by Geary Gravel
The composition was called Butcher Blows, a relatively simple Dance of March's own devising, designed to dispatch a single enemy; that pulsing, living shield went far beyond the Dance's scope of adaptation. As the possibilities of response narrowed and finally vanished, the trance began to slip away.
The stylized ferocity of the Dancemask gave way without warning. For a few seconds there was the twitching blankness of transition, then March came back screaming.
Oblivious to the presence of the others, he fell to his knees and scrambled under the great table, where Emrys and Jefany found him minutes later, still whimpering and gabbling unintelligibly.
The others found themselves free of external compulsion shortly after March emerged from the Dance. They stood about the empath in considerable discomfort, arms linked and hearts racing, their bodies weak from exertion.
Only Raille had not been affected by the command for aid, and with Emrys' help she tended the minor injuries of the four groggy combatants. Chassman was unconscious, his wounds more serious. He was carried on a floating pallet to the north high room, then examined thoroughly by the portative medipal unit, stripped, and secured in a makeshift cocoon of lifeskin extruded from the Hut's wall.
After considerable coaxing from Jefany, March allowed himself to be settled in the bain-sense, from which he emerged an hour later, still shaken and wan beneath his panked complexion.
Later that night Emrys called a Group meeting. Everyone present expressed feelings of shame and culpability. Though March said little, it was evident that his main motivations in attacking the empath had been anger and curiosity. Having tested the other's power, he seemed willing to acknowledge its reality and to agree that there would be no need to confront it again. "Probably telling the truth," he said. "Why lie? He could've killed me easy, but he didn't."
Then, as if at a hidden signal, the apologies began to come, and words of comfort and support were exchanged freely, like coins from a hoarded store which could at last be spent. In a short time the Group had knit itself into a whole again, seamlessly.
Only Raille sat a little apart from the others during the discussion, her mind on the one who lay swathed in healing tissue two floors above them. When she went to check on him in the very early morning, she found the door to his room standing open, the gray cubicle empty.
The Hut responded to her inquiries with the information that the empath had risen from the lifeskin during the night, bathed
and dressed himself, and departed the dwelling at half past the Twenty-eighth Hour.
"He's taken the droshky," Cil reported over her breakfast tea and fruit. "I left it out last night so I could make a quick trip up to Number Seven's estate to check on her pregnancy this morning. Now it's gone."
Raille used the Hut's Eyes to search for him in the nearby woods and fields, but gave up shortly before noon.
"If it's right for him to come back, he will," Emrys said. "If not—well, I think we owe him a few days of privacy before we reclaim our property."
"It's because we hurt him," Raille said in her quiet way. "He's had to go off somewhere to figure out why."
6
In the final days of their eighth full month on Belthannis, success was in the air, and it had begun to seem possible that the year allotted them by the Sauf Coben would end with a near-perfect human simulacrum standing beside them before the Weighers. Emrys, who felt an almost mystical reverence for the changes taking place in the kin, firmly believed that the creature he and his Group would finally bring with them to Commons would not merely mimic a human being, but by then have become one.
Though Emrys was alone in the intensity of his presentiment, there was no denying the immense amount of progress that had been made in a few short months. The creature's repertoire of programmed movements had increased a hundredfold since that day when the noumenon had been transferred to the vacant brain. Tap or nudge or whispered cue was enough to call forth an extravagant catalogue of gestures and poses, walking set pieces, facial expressions ranging from revulsion to attentive disbelief, and even a small quirk at the corner of the mouth which could be summoned to punctuate sardonic humor.
March and Marysu worked in concert on the production of templates designed to inculcate the creature with the rudiments of its newborn native tongue—the Worldspeech of Belthannis—which Marysu continued to refine in both its verbal and visual forms. The addition of these strange and compelling movements to the already complicated Dance routines lent a quality of eerie purpose to the creature's actions, an aura of intelligence that vibrated back and forth between the recognizable and the utterly alien. Considerable brain-wave activity appeared on their instruments for the first time, but it was of a type so radically unique as to be unclassifiable, and if Chassman noted any resemblance to readings obtained from his own people on Maribon, he chose not to comment upon the fact.
Indeed, the empath had become more taciturn than ever since his return from a week of traveling. The droshky's log told Emrys how much distance had been covered, and noted that an excursion had been made to the distant shore, but Chassman was disinclined to elaborate on the machine's record, and any attempt to lead him into a discussion of the previous week was met with stony silence. Nor would he discuss the attack he had suffered in the Hearth Room. Well-intentioned apologies were turned aside by the same blankly indifferent countenance as that which had fallen before the Dancer's blows.
Chassman spent his days wandering on foot through the kin's often deserted estate, clad either in his dark Maribonese garb or, more often, in a simple gray coverall similar to that worn by March. A more striking change in his appearance was taking place: his use of the artificial skin-whitener had lessened considerably, and after days of constant exposure to Pwolen's Star, his pale face had begun to darken.
Kept busy charting metabolic changes in the kin, Raille could only follow the empath's peregrinations with her eyes, and wonder what attraction the empty fields and woodlands held for him.
The kin still spontaneously produced snatches of the Weldonese sign language which had been employed as a practice mode while the Worldspeech was readied—especially, Raille was perturbed to discover, when in her presence. These lapses were always unnerving, though she had been assured they represented nothing more than random echoes of the previous patterning which March would eventually succeed in eradicating from the creature's autonomic nervous system. Raille remained skeptical. One day the creature had signed "tree" quite clearly to her as she was leading it past a clump of nodding
slevoe. She found herself answering him automatically in the same tongue, froze in midsentence, and hurried to turn her gesticulating charge over to March, who waited in the next clearing.
The kin's territory—its estate, as Cil called it—had swung far enough south by now that the Hut was no longer included within its boundaries. This factor had been dealt with through an increased use of the aircar by those who wished daily contact with their subject, until March decided to establish a small mobile base camp near the locus of the creature's current wanderings. The soldier spent most of his time there in solitary labor. At length it was decided to abandon the campsite in favor of bringing the kin back to the area of the Hut for extended periods each day. Emrys explained his decision to a disapproving Cil by telling her that the kin would have to be taken from its territory sooner or later if they were ever to present it to the Sauf Coben. "He might as well start getting used to being away from home," Emrys remarked. "And it seems considerably less traumatic to begin with a separation of kilometers, rather than one of Darkjumps."
The kin showed no adverse reaction to the disruption of life-long patterns save a tendency to neglect consumption of the redfruit, which fell unnoticed by its feet during its comparatively brief sojourns in its rightful estate. At other times, the kin would be found in the territory of the Hut, standing patiently beneath a black limb as if awaiting an overdue supper. Invariably, no fruit appeared.
"It only stands to
reason that he's not allowed to eat here," Cil insisted. "He's trespassing. No doubt the estates are only capable of supporting one occupant at a time. You must take pains to let him remain on his own land as much as possible."
Emrys promised to be more careful in the future, later discussing with Raille the possibility of supplementing their pupil's natural diet with carefully compounded doses of vitamin concentrate from within the Hut. He saw no need to further burden Cil by informing her of his intentions.
The planalyst continued to emerge dissatisfied from her audiences with the Group leader.
"He is a compassionate and brilliant man," she told Jefany one day. "But on the subject of the kin his mind has become completely immune to logic. The creatures are not isolates, as
he persists in treating them, and what is done to one will in the end affect them all, grafted mind and borrowed clothes notwithstanding. And no mistake is more serious than keeping one of them off its estate for such long and irregular periods."
"But Estate Number Four is also empty." Jefany twirled her stylus between thumb and fingers.
"Yes, I know. And the female in Number Seven will be returning there to give birth to her male child soon, probably in another month or two. Logic dictates a tolerance in the web for the absence of a single tenant for the length of a gestation period, but that in no way guarantees that it will suffer two such vacancies and still be able to function unimpaired."
Jack filled several sketchbooks with portraits of the kin, providing a record of the creature's transformation which holos could not match. The others were drawn to the pictures, and the volumes were kept in the Hearth Room to be flipped through frequently, the members of the Group marveling at the subtle alterations discernible through the detailed, often somber drawings. Jack himself was alone for much of the time now, polite but withdrawn. By tacit mutual agreement, he and Marysu all but ignored each other, while Cil was far too preoccupied with her work and with Jefany to notice the extent to which her recent playfriend and body-lover avoided contact with her.
Finally Cil left the Hut on her third extended journey, once more alone.
"I cannot stay here," she told Jefany in a strained whisper the night before her departure. "Not with that poor thing. Lords, I've got to go stare at another one for a while and try to forget the frightening face we've manufactured here."
She could not explain the dread she now felt when contemplating their subject's features, except to say that he was becoming more and more recognizable.
Jefany felt it too. Each time she allowed herself to study the kin, it was as if a cunningly meticulous sculptor had been at work, and his face was becoming increasingly more finished with each passing day.
His face.
At some point they had stopped referring to him as "it," and the kin had become simply Kin to those who labored in his cause.
CHAPTER 15
Then Beleth knelt by his side and took onto her lap the dark head, weeping at the scars cut deep into
his face.
But Kiri opened his eyes and looked upon her
sorrowing—and wonder—the spell was lifted and he
could speak at last. . . .
FROM KIR1-HERO AND OTHER TALES OF OLD WELDON. BY ROSE HANNAH
1
"We are alike in that respect," Choss said, his fingers fumbling a bit with the console of the table. "Family structure very prominent in both our cultures." He laughed shortly as the drinks appeared, orange-bright pools rising in shallow bowls. "I will never be free of my family: uncles, aunts, father, mother, sisters, brothers, eight kinds of clan-sib, twenty kinds of cousin.
229
Like the bones in our bodies, I sometimes think, each with a name, each with a particular bit of the flesh to support or keep rigid." He turned his back to her, his neat robes obscuring the motion of his hands as he picked up the bowls.
Abruptly, he set the bowls down in a clatter; a little of the liquid sloshed over onto the table, where it sparkled and disappeared—
The first veils of sleep had already settled when the soft tapping came at Emrys' door. His tired mind strove tenaciously to incorporate the sound into the embryonic dream it had begun to unfold.
I The tap came again, sharper.
· I "Come, then."
j. He sat up on the pallet, stretched, made the finger movements that would direct the Hut to gradually illuminate the room.
Choss stood framed in the doorway, his face stark with something like grief in the false dawn.
{* "What is it? Come in." Emrys moved his fingers again,
- reached for the tunic that slipped from a wallframe near the
pallet, drew it on over his head. "There." He gave the historian a smile of encouragement.
"I've come to ask you about pain, Emrys, for you've lived so much farther than I." Choss remained at the door, shoulder ·; propped against one smooth edge. "The constant availability
of pain in life—seems like a suitable topic for research, doesn't it? Probably a certificate or two in there for some ambitious investigator. Why are we blessed with such abundance? I had honestly thought I had exhausted my allotment years ago, but the well seems bottomless. 'O bottomless is the well,' as Steppe-- King Versad cried on the Plains of Termontier. But that's one of our stories, you wouldn't know it. It's a cold tale, they tell me, very cold, as they always do, thinking I have no appreciation of coldness, having been born in it."
"I don't understand, Choss." Emrys watched the slouching historian. "Come in."
Choss pulled himself erect and walked stiffly into the room. "D'you want a seat?" Emrys' fingers poised on another signal.
The other man shook his head.
Emrys waited, bare legs drawn up, arms crossed over his knees. At last Choss gave a despairing sigh and approached the pallet. He sat down cross-legged at its edge and thrust his hand out to Emrys.
"What is this?" Emrys accepted the small flask and pried carefully at its ornate stopper.
"I almost—" Choss' voice hovered in and out of audibility. "I was down there alone with her. She's going on Late Watch. I knew everyone else would be sleeping, or staying in their rooms, at least. I said I wasn't tired. I said I'd get us something different to drink. I told her it was amba muti from the Maren— that she'd find it a bit strange and spicy. I had the table make colored water. 1 was going to add this to her bowl—" His voice failed altogether and he sat biting his lower lip, staring at the wall.
Emrys brought the flask to his nose and sniffed. He tilted it slightly and touched the opening with his fingertip, then carefully licked the finger.
"Why?" he said finally. "Why would you do this, Choss?"
The historian twisted the cuff of a long sleeve, eyes on the shadowless wall.
"She's a child, she's twenty years old. Timetax. They have to pay. I've never known anyone— She's had twenty years, and it's a fifth of her life or more. A little score of years, can you imagine?" He tugged at the brown sleeve. '"Nor shall process, infusion, or somatic influence of any type be practiced upon the uninformed or misinformed individual for the purpose of...' You see, I've always been an attentive student. Comparative Legalities, nine years ago, taught by Sessept—what was her name? Ah, it escapes me. But in another year or so, you know, she'll be beyond the first chance. That would mean, what, another fifteen years at the least until the physical processes would stabilize again. Even now, even if I had, she'd keep on for five or more..."
"Choss," Emrys said softly. "You know what would happen. Your gift to her would earn you the long still death for a century or more of your own life."
"I know, I thought about all of that. But it seemed—when I did come back—"
"That she'd run to you, joyous, having waited patiently all those years while you were living Deepside, a little mad spot of intelligence trapped in a black cage. Do you see what you're saying?"
Choss was silent. "Of course I do," he said at last. "I've seen it all along. I've known it from the beginnin
g. But—" He spread his hands helplessly. "This feeling, for another person, has been so rare in my life. I have no other religion, Emrys, but this. Love is the one thing in my life I've held absolutely sacred."
At length Emrys asked quietly: "Why do you have this with you on Belthannis? Is it your own time?"
Choss looked away. "In another month or so. My third suffusion. I'm fifty-eight years old. Oh, why do things have to end? She's never happened before, I couldn't bear to lose it."
Emrys reached out for the other man's shoulder and held it tightly. "I am three hundred and ninety years old, my good friend, and once a long time ago I also wanted to do this thing— needed to desperately—for she was the other half of me, it seemed, miraculously found, my own thoughts and dreams and fears. Her great faith and her determination to serve others kept her from this—" He hefted the small container, stared at it. "And kept me from giving it to her when I might have, because to do that would have denied and betrayed the very part of her which had drawn my love. So I chose to love her and to let her be, nothing more. And she grew old as the years passed. At last she sickened and withered and her mind aged, and then one day she died." He pulled the other man close and held him.
"What did you do?" Choss asked dully.
"I lived on, you see. It was the only choice. Her reasons were not mine; I couldn't pretend they were. It cut away at me from inside for so long, not to have her with me, Choss, but it was the only thing to do and I would have to do it again."
"Yes. Well." The other man pulled carefully free and got shakily to his feet. His face was a mask. "I'm going to my room." He shrugged. "That's all."
Emrys lifted the flask.
"No. Not now. You keep it. I can't."
"In a month I'll return it to you. Or whenever you want." Choss shrugged again. "We'll see," he said. Then he left the room.
Raille sat at the table and toyed with the liquid in the bowl nearest her, tapping it gently and frowning at the swirling orange patterns. She heard slow footsetps, saw dark robes from the corner of her eye. She turned.