Serpent's Reach

by C. J. Cherryh

  Jim intrigued her suddenly, in that monomaniac way that she filled her days, even important ones, with distractions. She found herself thinking of home, and of comforts, and of Lia’s human warmth; and ordinarily she would have stopped herself at this point, dead-stopped, but that there was a distance possible this day, in this place, and she felt, suddenly, that life owed her something of comfort, some last self-indulgence, some…

  And there the thoughts did stop. She turned them cold, and made the question merely intellectual, and useful, the matter of gaining knowledge. Jim was a puzzle, one fit for the time—not easy. She had the strange realisation that they were a puzzle she had never wondered about, the azi—a presence too useful and ordinary to question; as she wore clothing, and never perceived the technical skills involved in its making, until she had chanced to desire a cloak made, and had stirred herself to visit a place that might manage it. She had discovered by that, a marvellous workshop of threads and colours and machines, and an old beta who handmade things for the joy of them, who found pleasure in the chance to work with rare major silk. There was behind the production of the cloth an entire chain of ancient arts, which had quite awed her—at distance: there were gifts and gifts, and hers was not creative.

  It was that manner of insight with the azi, had been so from the first night of the game, although it was only now she realised why the game had mattered: she had filled her time with it, and gained occupation—anesthetic for the mind, such occupations, a near-at-hand focus, a work of art to analyse and understand.

  The highest one, perhaps. Weaving, sculpting, the composing of poetry—what more than this, that Kontrin left betas to practice? They made men.

  His face was surely not unique: there would be others identical to him, at various ages, scattered across the vicinity of Andra. They would be high types, as he was: technicians, house-officers, supervisors, foremen, guards, entertainers—the latter a euphemism on jaded Meron, where anything could be done; a great many of his doubles were likely majat azi, for majat prized cleverness. That he was also pleasant decoration to an establishment would not occur to the majat, whose eyes could not determine that, but it obviously occurred to Andra Lines. All the serving-azi were of that very expensive class, although no two of them were alike. Obviously they were to please the passengers in capacities outside the salon, and Jim seemed to have had some experience of such duties. It was wasteful, as the elaborate decor of the ship was wasteful and extravagant, to settle the most sensitive and capable of azi to tasks far beneath their mental capacity. But that was typical of beta-ish ostentation: if one could pay, one bought and displayed, even if it was completely senseless.

  Jim finished his breakfast and sat, staring at the plate between his hands, probably unsure what to do next, but looking distressingly like a machine out of program.

  Many, many azi were machinelike, incapable of even basic function when diverted from their precise series of duties, or taken from the specific house or factory to which they belonged. A few even went catatonic and had to be terminated if they could not be shocked out of it and retrained. But Jim, had he won the wager, could have passed for beta…save for the tattoo; he was capable of living on his own: he was of that order, as mentally alert as any born-man.

  Lia had been such.

  Jim looked up finally, perhaps conscious of her concentration on him. There was again that sadness…the same that she had met in the night, a deep and unreachable melancholy, the same that had faced her mirror-wise across the gaming table: suspicion, perhaps, that some games were not for winning, even if they had to be played out.

  “You don’t ask questions,” she said.

  He still did not.

  “We’re going to Istra,” she said.

  “I’ll leave with you, then.”

  That sounded like a question. She realised the drift of his previous thoughts, and leaned back, still studying him. “Yes. You should be well-accustomed to travelling, oughtn’t you? Haven’t you ever wanted to go downworld? I should think you might have had some curiosity about the ports this ship touches.”

  He nodded, with an infinitesimal brightening of the eyes.

  “You can buy,” she said, “whatever you like. My resources ceased to amuse me…long ago. I pass the curse on to you: anything you want, any extravagance. There would have been a limit to your funds had you won. But with me, there’s none. There are hazards to my company; there are compensations too. If there’s anything on this ship you’ve ever wanted to have, you’re free to buy it.”

  That only seemed to confuse him. He had seen betas come and go, richly dressed, ordering fine food and indulging in ship-board pleasures: the limit of his experience in avarice, no doubt. Any beta so invited could have imagined something at once.

  “Why don’t you go change again?” she suggested. “You don’t belong in ship’s uniform any longer. See how the clothes suit you. Then you might think about packing. We’ll be docked by noon. I have some business to attend, but when it’s done, then we’ll amuse ourselves, have a look at the world, commit a few extravagances, see if there’s not some society to disarrange. Go on, go on with you.”

  He looked no less confused, but he rose from table and turned to the bench to sort through the packaged clothing. He spilled a stack onto the floor, gathered it up again, only to spill another, clumsiness that was not like him. He knelt and collected everything into groups, hesitating in his movements, finally made his selections and restored order. The sight disturbed her, hit her like a blow to the stomach. Azi. Motor confusion, brought on by too much strangeness, too many changes at once. She held her tongue. A sticking-point in the clockwork: it was like that. Intervention would make it worse.

  She thought of Lia, and pushed Lia out of her mind.

  He went off with his armful of packages, into the bedroom.

  She became aware of subdued chatter from the viewer, and rose to cut it off. Depression returned the more forcefully, the more she tried to ignore it.

  I could apply to Cerdin, she thought. I could beg Moth and Council for shelter. I could go on living, among Kontrin, home again. All I have to do is bow to Council.

  That was always, she reckoned, all it required. And she would not, not now.

  She started about her own packing, opening lockers and chests in search of forgotten items.

  The room lights flared red suddenly, the whole suite bathed in the warning glow.

  “Sera?” Jim was out of the bath in an instant, his voice plaintive with alarm.

  Raen crossed the room in four strides and punched in the emergency channel, foreknowing.

  MAJAT PASSENGER, the screen read, NOW MOVING. SECTION 50 PLEASE SECURE YOUR DOORS AND REMAIN INSIDE. PLEASE CALL STATION 3 IF YOU FEEL YOU NEED ASSISTANCE.

  She punched 3. “Security, this is 512. I’ve noticed your alarm. Would you kindly key us out? Thank You.”

  Room light went normal white again. Jim still hovered in the doorway, looking frightened.

  She checked the gun, clipped it again to her belt beneath her cloak. “Majat hibernate in flight,” she told him. “They shed when they wake. The skin’s still soft. Instinct—inevitably drives them for daylight when they’ve shed; the gravitational arrangement on this ship, you see, the upper decks…no attack, just natural behaviour. Best just to let it wander. It’s slightly deaf in this state; the auditory palps are soft…eyes none too keen either. Not to be trifled with. I’m going out to see to it. You can stay here if you like. Not many folk care to be around them.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  It was not enthusiasm, but willingness. She detected no panic, and nodded. “If you’ll make no move without advice. The hazard is minor.”

  “You and the majat—are together?”

  “A hazard of my company. I warned you. Their vicinity affects some people. I hope you’re immune.”

  She opened the door and went out into the corridor, where the lights were still red.

  Jim followed before
the door shut. “Lock it,” she said, pleased that he had come. “Always lock things behind me.”

  The sweat of fear was already glistening on his face, but he punched the lock into operation and stayed with her as she headed down the corridor.

  iii

  Corridor 50 was next the lifts and the emergency shafts. Raen reckoned well enough how a blind majat could have arrived on fifth level: tunnels were natural for it.

  And it was there, huddled against a section-door at the farther end of the corridor, a tall hulk of folded limbs and fantastical chitinous protuberances. It glistened in the red light, slick with new skin, bewildered by the barriers that had closed before it.

  “Quite blind to most of its surroundings,” she said to Jim, and the majat’s palps were not all that soft. It caught sound and turned, mandibles moving in great agitation. It was a Warrior, hatchling-naked and weaponless.

  “Stand here by the corner,” Raen said to Jim. “Step round it if it turns ugly. Never try a long run: no human can outrace a Warrior. Its vision, you see, is entirely thermal, and dependent on contrasts of heat; put something cold and solid between yourself and it, and it’s lost you. It doesn’t see this corridor in anything like our vision: it sees us, maybe…or places where metal is warmed by underlying machinery, or by the touch of a band. Never touch a wall or a surface with your bare skin if you’re trying to elude one. And they not only detect scent: they read it.”

  The auditory palps still moved, perceiving sound, but at this range, perhaps, unable to distinguish it. Seated, it suddenly heaved itself up on two leathery legs, towering against the overhead. It boomed a warning note.

  Raen walked forward slowly, flung back her cloak, held up both her hands, backs outward.

  Air sucked in, an audible gust.

  “Kontrin,” it said in deep harmonies. “Blue-hive Kontrin.”

  “Blue-hive Warrior.” She spoke distinctly, a little loudly, for its sake.

  “Yes,” it sighed, blowing air from its chambers. “Yess.” Auditory palps swept decisively forward, like a human relaxing to listen. It lowered its erect body, forelimbs tucked, the whole eloquent of vast relief, trust. There was pathos in the action, sense-deprived as the Warrior was. Something welled up in her, a feeling she had pursued from world to world and not captured until now.

  “I knew that a blue had taken this ship;” she said. “I came.”

  It started forward in evident intent to touch, stopped abruptly. Air pulsed in and out, thumping with the force of its expulsion. The sound became words. “Other. Other. Other.”

  She realised the fix of its dimmed vision and looked back, where Jim waited by the corner.

  “Only an azi, Warrior. Mine, my-hive. Don’t be concerned for it.”

  It hesitated, then stalked up to her, bowed itself, seeking touch. She lifted both her hands to its scent-patches. It absorbed this. Then it bowed further, and in a gesture very like a human kiss, opened its mandibles wide and touched the false chelae to her lips. The venomed spike was very close, the jaws gaping on either side. The wrong taste would snap them shut on reflex, and unlike another Warrior, she had no chitinous defense but the sleeve-armour. Yet the taste was sweet; it gently received taste from her.

  “No resolution,” it said. “From? From?”

  “Cerdin,” she said. “Once.”

  “Queen.” The analysis proceeded in its body, and it drew back, mandibles clashing in distress. “I taste familiarity. I taste danger.”

  “I am Raen a Sul. Raen a Sul hant Meth-maren.”

  It went rigid. Even the mandibles ceased to move. A Warrior alone, it comprehended only Warrior-memories whatever the complexities its body night carry for others to read.

  “Danger,” it concluded helplessly. Auditory pales swung forward and back. “Recently waked.” It gave warning of its own disorganisation, still trusting, but it retreated. The mandibles began to work again in visible distress.

  “Warrior, you have reached Istra. Is this not the place for which blue-hive intended you?”

  “Yesss.” It scuttled farther back from her, into the corner next the door. “Forbidden. Forbidden. Forbidden.”

  She stayed where she was. Warriors were often laconic and disjointed in conversation, but this one seemed mortally confused. It crouched down, limbs tucked; and cornered, it might spring at the least advance. “Warrior,” she said, “I have helped you. If I were not aboard, this ship might have been—stopped. An accident might have happened to you-unit in your sleep. This was not the case. Before you were hatched, I was in blue-hive Cerdin, within the hive. You are Kalind blue, but is there no memory in Kalind, of Meth-marens? Before you left Cerdin, you knew us, Meth-maren-hive, hive-friends. There was a hill, a lake by a place called Kethiuy. We spoke—for all human hives.”

  “Warrior,” it reminded her; it could not be expected to Remember. But the auditory pains were strained forward, and the mandibles worked rapidly. “Meth-maren hive. Meth-maren. Meth-maren. Kethiuy. Hive-friends. First-humans, Meth-marens. Yessss. Warrior-memory holds Meth-marens.”

  “Yes,” she said. She held out her hands, offering touch, should it accept. There was no queen to advise Warrior., no Drones to Remember for it: she had it snared, almost, almost, and tried not to betray the anxiety in her. It had no means to know how other blues had eluded bar. It was going to Istra, as blues had attempted other worlds; but this one, this sending would get through. She saw to it, though blue-hive elsewhere had fleet her and met disaster, had voyaged and never wakened, or perished in ambush. This one lived, at the one world where she had a chance of protecting it.

  As the one world where there was no one of the Family to stop her or forbid her access to the hives.

  “Warrior. You were sent to Istra, True?”

  “True.”

  “Our purposes coincide, it may be. Tell me. Why have you come here? What message do you carry?”

  It held its silence, thinking, perhaps. It was a new generation, this Warrior; eighteen years was the time of a new generation for its kind…all across the Reach, a new generation of blue-hive, quiet within its separate hills—blues withdrawn, while greens came to the labs managed by Thons, performed as always, abided by the Pact under Thon direction.

  Until last year.

  “Why have you come?” Raen asked.

  It eased forward again, wary. The fix of her head was not toward her, but beyond. It turned the head then, rotating it on its circular joints. “Azi. Meth-maren azi.”

  It wanted touch. Majat called it Grouping, the need to be emotionally sure of others. Jim remained where she had left him, red-dyed in the light. “My azi,” Raen confirmed, her heart beating rapidly. “Jim. Jim, come to me, slowly.”

  He could break and run. She stood in Warrior’s way, and perhaps, only perhaps she could restrain Warrior from the kill if Jim set him off. But Jim left his corner and came, stopped at yet a little distance, as if suddenly paralysed. Warrior shifted forward, the matter of three strides that Raen could not match, and leaned over him.

  Jim had simply shut his eyes in panic. Raen reached him, caught his arm, shocked him out of it. “Touch,” she told him. “You must touch it.” And when he did not move with propriety, reaching instead to the thorax, Raen took his right hand in hers, guided it between the jaws to Warrior’s offered scent-patches. The huge Warrior, only minimally sane, bent lower, jaws wide, touched false chelae to Jim’s lips, taking taste as well as scent. Jim’s face broke out in sweat: this too warrior tasted, sweeping it from his brow with the delicate bristles of the false chelae.

  “Trust it,” Raen whispered into his ear, yet gripping his arm. “Stand still, stand still; blues will never harm you once this Warrior has reported on Istra. It can’t recognise faces, but it knows the taste now. Maybe it can even distinguish you from your duplicates; I’d imagine it can.”

  She let go. Warrior had perceptibly calmed. It touched at Jim, touched her.

  “Blue-hive,” it murmured, deep baritone. And then w
ith a distressed waving of its palps: “Danger.”

  “There is danger everywhere for blues.” Raen offered her right hand to its mandibles, willful hazard, comforting gesture. “Hive-friend. Do you also bear taste of reds? Of Kethiuy? Of killing?”

  Mandibles clashed as her hand withdrew; jaws smoked, strongly enough to decapitate human or majat. “Killing,” it moaned from its chambers, deep harmony. “Red-hive, killings, yess.”

  “I was there, on Cerdin, when reds killed blues. Does Kalind blue remember that? Messengers went out from Cerdin then. Surely some got through. Some must have lived.”

  “Not-clear. Drone-function.”

  “But you know Cerdin.”

  “Cerdin.” It sucked air and expelled it softly. “Yess. Cerdin. First-hive. This-unit does not make full understanding. This-unit will report. Blue queen of Istra will interpret. Queen will understand.”

  “Surely she will.”

  “This-unit will not see Kalind again. This-unit is cut off. I can carry this message no farther than the Istran queen. Then I must unMind.”

  “Perhaps the Istran queen will take you instead, Warrior, and change that instruction.”

  “This-unit hopes.”

  “This-unit also hopes, Warrior.”

  Palps caressed her face with great tenderness. Truly neuter, Warrior had no concept of any function but duty; yet majat units could feel some sentiment on their own, and Warriors were—very slightly—egocentric.

  She laid her hand on its forelimb. “What brings you here? What message, Warrior? Answer me.”

  The great armoured head rotated in that gesture that had so many nuances to majat vision. “This-unit does not know; I taste of revenge, Kethiuy-queen.”

  It was complex, then, locked within its body-chemistry; it gave her Warrior-reading only, and the Warrior-mind conceived it as revenge. A chill ran over her skin, an echo of things past.