by Martin Kee
Sounds drift in and around him, birdsong filling the air with a thousand different tunes, all trying to be heard. And he hears them all as the darkness fills his vision and the sleep takes hold. He only barely even hears the tiny gun go off.
Chapter 19
IT’S NOT his mother anymore and he isn’t sure how he ever could have thought that. The Youngest isn’t wearing her full outfit, but instead has her tunic sleeves rolled up. The skin there is stained red with blood.
Other faces begin to drift into view as his eyes start to focus, more nightmares on legs, the faces a strange mix of salamander and insect, with black eyes and frills around the mouth. They flute quietly to one another, exchanging small tools and blades. The metal glints in the artificial light, and he feels a sharp stab of panic for a moment. But the blades go back into their trays, the needles into their pincushions. One of them takes the tray with slick amphibian hands and sprays something over the entire load. The mist is thick and gray.
He rolls his head and winces at the pain, looking at the Youngest, then at his surroundings. He’s outside, a tent erected around him using cloth and poles. Beyond it he can hear the mini-cow making its low moans.
The Youngest flutes something to him and presses her slick hand on his forehead. The skin is warm and soft and if he closes his eyes, Kendal could believe a child was touching him. She flutes something again, and he purses his lips to say the only word he knows in their language. If it’s a smile he sees on her face, he can’t tell. The gesture is alien to him, but the affection is universal.
A rustling makes him turn his head the other way, looking directly into the nightmare face staring back at him. He jerks away for a moment, until he realizes that this isn’t the one hunting him. He has no idea where that one went, and hopes to God that it isn’t outside this tent waiting for him. The being beside him is the one who opened the barn doors, the one he kicked. He’d thought he killed it, but here it is, lying beside him, staring at him with those black pebbles for eyes. The body shows evidence of injury still, with a few of the limbs amputated and replaced with other limbs that seem no more or less weird than anything else Kendal has witnessed on this world.
The mask comes up to his face, held there by the Youngest. She seems to get it, that he needs this to breathe, though he has little idea now how much air is even left in the canister. It’s amazing that he’s lasted this long, but here he is.
*
And here they are: the committee to arrest her, or kill her or harvest her. Bex hears Den’k from outside the tent, talking to his minions and being generally cranky about everything. She sighs, pats Scoop on the forehead one last time, and exits to give herself up.
Den’k stands before her, looking both angry and frustrated, gripping a paper in one of his gloved hands. Without saying a word, he hands it to her and storms off. Faces gather around curiously, whispers surround her as she stands there, staining the letter in blood—Scoop’s blood, Veerh’s blood. As she unfolds it and begins to read, she understands why Den’k must be so angry.
Pr-Vin,
I have received your plea sent from the guild On Bone Sea. We are saddened by the news, and are pleased that one of our has survived.
It is hereby decreed that the position of Ward be granted to the being calling itself Scoop, granting full permission of preservation and Tending to Tr-Bex-Anteroch, Tender and Sole Representative of Her Guild On Bone Sea. The Tender shall nurture this potential resource to its fullest until it is then decided what measures will be taken in the manner of harvesting and breeding.
-Tr-Luss, Matron Establish of the Eastern Mountain Tenders’ Guild
She reads the letter twice, worried she had missed some small detail. She has never met Tr-Luxx, only hearing of the Matron’s decisions as they were filtered down to her tier in school.
“You got what you wanted, looks like,” says a voice off to her left. It’s Veerh, limping still, but otherwise safe. The new limbs scavenged from one of the dead poachers appear to already be integrating into his skeletal matrix and Veerh flexes the fingers at the end unconsciously. He glances at the note from over her shoulder, easy to do when he stands two heads taller than her.
They had managed to salvage only one of the poachers before the stalkers descended, and had it not been for the other villagers curious enough to follow them, Bex doesn’t think she would be having this conversation.
“You should be resting,” she says.
“I should be doing my job. Besides, that Scoop thing in there smells like rot and piss. If you’re going to let me rest, let me rest somewhere nice, that doesn’t smell like a dead turge.”
She gives him an apologetic face. “There wasn’t much time, and we didn’t want to move you until the patching was complete. I’m still new at this, you know.”
He flexes his new arm, ending in a long bone scythe. “This wouldn’t have been my first choice.”
“Does nothing make you happy?” she asks.
“It’s just an observation.”
“I had to make some decisions to stop the internal bleeding. We could only salvage the one poacher, and Scoop had pretty much liquefied him. We barely got the limb to you in time, then I had to patch your outer walls to keep all the new organs from shifting… then, I had to find a good replacement limb from the poacher before the scabbing took hold. Vin has some very old samples in his clinic, and I doubt any of them would have been as suitable…”
He looks down at the patch there. The skin is soft and pink with small black hairs growing from the follicles. He makes a face and looks back to Bex. “You had to use him?”
“Unless you have a thicker hide handy, which you don’t, I could find nothing else with the elasticity, nor the strength to support that ridiculously exaggerated array of weapons you insist on needing for your job.”
“What about the outer skin?” he asks.
“That isn’t skin. It’s not even organic. It’s made form something that seems to act as a skin, maybe even holding in moisture, but it wasn’t suitable… What?”
“Listen to you,” he grumbles. “Talking like a real Patcher now.”
She says nothing, only places the note into her pocket, but Veerh follows her into the tent. They stand there, watching the giant breath from its tube, the massive chest rising and falling in slow steady rhythm.
“He’ll be a while before he can move his limbs again,” she says.
“How do you know it is even a ‘he’ at all?”
She shrugs. “It’s a guess. I peeked at the reproductive system, and it’s as close an approximation as I can make. I’ve never seen anything like it at all…”
“So you think it came from beyond the Godcloud?” he says, his voice tense.
“I don’t know. All I know is there are more of them… or were. And I can’t take them all as Wards. I’d have to reestablish a guild here, and Den’k hates me enough as it is.”
“But you got the clinic.”
“I did get that…” She looks at him. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
They exchange a look and a chuckle, and then she goes back to the giant lying there on the ground. She moves around it, probing beneath incisions she’s made under the plates and clothes—yes they are definitely clothes, even if the fabric is like nothing she has seen. The skin beneath is rough and scabbing, but not scabbing in the way she’s used to seeing, not the way anything on her world scabs. The crust is red and messy, and she has found it needs to be stitched or else the creatures surely must die.
“I took the patch from here,” she says, pointing to a jagged gash, now sewn with rough twine along the creature’s arm. “Your body accepted it well enough, but come right back to me if you feel any side effects.”
“Such as?’ Veerh asks.
“Such as anything. Their bodies don’t seem to accept tissue the way ours do, which is a wonder they can survive at all. Instead, any wound just fills in with blood and congeals.”
“What’s the
point of that?”
“Beats me,” she says, placing the cloth back over the wound. “My guess is a lack of calcium maybe, or perhaps they just don’t patch. Ever.”
Veerh blinks. “Everything patches.”
“Clearly not everything.”
“Then you’re saying they stay with their birth-arms and birth-legs all their life…”
“And their eyes, and brains, and hearts. Yes. I think that once they get these, it’s all they have.”
Veerh shakes his head slowly, pondering the very concept that anything so fragile and inflexible could even survive a day in a place with so few resources. “Well, when it—he wakes up, we’ll put him to work I guess.”
“Or you will,” she says.
He pauses, looks at her to make sure she isn’t joking. “You’re serious.”
“Can you think of a better assistant to the village Preserver?”
“No.”
“Resist all you want, Veerh. He’s already shown he can be trained.”
“I work alone.”
“You’re old. You need help,” she says. “And there will be more soon.”
“More?” He blinks, gesturing to Scoop. “Of them?”
“Oh… yes, well maybe. But I meant more from the Tenders’ Guild. If I’m to establish a branch here, I’ll need help… Veerh?”
But he’s already out the tent flap. Bex turns to the big blue eyes of Scoop and leans in to whisper songs in his ear. “But before you learn how to fight, I’m going to have to teach you how to speak.”
Chapter 20
Epilogue
A filmbeetle perches on a nearby fencepost, its ruby shell glinting in the warm air as the villagers go about their day. It cleans its face, clearing the dust motes from its iridescent eyes as it records everything around it in an almost complete panorama.
The farm, the poachers, the forest of mistakes. It records everything, embedding the information into its DNA. But as it nears the end of its life, the filmbeetle feels a new calling, a new urge, as natural as breathing or observing. It is being called home. Spreading its wings to the air, it lifts and soars, just high enough to escape the ground, but not so high as to find itself in the poison gas of the Godcloud. Over meadows and forests, deserts and streams, it finds its way back to the place of its birth where the Ameer awaits.
He plucks the insect from the ledge where his vassals stand in their various shapes and sizes along his western wall.
“Word from the village?” Milm asks, his voice small and curious.
Pinching the beetle in his fingers, the Ameer places it in his mouth, letting the hallucinogenic chemicals replay the insect’s life as he chews, swallows, and smiles.
“It appears this Tr-Bex of the Tenders will require more observation, as will her pet.”
“The giant.”
“Yes… giant, colossus, what have you. I’ve gotten word the lands beyond the mountains have had a rough year, with droughts and famines. I expect us to feel the repercussions of that soon enough.”
“You foresee violence?” Milm asks.
“Foresight has nothing to do with it. Tensions between the kingdoms have been growing for lifetimes. An idiot could see this war coming from afar. They will turn to us soon, looking to scavenge our limbs for their armies. If this beast, this giant they speak of, could be trained to our advantage...”
“You speak of enslaving it?”
“I speak of using it. When the war reaches our borders, I expect to exploit whatever resources are at my kingdom’s disposal.”
“And the poachers?” asks Milm.
“What of them?”
“Are we still required to grant them unrestricted hunting on our lands?”
The Ameer sighs, looking out the window. Does it really even matter at his point? There are no more kingdoms, no nations, no people. They are nothing but scattered scavengers, piecing themselves together from the dead to live another day. “The world turns and grows hard with stone and we sit here picking at the ever-rotting remains…”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” The Ameer turns to Milm. “Prepare an envoy. If we cannot contain this new Tender in her village, we will have far greater resource problems down the road. I want to ensure that the giant is ours when it reaches maturity.”
“And when will we know that?”
“We’ll know when our new Tender friend tells us.”
Milm nods and leaves the room, his train of robes scraping the floor as he drifts along the marble. His toenails clack anxiously as he heads down the hall to the main entrance, turning a corner and letting out a surprised squeak. “I told you, the Ameer has no more need of audience with you or your ilk.”
Ak’klin stands on the floor, a pair of guards watching him cautiously. The atrium is the furthest guests are ever allowed in the Ameer’s castle, and Milm begins to wonder if Ak’klin or his poachers are even considered that anymore.
“I’ve suffered much loss for my hunt,” Ak’klin says. Milm can see from the way he stands that one of his legs has been recently grafted, the crust still fresh. He’ll have a limp for life if he doesn’t rest soon. “Have you spoken to the Ameer on my behalf?”
Milm clears his throat, glancing at each guard to ensure they are prepared for any action or command. “His Omnipotence made no final answer one way or the other I am afraid.”
He turns to walk around the poacher, but Ak’klin lunges, held back only by the heavy claws of the guards. “What does that even mean? I need an answer.”
“It means, poacher, that you have no answer. I suggest you take that for what it’s worth and leave here before I have you thrown out.”
Ak’klin struggles against the guards, but goes still at the threat. “Then tell me. You are the assistant. Tell me what you think it means.”
Milm glances one last time at him. “It means that you are freed of any obligation, and likewise you should use caution in whatever decision you make. We will be watching you as well as the Tender, so I suggest you tread lightly.”
With a flourish of red, Milm leaves the chamber, passing through the doors and into the main hall. Relief washes over him as the poacher leaves his sight. At least the poacher has brains enough to ask the right questions of the right people, he thinks as he exits through the rear doors, stepping out into the cold gray world that is his home.
* * *
Book II
KIN
Chapter 21
CHAZ CARRILLO, light sleeper.
It used to bother him, the fact that every little noise would wake him up. Stomach growling? Awake. Dog barks down the street? Awake. Girlfriend rolls over too fast? Awake. Sparrow calls from a block away? Awake…
Only this time he knows it isn’t a sparrow.
The birdcalls wake him up regularly, drifting through the hills, up from the valley. Time to wake up. Time to move.
They aren’t birds though. He knows that as his eyes snap open. Valerie thought they were birds and look where that got her. His stomach drops at the thought of her face.
He stares out through the gap in the rocks, watching the little people tear her apart. There he is—too big to sneak, too slow and wounded to run. So he has to watch as they flay the skin, gather the fat in containers, collect the bones. He can barely breathe as he stares out at them, worried the slightest noise will draw attention to his cramped hiding place.
Then they finish, whistle their little songs, and move out, taking Valerie with them. Chaz falls back against the wall of his cave and cries silently for a while, chewing on a knuckle to try and stifle the noise, trying to draw the pain out like a snake bite.
They’d been so close, and perhaps if he’d had more time he could have limped to the base of that giant spire. But now he knows they’re watching, waiting for him to return.
He starts to drift off again. So exhausting, this moving from hiding place to hiding place, so huge and clumsy he’d be seen from a mile away. These things—whatever they are—have hearin
g far better than his. He doesn’t even trust himself to move.
His eyes burn. Just close the lids a bit, make the itch go away.
Another noise and his eyes snap open. But it’s only his implant this time, ticking away, pinging a ship server that isn’t there anymore. He can feel it querying in his head like a bug bite, like a desperate question gone unanswered, a wedding where the bride holds her tongue. He wishes he could just take a knife and dig the implant out because at least then he’d have some rest, some respite from the tickle in the back of his mind every time he sees something new.
On a working ship this would have been an asset of course—he’d just look at a rock, the implant would take a picture, send it to the server, and an appraisal would be made. Ta-da. He yearns for those old days, the boring days where he’d just sit in his bunk for hours, playing stupid word games with Val and waiting until Corporate needed him. The Appraiser life was the perfect balance of mission-critical self-importance and exceptional laziness. Show up, read the image, the components, the mineral makeup. File the patent. Send to Corporate. Then back to porn and word games.
Now it’s a liability. Every time he sees something he doesn’t recognize, the implant screams at him. Pain like an ice pick jabs the inside of his head. High pitched ringing, dentistry-level pain. SERVER ERROR. NO SERVER FOUND. SERVER ERROR. NO SERVER FOUND. SERVER ERROR.
He clamps his jaw, pressing his hands against his temples, trying to silence the implant or crush his own skull—whatever comes first. He doesn’t care.
Light sleeper, made lighter by the incessant poking of the implant. More than once it’s gotten him out of trouble, waking him at unknown sounds, shifting his frontal lobe into high gear whenever one of those little monsters chirps. He has it to thank for living this long, he supposes. The cost feels a little high.
Eyes burning, Chaz peeks again. Gone. Irregular footprints lead off towards the north—or what he thinks is north. Nothing left of Val but a dark patch in the sand, blood soaking into hungry dirt.