Silent Songs

by Kathleen O'Malley

  The avian glanced back at his human partner. There was so much he had to tell her, so many things had happened since she'd left, but if he shared his news with her now, she wouldn't sleep, and she needed rest more than anything. His news would wait.

  "My friend," he signed to her, "it's been a long night. We all need sleep.

  There'll be stories to tell after our rest."

  First-Light was regarding Good Eyes, too. The change in the male's face was more subtle than in most humans', but the Grus leader could sense his concern. Could Weaver really know humans so well?

  "You're right," Good Eyes admitted. "I'm beat. I guess we all are." She gazed at the male Weaver had chosen for her as if she only now saw the exhaustion etched clearly around his eyes. "Let's collect the others. I'll show you where we can wash up, then we'll all have to sleep in my lean-to. It'll be tight, but... who cares? We'll build more shelters later."

  Tiredly, Good Eyes bid good morning to her partners and led First-Light and her cohort away. Taller watched them until the great mass of his people swallowed them up and they were lost to sight. Weaver also watched them leave together, then twined her neck around his, preening the feathers at the back of his head that he could never reach.

  "He's the one," she signed smugly. "You'll see."

  Six hours later, Tesa cared a great deal more about the close quarters of her lean-to. She woke drowsily, sweating in the humid

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  afternoon air, feeling trapped. Blinking, she glanced around. She was lying on her right side, facing the back of a stranger.

  Oh, yes, Carlotta. She could see Noriko just beyond her. It was so odd that the first thing greeting her sight wasn't one of her cohort's feathers, that she felt disoriented and stared at Carlotta's back, trying to remember all that had happened in the last twenty-eight and a half hours.

  Then she realized someone was holding her. Who had crawled in behind her? Oh, yes, First-Light. Martin Brockman was on his other side, with Chris and Moshe fitting in on the end. First-Light must've slung an arm around her in his sleep and was now pressed tightly against her back, his breath pulsing steadily against her ear. Did he think she was Carlotta? She swallowed, embarrassed and unsure of what to do. She had to have been completely wrung out not to have been startled awake when it had first happened. From the dull ache in her side she guessed they'd been like this for hours.

  Tesa breathed steadily, not wanting to wake him, but not wanting to stay like this, either. He'd be embarrassed, too, especially if he was having a relationship with the other woman. She fidgeted, hoping he'd roll over in his sleep, but he only tightened his embrace and sighed. She rolled her eyes.

  If it weren't so warm, she might've taken comfort from the friendly contact. It'd been a long time since she'd slept spoonlike with a warm human body.

  Normally, Lightning and Flies-Too- Fast crowded into the lean-to with her.

  To have a human's body pressed along her own was unsettling .. . yet rather pleasant. As the seconds ticked by, she grew more and more aware of their odd intimacy--the warmth of his hand, the strength in his arm, his mouth so close to her ear. A blush crept up her neck.

  He must've wakened then, because he tensed. Carefully, he slid his arm away, and she was surprised to feel disappointed. Well, there wasn't any point in pretending it hadn't happened. She rolled over to face him, and he smiled sheepishly.

  "Sorry," he signed. "That was the first pleasant dream I've had. .. since the Brolga's capture."

  She smiled back. "It's okay." She inclined her head in Carlotta's direction.

  "Did I move into the wrong place?"

  First-Light seemed confused, then shook his head. "Carlotta and I only met on the Brolga. I... uh ..." He schooled his face, then continued, "I have no partner." He presented it casually, but that simple statement changed things, somehow.

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  Rays of sunlight splashed across them, making him appear more attractive than she'd first thought. The shadows highlighted the scar on his cheek. The sudden lack of dialogue felt awkward, so Tesa signed the first thing that came to mind. "What other languages do you use besides ASL and Grus?"

  "English. Spanish. I can read Navaho, but don't speak it."

  "I thought you might be Navaho, but I wasn't sure."

  He nodded. "My father was, my mother Costa Rican. That's where I grew up, in Costa Rica, in the city. I fell in love with the rain forest there, with the endless variety of plants I didn't

  see the Navaho nation until I was in my teens. But the first time I saw a Blessing Way ceremony, I knew I wanted to study the way native people used plants." He was watching her as he signed, then his expression changed subtly. He seemed surprised, and drew away slightly.

  "What is it?" Tesa asked, wondering if she'd gotten all the war paint off. "Do I look that bad in the morning?"

  His eyes softened, but the odd expression was still there. "No, you look fine.

  I... just never realized how young you are."

  What difference does that make? she thought, irritated. To the White Wind people, once you dropped your juvenile feathers, age was irrelevant. He moved, and sunlight glinted off the gold ball in his ear. She stiffened, felt her own expression close down. "How old was I supposed to be?"

  He shook his head, plainly regretting his words. "I didn't mean that. Look, I've been reading about you, reading the papers you've written. ... I knew you came here from StarBridge, but I didn't think ,. ." He stopped, pulled his thoughts together. "I didn't mean to offend you. I was just surprised. If I wasn't half asleep I'd have never spoken so bluntly."

  "We like people who speak bluntly," she signed, trying to hold back her growing annoyance. "It only makes humans uncomfortable."

  Before he could respond, Tesa crawled out of the lean-to. She had too much to do to be lying around, engaging in idle chitchat. She needed to eliminate, change clothes, and get these people fed. Then she had to find Jib, and make plans to rescue the Singers. There was a war on, damn it!

  She had to force herself not to look back at the ethnobotanist as she greeted her cohort. Javier, however, felt no such compunction, and she could feel his black eyes boring into her as she lost herself among wings, long necks, and shimmering whiteness. Why did he bother her so much? Was she so

  alienated from her own kind that

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  they couldn't even have a simple conversation without reading more into it than there was?

  Tesa tried to move away from the cohort, but found herself still surrounded.

  There were multitudes of Grus here, both white and gray. The people were massing in such numbers, Tesa wondered distractedly how long the food here would hold out. She turned to go in another direction, but the cohort blocked her again, and she lost her patience, nudging Lightning to make him move.

  Suddenly the group obliged en masse, and a space opened up in their center. There, in the grassy circle they'd vacated, stood Old Bear, smiling, holding out his arms to her. Tesa stared as if focusing on a hologram. It was him, and yet not him. He seemed leaner, if that was possible, and older, but his skin still had that bright ruddiness, and his eyes the old sparkle. The flood of conflicting emotions inside her spilled over into her eyes.

  "Yes, takoja," he signed in Plains Indian sign language, "it's me. And Meg's here, too. Give me a good hug. I've missed you so much."

  Feeling like the little girl he'd helped raise, she flung herself into his embrace, making sure he was real, not some transmitted spirit from another planet. Maybe the Sun Family had sent her a sign, a reward for all the risks she'd been taking.

  Old Bear's embrace was not as strong as it had once been. Finally, she stepped away, and he wiped the tears off her cheeks.

  "Don't cry, takoja. It makes your eyes all red."

  "How did you get here?" she asked, still weeping. "Meg's with you? I don't understand. Where did you come from?"

  "It's a long story. We were released a few hours before you rescued Weaver.

/>   The Hunters helped us find our way here. We arrived before you, but all we could do was sleep. I'll explain everything over some food. Wake your group up, they need to be part of this discussion."

  Tesa nodded, rubbing the last of her tears away. Looking back at the lean-to, she saw First-Light had already roused the others, who were crawling out, blinking sleepily. When they saw Old Bear, they greeted him warmly.

  "You took good care of Javier, I hope," the elder signed confidentially. "He's a good man, don't you think, takoja."

  Tesa stared at her grandfather. First Weaver, then Taller, now Old Bear!

  Does everybody think this guy is a saint? "I suppose so," she answered reluctantly. "A little old, though."

  Her grandfather startled her and the whole cohort by throwing his head back and laughing heartily.

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  CHAPTER 20

  Atle's Offer

  A web work of walkways stretched over the interior of the Chosens' hatchery like the crosshatched branches of a ladder tree. Below the narrow, railed walkways lay an organized gridwork of rectangular pools, each pool fil ed to capacity with four Industrious egg-laying females and the Chosen males that would fertilize their valuable product.

  The hatchery was working at peak capacity, the machinery pumping in chemically balanced clean water and pumping out soiled water, even as fertilized eggs were sucked out of the pools and deposited into holding tanks filled with carefully monitored nutrient broth. The Troubadour Dacris, formerly Second-in-Conquest but now having nothing to do with conquest at all, stalked the overhead walkways, contemplating the vast mechanical organism that was now his charge. The factory was his only responsibility and the shame of this simple duty burned him.

  He paused to watch the Industrious attendants feed the egg- laying females their chemically controlled diets. The egg-layers, considerably more stunted than their attendants, stared ahead glassily, swallowing their meal without a thought, as their bodies pumped a continuous string of eggs into their pool.

  Behind the females, clutching them chest-to-back in the nuptial embrace of amplexus, were Chosen males who either had not taken enough of the inhibiting hormone to resist the rains, or whose duties allowed them to be free enough to enjoy a breeding season.

  Dacris watched the pools where the frenzied coupling and egg production continued around the clock, and thought of his own sleeping pool, ruined last night by their marauding human enemy. He and the others in his barracks had had to sleep in the river. The taste of that water had been all wrong, and he'd been constantly buffeted by its currents. The soldiers that had once been under his charge had gone to find the terrorist, while he'd endured the ultimate humiliation--being left behind. Dacris took a bitter joy 236

  in the knowledge that the perpetrators had not been found. Had he been in charge .. .

  He wondered how Atle justified releasing two humans just hours before the unseen raid that had damaged the water system of four barracks, freeing several humans and the only captive avian they had kept alive. To make matters worse, one of their people, a Troubadour, had been brutally murdered, and another guard killed by a scratch from a primitive projectile weapon tipped with a One-Touch's toxin. In the past, five humans would have been sacrificed and eaten to make reparation for each dead soldier.

  But that was in another day, long gone and, to most, forgotten.

  Dacris blinked and slowed his breathing. As far as he was concerned, he was more a true Chosen than Atle would ever be. And when he thought of the creatures they'd discovered here, his anger grew hotter.

  These aliens had no fear, no respect, for the powerful people who had conquered them, and why should they? He imagined the hideous creatures being forced to eat one of their own or starve--that would give them some incentive to obey! Dacris glowered into the pools, hating the males who felt free enough to yield to their passion, hating the placid Industrious females who endured their endless, unnatural breeding cycle, hating the four-footed alien worker who just now came into view---but most of all hating Atle with every cell of his being.

  Dacris watched the furred slave of Atle's slave move around the pools'

  edges and lower walkways and raged in silence, thinking of that imbecile, Arvis, being given Chosen status, being al owed to train this valuable servant, and worst of all, being allowed--no, induced --to breed a female of rank!

  He struggled to bank his anger as the Simiu went about her work, methodically going from computer station to computer station, checking readouts. If he could only catch her in an error! Then he could vent his rage in her justifiable discipline, but her ability was so far beyond their expectations that he had yet to find an excuse.

  She was just another reminder to him of the need for clear- thinking servants, instead of the mindless Industrious drones they were burdened with. His mind traveled to the future, to conquered planets filled with her kind. He would train them the old way--it would be his right, no one could stop him.

  He dwelled on that sweet fantasy ... until he remembered his demotion.

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  Would Atle al ow him to ever again own his own workers? He doubted it. He watched the alien padding around the network of pools and walkways and ached for her to make an error--just one. He swallowed hard, struggling to get a grip on his fury.

  To distract himself, Dacris strode to the end of the upper walkway, to the computer station there. The Armored Industrious working at the terminal scrambled off the padded bench and Dacris moved into her place. The graphics on the tank seemed like a child's game, but were actually a functional diagnostic program that the Industrious could use. Someday there would be no need to expend such energy just to keep the State running. He dumped the Industrious technician's work, not caring that she would have to start over from the beginning, and accessed the alien's work.

  He wasn't just searching for an error, he was doing his job. Besides, what new shame could Atle inflict on him if he failed even this simple assignment? He scanned the work the Simiu had already done, double-checking her' readouts, her responses, her actions. He eliminated the part of the program that was in her language so he could follow her work in his. His eyes moved along the changing data. No errors. A good servant.

  His skin felt dry and he moistened it with the odorless oil left there for the Industrious. The poor-quality lubricant only irritated him further, as the computer moved into the work she was currently doing. This supervisor's program would not let her know she was being observed as he watched her manipulate data, correct problems, improve the efficiency of the system. Her perfection frustrated him, and his skin glowed in anger.

  Dacris moved to turn off the machine in disgust when something caught his eye, some small change that seemed somehow ... not right. He moved closer to the tank, watching, figuring in his head. He blinked slowly, his lower lids covering his eyes for a restful moment. She went on to the next station, and his program followed her, this time seeking a similarity. Yes.

  There it was. An error. His skin flushed.

  At the next station there was another change, and that made him pause. The mistake was in the same place, changing the same values, but wrongly. He scanned backward, but there was no record of the alteration--and that in itself was incorrect. After a few minutes, he padded away from the station to the walkway to observe her actions. She was deaf and seemed unaware of him. According to the computer, she was making changes and adjustments to the filter stations--changes that should have been

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  physical --switching or testing filters, but in reality she was doing nothing but manipulating the program itself.

  She made similar, subtle changes at each place on her route. What did it mean? He forgot about discipline and focused on the larger issue. The tiny changes she made in the computer programs were, in themselves, not terribly intricate, but cumulatively . . . they could be significant. The fact that the program had been altered so that he could not review what had been done to it meant that all the automatic s
aves had been overridden.

  Once the alien finished her work here, she would move on to the tanks that nurtured the eggs until the growing embryos were at the optimal age for consumption. Her work affected every phase of production. Was this bold slave trying to undermine the entire factory? What ambition! It was worthy of a One-Touch!

  If he told Atle this, the First would have to admit his error in disciplining his Second and reinstate him. Because of the scope of the transgression, Atle would be forced to grant ownership of the Simiu to Dacris. He would have to make his own son--that moronic servant!--hand her over to the Troubadour.

  Dacris returned to the walkway in time to watch the Simiu move away from her last station. Sensing his presence, she glanced over her shoulder, staring at him before moving away quickly. I know you're not loafing, good servant.

  He moved toward the exit, imagining Atle's face when he made his claim. He saw the First's expression as he handed the slave over to Dacris, saw the One-Touch explaining the new reality to his dullard son. Dacris only wished he could implicate that silly Industrious in this and successfully claim him as well.

  As he neared the exit, his steps slowed. Suppose he didn't tell?

  If the hatchery was damaged, Dacris would be accountable.

  Wait.

  Suppose he held the critical information until it was too late to correct, releasing the news to the Council, not just the Glorious First. He might be able to manipulate this into something more important than the ownership of one slave. It was Atle who'd decided this alien could serve the hatchery. It was the First who had permitted her greater responsibility. Her betrayal would reflect not on his Industrious son, but on himself.

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  Dacris turned away from the exit and prowled the walkway, no longer entertaining dark fantasies of discipline and fear. Could he use this slave's clever sabotage to overthrow the First and supplant his position?

  Yes, Dacris thought, that was a much more profitable plan than plotting to destroy one simple slave.

  K'heera made the final override adjustment on the last station in the egg-laying room and prepared to leave. Her whole body quivered in fear, she stank of it--how was it no one noticed? The things she did required courage and honor, but she felt neither brave nor honorable, only desperate.