Genetopia (3 page)

He sucked on the stick.

Jenna.

He would find Jenna. She had broken off from Shemesh recently, so now Flint would have a chance to make an approach, see if she would consider him.

He had rehearsed the words so many times. He knew she liked him. He just needed the courage, the composure.

Out beyond the changing vats and the stock pens, the old stone walls of the Hall ended and a scattering of podhuts had been grown. A lot of them were ordinarily empty, used occasionally for storage and for guests at times like this. Now, fires burnt high in the night, and people were all about in the spaces between the buildings.

A drum band struck interwoven rhythms into the darkness, surging melodies of pitch and pace, the intensity and volume irresistible to the young of Clan Treco.

Flint resisted the urge to sway and shuffle as he walked, the music tugging at his steps. He tipped his head up, saw dancing stars–the clear sky a sure sign that the dry season was now well established.

He saw Jenna, then, still in her feather boa, one end of it draped over her dancing partner’s shoulder. Henritt. She was dancing with the visitor from the Ritt clan.

Flint turned away and went to lean against the old fleshfruit tree, leaf-frogs chirruping from the lower boughs.

A short time later, he wandered around the party, exchanging jokes with cousins, asking if anyone had seen Amber. No one had.

He found Mallery and Bellar with a small group by the seed-patches, the rough gardens where some of the mutts grew food and fibres to supplement their keep.

“Hey, Flint,” murmured Mallery, waving a smouldering headstick at him. “You come join we.” He was talking Mutter-pidgin, no doubt the effect of alcohol and whatever it was they were burning.

Flint squatted and took the headstick. He knew what to do with it, had tried it once, but the loss of control had disturbed him. He took a sniff, trying not to inhale too deeply, and passed the stick on to eager hands.

He leaned back against a wide tree-bole. It felt as if the earth was rolling beneath him.

~

Much later, he returned to the stock pens, sure that Amber would be there. Fascinated as she was by the dipping ceremonies, she was even more strongly drawn to the changing as it started to take effect afterwards.

Dark figures were silhouetted by a few desultory torches. Callum, Father Grey, Tessum and Shemesh were gathered around the holding pens set aside for the newly dipped mutts.

Grey was humming, the same tune he had sung more stridently earlier in the evening when he had performed the Dance of the Possessed around the changing vats.

All four were stooped in concentration, barely glancing at Flint as he came to join them.

In the pen before them were the two mutts Flint remembered being dipped earlier. Four others had been dipped, too, this evening, after Flint had withdrawn.

These two now lay unmoving in the straw. Their mother sat against the far wall, knees pulled up defensively, trembling. She was clearly drawn to her offspring, but something at least as powerful was holding her back. The unseen hand of change.

The older pup lay on its back, its spine arched. Its skin was beaded with fever, the fur on its head and shoulders slicked smooth. Every so often a faint, whimpering mewl escaped its lips, as Callum concentrated on its changes, muttering prayers and liturgies.

There was hope for this one, Flint saw. It looked fit, and the changes wrought had not distorted it beyond what was viable. Only the years would tell if it would grow into a usable morph and if it then bred true.

Most mutt lines had a tendency to drift towards flawed traits, weakening over generations. It was a constant battle to bring new forms into the breeding lines, new vigour. Most mutts were left undipped, but a few from each generation were offered up for change. The vats held a multiplicity of potential, a soup of traits that could be gennered into malleable recipients. It was for these ancient arts that Clan Treco was so widely renowned.

The changes were not without cost, however.

Tessum, a grey-haired old man, brother of Father Grey, was struggling over the youngest of the pups. He groaned, as he fought to master the gennering currents, battling to shape the changes wrought by the dipping.

There were some who dismissed this as mumbo-jumbo, a mystical overlay to a straightforward biological process. Now, watching the old man exert himself so, Flint had no doubt that these men had a grasp of some source of power to which Flint and most others he knew were blind: some way of directing the tiny changing vectors these mutts had absorbed from the vat.

Yet still, despite Tessum’s valiant efforts, the youngest pup lay dying in the straw. The skin was stretched tight across its skull, the bones within grossly expanded.

Sometimes it happened like this: the transformations were often beneficial, often benign, but sometimes when they found flawed material to work with the results were like this.

This pup would never have been named even if left undipped, Flint suspected. Its inner flaws would have revealed themselves before it reached naming age and it would have been exposed on the Leaving Hill.

Flint had long since come to terms with the apparent brutality of this regime. In a world where change and corruption were rife, even human offspring were not regarded as truly human until they were three, by which age most of the traits of the Lost would have revealed themselves.

A soft popping sound drew his attention to the Lost pup before him. The skin across the dome of its swollen head had split, revealing an expanse of white bone beneath, still growing.

Tessum moved away, four more changed pups to deal with.

~

Flint slept in Callum’s family chambers that night.

The outer walls had vented themselves, circulating air on what had become a dry, hot night. He lay and stared out through the slits at the stars pocking the night sky.

His mind was restless in the afterwash of the evening’s gathering, disjointed fragments of scenes and voices jostling for attention. Jenna and her feathers, the mutt mother, his father’s sneering bonhomie, the smothering scent of Mallery’s headstick, the dancing light from the changing vats, Father Grey’s possessed twitching as he lay in the dirt.

But there was more than just the aftermath of stimulation that was tying Flint to wakefulness.

There was the steadily growing certainty that something was seriously wrong. Amber had not been seen all evening. Now, when she should be asleep in the cell next to Flint’s, the sleeping pallet set aside for her lay empty.

Outside, trees and frogs called in the darkness and somewhere in the distance he heard the screech of fighting cats.

He sat up on his pallet, pushing the swamp-cotton shawl aside. He rubbed at his face, then stood.

There was a light downstairs, a single oil-candle in a dish in the family cell.

Callum sat at the table, face tired and lined. Petria was at his side, their pup at her breast.

“Still no sign?” asked Callum. He had clearly only just returned from the stock-pens.

Flint shook his head. “I thought I might go out and look around,” he said.

“And find what? Nothing, in the dead of night, Flint. Nothing but drunks and street rats. Save it until morning when you can see beyond your nose and there are people around to answer questions.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Clearly. Guilty conscience? Did you two have a row or something?”

Flint met Callum’s look, resenting the words yet giving them serious thought.

“Not really,” he said. No more than usual, at least. But had her teasing of him had more behind it than usual? Her accusations that he was too straight? What undercurrents had he missed in her words? Had she been trying to make more serious accusations about the way he treated her, but only been able to come out with teasing and jokes?

Maybe he was too oppressive, too protective. Maybe she was trying to assert her independence.

“Well... maybe,” he conceded. “I don’t know.”

“Go back to bed,” said Petria. “Let me talk to her tomorrow to see if I can find out what’s wrong.”

Grateful, he stood, then left them together.

Back in his sleeping cell he lay down, leaving himself uncovered in the heat of the night.

Outside, a cat screamed again. He did not think it was a good omen.

Chapter 3

Dawn brought brief respite before the day’s heat, a damp haze clinging to the treetops, screening out the sun.

Flint had seen the sky shade from deep grey to roseate silver, to a weak, golden wash and now to this hazy blue. All around, Trecosann was awakening, groggy after the festivities.

He had been to all their favourite haunts already, called on the families of her friends and questioned those who were awake.

There was no sign of Amber now and no one had seen her since the previous afternoon.

Passing through the fringes of the bellycane paddy, past the track that led to the town Oracle, he came to the humpy form of the family home. This was one of the oldest fibre buildings in Trecosann, its bulbous form encrusted with vegetation, a self-regulated dwelling that had survived–so it was said–over two hundred human generations. Some claimed even longer.

He went inside.

The only sounds came from Milly the house mutt. She fell silent when she heard him enter, perhaps fearing that he was his father, Tarn. Mutts were inherently of limited intelligence, but what insight they had was specific and sometimes particularly acute.

In any case, it didn’t take much insight to grasp the vicious nature of the head of the Eltarn household.

Flint made a brief appearance in the workroom to reassure Milly, and to ask her if she had seen Amber today.

“Milly done see Amber?” she replied, then shook her head. “Just master mistress, eh?”

He went through to the stairwell and climbed the warm, pliant steps to the sleeping floor. Loud snoring came from his parents’ cell.

He pulled the translucent screen aside and stepped into Amber’s room. An untidy sleeping pallet with a shawl woven by Aunt Clarel occupied most of one wall–it was impossible to tell if it had been slept in the previous night or not, but Milly would have said if she had been here. Amber’s clothes were stowed in the storage space behind the far screen. Alcoves in the walls held a few personal items: an artboard, a pair of weaving screens, a rivershell necklet that matched the bracelet she always wore, some combs, a half-clamshell full of coloured sand.

Nothing appeared to have changed. Nothing appeared to be missing.

He went back down to the family room to wait.

~

It wasn’t long before Tarn appeared, clean-shaven already and dressed in a long cloak.

He nodded at Flint, then said, “You been working? Thought you were at Callum’s.”

He sounded amenable today. Flint nodded. “I was at Callum’s last night,” he said. “But I woke early. I didn’t come back here to work. I’ve been looking for Amberline.”

Tarn grunted. “Still hiding?”

“I don’t know. I’m worried.”

“Worried?” Jescka stood in the doorway. Where Tarn was a slack-bodied man, and tall like his son, Jescka was a strongly built woman, with a hard physique softened only by the years.

“Amber,” said Flint. “No one has seen her since yesterday.”

“But a whole night!” said Jescka. “She’s never been gone a whole night before. What’s she playing at?”

Tarn stretched. “She’ll show up,” he said. “Or she won’t. She can look after herself.”

Flint stared at him. “She could be hurt,” he said. “Something could have happened to her.” He looked at Jescka and she, too, looked worried, even scared. A moment of weakness on her part. He felt a sudden sense of empathy with his mother. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt something like that.

“We saw the Tallyman yesterday,” he said. “Up by the Leaving Hill. He seemed... well...
interested
in Amber. We all know what kind of dealings the Tallyman is involved in: what if he’s done something? What if he’s tempted her away somehow? What if she’s been abducted?”

Tarn stood, suddenly menacing. Flint met his glare, fighting the urge to look away. His father leaned towards him and paused, then turned and moved away. Over his shoulder he said, “I’m going to see Callum about some new bellycane grafts. There’ll be planting to do if he’s ready. I’ll expect you here by mid-morning, not playing hide and seek with your sister.”

~

He found the Tallyman eventually. After asking around Trecosann, he finally came to the brewhouse old Tessum kept by the river.

He was sitting on a shaded bench out front, playing blocks with two of Flint’s great-uncles.

Out in the river, gulls followed two haul-boats carrying mutts south, the silver birds crying and mocking as they went.

“Cline. Jambol.” Flint greeted his two old relatives, nodding to each in turn.

Then: “Tallyman.”

The old debt-trader’s face was revealed today, hood pulled back under the shade of the bench’s canopy. Flint was reminded of an observation he had made some time ago upon a visit to the Leaving Hill: how clearly, with some people, the skull beneath the face was apparent, where with most you had to concentrate to see the bones beneath the surface.

The Tallyman stared at Flint, from deep, bony eye sockets. A few wisps of white beard clung to his jaw. He turned to his two companions. “Think this one buys favours or done give ’em?”

The three cackled, and Flint stood uncertainly, confused by their innuendo and by the way the Tallyman mixed Mutter-pidgin with everyday speech. “I’m looking for my sister,” he said.

The Tallyman nodded. “Amberlinetreco Eltarn,” he said. He drank some of his wild-herb tea, then narrowed his eyes and continued, “A fit one. Something of the Lost in her, I say. Eh, Jambol? Eh, Cline?”

Cline leaned over the bench. “I always reckoned that,” he said. “See it in her eyes, the taint. ‘Something of the Lost’ is right, isn’t it? Should have been...”

He stopped.

Exposed
. That was what he had been about to say.

“Amber’s as True as you or I,” said Flint. “Her line goes back generations. She’s been ill, yes, but never with the changing fevers–as Granny Han will certify. Or would you argue with Granny Han, Great-uncle Clinetreco?”

Cline leaned back again, mumbling under his breath.

Flint turned to the Tallyman again. “Have you seen her since yesterday?” he asked. “When you saw us near the Leaving Hill–you appeared to be making certain... offers to Amber.”

“Me been make offers to plenty young ladies,” cackled the Tallyman, and his two companions laughed, too. “You be surprised how come they take one up.”

“He’s day-dreaming again,” said Jambol, chuckling.

“Amber?” Flint insisted.

The Tallyman turned and spat green slime into the dirt. “Is a grown woman,” he said. “As can make her own mind. As can make her own choices.”

“Where is she?”

“What should I know?” protested the Tallyman. He turned to his companions. “Why’s he bothering me like some dumb mutt?”

Flint ignored the insult. “Have you seen her since we were at the Leaving Hill yesterday?”

Tallyman glared at him. “Lose yourself,” he hissed. Another insult, that: as in,
Go and join the Lost
. “Forget her,” he went on. “Leave family business to family.”

~

Leave family business to family.

Why had he said that? Why had he put it that way? What had Amber’s disappearance to do with the family, with the clan?

He found them in the yard, out at the back of the old Hall. Jescka lecturing Petria on something or other, Callum and Tarn watching over the newly changed stock and haggling over cane grafts.

“No sign?” asked Callum. He looked as if he was about to go on, then stopped, sensing Flint’s mood.

“I’ve been speaking to the Tallyman,” said Flint, squaring up to his father. “He told me I should keep out of family business. What kind of business have you been doing, Father? What’s happened to Amber?”

There was violence in Tarn’s eyes, a rage he was trying hard to suppress. His public face.

“What do you mean?” demanded Jescka. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve always treated her differently,” said Flint. “Always singled her out. She used to tell me you treated her worse than a mutt sometimes. And now she’s missing and what are you all doing to find her? So tell me: how much did you get for her?”

He ducked under Tarn’s swinging fist, and before he could stop himself he lunged upwards.

Tarn was off-balance, tipping forward, and Flint’s shoulder came up under his armpit.

The older man grunted and staggered back, clutching at his shoulder.

Flint was crouching low, arms spread, waiting for the next move.

And then it started to sink in...

He had never stood his ground like this before. He had always accepted the punishment, had always believed that somehow he really deserved it.

He waited for his father’s next move, and it was not long coming.

Overcoming his initial surprise, Tarn feinted to swing another blow but instead stepped forward and kicked Flint in the knee.

The joint exploded in agony and Flint fell to the ground.

Had that animal screech really been his own?

Eyes squeezed shut in pain, he didn’t see the next blow, couldn’t be sure if it was a boot or a fist that slammed into his face and turned his world briefly dark.

~

He learned later that it was Callum who stopped Tarn, stepping between the two of them, perhaps saving Flint’s life.

Sitting in the dirt with his back against the bathing trough, Flint looked up at his cousin. There were many branches of lineage separating Flint from Callum, yet his older cousin had always been someone he trusted and turned to.

Now, Callum thrust a wad of dampened sapwool at him. “Tarn has gone,” he said. “Clean yourself up, boy.”

He seemed shaken by the fight, shocked at the public display of violence. “And then you can tell me what you think you’ve found out.”

Flint pressed the wool to his face. When it came away it was dark red. The pain was dull, remote: his knee pulsing steadily; his face pulped and numb. It would get worse, he knew. It always did, before it got better.

Normally, it was Amber who would look after him in the aftermath of Tarn’s rage. But now she had gone.

He spoke, past the swelling. “They’ve always treated her differently. Father, especially. Ever since she was ill, even though Granny Han said it wasn’t changing fever and she was still True. Amber knew it.”

“Amber’s their daughter,” said Callum, taking the wad of sapwool and rinsing it. “She’s family.”

Flint looked at him. “Family can become Lost,” he said. “Family can be born Lost –” he remembered that gruesome pup’s body with three arms and two heads on the Leaving Hill “– and the fevers can change you.”

“Amber wasn’t Lost.”

“Did Tarn believe that? Did Jescka?”

“What makes you think they’ve done something to her?”

“The Tallyman. He said it was family business. Why would he say that? That choice of words means he knows something he’s not telling. Why are they dealing with the Tallyman?”

He recalled their encounter at the foot of the Leaving Hill. The Tallyman’s appraising eyes, wandering up and down Amber’s body.

At the time both he and Amber had thought it was lust in the old man’s eyes, but now Flint saw that it was not lust but greed. The Tallyman had been pricing her up.

When a human baby shows signs of the taint–some used the term
imbuto
, others simply called them Lost–it was taken and exposed on the Leaving Hill. Until they were old enough to have demonstrated their Trueness they were not even named, not regarded as fully human, but merely
pups
.

But some forms of corruption can take longer to emerge, and yet others can be acquired through the changing fevers. Those too old to expose on the Leaving Hill were banished into the wildlands between settlements or, more commonly, sold as bondsmen or even into the mutt trade. Flint knew of one family where this had happened only a year ago–they had even argued that poor, flawed Thom would have a better life as a bonded labourer. Perhaps they had even believed it to be true.

“The Tallyman has many functions,” said Callum, uncertainly.

But one of his most lucrative was as the town’s agent for the mutt trade.

~

Oracle bulged grossly, a swollen, fleshy mass embedded in the heart of the bellycane swamp. It stood as high and half again as Flint, although who knows how far its anchoring smartfibres extended into the mud? Purple veins crept across its surface, interlocking, clumping in naevoid knots. Tumorous polyps attached by pulpy cords floated in the swamp water as if, after thousands of years, the thing had finally learnt how to multiply by division.

Oracle would know he was coming. Its sensory fibres would feel his footfalls on the raised path it maintained to connect it to Trecosann. It would know him from the rhythm of his steps. It would taste his mood on the breeze, hear his breathing and the pulsing of his blood as he approached, even from some considerable distance.

Already, as he came near, a bulbous sphincter had relaxed, awaiting him.

“Flintreco Eltarn,” it sighed, as he clambered inside.

Sweet smells: newly split fleshfruit, sliced bellycane, many that he knew well yet couldn’t quite place. Oracle was playing on his senses. Soothing him. Plying its pherotropic arts in order to ease him into lucid-trance.

He lay back in Oracle’s warm embrace. The pain in his knee–so sharp, after walking here from the Hall!–began to subside, and breathing through his broken nose started to ease.

“Tell me of the world,” said Oracle. “Tell me of my clan.”

Oracle always spoke like this, as if it was somehow one of the True. Perhaps at some time in the far past there had, indeed, been something human in Oracle and its kind.

“The world is unchanged and the clan prospers.” Reassuring platitudes. Flint closed his eyes.

“Your injuries will heal,” Oracle told him. “Although the damage to your nose means that it will never return to its former shape.”

“Amber’s gone. She disappeared yesterday. Missed a Changing Festival, a clan gathering. I think she’s been taken, traded.”

“Tell me.” Soft, enveloping tones, almost too low to hear. Flint felt himself floating free, reluctantly releasing his hold on his senses. The all-encompassing security within Oracle scared him every time, as he lost his grip on his body and its pain: a transient fear, before he was submerged.