Skeen's Return

by Clayton, Jo;

  “She wants to meet Timka.”

  “Who doesn’t these days.” Skeen chuckled. “Ti is having herself a grand time going round with Briony after the girl gets off work.”

  “Mamarana wants to see you too, says bickering with you cleans out her sinuses.”

  “Sounds like she’s mellowing some. When do we go?”

  “Five days.”

  Flake Factry came back with the steaming tod, gave the drink another pass with his laser finger before setting it down by Tibo. “I was telling Skeen about Ga’houbal. He was in here ’bout five six days after you left last time. Swert the Mouth was sucking his fissatit and in two other worlds. Ga’hou got him off in a corner and spent half the night muttering at him. Mala Fortuna solo knows what he managed to get out of him before Neep and Cleep pushed in beside them and shut the dribble down. And you know what, you know what that festered pimple did? He bugged my bar. He left a trail of lice behind like a tink shedding his winter coat. I wouldn’t a known a thing about it either, except that clothead had them set so they started a feedback in my kneejoints. I had a Sweep in and he rousted a pile big enough to fill a shot glass. He come in here again, Junker says throw him out so hard he bounces. Junker says he can’t afford to sweep the place every fuckin’ time that maggotmeat walks in. Cidder’s got his hooks in him, Skeen. The Hound’s hot after you, Skeen the Lean. You hear me, you call a Sweep for Picarefy every Pit you hit.” Flake wandered off, picked up a polish cloth and began working on his beautifully articulated metal hand, rubbing and smoothing it until the metal gleamed a rich blued-silver.

  The ice rattled again as Skeen drained the last drops of diluted tonic water. “The Buzzard’s got a party tonight, Tib. Henry O came in yesterday with a load of totems and godfaces. The Virgin and Hopeless followed him in, still living on the gelt from their Helix finds. I forget who else he said would be there. He said bring Timka and I think Petro might like it, she’s been working too hard.”

  Flake Factry looked up from his polishing. “Virgin and Hopeless, they starting their second round?”

  “That’s what Hopeless said. I ran into her when I went to check on Picarefy. She said they hit every Pit anyone’s ever heard of and still came back with enough credit to stuff a grinch. She said they’re going to have to give up and do something sensible with it like endow a home for pregnant fish. She said she and the Virgin ’re getting so bored with doing nothing, they’ve made twin axes to chop each other up into bloody gobbets of quivering flesh while they send the Abode into the nearest sun. You know Hopeless and how she gets. She said they wanted to get to work again, but it’s bloody immoral making more money while they still had that much sitting around.” Skeen poked Tibo with her elbow, woke him from his morose contemplation of the dregs of the tod. “I had an idea,” she said. He grunted, pushed her elbow away. “Virgin and Hopeless, they’re looking for something grand and noble and horribly expensive. I thought I’d have them buy and outfit a colony transport and keep it handy till we needed it.”

  Tibo gloomed at his glass. “If we need it.”

  Skeen pinched the tight skin on the back of his wrist. “Funerary ware. Lighten up.” She glanced at her ringchron. “Time to pretty up for the party.” She smoothed her hand over Tibo’s gleaming head, stroked the nape of his neck, then got to her feet and moved her hands over the tense muscles of his shoulders. “You can’t stop time, love. Come on. Picarefy has negotiated for water and meat, we’ve got hot showers and bloody steaks waiting for us.”

  Skeen talked Lipitero into forgetting her trepidations and venturing away from the workshop, telling her that her brain would fry and fall out her ears if she didn’t take a break. Lipitero was skeptical but willing.

  SCENE:

  Lipitero talking with Picarefy through a comlink ornamented with dancing lights that are extraordinarily successful at conveying the emotions of a supposed-to-be emotionless machine entity, doing this with varying levels of energy, varying patterns of the lights, varying colors. The workroom curves about her, the lathes and the other machine tools clean but well used, the bins and cabinets full of metals and other materials, one could build any smallish instrument here, construct the most intricate memory systems. She is brushing her fur, burnishing her nails and the skin pads over knees and elbows, the dark gray skin over the arch of her ribs, the wide springing ribs that flatten and spread when she soars, skin that takes a polish like marble, hard as marble with some of the deep glow when it was properly cared for. Though she bore her children alive, she is not a mammal and secretly glad of it. Skeen is sleek enough but to Lipitero even she looks awkward and badly designed. She is talking to Picarefy about what to expect at the party; she has never been at a gathering such as this outside a Gather. When she thinks of it, it is absurd to be talking about social occasions with a shipbrain who’d never come close to being there. Like two cubs helping each other walk only knowing how to fall. Picarefy searches through her files, shows Lipitero scenes from flake plays Skeen had added to the ship’s library more for Picarefy’s gratification than her own. When those have been run through, they talk quietly, Lipitero giving a little more about herself and her people to the insatiable curiosity of the ship.

  READER’S ALERT: EXPOSITORY LUMPS AHEAD. SKIP OVER IF DISTRESSED BY SUCH.

  Lipitero looked round at the workshop and sighed. “I hate to leave,” she said. She looked at the harness hanging on a hook by the iris, smiled with pleasure at the chain mail and ornaments she’d made here in the cracks between her more serious work.

  Chuckle from Picarefy. “But how interesting to show off one’s work.”

  “How difficult to escape one’s vanity.”

  More than vanity. From the moment Lipitero stepped into Picarefy, she lost herself in the delights of the Ship’s workshop; ornaments and instruments flowed from mind and fingers. Whatever she made, no matter how utilitarian, had the brush of beauty, the simplicity of a child that had nothing to do with childishness, the simplicity that was on the far side of elaboration, the single stroke that took the master to achieve. And Lipitero was a Master. Before the death of her children she had been good, now she was great, a difference in intensity of focus. She could have no more children, but she could MAKE. This long drop into chance that took her into Skeen’s orbit had solidified the Sydo Ykx in their role of her surrogate children but only increased her need to MAKE. During the waiting time at the Tank Farm, she divided her days into three parts: sleep learning and talking to Picarefy; learning the possibilities of the workshop, making things she thought useful in the hunt for Rallen and after; talking with Tibo and Timka, she needed to know them to sense their limitations and how far they might be willing to transcend those limitations. She talked with them and with Picarefy for another reason: she needed the warmth of other lives to hoard her own warmth until she could rejoin her own kind. So alone, so far from them, she could die of that loneliness. Her kind did. They sickened and died kept from their own. The desert Charlarosh discovered this early on and took pleasure in capturing and penning an Ykx then watching the Ykx pine and die. They used that weakness to fortify their own sense of worth because they were envious of Ykx flight and terrifíed of Ykx technology. Watching Ykx soar out over the desert, riding the thermals, dancing in the air, seeing what the Ykx MADE in their caverns, they felt diminished, dirtied. But in the end an occasional sacrifice was not enough, they had to wipe away the insult; that meant destroying all the Ykx they knew of and they did it with a viciousness and cunning beyond Ykx comprehension. Lipitero escaped death because they thought she was dead. She was alive now because she’d made a leap most Ykx could not. A leap across a world, a leap across old ways of thinking and being. But she was still Ykx; she didn’t have the comfort of a rage for vengeance.

  “It’s a physical difference,” she said to Picarefy, “a different assortment of chemicals. We found we couldn’t understand the reactions of many of the species we encountered when we first left Ysterai. What they did didn’t ma
ke sense, reason didn’t help us deal with it, didn’t tell us why, so we investigated and found certain chemicals that triggered responses that had nothing to do with reason, aggressive responses, responses we lacked and were glad of the lack.”

  “In a very real sense,” Lipitero said to Picarefy, “we share the fault for our destruction, the Ykx of Coraish Gather.”

  “You blame yourself for being slaughtered?” Picarefy’s indignation sounded in her voice and danced in the jagged patterns of the lights, the harsh colors.

  “You sound like Skeen,” Lipitero said. “I suppose that’s understandable. No, I’m not talking about blame. I’m talking about our failure to understand and prevent. I’m talking about how we were absorbed by our own troubles, how we were perhaps affected by the subtle distortions of Mistommerk, how we changed from what we were. No, we don’t fight, we have other means of protecting ourselves, more effective means. We aren’t a prolific race, each female produces three cubs, only three, during her breeding time. Often less than three. We couldn’t afford wars that wiped out any great portion of our breeding population. So we manipulated our dangers away by using our WATCHER skills. Our WATCHERS watched for signs among anyone who could threaten us and when they found them we abstracted bodies and manipulated events to erase the danger.”

  “I hesitate to moralize, Petro, but I have to tell you I find that appalling.”

  “Better than war.”

  ‘No.” Picarefy’s lights were pale and agitated, her voice uncertain. “Not for the folk you interfered with.”

  “They were alive. But I won’t argue with you about the benefit to them. We didn’t ignore their good entirely, but what meant most was our survival. It didn’t always work, you know. Sometimes wars that had nothing to do with us spilled over on us. Sometimes we made mistakes in our manipulations and situations exploded on us. Mostly though, we managed to maintain our neutrality, making our mediation skills valuable enough that the bellicose around us generally let us alone. There’s so little need to kill when you cool angers the right way, when you prevent those angers from fruiting by listening to the hurts behind the words. Words aren’t so important, no, it’s the anger and hurt which is left unexpressed that fester into death. It takes study and time and the ability to WATCH and SEE, the ability to HEAR-BEHIND. We had those in the beginning, we used them. But Mistommerk worked on us like it worked on all the Waves. Our WATCHERS dwindled and died and no more were born. Our genetic base was too small and in the strangeness of that world, we suppressed randomness because we feared losing what made us Ykx. We were too fearful. I see that now. Our last WATCHER saw it then and advised us what would happen, but who listened? It was easier not to listen. We let the irritations build between us and the Chalarosh, we let them manipulate us into becoming more like them, rigid and fiercely inturned. It’s simpler to be like that, you slash away tangling nuance, you don’t have to do the hard work of understanding alien psyches and alien cultures, you can proclaim right and wrong and if the world doesn’t conform, you can ignore the jars or stamp them into shape. Hmm. If this bores you, Pic, it’s your fault, you wanted to know.”

  “Yes, yes, go on. Did I say stop?”

  “Your lights are dozing.”

  “I was thinking, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Hmm. Last time I talked to anyone that dim, I got the same answer, but he was starting to snore.”

  “If there’s one thing I can’t do, Petro, it’s snore.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s an analog if I looked hard enough.”

  “Now, now, don’t be snippy. Go on with your musing, I find it very interesting.”

  “Where’s Skeen?”

  “In the shower-room with Tibo.”

  “Oh. How soon will we be leaving?”

  “I’d say about an hour.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ve time; finish what you were saying.”

  “Hmm. I’m finished. Except to wonder how Rallen has shaped the Ykx, keeping in mind what Mistommerk did to us.” She got to her feet and began strapping the harness about her. “I’m afraid of that, you know. I’m afraid Rallen Ykx and Mistommerk Ykx have become so different that we can’t talk to each other. I hope it isn’t so, but it’s been a long time, hasn’t it. A terribly long time.” She began brushing her fur again.

  A moment’s silence. “Petro …”

  “Mmmh?”

  “Flake the party for me.”

  Lipitero inspected her claws, moved her feet uneasily. “I can’t do that, Pic. I’m a guest there, I have obligations. I’ll watch everything and tell you about it, but flake it? No. I can’t.”

  The lights seemed to droop. “I didn’t think of that. I wanted so much to see …”

  “I know.” She brooded a minute, smiled. “Pic, why don’t you call the Buzzard, see if you can send a remote with us, that’ll be almost like you’re there yourself.”

  “Oh. Um …” The lights and colors were agitated. “Skeen never suggested that.”

  “She got you the spyeyes. Did you ever tell her you wanted to talk to people, not just other ships, other brains?”

  “I never thought of it before.”

  “See?”

  “I see. Hmm. Skeen’s out of the shower, I’ll ask what she thinks, tact you know, Petro, then I’ll do it.”

  Buzzard’s Roost II where the Buzzard lived his private life was a long loft sparsely furnished with objects he’d grown too fond of to sell. Lipitero walked in feeling shy and uncertain, keeping close behind Skeen and Tibo, the little remote rolling beside her, fizzing with excitement and an interest so intense it seemed on the verge of exploding out of its gleaming metal skin.

  The Buzzard’s eyes flicked over her; his face didn’t change, but she knew he had recognized her from the representations in the work he’d handled and the ornamentations on her harness. She gave him a small tight smile, a murmured greeting, then slipped away, leaving him chatting with the remote. She found a quiet corner and sat watching what was happening. She felt more comfortable like that, her back against a wall, another wall close by in a symbolic replication of a Gather niche.

  After a while the Buzzard drifted over to her, sweat in tiny dots, one on each of his freckles or so it seemed, clinging to the polished brown skin on his knobby hairless skull. “You like a sweet-tart taste?”

  “Well enough.” She took the glass he handed her, touched her tongue lightly to the liquid. Fermented organic, rather mild. She sipped at the pale blue wine and smiled. “Thank you.”

  He settled beside her on the long bolster, sat with skinny legs stretched out before him. “Friendly warning. I’m going to try my best to get you drunk and babbling.”

  “Mala Fortuna for you, Sirke, I wouldn’t babble, merely settle back and go to sleep.”

  “I hear and bow my head to my evil fate.”

  “Why don’t you merely ask me what you want to know? I’ll answer or not as I choose.”

  “That’s the trouble. I prefer it when I’m the one who chooses.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “No, Sirkiyn. One of my ex-wives, she couldn’t make up her mind to come out of a closet unless you told her to.”

  “How boring.”

  “True. She had other talents. Who are you and where are you from and why is Skeen hunting what she’s already got?”

  She sipped at the wine and thought over the questions. “My name is Lipitero. Where I’m from is not something I’m prepared to discuss except to say you’d get no use from the knowledge. Skeen is hunting …” she stopped talking, frowned, “I don’t think I should talk about Skeen.” She drank more of the wine, taking it slowly, cherishing the gentle warmth that spread through her; she liked having this strange, inquisitive man beside her; he was a center of warmth which washed over her and mingled with the wine-warmth.

  “Hmm. The gods are practical jokers with deplorably low taste in humor.” His long upper lip curved down at both ends, giving him a clownish melancholy.
>
  “Why?”

  “They made man and gave him speech and right away he turned words into enigma and oracle. What a joke on us.”

  “Words are for playing with, you mustn’t take them seriously, never, never take them seriously.” She giggled suddenly as fumes from the wine tickled her nose.

  “Who made your ornaments?

  “Me.”

  He took her hand, turned it palm up to examine it, then brushed his fingertips across it, a quick almost tender gesture. “If you get tired of flitting about with Skeen,” he murmured, “I’ll stake you to a workshop for a percentage on whatever you make.”

  She cuddled the glass against her cheek. “Generous man.”

  “I’d let you keep that illusion if I thought I could get away with it—sadly, no. There’s a demand, if you aren’t too confined as to the specifics of age and provenance. Hi-ho, Lipitero, you are a grand Maker, as any fool could see, but fools buy ugly old and pass by wonders unknowing if the newness shows. A hint or two, a lie or three makes it all right.” He settled himself more comfortably, his back against the wall. “Now, Skeen’s a wonder herself; ask Picarefy about the Hus someday when she’s feeling talkative. Or the Tangle Stars. What I’m saying is you won’t be bored with her, but she’s got liabilities and picking up more. It’s getting so she can’t slide out of a Pit without a dozen sundoggies sneaking after her to see where she’s going. Then there’s Abel Cidder and the other Hounds. The bigger she gets, the worse they hurt when she foxes them. Let me tell you, Lipitero, if ever you get anywhere near the Cluster, you find a place to sit that one out. She goes a little crazy when she punches into the Empire.”

  She hunched forward, twisted around to grin at him. “Oh, Buzzard, oh, dear, you’re so not-subtle.”

  “Oh, Lipitero, oh, dear, what’s the point? Tell me you wouldn’t see through me whatever I tried.”

  She gave him her glass. “Fill this up a few times and maybe you’re right, I’ll babble.”

  He laughed, waved over one of his guests, a squat little centaur with blue skin and elaborately plaited mane and tail. “Henry,” he held up his glass with a centimeter of wine in the bottom, “bring round the bottle, will you.”