Firebirds Rising

by Sharyn November

  “Look,” he would object in exasperation, “we don’t have ‘conversations.’ I give the thing orders, and she carries them out. Except when she forgets what to do, which is all the time, and I have to explain them all over again. Slowly and repeatedly, in the simplest terms possible.”

  “But within those constraints,” a much older xenologist had pressed him, “the native in question is capable of performing the complex tasks she is assigned by you.”

  “Sure,” he said, “if you can call stacking carvings and sorting voull horns ‘complex.’ Anything that involves actually thinking I have to guide and help her with. Initiative doesn’t exist among the Allawout. Except when it involves food and shelter, I personally don’t think they have any understanding of the concept.”

  “Yet the other locals obviously respect her deeply,” the persistent scientist had insisted.

  “Sure!” Stefan agreed. “She’s big stuff because she has a job in the House-of-Wonders-That-Stands-in-Water, and speaks freely to the visitors from the cloud rafts. I suppose,” he conceded, “that gives her some kind of rank, or status, that raises her up a notch or two above her fellow weed munchers.” A few such carefully chosen comments were usually sufficient to send the behaviorists on their contemplative way, muttering to themselves.

  One nice thing about Stefan’s assistant, as far as Morey was concerned, was that the native never questioned her status. She accepted payment in trade goods, never asked for a change in the amount or kind of remuneration, worked silently and steadily, and was a real help in communicating the wants of the human traders to the natives. She slept in an old concentrate barrel Perv had welded to one of the balumina stilts, just above the waterline. Each morning she would ooze out of the plastic cylinder, drop into the water to clean herself, and then squirm up the ramp that had been erected to provide her kind with easy access to the station. With their strong tentacles the Allawout could easily climb a ladder, but that would not allow them to bring goods into or take them out of the Outpost.

  Stefan had despaired of ever seeing Belleau again. Then one day, slightly less than a month before his tour was up and he was due to be promoted off-world, suddenly she was there, having arrived without notice on the monthly shuttle. They did not exactly fall into each other’s arms—not with Customs officials and everyone else watching. But their eyes met, spoke, and smiled. Certain decisions were reached without the use of words.

  “I told you I’d come back,” she whispered to him later that morning.

  “To resume your work?” He left the question hanging, too fearful to add the other question he was burning to ask.

  “To do that, yes—and perhaps,” she added mischievously, “to attend to other matters.”

  “I’m finished here in a few weeks.” They were standing in the Outpost, its familiar hothouse surroundings for once the equal and not the excess of what he was feeling inside. “The Company has offered me promotion from apprentice and my choice of positions. On civilized worlds, at a proper salary. I have a lot of flexibility.”

  “Hmm. That does open certain possibilities, doesn’t it? For example, I’ve taken a lectureship on Mathewson III.”

  His expression did not change. “There are two Company operations on Mathewson. Big ones.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. Then she leaned forward, kissed him once, adequately, and almost ran from the room. He remained behind, dazed and relieved and overflowing with satisfaction.

  Behind him, a familiar odor preceded a question. “Stef-han is happy?”

  His expression fell. The wondrous contentment rushed away like water out of the bottom of a broken jar.

  “Yes, Uluk. Stefan happy. Stefan go away soon.”

  “Go away?” Crescent pupils swam within disk-like eyes. “Why Stef-han go away?”

  “It’s time to go,” he muttered irritably. “All sky folk eventually go from Irelis. Go back to home.” At her uncomprehending silence he added, “Back to own home-raft.”

  She considered this. “Outpost not Stef-han’s raft?”

  “No, dammit. Don’t you have something to do?”

  “Yes. I forget.”

  Lifting his eyes heavenward, he moved to check the duty scan for the day. But nothing, not even Allawout dullness, could entirely diminish the joy of Belle’s return.

  The next several weeks passed in a haze that was more a consequence of his reestablishing his relationship with Belleau than of the heavy atmosphere. They spoke of her science and his business, and how the two might complement each other on a world like Mathewson III. When it was clear that the positives outweighed the negatives, their delight was mutual. Though young, they were both very practical people.

  When it was time to go, to finally leave behind Irelis and its miasmatic swamps, bug-ridden savannas, melancholy atmosphere, and multifarious stinks and smells, it was almost an anticlimax. Complaining a little less than usual, Administrator Morey was there to see them both off and to wish them well. The grumpy old Company man was unable to look his former apprentice in the face for fear of giving way to an actual smile. Pervasatha was long gone, having been promoted ahead of Stefan, but several others among the scientific and commercial community who had established friendships with the personable young trader on his way up turned out to see the two of them off.

  They were waiting for the skimmer that would ferry them out to the distant shuttle site, an artificial island built out in the middle of a spacious lake, when it occurred to Stefan that something was missing. A certain—stench.

  “Funny,” he mused aloud, “I thought she’d come to say good-bye.”

  “’She?’” Belleau’s tentative tone mimicked one he himself had used some time ago.

  “My native assistant. An Allawout named Uluk. You met her. Or at least, you encountered her.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I only saw her a couple of times. She was usually working in the rear storeroom whenever I came into the Outpost.”

  He found himself searching the station’s walkways, then the grubby muck below. “I thought she’d be here.” He shrugged. “Oh well. No matter. She probably forgot.” Turning back to Belleau, he smiled affectionately. “After a year here I don’t know how I’ll cope with a normal, Earth-type climate.”

  “I give you about two days to become fully acclimated,” she replied softly.

  Henderson came huffing and puffing down the walkway. Reaching out, the panting behaviorist caught his breath as he shook first the apprentice’s hand, then Belleau’s. “Wanted to wish luck to you both. I’m sure you won’t need it.”

  Stefan nodded his thanks, looked past the scientist. “Say, you haven’t by any chance seen Uluk around today?” He hesitated slightly. “I sort of…wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Your native assistant?” Henderson’s expression fell. “Oh. I thought you knew. They found her yesterday, about half a kilometer from the station. On Islet Twelve. Dead. Self-inflicted killing wound, the biologists tell me. Sorry.”

  A very strange feeling tightened in the younger man’s gut. The longer he thought about it, the worse it got. “That’s—too bad. I wonder what happened.”

  Henderson cast a quick glance in Belleau’s direction before replying. Though much younger, she was a fellow scientist, after all, and the incident was an interesting comment on indigenous behavioral patterns.

  “You really didn’t know, did you? No, you wouldn’t, always paying attention to commerce, and trade balances, and the like. An Allawout’s individual focus is on its extended clan. Alpha males and females, Beta juniors, and so on. Didn’t you ever notice that Uluk was never seen interacting with a family grouping?”

  Stefan looked blank. “You’re right, I didn’t. But I never thought about it. She lived at the station. That was her choice. Mr. Morey, myself, everyone else—we all thought that was her choice.”

  “Oh, it was, it was,” Henderson hastened to assure him. “I spoke to her several times, you know. As part of my work,” he added almost apolog
etically. “You didn’t realize that instead of one of her own kind, she had chosen to focus on you?”

  The apprentice eyed the behaviorist uncertainly. “On me? Why would I notice something like that?”

  Belleau’s response was more understanding. “Are you saying that this Uluk individual chose to imprint herself on Stefan in lieu of a normal Allawout extended family grouping?”

  “They worked together. Almost every day.” Henderson looked apologetic as he regarded the younger man. “I thought surely you would have perceived something, or I would have mentioned it to you. It makes for a very interesting case history.”

  Stefan swallowed hard. “You’re not saying that in some crazy kind of way she got, uh, attached to me, or anything weird like that?” In his mind he conjured up an image of the misshapen, slimy alien. But for some reason, it did not repulse him quite as much as it once had.

  He found himself scanning the vegetation of the distant, fetid swampland. He remembered how Uluk had hovered about him, lingering in his vicinity even when her work was done; watching him operate the projector and the viewers; asking questions to which he was sure she already knew the answers. How she was always there waiting for him in the mornings, and leaving reluctantly when it was time for her to retire to her barrel under the Outpost.

  He thought about how he had treated it—her—with casual indifference, even contempt. Memories of the time he had spent in her company came flooding back to him. They did not make him feel better. Surely he wasn’t—responsible. He forced himself to ask as much.

  Henderson considered. “Your announcement that you were leaving, permanently, no doubt came as a shock. In the absence of any other extended family connection, it’s not uncommon for an Allawout to opt for self-termination instead of attempting to impose himself on another family or clan.”

  “You’re saying,” Belleau ventured, “that what happened was something like a dog pining away for its master?”

  “Well, hardly.” Henderson drew himself up slightly. “The Allawout may be a little slow on the uptake, but they’re far from unaware.” He turned back to the suddenly silent, staring apprentice. “It’s not your fault, you know. Happens all the time with these clans. Self-termination is a well-documented means of controlling the population and maintaining the available food supply.”

  “Oh, I know.” Stefan pushed away the sad thoughts. “It’s too bad. She was nice enough—except for the smell. I can’t help it if she was somehow attracted to one of the ‘sky people.’ To me.” The oddest sensation was spreading through him. It made him angry, but try as he might, he found he could not suppress it.

  “‘Attracted’?” Henderson stared at him. “You really didn’t perceive much, did you? Uluk wasn’t ‘attracted’ to you. We spoke about many such things, and I remember quite clearly that she told me once she thought you were the ugliest living thing she had ever set eyes upon. Even uglier than any of the other humans she had met. That’s why she stayed at the Outpost so long, and close to you. She felt it was something she needed to do. And then when you ignored her, and what she was doing for you, I guess she felt that all her efforts on your behalf were being rejected.”

  “Rejected?” Stefan frowned. “‘Doing for me’? I was tolerating her. What did she think she was ‘doing’ for me?”

  Wiping his eyes, the behaviorist blinked back the unforgiving rays of the setting violet sun. “She didn’t stay close to you because she was attached to you, Stefan. She stayed because she felt sorry for you.”

  ALAN DEAN FOSTERhas recently published his one hundredth book. His wide-ranging writing career includes excursions into hard science fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. His short fiction has appeared in all of the major science fiction magazines as well as in original anthologies and several “Best of the Year” compendiums. Six collections of his short-form work have been published.

  Foster’s love of the far away and exotic has led him to travel extensively. He has camped out in the “Green Hell” region of the southeastern Peruvian jungle, photographing army ants and pan-frying piranha (lots of small bones; tastes a lot like trout); has ridden forty-foot whale sharks in the remote waters off western Australia; and was one of three people on the first commercial air flight into northern Australia’s Bungle Bungle National Park. He has rappelled into New Mexico’s fabled Lechugilla Cave, white-water-rafted the length of the Zambezi’s Batoka Gorge, driven solo the length and breadth of Namibia, crossed the Andes by car, sifted the sands of unexplored archaeological sites in Peru, gone swimming with giant otters in Brazil, and surveyed remote Papua New Guinea and West Papua both above and below the water. His filmed footage of great white sharks feeding off South Australia has appeared on both American television and the BBC.

  Alan Dean Foster and his wife live in Prescott, Arizona.

  Visit his Web site at www.alandeanfoster.com.

  AUTHOR ’S NOTE

  It’s bad enough growing up without being one of the “in” kids. Not popular, not with it, not invited to parties, etc. What’s even worse is being treated as though you don’t exist. Having the boy or girl you worship from afar totally ignore you in the halls, in class, or out on the street. Sometimes all you want from someone is an acknowledgment that you’re alive. A polite word or two would be fine…just a smile and a “hello” or “how you doin’ today?”

  But what happens when that special someone does acknowledge you…only not with a smile or a greeting, but with contempt. As if the world would be a better place if you didn’t exist, because that person thinks you’re too dumb, too ugly, or simply too not in the know to be worthy of anything less than a casual insult.

  Life can be heartless.

  Something to keep in mind when we start exploring the universe, lest we find another species out there that looks at us the way the captain of the football team or the head cheerleader looks at you.

  Tanith Lee

  THEHOUSE ON THEPLANET

  PLANET DATE : YEAR 3

  Part One—Pioneers: Zelda

  The journey, even with FLJ,* took over three months. But the ship was okay. Lots of places to roam around, a huge game room with everything from flyball to Computace, a movie theater, and a solar garden that, if you didn’t think too much about it, did just about resemble someone’s really wonderful backyard.

  Then they landed.

  Zelda looked at the spaceport—bleak and windswept, with cold-eyed buildings.

  The sky was green.

  Oh, God.

  “Tell me again why you wanted to come?”

  “Oh, Zelda.” Moth and Dad, exasperated.

  The transport raced over rolling hills too fast to see a thing.

  “When’ll we get there?” sang Joe.

  “Soon, honey.”

  “No, but when?”

  Joe grinned secretly at Zelda. He was eight now. He only acted up to be annoying.

  “One hour exactly. In fact”—Dad checked the speed monitor—“fifty-seven minutes.”

  Joe went back to his laptop game.

  Zelda, who was fourteen, repeated her own unanswered question: “Why are we here?”

  “It’s an opportunity, the chance of a lifetime, Zel,” said Dad. “We explained, didn’t we? A whole new world to open up. Aren’t you the least bit excited?”

  “I’m excited!” sang Joe noisily.

  Zelda thought of home, the whitewashed house on Anchor Street, of the sunny town, of saying good-bye to her friends at school, who had looked at her with a mixture of awe, jealousy, and sorrow. Zelda—off to another planet. Amazing Zelda, lucky Zelda, Zelda-who-was-doomed. Zelda thought of a blue sky.

  “It’ll be great,” said Moth.

  “Try to enjoy yourself,” said Dad.

  “Are we there yet?” added Joe.

  They lived, ate and slept in the transport while the machines built the house. (The transport, unlike the ship, was cramped.)

  Their robot, Plod, overs
aw the building, now and then coming to Dad with a query—where the yard trees should go, how many windows in the kitchen, and so on.

  Joe liked Plod. He tagged along with the seven-foot, gray, two-headed, four-handed metal man, asking endless questions. Plod never grew tired of Joe. Well. Plod was a robot.

  Zelda, when not engaged in chores, sat on the stoop of the transport, looking narrowly at the view.

  “Isn’t it beautiful, Zelda?”

  “Yes, Moth. I suppose.” Was it? Or ugly?

  “Oh, Zelda.”

  The hills were behind the house. Machines were already out front, marking out the plan of fields and orchards, fencing in the herd animals that had arrived one day by helejet. The animals were planet animals. Dad thought they were terrific, Moth thought they were very big, Joe thought they were fascinating. Zelda stood at the neat white fence and stared.

  “What are they? Are they supposed to be cows?”

  “Tappuls. A type of bovine animal, yes.”

  The tappuls, one hundred in number, were each about the size of a small adult Earth elephant. They were brown, with large brown eyes, and long yellow horns. They could be machine-milked, and the milk was both calcium-rich and thick with benign amino acids. The tappuls had a heavy smell, not nasty but—weird.

  “They’re very docile, Zelda.”

  I’m docile, Zelda thought morosely. I’m spineless. I let you bring me here against my will.

  There were other planet animals. The newly planted fields were soon full of plays, which looked like rabbits with one single upright ear. Unlike rabbits, they did little damage to the crops. In fact, their droppings gave useful natural fertilizer. Joe liked the plays. He kept trying to catch one as a pet.