“Intelligent, huh? Well, you better hope so. I mean, it better be in-tell-i-gent enough to keep away from some of the freaks and monsters you got out here…”
“You don’t need to worry about Katie,” Zenn said.
“Because it’d be a shame if it, you know, wandered into the wrong cage some dark night.” His lips curled up into the slightest of smiles. “Wandered in and… snap!” He mimed breaking a twig between his hands. “…there go those smart little paws.”
Was he… threatening Katie? Zenn felt her low-key anger mounting to fury.
He leaned down, hands on knees to bring his eyes level with hers. “Wouldn’t be talkin’ any smart-ass sign-lingo then, would it, girlie? No. I don’t think so.”
Before she could say something she would almost certainly regret, Vic appeared at the calefactory door. She cradled a loaf of bread wrapped in a clean dish towel.
“All set out here? Good,” she said, oblivious to the charged atmosphere. She walked to the other side of the truck and opened the door. “Let’s go. We need to get the novice out to the ranch.”
Still fuming, Zenn put Katie down and shooed her back through the calefactory door.
“And you stay. Stay, Katie.” Zenn spoke the words and signed emphatically. Katie sat down in the doorway and became suddenly very interested in licking a spot on her foreleg, pointedly ignoring Zenn. Keeping one eye on the rikkaset, Zenn went back out, snatched up the tub of meds and got into the back seat behind Vic and Graad. She slammed the door shut hard as she could, and that helped drain off some of her wrath. But just as Graad started the engine, Hamish appeared at the doorway, and then ambled out into the drive.
“Novice Zenn.” he called to her. “Please delay your leaving a moment.”
“What is it, Hamish?”
He stooped down at the truck window.
“The director-abbot instructs me to accompany you.”
Graad pushed his hat up on his forehead. “What? We’ve gotta lug this off-wa cockroach with us? Nine Hells. What for?”
“The director-abbot tells me attending this activity will increase my knowledge of the procedure involved. He thus instructed me to…”
“Oh, very well,” Vic said, sounding suddenly impatient. “If you must, then… just get in the back.”
Zenn knew full well Otha had other reasons for sending Hamish along. Hamish was babysitting. Hyper-vigilant as usual, Otha still wanted Zenn to have a chaperone outside the cloister walls. And almost as irritating: her sense of relief at having Hamish come along.
“Well?” Vic said, glaring at Hamish, who hadn’t moved.
“Novice Zenn, do I have your permission for this?”
“Yes you do, Hamish. Hop in.”
Hamish did as he was told, climbing into the cargo bed. The truck’s back end dipped with the addition of his weight. Graad glanced sideways at Vic.
“Boss?” Graad said. “Ya know, our… visitor, out at the ranch?”
“We’ll just have to conduct our business another time,” Vic said, her voice sharp. “Get going.”
Now Vic now sounded more than impatient. She was mad. Because of Hamish? It wasn’t his fault he was here. Otha had sent him out, after all. Why was the woman so put out?
With a final grunt of disgust from the foreman, they pulled out onto the road and headed east.
THIRTEEN
The ride to the LeClerc ranch was mercifully silent except for Vic’s occasional curt comments about the dead and dying farms they passed and how their owners were “…just too foolish or idle to keep their places running.” When they pulled into the circular drive in front of the rambling, synthwood ranch house, there was a tri-shaw taxi parked in the yard. The taxi’s puller, a black-haired, raggedly dressed boy who looked too small for the job, sat on the house steps. He jumped up at their approach, and went to stand by his cart.
As Graad brought the truck to a stop, the ranch house door opened and a short, stocky figure emerged and shuffled down the steps toward them. It was a skirni. He was about a foot shorter than Zenn, with the squat, muscular build of his species. His face presented a squashed-in, bulldog muzzle of hairless, black-and-brown blotched flesh, and the under-slung jaw sprouted two or three peg-like teeth that protruded upward. The eyes were black and bulging, the ears small and round, perched low on his head. “You want me to deal with that little…” Graad scowled, and seemed to be searching for a word to describe the alien. “…with our visitor?”
“Park the truck. I’ll talk to him,” Vic said.
When they’d all exited and Graad had driven off, the skirni came up to them. He seemed distinctly upset about something.
“This is not as we agreed.” He gestured at them with both hands, his voice a guttural rasp. His gaze landed on Hamish. “Not as agreed.”
The skirni’s customary garb consisted of layers of colorful robes and scarves and what appeared to be an entire store-full of jewelry and gemstones on his fingers and around his neck. It was a look that always reminded Zenn of blink-novs she’d read about certain nomadic Earther tribes. And, also like those wandering tribes, the skirni race was homeless, with a penchant for fortune-telling and crafty bargaining. Zenn waited, expecting Vic to introduce them.
“I’m afraid the situation is unavoidable,” Vic said to the skirni, ignoring her and Hamish. “You should return to Arsia, and we’ll… make other arrangements.” She raised a hand, indicating the tri-shaw. A look of angry confusion momentarily crossed the skirni’s face. He glanced up at Zenn, his probing, black-bead stare so intense it made her take an involuntary step back.
“Other arrangements,” he growled. He turned with jangle of clinking jewelry and waddled toward the tri-shaw, walking with the assistance of a thick, hairless tail that poked out from under his robes, giving him a rolling, rhythmic sort of gait. “Arrangements, yes. After my time is wasted.”
“Well,” Zenn said quietly to Hamish. “That was strange.”
“Oh?”
“A skirni? An ‘off-wa’, paying a visit to Vic LeClerc? Not exactly an everyday occurrence, that’s all.”
They waited as the skirni climbed into the back of the tri-shaw and the young puller slipped on his harness and picked up the two hand-shafts. Vic and the skirni exchanged a few more words, then the alien shouted at the boy to go and the cart creaked out onto the road and moved off toward town.
Minutes later, inside the LeClercs’ vast stone-block milking barn, Zenn stood surrounded by an unsettling swarm of several dozen goats. Unsettling because every animal there - the kids, the does, from smallest to largest – was identical. Produced by cloning from a single, original Nubian Dwarf species that arrived with one of the first Earther ships to reach Mars, each cookie-cutter clone had the same pattern of chestnut-and-white markings, the same floppy ears and compact body shape, and the same plaintive bleat. Herded into the barn for their treatment, the goats milled around, hopping onto and jumping down off every available surface. Up in the barn’s rafters, three furtive cats peered down suspiciously, tails twitching. When Hamish entered the barn to stand near the doorway, the cats silently vanished.
“So, he’s your… friend? The skirni?” Zenn said to Vic, fishing for information.
“Not a friend. Business associate,” was all Vic had to say on the subject. “Now, I’m assuming this is Otha’s usual mix?” She pointed at the tub Zenn held.
“Yes. He blends it the same every year,” Zenn told her. “One part mustard seed to two parts sorghum and kipfruit rind, in a diatomaceous earth matrix. It’s the diatomaceous earth that kills the worms, disrupts their digestion. We have a natural deposit of it on the cloister grounds.”
“Do you?” Vic said, her interest piqued.
“Yes, left over from when Mars still had oceans and algae. Otha says we should mine the stuff and sell it.”
Vic said nothing to this, and Zenn realized after a few seconds that the woman was looking at her as if she herself was some otherworldly animal come into the ba
rn.
“So, Zenn,” she said. “You seem like such a bright young lady. And capable. It seems a pity. You, all alone, the only child, out there at the Ciscan compound. I’m surprised Otha doesn’t allow you out. On your own, I mean. A girl your age should really be going into town, meeting boys, making friends.”
The idea struck Zenn as peculiar, and less than agreeable. It’s not like she’d fit in with the kids of Arsia. Not now. It wasn’t like she’d never made an effort. When she was younger, of course, before she’d formulated the Rule, several of the more adventurous girls from town had come out to visit. To “play,” actually. But their concept of fun was lost on Zenn, even at ten years old. The towner girls wanted to engage in activities like make-believe tea parties and giving cute names to the dolls and stuffed animals they’d brought with them. Zenn wanted to show them her real animals, explain where the creatures came from, show them how to feed a seep-demon and watch the food being digested in its transparent intestinal tract. It only took a few visits before the towner girls stopped coming.
“I don’t really have a lot of free time,” Zenn said “My studies and chores at the cloister keep me pretty occupied.”
But Vic’s mention of town brought back Ren’s words about the looming vote. “I know that some people don’t like living near us. They want us to sell the land. Sell out and leave.” Zenn chose her words carefully. The LeClercs were one of the cloister’s few regular customers on Mars, and almost the only one that paid its bills on time. Otha would be furious if Zenn did anything to spoil that. “But the animals need the clinic, they wouldn’t have anywhere to go. That’s why Otha won’t sell.”
“And he’s right,” Vic said, turning away from the window, all her attention returning to Zenn again. “At least about not selling. No. The land would just be divided up and auctioned off to towners and all the other lazy no-goods in this valley. People who don’t know the first thing about making their land produce.” The woman’s eyes flashed, her voice hard. “They’d ruin anything they got their hands on. Just like they’ve ruined the rest of the land in this valley.”
Vic seemed to catch herself then, seemed to realize she was just talking to a novice, after all. Zenn could see it in her face, but that only made her more determined to talk about what had been bothering her.
“So, you’re on the council, right? The city council?”
“Yes,” Vic said. “I am.”
“The council vote? About the lease? Ren Jakstra says there’s a chance it could turn out bad for us.”
“Ren thinks that, does he? And told you?” She sounded surprised that Zenn knew anything about the subject, let alone had an opinion about it. “Well now, novice, council matters are a complicated business. But,” she smiled faintly, “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Zenn was getting fed up with hearing about all the things she shouldn’t worry about.
“But what about the animals? What would happen to them?” Not to mention what would happen to her and Otha and the others.
“Ah, the animals…” Vic said. “A young girl, like you. Surrounded by all those…” She gave Hamish a sideways glance, “…alien things.”
“They’re not things,” Zenn said before she could catch herself. “I mean, they’re living, feeling animals. It’s our job to help them.” She had a thought: “Like we help you with your goats.”
“Well,” Vic smiled again – but not with her eyes. “That’s entirely different, isn’t it? Our goats came here with us from Earth. And they’re a benefit to everyone in the valley, aren’t they? They supply milk, cheese, meat, leather. But you can’t be blamed for the way you feel, I suppose. It’s how you were raised.” The woman looked off through the barn’s nearest window. “You know, novice,” Vic said, her voice softening just a little. “It used to be different here, in the valley. Farms flourishing. The village prospering.” The woman continued to stare out the window for a long moment more, then brought her gaze back to Zenn. “But that was long ago, before the people used up the land. Before the Rift made it so they couldn’t repair the damage they’d done.” She fluttered a hand in the direction of the outside world, an unmistakable twinge of distaste briefly shadowing her face.
She turned to the milling, jumping goats. “Now then, you’ve got work to do, with all my little darlings.” Zenn noticed when Vic gestured at the animals that she wore new goatskin gloves on her hands – soft, supple kid-skin gloves.
“You let me know when you’ve finished, and I’ll have one of the hired hands drive you home.” As she walked past Hamish, she pointed at the coleopt, but looked back at Zenn. “And don’t let this creature of yours go creeping around the ranch.”
When Vic has closed the barn door behind her, Hamish approached Zenn.
“This human – Vic does not relish my presence on her property,” Hamish said. “I have also perceived a similar sentiment from the human town dwellers. I understand that Earth-humans have a difficulty with non-terrestrial life forms, due to this Orinoco illness you described. I am wondering: do Mars-humans equate myself with such an illness?”
“I’m afraid it’s a case of guilt by association,” Zenn said. Hamish cocked his head at her.
“I am to be guilty? Based on not even the slimmest connection to reasoning? Mars-humans behave in such a manner?”
“Oh yes. They do. In fact sometimes I think they’re proud of it.”
“This is not an efficient way to conduct oneself in the world, if I may say so. Why do they allow their minds to operate in this faulty fashion?”
“Good question,” she said. “I guess they see all aliens kind of like these goats. You know, identical clones. They lump all aliens into the same category. It’s easier than having to think about each one as an individual. Then, they tell themselves it’s alright to judge you by the way you look, instead of getting to know you. Instead of paying attention to who you really are.”
“But your mind does not function in this eccentric fashion. Nor does the director-abbot’s or Sister Hild’s. Do your brain-circuits connect differently?”
“Well, no.” Zenn smiled at him. “It’s more like what the brains are exposed to, when a person is growing up. But when you put it that way, maybe on some level the circuits are wired up differently.”
“Whatever the circuitry,” Hamish said, turning to look at the goats, “I am glad you do not view me as some goat-clone-coleopt. I thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Hamish.” Zenn smiled up at him. “Now…” She bent to pick up the tub of worming powder. “We better get to work.”
As she said this, several dozen expectant, perfectly matching faces gave Zenn and Hamish their curious, fearless looks, while several dozen identical throats filled the goat-scented barn with their one-note bleat.
FOURTEEN
When Zenn was sure each goat had eaten a sufficient amount of the medicated grain mixture, she and Hamish stepped out of dark barn into the bright afternoon. The process had taken longer than she’d expected. Most of the young kids were less interested in a snack than in playing with each other and scampering sideways through the barn until they bounced off a wall or another goat. Irritated to find the sun was already directly overhead, she started off at a trot toward the farmhouse, Hamish scuttling along behind. Liam was just coming out of the front door, followed by Graad Dokes.
“Scarlett,” Liam said, coming down the steps. He raised a hand in greeting, but he wasn’t wearing his usual confident smile. “Vic said you were here. Working on the goats?”
“Worming,” she said, nodding back at the barn. “All done. Vic said someone would drive me back to the cloister.”
“You an’ your bug-freak goin’ back to tend your off-wa monsters, are ya?” Graad said, ignoring the fact that Hamish was standing right there, listening. Graad pulled a rag from his pocket and blew his nose in it. “Well, better her than us, huh, kid?” He slapped at Liam’s shoulder, pushing him off balance.
“We don’t think they’re
monsters,” Zenn said, tired of continually making this particular correction to those like Graad. She also had to make an effort not to add “you moron”. “They’re just different, that’s all.”
“Different. I’ll say,” Graad chortled. “Different enough to take your head off if you’re not careful. Not to mention all the acres they squander. A waste of good grazing land, shameful waste.”
“It’s not wasted, Graad.” Zenn said, knowing he was just provoking her, but unable to keep quiet.
“Sure it is.” Graad grinned maliciously at her. “Tell her, kid.” He shoved Liam again, but Liam just shrugged and looked away. Graad’s eyes darted from Liam to Zenn, then back to Liam.
“Oh. I forgot. Mr Tucker here is growin’ a soft spot for monsters and freaks, aren’t ya kid? Liam’s spendin’ so much time out at the freak-church I’m thinkin’ of callin’ him Friar Tuck. Gonna be a certified expert in freakology soon, eh, Friar? But just keep this in mind,” Graad leaned close to Liam. “Before the Ciscans touched down, the LeClercs owned all the land in this valley, far as you can see.” He thrust one of his thick hands up in a sweeping arc. On the distant horizon, part of the cloister’s chapel ruins could be glimpsed at the far end of the valley, jutting up like giant, black rib bones picked clean. “Before her kind moved in,” he hooked a thumb at Zenn. “Before they started bringing their off-wa cockroaches and talkin’ rats and devil knows what all to Mars. This dried-up rock of a planet was foul enough without their monsters with their plagues and who-knows-what. But at least when the LeClercs had the land, they put it to use for people. Human people. Not alien freaks.” Graad’s hand came to rest on Liam’s shoulder, and it looked to Zenn as if he was squeezing, hard. Liam pretended not to notice. “You will remember that, won’t ya, Friar Tuck?”
Liam seemed about to say something back at him, then turned to her instead, pulling away from the foreman’s grip.
“You know, Scarlett, why don’t I give you two a ride home? Now.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked past her toward the shed where Vic garaged her vehicles. She motioned to Hamish and they followed.
Zenn Scarlett Page 11