The Children of the Sky (66 page)

“A what?”

“That’s a word Johanna came up with for something she saw occasionally at the Fragmentarium. Sometimes a pack—usually a rich, foolish pack—tries to recover a prior form of its personality by incorporating several new members.”

“Wouldn’t that just be a merge pack?” These creatures had more reproductive modes than any dozen races she had known in the Beyond.

“Not exactly. Rebuilds are much rarer; the broodkenners find puppies that are likely to contribute such skills and mind styles as were in their client’s former personality. Then the client tries to mold itself and the puppies into what it was before. You noticed that four of Tycoon are a lot younger than the others?”

Ravna shook her head. “They all looked grown to me.”

“They’re all adults, but—my theory is that the four older ones really were a fission sibling of Johanna’s Scriber. The pack is trying to recover what it was before the split.” Jef’s face twisted into an unhappy smile. “Scriber and Pilgrim were Jo’s first friends here. You know how she always talked about him: Scriber Jaqueramaphan, the mad inventor. He was a fairly recent fission product, and he always seemed a bit unhappy about it—like a human regretting a broken marriage.”

“And it looks like the other half of the fission felt the same way.” Ravna was quiet for a moment; now here was a story for Amdi’s collection of romance novels!

Jefri was nodding. “This would explain a lot: the commercial empire building—that’s from the old entrepreneurial half; the wild inventiveness—that’s what the pack imagines of Scriber; and even the murderous hatred of humans—somehow Vendacious has convinced him that Johanna killed Scriber.”

So perhaps Tycoon was not a villain … not naturally a villain.
They sat for a moment in silence. “Okay, then,” said Ravna. “We know what we’re up against. That has to be an improvement. We’ve got to convince this fellow of the truth—”

“—without triggering more violence.” He gave another smile, this one not despairing. “I’ll be my very nicest, no provocations.”

“I’ll be properly respectful, too. We’ve got to find out which children are still alive.”

Jef nodded. “Yeah. I’m afraid for Geri. Tycoon’s Samnorsk vocabulary is adult; he’s obviously been reading. But Geri’s voice, when Tycoon uses it, that’s like a confession of—”

Of torture at least,
thought Ravna. She raised a finger to her lips. If there were ears pressed to the walls, there was much that should not be spoken. “Another thing: somehow we have to learn more about Johanna.”

Jefri gave a little nod, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Yes. Tycoon wants her dead—which means he thinks she’s still alive. But he doesn’t seem to know where she is. And no one mentioned Pilgrim, either.”

They stared at each other for a moment. When Pilgrim and Johanna were missing together they were generally off snooping in the agrav skiff. She had told Jefri about their mission to the mouth of the Fell. In the past, Johanna and Pilgrim had hidden for tendays at a time near foreign cities. Hiding within Tycoon’s operation would be much more difficult than any of that, but it was possible that right now the two were—she leaned toward Jefri and traced a circle with a dot on the arm of his chair—right here.

He gave another little nod. “It could be. It’s another thing to watch for.”

The next morning, they were wakened by a pack bringing breakfast. It waited impatiently for them to dress and eat and then hustled them out of their cool “dungeon” and down all the stairs they’d had to climb the day before.

It had been raining, but now the sky above was brilliant blue. Thunderheads still hid both the great pyramid and the sunrise. The air was sopping wet, but this was probably the nicest moment of a tropical day. Considering how much cooler and drier it had been back in the dungeon, Ravna could not fully savor the moment.

She and Jef were piled into one of the rickshaw wagons and rolled across the landing field, accompanied by the usual gunpack. On the north side of the field, two of the hangars were open. Packs were working around the airships, but at this distance it was impossible to tell what they were doing.

Maybe it didn’t matter, because their driver was not taking them toward the hangars. This might be the factory tour Tycoon had advertised. Their course angled to the south, occasionally crossing bridges over the floodways they had seen from above. The morning air was much clearer than on their flight in. What had been lost in cloudy mists was now visible … dozens of the long, barracks-like buildings. But even now, she could not see the most distant of them.

As they neared the first structure, she realized it was at least fifteen meters from floor to ridge and almost forty meters wide. The ground around it was littered with huge piles—of what? Refuse? No. Up close she saw lumber and finished metal stampings, all more or less neatly set on pallets. Lines of Tropicals dragged carriers back and forth, moving the … factory inputs, that’s what they had to be … into the main entrance. Their rickshaw had to angle even further south to avoid that traffic.

They turned again and rolled straight toward one corner of the entrance, out of the way of the haulers. An eightsome was standing under the portico: Tycoon, here to greet them in person. And there was his radio singleton and the godsgift pack. There might have been another gunpack back in the shadows.

“Powers be praised,” Jefri said dryly, “I don’t see Vendacious.” There was only one other pack in the apparent entourage, a small-bodied foursome.

As Ravna climbed down from the rickshaw, she heard a childlike human voice. At first she thought it was Tycoon, but the voice was shouting, “Ravna! Ravna!”

She turned and saw—“
Timor!
”

The boy had come through Tycoon and was limping toward her as fast as he could go, his arms outstretched. Ravna ran across the concrete toward him, Jefri right behind her. They met just a few meters short of the waiting packs. Ravna knelt, hugging him as she might a child as young as Timor looked. Today, he didn’t object. “I am so glad to see you!”

“I’m so glad to see
you!
”

When she set him down and let go, Ravna saw the tears streaming down Timor’s face. He was laughing or crying, maybe both. After a moment, he looked away from Ravna and took a step toward Jefri.

“Hei, Timor,” Jefri said solemnly and stretched out his hand. “How are you?”

Timor reached out, shook his hand. “I’m fine. Are you helping Ravna now?”

“I—” Jef glanced at Ravna. “Yes, Timor, I am.” He hesitated, then nodded. “I really am.”

“Have you seen Geri and Edvi, Timor?” said Ravna. “Are they okay?”

“Geri is getting better. We’re both in dungeons up on the main spire.” He gave a little wave toward the palace. “Edvi, I’m afraid Edvi is—”

“Edvi Verring succumbed to one of the bloating diseases. I did my best for him, but alas—”

Ravna looked up at the interruption and saw that all of Tycoon was watching them intently. But the voice, that had been the one Vendacious normally used, and a radio-cloaked singleton was standing near Tycoon. She couldn’t help but glare at the poor innocent. “So then, Vendacious,” she said. “You had custody of Edvi? Has anyone looked at the body, verified your diagnosis?”

As she spoke, Timor slipped his hand around her fingers. She felt a warning squeeze.

But Vendacious did not seem upset by the question. His voice came breezily, “The diagnosis was obvious. I’ve preserved the remains, however. You are welcome to inspect.”

Timor’s hold was still tight.

“There’s no immediate need,” she replied.

Tycoon made an impatient noise. “That’s good.” He said, “You are not the boss of us, Ravna Bergsndot. I’ve brought you here to discover if
you
can work for
me
.” Some of him was staring over her shoulder at Jefri.

It was a bumpy start to their factory tour, but Tycoon’s mood seemed to shift as often and as fast as sunlight and clouds. They went into the hall and climbed up to a long platform that ran the length of a production line. Tycoon insisted that Ravna walk with him, at the front of the group. Now the eightsome sounded very much like Scrupilo, the proud engineer, pointing out this detail and that, full of opinions about everything. His snouts swept the length of the hall. “This is twelve hundred meters long, with two thousand Tines working at full shift. This is one of the older halls, so it is not wired for electricity. All the main power still comes from steam engines. And yet, I’ll wager you have nothing so grand as this single factory up in your Domain.”

Okay, he was even more a braggart than Scrupilo. Still, this was preferable to some of Tycoon’s other moods. “You’re quite right, sir,” she said, and that was the truth. The far end of the hall was almost lost to sight. All of Scrupilo’s North End operation would have fit in this one building. She could see no coherent packs on the floor below, but Tines were crowded almost shoulder to shoulder at work points long the line. The activity was rapid and intricate, unceasing, like the sweatshops that the Princesses had overturned. She tried to think of something nicer than that to say—perhaps an admiring question.
Wait.
There was one part of this picture that didn’t fit any of the ancient file images. A water stream flowed just this side of the production line, almost directly under the elevated walkway. This channel was like the ones out on the airfield, and seemed to run the length of the hall. Where the skylights let the sun fall upon the water, she could see tiny squid-like beasties flitting about. “What are those creatures in the water, sir?” she asked.

From behind them, Timor piped up, “They’re cuttlefish!”

Tycoon shrugged. “In Interpack they’re called—” and he gobbled a simple chord. “It means small swimmers with eyes on the sides and grabbers streaming from one end. This particular variety can remember and repeat simple phrases. I use them to carry short messages, when no packs are at the destination.”

Ravna leaned a little further out and looked straight down. Yes, the critters had enormous glassy eyes. Their tentacles were long and moving all the time. And Tycoon didn’t seem to have anything more to brag about them! Interesting. She brought her gaze back to the assembly line itself. “What are you making in this factory?”

“Today? Today, this line is set up for rain gutterage gardenware. Hmmph.” He was making little annoyed sounds at himself, as if realizing that this did not fit his grand image. He turned a head and rattled Interpack at his radio singleton. A question, it sounded like to Ravna. The singleton was silent for several seconds, but when it replied, its gobbling was much more musical than normal Interpack. Ravna realized that it was chanting numbers stacked into chords. Tabular data. Tycoon summarized in Samnorsk: “Ta reports two hundred tonnes of product per day, five thousand rain gutters per hour. Still to run four more days on this lot.” Somewhere Tycoon must have a radio singleton stationed with an army of clerks. “The rain gutters are mainly for use within the Choir region. Nowadays internal sales are my greatest source of income, certainly of raw materials. But in four days, we’ll be making something else here. Productivity. Flexible productivity!”

“Yes, sir,” said Ravna. “We saw all manner of your goods while we were in the Wild Principates.” That was flattery, but again the absolute truth—and another mystery resolved. “But how do you design the actual steps to be performed, the—” Workflow was the term she would have used if she were dealing with
Oobii
.

Tycoon waved airily. “That is where my genius for detail work comes into play. There is the high-flying inventor part of me and then there is my interest in the smallest detail”—Two of him had been looking back as he spoke, and now suddenly he was off on a new topic.—“Timor! You are delaying me!”

Tycoon had separated Timor from Ravna when they entered the hall. Since then, the boy had been limping along behind the Ta singleton. “Sorry,” he said, hustling forward.

“Where is your rickshaw?” said the eightsome.

“Um, back at—oh, there’s another one.” Timor pointed at a small utility wagon by the outer wall.

Tycoon reached out a member and snagged the little red wagon, dragging it back to Timor. “Get in. I won’t have you holding things up.” Two of him glanced at Ravna, “Normally I have a servant to take care of this, but there isn’t room for one with this crowd.” He waved at the various packs accompanying them—and then seemed to notice Jefri. “You!” he said. “Come over here and pull this wagon.”

“Yes, sir.” Jefri gave a Tinish bow and came forward. Ravna thought she saw a smile hiding just below his solemn manner.

“Now, where was I?” Tycoon said, proceeding along the walkway. “Yes. Details! In fact, I’ve discovered an assistant for that. Timor is quite good at detail planning, better than any pack besides myself. He’s even devised methods for planning the planning. Quite remarkable.”

Ravna glanced at Timor, now riding along in the little wagon. Timor looked back, smiling hesitantly. “I hope it’s okay, Ravna. It’s the sort of thing you do, but you do it so much better.”

She grinned. “That’s only when I have
Oobii
. Good for you, Timor.” And now she knew who had given Tycoon the glowing job recommendation for her.

As Jef pulled Timor along, the boy pointed out features of the factory floor, where intermediate parts were brought through side doors, how the racks on the steam-powered main line held the parts so that simple Tinish actions could complete each assembly step. For a wonder, Tycoon kept quiet, letting someone else do the bragging.

Jefri nodded, looking down into the mob. Finally, he glanced at Tycoon. “Everyone is working so closely. I don’t see a single pack.”

The question and tone were very polite, but Ravna held her breath.

Tycoon walked along for several seconds, not replying, maybe waiting for Timor to answer. When the eightsome finally spoke, he seemed to ignore the question: “You know, I pioneered the factory line. I had the original idea back in the Long Lakes even before I fissioned. Then I actually implemented the invention when I moved to East Home. The easterners are open-minded; they even had a primitive form of the idea. You see, most work doesn’t need a full mind. In fact, if you really had to think about what you’re doing, you’d go mad with boredom. So I thought to myself, why not take the idea of a sentry line and make it a just a little more complicated, having each member do some simple, repetitive task?”