The Deep Beyond: Cuckoo's Egg / Serpent's Reach

by C. J. Cherryh

  “You’re a fine young man,” Sagot said. “I like you.”

  “You’re lying, you’re lying, Duun put you up to this—”

  “Doubtless he did. But you’re still a fine young man. I can see that in you. I can see more than you think I see, I’ve brought up too many boys not to have had a young man wail and pour his troubles into my lap now and again, and young women too— I confess to you, even a few who weren’t so young, all wailing and shaking with the troubles that were great to them then. Lamentations like that, they’re like great storms. They’re good for you. They come sweeping through the woods and break a few limbs. But they herald change. They bring the turn of seasons. They make things new. There, that’s good. Your eyes are bright— very handsome eyes, if different. They’re blue, aren’t they, when they’re not running.”

  “Let me alone!”

  “It’s amazing how much young men are alike; first the wails, then the shouting. I know it hurts. I’ve buried two husbands. I know something about pain.”

  “Are you hatani?”

  She smiled. “Gods, no. But I know Duun. You know a hatani can do a lot of things, but when it comes to others, well— reason can’t solve everything. ‘Take care of him,’ he said, ‘Sagot, talk to him, teach him—’ ‘Now why should I do that?’ I said. ‘I’ve got my work, I’ve got things to do, I’ve got fourteen great-great-grandchildren, I don’t need another boy—’ But then I got to thinking, it’s been so very long. They’re all grown. I’m a hundred fifty-nine, young lad, and I’ve traveled all over the world, I’ve trekked down rivers, I’ve been to the two poles, I’ve written books— some of the books you study, by the by; I’ve had nine husbands, lovers I’ve forgotten, a few I haven’t, and I’ve patched young knees, set bones, birthed babies and seen enough in this world not to be shocked at anything, that’s the truth.”

  “Maybe that’s why Duun wanted you with me.” Bitterly. But somewhere in the chatter the pain in his chest stopped, and Sagot made it stop, and he had no more wish to run away. He sat there with his feet dangling, his five fingered hands in his lap and the remnant of tears drying on his naked face. (But Betan’s furred skin was silk and tasted like she smelled—)

  “I don’t think you think enough of yourself,” Sagot said. “It’s very well to be hatani, but you’re not all that thing, you know, the way you’re not just that pair of eyes or that pair of hands or that sex between your legs—” (The heat flew to his face.) “Oh, well, boy, I know, I know, you’ve only now discovered it and for a while it’s the most of you, but that passes, it gets less important, the more of you there gets to be, the more abilities, the more thoughts, everything changes and shifts until the world’s so wide and the things you are get so complex there’s no containing them. You’re not just Thorn who was born in a lab, right down this hall; you’re Thorn the hatani, Thorn my student, Thorn who’ll go places and do things and be things Thorn hasn’t even thought of, and I haven’t, and you’ll find answers to your questions and questions yet to answer, which makes life, after all. So wail and take on if you have to, and if you want to come here every day and pour it all in my lap, well, that’s doing some good, if you need to. But when you’re done with that and you’re quite ready I’ve got a lot of things I want to give you— it is giving, you know, a kind of gift. When you’ve lived as many years as I have you want to leave something in the world, and my teaching’s that thing; it’s what I do.”

  Another sob overtook him, unexpected, like a sudden breath. But it hurt less. Thorn wiped his face with a swipe of his hand, quick, distasteful. He slid back on the riser and tucked his feet up. There was no choice. Sagot left him none. “I’m listening, Sagot,” (O gods, what has she got to teach?) Sagot teemed with secrets, frightening as Duun. As implacable. As difficult to get around. “Are you sure you’re not hatani?”

  Sagot laughed and even that was gentle, a fragility about her voice. “I take that for a compliment. What do you like best, what study?”

  “Physics.”

  “Physics, then. Show me what you know. I’ll find out where to start.”

  • • •

  “If an object were traveling at the speed of light, and a man traveled on it to the nearest star— what is that star?”

  “Goth.”

  “And distant—?”

  “5 light-years.”

  “5.1. Be precise for this. And this man was forty; and he left a sister on earth when he went. . . .”

  • • •

  “There’s a kind of parasite infests the brains of cattle on the Sgoht river. I remember once seeing one—”

  “You were there?”

  “Child, I lived nine months on the Sgoht, and I had a village magistrate for a lover. He had a ring threaded so, right through the side of his lip, and it looked odd, I’ll tell you, when he smiled. He had been married six times and he had a great notch in his nose where one of his wives took a stick to him, but she was a crazy woman and her daughter was crazier. She took it into her head to sell her mother’s land, that’s right, without owning it— she was going to sell her expectation of inheriting it to this man she was living with so she could get the money to go downriver and get a husband who owned a grocery, don’t ask me why, but I think food was quite all she could think of— she must have weighed two hundred, all of it. Well, the magistrate my lover finally gave her the money to get her out of town, and that fool man she was living with went after my lover with an axe—”

  “Gods, Sagot!”

  “He did. And chased him round and round the office and out into the street before someone shot this crazy man. Rumor had it the cattle sickness got him, that that woman fed him from diseased animals; but my lover the magistrate said anyone who married that woman was crazy from the start.”

  • • •

  “Watch the monitor. This is a simulation game. This is an instrument panel— there’s your fuel, do you see, there’s your altitude, there’s your compass. . . . You remember your ride to the city, don’t you?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “Well, this isn’t a copter. It’s a plane. Use the toggle and the keys— let me show you. Here’s the runway— this is an old-fashioned plane. But we’ll start with that.”

  “Can you fly?”

  “Oh, well, yes, I used to. My eyesight’s against me now. I stay to the commercial planes.”

  “Commercial.”

  “Dear lad, planes go back and forth all over the world all the time, how do you think one would go?”

  “Rail.”

  “Oh, well, it’s all mostly freight, nowadays. Let’s try taking off again; I’m afraid we’ve just crashed.”

  • • •

  At some time the pain stopped. Thorn woke up one morning and realized he was past the sharpness of it; and that it had gotten to a kind of regret in which he did not have to work so hard at self-control; and finally, at breakfast with Duun on still another day, he hurt with a different pain, that he and Duun had had little to say to each other beyond the necessities of two people living with each other, and Duun’s teaching him in the gym. There were no tales in his life but Sagot’s; there was no sound in the house, but sometimes in the long evenings he and sometimes Duun played the dkin with indifferent passion— Duun aimlessly or working out long and vexing compositions that frayed Thorn’s nerves; Thorn playing gloomy hatani songs or the lightest, most trivial ditties he had known from childhood, like accusations hurled at Duun. And Duun would sit and listen, or retreat to his office for peace and (sometimes, for Duun’s side pained him) Duun would take a sedative and close the door of his room.

  He was Sagot’s ward. Duun only lived with him and went turnabout at fixing meals, and saw to his drill and his practice (but Duun ached when he breathed and even that was indifferent).

  (He held me all night, that night. That must have hurt. He could hardly move when he w
oke up. He never complained.)

  (Is it ever going to heal?) In one part of him the sight of Duun reduced to walking into the gym and giving instructions and walking out again gave Thorn satisfaction.

  (But he’s too quiet. He doesn’t talk to me. What’s he waiting for?)

  (O gods. I wish he’d yell or frown at me or even look me in the eyes. His shoulders stoop. He moves like Sagot does. I’d never have caught him in the first place, but his balance was on his bad side in that pass. If he was younger, if he hadn’t ever been hurt, gods, he must have been impossible to beat. I’d hate to have met him then.)

  (O Duun, look at me!)

  (Why should I care that he took Betan, he took Elanhen, Sphitti, even Cloen, he takes everything I care for, he sent Sagot and someday I’ll walk in and he’ll have sent her away too, everything, everyone.)

  (He spied on me. He’s probably tied into the computers there at school, I know he could, all you have to do is put the codes in, we’re in the same building. He knew everything, he read everything Betan and I passed back and forth, probably the guards reported to him.)

  (O Duun, I don’t like this quiet. I don’t like you looking like that, it hurts.)

  But one noon he came back from Sagot and Duun was in the gym, was waiting for him when he had shed down to his small-kilt and got out on the sand. Thorn waited for instruction, but Duun walked out, swinging his left arm a bit and working it back and forth.

  “Duun, be careful.”

  “Thorn, I don’t need you to tell me careful. Just remember what I told you: no all-out strikes. Let’s go a fall or two.”

  Duun took him. It took a good long while, and it was craft that worked Thorn off his center and brought Duun’s foot against his back.

  “I’m dead,” Thorn said, and sat down on the sand. Duun sat down less quickly, breathing hard, licking at his teeth. Thorn panted for breath and leaned on his knees and stared back at him. Grinned suddenly, because getting beaten by Duun was in the nature of the world and made it feel less lonely.

  Duun grinned back. No words. It was better after that. Duun played that night, one old familiar piece after the other, and the music brought them back, dkin and drum, not the sad songs but the songs with tricks, hatani humor, subtle and cruel.

  Thorn slept that night, and waked about the middle of the dark with the stars giddy about his bed and the air breathing false chill winds as if they came off winter snow; everything was still, and he had some vague terror that he could put no name to.

  (Duun was here. He was here a while ago.) Perhaps it was a subtle scent the air-conditioning had dispersed. But the door was closed.

  Thorn’s eyes searched the room, the dark, seeking outlines and knowing Duun’s skill. (Is he still in the room? Is he waiting till I move?) Thorn’s heart raced, the veins pounding in his throat. (This is foolish. How could he pass the door? It’s noisy; I couldn’t sleep that soundly.)

  (Could I?)

  His heart hammered wildly. (He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not after Betan. He knows I’m mad. I hate him. I hate him that he does this to me.)

  He hurled himself out of bed. (Never trust him. Never take Duun for granted—) But there was nothing there, only the false stars in their slow dizzy movement.

  Thorn sat down again on the edge of the bed. His heart still slammed against his ribs.

  (What’s the world like? Full of Sagot’s kind? Or Duun’s? What’s he up to? What was I made for? Why does the government care whether I live or die— enough to call on a hatani to solve my problem? He could kill them. Kill me. He gives me a chance, he says . . . a chance against what?)

  (A hatani dictates others’ moves. A hatani judges. A hatani wanders through the world setting things to rights again. A hatani can leave a pebble in your bed— in your drink— can pass a locked door and track you in the dark. He’s a hunter . . . not of game. Of anyone he wants. What else is he?)

  (Everything Duun does has a cause. And Sagot’s his friend. Maybe— maybe Betan was. No. Yes. O gods, maybe it’s all set up. Could Betan take a thing like me by preference? Was she curious? Curious— about what she’d let do that with her?)

  (Sphitti laughing and joking with me, Elanhen too, from the time we met. Wouldn’t it be natural to flinch? But they were prepared for it. They knew what I’d look like. Maybe Cloen was the only honest one— the only one Who ever told me the truth.)

  (Fool, you knew that, you knew it from the time you walked into that room and you wanted to believe something else. You saw how Betan moved— you thought hatani then and put that thought away.)

  (She flinched at the last, she flinched and I reacted— I smelled the fear, her nerve broke— I pushed back, it scared me, it was reflex, she was up against me and I smelled the fear—)

  (Thorn, where’s your mind? Did you leave it at Sheon, on that hill, when you went back for him? Can you forget how Duun works?)

  (I love him. Does he love me?)

  (Is even Sagot real? All her chatter— from the start— ‘I like you, boy.’ Thorn, you fool.)

  (Did Duun tell the truth, what I am and where he got me?)

  Thorn sat there with his hands locked between his knees; and at last he got up and turned on the lights, checked the bed, as if there could be a pebble there. There was none.

  (I hate him. I hate him for what he’s done to me.)

  (It was the best thing in the world when he smiled at me today.)

  X

  “Again.”

  They used the wer-knives this time, the blades cased in clear plastic. Duun bent and took the pass, snaked from Thorn’s strike and Thorn evaded his, fell and flipped up on his feet a distance away. “Is that a move you invented?” Duun asked dryly, and Thorn lowered his head and looked under one brow in that way he had when he had done something foolish. “I invented it just then,” Thorn said, “when I landed on my heel. I’m sorry. Duun.”

  It was well-done, nevertheless. Duun laid his ears back. “Again.”

  Three more times. The wer-knives met in a way they never met when they were naked steel, plastic touching plastic and giving too much resistance. Duun floated back and stripped the cover from his blade. Thorn’s eyes betrayed dismay, but Thorn pulled the sheath from his and threw it aside.

  Naked steel. Duun gripped the knife in his maimed right hand, held the left close to it, ready to change off on short notice. Thorn did the same, maneuvering and watching nothing but his eyes and that blade.

  Duun moved, not the feint that was his habit, but straight attack, aborted at the last instant when he saw Thorn cover; evade: to a feint, double-feint, hand-shift, retreating circle, sideslip, hand-shift.

  Blade hissed on blade and slid clear; continuing drive, a floating attack.

  Thorn escaped it with a fall and roll, came up again with sand in his hair and a desperate parry, for Duun kept coming and the wall was coming at Thorn’s back.

  Thorn sensed it and moved, too quickly. Duun shifted hands and blade rang on blade as Thorn backed up in free space again.

  Duun called time. “Dammit, that steel’s too fine to be treated like that! Keep edge off edge!”

  “Yes, Duun.” Thorn sucked breath in. Sweat ran in his eyes and he wiped it.

  “It’s that damned handedness again. You know what you did?”

  “Went to the right,” Thorn said. His shoulders sank. He wiped sweat again. “I feinted left.”

  “But you went to the right, fool!”

  “Yes, Duun. I thought you’d think I’d go left this time for sure.”

  “Not when you never do it! Gods, surprise me once!”

  Thorn’s face was all chagrin.

  “Up!” Duun struck, lizard-quick. Thorn escaped, escaped, escaped, attacked and escaped with a ringing of the blades.

  Duun hit him then, averted the blade and struck his arm up with his fist. Thorn flung h
is own arm up to lessen the force, skipped back and covered himself again.

  Duun called time again and Thorn looked down at his wrist as if he expected to see blood. “At least,” Duun said, “you didn’t stop when I hit you.”

  “No.” They had hammered that one out in painful lessons, beginner habits unlearned with bruises. “I’m sorry.” Breathless, with another wipe at the sweat. Thorn meant the blade-touch.

  “You’ve developed a whole new form of fence, the artful covering of your mistakes! You’re best at your escapes!”

  “I’m sorry, Duun-hatani.”

  “This isn’t hand-to-hand. In this, young fool, you’ve got a damn sharp claw! Rearrange your thinking and use it. Again!”

  Thorn came at him. He evaded it, struck, evaded, struck.

  “Hold!”

  Thorn flinched back. Stood there with the breath rasping through his mouth and sweat running in his eyes. He straightened. “I’m sorry, Duun.” It had gotten to be a refrain. There were always mistakes. His look was contrite.

  Duun reached a hand toward his face, slowly. Thorn stepped back. There was threat in that stance, wariness. Duun smiled.

  Thorn straightened his shoulders back, panting. (Why do you shout at me? Why do you curse me? What’s wrong today? I’m trying to listen, Duun, don’t make fun of me like that.)

  “Let me touch you, minnow. This once.”

  The knife-hand lowered. Thorn stood still. Duun came close and put his palm in the middle of Thorn’s chest, on flesh gone pale without sunlight, on flesh slickly sweating so that hands slipped off it, if one grappled without claws. The heart jumped beneath his hand in steady, labored pulses. There was no flinching. No shivering. Duun moved the hand up to the side of Thorn’s neck and felt the same pulse. A slight flinching. Reflex. Or teaching. He looked into alien white eyes: it was curious how little the blue centers had changed from the first time he had looked into them, an infant lying on his lap; a round-bellied child clambering on his crossed ankles and trying to pull his ears; a boy’s face gazing up at him in sudden shock at finding him on the trail—