"You'd call for her. Her sting would ease your pain without killing the grubs in you."
"You think I'd care if they died?"
No. Of course he wouldn't. Would I?
"Shit!" He drew a deep breath. "I've seen what they do. You think this thing with Lomas was bad? It was nothing."
I didn't argue. He didn't know what he was talking about.
"I saw them eat a man," he said.
I turned to face him. "You're lying!"
"I saw them eat a man." He paused. "It was when I was little. I had been to the Hartmund house and I was on my way home. Halfway here, I saw a man and a Tlic and the man was N'Tlic. The ground was hilly. I was able to hide from them and watch. The Tlic wouldn't open the man because she had nothing to feed the grubs. The man couldn't go any farther and there were no houses around. He was in so much pain he told her to kill him. He begged her to kill him. Finally, she did. She cut his throat. One swipe of one claw. I saw the grubs eat their way out, then burrow in again, still eating."
His words made me see Lomas's flesh again, parasitized, crawling. "Why didn't you tell me that?" I whispered.
He looked startled, as though he'd forgotten I was listening. "I don't know."
"You started to run away not long after that, didn't you?"
"Yeah. Stupid. Running inside the Preserve. Running in a cage."
I shook my head, said what I should have said to him long ago. "She wouldn't take you, Qui. You don't have to worry."
"She would . . . if anything happened to you."
"No. She'd take Xuan Hoa. Hoa . . . wants it." She wouldn't if she had stayed to watch Lomas.
"They don't take women," he said with contempt.
"They do sometimes." I glanced at him. "Actually, they prefer women. You should be around them when they talk among themselves. They say women have more body fat to protect the grubs. But they usually take men to leave the women free to bear their own young."
'To provide the next generation of host animals," he said, switching from contempt to bitterness.
"It's more than that!" I countered. Was it?
"If it were going to happen to me, I'd want to believe it was more, too."
"It is more!" I felt like a kid. Stupid argument.
"Did you think so while T'Gatoi was picking worms out of that guy's guts?"
"It's not supposed to happen that way."
"Sure it is. You weren't supposed to see it, that's all. And his Tlic was supposed to do it. She could sting him unconscious and the operation wouldn't have been as painful. But she'd still open him, pick out the grubs, and if she missed even one, it would poison him and eat him from the inside out."
There was actually a time when my mother told me to show respect for Qui because he was my older brother. I walked away, hating him. In his way, he was gloating. He was safe and I wasn't. I could have hit him, but I didn't think I would be able to stand it when he refused to hit back, when he looked at me with contempt and pity.
He wouldn't let me get away. Longer-legged, he swung ahead of me and made me feel as though I were following him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I strode on, sick and furious.
"Look, it probably won't be that bad with you. T'Gatoi likes you. She'll be careful."
I turned back toward the house, almost running from him.
"Has she done it to you yet?" he asked, keeping up easily. "I mean, you're about the right age for implantation. Has she—"
I hit him. I didn't know I was going to do it, but I think I meant to kill him. If he hadn't been bigger and stronger, I think I would have.
He tried to hold me off, but in the end, had to defend himself. He only hit me a couple of times. That was plenty. I don't remember going down, but when I came to, he was gone. It was worth the pain to be rid of him.
I got up and walked slowly toward the house. The back was dark. No one was in the kitchen. My mother and sisters were sleeping in their bedrooms—or pretending to.
Once I was in the kitchen, I could hear voices—Tlic and Terran from the next room. I couldn't make out what they were saying—didn't want to make it out.
I sat down at my mother's table, waiting for quiet. The table was smooth and worn, heavy and well-crafted. My father had made it for her just before he died. I remembered hanging around underfoot when he built it. He didn't mind. Now I sat leaning on it, missing him. I could have talked to him. He had done it three times in his long life. Three clutches of eggs, three times being opened and sewed up. How had he done it? How did anyone do it?
I got up, took the rifle from its hiding place, and sat down again with it. It needed cleaning, oiling.
All I did was load it.
"Gan?"
She made a lot of little clicking sounds when she walked on bare floor, each limb clicking in succession as it touched down. Waves of little clicks.
She came to the table, raised the front half of her body above it, and surged onto it. Sometimes she moved so smoothly she seemed to flow like water itself. She coiled herself into a small hill in the middle of the table and looked at me.
"That was bad," she said softly. "You should not have seen it. It need not be that way."
"I know."
"T'Khotgif—Ch'Khotgif now—she will die of her disease. She will not live to raise her children. But her sister will provide for them, and for Bram Lomas." Sterile sister. One fertile female in every lot. One to keep the family going. That sister owed Lomas more than she could ever repay.
"He'll live then?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if he would do it again."
"No one would ask him to do that again."
I looked into the yellow eyes, wondering how much I saw and understood there, and how much I only imagined. "No one ever asks us," I said. "You never asked me."
She moved her head slightly. "What's the matter with your face?"
"Nothing. Nothing important." Human eyes probably wouldn't have noticed the swelling in the darkness. The only light was from one of the moons, shining through a window across the room.
"Did you use the rifle to shoot the achti?"
"Yes."
"And do you mean to use it to shoot me?"
I stared at her, outlined in moonlight—coiled, graceful body. "What does Terran blood taste like to you?"
She said nothing.
"What are you?" I whispered. "What are we to you?"
She lay still, rested her head on her topmost coil. "You know me as no other does," she said softly. "You must decide."
"That's what happened to my face," I told her.
"What?"
"Qui goaded me into deciding to do something. It didn't turn out very well." I moved the gun slightly, brought the barrel up diagonally under my own chin. "At least it was a decision I made."
"As this will be."
"Ask me, Gatoi."
"For my children's lives?"
She would say something like that. She knew how to manipulate people, Terran and Tlic. But not this time.
"I don't want to be a host animal," I said. "Not even yours."
It took her a long time to answer. "We use almost no host animals these days," she said. "You know that."
"You use us."
"We do. We wait long years for you and teach you and join our families to yours." She moved restlessly. "You know you aren't animals to us."
I stared at her, saying nothing.
"The animals we once used began killing most of our eggs after implantation long before your ancestors arrived," she said softly. "You know these things, Gan. Because your people arrived, we are relearning what it means to be a healthy, thriving people. And your ancestors, fleeing from their homeworld, from their own kind who would have killed or enslaved them—they survived because of us. We saw them as people and gave them the Preserve when they still tried to kill us as worms."
At the word "Worms " I jumped. I couldn't help it, and she couldn't help noticing it.
"I s
ee," she said quietly. "Would you really rather die than bear my young, Gan?"
I didn't answer.
"Shall I go to Xuan Hoa?"
"Yes!" Hoa wanted it. Let her have it. She hadn't had to watch Lomas. She'd be proud . . . Not terrified.
T'Gatoi flowed off the table onto the floor, startling me almost too much.
"I'll sleep in Hoa's room tonight," she said. "And sometime tonight or in the morning, I'll tell her."
This was going too fast. My sister. Hoa had had almost as much to do with raising me as my mother. I was still close to her—not like Qui. She could want T'Gatoi and still love me.
"Wait! Gatoi!"
She looked back, then raised nearly half her length off the floor and turned it to face me. "These are adult things, Gan. This is my life, my family!"
"But she's . . . my sister."
"I have done what you demanded. I have asked you!"
"But—"
"It will be easier for Hoa. She has always expected to carry other lives inside her."
Human lives. Human young who would someday drink at her breasts, not at her veins.
I shook my head. "Don't do it to her, Gatoi." I was not Qui. It seemed I could become him, though, with no effort at all. I could make Xuan Hoa my shield. Would it be easier to know that red worms were growing in her flesh instead of mine?
"Don't do it to Hoa," I repeated.
She stared at me, utterly still.
I looked away, then back at her. "Do it to me."
I lowered the gun from my throat and she leaned forward to take it.
"No," I told her.
"It's the law," she said.
"Leave it for the family. One of them might use it to save my life someday."
She grasped the rifle barrel, but I wouldn't let go. I was pulled into a standing position over her.
"Leave it here!" I repeated. "If we're not your animals, if these are adult things, accept the risk. There is risk, Gatoi, in dealing with a partner."
It was clearly hard for her to let go of the rifle. A shudder went through her and she made a hissing sound of distress. It occurred to me that she was afraid. She was old enough to have seen what guns could do to people. Now her young and this gun would be together in the same house. She did not know about our other guns. In this dispute, they did not matter.
"I will implant the first egg tonight," she said as I put the gun away. "Do you hear, Gan?"
Why else had I been given a whole egg to eat while the rest of the family was left to share one? Why else had my mother kept looking at me as though I were going away from her, going where she could not follow? Did T'Gatoi imagine I hadn't known?
"I hear."
"Now!" I let her push me out of the kitchen, then walked ahead of her toward my bedroom. The sudden urgency in her voice sounded real. "You would have done it to Hoa tonight!" I accused.
"I must do it to someone tonight."
I stopped in spite of her urgency and stood in her way. "Don't you care who?"
She flowed around me and into my bedroom. I found her waiting on the couch we shared. There was nothing in Hoa's room that she could have used. She would have done it to Hoa on the floor. The thought of her doing it to Hoa at all disturbed me in a different way now, and I was suddenly angry.
Yet I undressed and lay down beside her. I knew what to do, what to expect. I had been told all my life. I felt the familiar sting, narcotic, mildly pleasant. Then the blind probing of her ovipositor. The puncture was painless, easy. So easy going in. She undulated slowly against me, her muscles forcing the egg from her body into mine. I held on to a pair of her limbs until I remembered Lomas holding her that way. Then I let go, moved inadvertently, and hurt her. She gave a low cry of pain and I expected to be caged at once within her limbs. When I wasn't, I held on to her again, feeling oddly ashamed.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
She rubbed my shoulders with four of her limbs.
"Do you care?" I asked. "Do you care that it's me?"
She did not answer for some time. Finally, "You were the one making choices tonight, Gan. I made mine long ago."
"Would you have gone to Hoa?"
"Yes. How could I put my children into the care of one who hates them?"
"It wasn't . . . hate."
"I know what it was."
"I was afraid."
Silence.
"I still am." I could admit it to her here, now.
"But you came to me . . . to save Hoa."
"Yes." I leaned my forehead against her. She was cool velvet, deceptively soft. "And to keep you for myself," I said. It was so. I didn't understand it, but it was so.
She made a soft hum of contentment. "I couldn't believe I had made such a mistake with you," she said. "I chose you. I believed you had grown to choose me."
"I had, but . . ."
"Lomas."
"Yes."
"I have never known a Terran to see a birth and take it well. Qui has seen one, hasn't he?"
"Yes."
"Terrans should be protected from seeing."
I didn't like the sound of that—and I doubted that it was possible. "Not protected," I said. "Shown. Shown when we're young kids, and shown more than once. Gatoi, no Terran ever sees a birth that goes right. All we see is N'Tlic—pain and terror and maybe death."
She looked down at me. "It is a private thing. It has always been a private thing."
Her tone kept me from insisting—that and the knowledge that if she changed her mind, I might be the first public example. But I had planted the thought in her mind. Chances were it would grow, and eventually she would experiment.
"You won't see it again," she said. "I don't want you thinking any more about shooting me."
The small amount of fluid that came into me with her egg relaxed me as completely as a sterile egg would have, so that I could remember the rifle in my hands and my feelings of fear and revulsion, anger and despair. I could remember the feelings without reviving them. I could talk about them.
"I wouldn't have shot you," I said. "Not you." She had been taken from my father's flesh when he was my age.
"You could have," she insisted.
"Not you." She stood between us and her own people, protecting, interweaving.
"Would you have destroyed yourself?"
I moved carefully, uncomfortably. "I could have done that. I nearly did. That's Qui's 'away.' I wonder if he knows."
"What?"
I did not answer.
"You will live now."
"Yes." Take care of her, my mother used to say. Yes.
"I'm healthy and young," she said. "I won't leave you Lomas was left—alone, N'Tlic. I'll take care of you."
Speech Sounds, by Octavia E. Butler
There was trouble aboard the Washington Boulevard bus. Rye had expected trouble sooner or later in her journey. She had put off going until loneliness and hopelessness drove her out. She believed she might have one group of relatives left alive—a brother and his two children twenty miles away in Pasadena. That was a day’s journey one-way, if she were lucky. The unexpected arrival of the bus as she left her Virginia Road home had seemed to be a piece of luck—until the trouble began.
Two young men were involved in a disagreement of some kind, or, more likely, a misunderstanding. They stood in the aisle, grunting and gesturing at each other, each in his own uncertain T stance as the bus lurched over the potholes. The driver seemed to be putting some effort into keeping them off balance. Still, their gestures stopped just short of contact—mock punches, hand games of intimidation to replace lost curses.
People watched the pair, then looked at one another and made small anxious sounds. Two children whimpered.
Rye sat a few feet behind the disputants and across from the back door. She watched the two carefully, knowing the fight would begin when someone’s nerve broke or someone’s hand slipped or someone came to the end of his limited ability to communicate. These things could happen anytime.
One of them happened as the bus hit an especially large pothole and one man, tall, thin, and sneering, was thrown into his shorter opponent.
Instantly, the shorter man drove his left fist into the disintegrating sneer. He hammered his larger opponent as though he neither had nor needed any weapon other than his left fist. He hit quickly enough, hard enough to batter his opponent down before the taller man could regain his balance or hit back even once.
People screamed or squawked in fear. Those nearby scrambled to get out of the way. Three more young men roared in excitement and gestured wildly. Then, somehow, a second dispute broke out between two of these three—probably because one inadvertently touched or hit the other.
As the second fight scattered frightened passengers, a woman shook the driver’s shoulder and grunted as she gestured toward the fighting.
The driver grunted back through bared teeth. Frightened, the woman drew away.
Rye, knowing the methods of bus drivers, braced herself and held on to the crossbar of the seat in front of her. When the driver hit the brakes, she was ready and the combatants were not. They fell over seats and onto screaming passengers, creating even more confusion. At least one more fight started.
The instant the bus came to a full stop, Rye was on her feet, pushing the back door. At the second push, it opened and she jumped out, holding her pack in one arm. Several other passengers followed, but some stayed on the bus. Buses were so rare and irregular now, people rode when they could, no matter what. There might not be another bus today—or tomorrow. People started walking, and if they saw a bus they flagged it down. People making intercity trips like Rye’s from Los Angeles to Pasadena made plans to camp out, or risked seeking shelter with locals who might rob or murder them.
The bus did not move, but Rye moved away from it. She intended to wait until the trouble was over and get on again, but if there was shooting, she wanted the protection of a tree. Thus, she was near the curb when a battered blue Ford on the other side of the street made a U-turn and pulled up in front of the bus. Cars were rare these days—as rare as a severe shortage of fuel and of relatively unimpaired mechanics could make them. Cars that still ran were as likely to be used as weapons as they were to serve as transportation. Thus, when the driver of the Ford beckoned to Rye, she moved away warily. The driver got out—a big man, young, neatly bearded with dark, thick hair. He wore a long overcoat and a look of wariness that matched Rye’s. She stood several feet from him, waiting to see what he would do. He looked at the bus, now rocking with the combat inside, then at the small cluster of passengers who had gotten off. Finally he looked at Rye again.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 93