The Children of the Sky (20 page)

Flenser was somewhere in the sub-basements of the Old Castle. He went there two or three times a year. Several years ago, Ravna had concluded that Flenser did indeed know where Woodcarver’s spy cameras were located. That was a scary conclusion, but then she realized that most of these trips “downstairs” were just part of Flenser’s hobby of enraging his pack parent.

There were exceptions; Flenser had some things he really didn’t want Woodcarver to know about. For instance, Woodcarver had forbidden Flenser to try to rehabilitate
his
creation, Steel. In that, Woodcarver had reneged on her peace treaty with Flenser. It was the only such incident Ravna knew of. The remains of Lord Steel were allowed to live, but as a slobbering, slashing threesome. The madpack had been kept in isolation, at the veterans’ fragmentarium.

For a time, it had looked like Flenser might restart the war over Woodcarver’s broken promise. Instead, he used the issue to win a number of concessions—including repossession of the Old Castle. But Ravna knew that the wily Flenser had not given up on Steel. In the early years, Flenser had often come down to these sub-basements to meet with Carenfret, a broodkenner at the Fragmentarium. That pack was unquestionably loyal to Woodcarver, and probably opposed to every one of the Old Flenser’s horrific experiments. Flenser and Carenfret had been conspiring all right, but only to persuade Woodcarver to make Steel whole. Maybe they would have succeeded eventually. Unfortunately, Steel’s problem was a torment from within; the poor wretch had fought itself to death, rendering the conspirators’ plans moot.

Ravna was certain that Woodcarver would not see things so forgivingly. Meeting down in the Old Castle catacombs was itself the stuff of treason. The chambers were steeped in horror. Woodcarver had once attempted an inventory of the place. Her packs had found at least five levels, with many fallen tunnels still unsurveyed.

In recent years, the catacombs had become much too intriguing to the Children. When they got to be ten or eleven years old, they just had to take a crack at exploring “Flenser’s Caves of Death.” If you counted natural erosion and rock falls, there were plenty of entrances, a new one discovered every few years. Sooner or later, some kid was going to fall down a hole and get killed. That and the onshore cliffs had been Ravna’s biggest day-to-day worries, until this Denier cult thing.

In tonight’s expedition, most of Flenser was carrying solar cell lamps. The light was scarcely brighter than tar torches, but it didn’t consume oxygen or make smoke. Ravna recognized the low-ceilinged cavern Flenser was passing through. Some kids had gotten lost here just last year. It was—she hoped—the most grisly place they would ever see. She remembered how it stank, even after all the years. The dark floor was punctuated with stone plugs that looked like small manhole covers. In the view
Oobii
synthesized from Flenser’s various heads, she could see the hexagonal pattern of dozens—hundreds—of covers stretching off into the darkness.

The picture stream froze.
Oobii
was waiting for signal or—more likely—had fallen behind in its analysis. Ravna didn’t rush it. She wanted the high-resolution video, and if it took a while for the clues to dribble in and be interpreted, that was fine. In fact, this sequence seemed usable. Sometimes, no matter how long she waited, all she could get was ambiguity.

So she stared idly at the still picture. There was a missing “manhole cover” just to the right of one picture.
That
was what had scared her when the kids went exploring. In the dark, you could fall into one of those open holes and break your neck. She idly merged the views from several of Flenser’s members. The synthesis gave her a view into the hole. The bottom was lost in shadow, but she knew each hole was about two meters deep, ending in a sewage sump. If
Oobii
was not interpolating from past experience, this particular hole was not empty.

She could see bones and desiccated flesh.
Yech.
No doubt about it, Old Flenser had been a monster. These holes were a combination of dungeon and rack. Flenser—and later Steel—would split a prisoner into its component members, sticking each of them into a separate hole. There, they could be fed and watered, physically tortured or simply left to go mad in the mindless closeness. Flenser called the process “recycling,” since once the individual members went mad or catatonic, they could be reassembled into “custom-designed” packs, the parts mixed and matched with those of other prisoners. A few of the recycled packs still wandered about the Domain. Most were sad, lobotomized freaks; a few were twitchy psychopaths. Recycling was Flenser’s grisliest,
stupidest
achievement.

Finally, the video stream came unstuck, and the various viewpoints moved past the ghastly hole. A tiny window by Ravna’s hand showed a diagram of how the various members were positioned and which field of view was being shown in the main display. As usual, Flenser’s crippled member was rolling along near the front. Its white-tipped ears showed at one point or another in most of the other views. White-Tips was the limiting factor in the Flenser-Tyrathect’s mobility. The critter had a crushed pelvis. It lay, swaddled in blankets, in a wheelbarrow-like contraption that the others pushed or pulled.

In recent years, White Tips’ eyesight had fogged over. The creature was getting old, and cataract cures were decades in the future. So the White Tips’ view showed what was ahead first, but even more hazily than most of
Oobii
’s reconstructions. Still, there was
something
in the way of the pack. Ravna switched back to a synthesis from all the members. There was another pack, just at the edge of the lamplight. It was Amdi!

Where was Jefri? Ravna looked carefully in all the windows. Nothing more could be seen in the shadows. She rolled back a few seconds, and did some pattern analysis.… No, there was no sign of Jef. She stifled the impulse to raise the humaniform probability and reanalyze.

Amdi hunkered down as the lamplight spread across him. White Tips’ wheelbarrow was rolled forward amazingly close, and the rest of Flenser-Tyrathect spread out, forming a semi-circle around Amdiranifani.

The video stream froze again; a diagnostic window showed that this delay was related to Flenser’s hearing. Till now, the sounds coming across the link hadn’t received much analysis. Ravna had heard the click of Flenser’s nails on the stone, the creak of the wheelbarrow, but Flenser’s mindsounds—ultrasonics from 40 up to 250kHz—were mostly ignored. Patterns that indicated startlement or anger would be reported, but constructing a detailed thought stream would have been impossible for the
Oobii
even in the Beyond.

Now
Oobii
heard the chords and gobble-hiss of Interpack speech.

After a moment more, video and synchronized sound continued, with
Oobii
’s best guess at translation appearing below the main window.

Flenser-Tyrathect:
You have my [time | curiosity],
[little one | little ones].

Why did you want this meeting?

Amdiranifani:
I [?] very sad. I [?] [?] scared.
What [?] me [?] [?]

Ravna replayed the audio a couple of times. By combining
Oobii
’s guesses with her own knowledge, she could often make sense of Tinish. Amdi’s last statement was pretty clearly: “What will become of me?”

But now Amdi switched to Samnorsk: “Could we please speak in human, Mr. Tyrathect? It’s the language I like best. My problems are hard to say right in Tinish.”

“Of course, my dear boy. Samnorsk will be fine.” Flenser’s human voice had its usual cordial tone, the manner of a clever sadist.

Surely Amdi recognized the mockery in Flenser’s tone? After all, the eightsome had known Flenser-Tyrathect since the final days of the Flenserist regime. But now the eight huddled together and edged forward a few centimeters, almost crawling on their bellies. “I’m so afraid. There are so many things to be sad about. Maybe if there weren’t so many, I could cope and not just be a silly self-pitier.”

Flenser-Tyrathect’s chuckle was gentle. “Ah. Poor Amdiranifani. You are enjoying the gift of genius. When ordinary people are confronted with multiple tragedies, the pain scarcely increases. They simply can’t feel the extra burdens. But you have a greater capacity for suffering. Even so—”

The diagnostic window showed serious relay problems. Some of the forwarding devices were probably riding with the evening glowbugs up on the surface; maybe those insects were thinning as the night air cooled. Several seconds passed.
Oobii
’s guesses were not converging. Finally a little red flag appeared, indicating that clarity was unattainable with the data being received.
Sigh.
Ravna raised the level of acceptable uncertainty, and waved for the programs to proceed. Sometimes this surveillance reminded her too much of pre-tech fairy tales: She was a sorceress hunched over her crystal ball, doing her best to scry truth from uncertain auguries.

After a moment,
Oobii
generated its best guess: The displays jigged back a second or two and restarted. Flenser was saying: “Even so, my boy. What problems are troubling you?”

Amdi moved a little closer. “You made Steel and Steel made me.”

Gentle laughter. “Of course. I made Steel, and mainly from my own members. But Steel assembled you from the new-born puppies of geniuses that he purchased, stole, and murdered for—from all across the continent. You are among the rarest of packs, born all at once, all of puppies. Like a two-legs.”

“Yes, like a human.”
Oobii
’s imagery showed tears in Amdi’s eyes. “And now dying like a human, even though humans don’t begin to get old while they’re still children.”

“Ah,” said Flenser. Ravna noticed that the one with the white tipped ears had tilted its wheelbarrow forward and extended its neck toward Amdi.
Wow.
The overlapping mindsounds should be loud enough to be emotionally confusing to both packs. But Flenser’s voice—
as represented by the surveillance program, always keep that in mind
—was as cool as ever: “Haven’t we discussed this before? Unanimous ageing is a tragedy, but your members are still only fourteen years old. Your bad times are easily twenty years in the future, when my grand schemes will finally—”

Amdi’s interruption didn’t quite fit: “I loved Mr. Steel. Of course, I didn’t know he was a monster.”

Flenser shrugged. “That’s how I made him. My mistake, I’m afraid.”

“I know. But you made up for that!” Amdi hesitated, his voice coming more quietly. “And now there’s Jefri’s problem. You.…”

Ravna’s head came up.
What about Jefri?
But Amdi didn’t finish the sentence.

After a moment, Flenser said, “Yes, I’m doing what I can about that. Now what
new
problem has ambushed you?”

Amdi was making human crying sounds, the sounds of a small lost child. “I’ve learned that two of me are Great Plains short-timers.”

Ravna had to think for a second. Great Plains short-timers? That was a racial group. They didn’t look different from most other Tines, though they tended to congenital heart disease. Short-timers rarely lived more than twenty years.

In the other windows, Ravna could see Flenser’s heads bobbing. “Those two of you have chest pains?”

“Yes. And eyesight problems.”

“Oh my,” said Flenser. “Short-timers. That
is
a problem. I’ll check—” The audio faltered, perhaps
Oobii
grappling with some exceptionally great ambiguity. “I’ll check Steel’s records, but I fear you may be right. It’s a well-known tradeoff among broodkenners: the Great Plains short-timers often have excellent geometrical imaginations. Still and all, it’s not unanimous ageing.”

Amdiranifani was shivering. “When those two of me die—I won’t be me anymore.”

“Every pack faces that, my boy. Unless we get killed all at once, change is what life is all about.”

“For
you
, maybe! For ordinary packs. But I came into the world all at once, with nothing before. Mr. Steel struck a balance when he brought me together. If I lose two, if I lose even
one
, I’ll—”

“Woodcarver’s broodkenners can find some kind of match. Or you may find that six is as large as your mind can comfortably be.” Flenser’s tone was overtly sympathetic, but—quite consistent with his usual manner—somehow dismissive at the same time.

“No, please! If I lose any one of my eight, I will fall apart like an arch without a keystone. I beg you, Mr. Tyrathect. You made Mr. Steel. You made the Disaster Study Group. You made Jefri betray everyone. In all that monstering, can’t there be some good miracles?”

Ravna watched, numb, making no move to pause the stream or look at the log window. Now that the scene had surpassed all bounds of credibility, it played on with scarcely a hiccup. Amdi wasn’t talking anymore; there was just the sound of human weeping. That sort of made sense. The eightsome had crumpled into a posture of abject despair. The Reformed Flenser wasn’t saying anything either, but what
Oobii
was showing in the displays was incredible: All five of Flenser-Tyrathect edged closer to Amdi. The two that had been the original Flenser pushed White Tips and its wheelbarrow forward. Some of them were less than a meter from Amdi’s nearest members. That was almost as unbelievable as anything else. Flenser-Tyrathect was notorious for his fastidious, standoffish behavior. Normal packs, friendly ones, would often send one or two of their number into the space between for a brief exchange of mindsounds. It was like a human social embrace or a light kiss. Flenser-Tyrathect was
never
so familiar. He was always the pack at the far end of the table, or hunched behind the thickest acoustic quilts.

In this increasingly fantastic video, White Tips had reached forward to cuddle two of Amdi against its neck. Several of the other were almost as close. To a naive human it might look like one crowd of animals giving comfort to another. Between Tinish packs it would be profound intimacy.