McGregor spun to face the darkened barn.

"Your act died today!"

There was no sound from the barn. Only a subliminal emotional quivering seemed to emanate in cold waves from the structure.

McGregor stalked to the splices' after-hours residence.

He banged the big door open.

The inside of the old-fashioned structure, which was not part of the tour, was one large open space walled and floored with seamless arbo-poly, for easy cleaning. D-compoz waste units stood out in the open in one corner. Cots were placed dormitory-style along the walls, each with a small footlocker for whatever personal possessions the splices had been allowed to accumulate: curry combs and liniment; sweets from the Ginger and Pickles concession stand, tossed to them by the patrons; a change of clothes.

By each cot stood its occupant, at full attention.

The smallest of the transgenics -- the mice, the frogs, the squirrels -- stood on their altered hindlegs as tall as McGregor's waist. The next largest -- the rabbits, the dogs, the cats -- came as high as his shoulder.

McGregor let the property sweat for a whole minute. Then he whirled and pointed a finger at Pigling Bland.

"You!"

Tears began to well from the pig's eyes, runnelling to either side of his snout. He dabbed at them with the sleeve of his brown frock coat.

"Please, sir, my pig license is all in order...."

But McGregor had already rounded on another victim.

"Puddleduck!"

Jemima's beak opened and closed several times in stupefaction, before she could finally clumsily articulate, "My bonnet is tied, my shawl is neat. My bonnet is tied, my shawl--"

At last McGregor settled on his real targets.

"Tom! Hunca! Front and center!"

Tom Thumb and his mate Hunca Munca came shakily forward. The two mice hung their heads wearily, knowing full well what was to come and the futility of resistance.

At this moment a fox appeared in the doorway. Fully as tall as McGregor, the Garden's second-in-command wore a brown suitcoat, vest, and cravat. He carried McGregor's cane.

Mr. Tod, the fox, smiled now, showing sharp teeth.

With the mice a foot or two from McGregor, he assailed them. "When you wrecked the dollhouse at the three o'clock show, you broke a dish!"

Tom Thumb looked at Hunca Munca, and she looked at him. Their relatively small and shiny brown eyes caught the light from the ceiling fixtures. Then the male mouse spoke.

"We are supposed to break a dish. We discover that the ham is plaster. Wechitter angrily. I pick up the tongs. I hit the ham--"

"You broke the wrong dish! You broke an empty dish!"

"No, I am sure I hit only the ham--"

"Enough! Give me the cane!"

The fox, his bushy tail held stiffly erect, his claws clicking on the floor, crossed to McGregor and handed him the cane.

McGregor twisted the cane's top to Setting Eleven.

He began to beat the mice. The lightest touch of the cane sufficed.

They squealed and cried. Others among the watching splices began to weep too. But it was no use. The blows were unrelenting.

Hunca Munca had collapsed to the floor. Trying to keep her head low, she raised her scut high.

McGregor's genitals began to emerge.

3. Appley Dapply's Nursery Rhymes Gestation Jest McGregor's mum was a limited's crick, And her solo son was a pro's best trick! She ran his specs on a micro-fab, And bent her egg in the company's lab! A few months later the lad emerged, Stylish toy of the maternal urge!

Paraparenting Her smart card toted megamiles on the Suborbital Express, As she did thirty minutes' work, Bangkok to Baltiscandia, Leaving once again, Mum spared McGregor one thoughtless brief caress, Before passing him to a Ciba-Geigy nurse -- much handier!

A Song of Youth Nurse was a cocktail of 'possum and 'roo, Attentive, loving, and sweet.

McGregor spent hours out of view, Pouched and on a teat. When older, his mum began to feel His education must begin. Tropes and boosters and Digireal All were funneled in. One day he was living virtually, When something happened unheard-erous. The digiverse was suddenly, hurtfully Amok and truly murderous!

Electron fangs and claws raked the lad, As the cuddly characters, all beasts, Picked up crosstalk from a channel bad, Where kingfans held their gory feasts.

By the time he ripped away the set, McGregor was a neural wreck. And worse, he found his mouth all wet With blood from Nurse's neck! The rehab boys plied their pills, And then pronounced him sane. But really McGregor's creepy ills Were still hidden in his brain.

Whimper While You Work Now he's grown and wants employment. Might as well mix work with enjoyment! Digireal's fine (when it's not all bollixed!) But folks still crave some solid frolics. 'Round the globe the epcots sprout-- Watch the classix acted out! What better place for McGregor to live Than among those where he can stick his shiv!

4. The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies Peter came into the barnyard around three in the morning. The epcot had minimal security, directed mostly against human intruders, the occasional lone vandal or thrill-seeking metroplex posse. The system presented no challenge to the guerrilla skills of one who had trained with the Sequoia Revenge Squad at their camp hidden in the Cascades. As for potential escapees, their biological tethers were deterrence enough. It was a rare splice who could summon up the courage to flee into a society where all authority was ranked against him, where his very sustenance was a controlled substance.

But it was Peter's task tonight to convince his compatriots to do just such a thing.

Hill Top Farmhouse was quiet and dark. On the first floor lived Mr. Tod; on the second, McGregor. Peter bristled at the thought of the pair. With luck, he could accomplish his goals without ever encountering the wardens. At the barn door, he paused. Sniffing, he found only fading traces of McGregor's scent, sweat, and spume. But Peter's nose was half-ruined from fags, and he hardly trusted it. Still, in conjunction with the winking out of the Farmhouse lights he had witnessed, the evidence was enough.

Possessed by an urge to mark this territory he was about to conquer, Peter slid his cock from its sheath and pissed briefly against the door, imagining it as McGregor's face. The earth absorbed the steaming urine hungrily as Peter worked the latch.

The door creaked slightly as he slid inside.

The noise was enough to wake Squirrel Nutkin.

"Krrrk, krrrk, krrrk! It's the old Peter, the old Peter!"

"Quiet, you sodding rodent! Oh, damn!"

Nutkin's cries had roused all the sleepers. Peter had hoped to wake a few of the more solid types first, those who in his judgment had the most initiative and could help him deal with the more timorous and confused. Too late for that now, though.

Lights flared on. Luckily, the barn's windows existed only as holo trompe l'oeil. McGregor would receive no alert that way.

All eyes -- big and wet, small and glittering, nictitating and night-seeing -- were fastened on him. Peter let them absorb the full meaning of his presence: a runaway splice had survived, even prospered.

The collie dog, Kep, was first to speak.

"Why do you return? We have a new Peter now. Have you put yourself under human control? Where is your mark?"

Peter held himself proudly erect. "I'm no slave, I'm a free var, equal to any proking fifty-oner. And I'm here to set all of you free too. There's a van with a driver just a mile off. We couldn't bring it any closer without being detected, and we didn't want to mount a full raid if we needn't do so. All you have to do is follow me, and by tomorrow morning you'll all be your own masters. The Tailor of Gloucester will unkink your chromos."

Nervous babble broke out among the splices.

"What will we eat?" asked Tom Kitten.

"Who will clothe us?" asked Mrs. Tittlemouse.

"What will we do with ourselves all day?" asked Samuel Whiskers.

Peter was disgusted. "None of your questions matter! Trust me, the CLF will see to all your needs. What matters is escape. Now!"

Duchess, the black dog, spoke. "How do we know the CLF can protect us?"

"We are powerful! Our leader is brave and wise. Even now he plans a powerful strike against the humans in Nova England! We have many friends and allies. The Ahimsa League, the underground arm of the SPCC -- Have you not heard of Celesteville? The Anzanian government has deeded us a preserve, where all splices may live freely. Those who do not want to participate in the armed struggle may settle there. King Babar needs good citizens."

"You lie! You want to lead us to our deaths!"

Peter turned.

He confronted himself.

The replacement Peter stood next to his mate, Flopsy. Unlike the renegade Peter, he was finely groomed and plump, the buttons of his jacket all polished. Every line of his furry countenance indicated how thoroughly he had been indoctrinated in subservience by a supplier eager to redeem itself for its defective model. Knowing the other rabbit was bound by his conditioning, Peter held no enmity toward him. And in truth, his attention was fixed more on the seductive figure beside him.

He had almost forgotten what a beautiful doe Flopsy was. Her bib was thick and creamy, her haunches strong, her nose sexily moist.

Peter's years of self-sacrifice had included little time for romance.

Now, the nights he and Flopsy had spent rutting together, enjoying the only solace available in captivity, returned to him with almost punishing force.

Realizing that he could not let the other rabbit spook the indecisive slaves, acting out of both expediency and jealousy, Peter hopped at thecowardly rabbit. The substitute Peter raised his forepaws awkwardly in defense. But he was no match for the martially trained outsider. In a trice, muzzle bloodied, the other rabbit lay on the floor.

The splices were stunned into silence. The hum of the ventilation system sounded like a hurricane. Peter tensed himself for further violence.

Flopsy spoke, her eyes shining at the return of her first mate. "The meek die on their knees! We walk on two legs! All power to the CLF!"

A chorus of acclamation gradually swelled. Peter was too proud to caution them. They would be gone soon anyway.

He put his arm around Flopsy, feeling the desire to cover her stir in his loins.

Out in the world, her fecundity restored, they would breed free kits that would make mankind tremble!

5. The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit McGregor, cradled in his organiform bed on the second level of Hill Top Farmhouse, was dreaming. In his dream, he was sitting in a comfy squirmonomic chair, wearing a Digireal set, laniering virtuality. A dream within a dream.

The virtual-ware was a standard Microdelrey scenario, all reassuring arcadian simplicity. McGregor's virtual self was five years old. He walked hand-in-hand with Nurse and Mum down shaded paths, butterflies flittering, the scent of hay in his nostrils.

Suddenly, from behind a shrub leaped a giant animal, a slavering rabbit with a mouthful of fangs! In an instant he was joined by another, and another!

The rabbits grabbed his guardian and his mother, and began to bite their necks and rend their flesh.

McGregor screamed/twisted in his chair/writhed in his bed.

The rabbits, finished with the lifeless corpses of the adults, their snouts incarnadined, turned on the little boy.

He bit his tongue/bit his tongue/bit his tongue, till blood flowed/flowed/flowed.

The monitors in the bed finally kicked in, and the system administered a dose of RU-9000.

McGregor felt the killers' claws and smelled their meaty breath/pulled off the Digireal set/awoke with a jolt.

The taste of his own blood was like sucking on an antique drycell.

Sitting up, he spat red and the bed absorbed it. Then, he listened.

The fading echoes of noise from the barn drifted through an open window with the breeze....

What the breeding fuck was going on with those vars? Was it some argument among themselves, a fight over rut or sweet? He had warned them about excess activity after lights-out. By arnie, he'd iraq and pakistan their worthless hides!

A thought came to him. He spoke to the Farm.

"Hill Top."

"Yes?"

"Any intruders?"

"The perimeter sensors report the passage of no creature massing more than ten ounces."

Ten ounces? That was impossible. The countryside was swarming with creatures bigger than that, their nightly runs cutting across the Garden, their bioparms programmed to register, yet not sound an alarm. The sensors had to be jiggered.

"Hill Top."

"Yes."

"Notify the Sawrey dirty-harrys. We have a trespasser. Get me a kill clearance."

A high-baud squirt down the optics and a squirt back.

"Secured."

Not bothering to dress, McGregor reached down from its wallrack abell-mouthed gun with a magazine shaped like an old-fashioned film canister, its alloy stock featuring oval cutouts as a weightsaving measure.

Downstairs, McGregor roused a gently snoring Mr. Tod. (Many splices, their vocal apparatus modified in the sim-womb for speech, suffered from attendant respiratory problems.) "Get your slagging withers out of bed. We've got a fox in the henhouse."

"A fox?"