Interference

by Sue Burke

  Arthur watches him leave and returns to digging, calling over a Mu Ree to look at the eagle. “That’s a fatal injury, right there.”

  “You know that better than me.”

  “Beheaded, and here, these broken ribs. I’ll guess it didn’t die of natural causes.”

  Haus comes over, looks, and shrugs. “So eagles don’t like each other.”

  “They won’t like us, either.”

  “I have a big gun. I’ll protect you.”

  In the city, Jose scoffs.

  Om has been staring at the wall-like perimeter of the circle. “Why these circles?”

  I have been wondering that myself. What utility could they have? If they are used as burial grounds, they are a source of nutrition. Bamboo has worked with animals throughout its history—that is, exploited animals and encouraged slaughter among them to provide bodies as nutrients, especially as sources of iron. Yet here, we have the remains of dinner and slugs, which seems peaceful, and an eagle, which could be a real enemy and not the result of manufactured warfare. The pattern here might be as benign as my own relationships in Rainbow City.

  I have learned my lesson regarding induced warfare. This other bamboo might also be as chastened and may have domesticated some animal to a degree. Glassmakers? They would be—they are—excellent service animals.

  Mirlo is out in a sunny field with a trowel, digging and planting amid a carpet of tough red quitch grass. Snow and Cawzee are nearby examining a small locustwood tree. If I grow, I will not be alone in that field. Velma and a Mu Ree are outside the circle recording the movements of a line of tiny crabs crossing through the underbrush. Crabs do not behave that way in our valley. Lizards flee as the crabs approach, and a few small owls run alongside the line to try to catch the lizards. Haus stands guard, monitoring all feeds.

  Arthur approaches him. “We should climb a tree.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Arthur sighs. That wasn’t the answer he had hoped for. “I’ll radio everything I see. We’re not alone. We should know what’s out there.”

  Haus taps some special glasses he is wearing. “Take these. We can all see what you see.” He removes them, adjusts a setting on the side, and hands them to Arthur, who puts them on and looks around carefully. Eventually he points at a low-infrared shape in the bush.

  “Fitch. Maybe.”

  Haus squints. “I see your feed. I’ll take care of that.” He raises his gun.

  “No, let me.” Arthur pulls a sling out of his belt and sends a clay bullet at the animal. It screeches and rushes away with a loud rustle in the brush. “That way it’ll share the news.”

  Arthur sets his bow and large weapons at the foot of the tree, puts on gloves, and begins to climb. Halfway up he stops.

  “Look, smoke.” He takes off the glasses for a moment. “Two hours away.” He climbs up as far as he can go and confirms it: a campfire a two-hour hike away. “That is, two hours if there’s a good road between there and the grove. It might exist, for all we know.”

  “Yet another civilization,” Om sends. “But would it be as welcoming as yours?”

  “They know we’re here,” Arthur answers.

  “They haven’t attacked.”

  “If they’re eagles, they might be waiting until they’re hungry.”

  Ladybird, who has been listening from the city, interrupts using the public microphone provided by the technicians. “We would love to meet other Glassmakers. Haven’t they been sending friendly scents? Cawzee, what do you think?”

  “Friendly scents, yes. Simple scents. Not be-it normal way to talk.”

  “They could be frightened.”

  “I smell no fear.”

  “Whatever,” Arthur says. “Let’s stick together. Come back to the circle.”

  Through Mirlo’s eyes, I see Cawzee urging Mirlo and Snow to hurry. Arthur climbs down slowly, examining the forest around with great care. With the infrared setting, he spots some large crabs, something that might be a pair of fitch, many smaller animals, and the exploration team, all busy.

  Om watches, then consults a map and sends to Haus, “We’re here, right?” He stares into space and makes a note for his book: As in Death Downstream, natives face newcomers with varying responses. We were welcomed at Rainbow City, which turned out to be disguised hostility. And here in Laurentia, we may be met with absence, a possible disguise for hostility or fear or even disinterest.

  Then he sends to everyone: “Our purpose is to explore these bamboo groves and the life here in Laurentia. Whether we meet these residents is up to them. To fulfill our purpose, we will circle east and south back to our plane. Does this seem reasonable?”

  “And tomorrow?” Haus asks. I seem to detect an underlying note of hostility.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps a circle to the west and north. We can decide at the end of today.”

  Few others offer questions, happy to have someone make decisions for them. Back at the city, in the Meeting House, the decision is discussed. Every queen wishes to meet these Glassmakers. Ladybird conveys their message.

  “I understand their concern,” Om says. “We’ll light a fire when we arrive at the plane, a smoky fire. They can see it and respond as they will. Is that acceptable?”

  The exploration team has time to regroup and prepare to leave before the queens finish their discussion, at times so strident that Ladybird retreats. Some prefer more exploration, others worry about the explorers’ safety. Finally, they agree.

  “We think they feel fear,” Thunderclap announces. “But you will leave them gifts to show you are friendly.”

  “Excellent idea,” Om says, “although we have little to give. How about nut bread, which you enjoy so much?”

  And so they leave three loaves of nut bread carefully placed on a colorful scarf, along with a string of beads, a small glass knife, and a canteen. They begin their trek, still gathering samples, recording all kinds of observations, and discussing these discoveries without pause. Arthur, Cawzee, Haus, and Snow keep careful watch, weapons at the ready. Cawzee’s bow sometimes trembles in his hand.

  They travel a kilometer without incident, passing small groves of rainbow bamboo, some with circles, some without. One isolated stalk displays brightly colored flowers around its diameter to create a circular rainbow rather than the usual pastels growing at random. It is strikingly beautiful.

  “Stevland, is this art?” Mirlo sends.

  “Clearly. This is a civilization of bamboo.” My hopes have been confirmed.

  Ernst films it from every angle.

  “Why don’t we see this at the city?” Zivon asks.

  “It could be a sport,” Mirlo says, “a mutation.” Snow and Arthur look at each other with the tiniest of smiles.

  I think about its meaning. This could be a contest. Or a signal, although not for us; it would take too long to develop this display. These bamboo are well nourished, apparently by their service animals.

  The exploration team continues down a well-traveled path until, around a bend, a fallen tree blocks the way. Arthur runs up to investigate and speaks as he looks.

  “The leaves aren’t wilted. This just fell. Cawzee, I’m going to look at the trunk and see why.”

  “No, I go, I be-me fast.”

  “Okay. I’ll be guarding you.” He raises a bow with an arrow nocked, and Cawzee leaps through the underbrush toward the stump.

  “What do you see?”

  “Brush, trees. A bird. Another bird running away. And here where it broke and fell. Cut. This tree was cut. I see marks—”

  “Come back, now! As fast as you can. This is an ambush.”

  Silence falls in the Meeting House.

  “Which way do we go?” Haus asks.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Arthur says. “Prepare to meet new friends.”

  “Let’s back up away from the tree,” Haus says. “Get some room to maneuver. Everyone stay together.”

  He hardly needed to issue that final order. Everyone is looking
at each other, at their surroundings, moving closer together. Cawzee emerges in a leap to land at Arthur’s side.

  Om steps forward. “Let us assume they will come this way. I will take the lead.”

  He barely has time to situate himself when a Glassmaker dashes across the path. Ernst freezes at the sight and sends it to everyone: a smallish major with a spear in his hand. Zivon begins to describe him, but Cawzee has already drawn some conclusions.

  “Not even have-him a blanket. One small spear. Poor. But yes, a Glassmaker.”

  The queens confer and motion Jose to join them.

  “I see five of them,” Haus says. “Six.” He switches a control on his glasses. “Camouflaged.”

  “I smell them,” Cawzee says. “They ask what they see. I send them welcome.”

  “That’ll only work,” Zivon says, “if all Glassmakers use the same scents.”

  Arthur waves his hand for Zivon to be quiet and leans forward to listen. The squawks and whistles of Glassmaker chatter are unmistakable. I do not understand the language.

  With hand gestures, Arthur asks Cawzee what he heard.

  Cawzee signals no. He has not understood them either. In the Meeting House, I ask the queens.

  “Occasional words, perhaps,” Thunderclap says. “Like Earthling and Human language, they be-them different.”

  Haus silently asks the network. It replies that the language generally falls outside of known Glassmaker vocabulary, although the pattern is similar.

  Arthur signals for Cawzee to make a scent signifying good.

  Soon Mirlo notes the scents of geraniol and nerol, flowerlike scents that signify good and happy.

  This is a promising plan. Communications can mark the first step toward peace. Presuming, as Zivon says, all Glassmakers use the same scents.

  In the battle between Glassmakers and the city generations ago, I used scents to control Glassmaker combatants. Of course, any bamboo, any plant, can make scents, and we bamboo, all plants, like to control animals as much as possible. Or necessary.

  I have time to think all this because nothing happens. The exploration team waits. The Glassmakers chatter but do nothing. The queens in the Meeting House watch, scenting caution.

  Then one of the Glassmakers confronting the explorers voices a complex shriek that ends in a snap like a tree branch being broken. That sound is like ethylene to me, dangerous.

  “They called something,” Arthur says. “A call for help. It has to be.”

  “I hear questions. They be-them uncertain.”

  “What if we just kill these?” Haus says. “An idea for discussion. As an option.”

  “How many are there altogether?” Arthur answers. “Do you see any more of them?”

  Haus shakes his head. He has been scanning the area, and he continues to do so. From far away a Glassmaker answers with clatters and a buzz, meaningless sounds to us, but not to each other. They are preparing something, and there are more nearby.

  Om has been watching this carefully but not acting. Now he calls the pilot. “You have our bearings. Come here.” He exhibits wise leadership. “How long will it take?”

  “Fifteen minutes at least to prepare and warm up.”

  “Make it half that.”

  Humans can die in less than a single minute.

  “More are coming,” Haus says. Nothing can be seen yet in his glasses, but a very slight and distant rustle suggests that large-bodied animals are coming.

  “We want them to be confused about us,” Arthur says. “No one attacks when they’re confused.”

  “We should sing,” Zivon says. “Glassmakers respect songs.” For once he has had a good idea.

  “All right,” Om says. “We all know ‘We Pledge.’”

  So they begin to sing. It is a simple song, apparently used in weddings, judging from the words. Haus and Arthur confer as Snow and Cawzee join in the chorus.

  “So now we can’t hear what’s out there,” Haus complains.

  “Doesn’t matter. Look. They’re confused.”

  “Do you think they’re hostile?”

  “They cut off our path. That’s hostile.”

  “What do they want?” Haus asks.

  “We might look like a pack of deer crab, not eagles.”

  “Food? I’m made out of meat.”

  “They’re not doing a thing.”

  “No, they’re moving behind us. We’re surrounded.”

  “See any weapons besides spears?” Arthur asks.

  “No. I think. They can probably throw rocks, too.”

  “No, Glassmakers are bad at throwing.”

  “So just spears.”

  “They’re fast, really fast.”

  “Ethically, we have to wait until they do something hostile.”

  “After that?”

  “Shoot.”

  “But to frighten!” Om interrupts.

  Arthur gestures for readiness to Cawzee, who is singing along in a loud, eerie howl. He leans and gestures to Snow, too, who nods yes.

  “They’re moving back,” Haus sends openly.

  “Let’s stay here,” Arthur says. “We can shoot arrows farther than they can throw spears.”

  “The plane can’t land here.”

  “We’ve got to stay alive until it takes off.”

  The explorers stand waiting, with Arthur, Cawzee, Snow, and Haus protecting their flanks, and Om standing in front. Haus reaches out to him with a handgun. Om closes his eyes, shivers, and shakes his head no. Ernst keeps recording.

  In the city, the Meeting House is full to overflowing.

  A Glassmaker, surprisingly close, calls out, “Check check eekeee!” They charge.

  Haus opens fire, but upward, his gun popping like giant exploding hydrogen seeds.

  “They’ve stopped moving!” he says.

  Silence. Some twigs and torn leaves fall from the canopy. Then the Glassmakers imitate the sound of the pulse gun to perfection. The explorers are surrounded by what sounds like guns firing. Haus is motionless, stiff. Cawzee calls out, “Who be-you?”

  A spear flies at him as an answer. Haus swings the gun and fires at where it came from.

  “Man down,” Haus announces. “They’re looking at him.” Zivon bends down to pick up the spear. Before he can rise, a volley of spears backed by gun sounds comes from all sides. Haus sprays pulses in a half circle. Glassmakers scream, twigs and leaves fly, and hoofs pound. Then silence again, except for a nearby moan.

  “They’re running away, the ones still alive,” Haus says.

  From far away comes the sound of drumming, an eagle rhythm.

  “Back to the plane. Now!” Arthur yells.

  “How?”

  “Follow me,” Cawzee says. He leaps around the tree and pushes through the brush onto the path behind it. Everyone runs after him, and I see what the Earthlings see. Which is not enough.

  Trees and brush fly past. Haus seems to be the last one, looking back down the path—and behind, up, around. It is a long run to the heli-plane.

  In the Meeting House, everyone strains to watch. Minutes pass. They see Snow help Velma, who carries heavy equipment. From far away, the heli-plane engines begin to roar. Cawzee runs back and forth, making sure the way is safe. He pauses to sniff, then stands very still, listening.

  “Drumming sound moves away from us.”

  “Maybe,” Arthur answers.

  “I don’t see anything,” Haus says. “But stay careful.”

  “Yes,” Cawzee says. “I only say what I hear. I not trust what I hear.”

  “Eagles or Glassmakers, they can outrun us,” Arthur says. “Let’s go.”

  Breathless, they reach the heli-plane and scramble inside.

  It takes off. The noise sends bats flying and kats scurrying. But nothing approaches and they take off safely. Immediately Om orders the pilot to fly over the camp with the smoking fire. On the way, they follow the noise of the drumming. An infrared camera finds a line of eagles heading through the forest towar
d the camp, thirty of them.

  “No fledglings,” Jose advises Arthur over their secret radio. “This is a hunting party, not a migratory group.”

  “No young,” Arthur sends for public consumption. “They’re on the hunt.”

  It takes only a minute more for the heli-plane to reach the camp with the fire, where the distinctive shapes of Glassmakers are easy to identify. They shake weapons at the heli-plane when they see it, but they do not hide.

  “They probably don’t know about the massacre back at the path,” Om says.

  “Or they can’t believe it,” Zivon says.

  “Be-they poor,” Cawzee says. “And few.”

  It seems so. No one wears even a blanket, and the camp is made of rough shelters of leafy thatch.

  “I count twenty majors,” Arthur says, “give or take. That’s not a match for thirty eagles.”

  “We should document this,” says Ernst. “How long can we stay here?”

  “We have fuel,” the pilot says. “We can do whatever you want. Sir,” he adds, looking at Om.

  “Carnage viewed from a privileged vantage,” he answers softly.

  “It has ethical issues,” Velma says.

  “We’re neutral,” Ernst answers. “It’s their war.”

  “You will help Glassmakers!” Thunderclap calls out in the Meeting House. The other queens shriek their agreement. Humans join in.

  “Help them?” Haus says. “They tried to kill us.”

  “They are us!” Thunderclap answers.

  I send to Arthur and Cawzee: “I think the Glassmakers acted out of an understandable fear. You were a new kind of animal, and they may have little experience with friendly animals if they are surrounded by fitch and eagles.”

  Arthur says out loud, “I say help the Glassmakers. For all we know, that’s the only other group on this planet. And Pacifists include Glassmakers, even if the ones down there don’t know who we are.”

  “Every decision is unethical,” Om says, “so I defer to the natives. How do you vote in the city? Yes?”

  Arthur, as if he were at the Meeting House, raises his hand, as do Cawzee and Snow. The Meeting House is a sea of hands.