The Sardonyx Net (21 page)

She knows, Dana thought, shaken. She
knows
what he is. For a moment, all the hatred born of his humiliation and pain at Zed's hands trembled in his blood, muscles, and nerves. He felt dizzy. He hated her, he wanted to kill her. There was nothing to stop him: she knew nothing about self-defense; he outweighed her by fifteen kilograms. It would be easy.
 

And then he saw her, a slender, amber-eyed, dark-haired woman, sitting at his side. She was not Zed; she had not hurt him. It was not her fault that he was her slave. He had known the risks running drugs to Sector Sardonyx and had chosen to do it anyway; for his present situation he had only the luck and himself to blame. Not Rhani Yago.
 

She was only a human being, like himself, equally imprisoned by her own choices, and equally lonely. “Rhani,” he said. She turned to look at him. She was crying. Gently, he reached his hand to touch her cheek.
 

As the bubble descended through the opened roof of the Sovka hangar, Rhani stretched. “Sore?” said Dana. He punched a button. The roof closed. The hangar grew dark and silent. “So am I.” They sat with shoulders touching.
 

She smiled through the darkness at him. She did not want to move. The last part of the ride they had talked together about Nexus, about Pellin, places she had not seen.... They had not mentioned Zed. It had been remarkably easy to forget that, in another place, at other times, they were owner and slave. She found Dana's nearness in the bubble comforting. “We have to go.” She had told Binkie to call ahead to tell them she was coming. “They're out there now, waiting.”
 

Dana strode beside her as she stepped, blinking, out of the hangar. The heat was blistering, and she was glad she had remembered her sunshades. As far as she could see, there was not a speck of green.
 

“Welcome to Sovka, Domna,” the new manager said. Erith Allogonga was dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and extraordinarily compact; she weighed eighty kilos, carrying it easily on a short, muscular frame. From wrists to shoulders, her black arms were welted with scars left by the teeth of kerit kits whose lives she'd saved in birthing. She brought the others forward, introducing them and naming their responsibilities in case Rhani had forgotten since her last visit to Sovka, three years back.
 

They were the five section heads, the assistant manager, and Erith's secretary, a thin quiet woman with a scar on her forearm. Rhani remembered her. “It's good to see you, Marisa,” she said warmly.
 

The woman inclined her head. “I'm honored, Domna.”
 

Erith Allogonga said, “Domna, let's get out of the heat, and you can tell us what you want to see first. I should tell you, I think we've discovered what has been killing the kerit kits. On a hunch of Seponen's, we sent every bit of data we had, including the kits, to the Enchanter labs, thinking maybe we were dealing, not with a virus or bacterium, but with some weird genetic pathology. Their report arrived yesterday; I told Marisa to put a copy through the com-unit. The kits died of hemophilia.”
 

Rhani had never heard of it. “What is it?” she asked.
 

“Incomplete clotting of the blood. Our analysis told us that much, but we'd never heard of hemophilia. Apparently it used to exist in human populations. Enchanter did a gene analysis. There's a mutation, a blood-factor deficiency, that's recessive in about half our breeders in Prime Strain.”
 

“What can be done about it?”
 

“Stop interbreeding. Increase the gene pool. We've sent the hunters out once already. It means a temporary dilution of Prime Strain.”
 

“Can't be helped,” murmured Kay Seponen.
 

They walked to the entrance of the breedery, where a large sign said: OFFICE. Rhani glanced at the long, low buildings. Nothing had changed; the heat, the dust, the smells were the same. The buildings had a new coat of paint. The farm consisted of the runs, huge fenced-in spaces where the kerit packs lived, dug caves and tunnels, foraged, fought, and mated; the breedery itself, where the kits were born and the weak and deformed kits culled; the food and chemical units, and the skinning unit where the male kerits and some of the females ended up. Maintenance took care of the runs, mended the fences, fed the kerits, blocked off the tunnels when they got too long, and kept the kerits from savaging each other when they got feisty or bored. Rhani had started work in Maintenance, paired with a smiling slave from Ley.
 

She frowned, trying to remember the girl's name.
 

“Something wrong?” said Erith Allogonga.
 

“No—I was just trying to recall a name.” Joann, that was it. Joann had pitied “Irene” because she, not a slave, had to mend fences and clean cages without benefit of dorazine. She had offered—a sacrifice, this—to share a tablet. The next day, they had carefully cut Joann's tablet in two. Rhani remembered the serene, soft look of the fields, and how intricate and interesting the wiring of the fence had seemed.... But Joann grew irritable. By nightfall she had not wanted to share any more dorazine.
 

At the office door, she turned to the section heads. “I'll ask Erith to bring me to the sections after I hear her report. That way you have time to alert your staffs, so that when I come in they can all be looking busy.” Kay Seponen chuckled. Bevis Arno, head of Maintenance, looked relieved.
 

In the office, the reports were waiting for her on Erith's desk, unsmudged printouts, crisp and clean. “How far back do you keep records?” Rhani asked.
 

“The computer automatically eliminates them, Domna, after ten years.”
 

Rhani sighed. Irene Sokol no longer existed, except in memory. She wondered what had happened to Joann. She sat in a chair. The reports were easy to read. Expenses had gone up; profits down, but the farm was still making money by a comfortable margin. “Any staff problems?”
 

“No,” said Erith. “There's always a little friction between Maintenance and the breedery. Maintenance is always overworked, and the breedery staff wants repairs made last week. It's been like that for ten years, as long as I've been here.”
 

Rhani nodded. Nothing had changed. An item on a sheet caught her eye: TOURS. “What's this?”
 

“You remember—we opened the breedery about two years ago to interested tourists. We get four and five a week during Auction season. Fewer the rest of the year.” Erith Allogonga grinned. “They won't go in the skinning unit, they think the kerit kits are ‘cute,' and don't understand why we won't give out souvenir skins.”
 

Rhani laughed. She ran a hand along the soft fabric of the chair; it was scraped kerit skin. She rose. “Your reports look good,” she said. “I'm very pleased.”
 

“Thank you, Domna.”
 

“I'd like to visit Food and Chemical: short visits, then the skinning plant, the runs, and the breedery. Are you expecting a tour today?”
 

Erith called, “Marisa, are we expecting any tours today?”
 

Marisa said, “Yes, in about an hour.”
 

“Call me when they come,” said Rhani. “I'd like to see people who think kerit kits are cute.”
 

Chemical had three main tasks, as well as a host of smaller things to do: to mix and store the chemicals used for curing kerit skins, to identify and treat diseases, and to distribute dorazine to the slaves working on the farm. Its personnel were trained technicians, not slaves. Rhani, Dana, Erith Allogonga, and Dov I-Kotomi, the assistant manager, were greeted at the entrance by Kay Seponen. She escorted them through the labs, identifying the different divisions, and praising her subordinates by name. Technicians, bent over their slides, barely looked up. The machinery gleamed. “A properly dedicated staff,” Rhani murmured to Kay Seponen.
 

Food, next to Chemical, had two divisions: one which fed the staff, and one which fed the kerits. The cafeteria looked as if it had been redone; it was larger and cleaner. Rhani sampled some fish. It was good. She shared it with Dana. “How's your stomach?” she asked.
 

“It depends,” he said. “For what?”
 

“Seeing things without their skins.”
 

“As long as they're dead.”
 

“They're dead.” Erith Allogonga led the way. Rhani smelled the familiar mixed odors of the skinning area: acid and blood. The conveyor belt was still, and the stools empty, where the skinners usually sat holding their sharp little knives, smiling.
 

The manager said, “We're not processing today, Domna.”
 

Rhani went to the vat in which the skins were dipped. Climbing the ladder, she peered in. The liquid swirled sluggishly. It was a sophisticated compound, fixing the skins without dulling the color, shine, or reflective properties of the fur. Fixed and dried, the furs were packaged. From the skinning unit, they went to a plant at the edge of Abanat, where they were made into rugs, coats, gloves, muffs, and sold to the Abanat wholesale market. The rest were shipped off-world.
 

Erith Allogonga said, “Domna, shall we go to the runs?”
 

It meant going outside again, into the blistering heat. Rhani redonned her sunshades.
 

As they neared the runs, the smells grew familiar again. Rhani's pulse beat faster. She walked a bit ahead of Erith Allogonga. For five years she had eaten and slept with this stench in her nostrils. It steamed in the air: rank, heavy. Sweat prickled on her skin and dried almost instantly in the heat: it was midmorning, and Rhani guessed the temperature to be 40 degrees C.
 

Nothing moved in the runs. Even this early in the day, the kerits might be in their burrows. Erith Allogonga caught up with her. She was light on her feet for so bulky a woman. “Try run six,” she said. “They've been active there.”
 

The runs were separated from each other by wire-protected lanes, and guarded by watchful slaves. These were the elite of the Sovka slaves; never given dorazine, they were even trusted with weapons. (Though the weapons could not attain lethal charge—all they could do was stun.) Rhani strolled down the lane beside run six. Dana stayed at her side. Suddenly, a white head poked from a burrow. Rhani caught Dana's arm. “See it?” she whispered.
 

“I see it,” he said. He watched the kerit waddle toward them, and thought: Hell, it's ugly. He had expected it to be small and sleek, like fur-bearing animals on Pellin. It was fat, for starters; it had light gray eyes, and a small, snouty head on a squat body. It had no tail. It sat on its ass, front paws dangling, peering at them from about a meter away. Dana looked at the paws, noting the huge claws on them. Makes it easy for them to do all that digging, he thought. The fur was white, but not merely white: it was a sparkling, breathtaking white, almost a blue-white, remarkable as diamond. Incongruously, it reminded him of the color of the snow on Pellin's Kamerash Peaks. He crouched by the fence to see it better, spreading his fingers on the wire mesh.
 

The kerit sprang at him.
 

Lashing its front claws to the mesh, it clung to the metal, glaring viciously at him from the level of his waist. Balancing on huge, muscular back legs, it was suddenly twice its height. Its mouth opened soundlessly, showing two rows of small, sharp, even teeth. Seizing his shoulder, Rhani dragged Dana back from the fence. A man in a white hooded jumpsuit came racing down the lane toward them, brandishing a stun gun. Rhani said, “Stay still. If they care to, kerits have been known to climb the fence.”
 

But this kerit was smart, or else it had been stunned before. It dropped to all fours, and sped, with a curious rocking waddle, back to the mouth of its tunnel. It popped in. Rhani, Erith Allogonga, and the slave relaxed. Rhani said, “Now the breedery.”
 

On the way to the other building, she touched Dana's arm. “I did the same thing,” she said, “the first time I saw one.”
 

At the entrance to the breedery, Erith Allogonga dismissed both the assistant manager and the section manager. “I'm running
this
tour.” She smiled as she walked in. She said to Rhani, “I have to be very careful; I'm always reminding myself I'm not the manager of only this section any more.”
 

They walked through a pair of automatic sliding doors. Floor-to-ceiling, wire-mesh cages lined the walls of a big room. It was hot. All the other buildings had been cool. Erith Allogonga remarked, “The breedery is kept to approximately the temperature of the inside of the kerit burrows.” The room smelled like the kerit runs. In a corner of the nearest cage lay a huge, white-furred kerit, sleeping. On top of, around, and possibly under her lay small, furry bundles, gray and white, teeth and claws glinting through their fur. Dana counted thirteen of them. Erith Allogonga said, “After birth, we have to drug them. During birth, they're undrugged; drugged females birth dead kits. But if we leave them undrugged, they turn on the handlers. They do anyway.” She held her arms out. Dana stared at the crossed weals patterning her arms. Involuntarily, he glanced again at the peacefully sleeping kits.
 

“What happens to them all?” he asked.
 

“The non-breeding males are put in separate runs until they reach puberty. Their skins are perfect then. They're killed and skinned. Males kept for breeding go in with the packs. The imperfect females are culled out right away and killed. They can't be kept anywhere that they can smell the packs, or they tunnel to reach them. The males' claws are small; they rarely tunnel. As the females come into heat, they grow aggressive. Eventually they kill the males. We bring the pregnant females here a week before their time. These kits were born eight days ago. In another five, the mother and the female kits can rejoin the pack. Other females don't attack nursing females or the kits. We control the breeding cycle; the kerits' hormone balance is dependent upon diet. Fertility and aggression are controlled by the amount of meat they eat. When breeding, they fight for space, or food, or just for temper. They're born fighting.”