“Lynn Gable!” Doris shakes me hard. “Dr. Kasemsarn is dead—the project isn’t salvageable. They’re poised to take everything. You’re a Terrafirm employee, now act like one.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I say. “Dr. K isn’t the only one who—”
“Just shut up and—”
A sudden light fountains into the room. I turn—there’s a glowing dome on one of the consoles, and it’s spouting gold light like crazy. Doris shoots. The bolt ricochets off it and sears one of our screens on the other side. The light from the dome splits and forks over and over, and then abruptly the tip of every tiniest branch glows brilliant red, and it stops.
I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look like a red and gold tree. Are we looking at some kind of alien fiber optics? A hologram?
“God—what is that thing?” When I speak, the tree moves, connections forming and reforming inside it. Reminds me of the fractal simulation I sometimes run on my personal terminal, numbers in color to model the effect propagated by our terraforming array. A moment later there’s this weird chirping, clucking, and whistling, and then a choppy voice speaks.
“A language—Don’t shoot—mistake—Purpose—talk—hear, hear.”
It’s some kind of holographic translator?
Doris’s hand grips my shoulder, but I look past the bright glow of the tree to the wall. There they are: Two large furred bodies lie curled around each other, one painted with elaborate designs in white, the other with sparkles in its fur. They’re both coated in a flickering sheen of light. Slowly, in perfect synchrony, the two aliens raise their faces toward me.
Pointed, whiskery faces.
Holy shit. We’ve been killed off by giant otters?!
No—I shouldn’t trust my own snap judgment. These creatures’ limbs aren’t short enough for otters, and their black fingers are too long, furless and half-webbed. Plus they have no eyebrows; above each of their wideset eyes a strip of pebbly black skin extends up to the ear.
Non-Systems creatures, or I’m a codfish.
They begin shaking their heads, chattering agitatedly. “Color suits—truth,” stutters the translator. “Fight Purpose! Wait—please—Great Tree Purpose claims aliens—talk—”
Doris growls, “Shut up or I’ll shoot you again.”
Suddenly I get the awful feeling they’re not talking to us. Something moves in the corner of my eye—I whirl around—see nothing, but pieces of the room distort into bulky alien shapes all around me. A yellow flash in an invisible hand expands to fill my vision. I can’t move.
4. Tsee
We didn’t ask to be rescued, truth! We didn’t want to be rescued!
Yes, to be returned to Star-Pattern-Celebration and the meticulous care of TshinKai GreatTreePurpose, welcome; to groom Chkaa, reassuring ourselves of apfaa while we participated in their scans, wondrous relief!
But to be disconnected from the beauty of the Great Tree, preempted by the Martial Purpose? Torture! More painful than the minor injuries which TshinKai so kindly remedied. Being of the Great Tree Purpose like us—hail!—they understood our need to pursue, pursue, and encouraged us when we plunged into the interconnecting arteries of the ship.
Now we swim the glass mosaic tunnels, fast, knowing that once again our Purpose lies ahead—oh, such relief! Chkaa is the stronger one of our apfaa, undeniable, so he cuts water while I skim wake. The linguistic model projector is safe, ready, tucked against my chest; its precious learnings remain hidden within, for now. Silently agreed, we hold our breaths long for speed through the bright water, following guidance markers at each junction toward the region of the ship where the aliens have been nested.
We must not allow our claim on these creatures to be stolen by the Martial Purpose—resolved!
Here a marker indicates we’re getting close, but look beside it; the next one shows another apfaa present, by name, KirHaa MartialPurpose, working in the last chamber before that of the aliens. There’s the doorway—I worry, unavoidable. An apfaa of the Martial Purpose, placed thus, must be intended to guard the aliens, too likely—They emerge into the artery! Oh, no!
I push with tail and feet, push, push, closing distance with Chkaa, who skims a whisker’s distance from the mosaic wall, tight! Twisting, we barely miss the noses of KirHaa MartialPurpose—slick past, but no relief, truth. They’re following us. Ahead, the silvery field of an arterial breather wobbles amidst the rays of colored light—my breath is growing stale, worrisome, but if we stop KirHaa will confront us. Try to stop us, no doubt!
Chkaa slows when he sees the bubble—ah, what sweet apfaa; he understands that I push my breath. In the second of his hesitation, I overtake him, unplanned. The breather falls behind us, and I glimpse a shadow breaking the patterned light—surprise. A pursuit profile, almost familiar; at one tenth that size it might be a taahitsikho, delectable—Is this an alien?
But their suits were taken, witnessed, and they have no length of breath! They should not attempt the arteries, no—their disadvantages will drown them.
Resolved: None must die under our claim!
I flick my tail and speed straight for the alien. It won’t have breath enough to return to the room it came from, probably; the breather is closer. Matching my head to its head—there—I flip and roll out, a full direction switch that sends my own wake over me. Chkaa, following, rolls in behind the alien’s back in another rush of water. We take its arms—risky, but it makes no struggle, perhaps understanding now that our arteries possess no surface. We swim fast. This one needs air, truth—KirHaa or no KirHaa!
It doesn’t breathe like a Diditsaatsi, fervently hoped, or it won’t survive.
Without decelerating, we punch straight through the field into the breather. Chkaa curls, tumbles, and hits the wall. The alien lurches into him. I twist—ineffective maneuver in air—and hit both of them. The linguistic model projector rolls off to one side, no no; I dive after it.
The alien vomits water, draws a little air, falls to hands and knees on the mosaic shelf and starts a gasping, gurgling cough. Its clothing sucks wet to the skin, revealing distinct chest protuberances—mammaries, speculated, so this is a female, probably. Long strings of hair dangle from its head, observed, much like the natives of the Oaaatsih planet.
“Look, sister.” Chkaa bends over her rubbing his hands, observed—half worry and half eagerness. “No webbing on hands or feet.”
I nod. “Truth, brother. She hasn’t enough water speed to get anywhere.”
“Obvious, that.” He shakes his whiskers, disapproving. “To have attempted the arteries, especially hampered by clothing, she is either stupid or out of her senses.”
“Probably ignorant?” I suggest, but then, glimpse her face. Ah, no, out of her senses she may be, indeed—this is the alien who shot us, witnessed! “Chkaa!” I cry.
Apfaa brings him diving to me; we press together our shoulders and tails—oh, grateful—and he touches his hand to mine.
Then two noses break the force bubble.
“We are Kir!” says the first, and the other, “Haa; MartialPurpose, truth!”
They move with fierce grace, intimidating. Both have prominent, masculine brow-character—attractive—but Kir bears a pattern like thorns, while Haa has deep folds like cooled lava. Deduced: These two were not born as one, but instead, chose each other for apfaa. Each wears a belt, or the appearance of one—color-mimetic suits, recognized, safe for water and scant atmosphere alike. Likely, these two were among our invisible, unwished-for rescuers.
“We are Chkaa,” my brother answers.
“Tsee,” I chime. “Born of TsaaTso; GreatTreePurpose, truth.” We will not show disrespect, but together, we move to place the recovering alien between us and the artery wall. Quarters are close with five bodies in a single bubble—alarming, that. At any time, attack might come from before or behind. We must be sure not to invite it in any way, certain, or we’ll have no chance!
“Give the alien to us,” Kir says, his voice high and vicio
us. Haa chimes, “Comply. You are in error, for you have no claim on these creatures.” They push their heads into our faces. Says Kir, “Resolved.”
Chkaa looks uncertain, observed; his muscles go taut but he stays quiet. Intelligent choice, that.
I stand taller, match noses with Chkaa, and declare, “We listen to you, KirHaa. ‘Resolved,’ we hear you say. Resolved, but not witnessed.”
In our whiskers I feel Chkaa’s satisfaction. “Yes, sister—speak.”
“Trace the claims if you wish; ours is previous to yours. Our Purpose is proven, or our linguistic model projector wouldn’t function.”
“Truth,” Chkaa agrees. “Look.”
Together we stroke the pattern on the projector’s surface to bring forth the Great Tree of the aliens’ language, marvelous, and I stamp my feet. “Our Purpose has not been ceded to Martial Purpose or any other. The Great Tree must not grow in shadow.”
“Hear, hear,” says Chkaa.
The alien’s coughing has slowed, noticed. She shifts behind me—oh, the hairs on my back rise in fear of blows, truth. . . . The machine has begun translating, but whether she understands us from translation alone, unclear.
Haa says in a low whistle, threatening, “These aliens attacked the Form Purpose, killed two apfaa, and severed three.” Adds Kir, “Witnessed. Their violations of apfaa prove our Purpose.”
I wave off their words. “Your claim is on the dead, KirHaa—a claim ceded to you by the Form Purpose, who prematurely exercised Purpose on the ugly edifice on the planet.”
Says Chkaa, “Your claim touches only that edifice, and its defenders. The aliens here on our ship took no part in your Martial Purpose, neither killing nor severing any Cochee-coco.”
I nod. “Hear, hear. Their attacks on us, we accepted, never turning our noses away from our Purpose toward yours.”
And Chkaa, “Witnessed. Sometimes the cause of communication requires sacrifice.”
KirHaa shift foot to foot impatiently—understanding the strength of our claim, no doubt. They know what all Cochee-coco will see in witness when the claims are traced, oh, yes; We’ve argued well enough. Haa punches Kir in the shoulder and the two fight hands and feet for a moment, a surge of Purpose tempered by apfaa.
Kir snaps his head toward us. “Ungrateful ChkaaTsee GreatTreePurpose,” he whistles, “captured among such creatures, you needed rescue.” Haa adds, “Obvious, that! They are low and violent.” KirHaa grind their feet on the mosaic shelf, insulting. “Truth,” Kir chirps. His lips pull back from his sharp teeth slyly. “Even worse, their violence is graceless, as if they had no Purpose at all.” Says Haa, “Observed.”
Oh, sickening! “What?” I cry. “No Purpose?!” The accusation raises hairs on my face, appalling. Chkaa finds my hand and we squeeze together, apfaa. “KirHaa, you insult needlessly. They must!”
“Surely,” Chkaa agrees, though his fingers quiver in mine. “They are proven to have language, the first prerequisite. And they travel through space.”
KirHaa interject before I can speak. “One says they travel through space—” “The other says nothing?”
“Deduced!” I shriek. How dare they force between our words to accuse me of failing apfaa?
“Crcrcr,” Kir laughs, deep in his muscled chest. “They travel through space. To say this, as if such aliens could approach our intelligence.” “Ridiculous,” chimes Haa. “They can’t even create proper shielding from our weapons.”
Now, behind us, the alien stands. Bad, bad—Chkaa shifts to flank her before she can decide to rush out into the artery, and I block her aggressive step toward KirHaa. Just in time—fortunate, that.
She utters language sounds, her eyes narrowed and teeth bared, then curls, coughing. The language projector relays, “We do travel space—we have friends—”
KirHaa hiss with derision. “Neither witnessed,” says Kir and Haa, “Nor spoken for; truth.”
Ah, but now we have them! “KirHaa,” I cry, “you unspeak yourselves, for if you expect apfaa of this alien, then you imply she must have Purpose.”
“Oh, sister,” Chkaa laughs, “deduced and witnessed!”
KirHaa shift irritably and tense their hands, observed. But now we swim in our own Purpose, and we’ll be victorious, resolved!
I pat Chkaa’s hand in excitement. “KirHaa can’t expect apfaa behavior of an isolate.”
“Speak, sister,” says Chkaa.
“Such insults they make, yet we may find this alien species is apfaa to our own, and what then?”
“Surely, sister, what then?”
Haa gives an explosive snort. “Impossible.” Kir echoes, “Impossible.”
Yet it’s not impossible, truth! All we who pursue the Great Tree Purpose—pursue, pursue!—know that as each unit enters a pattern, always that pattern forms a unit on a larger scale. As patterns grow in crystals, thus they also grow, observed, in winds and in speech—so, deduced, they should grow in apfaa. Ah, the beauty of what we pursue!
The alien speaks again, her body in closed and guarded posture. “What are you saying?”
We smile at her and nod our heads. “We won’t leave you to speak alone, but will return you to your people.”
Chkaa chimes, “Truth!”
The alien grimaces and coughs.
“Not without us,” Kir says. “Resolved,” chimes Haa. “If you don’t want to kill her taking her back, then we come with you. We’ve brought breath-bubbles.” Kir chirps a laugh as sharp as the thorns of his brow-character. “Deliberate, that.”
Maddening—KirHaa aren’t without intelligence, clearly. But my brother presses his shoulder to mine, and apfaa raises my courage, water under a stranded boat. “KirHaa MartialPurpose,” Chkaa says, “We accept your offer of aid to the Great Tree Purpose.”
I nod. “Witnessed.”
But, truth, now we must carry our danger with us.
5. Lynn
I shouldn’t have let Doris swim out there.
Maybe if I’d told her about my hack, she wouldn’t have toggled straight from theyre-going-to-steal-our-data to they’re-going-to-destroy-our-project-with-one-shot. Maybe she would have believed Sung and Kenneth when they tried to tell her the three of us could run the array and keep the project going long enough to get help—and been in less of a rush to risk her life going after the aliens’ plans.
I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have killed me if I told her; not now, when there’s no one left. Since there’s nothing in this surreal room we can use to rig a signal, Sung and Kenneth and I can only wait. We huddle together, listening to alien voices sing softly while light shimmers across the curved walls in a blue-green dance. At the same time we count the seconds since Doris swam out, waiting to see if four lives become three.
“Damn it!” says Kenneth finally, and shakes his big hands like he’s pissed that they’re still trembling. “I just don’t get it. Why would aliens come all this way to stop the project? What’s in it for them?”
Sung’s lips stop moving, but you can bet he’s still counting seconds in his head. “Nothing.”
I snort. “There’s got to be something. ”
Sung casts his dark eyes around the room. “Not really. We’re surrounded by noncompatible technology. Maybe this is about territory, or plain old xenophobia, but it’s not going to be about terraforming.”
I can’t help but flinch. Our habits of secrecy are well ingrained—the Headmistress forbade certain words even for routine comm traffic. “Is that it?” I ask. “We just have to wait to see if Doris learns anything?”
Sung frowns. “Four minutes . . .”
“I’ve about had enough of this.” Kenneth stands up and walks toward the door. “I should have gone with her to rig a signal.”
“Kenneth,” I say, “if she gets an opportunity she can do it herself. It’s a beacon, not a massive array.”
He doesn’t look at me, but folds his arms. “You should have told her.”
My stomach drops. Has he found out abou
t my hack? “Told her?”
“That we can run the array, like we said.”
I can’t help feeling relieved—but it’s embarrassing. We’ve been kidnapped onto an alien ship, for God’s sake. Why should I even care any more if Kenneth knows?
“You have to put aside how much you hate Doris,” he says. “She does care about the project.”
“I wanted to—she hates me, too, you know.”
He runs one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “We need everybody on the same side here, Lynn. What about those gorgeous color simulations you showed us when we were ref ining the mix strategy in sector 1249? If you told her about those, she’d see that you get it.”
I sigh. “Kenneth, I did, long ago.” It was part of what got me hacking. “She was there when I showed the sims to Dr. K. He blew me off. Couldn’t see the added value, he said. And Doris told me to keep them to myself.”
Sung looks at me, his face greenish in the flickering light. “To yourself? Why?”
“Because they’d be distracting.”
“Distracting? To have a visual model where we can simulate the effects of our chemical alterations—that’s distracting? ”
I rub my face. “It’s not an art to them. Only an equation that ends in money.”
Kenneth harrumphs. “I don’t know how much money was in it for Doris. She doesn’t understand how a butterfly can cause a hurricane, but that was never in her job description. Dr. K was the one who was too high and mighty to take advice.” He glances over his shoulder, then straightens. “Hey, guys—visitors.”
Doris has been caught. I scramble to my feet as she comes in with an escort of four, drenched and coughing, but alive. The two biggest aliens stop on either side of the force field door—sleek, muscular guards wearing metal belts, and necklaces with black spherical pendants. Their faces are bizarre: The bare skin above their eyes looks transplanted, one from a horned lizard and the other from a shar pei. The two slightly smaller ones herd Doris toward me.
Wait a second—aren’t those the aliens she was holding hostage in Central Control?
They have to be. It’s a miracle they haven’t killed her. They’ve got sphere necklaces just like the other two, but they’ve got that pebbly skin over their eyes, and the bigger one has the maze design in his fur, while the smaller wears a long net of gold and jewels that makes me guess she’s female.
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