Strange Music

by Alan Dean Foster

  Rising, Vashon began pacing the floor, a peculiar human behavior Zkerig had observed previously and dismissed as a waste of nervous energy. “This makes no sense,” Vashon was careful to sing, “that another of my kind, would find his way, toward Minord, and in this fashion. Scientists and researchers would travel in a group, the better to lend one another assistance, should anything go wrong, or should difficulty befall them.”

  “Perhaps your government has sent after you, one who does not fear difficulty, and is capable of handling, all troubles on his own. Yet there is with that theory, a particular problem. One which I cannot resolve, and so seek your opinion, and possible explanation.”

  “What?” Vashon was furiously pondering possibilities.

  “Our operative in Poskraine was very thorough, in discharging his responsibilities, with admirable competence. As human and companion slept, this Isobagh, our operative, searched through their supplies, and found a nothing that astonished him.”

  “A nothing that astonished him?” At Zkerig’s puzzled look, an exasperated Vashon hastened to polish his singspeech. “What is a nothing, that it should concern, this operative of Minord, and therefore us?”

  “No weapons did he find beyond those of local manufacture, no devices of the kind you recently employed, and nothing to frighten, nothing to inspire dread—a ‘nothing.’ ”

  “Perhaps this operative, clever as he may be, living far from the station, and having no experience of such things, put hands on advanced weapons without recognizing them.”

  Zkerig conceded the point. “Such a possibility cannot be denied, yet very self-assured is this Isobagh, in his writing, and in his conclusions. It raises the question, of what sort of individual, would your government send after you, without proper arms.” His lips rippled back again, exposing teeth. “If your government hopes, to persuade you to return, and confess to your sins, then they do not know you, half so well as I. Or could they, in lieu of using weapons, hope perhaps to pay you, to give up your ventures here, your work on behalf of our Hobak, and return to your Commonwealth society?”

  Vashon’s reply utilized the lowest register he could manage. “The Commonwealth government does not give bribes, to facilitate the laws, that I have violated. Nor does it seem likely, they would send one to talk; only to talk, only to chatter. Especially if they believe, as could be the case, that I am involved, in the taking of the Firstborn.” He used a hand to steady himself against a support pillar as the strideship, climbing a slight slope, angled upward. “Not seeing a gun does not mean, it does not exist, well hidden as it might be, even from the eyes, of Minord’s operatives. There are smaller weapons, than those that I carry, that are equally deadly, that kill quite efficiently, if in a less showy manner.”

  Zkerig gestured his understanding. “Leaving aside for the moment, the matter of weapons, be they large or small, be they one-shots like cannon or a full rank of archers, why send after yourself, only a single pursuer? No matter how skilled, no matter how knowledgeable, no matter how persuasive, I would myself consider it foolish.”

  “The Commonwealth is large,” Vashon explained even as he pondered the Tralltag’s sensible question, “but it can also be subtle, and does not use a hammer, when a needle will suffice.” In a mild but unmistakable dig at Zkerig’s question, he added, “This is a stratagem that is foreign to soldiers, but more in use, among diplomats, among the experienced, and among surgeons. A tactic that your Hobak, may he live long and procreate often, would immediately seize upon, and understand.”

  Even as he was chiding the Tralltag, Vashon had to admit to himself his reasonableness. If Minord’s operative in Poskraine was not a complete fool and his report to Zkerig was accurate, why would the authorities send only a single individual to track, find, and presumably deal with a significant lawbreaker like himself? A renegade who was experienced enough and wise enough in the culture of Largess, and sufficiently fluid in its unique language, to have secured for himself a coveted position with an important and rising young Hobak. Did they expect this person, however skilled in negotiation, to persuade Vashon to give up everything he had achieved, admit his crimes, and return voluntarily to Borusegahm station and submit to arrest and prosecution?

  Are the authorities involved crazy, he wondered, or am I?

  Perhaps they had sent only a single pursuer because a large group would be too conspicuous? That made a certain amount of sense. One man, or woman, might get to Vashon, whereas the coming of an entire squad would furnish advance notice of itself no matter how stealthily it strove to approach. And without the ability to utilize contemporary technology, how could it possibly surround and close in on Vashon without him being alerted to its intentions?

  Which raised the question of how a single tracker, equally restricted to the use of only local tech, expected to deal with someone like himself. Whoever it might be, it was plain that the authorities had considerable confidence in their skills.

  Well, Vashon was not without ability himself. He would take no chances. Having risked as much as he had and having accomplished all that he had, he felt no compunction about taking whatever steps might be necessary at this point to preserve what he had already accomplished and to further his goals. Though genuinely curious to see what sort of singular individual the authorities had conscripted to send after him, he would happily forgo that explication in favor of securing his position.

  “Your contact in Minord was specific, in saying that this human and his companion-guide, were tailing us, on a pair of riding brund?”

  Zkerig restrained himself, though like drink through an imperfectly sealed carrybag, he could not keep a little sarcasm from seeping through.

  “As it is difficult to mistake a brund for, as an example, a corahtac that comes only to one’s knees, I am fairly confident that our informant, is as accurate as one of his kind can be, as accurate as the night permitted.”

  While Vashon was immune to casual mockery, he felt otherwise about sharp or explosive objects. So he paid no attention to the Tralltag’s mild dig, focusing instead on how best to eliminate a possible, if not positively identified, danger. Finding “possible” to be threat enough, he determined to eradicate it. If the lone human trailing in their wake happened to be a naïve scientist or student of Largessian culture, that was unfortunate for him. Now that they were this near to Minord, with the object of their journey securely on board, it was no time to take chances.

  “The human who comes, must swiftly be dealt with, and in such a manner, in such a way, as to leave no evidence, pointing to me.”

  “In other words,” Zkerig replied while toying with the hilt of the knife sheathed at his low waist, “you are to be the beneficiary, of Larian murder, but are to be absolved, of all possible blame, in the event others of your kind come looking, in the event others of your kind seek revenge.”

  Vashon didn’t blink. “Your increased perception, of my words and their implications, does you credit, Tralltag of Minord. Mind, however, in making any reports, in pocketing any memories, that I never used the word ‘murder,’ that it sprang solely from your own singing.”

  Zkerig showed teeth, extended to its full length the unusually cylindrical, short Largessian tongue, and fluttered both eyelids. “Yet in your ‘innocence,’ you do not dispute, the singing of that word, nor all it implies. Am I to assume then, that I act with your permission, in dealing with this matter, as we have discussed?”

  With a wave of his hand Vashon dismissed the Hobak’s underling. “A discussion does not an order make, nor words that fly come to roost, on any save those who sing said words, while passing those who are simply bystanders.”

  Zkerig sang an intentionally discordant note. “The words that fly, of which you speak, when passing between two, invariably crap on both. Think not yourself immune, offworlder, from the retribution of your own kind, for an action to be carried out by mine, yet goosed by your own intentions, your own desires, your own ambitions.”

  Vashon wave
d again, brusquely this time. “Get about the business, and find another song; your harmonies pain my ears, while your melodies tickle only, the wrong end of my person.”

  Responding with an equally curt gesture, this time of acknowledgment, the Tralltag took his leave of the cabin and its grating non-Larian occupant. “I will deal with it, properly and swiftly, and hope the resolution does not, in some final reckoning, place the portions of both our anatomies to which you refer, in dire danger.”

  He departed without further comment, suggestion, or—thankfully, a tired Vashon thought—singspeaking. With its melodious ebbs and flows, its sometimes soaring rhetoric and often sharply sung rebuttals, the Larian language was among the most elegant and agreeable to listen to in the entire Commonwealth. But for anyone used to merely speaking an alien tongue and not simultaneously singing it, creating melodies and rhythms at the same time as translating the necessary wordings put a strain on any nonnative. Of everything he had accomplished in his time on Largess (save for greatly increasing his credit account), Vashon was most proud of his fluency.

  It could be a curse as well as a blessing, however. This was proven by the deliberately off-tune screeching that penetrated the wooden wall between his cabin and the next. He could have had the Firstborn confined elsewhere on the strideship, but felt it important to keep the reason for the expedition close at hand, if only to keep an eye on her. Unfortunately, this meant often having to keep an ear on her as well. He had remonstrated with her, warned her, threatened her, to keep her voice down. Or if she could not restrain herself, at least to sing with some taste. Nothing had worked, least of all admonishing her in her own language. That only prompted more and sharper screeching, a perversion of singspeech that drove even regular crew members to other corners of the vessel in an effort to escape the tympanum-scraping noise.

  He was tired of trying to out-singspeak her. If he was going to survive the remainder of the journey back to Minord with his eardrums intact, it was time to take more direct action. Something less Larian and more human. Force.

  —

  As he expected, the screeching stopped as soon as she saw the knife. There was no fear in her eyes, only wariness. Though to be truthful, Vashon could rarely discern anything in those jet-black orbs anyway. With pupil and iris usually the same color—black, charcoal, gray, or dark brown—there was little to distinguish one set from another, or allow an observer to discern any soulful depths within.

  “Go ahead then, rancid human, and cut my throat, and let us finally be done, with these tedious games.” Since her attempt at escape during the battle with their still-unidentified piratical assailants, Zkerig had insisted on keeping her chained to one of the strideship’s vertical support beams. There was enough room for her to move about the entire cabin, with its restored exterior hull, provided she was careful not to entangle herself in the furniture.

  Holding the vibraknife out in front of him, he moved toward her. “Your singing displeases not only me, but the very ground itself, the very sea which gives life, and the very air that flees from your vibrato.” He extended the sonic weapon out in front of him. “Believe me, it would be my pleasure to dispense with you, to dispose of you overboard, and tell the Hobak Felelagh na Broon, that you met with an unfortunate accident. But I cannot, I must preserve you alive, to be delivered to him, to suit his political ends.”

  Larians could not smirk, but Preedir managed to do so with her voice. “What would you tell him, your crazy master, to justify such an ‘accident’—that I slipped and fell, onto your singing knife?”

  “I said I must preserve you, alive to be delivered—but not necessarily intact, as even a damaged version will serve the necessary purpose.” Turning the device up a notch, he extended the softly humming weapon toward her. “Since your singspeaking curdles, the blood in my arteries, and sets to pounding, the veins in my head, I will remove the offending parts. I am no surgeon, but enough Larian anatomy I have learned, so I know it is possible, to reach down one’s throat, to pluck forward the vocal cords, and with this device, to sever them without bleeding.”

  Preedir’s ears went flat against the top of her head, her eyes retracted slightly into their sockets, and her breathing proboscis coiled tightly above her snout. While the latter muscular ability had evolved to enhance hydrodynamics while simultaneously protecting the eyes when underwater, such a gesture could also express fear. Vashon recognized it for what it was, and was gratified. This was the first time since the abduction that he had seen the Firstborn afraid of anything. Threaten to kill a Larian and they would spit at you. But threaten to cut their vocal cords, eliminating any ability to singspeak while still leaving them alive, and you could instill true dread.

  Such was visible now in the face of the Firstborn of Borusegahm, as well as in her posture and even in her fur. Diaphanous clothing swirling about her lean, sleek form, she shrank back against the wooden pillar to which she was chained. An observing human would not have used the word “cowering,” but it was near enough.

  Having finally come up with a threat that had produced a desired result and enjoying himself more than he cared to admit, Vashon continued to advance on the patently terrified Larian, waving the vibraknife slowly back and forth in front of her. Her eyes were locked on the disturbed air in front of the handle of the alien weapon, never leaving its hypnotic motion.

  “Please, I will prostrate myself if you wish it, but do not deprive me, of that which makes a Larian, of that which makes me—me. Without a voice I am nothing, as you plainly must know, or you would not even think, to venture such a horror! No more will I try, through singspeaking grating, to unsettle and upset you, or some small revenge gain! Just do not do this, do not do this, do not do this, I beg of—”

  On average, Larians were quicker than humans. They had faster reflexes on land as well as in the water. Possessed of shorter strides, they could not keep up with a human runner over any distance. But in a short leap, or at close quarters, they could move extremely fast.

  Preedir ah nisa Leeh, Firstborn of Borusegahm, was very quick indeed.

  The loop of black iron chain she flung at Vashon went right around his neck and constricted sharply as she fell backward, putting all her weight into taking up the slack. He had been so enjoying himself luxuriating in her distress that he had missed seeing her coil the chain behind her with the hand that was not waving at him defensively. He would have called for help but he could not catch his breath. Rising immediately to her feet, she braced one against the wooden post and yanked.

  The sharp pull might well have broken a notochordal Larian neck, but the human skeleton was more robust than that of the locals. Not exceptionally so, but it was enough to save him. She continued to pull him in her direction, his back toward her, as she wound more and more of the chain around her left arm. He started to panic. If she drew him close enough, she would be able to start twisting the chain, fatally choking him. As they placed a cultural as well as physiological emphasis on the neck and throat, any Larian with fighting experience was perforce an expert strangler.

  As she drew him nearer he stabbed wildly backward with the vibraknife. It made brief contact before she danced out of the way, but sheared only fur. Another jab took a chunk out of the heavy wooden pillar. He felt that he could black out at any moment. If that happened, she would have complete control, and his vibraknife. Its technology was foreign to her. Doubtless in utilizing it on his unconscious body she would make a sticky mess.

  Making a supreme effort, he heaved himself forward. Built stocky and low to the ground, he was able to get some traction into the thrust even though it added dangerously to the tension around his neck. It was just enough to throw her off stride and bring her out from behind the sheltering post. Before she could fully regain her balance, he threw himself backward. If he had misjudged, or if she was able to dodge, he knew she was too smart to allow him a second chance.

  He slammed into her hard. They both went backward and he landed on top of her.
No featherweight by the standards of his own species, he knocked the wind out of her. She recovered quickly—but not quickly enough, as he was able to spin around to face her. Though completely covered in short fur, the Larian body was cool to the touch. With the chain around his neck finally loosened, he held the humming vibraknife a few centimeters from her face.

  “I should nick your eyes like I cut the post, cauterizing the wounds as I do so, leaving your voice so I can hear your wailing, and still deliver you alive to Minord.”

  Black eyes longer and larger than his own glared back at him as she fought to get her breath beneath his weight. “Cut if you will, with your evil toy, whatever you wish, offworld slime. I will beg; not for my eyes, not for my life, not even for my voice, but for you to remove yourself from me, as your stink is far worse, than anything your weapon, that you clutch so fearfully, can do.”

  His fingers tensed around the haft of the vibraknife. She was daring him to do his worst: to maim, to mutilate, to kill. All but encouraging him to do so. He swallowed, hard. There would be a red ring around his throat from the chain for days.

  Reaching up carefully with his left hand, he slipped the iron links off his neck. Then he pushed the vibraknife toward her. As he did so, both nictitating membranes came down to cover her eyes. She could not close them, could not shut him out. Larians had no eyelids. Instead, she tried to turn off her mind.

  The slicing vibraknife grazed her forehead, cutting a straight line through the fur above her eyes but below her ears. Lightly burned, she gasped in surprise and pain. Rising to his feet, he peered down at her.

  “You are as brave as you are foolish, Firstborn of Borusegahm, and I would be honored to share your company, if I did not think you would make, a meal of my organs at first opportunity. I hold no animus against you, though you just tried to kill me, for if our positions were reversed, I would have done the same.”