instructions. No orders ,” she complained.
“Am I to make last-minute improvements—if they are improvements—at my own discretion? We’ve already given a few the capacity to reproduce—outside my control. That’s dangerous enough—though it increases their sensitivity. If we make them any more sensitive, they’ll tremble at a breeze—and die of stress. And if we make them any smarter, they’ll die of boredom.” She made a small whirring sound of irritation. “One could hardly call all those books amusing.”
Ghentun touched the outline of the single book in his bag. “They’re smart enough,” he said. “The Librarian wishes to examine an exceptional specimen.” He projected an image—a young male breed, bristling with aggression. “I saw this one first when they were sport-fighting along the fallow meadows. And once, I caught him staring in my direction as I walked past, almost as if he could see me.”
The Shaper thrust two arms forward, grasped the image, spun it, and let it go. It flew off and faded to nothing. She had an aversion to images. “His name is Jebrassy. I tuned him a bit hot. He’s a born marcher—he’ll join one of your suicide groups soon enough.”
“Reproduction?”
“He’s one of the new maters, if some fertile female will have him—which I doubt. He rings like a bell—even on the natal pad, something came to him, took his voice, and changed him. A strong dreamer, I suspect. The breeds call it straying—blank eyes, vacant stares, troubled sleep. Puts off the others.” The Shaper regarded Ghentun with a slant of her three mid-distance eyes—accusing, amused, impatient. “Do you stray, friend Ghentun?”
Ghentun did not dignify this absurdity with an answer. “This one seems right. I’ll confer with Grayne, arrange something…”
“Grayne? She’s still with us? Now there’s a piece of work. One of my finest—just goes on and on…”
“She’s a sama now, and march leader.”
“She was so fine in her youth. Shame on us all, sending our pretty children into that wasteland. I’ve never been proud of my labors here, Keeper.”
“No one else requires your talents, Shaper.”
She acknowledged as much. “The Librarian should be pleased. These breeds vibrate to the slightest trembling of the lines. While the Eidolons ride their endless circles of amusement, trying to ignore the obvious—down here, the breeds have become exquisitely sensitive to something I can’t perceive—though I do wonder. Perhaps it is the past…twisting, knotting, in agony. Am I right, Keeper?”
Ghentun did not answer this, either. They both knew it was likely—and the main reason for the existence of the Tiers.
“Yet wake by wake the generators fade—and the Chaos has no patience,” she said. “How long until you get the Librarian’s attention?”
“Soon,” Ghentun said.
“There’s no pleasing Eidolons. I’ve known that all my long life. If the Librarian’s still not happy—” The Shaper reached into Ghentun’s bag, swifter than he could think, and lifted out the green book with fingers so strong they threatened to crush it. “Archaic little treasure. You’ve stolen this from your sama,” she accused.
“Her predecessor, actually.”
“Enlightening?”
“It’s in breed-text. It changes whenever I read it—so I assume it’s not for our eyes.”
“Then why bother?”
“Curiosity. Guilt.” Ghentun made a short grumble—Mender embarrassment, Mender humor. “Aren’t you curious what the Librarian has in store for them?”
The Shaper simply snorted. “We could start over. Improvements are still possible.” She seemed unwilling to give up her work, however much its results, or its cruel necessity, scratched at her sympathies. “What do you think we have, a few thousand years?”
“I doubt it,” Ghentun said. He motioned for her to return the book. Reluctantly, she did so, with finger-marks pressed into its binding. Slowly, resentfully, the book
“Am I to make last-minute improvements—if they are improvements—at my own discretion? We’ve already given a few the capacity to reproduce—outside my control. That’s dangerous enough—though it increases their sensitivity. If we make them any more sensitive, they’ll tremble at a breeze—and die of stress. And if we make them any smarter, they’ll die of boredom.” She made a small whirring sound of irritation. “One could hardly call all those books amusing.”
Ghentun touched the outline of the single book in his bag. “They’re smart enough,” he said. “The Librarian wishes to examine an exceptional specimen.” He projected an image—a young male breed, bristling with aggression. “I saw this one first when they were sport-fighting along the fallow meadows. And once, I caught him staring in my direction as I walked past, almost as if he could see me.”
The Shaper thrust two arms forward, grasped the image, spun it, and let it go. It flew off and faded to nothing. She had an aversion to images. “His name is Jebrassy. I tuned him a bit hot. He’s a born marcher—he’ll join one of your suicide groups soon enough.”
“Reproduction?”
“He’s one of the new maters, if some fertile female will have him—which I doubt. He rings like a bell—even on the natal pad, something came to him, took his voice, and changed him. A strong dreamer, I suspect. The breeds call it straying—blank eyes, vacant stares, troubled sleep. Puts off the others.” The Shaper regarded Ghentun with a slant of her three mid-distance eyes—accusing, amused, impatient. “Do you stray, friend Ghentun?”
Ghentun did not dignify this absurdity with an answer. “This one seems right. I’ll confer with Grayne, arrange something…”
“Grayne? She’s still with us? Now there’s a piece of work. One of my finest—just goes on and on…”
“She’s a sama now, and march leader.”
“She was so fine in her youth. Shame on us all, sending our pretty children into that wasteland. I’ve never been proud of my labors here, Keeper.”
“No one else requires your talents, Shaper.”
She acknowledged as much. “The Librarian should be pleased. These breeds vibrate to the slightest trembling of the lines. While the Eidolons ride their endless circles of amusement, trying to ignore the obvious—down here, the breeds have become exquisitely sensitive to something I can’t perceive—though I do wonder. Perhaps it is the past…twisting, knotting, in agony. Am I right, Keeper?”
Ghentun did not answer this, either. They both knew it was likely—and the main reason for the existence of the Tiers.
“Yet wake by wake the generators fade—and the Chaos has no patience,” she said. “How long until you get the Librarian’s attention?”
“Soon,” Ghentun said.
“There’s no pleasing Eidolons. I’ve known that all my long life. If the Librarian’s still not happy—” The Shaper reached into Ghentun’s bag, swifter than he could think, and lifted out the green book with fingers so strong they threatened to crush it. “Archaic little treasure. You’ve stolen this from your sama,” she accused.
“Her predecessor, actually.”
“Enlightening?”
“It’s in breed-text. It changes whenever I read it—so I assume it’s not for our eyes.”
“Then why bother?”
“Curiosity. Guilt.” Ghentun made a short grumble—Mender embarrassment, Mender humor. “Aren’t you curious what the Librarian has in store for them?”
The Shaper simply snorted. “We could start over. Improvements are still possible.” She seemed unwilling to give up her work, however much its results, or its cruel necessity, scratched at her sympathies. “What do you think we have, a few thousand years?”
“I doubt it,” Ghentun said. He motioned for her to return the book. Reluctantly, she did so, with finger-marks pressed into its binding. Slowly, resentfully, the book
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