by Diane Duane
“Cracker, cracker!” all the sibiks behind it started shouting. They swarmed to meet Kit and began bouncing up and down around him as he made his way over to the Throne Rock, and a few of them started trying to climb up his legs. “Cracker cracker cracker!”
Kit had a lot of trouble not bursting out laughing at them: if squeaky-toys could shout, this was what they would sound like. “Are you kidding?” Kit said to them as he waded through them, trying hard not to step on any tentacles. “I haven’t even had my cracker yet. What makes you think you’re getting any?”
He sat himself down by Djam and more or less immediately found himself shoving sibiks off his lap. “They weren’t bothering you earlier, were they?”
“Not at all,” Djam said. “In fact I haven’t seen any of them until just now, when you turned up again.”
Kit shook his head. “No, you guys!” he said, as one of the shoved-off sibiks started climbing up his leg. “Not now! You all just behave yourselves until I tell you I’m ready for you.”
“Then cracker?” came the chorus from ankle height.
“Jeez, yeah, then cracker but not now cracker! Now go on, all of you. Outside the circle.”
Some of them started moving off. Others moved a few feet and then crouched down in the long blue-green grass, flattening their little eye-studded abdomens down and looking back sidelong at Kit as if expecting him to forget they were there.
“Outside the circle,” Kit said, waving his arms at them. “Go on! Shoo!”
Reluctantly, even sulkily, the remaining sibiks slunk away, and gathered along with all the others just outside of the circle of stones.
Kit sighed. “Okay,” he said, “tell me how it’s been overnight. Pop-Tart?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
They sat and ate and chatted for a few moments, and then Djam started going over the night’s logs with Kit. The gates had been relatively well-behaved—a few minor gravitational fluctuations around the portal interfaces, but nothing worse. “Indeed they seem quite docile after you and Cheleb spoke to them last night,” Djam said. “Maybe we should make this a daily ritual. You two get together in the evening between your shifts and tell them how to behave, and then I have a nice quiet shift.” He bubbled softly, the laugh turning into a yawn a moment later.
“You should go get some rest,” Kit said. “I’ll take it from here.”
Djam stretched and stood. “But remember, you promised us more of that entertainment, so don’t forget to wake me when you’re ready to start. We left those wizard-knights and their friends with much unfinished business…”
Kit grinned: if Dairine heard that description applied to Jedi she’d be most amused. As Djam got up, Kit caught motion from the corner of his eye. A few sibik were trying to sneak in through the circle of stones without being noticed.
Kit held up a warning finger. “Ah ah!”
The foremost sibik immediately crouched themselves down into the grass again, and one of them said defiantly, “Mealtime!”
Others took up the cry: “Mealtime! Mealtime!” Kit looked at Djam in bemusement. “Now how do they all know this word all of a sudden? I only told it to one of them, and he’s not here.”
“Powers about us, I don’t know! Telepathy? Sign language? Maybe it’s something chemical. The Telling does say something about them using a form of DNA-based learning, and you see a lot of them sucking on others’ tentacles. They could be passing DNA back and forth that way…”
Kit shook his head. “This is so strange. Before I got here, did any of these things even speak to you at all?”
“Not to me,” Djam said. “Perhaps to Cheleb, but if they did, he hasn’t mentioned. I didn’t think much about it, anyway. You know how it differs from world to world. Some animals don’t like aliens because they look or feel or smell strange. Others don’t care for species they’re not commensal with, and so won’t talk to them.”
“I was saying to Nita just now, they’ve got some kind of connection,” Kit said. “This scent trail thing…”
“Might be more than that,” Djam said. “The Tevaralti have a low-level mindlink among themselves, a symbiotic thing. Why not the animals? Especially if some of them are pets.”
“The first one the other day wasn’t, though,” Kit said. “Or the one last night. At least I don’t think it was.”
Djam yawned again. “I don’t think either of us has really thought to make a study of the issue. We’ve been kind of distracted…”
“Well, yeah…” Kit said. “Kehrutheh, go on, I relieve you. Go get some rest and I’ll see what I can find out.”
Djam took himself off to bed, and Kit settled in with his manual open, watching the power levels of the feeder gates closely; but they were running steady, almost exactly at the center of their nominal operations range. Good, he thought: stay that way, cousins.
He kept the sibik waiting where they were for a while, as there were a few other things Kit wanted to check before relaxing—if that was the right word—into the day’s monitoring. Along with probably every other wizard on the planet, he took a few moments to check the status of Thesba.
It was holding together—which was really all that could be said for it. A team of around two hundred wizards, some days more and some less, all of them specialists in geology and geomancy, were doing nothing but patch the moon’s interior structure together every evening in those regions that had come under most stress during the previous day’s orbits. Their comments on their work and their debriefing documents were attached to the daily status report on the moon for anyone who cared to look at them… and it was fair to say they were depressing. “It's exactly like bailing out a leaky boat,” said one of the wizards in charge of doing stress relief on the region between Thesba's deformed cores and the “dynamo regions” of the deepest inner mantle. “You know it would be idiocy to stop bailing, so of course you don’t… but you know that at the last, the ocean has you outnumbered. This moon wants so much to come apart. And of course we must do what we’re doing; this world’s life must have time to escape. But it’s going to be a relief to let Thesba go at last.”
Kit sat looking at that page for a while before turning his manual back to the two-page spread that displayed his own gates’ parameters. It was strange how that comment about letting Thesba go led him back to Nita’s remark about there being no happy endings in this situation. Even if all the Tevaralti could be convinced to leave, Thesba would still fall and either render Tevaral uninhabitable or entirely destroy it; and that, Kit thought, was why he was experiencing this constant strange ache of unfulfillment.
That unreasonable ache for some reason also left Kit feeling annoyed. What, am I six? he thought. This isn’t a fairy tale. This isn’t magic we’re doing: it’s wizardry. It’s not like everything’s always going to turn out right.
Yet some part of Kit seemed unwilling to get to grips with this truism, wanted to cling to the concept that things might still work out somehow… and he didn’t know what to do with that. Trying to squash it seemed cruel.
Hope, he thought. Even when it’s ridiculous. Why would anybody want to kill that? Leave it alone.
Glancing up past the standing stones toward the gate complex again, Kit watched the crowds flowing through from the feeder gates into the terminus gate as they’d been doing since he came: a steady flow, unceasing… and between the complex and his circle, the silent encampment, the Tevaralti there shifting restlessly about, watching their species leave them behind—
And closer to him, something else shifting, and making a muted squeaking noise. Kit looked between the circle’s upright stones and saw tentacles inching in his direction, and eyes fixed on him, hopeful and hungry.
He sighed, glanced at the monitor spread in his manual, and then got up, glad to have an excuse to push the whole subject of his interior unease aside. “Okay, you guys,” he said, heading in the direction of his puptent. “Cracker.”
“Cracker!!”
“But
only the Ritz crackers,” he said under his breath. “Not the saltines. Because I know I’m gonna need some comfort food before we’re done…”
The day went on. Kit shooed the gathered sibik away after they’d had about a third of the box of Ritz, and spent the following couple of hours watching the feeder gates’ sensor readings for some recurring gravitational-field fluctuations that had started to worry him. He installed some extra alerts in his manual’s monitoring display of the arrays to try to predict those patterns early. He chatted with Nita: he touched base with Ronan. He went through a couple more energy drinks and got himself a pillow from his puptent, because the Stone Throne really wasn’t very kind to the humanoid butt. Well, this humanoid’s butt, anyway.
Just before local noon Kit had another serious discussion—actually, more of a pep talk—with the number-three gate’s electronic and submolecular-machine control systems, which the gate’s portal field seemed to be trying to subvert so that it could throw some more gravitational anomalies without the systems giving warning. (“Do not let it push you around. And don’t let it pull that energy-is-more-senior-than-matter crap with you, either! You are of equal status. And anyway, you and I are both matter together, and we’re not gonna let it get all high and mighty with us, are we? If it gets snotty with you again you just tell the gate that if it keeps making trouble I’m going to have a consult with my friend who runs Grand Central, and then I’m going to come over there and give its strings such a yanking, it’ll unravel like an old sweater. Yeah? Yeah. Just tell it that.”)
After that Kit went and got himself a lunch that for once wasn’t junk food (a salami sandwich) and was working on it when Cheleb got up and prepared to go off once again about haes pre-shift business. Curious as always, Cheleb paused to examine Kit’s food and drink. “Composition?” hae said, pointing at the sandwich.
“Uh, bread. A grain derivative. Some seasonings—that’s mustard, it comes from a seed. And that’s meat.” Kit opened the sandwich to show him.
Cheleb poked the salami hesitantly with one claw. “This from animal? Strange looking one.”
Kit flirted with the idea of telling haem how sausage was made, and then wasn’t sure whether this might unduly strain interstellar amity. “You have no idea,” Kit said.
“Entertainment later?”
“When Djam gets up,” Kit said, “you bet.”
Cheleb went off to see haes other-side-of-the-planet cousin, and Kit visited his puptent again, stuffing more food and some books and other supplies into a backpack so he wouldn’t have to keep going back and forth. Once back at the Stone Throne with this, he settled into a rhythm that swung between gate monitoring and reading up in the manual about sibiks. He spent nearly three hours on this endeavor, afraid of missing something important. But except for the information that there were hundreds of species, which he’d already known, Kit came away from the effort only slightly better informed than when he’d started.
The manual did say that the ancestors of the dominant Tevaralti species and the ancestor species of the sibik had forged their initial partnership when they were both still up in the trees together—the sibik using their acute vision and sense of smell, and their own intraspecies-based link gift, to lead the tool-using Tevaralti to prey so that both species could then share the spoils. But the manual had almost no data on exactly how the sibik transmitted data even within each of its many single species, let alone across species boundaries. The Tevaralti seemed never to have done any serious research on the subject, and no one else seemed to have considered it of importance enough to contribute any information about it to the manual. Some kind of cultural blind spot, maybe…?
“Weird,” Kit muttered as he leaned against the back of the Throne and looked up through the streaky cirrus clouds overhead at Thesba, which was now well past the zenith and heading for its day’s first setting. “Wonder if anybody’s asked the sibik…”
He soon found that there was going to be opportunity enough for him to do that, if he could keep other things from happening. Kit had gotten up briefly to take a leak behind one of the big standing stones—he was less concerned about this when both his shiftmates were likely to be off-site for a while—when in the middle of zipping up he started hearing unexpected clunking and rustling noises. A few seconds later he came around the standing stone to see a sibik, dappled in green and blue and quite large, hastily pulling things out of his backpack and throwing them over its shoulder, or where its shoulder would’ve been if it had had a shoulder. Or just one, Kit thought. How many tentacles do these guys actually have? They move so fast it’s hard to get a count…
“Hey!” Kit yelled he hurried back to the Stone Throne. The sibik startled at his shout, hitching its abdomen up enough to give Kit what seemed a fairly guilty look, and dug through the backpack faster, flinging away whatever it didn’t want—full cans of soda or cappuccino, mostly—as it dug for things that looked more appetizing. Its grasp of what to do about Tupperware was fortunately non-existent; it tossed away a sealed-up plastic container of cheese slices without a second thought. But someone seemed to have passed it the word about cellophane, even when it was hidden inside cardboard. The sibik went straight for the second of Kit’s saltine boxes and ripped it open, yanking out one of the packages of stacked saltines.
Kit dove for the saltines and snatched them out of the tentacles, which grabbed at the package as Kit pulled it up out of reach. “Now stop it!” he said. “Who told you that you could just take whatever you wanted—”
“Cracker!” The sibik promptly dug into the saltine box, yanked out the second package, and pulled it open. Saltines flew everywhere.
“Oh come on, you’re making a mess…!” Kit moaned. Then he heard what he’d just said, and snickered both at having unconsciously quoted the original scene from the movie they’d been watching yesterday evening and at the memory of Djam bubbling at the scene in amusement. “Right, that’s it…”
Kit tossed the saltine package he was holding into the air and said to it in the Speech, “You, just stay there, okay?” It hung there, levitating at the high point of his toss. Kit gestured at the saltines that had fallen all over the Stone Throne and the ground. “You guys, up you go.” Up they went, and hung there in a scatter of little squares.
The sibik, meanwhile, was making off with the half-empty package. The method was interesting: a couple of tentacles hugged the package to the underside of its body, while the rest on either side of its body ran it hurriedly away through the grass. “Nope,” Kit said, pointing at it. “Up.” And up went the sibik, its tentacles working comically against the air, like something out of a cartoon, as it lost contact with the ground.
“Nope,” the sibik squeaked, “nope nope nope nope!”, flailing around in the air while still doggedly hanging onto the package of saltines. For his part, Kit had to stand still for a moment as a shiver ran through him with the realization of just high his personal power levels were running at the moment—so high that merely using the Speech with full intention was, with simple things at least, enough to produce a result without needing to explicitly build a spell. This is really something... But strangely enough, he found that he wasn’t really liking it.
Kit shook his head and went over to the sibik. He tugged the half-empty package of saltines out of its tentacles and shoved them in his hoodie’s front pocket, then reached up and plucked the sibik out of the air. It grunted and thrashed and tried to get away.
“Now cut that out,” Kit said. “Calm down. Okay? Stop it now, just stop it…” He had to pull back his head a bit to avoid being lashed across the face with panicked tentacles. “Cut it out. Just relax. Okay? I’m not going to hurt you, but we have to have a talk about not taking people’s stuff without permission.”
The sibik thrashed and wriggled and waved itself around for some seconds more, and Kit just hung onto it until all of a sudden it made an upset giving-up noise like a half-inflated balloon losing all its air, and went limp in his arms.
>
“Okay,” Kit said. “Now come on and let’s sit down and talk like reasonable people.”
He headed back over to the Stone Throne and sat down with the sibik in his lap. Nine tentacles, Kit thought as he tried to arrange the creature so that it looked less disheveled. But despite his best efforts it still wound up looking like some kind of limp and extremely peculiar mop, and the eyes on the back of its abdomen were all dark and squinted, as if avoiding looking at Kit. It was sulking.
“Okay now,” he said. “Let’s not be like this. Tell me what brought you here.”
The response was sullen silence. “Come on,” Kit said, “how’d you find your way?”
If possible, the sibik went even flatter.
Kit rubbed his face. “Let’s start this over, yeah?”
He beckoned over one of the saltines floating in the air. “Look,” he said, “this is what you were after. You might as well have one…”
It snatched the saltine out of his hand with a pair of tentacles and shoved it hurriedly into its between-tentacles stoma, as if afraid Kit might have been about to change his mind. Crumbs sprayed everywhere; apparently annoyed or upset sibik were messy eaters. “Okay. Better?”
“No,” the sibik said with some force. “More cracker better.”
Interesting the way it’s picking up Speech vocabulary, Kit thought. It doesn’t just acquire it from other sibiks who’ve heard it; it gets it from me too, at least a little. Is it hearing it in Tevaralti, though, the way a human hears the Speech like it’s their milk language, or as Speech-words proper? …Something to look into later. “Okay,” Kit said, “more cracker.” He gestured the little cloud of saltines over to him and plucked another one out of the air.
The sibik grabbed at it. “Hungry!”
Kit held the saltine up out of the way and held the sibik down against his lap when it tried to climb up him to gain altitude. “Fine, but we’re gonna teach you another word first,” Kit said. “‘Please.’”
