The Children of the Sky

  “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 tryin
g 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!”

&n
bsp; 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.