Veniss Underground by Jeff VanderMeer

with the clever black eyes, the quick-darting, muscular head, makes you insecure. You cannot tell whether you stare into the eyes of the past, the present, or the future. Ancestor, equal, descendant?
    Ultimately, you decide that Salvador is too natural for art, too natural even to be thought of as a crude manipulation of genes and chromosomes. No aesthetic seems at work here save for the aesthetic of evolution. You are looking at the future. The future after the cities are gone, winking out like the lights of the dirigibles as they settle down for the night.
    â€œYou will replace us,” you say, and it is not even a sad thought, but more a release of responsibility, a relief.
    â€œMa'am?” The meerkat looks puzzled, holds its head to one side.
    â€œYou are short-furred,” you say teasingly. “Shaded light brown, tan with streaks of black. Your teeth are sharp and ridged. You're probably about four feet tall, ninety-five kilos of pure muscle. Quick on your feet. How do you do that?”
    â€œWhat, ma'am?” Somehow, Salvador manages to look nervous, even through all the fur.
    â€œStand upright. Walk upright. And don't call me ma'am. Call me Nicola.”
    â€œVery well. Nicola. Hybridization. Kangaroo and gorilla genes.”
    â€œGorilla genes!” Remarkably close to heresy here, but now that the central government is gone, eighteen different interpretations of the law.
    Could you build a human from a gorilla? You cannot shake the sensation that this is not a mobile computer, programmed to serve you. This is an autonomous creation.
    Encouraged by your reaction (this creature already “reads” you), Salvador launches into a textbook description of its species that you listen to with half an ear.
    â€œMeerkats, Nicola, were originally found in Sur Africa and we are closely related to lemurs and the mongoose family.”
    â€œI'm not familiar with either family,” you say, but then quickly add “Continue,” when you see the confusion and distress on Salvador's face.
    â€œYes, Nicola. We are, in fact, distant cousins, you and I, and it would be good for our relationship if you would think of me as a distant ancestor—”
    Ah, the ancestor/descendant question resolved!
    â€œâ€”traditionally, we had a close social structure and we were highly organized, living in what used to be the Kalahari Desert. We were gentle with our pups and affectionate in play, and fiercely protective of our own. We have quick and clever minds, and made ideal subjects for genetic enhancement. The first prototypes were developed by Madrid Sybel but Quin was the one who made us fully intelligent, stable, and long-lived. Madrid Sybel's work with—”
    â€œNever mind,” you say, rubbing your eyes. “It's too early in the morning. Explore. Walk around. Tell me more later.” Besides, you already know about Sybel. You want to know about Quin.
    With a low bow, Salvador stops talking and silently surveys the living room while you pour yourself some coffee and sit down on the couch.
    It is the aquarium that fascinates Salvador the most. He waddles over to it after only the most cursory of glances at the other furnishings. On his way to the aquarium, he runs his paws over your collection of rare business disks. Then watches the miniature blue-finned sailbellies swimming languid in their prison.
    â€œFeessshhh,” he says with genuine pleasure, and then louder, a delighted grin parting his jaws, so that his pink tongue presses forward. “Fiiisssshhh!”
    â€œYes,
fish
,” you say.
    You catch yourself smiling and frown instead. Salvador is too charming. You must be more careful. You remind yourself of the shy animals in the Tolstoi District, the musky odor in Nicholas's apartment. And what do you know of Quin? An idea comes to you.
    â€œSalvador,” you say from the couch.
    The meerkat sidles over, his obsidian gaze still intently focused on the