Fire in the Sky tst-1

by Jo Clayton

  The buildings were stone bubbles, some single, some multiple. Singles were set in a neat row near the southern side of the enclosure, with small patches of growing things by the round sliding doors. There was a line half a dozen bubbles long near the eastern side, and in the middle, two taller structures. One was a pyramid with six or so bubbles-at the angle he was viewing from he couldn’t be sure of the count-at the base, tapering to a single bubble at the top that seemed to be made of dark glass; it glittered like glass whatever it was. The second was a tower two bubbles wide, two deep and four high with round thick windows at every level.

  In one of the windows on the tower’s third level, he caught a glimpse of a pale face and a shock of red hair; he steadied the ocular, fiddled with the focus again. “Ihoi!” *I see Glois. Looking out a window. Ah! Utelel just came up to him, put a hand on his shoulder. And I can see more movement behind xe. Looks like they’re all there.*

  He let the ocular drop to swing at the end of the neck strap, rubbed at his eyes then squinted at the distant enclave. The buildings were toys now, the mesuchs like chetor busy about their hills, so it took him a while to locate the building where the boys and the Meloach were confined.

  *Are they in health?*

  *From the little I could see. Glois was angry. That’s nothing new. Utelel was dark and xe’s chesisil flowers were closed to bud, but that was probably because xe was shut away from the sun. They don’t look afraid.*

  Melech sang satisfaction and the tentacle withdrew. A moment later xe was drifting free of the tree, a shimmering glass gas bell with trailing cords that glittered diamond bright where the suction disks dotted them.

  Maorgan watched his sioll a moment with affection and appreciation, then lifted the ocular and began searching for a way to reach the young captives.

  That fence looked absurdly flimsy, long thin rods planted at intervals slightly over a manlength with something that flickered between them. Not so insubstantial as they looked, though. He’d seen a young faolt spooked by one of the humming carts that traveled between the landing ground and the enclosure; the cub tried to run between two of those poles. It was fried in seconds.

  The enclosure was a long rectangle with a tower at each of the four corners, metal chambers set on sticks that seemed as insubstantial as the fences and had as dangerous a bite. In the second week after the flying ships, had settled onto the landing ground, the Denchok budline who claimed this ground and ran the Smokehouse in season had assembled and marched out, intending to remove the intruders as they would any other nuisance interfering with their property.

  Lines of light had snapped at them from the towers. They dropped and knew nothing for about two hours, some waking a few minutes later than others, while the Denchok who was closest to the Change took the longest to come awake. It was like a big stick, they said, hitting them on the head and knocking them silly.

  There looked to be no way in except floating over the fence and that was not a good idea. Unless this lot of mesuchs was even more unlike the lot across the Bakuhl Sea than rumor suggested. They weren’t so tender over there. It was a killing light they used on anyone who got close. The story had come to Melech that Eolt Chelokl was caught in the backwash of a flying sled and swept toward one of the towers; the fire of his dying leaped a hundred manlengths into the air.

  Maorgan shivered, lowered the ocular, and rubbed his sleeve across his face, wondering-even as he tried not to think about it-how Chelokl’s sioll was handling that sudden rupture of the sioll-bond, the cutting away of half of himself.

  He blinked. Melech’s bell form was swelling and changing, getting ready to lift into the steering current layers.

  He dropped the ocular, cried, “No!” Then shifted the word into a protesting whistle.

  Melech sang.

  not-same necessity simplicity is best

  power/habit/restraint imperative/rescue

  danger seen curiosity care will be taken

  affection/amusement anger/frustration

  light as beating stick not light as killing fire

  bond not broken as joy

  Even after the years of sioll-bond, translating the complex harmonies of Eolt speech was difficult without the touch and Maorgan was never entirely sure he got even half the meaning clear in his head, yet everything he read into what he heard turned him cold with fear.

  In the combination whistle and scatsong Fior Ards had evolved for nontouch speech as the sioll bond developed between the Ard and the Eolt, he went through all the reasons why Melech should wait, should take time and care before acting-knowing all along how stubborn and passionate his sioll was, how little likely to listen once xe’s mind was set on a line of movement. But all he could see was a flame leaping a hundred manlengths high and a sudden amputation of all joy.

  Melech sang.

  Maorgan whistle/sang.

  After several arias on both sides, the Eolt returned to xe’s usual configuration while Maorgan swung from limb to limb and finally dropped to the ground. He lifted the harpcase he’d left at the base of the tree, slid the strap over his shoulder, and settled the case in its most comfortable position against his back.

  Melech dropped a tentacle to touch his shoulder. *May words suffice, sioll Maorgan.*

  *May the few words I have of the starspeech, suffice, slot! Melech.*

  Mid-morning on the next day which was Chel Dй’s day, so there was no one to come to trade. Ard Maorgan and Eolt Melech placed themselves before the Gate of the enclave. Maorgan swept a desilmerr on his harp. When he saw he had their attention, he sang to them in tradespeak. “Peace,” he sang. “Trade for children. Let us talk.”

  2

  “Hm, there is a slight problem that the good Sageen possibly didn’t mention. Our surveyors chose this location because there were sufficient freshwater springs, bedrock close to the surface, easy access to the sea-and it seemed… mmm… unclaimed. There were two structures of a sort in place, but they were looked so ancient and… mmm… unsteady a breath would blow them over. Obviously long abandoned. So we simply removed them. Unfortunately, abandoned was not the correct description. We shall probably have to pay compensation to maintain passable relations with the locals.” The Goлs twitched his nose and flattened round ears against his skull. “Very annoying.”

  The Goлs Koraka hoeh Dexios was a tall Yarak with lively brown eyes and fur like golden-bronze plush; he wore a light workrobe that covered him from chin to ankle, but from the way he moved as he paced about the tower room, his body was limber and very fit. The mask markings on his face were sharply outlined, the white band beneath the black narrow and crisp. He had the assurance of one who knew he was handsome and didn’t need to wonder how people would react to him.

  “We have been fairly successful at establishing trade. Contact with smugglers and such has prepared the way for us. To a degree. There is still some… mmm… hostility because we’ve obviously come to stay, though we have been overcoming that little by little. It would be easier if we could speak local, but we haven’t attempted… mmm… to solicit language donors, though we have been collecting sound samples with EYEs, entering them into the Trans-Am for analysis. It’s a slower process and prone to odd inaccuracies, but has less chance of… mmm… annoying the locals. With that unfortunate business with those hovels and with the Chave interfering like they are…” He flung his arms out, flattened his ears against his head. “Ssssah! Killing a couple of locals with a cutter and leaving their mutilated bodies lying on the road. With tooth marks yet!”

  They were in the office of the Goлs, the glass bubble at the top of the pyramid in the center of the Enclosure. It was a mostly empty room with pretensions to elegance, lots of polished wood veneer, a Menaviddan carpet, a Clovel polymorph cycling through at least ten major mutations, and a scatter of small rarities laid about with careful casualness. Half a dozen pulochairs floated about the only indication that this was an office, a desk with its operating sensors discreetly covered except for a s
mall screen in a privacy hood that the Goлs glanced at each time he passed it.

  Aslan was in the seat of honor, a large pulochair with a pseudo-moss surface whose dark green was a pleasant complement to her coloring. In her own pulo which was cycled to dark amber, Shadith was briefly amused by this small sample of the Goлs’ cleverness, though he was perhaps not as clever as he thought or it wouldn’t show so much.

  Her amusement faded as he continued his attempts to overwhelm Aslan with his abundant charm. Shadith dropped her hand on the harpcase and gazed out through the smoky glass wall, the flow of his words passing over her head. In the distance she could see a localized glimmer floating near the top of a tree. She couldn’t make out the details, but she thought it was one of those aerial intelligences she’d seen in the flakes.

  Come on, Yarak, finish this. I want to see those creatures with my own eyes. Gods, they don’t look real. Like something Sarmaylen sculpted out of golden glass. The bits of local music included on those flakes haunted her; she wanted to hear it, not recorded, not inside where nuance was lost. Her impatience to get out set small itches to crawling along her skin.

  “… thing which Rep Sageen would not have mentioned. We captured a band of local children on a thieving raid. We’ve treated them as well as we could and plan to release them eventually. One of the local adults has approached us. Apparently he knows a few words of tradespeak. Which isn’t all that helpful, but we have managed to make clear to him that we expect some recompense for this intrusion before we return the young thieves. We have suggested using the Trans-Am for a language exchange, but haven’t pushed it. Our contact was emphatic in his refusal.” He made an angry spitting sound. “The k’tar’t Chave have acted like the fornicating swine they are and have poisoned the well for us. Communication between the continents is better than we expected,” a quick wry smile, a graceful flip of narrow hands, “or appreciate. The only advantage we have is that we look nothing like those heavy-world ‘k’trin.” He spread his arms in a gesture that swept the loose robe into dramatic folds. “I must warn you, Scholar. The Chave are irritated by our presence because it limits their actions; they like to have exclusive control of a world, so detailed reports of their activities don’t get out. They have some sensitivity to public censure. As do we all,” he added with a quick smile and a twinkle of his dark russet eyes. “So far, they’ve been… mmm… annoying nuisances with their sabotage and their attempts to stir up our locals. Musni gnawing at the walls. Since you’ll be a part of our operation, in their eyes, at least, you should be on guard against treachery among suborned locals and vandalism, both subtle and unsubtle, once the Chave turn their attention to you.”

  Aslan shifted impatiently in her pulo; it flowed into a new conformation and changed color slightly. “I’ve done my homework, Goлs Koraka. University’s records are quite extensive. And Manager Shears and I have run missions in delicate situations before this. We understand the need for security.”

  Shadith suppressed a smile. It wasn’t only the Chave who’d have a rough time getting into Aslan’s files as Goлs Koraka hoeh Dexios would discover soon enough.

  The Goлs glanced at the screen and came round the desk to perch on the edge. “Of course, of course. I spoke from concern, not from lack of confidence, Scholar. It worries me that you won’t take residence in the enclosure. However, I must defer to your experience with such things. We have extracted a few concessions from the locals. If they approve you as intermediary, they will arrange housing as you’ve requested in the nearest… mmm dumel, I think the word is. Communication has been difficult. Signing is mmm. limited. As I’m sure you know, Scholar. And our contact has only the few words of interlingue he’s learned from free traders and smugglers. He is more sophisticated in interspecies contact than one would have expected from the isolation of this world. Probably because of the interaction the two sapient species have been forced into over the past three millennia, if my memory of dates is accurate. We’ve done some testing on hair and skin cells from the Cousins among our young captives. My techs tell me it’s almost certain their presence here is a result of the first Diaspora, probably due to a massive system failure on their colony ship. It’s not a sector one would choose to explore, if the choice were available.”

  Aslan shifted again. When she spoke, her voice was sharp with displeasure. “I have to convince your contact to accept us? That’s another thing your Rep didn’t bother to mention.”

  The Goлs shrugged, spread his hands. “It didn’t seem important. In any case, I’ve arranged a meeting tomorrow noon with our contact, a Cousin by name

  Maorgan and his… mum. companion whose name I don’t know. If it even has a name. My aides tell me your gear has been off-loaded and put in secure storage until you need it and your temporary quarters are ready. Your Manager and young associates are there, waiting for you. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Yes. I’d like to see your captives, if I may.”

  “Mmm. that will take some arranging. They are difficult to control without danger of injury.” He twisted his mobile face into a clown’s grimace. “There is no dealing with them except by sign, which they ignore when they feel like it. Are you sure you want this?”

  “Yes. Flakes, however fine, cannot substitute for actual experience. What I could learn would greatly help with tomorrow’s contact.”

  He glanced at Shadith for the first time, raised his eyes to the ceiling in a fine imitation of thought, then nodded. “I’ll see to it.” He went back behind the desk and reached under the edge for a sensor. “In two hours. That should give you plenty of time before we feed them.” He nodded to the young Yarak who came in, stood beside the door. “The phora Galeyn here will take you to your quarters and fetch you again when the visit has been arranged. How many?”

  “Myself and the harpist.”

  “T’t’t’.” He came back around the desk, took Aslan’s hand, and helped her from the chair. He had a slight musky smell that was pleasant if a little strange and he was half a meter taller than she was, his physical presence intimidating despite his pleasant demeanor. Aslan lifted her head and fixed her eyes on him, waiting for him to step back into more comfortable range. Again Shadith swallowed a grin. By the time she’d made rank, a University Scholar had faced far more intimidating individuals than Goлs Koraka would ever be.

  3

  The fenced and patrolled enclosure beside the tower where young locals were being kept was filled with the pounding of feet, the slap of flesh against flesh from the energetic play, shouts, shrill screams, and snatches of song. Despite the amount of noise, there were only six of them, two Cousins and four Others.

  One of the Cousins was a skinny red-haired boy with pale skin and a noseful of freckles, ten or eleven years old; the second was smaller, slighter, a dark-haired child a year or two younger; both wore dark brown shorts and white sleeveless shirts. The Others were all shorter and stockier than the redhead, bipeds with five-fingered hands and four toes on the feet. Their faces were triangular with the chin as vertex and the straight line of the moss across the brow as base. Their eyes were large and dark, shades of brown mostly, though one had lighter eyes than the others, amber, almost yellow. Their noses were hardly raised from the curved plane of the face, thin as knifeblades with long, fringed nostrils. Their mouths were wide, flexible, and produced an astonishing volume of sound.

  A mossy growth more vegetable than fur covered torso and limbs out to the elbows and knees. Beyond that the skin was smooth, a pale greenish white like the inner layer of new bark. The moss also grew on the small round heads, much like hair, though it also resembled the plush fur of the Yaraka. There were buds among the head moss and here and there a small flower, narrow, arcing petals laid close to the curve of the head. The flowers were mostly white though Shadith could see one or two pink blooms and a bright yellow one.

  They rushed the gate when they saw Aslan and Shadith coming, speech turning into whistles that seemed to be a combinati
on of mutual support and preparation for attack. Shadith’s head started hurting as the Translator she’d acquired from Aleytys began sorting through the noises.

  The phora Galeyn waved at the guards, then turned to face his charges. “If you’ll wait here, despines, we’ll clear the children from the gateway first. They always rush us, trying to get away.”

  Shadith knelt, began undoing the catches on the harpcase. She glanced up to see the guards using tinglers, shuddered as she felt the waves of pain coming from the moss-children. They fled across the field, huddling near the far fence, but two of the guards kept tinglers turned on them as the third manipulated the gate lock.

  She collapsed the memory plast of the case into a stool, then, pale with the pain from the Translator and the distress from the children, she slipped the harp’s strap over her shoulder, picked up the stool, and got to her feet. She hesitated; what she wanted to say could be used against the locals, but the Yaraka had so many other weapons, perhaps it wouldn’t matter. “If you keep that up, you’re going to have problems,” she said quietly. “It hurts them.”

  The phora frowned at her. “Why do you say that? How do you know?” There was an edge to his voice. He didn’t like her or her comments; he’d had a sour look on his face and kept his distance from the moment he’d left the Director’s office. One of those who didn’t like outsiders.

  “I can feel their pain,” she said quietly. “The tingler doesn’t bother the Cousins, it’s the others who show distress.”

  “Feel!” He didn’t bother to conceal his disdain, turned his shoulder to her, and spoke to Aslan. “If you’ll go in now, Scholar. Quickly please. They’re treacherous little nothi.”

  Smiling at the profound disapproval of the phora, Shadith followed Aslan in. The Goлs was clever enough to cover any problems he had with having them on planet and, unless there was a lot of complicated dancing involved here between him and the homeworld, he’d asked for them. The phora was too young (or perhaps too well connected) to bother hiding his annoyance. He had white tips to his ears and the white lines under his mask were broader than Koraka’s. From the data Aslan had passed around during the journey here, that meant he was a highborn cub, probably a second son doing his Mission-year before he settled down to one of the jobs created for his kind.