Mickey Reichert - The beasts of Barakhai

"… people," Collins inserted.

Quinton nodded. "… they can be taught young to avoid meat. Scavengers, like vultures and hyenas, serve as a sort of cleanup crew and can get away with eating carrion, though most people find it as disgusting as we do. Herons, egrets, and 'gators eat fish. Lots of things can live off bugs. But certain animals…" She trailed off with a shrug.

Collins ate the piece of fish. Soft-textured, fresh, and lightly spiced, it tasted better than anything he remembered eating in a long time. "Like, say, lions? Wolves?"

"Exactly." Quinton shook back blonde tresses that shimmered like gold in the candlelight. "They got executed into oblivion long before His Majesty came to power." Speaking of the king apparently reminded her of his presence. She jerked her attention to him, and her cheeks turned rosy. "I'm sorry, Sire. I didn't mean to take over your explanation."

The king grinned gently, swallowing a mouthful. "Continue." He made a regal gesture. "You're doing marvelously."

"Anyway," Quinton continued awkwardly. "The only way carnivores come up is through Random breedings. Quite rare, but their danger is significant. On average, they kill six times before they're caught, so the law calls for destroying them as soon as the switch-form manifests."

"At thirteen," Collins recalled.

"At thirteen," Quinton confirmed.

Collins considered the implications, features crinkling. "So they execute innocent kids to avoid future crimes?" He turned his attention to the king as he asked the question.

Terrin studied his hands in his lap, without meeting Collins' gaze.

Quinton rescued the king. "It's an unfortunate circumstance, a fully avoidable one. People understand the risk they take when they breed Randomly, and it's always a conscious choice made in human form. Animals cannot interbreed outside their species."

"I saw a mule in the courtyard."

Quinton smiled. "Always the scientist, aren't you?" She laughed, the sound light and hellish, very different from Marlys' rare twitters or Falima's uninhibited, horsy guffaws. "Me, too. Mules are considered Regulars since their switch-form is completely predictable when a donkey and a horse mate. They're also sterile, so there are no future offspring to consider."

Collins set aside his fork. "Wouldn't it be better to at least try to train these carnivores to eat bugs and fish?"

"Tried." Quinton rubbed the base of her fork. "Never succeeded."

Collins felt as if time had receded and he had returned to his argument with his father over the death penalty. "But what if one can do it? Shouldn't you at least wait until they commit a crime before irreversibly punishing them?"

"Let them kill someone else's child?" The king sounded anguished. "Six of them on average?"

"No," Collins said, still unable to reconcile the idea of confining someone, let alone inflicting the death penalty, simply because statistics said they would probably commit a crime. If the United States worked by the same rules, the jails would be overflowing with inner city black males, the ones destined to overcome poverty, prejudice, and cultural fetters lost along with those consumed by these conditions. The great ones, like Colin Powell, like Martin Luther King, would never have the chance to change the world for the better. "But… but… what about…?"

Quinton tried to anticipate his question. "Ever see a tiger in a small zoo cage?"

Collins dropped the larger point to picture the striped beasts wandering in mindless circles. "Yes. They pace. But, if they could talk, I doubt they would say they prefer death."

"The ones of this world would disagree, according to the history books. A previous king tried imprisonment, and suicides resulted. Others begged for death rather than life in a cage."

Collins' doubt must have shown on his face, because Quinton turned defensive.

"Step out of the we-know-what' s-best-for-everyone American persona for a moment. Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore."

Surprised by Quinton's sudden switch from empathetic listener to cut-the-crap critic, Collins forced himself to think in a different way. She had a definite point, one Falima had made much earlier. He had to stop judging Barakhai by twentieth century democratic standards.

Quinton's tone softened slightly. "You have to remember, we're talking about boring, nothing-to-do dungeons here. No phones, no gyms, no TV, and no conjugal visits."

"Why not?" Collins asked. At Quinton's "no one's that dumb" look, he clarified. "I mean why no conjugal visits?"

"No birth control, either," Quinton reminded. "Does Barakhai need more vicious carnivores to further crowd its dungeons?"

Collins had to insert. "But Randoms are random-"

"Not completely. There's a definite genetic component to what they become." Quinton spoke to her area of expertise. "Not strictly Mendelian, I don't think, but-" Apparently realizing Collins had exploited her own interests to throw her off track, Quinton returned abruptly to her point. "How many ladybugs do you think it would take to fill up a full-grown lion, anyway? Hard enough supplying adequate protein for the innocent people. According to my studies, iron deficiency anemia is rampant here. I'm surprised they don't see more kwashi-orkor, too."

Collins went quiet, picturing large-eyed, African orphans with skeletal limbs and enormous bellies caused by the severe protein malnutrition she had mentioned. In fact, Quinton had several valid points.

"Our rich society gives us a lot of leeway these people just don't have. You notice a lot of small people here? Nutritional adequacy's a constant battle in an undeveloped society, and the kids can't just pop a Flintstone's with Iron." Quinton's blue eyes seemed to drag Collins' gaze deep inside of them. "You can't coddle murderers when you can't properly feed the loyal and innocent. Kapish?"

"Kapish," Collins said in a small voice, turning his attention back to his meal. As he ate, he wondered how much of their exchange the king had understood and whether or not he found any of it offensive. Abruptly remembering what had brought them to this point in the conversation, Collins attempted to turn it back to his original question. "What does all this have to do with Zylas anyway?"

Quinton and King Terrin traded glances, and the king took up the explanation again. "He had a daughter."

The rest seemed obvious. "A carnivore?" Collins guessed, chest tightening and food once more forgotten. His mind formed an image of the albino standing in stunned silence while guards hauled his little girl away to die, his face a white mask that defined abject, depthless sorrow. He remembered the earlier tears when Zylas mentioned not having a family.

"Yes," King Terrin said.

Collins could not help saying, "Poor Zylas."

The king pursed his lips, head falling. Quinton's jaw tensed, and she wrested the discourse from him again. "I thought the same thing. At first. Then I discovered how many daughters and sons, mothers and fathers died because of his… his junta. His rabid schemes to destroy the Barakhain hierarchy, to ravage the kingdom and the royal family have resulted in so many deaths: guards, his own followers', innocent bystanders'." She tried to catch Collins' gaze; but, this time, he dodged her. "Bystanders like Bill the janitor and Amanda the coed. Like me, almost. And you."

Collins swallowed hard, head ringing. The information he had gained revealed so much he had never suspected, explained so many of his former companions' nudges and lapses. Zylas, Falima, how could you do this to me? He felt like a lost child.

The king's voice was soothing, fatherly. "What happened to the horse, Ben?"

The horse? Collins was momentarily puzzled by the question, and then understanding hit. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened. He means Falima. They know! They know who I am. What I did. "The horse?" he repeated, trying to hide his nervousness. Perhaps he had misunderstood.