Ankaht opened the window and leaned out, trying to let the wind and soft rain blow some of the mental stench off. It soothed her, but did little to ease her spirit and it was getting her office wet. She shut it and want back to her cushion and her desk, not bothering to wipe the droplets off her skin.
It wasn't truly raining that hard and she tried to tell herself it was all right, she'd get used to the subtle wrongness of this planet. She appreciated it, truly, but it wasn't and would never feel just like home to her. She'd have to wait till the next life when she could be born into a space, a place, which was home. She didn't want to be back in that box of a ship either. It was a feeling that had no help. It was what it was. The rain outside her window grew heavier, blowing away from her down the street, at least washing the dust off the plants that were the wrong shade of herrm.
The episodes of mental trouble in the city clusters had leveled off and people were starting to adjust to the vagaries of weather and the immutability of planetary gravity, but the attacks on the People hadn't stopped despite the attempts the Council made to discourage them. She was truly starting to think that if you killed these creatures the survivors fought harder as though death were somehow terrifying. I will have to think on that some other time.She squeezed her eyes shut hard and massaged the sides of her head, trying to stop the ache behind her top eye. (Depression.)
Even though these aliens—she refused, even in her mind, to call them griarfeksh—were selnarm mute she was convinced they were truly intelligent and worthy of communication. If only Torhok and Urkhot and their cronies weren't so strong on the Council there was a chance a more moderate view could be achieved. (Exhaustion of spirit.)
Without peace with these things there would never be a safe place for Illudor's people and that fear was exactly the emotion that would fuel the brutal drain on the People. (Resolve.) She pushed herself up from the cushion, determined to break out of this mood. A walk would do her good; let her skin be soothed by the warm rain.
This cluster had been cleared for Arduan use weeks ago so she was safe enough during the day and she walked out past the buildings most of the People had commandeered. The buildings here were open, empty, and the rain fell on her and the pavement under her feet. She paused under a cluster of trees planted in pots that actually had a pleasing contrast of texture, and in the midst stood a construct for which she could see no reason. It was an alloy-of-white-metal representation of a grazing creature of this planet poised on the edge of a pool that bubbled out of a pebbled depression in the walkway. Ankaht stood regarding it, wondering just what such a thing would represent to an alien.
In a wandering line more creatures were depicted and, curious, she followed the path so marked out. A small hunter crouched on a boulder. A water creature emerging out of the stone. The path of creatures led to a large typically ugly alien building, all straight lines and vile angles. The door opened itself for her.
She almost didn't enter because behind the door was one of the foulest tapestries she'd ever seen. Vrel woven through red. Herrm and crivan overlaid on orange. She shut her eyes and pressed on.
The hall beyond that excrescence was actually pleasing. The ceiling vaulted up in smooth curves and suspended in pools of light were the crazed color blotches of madness. On display. Why? Did they find this disharmony, this ranarmata, soothing?
She was stopped by a locked case showing a single black-an- white depiction of a human hand drawing itself. I did not believe I would find sulhaji, here. I shotan that.
The three-dimensional depictions were more often better, but even they weren't always well colored. This was not helping either her eyes or her head but her stubborn curiosity kept her from just leaving. I found sulhaji once. Perhaps there is more here. And if these creatures have any kind of shotan, then it can be argued that they are not just pests on our new planet.
She turned another corner and was rewarded with a lovely little room with a series of small grav plate–suspended fountains, each apparently representing a season on planet, day and night and in a number of weathers and it was a very clever trick that made it look like each fed into the next perpetually. Why was this here in amongst all the ugliness? Sulhaji again.
There was a faint disturbance, as if someone were distantly shouting, something like a faint whiff of a sweetness, a sense of selnarm from someone asleep or unconscious. She followed the sensations and though they got no stronger, she found herself in a hall with three sculptures along its length. The first was a column of blue-black and as she stepped up to it, she realized the shotan of it. Night. Mystery. Danger. Holding on.
The second looked the same except for a sliver of red/orange/crivan/white. Dawn. Hope. Relief.
The third smooth column was solidly crivan/white. Day. Reality. Safety. And a faint suggestion of Dullness.
She had no idea how she knew what they meant. It wasn't selnarm. She turned and looked down the hall she'd just walked and the alcoves and rooms and knew what it was. Simply put. A gallery. Unemotional creatures did no art. Here was her proof that the aliens were not dispassionate machines, oblivious vermin. This was not just opinion, or theory that could be argued away as Ardupomorphic or her wishful thinking, was it? She had found enough sulhaji in amongst the ranarmata to make an excellent case.
There were other works like the three that had spoken to her and on some level she could feel them, sense them to varying degrees but came back to the original three again. There were alien artists who could speak, however crudely. They saw true. And one of them had made something that gave her hope. True comprehensibility might be attained. She took a recording of the identifier code she found with Night, Dawn and Day. Jennifer Pietchkov.
The Council chamber lighting was subdued, but not so much as the emotion around the table. Torhok restrained his impatience as the narmata refused to settle. Urkhot, the rest of his staff, and many junior 'kri, were off to the star they were calling Asth after the continent on Old Ardu, where Narrok consolidated his forces. That significantly cut down on the number of councilors he could rely on not to be swayed by the innate wrongheadedness of the Sleepers and her. The shaxzhu were honored for all the wrong reasons. They held these ideas that were going to get people killed, they obstructed the clear path to Destoshaz holodah.
And Narrok. He was so cautious. Why had he not been the one killed? Lankha and I understood one another, he thought. The narmata of the forces that had lurched out of the warp point, some of them air-bleeding wrecks that it was easier to scrap than rebuild, had been shaken. The Destoshaz under Lankha had never questioned her sulhaji. Or his.
Now that portion of his forces questioned all of it. Could unthinking creatures so outguess the admiral? How had they known to set up traps like that?
He shook off the questions they had put to him and that he had not yet answered. There was a reason for it, just not the patently false idea that the aliens could actually feel, or understand. This did not make them incapable of being either malicious or dangerous.
Ankaht sat, arms folded, eyes almost closed, the image of a 'kri in meditation. He tried to discern her selnarm state, but failed. She was keeping everything down to a minimum. He didn't trust it.
"Councilors," Torhok said. "I propose First Claw Appep be promoted to admiral and sent to rebuild our forces in the Fetket system. (Problem solved.) To replace Admiral Lankha." (Mild regret.)
(Consensus.) Well that was easy, but I didn't expect anyone to question my Destoshaz judgment. (Satisfaction. Preparation.) "That concludes my contribution for now." (Tension. Anticipation.)
"I have a proposal to make." (Determination.) Ankaht spoke up from her end of the table, a claw clicking slowly on the table.
(Interest 12, Dismissal 3, Indifference 5.)
"Recently evidence has come to light that some aliens may have a rudimentary ability to communicate something faintly like selnarm." (Excitement. Anticipation.)
(Interest 16, Dismissal 3, Indifference 1.)
Not this nonsense again. Torhok felt like he'd already killed this problem a dozen times and each time it was reborn immediately. There was no rest period, no waiting time. Ankaht brought it back to him each time and he was trying to curb his dislike but it kept sliding over toward hatred and it was more and more difficult to mitigate when in her presence and in the presence of others. She was disaster incarnate. But she brought this up again because so many of the right-thinking councilors are away. He unobtrusively rasped his grinders together. It was terrible. He was developing more and more physical expressions as he closed off his connection to selnarm.
"Elder," he said mildly, succeeding in mastering himself. (Interest.) "This is fascinating news. Does it look as though we may be able to actually get through to these creatures?" (Polite inquiry.) I am thinking of naming the next few griarfeksh after you and ripping their throats out. He didn't move, sitting and waiting, his hands still on the table, but startled himself with the virulence of his inner thought. This is, perhaps, too extreme. I can't let her upset me this way.
"I found that the aliens have displays of art." She waved a hand around the chamber to indicate and encompass the display pieces that served them all when discussion became to ranarmata.
Hachette sent (Negation.) before he began speaking. "I've seen their 'art.' It is as incomprehensible as the rest of their works. Ugly, discordant daubings." (Disagreement.)
(Confusion 4, Open to thought 15, Rejection 1.)
"But the point is that they produce it at all. Machines have no need for art. Animals do not create art." She actually leaned forward a fraction, she was so intent on her argument. "I propose we assemble a number of the creatures artists and attempt to communicate with them." (Surety.)
There are too many here who are interested. With Admiral Lankha's death and our defeat, I just do not have the weight of hand to bury this idea again. But the wise warrior uses everything.
"I must concur with the Elder." Torhok said. (Support.) "The People bleed when we cannot achieve even basic understanding because the aliens' maddening behavior."
(—.) His abrupt support of an idea he'd fought and despised for so long, was so stunning that the selnarm almost stilled in the room. "I believe that the elder is the very Arduan to head this project, personally. Her other duties have been ably and capably dealt with and can be safely given to a junior for the short time I'm sure it will take for her to find our talking aliens." (Support. Wry humor.) "In fact I am certain that this act of sokhata on the part of the eldest will lead to the highest matsokah." I'll get her shuffled off to one side, tangled in her impossible task, and pried off the back of my neck, finally. With that thought, he could let his real selnarm flow. (Intent to aid. Satisfaction.)
"I'm willing to oversee this, of course," Ankaht said carefully. (Startlement.) "I admit I didn't think to look for your support, Senior Admiral." (?)
"All it takes is sulhaji, the true seeing. That is our narmata." (Concern.)
(Consideration 19, Uncertainty 1.)
Torhok looked over at Mahes, councilor for Civanrock. "Did you think, my friend, that our elder speaker isn't capable of this matsoka?" (Belief.) I will see that she doesn't bother us again.
Mahes was one of the strongest supporter that Torhok had here. And he was obviously too surprised to fall in line immediately. (Embarrassment.) "Of course not, Admiral. I was merely uncertain. I am no longer." He turned to Ankaht.
"I think that you and the senior admiral are right, Elder. You have my agreement."
(Consensus.)
"I will send you the Destoshaz to assist your staff in rounding up these so called 'artists' of yours, Elder," Torhok said. (Amiable.) If I send some of the younger claws who are nervous of griarfeksh, I'm sure I can help start her project on the best possible course. He smothered the gloating he felt when he imagined the ranarmata she would have if she had to restrain a hundred of these wild things. (Minor satisfaction.)
She stood. "Then since I have a new project to begin, and have consensus, I ask leave of the Council to begin." (Anticipation.)
"Of course, Elder." Torhok took it on himself to answer where Mahes would have. It sent a message of course, that he was letting no military setback diminish him. (Will to direct.) "Councilors, I should also inform you of new deployments I have in mind for Asth. Narrok will need a considerable force to pursue his style of assault and I propose there is a way to give it to him." (Intensity.) He heard the click as the door closed behind Ankaht as he began outlining his plans for the systems Narrok held. Let her have her impossible project. She will be thoroughly closed out of the decision-making from now on.
Jennifer leaned her head into one hand, tapping her stylus against the table as she listened to Lewis's vile "please wait" music. Click. "I'm back, Ms. Pietchkov—"
"Hey!" She had to interrupt him. "Since when was I Ms. Pietchkov to you? I just need access to Crossingford Gallery for a few hours. The pieces of mine that they have aren't too big for my truck to handle and Alessandro will help me get them. . ."
"Jennifer. I'm trying. No one is allowed into an area the aliens have claimed, period, even if they've stopped just shooting people. I for one am not going to test the canned warnings they have broadcasting. Jesus, I don't want to get you killed. It's not like they're burning or bombing anything in the cleared zone. Your artwork is probably safe enough in the gallery. Please don't ask me to try to get in there."
Jen sniffed, vainly trying to clear her sinuses. No one had warned her she'd have postnasal drip as a symptom of pregnancy. She was tired and could see it in her picture inset into the call screen. And she looked puffy again. "At least not until the end of next week. Thanks, Lewis."
"Sure, Jennifer."
She shut down the connection and eased back in her chair. Her kitchen table was covered in the stuff of business and a couple of empty cups, a half-eaten piece of pie. At least her ravenous appetite had eased up a bit. Thirty-seven weeks. All I have to do is deal with another three-seven. Mom always said that pregnancy was two months too long. The baby readjusted himself inside, running a heel or an elbow along the inside of her uterus, making her aware of how thin her skin and flesh really was at this point. "I'm a skin envelope, huh, baby." She was talking to the belly again. "Boy, will I be glad when it's just me in here again." More oil on the belly tonight.
Sunlight slanted through the sliding door at the back of the house and she could just see Alessandro outside, messing with his newest hobby. How and why he'd gotten into building remote-control vehicles, she just couldn't understand, even though he had no formal "work" he hadn't had time for hobbies for a long while. That's why they'd given up the historical re-creation.
But he had to do something. His company had just shut down and laid everyone off after the aliens came. There was just no point in trying to get out to the mothballed and hidden extraction facilities. No human traffic was allowed off-planet. The strange thing was that as long as the aircraft was on the ground the Baldies didn't trash it, but if it fired up its engines—zzzhpt—gone.
She felt tears welling up in her eyes as she watched him. They'd never gotten over that first argument, that first time he'd gone so distant and cold and it hurt. Jesu, it hurt. He was still there and sometimes at first, she'd thought they'd get over it. Even now she caught flashes of the old 'Sandro, when he rubbed her back for her, or made something to eat that she could actually stomach. Then he'd go icy again and storm out without saying anything and when he got back, at whatever time, he'd sleep in the guest room.
The entertainment unit in the living room turned itself on and brought up her favorite classical music program, Ijaba Danladi's Phoenix Sonata soothing her with its peaceful opening.
Jennifer laced her fingers together around her belly, feeling her baby bump. I'm so weepy lately. I just lose it. Whether it's 'Sandro, or a stupid media presentation. She tried to smile, even though she was still crying. Her dad would have said she didn't know her butt from breakfast. She didn't have any way of sending a message, so her parents didn't even know they were about to become grandparents. They had to be worried sick, but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. No way to send mail to sunny Palma Brava, where they'd bought their retirement home.
"Illudor's claws, this list sucks," Enforcement Officer Shesmetet grumbled, waving the list reader under her partner's nose. (Frustration. Fear of them.)
"Yes." Tatenen pushed it back with one hand, driving with the other. "You would have to make things more difficult. You shoot one and the rest go nuts. Do you want to get this detachment killed? It would inconvenience more than just us. Don't kill any more of them. That's the orders." (Indifferent irritation.)
"But this list of identifiers. Half of them aren't here. Escher. Michelangelo. Kresaarkal-jahr'tergit. How can these be identifiers?"
"Illsblood! How should I know? Check the monitor, make sure those things aren't waking up." (Nervousness.)
Shesmetet turned toward the images she was getting from the back of their containment vehicle. "You think I'm not keeping an eye on the creepy little things?" (Anger.)
"Not so little, and I know you don't like lookin' at them." (Annoyance.)
She pulled back on her selnarm, refusing to give him her emotion, but continued checking the condition of the griarfeksh in the back. "Temperature and air circulation good. Still alive. Still unconscious."
"Good." (Petty annoyance.)
As the heavy rumble of alien trucks made itself apparent on the street, Jennifer was just stepping off the bottom stair. She paused, looking out the front window, seeing the Baldy vehicle stop in the street—a gold-skin and a dark-skin were getting out of it, while a third sat shotgun up on top. She'd never seen any of them close up since the invasion, only on vid, and it was amazing how much was lost on screen. To her they looked somehow more vital, more real somehow, yet at the same time more expressionless all at the same time.
"What's going on?" Alessandro asked, coming across the living room. Jennifer, from her position, still on the last step, put her hand on his shoulder.
"I don't know."
The two Baldies walked up the street so they couldn't see them from the window any longer.
"I hope to hell they go away." 'Sandro's voice was strained and he'd broken out in a sweat for some reason. Jennifer put her arm around his neck and he pulled her a bit closer but not enough to unbalance her; that was when the front gate squeaked and a second later, someone tried the door.
"Shit! I forgot to lock it!" Jennifer's other hand was over her mouth as the two Baldies walked in. She could feel 'Sandro tighten up rock hard as he stood still, as though confronted by a rabid dog.
"## ### ### ##### of Jennifer Pietchkov ### ###," The gold one said. The small dark one was looking at its hand screen, one hand on its sidearm.
"What?" He looked startled before shaking his head. "No," Alessandro said through clenched teeth. "No! There is no Jennifer Pietchkov, here!"
"### Come with ## Jennifer Pietchkov," Gold said. Dark unclipped the holster and was pulling out the weapon, when Jennifer stepped down in front of 'Sandro and spoke clearly.
"I'm Jennifer Pietchkov."
"Dammit, Jen!" Alessandro shouted and the two Baldies stepped back.
"I'm not letting them shoot you, love. That's what they do if you buck them, right?" She walked forward one step and then another when Gold reached out a hand toward her. It wrapped its tentacles around her wrist and she noted absently that it was like being touched by a warm, dry, extremely flexible leather belt. The claws lay neatly in callused slots when the hand closed, she noted. I'm so frightened, I couldn't spit. I don't know what to feel.
Behind her she could hear an anguished sound and half-turned as 'Sandro lunged to snatch her away from them. Dark couldn't pull the weapon out, they were standing too close, but Gold brought its other arm around, hand fisted around a metal tool.
It cracked into 'Sandro's forearm where he'd grabbed at Jennifer's, slid forward to punch into his belly, and snapped up into the middle of his face with a sound like a hammer hitting a thumb. 'Sandro, stepping back, hand up to block, his weight coming full on Jennifer's arm for only a second, crumpled to the ground streaming blood from nose and forehead.
Jennifer drew breath to scream when Dark brought up a canister and sprayed it in her face. Gold caught her as she collapsed, carried her out the door, and loaded her into the back of their vehicle.
Phoenix came to its thundering conclusion as the truck drove away, sending a plume of dust drifting in the door they'd left open, the fine yellow grains floating on the fresh blood on the floor.
Across the road the curtains twitched as a neighbor backed away from the window.
Her head felt as thick as two short planks and hurt like someone was hammering on them. Jennifer realized she was lying in such a way that her arm had fallen asleep and while her mouth was open, her eyes were closed.
The baby! was her first thought and her eyes snapped open, hands cradling her belly. The baby moved inside, kicking, reassuring her even as she sat up, looking around for 'Sandro. 'Sandro? They . . . they'd hit him. She could remember the beginning of the fight. The alien had moved fast. Either they'd taken 'Sandro too, or they'd left him and the team in the basement would have made sure he was okay after the aliens had left. She scrubbed her hands across her face. It had to be either of those two outcomes. Both of which left him alive. It just had to be.
There was no one else in the room. Two closed doors. No window. It looked as though someone with absolutely no color taste had tried to furnish a small bedroom. The bedspread under her was a bilious orange and she closed her eyes against the red pattern on the cushions, suddenly unsure whether her nausea was because of whatever drug they'd knocked her out with or the sickening toile.
There was a small drafting table and chair with a professional-quality lamp bolted to it. No window. She was fixating on that. A pitcher of water on the bedside shelf with a wineglass next to it. She picked it up and sniffed and tasted. It seemed to be water.
They've already drugged me once. If they wanted to poison me it probably wouldn't be like this. She drank straight out of the jug, suddenly realizing her thirst, her initial restraint thrown away with the first taste of cool water. The baby jumped. If they've hurt my baby with whatever dumb, alien thing they're doing, I'll kill them with my bare hands. If they've killed— She stopped, unable to complete the thought, still too dehydrated to cry easily. She set her teeth and put the jug down at the same time.
If they've killed Alessandro—once this baby is born— She couldn't even think of that. One thing at a time. This baby has to be safely born, first.
However dry she still felt, she needed to empty her bladder. Quit jumping on mama's internal organs, junior. That was when she felt the tears well up, as she tested both doors, one locked, the other opened on a bathroom, to her great relief.
As she washed her hands and face after relieving herself, she scanned the shelf over the tiny vanity. Some alien had apparently swept off several shelves in a drugstore. Shampoo, contraceptives, a can of cheese spread, party body-mod make-up. Bathroom tissue, toothpaste, eight toothbrushes. No hairbrush or comb. Hair-restorers, menstrual pads and sponges, a handful of random greeting cards and magazines. Jennifer dried her face. Thankfully there were towels, and facecloths. She stood, leaning her forehead against the wall, looking down at a box of Band-Aids, a bottle of children's cough syrup and a rubber doggie chew toy, and felt the weird urge to giggle. Take us to your mall, she thought, and started to cry. She scrubbed the tears away more roughly than she had to. Stop that. Think logically. Why did they take me? I don't know. Where am I? Also an I-don't-know. But they've gone to some trouble to try and make me comfortable . . . with an ineptitude that says something about their experience dealing with us. Or anybody else?
When the outer door opened, she froze for a second and turned as a female Baldy came in and stood in the center of the bedroom, looking through the door at her. She was one of the short, dark variant, wearing a robe that looked vaguely linenlike, but Jennifer, for all her eye, couldn't name the color exactly. Very unlike the limb-covering uniforms everyone had seen until now. There was gold in it, and green, and an odd violet.
Jennifer realized she was focusing on the clothing rather than look the alien in they eyes, those three eyes. She raised hers. The Baldy stared at her, impassive, unmoving as they seemed to do, the machine-in-idle-mode quality less pronounced somehow. The tentacles on the hands twitched finally and it went over to the chair at the desk and sat down, knotting the hands together in the lap.
It's acting like it's in the room with a potentially vicious dog, Jennifer thought angrily. And it is what set this all up. If 'Sandro's hurt, I'll show her just how vicious I can be. She set one hand against her belly and slowly came into the bedroom, easing sideways along the wall, as far from the Baldy as she could get, before sitting down on the end of the bed. It just watched her with that peculiar intensity.
Jennifer's scalp and neck tightened up and started itching; she shook her head and stared at her visitor. "Who are you and what do you want from me?" She shook her head again and ran her hands through her hair. "Where is 'Sandro? Is he all right?"
She knew that the Baldy couldn't understand the questions but had to ask. Then she shrugged and fell silent.
The Baldy finally said "### you ### ### ##### Jennifer Peitchkov?" The translator tried but that was all that came through. The dark skin of her arms and face flushed darker for a moment, then paled to almost a latte coffee color. It happened moment after she spoke and didn't seem to be associated with the words.
"Yes. I am Jennifer Peitchkov." Jen tapped herself as she said it. The Baldies didn't seem to notice, or pick up on body motion, but it never hurt to try again. As long as they weren't shooting you out of hand. She tapped again. "Jennifer."
The Baldy sat, color shifting on her skin almost in waves, as still and foreign as a statue. Jennifer suddenly felt hot and that scalp itch was back. She scratched her head again and wished for a window. She got up and retreated to the bathroom, uncomfortable being still. She didn't even care that the Baldy actually twitched when she moved.
Jen ran more water over her wrists and drank some. She didn't want to go back into that room but there was nowhere else to go. She returned and sat down, staring at the Baldy with all the anger and discomfort she felt.
The alien hadn't moved other than the once. Now one hand unknotted itself from the ball of clenched tentacles on her lap and rose, almost uncomfortably, to tap herself on the chest, an awkward motion mimicking Jen's. "Ankaht," she said. "## #### ## talk."
Well for goodness sake, it's about time, Jen thought. Someone at least has some sense. The only way I'm going to get out of here and get back to Alessandro, is to talk. Maybe we can even put a stop to the fighting, in the long run. She pointed, since the Baldy seemed to be trying to understand gestures. Hopefully this will get through the machine. "Ankaht. Hello. You're right. Talk."