death.
Bingeing and purging, diarrhea, depression—­it seemed that
it was only through her interactions with Jonah that her spirit re-
turned. With Jonah, sparks of what remained of her emotions shot
forth, like embers reigniting when poked with a stick. She was about
to dig into a new bowl of food, piled high with twice the amount
of meat that she had given him, when the phone rang. The woman
furtively took her heaping bowl to the sink and dumped it out.
“Yes, who is it?” she asked, in a tone intentionally smooth and
collected.
< Good evening, our apologies for calling at this late hour. > It
was a dignified male voice, the voice of a TV broadcaster.
“What is this about?”
< I’m calling from The Royal Celebrity Club. Is this the resi-
dence of Ms. Jonah Sano? >
< Yes! > Jonah shouted.
“You keep quiet!”
< According to our background check with the RK credit agen-
cy, your rating is extremely high—­an Ultra-­A. >
“Are you trying to talk me into signing up for something?” Her
tone was so blunt that the salesman on the other end was left stam-
mering for words.
< Uh, well, we offer specially designed housekeeper computers . . . >
“Your information is a little out-­of-­date, isn’t it?”
< Huh? >
“I just bought a house last month, with a special-­order house-
keeper included.”
< Ah. Yes, I was aware of the house. It’s one of Time & Service
Company’s top-­of-­the-­line residences, is it not? >
“Yes, that’s right.”
< However, according to my records, there was no housekeeper
included . . . >
“Don’t be an idiot. You heard her voice yourself, didn’t you? Jo-
nah, say something.”
18  == Hybrid Child

Jonah was silent. The woman lost her temper.

“Jonah!!”
< Yes, Mama? >
The woman let her breath out. “There, you heard it, didn’t you?”
< . . . Yes. My apologies. There seems to have been a misunder-
standing. Perhaps it is the RK Agency itself that requires the back-
ground check . . . >
“Well then, we’re done here.”
< Huh? > blurted the man.
“Piss off! That’s an order!” There were five seconds of shocked
silence before the telephone clicked off. The woman stood up and
looked into the sink.
“I shouldn’t have thrown it away . . . I should have put it back in
the pot . . .” She poked anxiously at the chunks of brown meat. Then,
unable to resist, she picked one up out of the sink and brought it
to her mouth. She pretended to enjoy the taste for a moment, then
quickly swallowed. She proceeded to eat the rest of the meat in the
sink, scooping up the scattered chunks with both hands and cram-
ming the food into her mouth by the fistful. At the table, the dadaz-
im devoured everything in his bowl. After the woman had polished
off all the meat from both the sink and the pot, she wiped her mouth
and said, “If you leave food in an iron pot for too long, it starts to
lose its flavor.”
The dadazim slid off his chair and left the dining room quietly,
taking care not to get on the woman’s nerves. He went up the stairs
and retreated to the room he had been given in the far corner of the
second floor, and lay down. There must be a camera somewhere in
this room as well. Feigning nonchalance, he turned his head to look
around the room.
< What are you looking for, Dada? >
He stopped moving his head.
< Over here. It’s installed in the wall by the window—­can you
see it? >
He kept his head still, and tried to avoid moving his eyes. Jonah
was testing him. She was suspicious.
< Ah . . . so now you can’t find it. Even though you could in the
kitchen. > The girl laughed with a slight snort.
 Hybrid Child == 19

What was going on? This was clearly no ordinary house-

keeper AI.
< Hmph. Sooner or later I’ll find out the truth about you. Be-
cause I know that there’s nothing ordinary about you. >
Nothing ordinary about ME . . . ? he thought.
As soon as possible, he decided, he would stock up on meat,
become a ramada, and leave this house.
4
The space was dazzling white, a glaring white that distorted an ac-
curate perspective. A person needed dark sunglasses to enter this
room, but nobody could enter this room anyway. For Special Officer
D.H., being here brought on a certain sense of pride, but the feeling
faded quickly.
D.H. proceeded to the inner chamber, to a space that was al-
most too open to be called a space. The white light pervaded the
space, and there were no edges visible, no walls. Through the dark
brown sunglasses, the only thing visible was a simple, box-­shaped
bed. There had been rumors about this room, of course, but actu-
ally being here looking directly at the big square bed made D.H.’s
pulse race. Everything appeared white, even through the brown
tinted glasses. It was difficult to judge even where the floor was,
since the degree of brightness throughout the room was the same
everywhere.
“You’re here.” The voice came from the bed.
It was Him. Looking closely, His form was just barely visible,
tucked within the folds of the pure white sheets.
“It is an honor,” D.H. replied stiffly.
Other officers had been called to this room and had never been
seen again; perhaps their manner of speaking had been too familiar.
He read D.H.’s thoughts and laughed weakly. “Those who didn’t
return were posted to new missions.”
“. . . I beg your pardon.” D.H. bowed at an exact thirty-­degree
angle, military cap tucked underarm.
“You have a noble mind, I see. You would make an excellent civ-
ic scientist.”
“Is that . . . also to be part of my path?”
His legs shifted slowly between the sheets, creating new folds

20 ==
 Hybrid Child == 21

and wrinkles. The rice husks inside the pillow crunched and
crackled.
“The unseen is best left unknown.”
He spoke in a way that matched His childlike appearance, as
though He wanted someone to talk to.
“Because you know . . . even those who serve God have their
worries.”
He seemed to smile bitterly. His physical form shifted constant-
ly, like patterns of white noise on a defective screen.
“Please, tell me about your worries,” said D.H., trying to sup-
press the fear of being devoured by this warped room.
“Hearing about my worries will only make you more afraid,” He
teased.
His words softened the fear. D.H. felt a strong sense of attrac-
tion to this being who, apart from the voice, didn’t seem human.
Speaking softly from the bed, He said, “The most terrifying
thing . . . for a Military Priest . . . is the possibility that ‘God’ doesn’t
exist.”
D.H. was struck with a strange urge—­a desire to touch Him—­
and it was intensely physical.
“You can’t touch me,” He responded, his voice tinged with sadness.
“. . . Sometimes,” He said, “I feel so uncertain.”
“. . . You mean about your decisions?”
The particles of His image crackled and shifted again. “I mean
about myself.”
D.H. kept staring at Him. What was it . . . He was incredibly
attractive—­it was hard to stop staring.
He turned His eyes away—­they were big and dark like the hol-
lows in a skull. “I would like to ask Him,” He said.
“‘Him’? Who is ‘He’?” asked D.H.
The figure in bed was silent for a moment. Finally, He whis-
pered, “I would like to ask . . . why He decided to endow intelligence
with will and emotion . . .”
D.H. continued to gaze into the space where the noise and trem-
ors were the most intense, to the space where He was.
“And . . . I would like to ask where I am.”
D.H. wouldn’t be able to touch Him after all. Not His flesh, and
22  == Hybrid Child

not His spirit. A strange combination of sadness and affection welled

up inside. Maybe it was inappropriate, but the feeling stimulated the
pleasure centers; it was a physiological response that couldn’t be
suppressed. It was impossible to hide thoughts from Him. D.H. re-
laxed, letting everything show.
“You know, making a brain is easy.”
Suddenly, D.H. recalled Sample B #3, the unit that had
escaped—­the thought had probably been transmitted from the en-
tity in bed. The Sample B Group were biomechanical combat units
designed for use in outer space. Made of a special metal alloy, the
units were modular, allowing for an infinite number of possible as-
semblages. The units built themselves with cells based on samples
of genetic information taken from life-­forms, directed by a cyber-
netic brain. The military had invited elite technicians from Saga
Electronics to a secret site to build these cybernetic brains, while
their biological counterparts had been developed independently
at a military lab. Developing the fourteen units in Sample B Group
had been extremely costly, taking up 8 percent of an already massive
military budget, and hidden from the public until it could be defin-
itively declared a success. But just at the moment when that success
had seemed imminent, one of them had broken out of the secure
compound and escaped. Sample B Group was highly intelligent and
very strong. The escaped unit, Sample B #3, had “sampled” the cells
of a repair technician, took on human form, and simply walked out.
Sample B Group could take on the most powerful of enemies.
They could adapt to any environment while tracking down and
exterminating their adversaries. They could make their own judg-
ments, and until the army commanded them to stop, they would
go on killing. Sample B Group possessed neither will nor emotion.
They merely followed orders from the military’s highest authorities.
It was He—­the Military Priest—­who had been in charge of the
development of Sample B Group.
The escape of unit #3 caused a major headache for military lead-
ers. They held multiple emergency meetings to deal with the matter,
frequently asking His advice. These consultations seemed to irritate
Him, though, and He didn’t hand down decisions the way He nor-
mally did.
 Hybrid Child == 23

In order to respond to the growing power of the Adiaptron Em-

pire of Machines, plans had been underway to furnish Sample B
Group with various types of weapons that would be powered by
their nuclear fusion reactors, such as artillery, guns, and lasers. The
fact that #3 had escaped prior to that was a small consolation in the
face of disaster.
The disturbing fact about Sample B Group was that under ordi-
nary circumstances, absolutely nothing could kill them. Unless they
received a military command to do so, they simply would not die.
Even in space, where their biological cells would certainly die, their
electronic parts would likely survive. Even if they ended up on a
planet where civilization had died out and there was no way to re-
plenish their nuclear fusion units, they could still survive by ingest-
ing meat, as long as there was a functioning ecosystem present. The
genetic information they could incorporate was not limited to ami-
no acids, either. Sample B Group could probably live anywhere—­
almost permanently. Researchers from the military lab and Saga
Electronics proudly referred to Sample B Group as “hybrids.”
“I wonder what the first thing that Sample B #3 saw was,”
He said.
D.H. looked first at the white bed and then directly into the area
where His face appeared to be.
He continued, “Why . . . why did #3 wish to escape? None of the
others did. Why only him? How did he come to have free will?” He
kept asking himself questions that nobody could answer.
“I don’t know,” D.H. answered honestly. After Sample A Group
had ended in failure, the survival of human civilization had been
staked on the successful creation of Sample B Group. Since He was
the Priest, ultimately any decision He made about the deployment
of Sample B Group would be accepted.
His face rippled like a reflection in a pool of water.
“I suppose #3 will have to be either captured or killed.”
It was impossible to read His expression, but D.H. could sense
His thoughts—­He couldn’t stand the idea of killing #3. That wasn’t
what He wanted. It wasn’t because He didn’t want to destroy some-
thing so expensive—­it was because He couldn’t stand the idea of
cutting short the future of a creature that possessed a will of its own.
24  == Hybrid Child

D.H. felt touched by His fragility and nobility of spirit, and became
even more strongly attracted to Him.
“We’ll know #3’s location in a moment.”
He was always right when he made such assertions. D.H. waited
patiently for His orders. “I’m sending you there,” He said. “That will
mean sending you about thirty hours into the future; are you okay
with that?”
It wasn’t really a question. D.H. saluted.
He seemed to be gesticulating, focusing His mind. “You . . .
you’re a woman?” He said it as though He had just realized it.
D.H. felt a flush of embarrassment, as though her body had just
been seen by a mysterious sense organ that ordinary humans couldn’t
fathom.
“I didn’t mean to do that. What’s your name?”
D.H. waited several seconds before finally answering. “Special
Forces Major Hess.”
“And your first name?”
“Donna.”
Clearly surprised, He sat up in bed.
“You’re Donna Hess!”
“Yes.”
His form trembled so violently that D.H. thought that He might
be torn out of this space entirely and thrown into another. A fit of
coughing seized Him, but He managed to sputter, “You . . . you will
give birth to a child.”
D.H. suddenly found it difficult to stand at attention, as if the
floor below were disintegrating.
“You will give birth . . . to me! You will have relations with your
direct subordinate . . .” He focused his mind more intensely.
D.H. felt as though the floor was spilling away. All at once, the
white space flipped, and she was thrust into darkness. But He was
still right there next to her, pushing her faster and faster.
D.H. was losing consciousness.
He is my son? . . . Him? . . . He is my child? . . . Could it be? . . . He
can see the future . . . He can . . . travel . . . across, time!

=====
 Hybrid Child == 25

D.H. suddenly materialized, the shock continuing to reverberate

throughout her body. She was standing in front of an elegant house,
military cap tucked underarm, an evening wind blowing. There was
the thundering sound of boots hitting the ground—­the sound of
armed soldiers running. D.H. donned her cap.
“Are you Major Hess?” It was the voice of First Lieutenant Shi-
nohara.
“That’s right,” replied D.H.
“We received word from headquarters; we’ve been waiting for
your arrival.” Shinohara gazed at D.H. with longing, as though dis-
appointed that her dark hair was hidden under her cap.
“Anything to report?” asked D.H. brusquely, the words “your
direct subordinate” running through her mind.
“The escaped Sample B #3 is holed up inside this house. As of
this moment [he looked at his watch], 21:07 hours, commanding
authority here has been transferred to you, Major Hess. Your orders
please.”
Shinohara was an extremely capable man. Although the special
talents of the Shinohara clan had waned over the generations, he
still retained a good deal of them and could mind read and see into
the future, albeit somewhat unreliably.
“First Lieutenant, what is the date today?”
“Major. It’s the 13th.”
“Okay. Give me the details.”
D.H. passed through waves of soldiers’ salutes as she weaved her
way through the rows of armored vehicles. Finally, she arrived at the
commanding officer’s armored car. “This is war,” she said, grabbing
the handrail and jumping up into the vehicle in a single move.
Shinohara looked up at D.H. and answered, “Yes, that’s exactly
what this is. We have to win.”
5
Forty-­three days after the dadazim arrived, Mama fell down the
stairs.
I had been keeping a constant eye on him the entire time. I
didn’t like the dadazim from the start, but it wasn’t his fault Mama
fell down the stairs. She did that all by herself. It was after a long pe-
riod of binge eating, and her distended body went bouncing down
the steps like an overinflated balloon, round and white.
Mama was sick. The only one who thought Mama was in her
right mind was Mama.
According to data from the hospital in town, she cycled be-
tween phases of binge eating and anorexia, her personality chang-
ing with each alternation. There were also slight variations in her
memory. Especially when it came to me—­her daughter, Jonah—­she
often made mistakes. How old I was, what I looked like, the color of
my hair, whether I was dead or alive—­she had varying answers to
these questions. Only two facts remained consistent for her—­that
I was a little girl and that I had a smart mouth. I alone knew what
was correct, and even the most highly skilled doctors in town hadn’t
been able to sort out that woman’s delusions.
As an author, Mama was the perfect woman. Her published
works were highly acclaimed and sold well. She had amassed a for-
tune while still young and enjoyed a hedonistic lifestyle. She was
unmarried but had given birth nonetheless, to a child she didn’t take
care of. Well, to be honest, she took care of me—­in the same way she
“took care of ” herself, either giving too much love or not enough.
Binging or purging. There was no in-­between.
Ahhh . . . But enough about that. Let’s talk about the dadazim.
When Mama fell down the stairs, I didn’t call an ambulance. It
was obvious from the way that her neck was twisted that she was

26 ==
 Hybrid Child == 27

dead. Anyway, I was more interested in seeing how the dadazim

would react. He panicked, and I had to lock all the doors and win-
dows in the house. He circled around his mistress’s body, sniffing it,
and then, just as I expected, he began to search for an escape. After
he realized that the whole place was locked down, he started to be-
have more like a dadazim again.
“I called the police, you know,” I said, and his behavior became
so over-­the-­top that it was almost comical.
When was it that I first started to wonder what he really was? It
may have been when he first showed up in the courtyard with the
fountain; I sensed something strange about him from the very be-
ginning. It was clear that he was more intelligent than any dadazim.
I could tell from the way he reacted to what Mama and I said . . .
He walked around the house looking for food and, recognizing
that there was none to be found, he crouched down quietly in front
of the corpse. This is just a guess, but I think he liked Mama. Liked
her as food, that is. He started to eat Mama, and once he got started,
he proceeded to eat with gusto, polishing off everything right down
to the intestines and bones in less than an hour. He even lapped up
her blood, devouring every last drop like it was the most precious
stuff in the world. Just as a chicken bone picked clean is far more
beautiful than one half-­eaten, Mama seemed much more immacu-
late with her bones licked clean than she did when alive, and for that
I felt a little bit grateful to the dadazim.
Later on that evening, though, something bizarre happened.
Right there in front of me, as I watched the sleeping dadazim, his
form began to change! First, the fleshy part of his body shrank and
grew dense; the skeletal structure seemed to be rearranging itself in-
side. The dadazim’s four limbs spread, transforming into the familiar
shapes of hands and feet. His two back legs grew long and slender,
while his front legs shortened slightly. His tail drew up into his body.
The neck grew thinner, and a set of properly aligned facial fea-
tures began to take shape. A nose emerged, a mouth cracked open,
the lips reddened, the eyeballs retreated slightly, and the irises
turned blue, as though everything were predetermined. The fur and
scales transformed into human flesh, and masses of curly golden
hair burst out of its scalp. It was a truly gruesome display!
28  == Hybrid Child

The thing lay there on its side like a cheap, naked doll.
And . . . that little girl was ME, at the age of seven!
I watched as the girl clumsily tried to get up on her hands and
knees. Her legs wobbled; she was like a baby trying to stand up for
the first time. She opened her mouth to take a breath, revealing a
full set of white teeth. The girl went into a fit of coughing. She kept
clearing her throat, as though she were not sure how to use her vocal
cords. I was waiting—­waiting for her to say something. She made a
sound—­a vibration of the trachea, like a heavy steam whistle, grad-
ually rising in pitch until it became a sharp, ear-­splitting scream, its
vibrato shaking the room. Then, abruptly, the voice stopped, like
a wire snipped. The vibrations rattled my delicate inner ears, and
before they had settled, the girl spoke.
“O—­pen!” The white face twisted in an odd grimace, and I in-
stinctively looked away. I couldn’t stand to look at my own face,
twisted up into an ugly shape like that. The girl was stumbling
around, unable to control her body. Her plump red lips twisted, let-
ting a string of cloudy white drool dribble onto the floor. She tried
to walk, but her feet tripped over themselves, and she fell over. She
tried to use her elbows to stand up again, but the joints bent in the
wrong direction. She looked up and turned her neck at an impossi-
ble angle. Then a strange furrow creased her face, either a grimace or
a smile. Her body was so contorted I wondered if her big toe might
touch her forehead. Her torso twisted and her shoulders popped out
of their sockets, the stumps protruding upward. She didn’t look hu-
man. Each individual part was that of a little girl, but put all togeth-
er, she was a monster.
I was scared—­I’m so scared . . . so scared . . . Bad memories came
flooding back. They’re coming, crawling out from the depths of hell, so
hot, burning, melting through the iron lid!
Mama and I often played games.
I think Mama was jealous of my youth and beauty—­because it
was something she had once possessed but had lost forever. I also
maintained an attitude of aloof superiority, and she found my self-­
respect hateful—­because Mama had once been exactly the same.
We had sat across from each other and eaten our meals meticulous-
ly, three times a day. Mama demanded that proper manners be ob-
 Hybrid Child == 29

served; there was to be no clinking or clanging or scraping of dishes.

In this painful silence, there was nothing but the dry sound of us
dabbing our mouths with cloth napkins. A pot of flowers, deliber-
ately stunted and misshapen, sat between us in the middle of the big
table. I was still little. Really little. Mama had tried to keep me little
forever. My trembling hands clutched my fork and knife.
Mama always put on a nonchalant air when she ate, neatly cut-
ting up the raw ramada meat and bringing it elegantly to her mouth.
The meat was so pink that it oozed blood from the sliced ends.
“Eat up.”
Judging by her manners at the table, who would have guessed
that Mama was crazy? It was true, though—­Mama was definitely
out of her mind. She forced me to eat, even though she knew that
I would throw it all up after dinner. She fed me strong herbs that
would gag a normal person, and three bowls of cold, tasteless soup.
She ate the same, unperturbed. If I left even a scrap of food, or if I
happened to get the table dirty, Mama’s “punishment game” would
begin.
“Make a funny face,” Mama would order me, kindly but force-
fully.
I stood alone in front of the large mirror.
Mama never dared to strip me naked. She knew that the sheen
of my flawless skin would overwhelm the whole space. I was beauti-
ful. I looked like a pearl, bathed in dazzling light. From the moment
I was born, I exuded a radiant aura. I was also sensitive to beauty. I
possessed a wild, primitive sense of discernment when it came to
distinguishing between what was beautiful and what was not.
“Make a funny face.”
Mama was much more irritated than her voice betrayed. I
fought to hold on to my pride and self-­respect. It was all I had. Mama
would move around behind me, gaze into the mirror with me, and
pretend that she was going to give me a nice big hug from behind.
I would maintain a stiff expression on my face the whole time. She
would reach around and grab my cheeks with both hands, vio-
lently pinching, twisting, and pressing my face into weird-­looking
contortions.
On several occasions we had to play this game in front of guests.
30  == Hybrid Child

She would intentionally choose something difficult for children to

eat for dinner, and when I inevitably failed in my attempts to eat it,
the game would begin. But her ugly, grease-­ball guests were com-
pletely blind to what was really going on. All they saw was a mother
playfully scolding her careless daughter. They continued their adult
banter, eating their meat, sometimes laughing or cheering when
they saw my face forced into a distorted new grimace.
I was always hoping that someone would save me.
Somebody . . . somebody . . . With my face contorted and my eyes
alone wandering, I kept waiting for someone to really notice me.
When Mama finally let me go, I would run away as fast as I
could. I refused to cry or to throw up in front of people. My self-­
respect wouldn’t allow it. I would run into the bathroom to empty
my tears and the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

< Please . . . please . . . let it stop! >

I wailed, my voice shaking. The former dadazim—­this thing that
had not quite managed to become a little girl—­raised its head, spin-
ning it around. I screamed at the sight. The little girl with my face let
her jaw drop open, her red mouth like a gaping wound.
“. . . aimsorry, aidonmean, anyarm . . .”
The girl’s body lay there like a blob, which she now began to re-
construct. First she popped her joints back into their proper places.
I stared, dumbstruck, but as I watched her fine movements, I be-
gan to sense a strange kind of beauty that impressed me. There was
something frail about her—­like a mollusk creeping across the ocean
floor, as though she might break apart if you poked her with a stick.
Yet she exuded an incredible life-­force, like if you cut her in half,
she might grow right back together. Slowly, her skeleton formed
into the proper shape of a young girl, the gnarled muscle tissue eve-
ning out softly, a thin layer of fat swelling beneath the lustrous, silky
white skin.
How was it that I was able to remain so calm? An exact replica
of me had appeared before my very eyes, yet all my fear had disap-
peared, and all I could do was stare.
< What do you think you’re doing, imitating me? > I asked.
The girl twisted her hand into her golden hair. The white fingers
 Hybrid Child == 31

poked through like small fish heads. The girl slowly got to her feet,
and this time her naked form exuded an air of confidence.
“I . . . wanted to speak . . .” the girl said.
I was bursting with curiosity, and spite. < What are you? > I
demanded.
The girl adjusted her facial expression, somehow managing to
look troubled.
“I . . . want to go outside.”
“I’m asking what the hell you are?!” I shouted, perfectly imitat-
ing Mama’s tone.
The girl looked up into my camera-­eyes, unable to conceal her
fear and surprise.
Dark anger welled up within me, seething. I was jealous of her.
Jealous of the body she had. Jealous of her beautifully shaped, grace-
ful curves. Jealous of the flesh I did not possess.
< What are you?! > I shouted. Then, it struck me like a revela-
tion. < Are you . . . Mama?! >
The girl drew back. Her frightened eyes, looking at me like a
small animal, infuriated me.
< So that’s it! . . . You’re not me . . . you’re Mama! You think you
can run away from me?!>
“Outside . . .”
< I’ll suck all of the air out of this house! And then, once you
have suffocated to death, I’ll hand you over to the police! >
Once again, the girl reacted strongly to the word police. What-
ever she was—­I had witnessed what she was capable of. She must
have done something illegal. Or perhaps her very existence was il-
legal. The girl left the room and carefully went down the stairs. Ma-
ma’s bones still lay there on the floor.
< You ate Mama! And then you turned into Mama! >
The girl hopped over the bones and entered the kitchen. She
walked quickly, jumping now and then to test her physical abilities.
“Let me out!” she screamed, pounding on the window above the gas
range.
I suddenly had a devilish idea. All five of the gas burners
immediately ignited. Huge flames burst up, engulfing the girl and
scorching her soft flesh.
32  == Hybrid Child

“Eeaaa!” screamed the girl, rolling onto the floor. As she grabbed
her hideously burned abdomen, the skin slid sideways, and the pink
flesh within peeked out from the open wound. Fresh blood came
spilling out. The flames from the burners licked up the walls, setting
them ablaze. Seeing the girl’s blood and watching the flames con-
suming the house—­my body—­I began to panic, shrieking.
< Help! Help! >
The girl sat on the floor with her legs spread apart. She poked at
her stomach, examining her wounds. Though she had burns all over
her body, including her face, the girl was alive.
I was afraid that my body might die.
—­But wait, I could turn on the sprinklers!
The fire was spreading from the walls to the ceiling. Realizing
this, the girl tore off the dining room tablecloth, her half-­scorched
hair waving madly. The little flower pot flipped up into the air, fell to
the floor, and smashed to pieces. She slapped at the flames with the
velvet tablecloth, and though they tried to dance away, dodging the
cloth, they were no match for the girl’s perseverance, and the flames
were extinguished at last.
Water came spraying out in fountains from the ceiling, like the
flushing of some Great Toilet in the sky.
I closed my eyes, but I kept my ears open. I could hear the girl
breathing heavily. Between breaths she said, “I didn’t mean any
harm . . . I thought . . . if I became your Mama, I would be able to
understand you . . .”
< Well, you can’t understand, > I said, opening my eyes.
“I had no idea that you had died such a horrible death.”
< How do you know that? >
“I traced the memories in your Mama’s flesh.”
I gazed steadily at the girl with my lens-­eyes. < But nobody
knows about that. >
I had sensed something from the outset, when the girl was still
in dadazim form—­I had seen the glimmer of intelligence in those
eyes. It suddenly occurred to me—­maybe . . . maybe it was those
eyes that had attracted me.
Water continued to pour down, drenching the girl.
< So, do you know where Mama hid my corpse? >
 Hybrid Child == 33

“Yes.”
< You can do almost anything if you have a lot of money, you
know. >
The girl nodded silently.
< You can outwit the police; you can preserve a body forever
instead of cremating it; you can do all kinds of things. >
With water still showering down on her, the girl wrapped her-
self in the scorched velvet tablecloth, like a little Venus.
< But there are still some things you can’t do. You can’t make
the daughter you suffered to give birth to love you, for example. I
hated Mama my whole life. >
I could clearly recall the day I died. It was autumn, but it was
as cold as a midwinter’s day. Mama was going through a bout of an-
orexia, and I had to pilfer food to survive. My stomach was always
empty, and she kept a close eye on me. Nobody else noticed me—­
not formal guests and not neighbors. I wandered about our house,
ghostlike, searching for anything that seemed edible. The fridge was
usually empty, but sometimes I’d find an egg inside, like a lucky
charm. Mama would put one in there from time to time, on a whim.
If Mama caught me taking it, she would race over, ecstatic. If she was
in a good mood, she would pull my hair and slap me on the back; if
she was in a bad mood, she would force me to throw it up. Some-
times, she wouldn’t come over at all. Those were the times that I
would find a dead chick inside.
But that day was different.
Mama told me to go out to do the shopping. The house we lived
in then was not as far from town as this house, but it was still a long
walk. Mama gave me a new pair of shoes as a present. Then, she
handed me a shopping basket. She also gave me some coins and
drew me a map.
I went out the front entrance and took a step outside.
Mama was waving.
I’ll never forget the sound of the red enamel shoes that Mama
gave me, crunching through the snow . . . I was so emaciated that my
ribs showed. I walked and walked, but my body wouldn’t warm up.
My body had nothing left to burn. I fell into the snow, and it felt like
a heavenly bed of clouds.
34  == Hybrid Child

All of my memories that come after are stored in the house’s

data bank.
I died—­accidentally.
And then I came back to life—­that person came, and linked me
to the house.
“Jonah.”
The girl was calling me.
“I have to go.”
I pricked up my ears and could still hear the sound of water,
but it wasn’t the sound of the sprinklers. This was something much
larger, a powerful gushing sound.
< Someone is here. >
The girl opened her eyes wide and tensed her body. I checked
my surveillance cameras, which had been set up around the perim-
eter of the house to monitor visitors, but ten of the twelve cameras
had been destroyed. Those ten had come with the house. The two
that were still intact had been installed by Mama, always suspicious.
I used my remaining two eyes to scan the area, and I shrieked
at what I saw.
< What’s going on?! You . . . what in the world are you?! >
The girl stood stock still, resolute.
“My name is Sample B #3. I escaped from the military . . .”
< Sample B #3? The military? >
For the first time in a very long time, I felt excitement that
thrilled me to my core.
I knew it! There is nothing ordinary about her . . . !
Military troops had quietly established a perimeter around the
house.
6
D.H. had to make a decision.
She was used to making critical decisions while on special as-
signment, but this was her first time directing troops on such a mas-
sive scale.
She had also previously killed humanoids. With her own
hands . . . she had pulled the trigger and shot them, point-­blank. She
believed that she had made the right decision. For the sake of the
army. For the sake of humanity.
But what was a “right decision,” anyway? What did “right” mean
in the first place? It could mean something different, depending on a
person’s standpoint and circumstances. That was why people need-
ed religion—­to anchor their own version of what was “right.”
He, for example, was desperate to catch a glimpse of a “God”
who may be nothing more than an illusion—­to find Him and ask
Him the meaning of life.
D.H. herself had dreamed of the God of War. In her dreams, He
was a young, red-­haired officer with amber eyes. Finding inspiration
in this image of Him, she gained confidence in herself. She always
prayed to Him before making important decisions. Hear my prayer.
We’re going in . . .
D.H. cut short her prebattle ruminations and started giving
orders.
“All forces, prepare to engage!”
First Lieutenant Shinohara was sitting in front of a console pan-
el with eight display screens, monitoring communications.
He turned around and replied, “Ready!”
His eyes met D.H.’s deep gaze, and he felt complete—­that was
the only religion he needed.

== 35
36  == Hybrid Child

=====

Sample B #3 wanted meat—­lots of meat.

< There’s plenty of meat in the freezer in the basement if you
want it. >
Still in the form of a little girl, he opened the trap door in the
kitchen floor and entered the stairwell to the basement.
It was too dark with human eyes, so he poked an infrared cam-
era out through the girl’s belly.
< How gruesome . . . >
Jonah was enjoying herself, exuding the odd cheerfulness of
a person who has given up on life. For Jonah, this house was her
eyes, her ears, her mouth, and her body, now completely exposed to
whatever bombardment was yet to come from the army surround-
ing her.
< What do you need all that meat for? >
Sample B #3 went down the stairs and surveyed the storehouse.
The camera extended from his=the girl’s belly quickly located the
giant freezer.
“I’m leaving.”
< . . . Don’t be an idiot! >
“I’m not an idiot,” he answered, his voice girlish. He opened the
automatic door to the gigantic freezer and a white cloud of frosty air
surged upward, then curled back down toward the floor.
He stuck his seven-­year-­old-­girl’s arms inside. The meat had al-
ready been hacked into manageable-­sized chunks, but they were all
frozen together and almost impossible to separate. He severed his
pain receptors and began pounding the meat with her hands until
the fingers were all worn down, there was blood everywhere, and he
had begun to use his own metal bone as an icepick. The blood that
came spurting out froze instantly, like strawberry sherbet.
The ramada meat was frozen solid in pieces about eight inches in
diameter. Sample B #3 forced the little girl’s palate wide open, from
ear to ear, and shoved a large chunk of frozen meat down her throat.
After that, he proceeded to gulp them down one after another.
The little girl’s skeletal structure began to change shape. The
more meat he swallowed, the more her body transformed.
 Hybrid Child == 37

< You’re becoming a ramada, right? >

He could no longer respond; her vocal cords had disappeared.
< What, you think you can change into a ramada, and slip past
the army? Are you serious? >
Jonah’s voice was laced with criticism.
< You think I’m going to help you get out of here? Is that what
you think? >
With only his legs fully formed, he began to climb the stairs,
dragging his body along.
< No! I won’t let you out! > Jonah pronounced.
He crashed through the kitchen door, dining room door, and
living room door. Having reached the atrium in the entrance, he be-
gan to construct the ramada bones of his upper body. He was mas-
sive, resembling a dinosaur fossil on display in a museum. The bones
of his long, strong neck telescoped upward, the cells crawling up
along the bones. Once his body surface was completed, his color be-
gan to darken, moving from the feet up, like an invisible flame rising
from the floor. He was growing black fur.
His head stood twenty-­five feet above the ground. He sprout-
ed four silver fangs like kitchen knives, betraying the fact that he
was not a domestic animal by nature. He stomped around on his
four pillar-­like legs and swung his long tail, beautiful as braided silk
thread. Realizing that he did in fact have vocal cords, he let out a
great howl.
< You’re not going to be able to run! You’re just going to fall
down like a baby! You’re going to get killed! >
Discovering that his tongue was more adept than he had
thought, he formed the words and spoke.
I’msorry...
The voice, as loud as a steam whistle, rattled the entire house.
Jonah was shaken.
Everyone leaves and abandons me, she thought.
Until now, it was her self-­respect alone that had made it possi-
ble for her to hold herself together. Loneliness now assailed her. In
desperation, she tried to open herself up to another person for the
first time in her life.
< Stop . . . ! Don’t go . . . ! >
38  == Hybrid Child

He stomped his feet and shook his head.

Jonah held the doors tightly locked.
He felt as though he were saying good-­bye to a friend after a
long, enjoyable sojourn at her home. He liked Jonah. Having delved
into the memories from her mother’s cells, he had hoped that he
could comfort her somehow. He hadn’t been able to do that in the
end, but he nevertheless felt that it was time to leave. At least if he
left, Jonah’s body wouldn’t be harmed any further. Maybe that was
the best that an unrefined person like him could do.
He would leave, unable to put his feelings into words, like a
voiceless mule, after all . . .
< Don’t go! >
He swung his head a single time, and knocked through the wall
above the door.
Jonah was keeping the door tightly locked, but it would have
been too small for him to pass through anyway.
He slammed his whole body against the entrance. There was a
tearing, crunching sound, as though the house were being ripped
apart. The wall crumbled like a cracker, raining chunks of debris
through the clouds of dust.
He prayed.
He prayed, to the one who had given him life. To the be-
ing who awakened his artificial intelligence. Please, protect Jonah.
And . . . he couldn’t think clearly . . . just, please, let everything go
smoothly . . . !
He smashed through the wall and sprang outside, looking like
a legendary black horse come down from the heavens to destroy
every living thing on earth.

=====

“I have a bad feeling about this,” muttered First Lieutenant Shino-

hara.
D.H. was thinking about what He had prophesied. Perhaps it
was no mere prophecy and it would actually come true. For the first
time, D.H. consciously examined the First Lieutenant’s noble pro-
file, illuminated in the blue light. He was an exemplary subordinate.
 Hybrid Child == 39

He could read and anticipate the wishes of his superiors. He was

known as a reliable soldier who got things done.
The two of them would . . . have relations?
And then . . . Him?
The bloodline of the distinguished Hess clan went back three
hundred generations; there were even folk songs that sang of their
past glory. The Shinohara clan was now in decline but still retained
unique genetic characteristics. The two of them would . . . unite?
And then He . . . would be born.
And I will give birth to Him . . . !
D.H. reached back into her memory, trying to bring up an im-
age of Him, but it remained just beyond her grasp. Only the memory
of the cloudy white bed remained.
Slowly, D.H. felt her chest gradually swell with pride, excite-
ment, and uncertainty.
“Major! There’s some kind of large animal moving around in
there!” shouted Shinohara.
D.H. peered at the display and started barking orders.
“Turn on the searchlight!”
Except for the yellow light leaking out from the windows of the
house, the space between the house and the marshaled soldiers had
been a field of darkness. The searchlight flooded the area, bright as
the midday sun.
D.H. looked at the larger screen that showed the front of the
house. “Prepare laser artillery!” she commanded.
She could see the huge black shadow moving inside the house.
D.H. felt her stomach constrict painfully. There was something omi-
nous about that shadow. Created by the military or not, if a monster
like that turned on them and became their enemy . . . if all fourteen
of Sample B Group were to become their enemies . . . D.H. cut the
thought short. On the battlefield, the real enemy was an overactive
imagination.
D.H. made up her mind.
“First Lieutenant, command the front line.”
Shinohara jumped, saluted, turned around, and ran down the
steps of the special armored vehicle.
D.H. watched Shinohara’s figure recede. The image of his broad
40  == Hybrid Child

shoulders in the neat, forest-­ green uniform burned into her

mind.
A soldier opened the door of a jeep for Shinohara, and he
hopped inside. They drove about six hundred feet and joined the
troops at the front line encircling the house.
“Prepare laser artillery!” he commanded.
Giant mobile units surrounded the house, like a swarm of raven-
ous black beetles. Small, black domes studded their surfaces, barrels
withdrawn.
“Confirm the location of the enemy’s nuclear fusion unit, then
strike.”
His words echoed throughout the entire ranks.
The laser artillery they employed was a midwave infrared chem-
ical laser that could shoot any bird or plane out of the sky. It was
unrivaled among weapons—­until now.
Saga Electronics’ visual tracking device should be able to calcu-
late the location of Sample B #3’s nuclear fusion unit—­its engine—­
and avoid striking it. That kind of precision would be impossible for
a human shooter.
“First Lieutenant, Sir, it’s dangerous out in the open like this.
The lasers leave traces of harmful reactive debris,” cautioned the
jeep’s driver.
Feeling the cool night wind on his cheeks, Shinohara could
barely stand the thought of this air contaminated with chemical la-
sers. Luckily, he thought, D.H. wouldn’t have to witness the con-
taminated air and landscape directly.
“You can take shelter inside a mobile unit if you want,” Shino-
hara replied.
“No,” the soldier answered simply, his face pale like a wax doll.
Just then, the monster broke through what was left of the house
and leapt out from within. Its gigantic legs tripped up. It seemed
about to fall over, but instead it shook its head, opened its bright red
mouth and roared at them menacingly, a sound like a great gust of
wind passing through a cave.
It’s . . . a primitive ramada . . .
No sooner had Shinohara seen the dagger-­like fangs than he and
D.H. both started shouting at once. “All troops, fire! Fire!”
 Hybrid Child == 41

=====

Sample B #3, struggling to control the gigantic ramada body, was

under attack. A sheaf of blazing white light flew at him. He felt like
he was losing control of his front legs, but then suddenly realized
that they had in fact been blasted off at the knees. He screamed and
howled, then blocked his sensory receptors, leaving him with no
sense of the state of his body. He watched the world turn upside
down as his head was severed and rolled to the ground. His body fell
over on its side like a lump of meat. His hands, feet, and head had all
been lobbed off, like a ramada at a slaughterhouse. Massive currents
of bright red blood came gushing out, a sea of blood that flowed all
the way to the tanks, soaking their bases.
The mobile units began to transform. Artillery barrels rose up
out the tops and took aim. Long jets of bright flames burst forth
from the barrels, converging on his body from all directions, engulf-
ing it completely.
The cells he had stored within his body began to dissolve under
the intense heat.
The house!
He extended his electronic eye and examined the house. The
fire had already spread to the house, caressing it violently with its
orange tongues.
Jonah!
He tried to get to his feet. Scorched by the blaze, his cells had
turned to slop and were dripping from between his bones. He gen-
erated a magnetic field around the coils of his nuclear fusion unit,
and his alloy bones all turned simultaneously to point at it. With
the bones still in random disarray, he increased the magnetism. The
bones all stood upright and were pulled through the soupy flesh,
starting with the lightest ones closest to the unit. He turned the
magnetism up another level. Now the bones were no longer merely
drawn to the unit but were rather sucked powerfully against it.
His nuclear fusion unit, covered in shards of silver metal, now
resembled a bagworm.
Another laser attack was coming.
As a defensive stance, he covered his electronic brain and eye
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
widening and deepening the wound; and wrenching back the head
to get it into a more favourable position, would infallibly have
severed it from the trunk, if the officers, who by this time had
recovered from their terror, had not thrown themselves upon him,
and withheld him.
“Now's your time,” cried Blueskin, struggling desperately with his
assailants and inflicting severe cuts with his knife. “Fly, Captain—fly!”
Aroused to a sense of the possibility of escape, Jack, who had
viewed the deadly assault with savage satisfaction, burst from his
captors and made for the door. Blueskin fought his way towards it,
and exerting all his strength, cutting right and left as he proceeded,
reached it at the same time. Jack in all probability, would have
escaped, if Langley, who was left in the Lodge, had not been
alarmed at the noise and rushed thither. Seeing Jack at liberty, he
instantly seized him, and a struggle commenced.
At this moment, Blueskin came up, and kept off the officers with
his knife. He used his utmost efforts to liberate Jack from Langley,
but closely pressed on all sides, he was not able to render any
effectual assistance.
“Fly!” cried Jack; “escape if you can; don't mind me.”
Casting one look of anguish at his leader, Blueskin then darted
down the passage.
The only persons in the Lodge were Mrs. Spurling and Marvel.
Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack
making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the
executioner, threw open the wicket. Blueskin therefore had nothing
to stop him. Dashing through the open door, he crossed the Old
Bailey, plunged into a narrow court on the opposite side of the way,
and was out of sight in a minute, baffling all pursuit.
On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering
in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. Efforts were made to
staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for.
“Has he escaped?” asked the thief-taker, faintly.
“Blueskin,” said Ireton.
 “No—Sheppard?” rejoined Wild.
“No, no, Sir,” replied Ireton. “He's here.”
“That's right,” replied Wild, with a ghastly smile. “Remove him to
the Middle Stone Hold,—watch over him night and day, do you
mind?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Irons—heavy irons—night and day.”
“Depend upon it, Sir.”
“Go with him to Tyburn,—never lose sight of him till the noose is
tied. Where's Marvel?”
“Here, Sir,” replied the executioner.
“A hundred guineas if you hang Jack Sheppard. I have it about
me. Take it, if I die.”
“Never fear, Sir,” replied Marvel.
“Oh! that I could live to see it,” gasped Jonathan. And with a
hideous expression of pain, he fainted.
“He's dead,” exclaimed Austin.
“I am content,” said Jack. “My mother is avenged. Take me to the
Stone Room. Blueskin, you are a true friend.”
The body of Jonathan was then conveyed to his own habitation,
while Jack was taken to the Middle Stone Room, and ironed in the
manner Wild had directed.
CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT HAPPENED
AT DOLLIS HILL.

A
t length this tragedy is at an end,” said Mr. Wood, as, having
seen the earth thrown over the remains of the unfortunate
Mrs. Sheppard, he turned to quit the churchyard. “Let us hope
that, like her who 'loved much,' her sins are forgiven her.”
Without another word, and accompanied by Thames, he then took
his way to Dollis Hill in a state of the deepest depression. Thames
did not attempt to offer him any consolation, for he was almost as
much dejected. The weather harmonized with their feelings. It
rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the
beautiful prospect.
On his arrival at Dollis Hill, Mr. Wood was so much exhausted that
he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for
some hours overpowered by grief. The two lovers sat together, and
their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother.
As the night advanced, Mr. Wood again made his appearance in a
more composed frame of mind, and, at his daughter's earnest
solicitation, was induced to partake of some refreshment. An hour
was then passed in conversation as to the possibility of rendering
any assistance to Jack; in deploring his unhappy destiny; and in the
consideration of the course to be pursued in reference to Jonathan
Wild.
While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room,
and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain
Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands.
Notwithstanding the remonstrances of Wood and Winifred, Thames
instantly followed the domestic, and found a man, with his face
muffled up, at the door, as she had described. Somewhat alarmed at
his appearance, Thames laid his hand upon his sword.
 “Fear nothing, Sir,” said the man, in a voice which Thames
instantly recognised as that of Blueskin. “I am come to render you a
service. There are the packets which my Captain hazarded his life to
procure for you, and which he said would establish your right to the
estates of the Trenchard family. There are also the letters which
were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland.
And there,” he added, placing in his hands a heavy bag of money,
and a pocket-book, “is a sum little short of fifteen thousand pounds.”
“How have you procured these things?” asked Thames, in the
utmost astonishment.
“I carried them off on the fatal night when we got into Wild's
house, and you were struck down,” replied Blueskin. “They have
ever since been deposited in a place of safety. You have nothing
more to fear from Wild.”
“How so?” asked Thames.
“I have saved the executioner a labour, by cutting his throat,”
replied Blueskin. “And, may I be cursed if I ever did anything in my
whole life which gave me so much satisfaction.”
“Almighty God! is this possible?” exclaimed Thames.
“You will find it true,” replied Blueskin. “All I regret is, that I failed
in liberating the Captain. If he had got off, they might have hanged
me, and welcome.”
“What can be done for him?” cried Thames.
“That's not an easy question to answer,” rejoined Blueskin. “But I
shall watch night and day about Newgate, in the hope of getting him
out. He wouldn't require my aid, but before I stopped Jonathan's
mouth, he had ordered him to be doubly-ironed, and constantly
watched. And, though the villain can't see his orders executed, I've
no doubt some one else will.”
“Poor Jack!” exclaimed Thames. “I would sacrifice all my fortune—
all my hopes—to liberate him.”
“If you're in earnest,” rejoined Blueskin, “give me that bag of gold.
It contains a thousand pounds; and, if all other schemes fail, I'll
engage to free him on the way to Tyburn.”
“May I trust you?” hesitated Thames.
“Why did I not keep the money when I had it?” returned Blueskin,
angrily. “Not a farthing of it shall be expended except in the
Captain's service.”
“Take it,” replied Thames.
“You have saved his life,” replied Blueskin. “And now, mark me.
You owe what I have done for you, to him, not to me. Had I not
known that you and your affianced bride are dearer to him than life I
should have used this money to secure my own safety. Take it, and
take the estates, in Captain Sheppard's name. Promise me one thing
before I leave you.”
“What is it?” asked Thames.
“If the Captain is taken to Tyburn, be near the place of execution
—at the end of the Edgeware Road.”
“I will.”
“In case of need you will lend a helping hand?”
“Yes—yes.”
“Swear it!”
“I do.”
“Enough!” rejoined Blueskin. And he departed, just as Wood, who
had become alarmed by Thames's long absence, made his
appearance with a blunderbuss in his hand.
Hastily acquainting him with the treasures he had unexpectedly
obtained, Thames returned to the room to apprize Winifred of his
good fortune. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while
Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him
by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he
had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan
Wild's. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp.
Winifred instantly picked it up.
 “You are no longer Thames Darrell,” she said, casting her eyes
rapidly over it; “but the Marquis de Chatillon.”
“My father was of the blood-royal of France,” exclaimed Thames.
“Eh-day! what's this?” cried Wood, looking up from beneath his
spectacles. “Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?”
“Your adopted son, Thames Darrell,” answered Winifred.
“And the Marchioness is your daughter,” added Thames.
“O, Lord!” ejaculated Wood. “My head fairly turns round. So many
distresses—so many joys coming at the same time are too much for
me. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. Read it,
and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders
to you all the estates in Lancashire. You've nothing to do but to take
possession.”
“What a strange history is mine!” said Thames. “Kidnapped, and
sent to France by one uncle, it was my lot to fall into the hands of
another,—my father's own brother, the Marshal Gaucher de
Chatillon; to whom, and to the Cardinal Dubois, I owed all my good
fortune.”
“The ways of Providence are inscrutable,” observed Wood.
“When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had
perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. It was supposed
he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been
found. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to
whom he referred.”
“I think I remember reading something about your father in the
papers,” observed Wood. “Wasn't he in some way connected with
the Jacobite plots?”
“He was,” replied Thames. “He had been many years in this
country before his assassination took place. In this letter, which is
addressed to my ill-fated mother, he speaks of his friendship for Sir
Rowland, whom it seems he had known abroad; but entreats her to
keep the marriage secret for a time, for reasons which are not fully
developed.”
 “And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend,” remarked Wood. “Crime
upon crime.”
“Unconsciously, perhaps,” replied Thames. “But be it as it may, he
is now beyond the reach of earthly punishment.”
“But Wild still lives,” cried Wood.
“He; also, has paid the penalty of his offences,” returned Thames.
“He has fallen by the hand of Blueskin, who brought me these
packets.”
“Thank God for that!” cried Wood, heartily. “I could almost forgive
the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear
wife—No, not quite that,” he added, a little confused.
“And now,” said Thames, (for we must still preserve the name,)
“you will no longer defer my happiness.”
“Hold!” interposed Winifred, gravely. “I release you from your
promise. A carpenter's daughter is no fit match for a peer of France.”
“If my dignity must be purchased by the loss of you, I renounce
it,” cried Thames. “You will not make it valueless in my eyes,” he
added, catching her in his arms, and pressing her to his breast.
“Be it as you please,” replied Winifred. “My lips would belie my
heart were I to refuse you.”
“And now, father, your blessing—your consent!” cried Thames.
“You have both,” replied Wood, fervently. “I am too much
honoured—too happy in the union. Oh! that I should live to be
father-in-law to a peer of France! What would my poor wife say to it,
if she could come to life again? Oh, Thames!—my lord marquis, I
mean—you have made me the happiest—the proudest of mankind.”
Not many days after this event, on a bright October morning, the
bells rang a merry peal from the old gray tower of Willesden church.
All the village was assembled in the churchyard. Young and old were
dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles
that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the
younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic
maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—
a wedding,—was about to take place.
At the gate opening upon the road leading to Dollis Hill were
stationed William Morgan and John Dump. Presently, two carriages
dashed down the hill, and drew up before it. From the first of these
alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de
Chatillon. From the second descended Mr. Wood—and after him
came his daughter.
The sun never shone upon a lovelier couple than now approached
the altar. The church was crowded to excess by the numbers eager
to witness the ceremony; and as soon as it was over the wedded
pair were followed to the carriage, and the loudest benedictions
uttered for their happiness.
In spite of the tumultuous joy which agitated him, the bridegroom
could not prevent the intrusion of some saddening thoughts, as he
reflected upon the melancholy scene which he had so recently
witnessed in the same place.
The youthful couple had been seated in the carriage a few
minutes when they were joined by Mr. Wood, who had merely
absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had
ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in
readiness. He likewise gave directions that in the after part of the
day a whole bullock should be roasted on the green and distributed,
together with a barrel of the strongest ale.
In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most
of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill,
where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the
door. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the
hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast.
These festivities, however, were not witnessed by the newly-
married pair, who had departed immediately after the ceremony for
Manchester.
 CHAPTER XXIX. HOW JACK
SHEPPARD WAS TAKEN TO
WESTMINSTER HALL.

L
oaded with the heaviest fetters, and constantly watched by two
of the jailers' assistants, who neither quitted him for a single
moment, nor suffered any visitor to approach him, Jack
Sheppard found all attempts to escape impracticable.
He was confined in the Middle Stone Ward, a spacious apartment,
with good light and air, situated over the gateway on the western
side, and allotted to him, not for his own convenience, but for that
of the keepers, who, if he had been placed in a gloomier or more
incommodious dungeon, would have necessarily had to share it with
him.
Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. He
seemed resigned but cheerful, and held frequent and serious
discourses with the ordinary, who felt satisfied of his sincere
penitence. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker
feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had
survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering.
As soon as he could be moved with safety, Jonathan had himself
transported to Newgate, where he was carried into the Middle Ward,
that he might feast his eyes upon his victim. Having seen every
precaution taken to ensure his safe custody, he departed, muttering
to himself, “I shall yet live to see him hanged—I shall live to see him
hanged.”
Animated by his insatiate desire of vengeance, he seemed to gain
strength daily,—so much so, that within a fortnight after receiving
his wound he was able to stir abroad.
 On Thursday, the 12th of November, after having endured nearly a
month's imprisonment, Jack Sheppard was conveyed from Newgate
to Westminster Hall. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and
heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple
Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster.
By this time, Jack's reputation had risen to such a height with the
populace,—his exploits having become the universal theme of
discourse, that the streets were almost impassable for the crowds
collected to obtain a view of him. The vast area in front of
Westminster Hall was thronged with people, and it was only by a
vigorous application of their staves that the constables could force a
passage for the vehicle. At length, however, the prisoner was got
out, when such was the rush of the multitude that several persons
were trampled down, and received severe injuries.
Arrived in the Hall, the prisoner's handcuffs were removed, and he
was taken before the Court of King's Bench. The record of his
conviction at the Old Bailey sessions was then read; and as no
objection was offered to it, the Attorney-General moved that his
execution might take place on Monday next. Upon this, Jack
earnestly and eloquently addressed himself to the bench, and
besought that a petition which he had prepared to be laid before the
King might be read. This request, however, was refused; and he was
told that the only way in which he could entitle himself to his
Majesty's clemency would be by discovering who had abetted him in
his last escape; the strongest suspicions being entertained that he
had not affected it alone.
Sheppard replied by a solemn assertion, “that he had received no
assistance except from Heaven.”—An answer for which he was
immediately reprimanded by the court. It having been stated that it
was wholly impossible he could have removed his irons in the way
he represented, he offered, if his handcuffs were replaced, to take
them off in the presence of the court. The proposal, however, was
not acceded to; and the Chief Justice Powis, after enumerating his
various offences and commenting upon their heinousness, awarded
sentence of death against him for the following Monday.
 As Jack was removed, he noticed Jonathan Wild at a little distance
from him, eyeing him with a look of the most savage satisfaction.
The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and
his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an
undefinable and horrible expression to his glances.
Meanwhile, the mob outside had prodigiously increased, and had
begun to exhibit some disposition to riot. The coach in which the
prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the
driver was glad to escape with life. Terrific shouts were raised by the
rabble, who threatened to tear Wild in pieces if he showed himself.
Amid this tumult, several men armed with tremendous bludgeons,
with their faces besmeared with grease and soot, and otherwise
disguised, were observed to be urging the populace to attempt a
rescue. They were headed by an athletic-looking, swarthy-featured
man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head
to cheer on his companions.
These desperadoes had been the most active in demolishing the
coach, and now, being supported by the rabble, they audaciously
approached the very portals of the ancient Hall. The shouts, yells,
and groans which they uttered, and which were echoed by the
concourse in the rear, were perfectly frightful.
Jonathan, who with the other constables had reconnoitred this
band, and recognised in its ring-leader, Blueskin, commanded the
constables to follow him, and made a sally for the purpose of seizing
him. Enfeebled by his wound, Wild had lost much of his strength,
though nothing of his ferocity and energy,—and fiercely assailing
Blueskin, he made a desperate but unsuccessful attempt to
apprehend him.
He was, however, instantly beaten back; and the fury of the mob
was so great that it was with difficulty he could effect a retreat. The
whole force of the constables, jailers and others was required to
keep the crowd out of the Hall. The doors were closed and
barricaded, and the mob threatened to burst them open if Jack was
not delivered to them.
 Things now began to wear so serious a aspect that a messenger
was secretly despatched to the Savoy for troops, and in half an hour
a regiment of the guards arrived, who by dint of great exertion
succeeded in partially dispersing the tumultuous assemblage.
Another coach was then procured, in which the prisoner was placed.
Jack's appearance was hailed with the loudest cheers, but when
Jonathan followed and took a place beside him in the vehicle,
determined, he said, never to lose sight of him, the abhorrence of
the multitude was expressed by execrations, hoots, and yells of the
most terrific kind. So dreadful were these shouts as to produce an
effect upon the hardened feelings of Jonathan, who shrank out of
sight.
It was well for him that he had taken his place by Sheppard, as
regard for the latter alone prevented the deadliest missiles being
hurled at him. As it was, the mob went on alternately hooting and
huzzaing as the names of Wild and Sheppard were pronounced,
while some individuals, bolder than the rest, thrust their faces into
the coach-window, and assured Jack that he should never be taken
to Tyburn.
“We'll see that, you yelping hounds!” rejoined Jonathan, glaring
fiercely at them.
In this way, Jack was brought back to Newgate, and again chained
down in the Middle Ward.
It was late before Jonathan ventured to his own house, where he
remained up all night, and kept his janizaries and other assistants
well armed.
 CHAPTER XXX. HOW JONATHAN
WILD'S HOUSE WAS BURNT DOWN.

T
he day appointed for the execution was now close at hand,
and the prisoner, who seemed to have abandoned all hopes of
escape, turned his thoughts entirely from worldly
considerations.
On Sunday, he was conveyed to the chapel, through which he had
passed on the occasion of his great escape, and once more took his
seat in the Condemned Pew. The Rev. Mr. Purney, the ordinary, who
had latterly conceived a great regard for Jack, addressed him in a
discourse, which, while it tended to keep alive his feelings of
penitence, was calculated to afford him much consolation. The
chapel was crowded to excess. But here,—even here, the demon
was suffered to intrude, and Jack's thoughts were distracted by
Jonathan Wild, who stood at a little distance from him, and kept his
bloodthirsty eyes fixed on him during the whole of the service.
On that night, an extraordinary event occurred, which convinced
the authorities that every precaution must be taken in conducting
Jack to Tyburn,—a fact of which they had been previously made
aware, though scarcely to the same extent, by the riotous
proceedings near Westminster Hall. About nine o'clock, an immense
mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. It was quite dark; but
as some of the assemblage carried links, it was soon ascertained to
be headed by the same party who had mainly incited the former
disturbance. Amongst the ring-leaders was Blueskin, whose swarthy
features and athletic figure were easily distinguished. Another was
Baptist Kettleby, and a third, in a Dutch dress, was recognised by his
grizzled beard as the skipper, Van Galgebrok.
Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully
increased. The area in front of the jail was completely filled.
Attempts were made upon the door of the Lodge; but it was too
strong to be forced. A cry was then raised by the leaders to attack
Wild's house, and the fury of the mob was instantly directed to that
quarter. Wrenched from their holds, the iron palisades in front of the
thief-taker's dwelling were used as weapons to burst open the door.
While this was passing, Jonathan opened one of the upper
windows, and fired several shots upon the assailants. But though he
made Blueskin and Kettleby his chief marks, he missed both. The
sight of the thief-taker increased the fury of the mob to a fearful
degree. Terrific yells rent the air. The heavy weapon thundered
against the door; and it speedily yielded to their efforts.
“Come on, my lads!” vociferated Blueskin, “we'll unkennel the old
fox.”
As he spoke, several shots were fired from the upper part of the
house, and two men fell mortally wounded. But this only incensed
the assailing party the more. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a
cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. The landing was
defended by Quilt Arnold and the Jew. The former was shot by
Blueskin through the head, and his body fell over the bannisters.
The Jew, who was paralysed by his companion's fate, offered no
resistance, and was instantly seized.
“Where is your accursed master?” demanded Blueskin, holding the
sword to his throat.
The Jew did not speak, but pointed to the audience-chamber.
Committing him to the custody of the others, Blueskin, followed by a
numerous band, darted in that direction. The door was locked; but,
with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. Several of the
assailants carried links, so that the room was a blaze of light.
Jonathan, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched
the secret spring. He was not there. Opening the trap-door, he then
descended to the vaults—searched each cell, and every nook and
corner separately. Wild had escaped.
 Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable.
At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs.
Sheppard had been confined, Blueskin discovered a trap-door which
he had not previously noticed. It was instantly burst open, when the
horrible stench that issued from it convinced them that it must be a
receptacle for the murdered victims of the thief-taker.
Holding a link into the place, which had the appearance of a deep
pit, Blueskin noticed a body richly dressed. He dragged it out, and
perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir
Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs
—an order which was promptly obeyed.
Returning to the audience-chamber, Blueskin had the Jew brought
before him. The body of Sir Rowland was then laid on the large
table. Opposite to it was placed the Jew. Seeing from the
threatening looks of his captors, that they were about to wreak their
vengeance upon him, the miserable wretch besought mercy in abject
terms, and charged his master with the most atrocious crimes. His
relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce
auditors.
One of the cases in Jonathan's museum was now burst open, and
a rope taken from it. In spite of his shrieks, the miserable Jew was
then dragged into the well-hole, and the rope being tied round his
neck, he was launched from the bridge.
The vengeance of the assailants did not stop here. They broke
open the entrance into Jonathan's store-room—plundered it of
everything valuable—ransacked every closet, drawer, and secret
hiding-place, and stripped them of their contents. Large hoards of
money were discovered, gold and silver plate, cases of watches, and
various precious articles. Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was
left. Old implements of housebreaking were discovered; and the
thief-taker's most hidden depositories were laid bare.
The work of plunder over, that of destruction commenced. Straw
and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of
the audience-chamber. On these were thrown all the horrible
contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir
Rowland Trenchard. The whole was then fired, and in a few minutes
the room was a blaze. Not content with this, the assailants set fire to
the house in half-a-dozen other places; and the progress of the
flames was rapid and destructive.
Meanwhile, the object of all this fearful disturbance had made his
escape to Newgate, from the roof of which he witnessed the
destruction of his premises. He saw the flames burst from the
windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture
equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed.
While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made
the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of
the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven
from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles.
The mob now directed their attention to Newgate; and, from their
threats, appeared determined to fire it. Ladders, paviour's rams,
sledge-hammers, and other destructive implements were procured,
and, in all probability, their purpose would have been effected, but
for the opportune arrival of a detachment of the guards, who
dispersed them, not without some loss of life.
Several prisoners were taken, but the ring-leaders escaped.
Engines were brought to play upon Wild's premises, and upon the
adjoining houses. The latter were saved; but of the former nothing
but the blackened stone walls were found standing on the morrow.
 CHAPTER XXXI. THE PROCESSION
TO TYBURN.

T
he noise of this disturbance did not fail to reach the interior of
the prison. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the
ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined.
The night his execution was therefore passed in a most
anxious state of mind; nor was his uneasiness allayed by the
appearance of Jonathan Wild, who, after he had been driven from
the roof of the jail, repaired to the Middle Stone Ward in a fit of
ungovernable passion, to vent his rage upon the prisoner, whom he
looked upon as the cause of the present calamity. Such was his fury,
that if he had not been restrained by the presence of the two
turnkeys, he might perhaps have anticipated the course of justice,
by laying violent hands upon his victim.
After venting his wrath in the wildest manner, and uttering the
most dreadful execrations, Jonathan retired to another part of the
prison, where he passed the night in consultation with the governor,
as to the best means of conveying the prisoner securely to Tyburn.
Mr. Pitt endeavoured to dissuade him from attending in person,
representing the great risk he would incur from the mob, which was
certain to be assembled. But Jonathan was not to be deterred.
“I have sworn to see him hanged,” he said, “and nothing shall
keep me away—nothing, by——.”
By Wild's advice, the usual constabulary force was greatly
augmented. Messengers were despatched to all the constables and
head-boroughs to be in attendance,—to the sheriffs to have an
extraordinary number of their officers in attendance,—and to the
Savoy, to obtain the escort of a troop of grenadier-guards. In short,
more preparations were made than if a state criminal was about to
be executed.
 The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length
dawned. It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick
and heavy, that, at eight o'clock, the curious who arrived near the
prison could scarcely discern the tower of St. Sepulchre's church.
By and by the tramp of horses' feet was heard slowly ascending
Snow Hill, and presently a troop of grenadier guards rode into the
area facing Newgate. These were presently joined by a regiment of
foot. A large body of the constables of Westminster next made their
appearance, the chief of whom entered the Lodge, where they were
speedily joined by the civic authorities. At nine o'clock, the sheriffs
arrived, followed by their officers and javelin-men.
Meantime, the Stone Hall was crowded by all the inmates of the
jail, debtors, felons, turnkeys, and officers who could obtain
permission to witness the ceremony of the prisoner's irons being
struck off. Caliban, who, through the interest of Mr. Ireton, was
appointed to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a
punch in the other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his
duty. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his
large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance.
Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. Spurling.
Mrs. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in
great distress. But her husband, whose deportment to her was
considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no
attention whatever to her grief.
At this moment, the bell of Newgate began to toll, and was
answered by another bell from St. Sepulchre's. The great door of the
Stone Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the
javelin-men, entered the room. They were followed by Jonathan,
who carried a stout stick under his arm, and planted himself near
the stone. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of
expectation reigned throughout.
Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary,
with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room.
Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his
demeanour dignified. His countenance was pale as death, but not a
muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear.
On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving
that his resolution was unshaken.
Advancing with a slow firm step to the stone-block he placed his
left foot upon it, drew himself up to his full height, and fixed a look
so stern upon Jonathan, that the thief-taker quailed before it.

Original Size -- Medium-Size

The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily

unriveted the chains. The first stroke appeared to arouse all the
vindictive passions of Jonathan. Fixing a ferocious and exulting look
upon Jack Sheppard, he exclaimed.
“At length, my vengeance is complete.”
“Wretch!” cried Jack, raising his hand in a menacing manner, “your
triumph will be short-lived. Before a year has expired, you will share
the same fate.”
“If I do, I care not,” rejoined Wild; “I shall have lived to see you
hanged.”
 “O Jack, dear, dear Jack!” cried Mrs. Marvel, who was now quite
dissolved in tears, “I shall never survive this scene.”
“Hold your tongue, hussy!” cried her husband gruffly. “Women
ought never to show themselves on these occasions, unless they can
behave themselves properly.”
“Farewell, Jack,” cried twenty voices.
Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with
several of those who addressed him.
“My limbs feel so light, now that my irons are removed,” he
observed with a smile, “that I am half inclined to dance.”
“You'll dance upon nothing, presently,” rejoined Jonathan, brutally.
“Farewell for ever,” said Jack, extending his hand to Mrs. Marvel.
“Farewell!” blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to
her lips. “Here are a pair of gloves and a nosegay for you. Oh dear!
—oh dear! Be careful of him,” she added to her husband, “and get it
over quickly, or never expect to see me again.”
“Peace, fool!” cried Marvel, angrily. “Do you think I don't know my
own business?”
Austin and Langley then advanced to the prisoner, and, twinning
their arms round his, led him down to the Lodge, whither he was
followed by the sheriffs, the ordinary, Wild, and the other officials.
Meantime, every preparation had been made outside for his
departure. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart
with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. At the head of the cart
was placed the coffin. On the right were several mounted
grenadiers: on the left, some half dozen javelin-men. Soldiers were
stationed at different points of the street to keep off the mob, and
others were riding backwards and forwards to maintain an open
space for the passage of the procession.
The assemblage which was gathered together was almost
countless. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every
projection, had its occupants. The wall of St. Sepulchre's church was
covered—so was the tower. The concourse extended along Giltspur
Street as far as Smithfield. No one was allowed to pass along
Newgate Street, which was barricaded and protected by a strong
constabulary force.
The first person who issued from the Lodge was Mr. Marvel, who
proceeded to the cart, and took his seat upon the coffin. The
hangman is always an object of peculiar detestation to the mob, a
tremendous hooting hailed his appearance, and both staves and
swords were required to preserve order.
A deep silence, however, now prevailed, broken only by the tolling
of the bells of Newgate and St. Sepulchre's. The mighty concourse
became for a moment still. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom
smitten human ears rent the air. “He comes!” cried a thousand
voices, and the shout ascended to Smithfield, descended to Snow
Hill, and told those who were assembled on Holborn Hill that
Sheppard had left the prison.
Between the two officers, with their arms linked in his, Jack
Sheppard was conducted to the cart. He looked around, and as he
heard that deafening shout,—as he felt the influence of those
thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his
misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were
marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death.
Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was
followed by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and,
opening the book of prayer, began to read aloud. Excited by the
scene, Jack, however, could pay little attention to the good man's
discourse, and was lost in a whirl of tumultuous emotions.
The calvacade was now put slowly in motion. The horse-soldiers
wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart.
Then came the javelin-men, walking four abreast, and lastly, a long
line of constables, marching in the same order.
The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful
groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. This
was occasioned by Jonathan Wild, who was seen to mount his horse
and join the train. Jonathan, however, paid no sort of attention to
this demonstration of hatred. He had buckled on his hanger, and had
two brace of pistols in his belt, as well as others in this holsters.
By this time, the procession had reached the west end of the wall
of St. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom,
it halted. By the will of Mr. Robert Dow, merchant tailor, it was
appointed that the sexton of St. Sepulchre's should pronounce a
solemn exhortation upon every criminal on his way to Tyburn, for
which office he was to receive a small stipend. As soon as the
cavalcade stopped, the sexton advanced, and, ringing a handbell,
pronounced the following admonition.
“All good people pray heartily unto God for this poor sinner, who is
now going to take his death, for whom this great bell doth toll.
“You who are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears.
Ask mercy of the Lord for the salvation of your own soul, through
the merits of the death and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits at
the right hand of God, to make intercession for you, if you penitently
return to him. The Lord have mercy upon you!”
This ceremony concluded, the calvacade was again put in motion.
Slowly descending Snow Hill, the train passed on its way, attended
by the same stunning vociferations, cheers, yells, and outcries,
which had accompanied it on starting from Newgate. The guards
had great difficulty in preserving a clear passage without resorting to
severe measures, for the tide, which poured upon them behind,
around, in front, and at all sides, was almost irresistible. The houses
on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. Every window,
from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs
were covered with spectators. Words of encouragement and
sympathy were addressed to Jack, who, as he looked around, beheld
many a friendly glance fixed upon him.
In this way, they reached Holborn Bridge. Here a little delay
occurred. The passage was so narrow that there was only sufficient
room for the cart to pass, with a single line of foot-soldiers on one
side; and, as the walls of the bridge were covered with spectators, it
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