The Expert System's Brother

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  I rose, silent as I could, drew on my robe and slipped from the room.

  The House of our Ancestors was never entirely quiet, but the handful of brothers still awake were shoring up a roof at one end, far from the buried chambers where Melory was being kept. I could pad barefoot through the chambers through the Console Room of unfond memory, down into the levels already swallowed by dirt and moss. I had spent hours down there cutting the roots and shoveling rot and soil into sacks to be carried out. The fist of the earth was around the House of our Ancestors, and time would only tighten it. One day we would lose these chambers altogether.

  But for now, they were a dungeon, and Melory was kept there with a rope about her neck, leashed to the wall.

  There would be one man on guard, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do about him. I think I thought I could pretend I’d been sent for the prisoner, and perhaps it would have worked, but as I neared I heard voices—not one man but two.

  One was a man called Vernen, not someone I really knew save that he had a distinctive nasal voice at odds with his broad-shouldered frame. The other I recognised, with sinking heart, as Ostel. It wasn’t as though Ostel and I were fast friends. We hadn’t exactly been inseparable since we came to the House, and Sharskin’s special treatment of me had bred resentment. I had known him longer than the rest, though. He was more of a person, in my mind.

  I crept closer, eavesdropping. What was immediately clear was that they weren’t just passing the time over the midnight watch. Vernen was trying to cajole Ostel into something and Ostel was trying to say no. I say “trying” because the one thing I knew about Vernen was that he could whine forever until he got his way, and Ostel was still new and anxious to be accepted by the others, just as I was.

  “He’ll thank us,” those thin, aggravating tones wheedled. “You’ve seen how it is when he brings her to the ancestors. Ain’t getting anywhere, cos she’s still fighting him, or the ghost is. The body’s too strong, is what it is.” Vernen spat at Melory. “Pissing doctors.” He was red almost head to foot with the Mark, I remembered, and I reckon they hadn’t let it cool much when they put it on him. When we had attacked the village, he had been at the front when we were handing out beatings. There was a lot of old bitterness gone sour inside Vernen. “So we weaken her a bit. Just a bit.” His fists clenched and reclenched. “We’re owed this, man. You even listen to what Sharskin says each night? We’re the true men, and they’re keeping us from what’s ours, things like this are!”

  And I heard Ostel demurring but reluctantly, obviously already worn down by Vernen’s patter. Then, “What if she tells?”

  “Who’ll believe her? Besides, you heard how it was. Not as if she’s going to have a chance to point fingers. Just all that gabble-nonsense about working and waiting.” And then Vernen’s little titter of a laugh. “A good kicking’s going to loosen it all up inside her, break some of that stubborn she’s so full of. Then she’ll sing sweet as you like when the chief comes for her, and you and me’ll be heroes.” The need to bring violence was strung through every muscle of him. He was barely trying to make it about Sharskin’s destiny. The work at the village we’d raided had only kindled a fire in him; when Sharskin had killed the scout, Vernen had watched the swing of that metal staff with envious eyes. He was a man who wanted his revenge on the world now, and we’d never had someone in our power who wasn’t one of us.

  Ostel made a weak sound, and Vernen just shoved him aside impatiently. “Not going to kill her,” he said. “Just a kicking, eh? Not like we haven’t all had a kicking in our lives. I reckon the ghost-eater’s due hers about now.” And then he was leaning over Melory’s prone form, Ostel plucking at his own fingers anxiously but plainly not about to stop him.

  I could have used this situation in a variety of tactical ways. They were going against Sharskin’s orders, and I would have all manner of leverage over them that I could use to my advantage. No doubt a cleverer man than I would have held back and let them take enough rope to hang themselves. Rather than just run out and tackle Vernen, which is what I did. He had one foot back to give Melory a kicking and so I hauled him clean off his feet and onto his back, and for a moment I thought that would be all, somehow, that he’d just stay down there peaceably. Then he was snarling and up on his feet, grabbing me by the shoulders and ramming me into the wall while Ostel just looked on, wide-eyed. Probably he was telling me to stay out of it or something, but I only remember my head ringing. Vernen was a lot stronger than me. I had the knife.

  I’d like to say here that he pushed himself on to it, that it was an accident, but I will keep telling the truths that make me look worse, along with the rest. I stabbed him. He was stronger than me and I couldn’t beat him any other way, or couldn’t think of another way, and the knife was right there. I put it in him and then I did it again and then one more time, so that his yell was cut horribly short and then so was he, ending up on the floor gurgling and twitching while Ostel just stared at me. It had been very quick. Neither of us knew what came next.

  My mind recovered first and made a lunge for the narrative of what had just happened. “He was going against Sharskin,” I babbled. “He would’ve ruined it all.” As though that gave me the right to murder him out of hand. But I was the priest’s favourite, and maybe if I had kept my head and not been tripping over my words like a maniac, then I might have pulled it off somehow. But I stammered and stuttered, the knife held out at the end of my arm like a poisonous animal I would rather be rid of. Ostel glanced down at Melory, and when he looked back at me he understood.

  “You traitor,” he said, low and nasty.

  “Ostel, listen . . .” But I had no words to put after that “listen,” nothing for him to listen to.

  “You heard the priest,” he hissed at me. “She’s not your sister, man. She’s just a ghost-bearer. Give it up. Just . . . can’t you see how it’s good here, how we’re meant for this? Don’t throw it all away.”

  I had just stabbed Vernen to death in front of him, and he was trying to save me from myself.

  “Ostel, please,” I said, and all the more desperate because a part of me wanted to take what he was offering. If I just let Sharskin be right in all things, how much simpler life would be. I’d never have to make a decision again.

  And that thought brought me up short. That was Sharskin’s way, after all. We did what he said because he was the priest. We were like extra hands and bodies for his commandments, and he told us that was the way it had to be, the way the ancestors would have done it before the fall. Except that was the way of the villages, wasn’t it? Do what the ghosts say, bow your head, and if you’re too far from everyone else’s view of what’s right, then it’s the Severance for you, and out you go. The revelation shook me. Sharskin and the ghosts were no different, save in who benefitted.

  “Do you think he really believes it all?” I asked Ostel. “The ancestors, changing the world, Severing everyone. Is it right that way, in his head, or is it just that it would make him in charge of everything? Priest of the whole world.”

  Ostel had not been party to my revelation, of course, and he stared at me as if I was mad. His eyes kept flicking to the bloody knife. He had been left to watch over Melory, but nobody had thought to arm him. Why would he need it?

  “I’m going to take my sister out of here,” I told him, and now I’d done with the stuttering; the words came out with perfect assurance, as though I was a priest, too.

  “Handry . . .” Ostel said, but he was backing away and I was advancing. Melory was watching with bright eyes, and when Ostel came level with her she just stuck out a leg and tripped him. It was the sort of stupid prank children did back in Aro, that got them shouted at. No ghost would have thought of it. Nor, it seemed, had Ostel, for his heel struck Melory’s calf and then he went straight over, landing hard on his back. I wanted to knock him out then, as he lay gasping for breath. I didn’t know how to do it. I thought that if I just hit him in the head I might kill him.
In the end I just hacked through Melory’s leash and dragged her to her feet.

  She had no such compunctions. The ghostlight juddered in her face and she kicked Ostel in the head, a precise jab with her heel. He went out like a blown candle and I realised she had got the doctor ghost to tell her, somehow, exactly where to strike him.

  “Come on,” I said, needlessly, and then we were both fleeing upwards through the great hollow chambers of the House, ducking through one square doorway, squeezing through where the doors had rusted in place half-shut.

  I wanted to go straight through to the outside door the quickest way, but there were voices ahead before we were even halfway there. It was the overnight work crew, cluttering the doorway and complaining to each other about the cold and the dark. They must have some outside maintenance they weren’t too keen on, and were taking their sweet time in getting down to it, loitering just within the shelter of the House. I cursed and looked around wildly for somewhere to hide and wait, and that was when Melory just dropped.

  She slumped down the wall and I saw her arms and legs twitch, fingers fluttering like wings. The ghostlight flashed from her face so brightly I thought someone must surely see. A moment later she was herself again, lone eye staring wildly.

  “The voices,” she said. “The voices are still there.”

  “The ancestors?” I asked her, and she gave me an incredulous look.

  “You think they’re ancestors? They’re nothing of that, Handry. They’re like the ghost, but . . . older, vaster. I can hear them still, in my head.”

  “Are they attacking you?” I knew I’d never get her clear if she was screaming and writhing like she’d been in the Console Room.

  “Your man hasn’t set them on me again yet,” she said. “But I can feel the loose end of what they were doing to me. If he tells them to go to work on me again, I . . . But they’re just talking to each other now. Talking in little circles, round and round. They’re . . . broken.” Her eye winked and the light glittered under her skin. “They’re sad.”

  “What?”

  “Not sad. That’s a human thing. But there are a hundred things they keep trying to do that can’t be done anymore.” And she gasped and the ghostlight came and went. “Handry, there are rooms and rooms.”

  “I know—”

  “Not here, not for our bodies. Rooms in my mind. I can feel them, all the voices going into and out of the rooms, round and round, chasing their tails. So much, Handry!”

  Then the yelling started from deep within the House and I knew that Ostel had awoken or that he and Vernen had been found.

  I had a mad idea of just charging the work crew, knife out, and scattering them. I had lost the knife, though. I had no memory of it, but I’d got rid of the weapon, only the blood on my hands to say I’d ever had it. And there were six men in the work crew and any one of them would be able to block the door.

  “They’ll search,” I said, heart hammering so hard I could barely draw breath. “Perhaps they’ll think we’ve gone outside already.”

  Melory was staring but I wasn’t sure if she saw me. Her lips moved and the light flickered as though things passed back and forth between it and the canvas of her skin.

  “We need to hide somewhere. They’ll send out search parties. Then we can creep out, when they’re gone.” It wasn’t a very good plan, but nothing else came to me. And where to hide . . . ?

  I went towards one end of the ship, where there were some underground chambers that were small and crooked and not much used. Perhaps we could tuck ourselves away there. But no—the dormitories were between us and them and I could hear people already on their feet and running around. No chance of getting there. I couldn’t go underground the other way, either—we’d just come from there and they’d search those places first. I racked my brains for some place they’d never think we’d gone.

  Another shudder went through Melory and she dropped and held her head. When the light came, I could see the bones of her hands silhouetted within the flesh. That was what decided me, because the one place she would never willingly go was where Sharskin had tormented her, but the ancestors obviously didn’t need to be in the Console Room to pry at her head. How would it be worse if I just hid there with her, where Sharskin would surely never think to look for us?

  By that time Melory couldn’t walk, so I half carried, half dragged her through the House, shrinking at every shadow and shout. I think the congregation hadn’t worked out what was going on and most were still barely awake, but I heard Sharskin’s authoritative voice mustering them to arms, so their confusion would not last long. Whimpering, I got Melory into the Console Room, willing the place to stay quiet and dark. I tucked her between two of the bulky projections that gave the place its name and she clutched at the air and drew ragged, painful breaths, and her face flashed and guttered.

  I crouched over her, holding my robe up to block out the flickering radiance. I could hear many feet close by, and Sharskin’s voice, not angry but determined. He had mustered a decent number of the congregation and surely now he would lead them into the night, fruitlessly hunting an escapee who had never in fact escaped.

  But instead he walked calmly into the Console Room. I froze, horrified at his prescience, but he had not seen me there, nor did he notice Melory’s ghostlight against the rising glow of the panels.

  “Locate medical expert system!” he told the invisible ancestors, and they told him, “Working,” and then, “Medical expert system located upon bridge.” And in the air a shaky image appeared of squares and lines and one glimmering red dot. I didn’t see a bridge anywhere and I didn’t understand the picture at first, but then something flipped in my mind and I understood that it was a drawing of the House, all the rooms within it laid out, and there, where the dot was, that was the Console Room, where we were.

  Sharskin took a moment to catch on. “Locate expert system,” he said. “Not me, I know where I am.”

  “Medical expert system located upon bridge.”

  My plan had been a good one, in a way. Sharskin had certainly not thought to find us there, but the ancestors knew.

  Others began to file in then, and Sharskin’s keen eyes had sought me out at last, me and Melory. He shook his head sadly and gestured with his staff.

  I didn’t wait, but jumped up and rushed him. If I could overpower Sharskin, if I could hold him to ransom, if I could, if I could . . .

  He jabbed me in the jaw and I fell over, legs abruptly turned to water. When the others grabbed me and held me, there was barely any need to. I felt weak as a dying man just from that one blow. Another couple dragged Melory forwards, spasming and arching, lost in her fight with the ancestors.

  “I forgive you, Handry,” Sharskin said softly. “You will understand that this is for the greater good one day. We will not be denied our destiny.” Then he had Melory dragged in front of him, face down on the corroded metal floor, and he ground the end of his staff into her back. “How’s that recipe coming along, Doctor?” he demanded, and then, to the walls and the ceiling and the night sky beyond, “Tell me what I want. Tell me you have the knowledge from her. I want to kill her and move on. Give me the Severance!”

  “Working,” said the ancestors in his own unconcerned and affectless tones. “Update installation complete. Caution, new operating system version postdates most recent records. Unforeseen compatibility errors may arise.”

  “Just tell me!” Sharskin bellowed at them. “Redeem yourselves after all these years!”

  For a long moment the House seemed to hold its breath around us as Melory twitched and trembled, and then that voice came again, almost reverently.

  “Command access granted. All systems ready. Please state requirements.”

  Sharskin’s jaw actually dropped and for a moment Melory was utterly forgotten. “Repeat,” he instructed.

  “Command access granted. Higher systems ready.”

  I saw a tear glint in his eye. “At last,” he breathed.

 
“What is it?” one of the congregation asked him.

  “The deep secrets of the House,” Sharskin said. “The greater lore of the ancestors. Not the scraps they have communicated to me, but their true secrets, how the ghosts were made, how they ruined the world. Perhaps I don’t even need this thing.” A kick at Melory. “The ancestors must remember how the Severance is made . . .” His grin blazed fierce and proud. “House, hear me! Access printer functions, retrieve recipe for Severance and keep turning it out!”

  “Not recognised,” came the calm voice of the ancestors.

  “What would they have called it?” Sharskin stared at us wildly. “House . . . Ancestors, retrieve recipe for . . .”

  “Authorisation not recognised,” the voice said again, but now it had changed. Instead of the flat mimicry of Sharskin the ancestors were imitating another voice, one I had known all my life.

  The lights about us flickered and danced, and something within the House groaned ponderously, a huge beast in pain. Melory’s face was tilted upwards, her eye sightless. Her inner light shone so brightly I could see her skull.

  “Access printer functions!” Sharskin repeated, words that meant nothing to anyone save him and the ancestors, and Melory. “Give me the Severance!”

  More unseen monsters began moaning in the walls around us and the entire House shuddered and settled slightly. From outside came the snap of vines stretched past their breaking points. “Authorisation not recognised,” said Melory’s mechanical voice. “Receiving new instructions. Working. Working.” Dust flurried down on us from the ravaged ceiling.

  Sharskin screamed in fury and the brothers who had been holding my sister suddenly remembered what their roles were, and yanked at her arms to get her to stop whatever she was doing, even though she was just standing there. The priest put his face right in hers again, bellowing at her, spattering his spit across her face. That grin of his was gone. The ancestors weren’t listening to him anymore.