Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

Day after day, same faces, same voices.

They were ground into her like the dust that never settled.

Dyslaera 4: Vivisection

SCENE: Operating theater; the captive Dyslaera as audience in two lines of cages raised head-high above the floor; techs in masks, white robes, white gloves, working at stations about the room, some waiting, some already collecting information from sensors sealed to shaved areas on the heads and bodies of the captives.

The older captives are in the cages on the wall opposite the single entrance.

Rohant: Though his nincs-othran has been drug-diminished, he is detached, sitting like a lump; his health seems good, his bodyfur is sleek, his mane thick and springy.

Tolmant: His body is spasming in withdrawal from the massive courses of drugging that have wiped away everything but rage, hunger, and a struggling, distorted lust. His personality is gone, his memories, his capacity to learn, to respond to anything outside his skin.

Nezrakan: His hair is falling out in clumps, his bodyfur is almost gone; what is left is gray or white, it looks brittle, as if it would break off if you touched it.

Ossoran: He is cool, calm; like Rohant he seems sleek, almost untouched, though there are subtle signs that his appearance is misleading. He is sharing the cage with his closest friend.

Feyvorn: He is also healthy, vigorous. Both, of them move with a hesitant awkwardness, as if they are holding themselves so tightly in check that every move must be visualized before it is made.

In the cage on the opposite wall, the young Dyslaerors glance repeatedly at their elders, look quickly away, each time more disturbed by what they are seeing.

Tejnor: His body has been shaved clean to facilitate healing; he is still plastered with spray bandages from the beating in the pen. He sits hunched over on the floor of his cage. Now and then he lifts his head, but he avoids looking at his teacher/master Tolmant.

Azram: He is brooding, miserable, though he has not been touched by the techs. He shares his cage with

Kinefray: His head is shaved bare, a metal cap has been bonded to the skin. The bodyfur is gone from his forearms and lower legs, metal strips are bonded to the skin. Otherwise, he looks vigorous, healthy.

The heavy double doors whooshed open.

Two lines of techs came in, their white robes brushing about their silvaskin-sealed feet, a table rolling between them, young Veschant clamped naked on it.

Outputs flared at the workstations as the sensors on the other Dyslaera transmitted their reactions as they saw the boy for the first time: Except Tolmant. He didn’t seem to know what was happening.

Veschant’s eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell steadily. In the harsh light from the overhead, his bodyfur was sleek, glowing, and he was even a little pudgy, though Dyslaerors seldom acquired much bodyfat.

The techs bustled about, setting up an instrument tray, inserting tubes and electrodes about Veschant’s body, shaving patches of his fur, sealing sensors in place.

Protected by the remnants of the nincs-othran that the techs had tempered in him, using what they’d battered from Tolmant, nearly destroying him in the process, Rohant watched and wondered distantly why they hadn’t done all this preparation before they brought Veschant in.

The techs settled in at their stations, the operator stripped off his gloves, held out his silvaskin-sealed hand for the cutter.

“We will begin with the legs,” he said and made the first incision.

Veschant’s eyes snapped open and he screamed.

The clamps held him immobile and the operator continued slicing away the skin, baring muscle and sinew.

Savant 1 (speaking to notepad):

That veggie wasn’t quite the waste we thought he’d be. Tech Kadda’s notion for recycling him has paid off.

NOTE: enter commendation, arrange for a day at Black House as a reward. We have collected readings from the other Dyslaera, especially the older ones. It seems that the kin-bond of theirs grows stronger with age.

SUGGESTION: Acquire some cubs, see what happens if they are reared in isolation. Also, if possible, acquire gravid females and remove the infants as soon as they are viable.

Shadith In Shadows 3

After the fifth stop there were no more ayntis. P’murr passed out water bottles and warned the Contract women that it was all they’d get for the day so they’d better make it last.

The land was beige under a pale yellowish sky, the tag end of winter sucking the color away.

It was as empty as it was colorless, except for dark specks soaring too high above them to be identified when they pulled up for rest and meals. Jassy pointed them out with macabre zest; she was sure they were vultures, she’d seen that sort of thing before. She and her sister Eeda produced a series of revolting stories about the habits of vultures on other worlds they’d favored with their presence-until Tinoopa made them stop because several of the younger ones were sweating and turning green.

It was dark inside the box, there were only those two small windows to light the space and both of them were gray with ancient muck. Outside, the tires on the two land-rovers and the truck threw up fluff-tails of white from the dun-colored earth, fine floury dust that crept through the most minute of cracks to powder the women and everything inside. Air came from outside through filtered vents, bringing with it the pungent smells of the countryside; it was cold dry air that leached moisture from their noses and mouths, cracked their lips and made them bleed.

The convoy stopped twice a day. The women in the labor cadre were given bits of coarse dun paper and sent into the Brush to do what they had to and warned not to linger. Four armed guards went with them, more armed guards lay flat on the truck’s roof, each facing a different direction and the rest took turns watching over the Matja Allina. This and the loneliness of the land spooked even Tinoopa. She hurried into the truck as soon as she’d eaten and relieved herself; the others scrambled in with her, giving a collective sigh of relief as the back panels clanged shut.

Kizra was frightened every moment she was outside. She hated that, so she hated this place for doing it to her and she cursed the Matja Allina for bringing her here; most of all she raged against the Unknown who’d stolen her memories and discarded her like garbage.

Though she was uncomfortable there and increasingly ambivalent in her attitude toward the Matja Allina, wanting to dislike her, unable to dislike her, Kizra had to spend part of each day in the landrover amusing her. With Kulyari glaring at her, then turning her back on her, she knelt beside the Matja’s bed playing the arranga.

When Matja Allina felt strong enough, she whistled tunes for Kizra, sang the words once Kizra had the tune right, teaching them to Kizra and smiling with pleasure when Kizra sang back to her. She enjoyed the teaching; it was something to do to make the hours, pass, difficult hours for Allina since the landrover was only a degree more comfortable than the truck and she was worn out by the jolting and the boredom.

Most days Tinoopa was there, too, spinning tall tales when the Matja was too tired to sing, tales about Shimmaroh real and mythical.

Kizra watched this and listened, enjoying the stories and absorbing the lesson. Tinoopa had her charm going full blast; she wasn’t missing a beat as she contrived to make herself valuable. It was an education in how to deal with power when you’ve got none yourself.

Kizra heard a flurry of sharp cracks, a rattle against the landrover’s sides, one of the windows starred but didn’t break; the pellet that hit it went whining off. She stopped playing. “Wha…”