Contents

• Chapter One - The High Ground

• Chapter Two - Glorious Assent

• Chapter Three - Red in Truth and Claw
  

• An Afterword
  

• A Disclaimer

Chapter One: The High Ground

The tall, striking figure stepped from the shadows and crouched smoothly, plucking at his soaking trousers for comfort and waving the other forward. A shorter, more powerful figure joined him, unconsciously mimicking the pose. The rain ran down them. They stared past the flowing gutters down into the street far below, breathing gargoyles unnoticed by the hoards.

"He-ere, we can bear witness and yet leave them undisturbed, free to go about their, little business, unaware that, a greater power looks down on them." The first man spoke in a rich whisper, turning at times to look his audience in the face to ensure he caught every word.

His stocky companion made sure to hide his annoyance, wishing he'd get to the point. If there was one thing the Father seemed to love, it was the sound of his own damned voice. Then he chastised himself inwardly and made a note to flagellate one for disrespect when he got back to his cell.

"There! He's coming out now - wonderful!" He patted his own thigh in delight, his smile warm and engaging. The younger man strained to see, then bit his tongue as the Father helpfully pointed the way. Far below a figure in a beige trench coat waded against the rushing tide of late London commuters, shoulders up and hat down against the downpour. As the traffic queued for the lights ahead he crossed between cars, wading across the flooded street.

"How did you spot him? He looks like all the others from up here," said the young man. Just another worker ant, hurrying, scurrying. The Father nodded with enthusiasm.

"Indeed, but therein lies the beauty - and the danger. He goes unnoticed by his fellows, all unaware that he could be the harbinger of a new world. He himself knows nothing of his potential. That is why we must act now." The older man rose and the water which had pooled in the folds of his cloak rushed away. Standing, tall and proud against the roiling cloud-filled sky, he struck a truly angelic figure - serene, powerful. Unstoppable. The younger man swallowed.

"Let's take a closer look." The cloak swept dramatically as he lead the way across the rooftops.

*

"He posits rules regarding behaviour in animals that parallel human decision making!"

"Fascinating." Walking close to the edge of the building, he kept one eye on his footing, the other over the side alert for glimpses of their quarry. The pedestrians were thinning out as the rain came down the harder.

"The first, well, merely how beasts might react to stimuli, but the second, development over time - it is little more than to suggest animals are able to learn, and adapt, and - and -"

"Good gracious." There, the beige coat passing beneath the wide awning of a hotel entrance.

"But he goes on, to discuss beneficial effects upon breeding selection, Phylogeny... even... Evolution."

The Father turned to face him, almost in surprise. "Openly?" The younger man put on a prevaricating expression and waved a hand awkwardly.

"Well, behind closed doors, amongst a few particular students."

"Ah." He looked back to the street - the man was missing from the emptying street. He stopped, the young man jerking to a halt a few steps ahead. He leaned over the drop to scan the street both sides, both ways. "The hotel - he's gone in there." His companion gazed eagerly downwards.

"Let me get him!" he hissed, "He knows me, I'll -" The Father shook his head.

"No, no. We must be cautious. But..." He thought. "Take him a note - no, take it to the front desk and ask to pass it to him in the morning. Remember the room number, and return he-ere." He smiled at the look of disappointed frustration on the face of the younger man. "Discretion, always, and you'll never go wrong. I'll go to him, and you? You can watch and learn."

*

"He-ere, we see, Nikolaas Tinbergen," said the voice, warm and husky, discretely low and yet unafraid of the silence surrounding it. It woke the sleeper in an odd fashion for, being in a man's bedroom, the heart of his privacy, it should have been invasive and yet wasn't.

"Who's there?" asked Tinbergen, sitting up slowly in the dark. The drapes where thick, the room black as pitch - or perhaps not. Was there a warmth to the darkness? Was there breathing? He didn't reach for the light at his bedside, as if unconsciously hoping the dark would hide him.

"Nikolaas Tinbergen," said the voice. There was the faintest of amber glows in the room, at the armchair across from the bed. Beside the only door. "It is strange to find you away from Den Hague, in this season. Habitat, is crucial to a creature's wellbeing, is it not?" With a quiet scraping the baffle of a lamp opened, revealing the Father in the soft glow of a candle. He smiled gently from the chair, inviting his host into the discussion.

"Yes," said Tinbergen. "You are a man of science, are you? How marvelous." It seemed like a dream, but he felt a thickness, a heaviness in the hollow of his throat. Like dread. "Who are you?"

"I am Father David Attenborough," said the seated man. "Hand of the Holy Inquisition."

Tinbergen croaked like a frog caught in the hot sun, clutching at his bedsheets.

"You have brought question to the holiness of the creation of the world, Nikolaas Tinbergen," said the man, setting his lamp down on a small table and rising to his feet. "You have put Man amongst the animals, and raised animals to a level of civilisation." Still a whisper, but somehow ringing out like the most strident voice ever to cry out from a pulpit. "It is time to confess all."

"No, no - there is no contradiction! Just a greater understanding of creation!" Tinbergen quaked, his feet kicking to drag the sheets down for escape just as desperately as his hands clung to them to feebly shield himself. "Please, Father! Please - I have nothing to confess!"

The Father raised one hand, pointing - but not a finger, unless that glinting finger carried an edge. "Nothing to confess, to me," came the whisper. "Only to Him."

The lamp's baffle clicked fully open, mirrors within amplifying the candlelight to shine with all the glory of heaven itself. With a wail of terror Tinbergen tumbled from his bed, crawling towards the door as a caped shadow eclipsed the radiance behind him, swooping, that shining blade sweeping before his eyes... then darkness engulfed all. And that voice said, "Go with God."

*

Father David joined the young man outside on the broad balcony, from which he had observed all through a chink in the drapes, made for him by the tutor before the duty was begun. They stared out across the city, Attenborough with quiet satisfaction, his companion less so.

"I could have done it, you know," he muttered. "And without all the chitchat."

"It is enough, that you brought him to our attention, Richard." Father David replied, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You have gone a long way, to proving yourself, in the eyes of the church. And you, clearly, have the passion for our, vital work. You won’t be a novitiate for much longer.” His expression became contemplative.

Richard resisted the temptation to shrug the hand off. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “I swear that I will never let down the might of the Holy Church.” The hand patted him affectionately.

“The Right of the Church, Richard: the Right.”

Chapter Two: Glorious Assent

There! High on the bell tower! That shadow against the stars! There it is!

Tethered at the topmost mooring posts, the cloaked one-man dirigible swayed in the midnight breeze. The cloak, of a fine-weave matt black canvas, was thick and heavy, helping to further suppress dangerous drift and masking the vessel against the night sky. If you didn't know to look, didn't spot those edge-most stars glittering back into view, you would never know it was there.

Father David crouched with perfect balance upon the greasy shingles, carefully hidden by the haphazard layers of roofs of the fine old buildings across the river from the Cathedral. He ignored the grounds, teaming with guards and dogs, for he knew better. He stared into the detail of the distant architecture high on the tower, searching for the slightest sign of - there!

Movement almost invisible, but a novitiate would need to be something else indeed to evade the watchful eye of The Church's premier field agent. Father David shook the prideful thought aside, concentrated on the tiny shape across the gulf, the novitiate, inching his way towards that one overlooked point of egress. He had done his research well, the youngster, but perhaps not as well as he might think - as an escape route that was a long, tricky way back. Unless he had something else in mind...

Father David lowered his binoculars and rose in silent contemplation. This was a tricky one and would make a good agent - and he had better act fast if he was to be there at the crux. He quickly stashed the binoculars beneath the eaves of the roof and turned to the inky silhouette of his glider, perched like a moth on the tiles beside him. Buckling its straps across his chest, he crossed himself as well - not for fear of technical failure, as the Church's technology was, of course, infallible. It was simply the done thing.

Father David took two light steps forward and launched himself into the night.

*

The novitiate drew his pry-bar from its sheath and levered up the second tile to reveal the handle beneath. No stronghold of the Lord was ever built to be perfect; it would be a prideful sin on the part of the architect, and the grim fate of Christopher Wren had long since quieted all dissent from that quarter. The novitiate was also bending rules, that most dangerous of actions. He shouldn't even know of this most secret of entrances; it had required months of searching in the archives, and for his success heads might even role in the library - but not his, so long as he proved himself beyond all other doubt.

A twist, a pull, and the roof hinged along a seam invisible even in blessed sunlight. The novitiate dropped through like a ghost clad all in black, resting the hatch against the bar to keep it open. In the dark within he drew his blade.

From an alcove above a corridor the novitiate watched a lone priest approach murmuring soft prayers or perhaps a popular hit under his breath. The fool! The entire building was committed to his memory. The path to his target's quarters blazed in his mind. But only one fall of the knife; he must not be seen, could not strike to silence an inadvertent witness. He must be Right.

The novitiate dropped from his hiding place as the priest turned the corner, then darted away with just a rustle of cloth. He didn't see the secret hatch rise, nor a gloved hand still the pry-bar before it could ring out a warning.

*

The door to the bedchamber opened and the novitiate entered, pressing it closed again and releasing the handle with silent care. He crouched, slipping a wedge under it against accidental discovery - he was in! His eye took in the opulent decor with contempt, finding it a poor substitute for the glorious austerity of his own cell; a cell he would never return to, he remembered. It fell, at last, upon the great bed, curtained, four posted, rich in red and gold. A final glance to prove the room harmless, then the young man allowed himself a smile of pleasure and advanced upon the bed with a deliberate lack of caution.

He threw the curtains open and looked upon the loaded crossbow in horror. Who could have -

"You!" he spat, trying and failing to hide his sudden terror behind haughtiness.

"Novitiate." Father David smiled in his usual, confiding manner from the bed. "I must say, the head of the, divine guard, will be annoyed. Your bragging has put him on edge, all week. He was determined, not to let you in, he-ere." For the briefest of moments, the eyes above that smile turned icy. "And you should address me, as Father."

The youngster swallowed his pride along with a great draught of fear, bowing his head. "I'm sorry, Father David."

"That is quite alright, novitiate. Please, put your knife, on the bedside table." Father David got up, his small crossbow trained unerringly upon this inventive and dangerous target. The novitiate did so with clear reluctance, having nothing left upon him to strike or defend; he may have cheated his way to the target, but it was a matter of pride to use only the -

"Where is the Sinner?" Father David noticed the flash in the novitiate's eyes; this one had real passion indeed. "He was my duty!" His shoulders slumped suddenly. "Did you take him?"

"He is alive, and well," said Father David, locking the crossbow and secreting it within his combat robes. "I should hardly take, the life, of our inquisitional head." The novitiate looked at him in astonishment and Father David nodded. "Yes: Cardinal Blackett is, far, from what you were led to believe. Isn't that right, your Eminence?"

"It is, Father David. I thank you for your sterling efforts." Cardinal Patrick Blackett entered and both invaders took to one knee. He was a stately-looking man, grand in his ceremonial finery but carrying his tall hat instead of wearing it. "Please rise. I would prefer to finish this business soon, so I can get back to my own bed instead of this, silly show piece." They obeyed, but the novitiate kept his eyes low as if afraid to look his former target in the face. The Cardinal smiled icily.

"Yes. You have done very well, getting to this room in the manner you did - even if your methods call into question some of our own. But the church always seeks out the new, and the inventive; and always demands that it receive the coldest scrutiny of all. There is no greater danger imaginable to the sanctity of the church than one arising from within. This is why you were charged with eradicating just such a thing, and you have used the strengths of your target against it." Still the novitiate looked to the floor, but a flush of pleasure rose in his cheeks. The Cardinal raised an eyebrow. "I must say, I've not been so impressed by an act of devotion for almost thirty years. How old are you, novitiate?"

"Twenty-three, your Eminence."

"Really? Well, it seems Father David's record will continue unchallenged a little longer still. He was only nineteen." The Cardinal smiled thinly as the colour fled from the boy's face. He'll probably thrash his back raw this evening, he thought. Ah, youth. He donned his ceremonial headgear and with two fingers crossed the air between them as Father David came to his side.

"Kneel," He commanded, and the youngster did. "By the power vested in me, by the command of the Church, the blessed Pope, and by God himself, I induct you into the order of the Holy Inquisition. You fell to us from grace, as do all men - arise, Brother Richard."

Brother Richard, born Clinton Richard Dawkins in the year of Our Lord, 1941, stood again, his chest beating with pride and his eyes shining with fervour. Father David looked into them and knew that Brother Richard saw nothing outside the confines of his own head in that moment. I was wrong, he thought. He's the perfect agent. Terrifying.

"His Will Be Done," intoned the Cardinal, holding out his ring-bearing hand. Brother Richard clutched at it with both hands, kissing the lip-polished stone passionately.

"His Will Be Done!" he cried, tears flooding down his face and into a wide, unconscious smile.

"His Will, Be Done," said Father David, and the Cardinal looked his way.

Chapter Three: Red in Truth and Claw

The last members of the public filed away past the welcoming sign and off the grounds of the ZSL London Zoo. The curator of mammals watched them through the glass doors as the guard locked up. Privacy, but so late in the day; how one was expected to care for the world's animals and habitats with punters thronging everywhere, bothering beast and biologist alike?

He nodded to the guard and retreated inwards, emerging from the entrance building onto the main through way of the zoo, cages rising on each side. He traditionally took the long route to his office at the end of the day, appreciating the absence of human calls, finding his own centre again amidst his charges.

A guard materialised from the dusk shadows to the left, raising a hand as he stopped in the centre of the path. The curator felt a flicker of unease - he did not recognise the guard, not quite, but the silhouette was familiar.

"Could I have a moment of your time, Dr. Morris?" said the guard.

"Of course, of course, I -" The curator stopped, his mouth hanging open. "I know that voice!" he exclaimed. The supposed guard approached with a chirpy smirk for the dumbstruck Morris.

"Good to see you again, Desmond," said Brother Richard.

"Richard Dawkins - I'll be da-arned!" The two embraced with hearty back-slapping, then Morris held the surprise visitor at arm's length, sizing him up. "You've been noticeably absent from the Balliol Old Boys Club for months - but you're looking good for it, my boy, you are! What have you been up to, eh?" He gestured down the way and they continued towards his office.

"Oh, a bit of everything really. I've been in the field, all healthy exercise and the like." His smile faded. "Have you heard about old Niko?"

"Not a word - he dropped off the map only a week or so after you did."

"I've got some bad news for you, Desmond. Let's get inside."

*

"Bloody hell." Morris passed a hand over his face. "That's terrible, Dickie, just terrible." He didn't see the annoyance that gripped his companion on hearing his old university nickname.

"Very much so. I was particularly moved when I found out myself." Brother Richard took the moment unobserved to look around at Morris' office, noting a familiar scholarly disarray most unlike the fanatical neatness which epitomised his own personal spaces, both with the church and at his "cover" accommodation on the campus. He'd always looked on the older man's untidiness with a certain degree of contempt, but here there was also one noticeable difference - no icon of worship whatsoever. It would seem that Morris had abandoned only one university tradition. "I pray to God that he is at His side." Morris didn't react. "Don't you?"

"Hmm?" Morris stared blankly at his guest for a moment, then caught up. "Oh, yes. Yes. I'm sorry, Dickie, this is a bit of a shock. I can't believe he would."

"No indeed. But we should keep our minds on less bleak thoughts, Desmond. Tell me how things are going here, for example. I hear you have an Arabian Oryx, that's very nice."

"Er, yes, we do. She's called Caroline." Morris looked rather distressed. He kept picking up a pen from his desk, then putting it down again as if he couldn't recall what to do with one. "We were hoping..." He trailed off, staring at his hands.

"Hoping?" Dawkins strolled casually around the small room, admiring the prints and photographs on the walls. Not prints, actually. Originals, paintings and drawings.

"Sorry. Hoping to breed her, but we're having a devil of a time sourcing a decent male. I heard that the Pheonix Zoo in Arizona have one, for all the good that does us."

"You should write them a letter, who knows. These are yours, aren't they, Desmond?" Dawkins tapped the frame before him with a fingernail, then turned to indicate the others dotting the room. "I recall you used to sketch all day long, your strange little doodles - you even did Nico once, didn't you?"

"I don't really recall at the moment, Richard. If I did, it's not how I'd want to be remembering him now."

"How is the writing coming along then?" Morris finally found himself focused on the conversation, found Dawkins watching him with his characteristically bright stare.

"Er. Er. Fine. Thanks for asking. Although I've not published anything for quite a -"

"Mammals, is it?" The stare unwavering, unblinking. Morris had seen it before, in the cages of the big cats. Was he getting at something? Did he know something?

"Of course. I, am, the curator of -"

"Not primates, at all?" No smile. Just the eyes. Of a predator. Morris tried to reply, couldn't.

"We know all about it, Desmond. The copy circulating amongst a... ha ha... a lucky few. Nico thought very highly of it, I hear." Brother Richard idly moved towards the desk, his gaze never wavering from its target. "The Naked Ape, Desmond? Similarities between men and monkeys? Evolved behaviour? We have that copy, Desmond, and it will be burned. Because this isn't a scandal, you realise..." He leaned over the desk, close enough to smell the doctor's fear.

"It's a Blasphemy."

"Oh my God," breathed Morris, blanching at the cruel smirk his words provoked. "You've done it, haven't you? You've - you've gone over."

"I've seen the light, Desmond. Nothing more, I've simply seen His glorious light." The fervour in his eyes dulled suddenly, became a non-stare of terminal disinterest. "It is now time for you to do the same. In person."

With a cry of dismay and strength born of terror Morris flipped his desk over, scattering papers and the little curios collected over his career everywhere. Brother Richard hopped back and tripped over the spare chair, tumbling as Morris broke for the door and fled.

Brother Richard leapt up with a curse and quickly checked the desk - the drawers were locked. He turned to the door and gave chase, his gait long and loping, the kill now inevitable.

*

Morris ran down the corridor to the outside door, breath gasping, chest tight. The building was dark; where were the night guards? He banged into the door, locked, fumbled for his keys as the echoing of footsteps began to catch up behind, his hands shaking as the adrenaline pumped. There! The pushed through and slammed them closed, desperately trying to lock them again.

"It is not, most likely, worth your while, to lock him in." Morris screamed a little, spinning to find the cloaked and hooded figure leisurely approach. It gently threw back the cowl.

"You? Attenborough, the television man? Good grief, you as well?" Morris almost laughed.

"I'm so sorry, that it would come, to this." Father David looked genuinely sympathetic. "I've, always liked, your paintings."

"Damn you! Damn you both!" Morris turned tail and ran as the door was rattled aggressively from within. With a crash Brother Richard kicked it open, wood splintering around the lock. He saw Morris disappearing into the gloom and glared at Father David.

"The drawers are locked, he has the key - and he's mine!" Father David watched him take off after his quarry, considered following, then went inside instead, down towards the unfortunate man's office, taking in the minor disruption of the locked and overturned desk.

There were of course his pictures too. Father David lifted one, entitled The Egg Thieves; typically strange, disturbing red-bodied beasts approaching a nest, the eggs within defenceless as their weird mother takes to flight, and a crescent moon motif decorating both the sky and the beasts. He liked it. He glanced at the others, then felt behind the frame for the string to hang it up again - and paused.

*

Morris shook the gates in desperation, but the chain and padlock were tight and heavy and he had no key for them on his fob. They were noisy in their resolution to keep him in - and a voice answered their call from behind: "You should face your judgement, Desmond."

The curator ran, skirting the outer wall like an animal trapped in an unfamiliar enclosure, disoriented, seeking any way out to safety and freedom. He came up against a barrier, the path arcing back to the centre, back towards one or the other of his pursuers. Which exhibit was this?

"This is the end of the line, Desmond." He spun, straining his eyes in the dark, unable to tell whether Dawkins was ahead on the path or behind. "I only want the keys to your desk. Give me the keys and this can all end." And then Dawkins was upon him, lunging out of the black like something foul and black, and Morris fell back with a cry, scrambling at the barrier, swinging himself up and over it and out into space. His cry rose up, then cut out with a thud to be replaced by a pained wheezing.

Brother Richard ignited his torch, opened it to shed a wide beam into the night. He held it out over the barrier and, looking down, saw the clusters of round reflecting eyes gaze flatly back; then they looked away, closing in towards the groaning shadow that was Morris. His groans became feeble screams as they pounced, then even they were silenced by the clamp of jaws upon his throat.

Brother Richard half watched, waited patiently while they tore and ate below, until eventually the noise abated. Then, calmly, he too crossed the barrier and, picking his way with more care, lowered the ladder into the pit and descended. Approaching the curator's remains, he saw a glinting in the grass, stooped, and found the keys he needed.

He rose again, holding the light up high so he could look around. The pit was not as wide as he had imagined; the big cats lay all around him, just the simple drawing of their breath was filled with power, but now they were sated and drowsy. They watched him pick his way back to the ladder with little interest.

Christians and lions, he thought, and as he climbed out again he laughed.

A Cast of Inspirations

Agent for C.H.A.N.G.E. features a variety of celebrity guest stars, none of whom deserved to be treated this poorly; yet such ladies and gentlemen are they all that, to date, not one has sued.

Sir David Attenborough

Sir David Attenborough is widely regarded as one of the finest Englishmen of recent times, certainly so by me. His intelligence, wit and earnest love of the natural world is rarely equaled and, through a career in communications stretching for over half a century, never so far reaching. The notion that he might be an assassin in the employ of an unscrupulous Church, even in a slightly regressed parallel reality, is an absurdity not worthy of contemplation.

Richard Dawkins

As a scientist, Richard Dawkins has broadened man's understanding of nature and himself to an admirable and uncompromising degree. As a social commentator, he has stuck in the boot to those he considers a drain on the enlightenment of the species like no other would dare to do. Perhaps it is not too great a stretch to imagine him a bloodthirsty, psychopathic religious zealot.

Sir Richard Attenborough

After beginning his acting career on the stage and serving his country in the RAF, Sir Richard Attenborough broke free from typecasting in cowardly supporting roles to become widely regarded as one of England's widest, most cuddly screen actors and the director of Gandhi. He would no doubt consider his reincarnation here as a marvelous return to early type-cast form.

No animals were harmed during the writing of...

This story is entirely a work of nonsensical fiction. Although some characters are based extremely loosely upon existing people, there is no intention on my part to cause distress to them or anyone else.

None of the events or actions described ever took place, to my knowledge, and even if they did they weren't done by the people depicted. To my knowledge.

Any failure to entertain is my responsibility alone, as are errors of fact, theory or ascribed belief.