Lost In Translation

by Edward Willett

  “No apology necessary,” Jarrikk assured him. “I take it we’ve arrived?”

  “Yes. Please, follow me . . .”

  The door slid open and Jarrikk followed Yvekkarr into the stormy night. The rain hadn’t let up, and wherever they were, the wind blew much harder than it had on the landing field. Jarrikk did his best to keep his wings tight against his body, but the buffeting still woke twinges of pain in the damaged one. The only lights he could see were the running lights of the vehicle behind them and a dim orange glow, like torchlight, ahead. His claws skittered on wet, black rock. To either side wind rushed through tall trees, bringing to his nostrils the fresh green smell of the forest, and bringing to his mind unwanted memories of the days when he had soared above these same swaying trees instead of trudging among them.

  The orange glow was torchlight, and the moment Jarrikk stepped into its circle of light, and sniffed the cool, dry air, he knew exactly where Yvekkarr had brought him: the caves to which the colony had fled when the humans first landed, the caves which even before that had sheltered the broodhall.

  The caves where he was born.

  Seeing the planet from space had had little effect on him; the city had meant nothing; but now, as the scent of his birthplace filled his nostrils, hard on the tail of the all-too-familiar smell of the trees outside, memories rushed over him so suddenly it took all his emotional control to keep his surface composure. He couldn’t give in to sentiment, however powerful; he had a job to do.

  But he did allow himself to wonder why whoever had contracted for his services wanted to conduct business here.

  Yvekkarr led him through well-remembered corridors—the entrance they’d used, he realized grimly, was the very one he and the rest of his youngflight had sneaked out of on their ill-fated expedition to the humans’ landing place—to a small chamber that, if memory served, had been a meat locker, where the bloody carcasses of prey brought home by the Hunters had been hung to age. Torches lit the way, as they had years before, but the entrance to the chamber was sealed by something the meat locker had never required: a door.

  A door meant either special efforts at security, which certainly fit with the secrecy surrounding this whole assignment, or a prison. But it was absurd to conjecture an elaborate plot to capture him. He couldn’t imagine a motive, for one thing; for another, Yvekkarr radiated friendliness and respect. So, when Yvekkarr opened the door, he stepped through into the firelit room without hesitation, claws scraping on a stone floor still stained by the blood of all the slaughtered beasts that had hung there so many years before.

  A S’sinn female rose from a plain wooden shikk. “Greetings, Translator Jarrikk.”

  Feeling as if he’d stepped back in time, Jarrikk found his voice. “Greetings, Flight Leader Kitillikk.”

  Another S’sinn, a powerful male, stepped into the light from the shadows behind Jarrikk’s old leader. “Translator Jarrikk,” he said gravely.

  “Ukkarr.” Jarrikk looked back at Kitillikk. “You contracted for my services?”

  “Yes. I asked for you specifically, because of your—special understanding of our situation here.”

  “But why meet here?” Jarrikk gestured at the glistening walls of the cavern. “Surely the city would have been more convenient.”

  “This place was mine,” Kitillikk said. “Mine in a way the city never was and never could be. For the negotiations I am about to undertake, I wish to gain strength any way I can.”

  Jarrikk bowed his head slightly. “I am at your command. Within the bounds of my Guild Oath, of course. With what race am I to Translate?”

  “Ithkarite. Their negotiating team should arrive at any moment. I would offer you refreshment, but—” She gestured at the empty room. “Amenities are limited here.”

  “I require nothing, assuming the space is free from electromagnetic interference—computers, recording devices, artificial lighting . . .”

  “It is.” Kitillikk regarded him. “You Translators require a great deal of trust from us.”

  “In five S’sinn lifetimes, that trust has never been betrayed. Nor will it be tonight. I am ready.”

  “Then we wait.”

  Jarrikk stood with his body at ease, but his mind in turmoil. He did not like the eagerness he sensed in Kitillikk and Ukkarr. They had far more at stake than a simple trade deal. The eagerness that filled them felt more like . . . like the bloodlust that had gripped him, when he flew with the Hunters from this very place to take revenge on the humans for the murder of his flightmates. Though what that could have to do with Ithkarites . . .

  Yvekkarr, who had left after showing Jarrikk into the room, opened the door. “The Ithkarites are here,” he said.

  Kitillikk exchanged a look with Ukkarr. Their eagerness intensified. “We are ready.”

  Jarrikk turned to face the door as the water-breathers entered. There were three, two in nondescript watersuits of pale gray, unmarked by any ornamentation or insignia, and the third in a dark blue watersuit with the insignia of the Translators on his chest. Jarrikk sensed wariness in the first two, and a blank readiness in the Translator. He didn’t seem to have any better idea than Jarrikk what this was all about.

  “Let us proceed,” Kitillikk said. “Translator Jarrikk, please . . .”

  “Yes, Flight Leader.” Jarrikk moved to the center of the room and gestured for the Ithkarite Translator to join him. They exchanged silent greetings, then Jarrikk set his case on the floor, took out the Programming injector, and selected the Ithkarite vial from the selection he had brought with him. Across from him, the Ithkarite did the same. Jarrikk connected the vial to the injector and plunged the needle into his arm, barely feeling its ultra-sharp point. He felt the Programming at once as the symbiote woke to its duty, encoded in a complex stew of DNA, RNA, amino acids, proteins, enzymes, and only the Swampworlders knew what else. A warm, tingling sensation spread through him.

  The Ithkarite set aside his Programming vial—in his case, the injector was part of his watersuit and he’d had only to slip the vial into a compartment in the suit controls at his waist—picked up his Link, and slipped one end of the silvery cord into a self-sealing valve in the side of his helmet. He offered the other end to Jarrikk, who bowed slightly, took it, and touched it to the silvery patch beneath his right ear.

  The Ithkarite’s thoughts and feelings flooded him. His mind filled with images of vast underwater cities, glimmering green sunlight, joyful fishing expeditions through jewel-encrusted caves, predators, mates, young, friends, enemies. In an instant, he knew more about the Ithkarite Translator Liska than he had ever learned about any S’sinn, and could feel through the Link that Liska knew just as much about him. They exchanged glances, then together put aside the rush of memory and emotion and turned to their respective races. “Begin,” Jarrikk/Liska said.

  The Ithkarite delegates began to speak. Their words, inflections, and body language Jarrikk heard, saw, and understood through Liska’s eyes, and translated through his S’sinn body. The Programming and the symbiote gave him no leeway for emotional response of his own to what he was saying; that would come three or four thousand beats later, when the Programming’s built-in antidote kicked in and the session ended.

  Kitillikk timed it nicely; the Ithkarites were just exiting the chamber when suddenly Liska vanished from Jarrikk’s thoughts, a feeling like an amputation, and everything they had just Translated hit him in a hurricane rush. He and Liska exchanged horrified glances, then Liska snatched up his case and the Link and dashed after the Ithkarite delegation, while Jarrikk turned on Kitillikk, whose smugness filled him—and sickened him.

  “The Guild of Translators may not be used to establish military alliances within the Commonwealth!” Jarrikk snarled. “I cannot believe they agreed to this—”

  “They agreed to provide a Translator for trade negotiations,” Kitillikk said. “Which we discussed. The military aspects were . . . an afterthought. A prudent afterthought, in view of the situation at
Kisradikk.”

  Now anger kicked in. “Don’t lie to me, Flight Leader. These negotiations were well planned in advance. That’s the reason for the secrecy. When the Guild hears about this . . .”

  “What of the vaunted Guild confidentiality?” Kitillikk mocked. “Or will you betray your precious Guild’s principles as readily as you betrayed your species?”

  Ukkarr remained impassive, but Jarrikk felt the Hunter’s amusement and his feet contracted, his claws grinding against the bloodstained stone floor. “Guild confidentiality does not apply when the Translation is in violation of Guild and Commonwealth Law. The Guild serves the Commonwealth, Flight Leader. It does not serve the S’sinn, or any other race. It serves all Seven Races.”

  “Even humans?” Kitillikk growled the ugly-sounding S’sinn word for the Earth species. “You disappoint me with this self-righteous ranting, Jarrikk. I knew a Flightless One who continues to live must be without honor, but I did not think even you could forget what humans did on this world that was your home.”

  “I forget nothing.” Jarrikk spread his wings, ignoring the pain, showing the scars. “I forgive nothing. Not while I have this to remind me. But the Commonwealth survives only on the willingness of Seven Races to put aside past wrongs. There are still many Orrisians who curse the S’sinn for the burning of the tree-city of Issri-kalung, before we were brought into the Commonwealth, though a hundred of their homeworld’s revolutions have passed. We did not enter the Commonwealth under any better circumstances than the humans. Yet the Orrisians accept us.”

  “Do they?” Kitillikk showed her teeth. “You are naive, Translator. Our information is that the humans have already formed an alliance with the Orrisians. And with the principal swarm of the Aza. The Hasshingu-Issk and the Ithkarites side with us. Only the Swampworlders remain neutral. Your precious Commonwealth is split right down the middle, Jarrikk, like a worm-eaten misska fruit. The day is coming when many past wrongs will be righted, without the interference of Commonwealth meddlers or anyone else. And the S’sinn will regain their honor!”

  Jarrikk felt as stunned as when the humans had shot him from the sky. “Impossible. These alliances could not form without Translators . . .”

  “There are Translators who put their homeworlds above some empty oath to your precious Guild, Jarrikk,” said Kitillikk. “I had hoped you might be one of them, in view of what you owe me—or have you conveniently forgotten that oath? But of course the Priest whose knife I saved you from was right—a Flightless One is no true S’sinn. I should have let her kill you.” She rose from her shikk and clapped her wings, the blast of air, thick with the smoke of the dying fire, echoing the blast of contemptuous anger Jarrikk had already felt from her, forcing him to painfully spread his own crippled wings again to catch himself. “Go to your Guild. Tell them what you will. The alliance is sealed. The humans will be driven from Kisradikk, and then from this world, and then from the galaxy.”

  Jarrikk closed his wings and stood his ground. “And do you speak for the Supreme Flight Leader, Kitillikk? Or do your ambitions run even to deposing the Chosen? What will she say when news of this alliance you have negotiated for all of S’sinndikk reaches her ears?”

  “I am done talking with you. Yvekkarr!”

  “Flight Leader?” The young S’sinn dashed in through the door the retreating Ithkarites had left open.

  “Escort the Translator back to his ship. Now.”

  “Yes, Flight Leader.” Yvekkarr took Jarrikk’s arm. With a final glare at Kitillikk and Ukkarr, Jarrikk followed him out of the chamber and out of the caves. The storm had ended, and dawn’s approach turned the sky a high, deep blue, slowly lightening. In the valley below, the city glowed with light, but Jarrikk looked beyond it, ignoring Yvekkarr’s plea to get in the vehicle. He breathed deep the memory-stirring scent of the rain-soaked woods. Out there, not far on wings that worked, humans lived on this world that had been S’sinn alone. Among them might still be the human who had burned him from the sky. He examined his emotions, and found, still buried deep, the ember of his hatred. He had told Kitillikk the truth: he forgot nothing, he forgave nothing. She could kill all the humans she could find, and he would not lift a claw to stop her.

  But it couldn’t be done this way. It couldn’t be done by drawing the entire Commonwealth into war, a war that would destroy it, and with it the Guild that served it—the Guild that had carried him past his first death, his death as a S’sinn. He couldn’t allow it!

  To Yvekkarr’s apparent relief, he started walking again. He had felt Kitillikk’s momentary fear when he mentioned the Supreme Flight Leader. She had overstepped her authority, he felt certain, to make this play for power. It made her vulnerable. He would report to Karak as soon as he returned to the Dikari, and . . .

  He stopped short, ignoring the exasperation he felt from Yvekkarr. “There are Translators who put their home-worlds above some empty oath to your precious Guild,” Kitillikk had said. And Karak was Ithkarite . . .

  And with that thought, that worm of distrust, though he put it aside as firmly as he could, it occurred to him that the damage done to Guild and Commonwealth might already be past anyone’s repairing.

  As the door closed behind the crippled Translator, Ukkarr growled. “You wasted your generosity on that one, Flight Leader.”

  “Did I?” Kitillikk stretched her wings languorously. “I’m not so sure.”

  “But he refused you!”

  “He performed his task well this evening. As for the rest . . . one can never tell what fruit such plantings will yield.” She stretched out her hand, admiring the glistening black claws against the background of the chamber’s red-stained stone. “More important than whether he agreed to help us or not was to firmly establish his views. In the game to come, Translator Jarrikk will be an important piece. I had to know if he was mine or my opponent’s. Had he been mine—and he may yet be—I would have known how to play him. Should he prove to belong to my opponent, I know how to counter him.” She clenched her hand suddenly. “Either way, he is trapped in the game—and he cannot escape.” Kitillikk leaped to her feet. “Things are moving quickly, Ukkarr!” She moved closer to him, ran her hands through the thick fur of his body, her hearts beginning to pound. “Can you keep up?”

  “Always, Flight Leader.” Ukkarr bared his teeth. “Always.”

  “Then catch me!” Kitillikk threw open the door, ran down the corridor, and flung herself into the cool morning air, and as she heard the beat of Ukkarr’s wings rising fast behind her, she laughed. This is my advantage, she thought. This is my edge. The Supreme Flight Leader has grown old, and complacent. She belongs to the Commonwealth, not to the S’sinn. This is what it is to be S’sinn! Let passion rule! What does the Supreme Flight Leader know of passion: for sex, for power, for revenge?

  “I’m coming!” she screamed at the sky, at the stars beyond it, at distant S’sinndikk and even more distant Earth; then Ukkarr caught her and she forgot all her ambition in the ancient skydance of the S’sinn.

  Sometimes it was best to concentrate on one passion at a time.

  Jarrikk stood in his quarters aboard the Dikari, facing the vidwall, which displayed a life-sized image of Karak floating naked in the waters of his own quarters in the Guildhall. Free of the watersuit and its exoskeleton, his shape was not bipedal at all; his almost globular, iridescent body, from which writhed six locomotive tentacles and six manipulators, moved through the water with boneless grace, gill-slits pulsating below the fringe of feeding-tentacles that encircled his beak. It seemed odd to hear perfect home-planet S’sinn emerging from that alien mouth. “Your news, while distressing, is not unexpected,” Karak said. “The Guild has been aware for some time of the other treaties you mention. Two Translators have been expelled from the Guild for their part in arranging them. Other Translators must have been involved, too, of course, but as yet we have not identified them.”

  Jarrikk felt a chill. “Master, I—”

  “No need to
fear, Translator; the two in question were actively involved in the process, not used unknowingly by the perpetrators, as you were. In both instances, we discovered the treaty through other sources and confronted them with the facts. I regret to say they were unrepentant.” One of the tentacles at the top of his head snatched a tiny silver fish from the water. It passed from tentacle to tentacle to his beak, which snapped once, devouring it.

  “Flight Leader Kitillikk wanted me to join her conspiracy,” Jarrikk said. “I refused.”

  “I almost wish you hadn’t. It would have been useful to have a spy within the S’sinn war party. I don’t suppose you could convince her you’ve changed your mind—”

  “I do not think so,” Jarrikk said stiffly, while several dearly-held notions of the Guild’s political purity came crashing down.

  “You’re shocked, aren’t you?” Karak said. Not for the first time in dealing with the Guildmaster, Jarrikk wondered if maybe the Swampworlders had perfected a method of transmitting emotions over long distances, after all. “The Guild exists on two levels, Jarrikk, like everything else. On one level, we are an ideal, an ideal of neutrality and cooperation among species. On another level, we are a huge organization with two goals: serving the Commonwealth, and surviving. At the upper level, you can afford to be above all the political maneuvering the Seven Races can muster, which is quite a lot. At the lower, you cannot.”

  “But such a spy . . . could not survive his first Translation with a Translator sympathetic to the other side,” Jarrikk said slowly. “Unless . . .” With all the other shocks he’d been given, who was to say this couldn’t be true, as well? “Unless it is possible to lie under Programming!”