“We’re just looking for the cats,” Javier said. “We get in, take a look, and get out.”
He didn’t know why he hadn’t told Powell to wait at the edges of the Orphanage. If Amy found out, he’d be so over the line with her that it would be a dot to him. And really, this was her problem. He should have approached her with it. Should have said something. Only something terrible seemed to happen when he said something, these days. It always went so wrong.
So he was sharing this little night reconnaissance with Powell. Powell, the stranger. Powell, the human. Powell, the one reporting on all their activities, so he could “smooth things over.”
“Is that one of them?”
Javier followed the line of Powell’s finger. There, between two intertwined trees, a lioness-shaped ani-mech padded into a clearing. Then another lioness joined it. And another. Jesus. José was right. They were getting together. Though maybe it was nothing; Amy had copied her synthetic cats from organic ones, and lionesses were supposed to enjoy hanging out. They just tended to do it while protecting their young. Which was why Amy had built them in the first place – to protect the young.
“I just have to check this out,” Javier said, and sprang.
He landed in the middle parts of the nearest intertwined tree. He gripped it with all his limbs, and edged around it carefully. Then he walked out on one of the boughs. Like most of the trees on the island, it was helpfully designed to fit the width of his foot. Amy again. Never missed a trick.
Below his feet, the lionesses were seated in a circle. They made no noise. They flicked no ears or tails or paws. They remained simply and completely still. Except for the eyes. The eyes – huge and green, almost cartoon-like – blinked slowly. Sometimes they stayed closed for a second or two, and sometimes they blinked more normally. A single cat always did the blinking. They took turns. There were six of them. It was like a nature special, only there was no blood.
Then Powell entered the ring.
He moved quietly, but not quietly enough, and as his shadow crossed the clearing the lionesses turned as one to stare at him. Their ears pricked. Their tails swished. Their mouths opened. And then they pounced.
Javier’s vision pixelated almost immediately. One moment he was full retina display, the next he was full Famicom. It was as though his senses wanted to split up the suffering into small, manageable pieces. He saw the violence play out in low-res, kludgy machine vision. The lions were attacking Powell. Powell was struggling. He was cursing and kicking trying to roll onto his back. It was the best way to protect his stomach from the lions’ back paws. They were trying to disembowel him.
If Javier didn’t stop them, he would failsafe and die.
He jumped down out of the tree and into the pile of snarling flesh. The cats squeaked beneath him, all fibreglass fur and gleaming teeth, their green eyes – Amy’s eyes, Portia’s eyes – made mostly black with pupil. Javier body-checked one of them off Powell and fell on top of him.
“I’m sorry,” Powell said. “I thought–”
“Sh-shut up and get on your b-belly.”
Beneath him, Powell twisted. Teeth clamped onto Javier’s neck. Then claws. He jabbed the lion with one elbow. It refused to let go. He jabbed harder. Claws raked his thighs. His vision darkened, blurred. He slipped his hands under Powell’s squeezing ribs and hugged him, hard.
“P-pull your legs up.”
He leapt.
The lioness on his back growled and shook her head, trying to maintain her grip. But Javier had leap-frogged over one more big cat, and he managed to dislodge her on the landing. He jumped again. Powell’s shirt rode up and he had to grip him again. His skin was unbelievably hot, and surprisingly smooth. He had an appendix scar and what felt like an old bullet wound, all thick and knotted. They landed roughly in the grass. The lions bounded after them. Javier leapt again. Powell kept suppressing little screams. They caught in his throat like a stifled sneeze. But he lifted his legs a little higher with each jump and held himself tight until the jumps fell into a rhythm, higher and further and longer, their toes just barely touching ground before kicking free again.
“We’re flying,” Powell said.
“We’re es-escaping,” Javier said.
The snarls behind them grew softer. They were out of the Veldt. They cleared the fogbank and sailed over water, landing in a twist of roots beneath a massive black mangrove from whose arms a series of mummy bags swung like giant chrysalises. The bags swayed for a moment, but none of the vN inside woke.
Powell was panting. “You OK?” Javier asked.