Swifter rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man. Not everyone has this stuff down pat like you. Are you gonna help me out or not?”
“Of course I am.”
Holding the sheet of paper in both hooves, Swifter read out the first review question: “Number one. State who won the Canine-Avian War and why.”
As Swifter began to read his answer aloud, Snapper’s attention drifted. All they had ever talked about in school, from the first year on up until now, was the Canine-Avian War. They sure wanted the sheep to grow up knowing every detail of the pigs’ brilliant military conquest and how they had reshaped this world for the better. Snapper could recite the official story forwards and backwards, rattling off names and dates. It had taken most of his classmates a little longer to get that far, but that was why Snapper was one of the few true University candidates in his class. The monotony of these lessons gave him a severe problem with paying attention in class and fueled his habit of daydreaming. He hoped beyond hope he would get to study something else, for a change, at University. In fact, he wished he were there now.
“What did you think? Was that OK?” Swifter concluded.
“Sorry, what?”
Swifter slammed his paper down. “Teach, can I join up with someone else?”
The parrot let him get together with another pair, leaving Snapper alone. That was fine. Putting his head down on his desk, Snapper turned to face the window again and clamped a hoof over his ear to block out his teacher’s fire-alarm voice.
Another face stared back at him.
On the other side of the glass, the ragged, expressionless face of Durdge peered into the classroom. The red light of the recording eye scanned from side to side, settling on Snapper for a few seconds. The two looked at one another, neither favoring the other with any reaction. Finally, Durdge turned his attention elsewhere and went on his way.
Snapper shook it off. As he drifted into his own thoughts again, he regarded another large poster on the far side of the room, opposite the window. The poster was dominated by a detailed illustration of a gigantic, rotund pink pig reaching down like a benevolent god. Below the pig, three little sheep held their hooves upward in reverence.
“Trust the Pigs,” the poster proclaimed. “They’re Taking Care of You.”
✽✽✽
“This is Charlie Chugg, coming at you with another exciting news bulletin! The Chugg Corporation is pleased to announce the formal opening of the Chugg Cybernetics department!
“What do I mean by cybernetics, you say? Well, it’s a very advanced field of science. The busy geniuses at Chugg are hard at work combining technology and biology with cutting-edge surgical techniques to make better products for everyone! Imagine having a microchip in your brain to make you think as fast as a computer! Or a robotic leg to help someone walk when they thought they never would again!
“The most far-reaching project that Chugg Cybernetics is working on, at the moment, is one you will be seeing very soon. In the next few weeks, you may begin to notice a lot of the dogs walking around Fleece City look identical. That’s because they are! Why risk the lives of our valuable, furry friends in law enforcement and national defense, when a CLONE can do the job just as well? Don’t worry, they’ve been specifically conditioned to only act when they have orders from a pig, so you can feel absolutely safe around these cloned dogs.
“Well, that’s all for now! Back to your regularly scheduled television program. Until I’ve got some more breaking news for you folks, that is! I endorse this message! You can trust me—am I Charlie Chugg, or not?”
✽✽✽
Chapter 7
Old-Timer sat atop the great grey wall separating the plains from the quarry. The rough, salty wind from the ocean buffeted his face and coat. The terrain between the wall and the coast was mostly rock and sand. A jagged ravine cut through the middle, scaffolding and pulleys lining both sides.
He’d walked straight here after dropping off Snapper. The sun was higher in the sky now, so the wall no longer provided shade for the sheep hard at work below him. Tan-fleeced sheep labored to extract raw materials from the canyon quarry.
On the near side of the gorge lay the village. Simple buildings constructed from clay bricks lined both sides of a dusty red street. At one end of the village, the road wound around to the edge of the quarry. At the other end, the street was decorated with a stone totem about thirty feet tall bearing a crude representation of Optera, the patron goddess of birds.
Old-Timer became aware of someone approaching. He raised an eyebrow and turned his head to look at the heavily muscled, cardboard-colored cattle dog taking a seat beside him.
“Good morning, Fowler. Slow day?”
The head of wall security did not look at Old-Timer but kept his eyes on the sweating sheep below them.
“I don’t understand what you think you’re accomplishing, Old Trampler,” the dog finally said. “Every day it’s the same farce. You drop your son off, wander over here, and these thickheaded quarry sheep run you off. The pig is fed up. He thinks you’re trying to incite these sheep to rebellion.”
Old-Timer’s temper flared. He spun to face his friend, his black eyes glinting from under thick grey eyebrows. “You know damn well I’m not here to stir up trouble. I’m here to quell it. These quarry sheep have it so much harder than us city folk. Hardly any of them ever get a chance at University. I’m here trying to keep spirits high, keep the peace. And if those rumors are to be believed, I’m doing a better job than Scurvert himself lately.”
Fowler bristled. “Take it easy, old man. I’m just the messenger. But you should understand that keeping these people’s spirits strong is making you a threat in his eyes. That’s all.”
“I understand all too well,” Old-Timer said, turning his gaze—and his horns—away from Fowler. He looked down at the toiling population again. “But every now and then, I think something I say gets through to them. If nothing else, at least shouting me down allows them to let off some steam. If it keeps them from rioting and getting killed by you and your men, it’s worth it to me. And if your boss has any intelligence, he’ll understand.”
He started off down the flight of steps leading into the quarry. Fowler sat back, exasperated, and reached up a hind leg to scratch behind his ear.
“Scurvert doesn’t understand,” the dog called out. “He thinks he has this under control… and you’re a nuisance. Disregard my advice at your peril, old friend.”
As Old-Timer made his way along the red dust road from the wall to the town, the working sheep pointedly avoided making eye contact with him. This was not new. It did not discourage him. He walked resolutely down the road between the two rows of houses, taking a seat at the foot of the Optera totem.
“I hope you’ll listen to me today, fellow sheep,” Old-Timer said quietly. No one stopped; they were too busy. Walking too slowly was one of the myriad ways to earn oneself a nip from the dogs skulking around. The guard dogs themselves were slaves as much as the sheep they oversaw, intentionally kept underfed to make them more prone to violence.
He took a minute to look around at the people he was trying to reach. Some of them were retrieving maintenance parts from sheds or replacing broken pieces of equipment. Others hauled carts laden with gold and raw iron to the loading bay near the railroad. The train would take these materials to the Megatropolis.
Some sheep bolted a quick meal at a food trailer by the ravine. As Old-Timer watched, one sheep was knocked to the ground and had his remaining portion stolen by a snarling hound. Such was the punishment for taking too long to eat, taking too large of a portion, or sometimes for nothing at all.
“I am not here to rouse you into violence and I never was,” the old ram continued. “Nor do I want you to abandon your work here. The labor you do is vital to our society.” To Old-Timer’s surprise, a man met his eyes as he passed by, old and stubbly like himself but lacking horns.
“You, sir,” said Old-Timer. “Haven’t you gotten tired of
abusive leadership and unrealistic schedules? Don’t you know you can ease your suffering and still keep your honest job here in the quarry?”
“Not today, Old Trampler,” the stubbly sheep growled at him. “The pig raised our quota, probably because of you.” The tan-colored sheep went on his way.
Old-Timer turned to look over his shoulder, his gaze traveling up the totem and resting on the inlaid amethyst stone of the statue’s single eye. He raised his voice to address everyone on the street. “Is this what you all really want? To endure under the promise that Optera will provide you a better life after you’re dead? If you’d only organize—peacefully—you’d see that our swine masters depend on you for their raw material. Perhaps you’d even own the fruits of your labor for once in your lives!”
Now ten or so of the working sheep had stopped in the street to confront him. The shouting began.
“Get out of here!”
“I’m fed up with Trampler’s crap!”
Old-Timer ducked his head as the first thrown objects began sailing his way. The raised quota must have really put them in a mood. Usually he got a chance to present his thought for the day before they started hurling rocks at him.
“Don’t you understand? They’re punishing you with more work! The guards at the wall are threatening me! If we are so powerless, why are they taking measures to stop us from sharing ideas?”
“Go back to your city!”
“Scurvert is watching! He’s always watching!”
“You don’t know anything about what we go through!”
“Hold on a minute.”
The shouting and the pelting rocks ceased. Old-Timer looked for the source of the interjecting voice, which sounded surprisingly young.
The girl walking towards him was a mere lamb, probably just about Snapper’s age. Her sand-colored coat was flecked with occasional golden strands. More striking than that were her eyes, which were almost the same violet color as the stone eye of the totem above.
“What’s so wrong with what this old guy is saying?” the girl said, her gaze hard as it traveled between Old-Timer and the crowd. “For as long as I remember, he’s been coming here to give us advice. Day after day, we’ve thrown him out. But he has never given up on us.”
As he looked at her, Old-Timer felt his annoyance at the crowd fading, his pulse slowing. The faces of the sheep in the crowd were softening as well.
“It wouldn’t kill us to try making a change,” the girl said, stepping closer to Old-Timer as she spoke. “Yes, we’re afraid of the pig. The dogs protect him. But he only hurts a few of us to set an example. He can’t afford to get rid of all of us, because the Chugg Corporation needs the work we—”
“DREAMER!”
The girl ducked so sharply at the shout that Old-Timer thought she was diving to the ground. He looked at the newcomer, who approached from the direction of the railroad.
Old-Timer knew this fellow well—the only other living horned ram. Jet-black in wool and pale of skin, his horns grew straight out from the sides of his head before sweeping forward, like those of a longhorn bull. His cold blue eyes darted about, guarded by thick black eyebrows and sharp cheekbones.
The black ram stomped past the crowd and thrust his face close to that of the outspoken lamb.
“Damn it, girl,” he snapped, his forehead an inch from hers. “Get inside the house. Now.”
Still low to the ground, she nodded. “Sorry, Dad,” she whispered. “I’m sorry…”
Old-Timer’s eyes followed her as she walked past the onlookers and through the doorway of the darkened hut, out of sight.
The crowd remained quiet as the two rams regarded each other from several feet apart. The steady look the black ram gave Old-Timer was not a glare, but it wasn’t friendly either.
“Good to see you, Shiver,” Old-Timer said evenly.
A slow nod. “Trampler.”
“Enough screwing around!” the dog near the food trailer roared. “If you all have time to just stand around, maybe I need to have another talk with the boss about that quota!”
The gathered sheep gave a start and hurried on their way. Old-Timer and Shiver both threw the dog a look. He bared his teeth at them but decided it would be easier to let them have a minute than to start trouble with two rams.
Shiver began to walk down the street away from the Optera totem. Old-Timer fell into step beside him.
“You have a daughter. Dreamer, you said? It’s fitting. She definitely wants more out of life than what this quarry can offer.”
“Yeah, I just found her alone out here as an infant. And the name means more than that. She sees… things. She asks me about things I saw and did in the war. Things I never told her about. She’s like a mind-reader.”
Those words made Old-Timer’s breath catch in his throat. “You found and adopted a young lamb, only to find out that she had a miraculous ability? By the Father Orchid, that’s the same story as me and my own son.”
Shiver cocked an eyebrow. “Really, now. I was getting curious about that. I heard you just up and quit limping one day. The rumor is that your son is a healer.”
“We don’t use that word,” Old-Timer answered, more sharply than he had intended. He composed himself and leaned close to whisper. “He can heal any wound in seconds by force of will. We found out when he was just a little boy. He fixed the old war wound on my leg by accident. I’ve done my best to keep it a secret, but people talk.”
Shiver sighed. “And so you’re here bringing attention to my daughter, when you of all people would know better.”
Old-Timer nodded sadly. “I see now. She’s special. You’ve done right to hide her.”
Shiver’s blue eyes narrowed. “If Scurvert finds out my Dreamer is different… she won’t survive. He likes to get them while they’re young. Break their spirits. So I want to get her out of here. She’s set to go to University soon.”
Old-Timer nodded. Shiver stepped around to face him directly.
“That’s why I need you to make yourself scarce, old friend. She listens to you. Today she spoke up for the first time, and I know Scurvert isn’t going to like it. There are going to be consequences.”
Old-Timer’s eyes fell. “My being here is risking her safety. Shiver, the only thing you did wrong is fail to tell me before. You won’t see me here again until she’s long gone.”
Shiver nodded. “I knew a fellow father would understand.” He turned and headed back to his house. Old-Timer watched him go. At the end of the street, he could see Dreamer’s timid little head watching them from the doorway.
Chapter 8
For the second time that day, the voice of the canary broke into Caper’s thoughts. “May I join you, Professor?”
The horned owl stood on a jagged ledge reaching out from the side of Ptera Peak, not far from the cavern mouth where the giant waterfall roared. He had gone outside for peace and quiet, but to his own surprise, he found he did not mind her company. Glancing back, he motioned for her to sit beside him, and she complied.
“Mrs. Flaxer, was it?” Caper said after a pause.
“Yes, sir. I just wanted your opinion. Given your rather, ah, secular reputation, I was curious whether you believe that puppet really could be a gift from Optera.”
Caper’s eyes scanned the plains. “I don’t know. It is certainly possible. But I am not sure it matters. Whatever she has to say, people’s beliefs are too deeply entrenched, including my own. Would you let your faith be swayed by anything she said?”
Mrs. Flaxer shrugged. “I might. So far my family has chosen to observe the feud without wanting to take sides. I take my daily prayer very seriously, and I see the works of the Goddess in nature. However, I also see the value in embracing progress, as you and other birds do. The technology of the pigs has definitely improved quality of life for some, and there are times when scientific rationality does trump blind faith.”
Caper found himself nodding in agreement, thoroughly impressed, though he could no
t tear his eyes from the natural beauty before him. “You know, I have gotten carried away more times than I care to admit. Perhaps the answer to our problem lies in moderation. I do believe fully in reason over the total dogma of men like Specter, but I’m not always sure my cause is worth the toll it’s taking on…” He trailed off.
Mrs. Flaxer looked at him with concern. “What is it, Professor?”
Unlike the owl next to her, Mrs. Flaxer had barely any binocular vision at all; from this height she had no hope of seeing what he was seeing. Down in the plains, a pair of buildings sat on the western bank of the river. One was Caper’s very own University. The other was a brick eyesore built to resemble a dog’s head. The sign in front of the door in the mouth was marked “Tooth & Claw: Martial Arts by Boxer.” A black plume of smoke rose from the dog’s ear.
“Mrs. Flaxer,” Caper said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this discussion short.”
Chapter 9
“What is the Goddess’s plan for Caper and his heretics?” Specter roared. “Tell me! NOW!” He threw the unresisting puppet against the wall of his private chamber. She clattered to the ground, staring at the ceiling with empty eyes.
“For all of your prowess as a public speaker, Reverend, you are a truly awful diplomat,” the puppet said, unfazed by his wrath. “Why treat me as a malfunctioning machine? Why not try and find out what I want? I am having a hard time believing you attained such a position of influence without ever having to learn to compromise.”
“What desire could you possibly have?” he snapped. “You claim you were just brought into existence. You’ve experienced nothing at all.”
“Exactly.” The puppet could not keep the amusement out of her voice. “I have only ever seen the featureless grey walls of these caverns. I want to see what is outside. If you will help me with that, I will consider cooperating with you.”
That was how the puppet found out Specter had indeed never learned to compromise. At his orders, the red macaw soon found herself hanging from a dead tree on the mountainside at the very edge of the tree line. Iron hooks had been hammered into the small of her back, the back of her head, and pierced through the cloth of each wing. Thin ropes tied through the hooks were looped over the branches of the tree. The puppet swung gently in the afternoon breeze. Two ravens stood guard on a branch above.
The Healer Page 3
