remembering why we’re here,
he returns to the relevant facts.
“As you can imagine, specimens are difficult to come by. Very few parents wish to hand their children over for medical experimentation,
even if they’re no longer recognizably human. Many children have been placed in the care of the Lambs in the past, but only
to be… decommissioned.”
“You mean executed,” I growl.
Antoine nods slowly. “In most circumstances, the parents never inquire after the child once we take it into custody. The less
they know about the grisly details, the better. A few ask for ashes to be returned, but almost nobody requests a body for
burial. And since ashes are easy to fake…”
“You don’t kill them!” I’m furious. This could have happened to Gret or Bill-E. The thought of them winding up here, caged,
experimented on, humiliated, treated like lab rats… It makes me want to hit somebody. My hands clench into fists and I glare
at Antoine. It takes all my self-control not to attack.
“It sounds inhumane,” Antoine says quietly. “I admit it’s a betrayal of trust. But it’s necessary. We do this for the good
of the family. I’ve seen the grief and anguish in the eyes of parents who’ve watched their children turn into nightmarish
beasts. If we have to lie to prevent that from happening to others, so be it.”
“It’s wrong,” I disagree. “They wouldn’t have given their children to you if they knew what you planned to do with them.”
“True,” Antoine says. “But we can’t search for a cure without specimens to work on. Isn’t it better to experiment than execute?
To seek a remedy rather than accept defeat?”
“Not without permission,” I mutter obstinately.
“I wish you could see it our way,” Antoine sighs. “But I understand your point of view. This is a delicate matter.” He looks
decidedly miserable now. “But if you can’t find any positives in what I’ve shown you so far, please be warned — you’re absolutely
going to hate what I reveal next.”
Before I can ask what he means, he turns and pushes ahead, leading us to an exit, then down a set of stairs to the next level
and the most horrific revelation yet.
A cavernous room, even larger than the holding area above. Hundreds of cages, many obscured by panels that have been set
between them, dividing the room into semi-private segments. The stink is nauseating. Antoine offers us masks, but nobody takes
one. As we progress farther into the room, I feel sorry that I didn’t accept.
Some of the cages look like they’ve never been used, but many show signs of long-term occupancy, caked with ground-in filth.
There are old blood and urine stains, scraps of hair everywhere. I spot the occasional fingernail or tooth. There are people
at work in several cages, trying to clean them out. It’s a job I wouldn’t accept for the highest of wages.
“This smells almost as bad as that world of guts we visited,” Shark mutters to Meera. She looks at him blankly. “Oh right.
You weren’t there. It was Sharmila.”
“Nice to know you can’t tell the difference between me and an Indian woman twice my age,” Meera snaps. Shark winces — he’s
made the sort of error a woman never forgets or forgives.
“This is another holding pen,” Antoine says. “But it’s more than just a place to hold specimens. It’s where we breed our own
varieties, to increase our stock.”
For a moment I don’t catch his meaning. Then I stop dead. “You’ve been
breeding
werewolves?” I roar.
“The reproductive organs alter during transformation,” Antoine explains, “but most specimens remain fertile. We always knew
it was possible for them to breed, but we didn’t follow up on that for many years. It’s a delicate process. The pair have
to be united at precisely the right moment, otherwise they rip each other apart. We tried artificial insemination, but the
mothers refused to accept the young,
he returns to the relevant facts.
“As you can imagine, specimens are difficult to come by. Very few parents wish to hand their children over for medical experimentation,
even if they’re no longer recognizably human. Many children have been placed in the care of the Lambs in the past, but only
to be… decommissioned.”
“You mean executed,” I growl.
Antoine nods slowly. “In most circumstances, the parents never inquire after the child once we take it into custody. The less
they know about the grisly details, the better. A few ask for ashes to be returned, but almost nobody requests a body for
burial. And since ashes are easy to fake…”
“You don’t kill them!” I’m furious. This could have happened to Gret or Bill-E. The thought of them winding up here, caged,
experimented on, humiliated, treated like lab rats… It makes me want to hit somebody. My hands clench into fists and I glare
at Antoine. It takes all my self-control not to attack.
“It sounds inhumane,” Antoine says quietly. “I admit it’s a betrayal of trust. But it’s necessary. We do this for the good
of the family. I’ve seen the grief and anguish in the eyes of parents who’ve watched their children turn into nightmarish
beasts. If we have to lie to prevent that from happening to others, so be it.”
“It’s wrong,” I disagree. “They wouldn’t have given their children to you if they knew what you planned to do with them.”
“True,” Antoine says. “But we can’t search for a cure without specimens to work on. Isn’t it better to experiment than execute?
To seek a remedy rather than accept defeat?”
“Not without permission,” I mutter obstinately.
“I wish you could see it our way,” Antoine sighs. “But I understand your point of view. This is a delicate matter.” He looks
decidedly miserable now. “But if you can’t find any positives in what I’ve shown you so far, please be warned — you’re absolutely
going to hate what I reveal next.”
Before I can ask what he means, he turns and pushes ahead, leading us to an exit, then down a set of stairs to the next level
and the most horrific revelation yet.
A cavernous room, even larger than the holding area above. Hundreds of cages, many obscured by panels that have been set
between them, dividing the room into semi-private segments. The stink is nauseating. Antoine offers us masks, but nobody takes
one. As we progress farther into the room, I feel sorry that I didn’t accept.
Some of the cages look like they’ve never been used, but many show signs of long-term occupancy, caked with ground-in filth.
There are old blood and urine stains, scraps of hair everywhere. I spot the occasional fingernail or tooth. There are people
at work in several cages, trying to clean them out. It’s a job I wouldn’t accept for the highest of wages.
“This smells almost as bad as that world of guts we visited,” Shark mutters to Meera. She looks at him blankly. “Oh right.
You weren’t there. It was Sharmila.”
“Nice to know you can’t tell the difference between me and an Indian woman twice my age,” Meera snaps. Shark winces — he’s
made the sort of error a woman never forgets or forgives.
“This is another holding pen,” Antoine says. “But it’s more than just a place to hold specimens. It’s where we breed our own
varieties, to increase our stock.”
For a moment I don’t catch his meaning. Then I stop dead. “You’ve been
breeding
werewolves?” I roar.
“The reproductive organs alter during transformation,” Antoine explains, “but most specimens remain fertile. We always knew
it was possible for them to breed, but we didn’t follow up on that for many years. It’s a delicate process. The pair have
to be united at precisely the right moment, otherwise they rip each other apart. We tried artificial insemination, but the
mothers refused to accept the young,
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