The Constant Rabbit

‘A … bunnytrap. That you had moved in opposite to entice and entrap me, probably to gain access to the Taskforce servers via my security clearance.’

She stopped walking, turned to me and cocked her head on one side, her ears falling forward quizzically.

‘Is that what you think?’

‘I don’t know what to think. I’ve got clearance, you’re a rabbit, the Rehoming begins in a month—’

‘I’ve always thought we might be together, Peter, right from when we first met at university. Don’t know how or why or even whether we can, but always felt it, kind of deep down.’

I’d felt that too, but didn’t know whether risking death in a duel would be worth it. Doc was military, and I’d spotted several prizes for marksmanship in their front room. I’d shot .22 pistols at school, but duelling with a heavy smoothbore was something else entirely. It wasn’t likely I’d win. Perhaps that was the plan.

‘What else did Mr Ffoxe say?’ she asked.

‘That I was to let the relationship take its course and see what I could find out about you, the plans for civil disobedience against the Rehoming, and about the Venerable Bunty in particular. He said that if I didn’t play ball he’d take my eye out. I agreed to help him, but I’m telling you now so you know I’m no snitch.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

She stopped at the entrance to the barn. The oak lintel had rotted and was partly collapsed, and several bricks hung precariously above the doorway.

‘Come on in,’ she said.

‘Do you know what,’ I said with great difficulty, ‘I’m really not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘I respect you for it,’ she said, ‘but it’s not for what you think. I want you to meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Trust me.’

A human male and a doe rabbit were waiting for us inside, both seated on the remains of a haywain that was now just a partially collapsed chassis, but had been almost intact when I’d played here as a child. As I drew closer I could see the man was Patrick Finkle of the Rabbit Support Agency, and he stood up as we approached, smiled and stepped forward to shake my hand. The rabbit with him was snowy white, wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and was dressed in Potter chic, a light blue flowery dress with a pinafore, and a large matching bow between her ears. They were both wearing hiking boots, and two knapsacks were on the ground beside them.

‘Hello, Mr Knox,’ said Finkle, ‘good to meet you at last. I see you quite often on the way to work at RabCoT.’

He squeezed my one hand in his two; I could feel the lack of opposability and it sent an odd chill up my back. Finkle had been the first to voluntarily remove his thumbs in order to show oneness with the rabbit cause, and given that one might argue opposability and tool use were as indicative of our species as ears are for a rabbit, there was something more than just a levelling of the dexterous field – it was a comment about our humanness, and the rejection thereof. In an instant my odd sense of revulsion turned to understanding and, in some measure, admiration. I took a deep breath and stood up straighter.

‘Call me Peter,’ I said. ‘I face instant dismissal for even talking to you.’

He gave me a half-smile.

‘I won’t tell if you won’t. You want to stare at my absent thumbs, don’t you?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘I’m afraid so. Don’t feel bad – everyone wants to.’

He held up his hands so I could look and get it out of my system. These days the surgery could be done so precisely a lopped human would appear as if they’d never had thumbs, but Finkle had used a bandsaw on himself, so the stumps were ragged and mismatched. There must have been a lot of blood.

‘Miss them?’ I asked stupidly, not knowing how to open a conversation with a lopped.

‘Every day,’ he said evenly, ‘but sacrificing something you don’t need isn’t a sacrifice.’

At the last count there were eight hundred others who had lopped themselves, all living in the colonies or in the Isle of Man safe haven, having adopted rabbit ways. It was a controversial move: a few had even been snatched back by the same companies that did cult interventions, but every individual returned to the colonies as soon as they could. Once you were lopped, you’d made your choice and would stick by it.

‘And this,’ said Finkle, turning to introduce his female rabbit companion, ‘is the Venerable Bunty Celestine MNU-683, my mentor, spiritual guide and romantic life partner.’

‘Oh!’ I said, suddenly taken aback, not just at meeting her, but at the trust in which I must have been held to be allowed to do so. ‘Hello.’

If I had been expecting some sort of mystical experience upon meeting her – an aura of righteousness or spirituality or something – I was disappointed. She looked just like any other Labstock rabbit, although the spectacles were a giveaway as to her heritage: the test animal known as MNU-683 from the tag on her cage had been used for shampoo eye irritation tests before the Event, and her descendants always had poor eyesight, although I wasn’t sure how this was heritable.