Chapter 34
The “dungeon” was actually a suite of rooms near the audience chamber. It had running water and air conditioning. Was there any closed area in this palace that wasn’t air conditioned? Dinner was delivered—more yams and beer.
Once they were alone, Ravna walked around the high-class accommodations. “I assume these walls have ears pressed against them,” she said.
Jefri shrugged. “The truth is one thing that jackass really needs to hear.” Jefri had a long bloody slash on his face where one of Tycoon’s claws had grazed him. He thought a second and then shouted: “Jo didn’t kill your brother, damn it!”
“But do you think he really is Scriber Jaqueramaphan’s brother?”
Jefri sat back on his chair. The seat actually had a back to it, though not quite what would suit a human. “Once upon a time, I think he was. Now, I think the pack is a rebuild.”
“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?”
Ravna nodded. “We have something similar in the Domain. Street diggers work as a large team, then when they’re done with their shift they revert to separate packs, and collect their pay—and enjoy the rest of the day.”
Tycoon made an irritated noise. “As I said, primitive forms of the idea have always been around. I raised it to a high art at East Home. I’m sure you in the Domain heard of me there. The problem was, there were those bothersome labor guilds, and the local aristocracies had to be bought off—”
“And your other inventions were becoming too grand for a place so small as East Home.” That was Vendacious’ voice coming out of Ta.
“Yes, yes. I’m not forgetting you, Vendacious. Your, um, advice about my other inventions was indispensable even then. I had to find larger pools of labor, without petty squabbling—and out of the view of Woodcarver’s Domain.”
Ahead, the walkway opened into a kind of terrace, wide enough so that—if the two gunpacks stayed at the ends of it—all the rest of their party could stand together. Tycoon stopped there, and some of him walked to the edge of the terrace, waving for Ravna to follow. “Here in the Tropics is the place for my ideas. The workers can be molded into whatever form fits my purpose. No northern factory could function with this perfection.…” His heads tilted slyly at her. “You really can’t hear it, can you?”
There was a lot to hear: the distant pounding of steam engines, the steady crash, crash, crash of the assembly line, wheels on supply lines clattering across the factory floor. In an open-topped room directly below, several Tines had their heads together, almost like a coherent pack. Maybe in fact, they were: A steep stairway led from there up to where she now stood. But she heard no Interpack gobbling. “Hear what?” she said.
“Mindsounds! From all up and down the row. The factory is a-roar with them.” He jabbed a snout in the direction of the silent little foursome who had accompanied them along the walkway. “Have you wondered who this fellow is?”
“Well…” The question seemed a complete non-sequitur.
The foursome squeaked something in Interpack, but almost inaudibly high-pitched.
From the radio singleton, Vendacious gave out a sigh, “Yes, my lord, I’m told you are pointing at Aritarmo. I admit my weakness. I’ve never been able to come to the factories in person. The radio provides me voice and ears to accompany my lord Tycoon. My assistant Aritarmo sends descriptions of what it sees, what the radio might have missed noticing.” He gobbled something more in Interpack.
Tycoon laughed. “Quite right, Vendacious. But my point was simply that this factory hall is a mild form of the Choir. Not all packs can tolerate it.”
Godsgift had been silent to this point—at least where humans could hear. The pack had crowded close the railing and all of it was looking down. “In fact, my lord Tycoon,” it said, “this is Choir territory, not part of your Reservation.”
“Ah, um. Quite so.” Then almost to himself: “It’s beyond me how a mob of millions can remember fine print that some godsgift saw seven years ago.”
More of Tycoon came to the railing, stuck some heads over, then retreated. “It takes real strength of character to face that roar. A bracing test of discipline.… My point is that these factories are fundamentally different from those of the north. These are factories that know their goals, and can manage the flow of raw material coming in and finished product rolling out. There are waves of attention and decision crashing back and forth the length of the hall. My assistants provide the overall design, the basic product models, but it is the mob that makes the details work. See down there, that room with five Choir members all heads together? I’ll wager there’s some local bottleneck in production, something that requires coherent attention. Those five are a form of godsgift.”
“A very temporary form,” said the godsgift standing by the railing.
“How flexible can they be?” asked Ravna. “You say this factory’s current run goes only four more days, but how long does it take for a factory to retarget on something entirely different?”
“Entirely different? That depends,” said Tycoon. “What the Choir can’t do is the original design and invention, however much a godsgift may brag. It’s been my genius that has lifted the Choir out of its eternal misery.”
Where is Ritl when we need her? thought Ravna.
“The Choir was not miserable,” objected the godsgift.
“We could argue about that, my friend. I remember how you lived when I first negotiated the Reservation. Physically at least, what you have now is a paradise.”
“Well, physically, of course.” The godsgift waved dismissively. “The Choir would never cooperate with you if that much were not true.”
“Whatever,” said Tycoon and gave his heads a little roll of exasperation. “The hardest part of any new product is convincing the Choir that the effort is needed. That takes a combination of market research and animal handling. I’ve become very, very good at it. Once I have a new invention properly working and a factory and shipping plan, it takes one to ten tendays for the Choir to build and start a new factory. Do you understand now why I couldn’t hide from the Domain anymore, even if I wanted to?”
All of Tycoon was staring at Ravna now, as if he thought what he said had impressed her. And it certainly does, she thought. Tycoon’s bragging amounted to massive understatement. Without a shred of real automation, he had recapitulated the power of an early technological civilization.… And done almost everything she’d been attempting the last ten years.
• • •
That night, back in their air-conditioned, perhaps snooped-upon dungeon:
“In fact, Tycoon does have automation,” said Jefri. “He’s persuaded the Choir to be his personal automation. Powers! This is more than the Old Flenser ever dreamed of doing.”
“This pack is no Flenser. Tycoon is a…” Ravna looked around at the walls, thought better of saying naive buffoon.
Jefri laughed. “You don’t have to spell that one out. Yeah, Tycoon isn’t Flenser, either Old or New. But he’s accomplished far more.” He glanced at Ravna. “What I’d like to know is how he wedged a snout into the Choir in the first place. Packs have been trying to penetrate the Tropics for—well, for centuries. Explorers went in, frags and singletons and small mobs dribbled out. Their stories were full of madness and member sacrifice and ecstasy—but never a hint of reason. The closest thing to trade was the occasional wreckage that drifted into the Domain. Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised that the Choir can manage complex procedures when it is convinced of future payoffs—but how did Tycoon get close enough to do the convincing in the first place?”
“A human could have done it.”
“Hah. No human we know, not if this operation is as old as Tycoon claims.”
Ravna hesitated, wondering whether to voice her suspicions about the “cuttlefish.” Finally she gave a shrug. “Okay, there are still mysteries. I may just ask him straight out. I think that despite all his”—bragging—“all his pride and confidence, Tycoon really does value human technical knowledge.”
“Yes! And your expertise in particular!” Jef grinned. “You can thank Timor for some of that.”
Ravna sighed. “Timor has done better than any of us. You talked to him more today than I did.” The boy had been whisked away at the end of the afternoon, an ugly finish to a very strange day. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“Yeah, I really do. He was less upset than you when Tycoon dragged him off. I think he wanted to get back to Geri.… I don’t think she is doing nearly so well.”
“We have to see her,” said Ravna. She hesitated, did her best not to look at the walls. I hope this doesn’t sound like a planned statement: “You know Jefri, after what I’ve seen today, I think I could work with Tycoon. What he’s achieved here—well, if we could use it to assemble the output of Scrupilo’s Cold Valley lab, the combination would give us one hundred years of progress in ten. On the other hand, if we can’t see Geri, if we can’t return all the stolen kids, then I’m not sure that it makes sense to hire on with Tycoon and, um,”—a tip of the hat to the main monster, in case he was listening too—“Vendacious.”
The terrifying thing about her little speech was that it was mostly true.
• • •
The factory they visited the next day was almost ten kilometers away. This time their wagon was drawn by kherhogs, the first large animals they had seen in the Tropics. They rolled past the airfield, past the south end of dozens of factory halls, and through one morning rainstorm. Immediately to the left of their path, the ground was an urban marsh, much like what they’d seen on their flight in. In the east, behind them, the palaces and hangars were lost to sight. The great pyramid stood above the mists like a distant mountain.
When they finally disembarked, they found Tycoon and company already waiting for them. The eightsome was talking even while Ravna was still greeting Timor: “You think this was a far ride, do you? Maybe a year or two ago it was, but the factory count is still doubling. I have smaller reservations a hundred kilometers from here. We’d have to take an airship to get them. Come along now, stop fussing with Timor. I have so much to show you.”
He dragged them through another rain shower to look at a coal-fired power plant. This rank of factory halls needed no steam engines. The equipment inside was entirely driven by electrical gear of various sorts. The factory next to where they had stopped seemed to be running some sort of drop forge. Tycoon claimed the one on the other side was for electroplating. Ravna thought all this must be the reason for the long trip—until she got indoors and discovered what this particular factory made:
Radios.
The devices were stacked at the output end of the factory. Tycoon snagged one from a departing pallet, then stood on his shoulders to put it in Ravna’s hands. Ravna turned the boxy contraption around, not immediately recognizing it. Perhaps that was because it seemed to be gold plated, a mirror-perfect job. She turned it over, saw the dark glossiness of an ordinary solar cell, the same as on radios built up north. Okay. Leaving aside the useless gold plating, this was the analog radio design she had created from Oobii’s archives. Scrupilo must have made dozens of the devices over the last few years. Ah. She looked past Tycoon. The bin he was standing in front of could easily contain a thousand radios.
All she could think to say was, “So why the gold plating?”
Tycoon suddenly was looking lots of places besides at her. “Yes, well, my local market likes them gold plated.”
Ravna raised an eyebrow. “The Choir?”
Godsgift was watching; it seemed amused: “Who but the Choir can know what is truly valuable?”
Tycoon made an irritated noise and snatched the radio out of Ravna’s hands. “They like shiny things,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve made many more of the usual kind. Come along and I’ll show you the production steps.”
Inside was much cleaner and—to Ravna’s ears—quieter than yesterday’s factory hall. That was not really a surprise considering this place produced a form of tech gear, and the power was electric. Tycoon was full of detailed explanations. This building was the final assembly point for the radios. More than the making of rain gutters, making the radios showed that production depended on physical networks of factories, going from raw materials, to components, to intermediate assembly, to a factory like this. No doubt each step was plagiarized from Oobii and Scrupilo, but the networking was a separate design achievement. Though Tycoon never said so, Ravna guessed that planning those networks was also his greatest limitation.
“And I have improvement plans,” said Tycoon, “not just for silly things like gold plating. I’m working on re-creating the design of full radio cloaks. Consider the use I have made of the single set of cloaks that Nevil, um, acquired for us. If radio cloaks were common and if we could use them safely, it would revolutionize my operations!”
Ravna almost laughed at this. You have improvement plans? So Nevil has not been able to dig up the original design for the cloaks, has he? They walked some meters further, Ravna silent and Tycoon blathering on. On the other side of the pack, Jefri was pulling Timor’s wagon. Close behind came the Ta singleton and, almost as close, Aritarmo and the godsgift. A gunpack or two drifted around behind them.
“Isn’t it so?” said Tycoon. Oops. His latest bit of bragging had ended with a question.
“I’m sorry sir, what—?”
“Isn’t it so, that my inventions surpass your own achievements?”
Perhaps it was time to approximate reality: “Sir, you and the Choir have accomplished miracles of production—”
Tycoon preened.
“—but the basic inventions, those are from the Domain.”
“Nonsense!” Tycoon was all glowering at her. But his heads weren’t weaving around; this was not the killing rage of their first meeting. After a moment, some of him looked away. “You are a little bit right. Much of my success, I owe to Vendacious and his superb espionage service.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you.” That was Vendacious, via Ta. The monster must think this tour was important, to be listening to every word.
Tycoon gave a gracious wave, where Aritarmo could see. “That said,” he continued, “when I was whole, I was an inventive genius. Over the last seven years, I’ve recovered that genius. I have ideas all the time. Inventions for flying, inventions for swimming beneath the sea. I keep notebooks full of them. But I am just one pack, and I’ve learned there are myriad details that must be resolved in order to go from insight to accomplishment. In fact, that’s what caused the breakup of the first me. My current success is based on three things: my genius and drive, the Choir, and the hints and details that Vendacious’ espionage service provides.”
“From us humans,” said Ravna.
Tycoon shrugged. “From the archives you stole. I doubt if you humans have ever invented anything for yourselves.”
Jefri was listening with an expression of unguarded surprise. Be cool, Jef! But no: “Humans have invented some form of every single thing you’ve made! We did it thousands of years ago! Every civilized race does as much—and then goes on to do the hard things!”
Tycoon was silent for a moment. “The … hard things?” He seemed more intrigued than offended.
“There’s always something more, sir,” put in Ravna, and gave Jef a look that she hoped would shut him down.
“Yes,” said Tycoon. “Spaceships. Starships.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But I’ve had ideas for those, too.” They walked on a few paces, and perhaps honesty or sanity forced him to say, “Of course, I know those may take some years more work. Is that what the Johanna-brother means by ‘hard’ problems?”
Jefri replied, “Of course not.”
“What then?”
Vendacious popped up with the answer: “We’ve talked about this before, my lord. The sky maggots were trying to become god.”
Tycoon hooted, “Yes! The god thing.” He tilted a glance at Ravna. “That was our original wedge into human affairs, the religious warfare between your two factions.”
Vendacious gobbled enthusiastic agreement, then reverted to Samnorsk, “In fact, their superstitious beliefs are the best argument that they are fools.”
As usual, the godsgift had been drifting along at the edge of the walkway, mainly looking down at the assembly line. Now his heads looked up and he said mildly, “I object to this deprecation of religion. My god is real enough. If you doubt that, I invite you to take a walk on the factory floor.”
• • •
Tycoon mellowed as they proceeded down the production line, and Ravna managed to avoid any further criticism of his originality. It really wasn’t difficult; there was so much that could be honestly praised. By the time they reached the midpoint of the hall, it was raining again. The sound came as a distant drumming on the metal roof, and even the skylights were dark, except for occasional lightning. Electric arc lamps had come on over critical stations on the production line, rather like an automatic system responding to the environment.
Just as in yesterday’s factory, there was a terrace at the walkway’s midpoint. Today, Tycoon waved at the others to stay back, and took Ravna out onto the terrace as if to have a private conversation. She glanced back at the entourage. Private conversation? Certainly Timor or Jefri couldn’t hear what she and Tycoon might say—but the rest? Thunder crashed, and the sound of rain intensified. Okay. If Tycoon focused his voice properly, the others might not be able to hear his words.
On the other hand, maybe it didn’t matter: “You know,” he said, “You could do very well working for me.”
“I’m honored, sir, but I’m not sure I—”
“Oh, I think you understand; I’m really very good at taking the measure of potential employees. You’ve pointed out weakness in my operation, and quite frankly, I agree with you.” He paused, as if to let his high praise sink in. Then: “You know that I’m at the point of an alliance with Nevil Storherte and the Domain?”
“You mentioned something about that, yes. But what about Woodcarver?”
He waved dismissively. “A detail. I’m flying to the Domain in the next day or two, to make it official. My landing is timed to match the arrival of a shipment of 1024 radios, a gift demonstrating the power of my operation. Vendacious assures me that Woodcarver will be impressed by the implications. Cooperating with Nevil and with me will benefit her enormously. And for myself—well, finally coming out of the shadows will be as important as my original entente with Nevil. Now he can provide me with full and direct access to the archives that came with the starship Oobii.”
“Ah.” Tycoon mispronounced “entente” but his point was all too clear.
“Yes. And you could benefit immensely from this, as my employee. You would have protection from Nevil. You would have access to the Oobii archives. You would have access to Choir production for your own religious projects—though that would require separate trades with the Choir. There are two main things that I would ask in return. First, you would persuade your faction among the two-legs to stop opposing Nevil. And second, you would, um, hm, you would use Oobii to help me with my various production problems. As you’ve remarked, I need significant assistance in translating my inventive genius into deliverable products. Nevil has been of some help with that, but I’ve come to believe that you are the master when it comes to the Oobii archives.” He paused, perhaps to let the flattery sink in. “So, what do you say?”
I could repeat the little speech I made to Jefri—but you’ve probably already heard that. Outside the factory, the thunder and lightning was building up to a real storm. Above that, the air would be cold and dry and thinning into the vacuum of interplanetary space. Somewhere thirty lightyears beyond that … the Blight was coming their way, the end for this world and everyone on it, perhaps the end of much more. And today, at this moment, I am closer to stopping it than ever before.
She brought her attention back to the here and now, to the eightsome who waited on her reply. “What of Nevil?”
“Nevil stays in overall charge of the two-legs. I will not betray a current ally to get a new one.” Tycoon bobbed a grin. “Be happy. Vendacious tells me that Nevil will be as unhappy about this deal as you are.”
Hmm. She looked across the terrace to where Jef stood by Timor. They were in the shadows, but then the lightning shone stark blue-white across them all. Both were looking in her direction. Just in front of them, Aritarmo had spread out, no doubt straining to hear.
She turned back, looked at Tycoon, every one. “I want the Children you stole.”
“Timor and Geri. Certainly. I’m … I’m sorry about the third human, even though its death was an accident.” He seemed about say something more, to offer some excuse perhaps. One thing she was learning about Tycoon: he could not abide being in the wrong.
“And no more killing,” she said.
“Of course.” But then a startle rippled through the pack. “No more killing—except to serve justice. Johanna Olsndot murdered my brother. There must be justice for that, no excuses, no compromise.”
Again, lightning flashed. Ravna waited for the thunder to pass and then replied in a quiet, hard voice. “Then deal with Vendacious. He is the one who killed your brother.”
Tycoon hooted softly, but all his eyes were on her now. “You lie, or you repeat lies. I have years of evidence, and not just from Vendacious. Nevil Storherte—was he not like a pack lover to Johanna?—he himself reports Johanna’s confession. I’ve sometimes wondered if that was what turned him against her. Maybe he does have some respect for pack life.… I notice your mouth is open, but you aren’t saying anything. Are you surprised?”
“N-no.” For a moment she thought she was going to throw up all over Tycoon. Instead, she swallowed hard and said, “What Nevil said is a lie. What Vendacious says are lies.”
“Ah, so I’m surrounded by liars?” Tycoon gave a shrug. Two of him were looking back at Jefri and the others. “Do you know where Johanna Olsndot is now?”
“No,” Ravna replied shortly, which was not a lie since she had only guesses.
“Well, neither do I. Neither does Vendacious. Neither she nor her friend Pilgrim—nor their flier—has been seen since the night we abducted you. I suspect she’s in hiding back in the Domain, protected by Woodcarver. Vendacious thinks she may be dead, finally crashing that crazy flying machine. If she is never found, I will never be done with this!” He gave a little shriek that might have meant despair. “But Vendacious has offered a solution. He tells me that the Johanna-brother may well know what has become of the brother-murderer—and that if he does know, a few days of professional interrogation will retrieve the facts.”
“Don’t you—”
“Vendacious tells me the Johanna-brother would likely survive the questioning, but he makes no guarantees.” All his eyes swiveled back to Ravna.
Ravna stepped into the middle of the pack, all but treading on claws to do so. Now most of Tycoon had to look straight up to see her face. “No more killing!”
Tycoon swarmed up, forming a packish pyramid that put two of his heads above Ravna’s eye-level. He leaned forward, all teeth and bad breath, and rapped a glancing blow to her face. “Make no mistake, human. I will find Johanna Olsndot. If her brother dies in the process, it would be a form of justice. A brother for a brother.”