World Architect 549 stood by as the Deciders consulted the records. The small figure on the floor had not moved since collapsing. Whether that was normal for the species or not, the architect did not know. It might just be a dormancy cycle, but he had little interest in Enemy physiology, or anything else beyond his inbred fascination with world-sculpting.
When word had spread that a grid-tech had reported advertent transport of a Maker spy back from the prohibited world, he had been mildly curious. What was Planet 873 like now? Had the Makers' aborted conversion process persisted to any degree? For most of his adult life, he had been posted on this failed world, trying to reverse the chemical disunity which made breeding impossible. The exquisitely sculpted landscapes here included sector-wide renowned sulphur flats and possessed many other singular beauties, but he was stultified by his failure to find effective remedies.
Planet 873, though, was rich with possibilities. Others had failed there long ago, not his particular generation of architects, and the failure had been of a more extreme nature, having nothing to do with the chemical limitations on the site. If only they would let him assess the landscape, something lovely still might be accomplished.
"It speaks pure High-Maker," said the largest of the Deciders, the Venerable Seven herself. "It must have been conditioned by our own hands. The Enemy has never displayed any ability on its own to acquire our tongue to that degree."
"But there is no record of a turned Enemy spy assigned there," a younger Decider said. "And that world has lain fallow since the monstrous perversion. The Enemy was not there then. How could one such as this have been assigned since?"
Architect 549 bowed his head and edged forward, signalling his desire to speak before this august company.
Decider Seven raised her forearms in aggravation. "You are not needed here until we make a decision," she said severely. "Go back to concocting your atmospheric potions, impotent though they are."
"I had a thought, unworthy for your consideration, I am quite certain." He waited, neck twitching. A Decider's displeasure was usually, and swiftly, fatal.
The Decider sat back on her haunches, folded both sets of arms across her chestplate. Pinks and greens glinted off her highly polished chitin so that she appeared to glow. She did not go so far as to give her assent, but neither did she kill him for his impunity.
Emboldened, he continued. "Send this creature to Planet 873 and assign me to accompany it. I will assess the conditions there and report back with the cache of information it mentions."
"We cannot be certain it is as it claims to be," Decider Seven said. "Even if it is our creation, better to kill it out of hand than take risks."
"But it speaks so well!" he blurted, before he could stop himself, foolish in his youthful eagerness. "What are the odds that an unturned Enemy could present itself this elegantly? Has one ever done so before?"
"True." The Decider rose and walked over to the crumpled form. Its breathing was quite ragged now, its thoracic cavity heaving. "We have not had information on the perverted ones since abandoning 873, but the transfer-tech did not encounter any sign of them. Perhaps it is time to have a more thorough look. That world may yet be salvageable."
The architect was already planning which hatching of investigators to take, which line of searchers would give the most accurate readings. He had recently heard of a promising genetic offshoot of the standard type which could interpret wavelengths of up to—
"Remember." The Decider prowled over to him and stood breathing through her spicules on his unprotected back. "Fifty phalanxes had to be terminated upon our initial withdrawal from that planet. Should you become tainted by the perverted mind-set, we will sacrifice your worthless life immediately upon your return, as well as that of your entire hatching."
A dire threat indeed. Such a drastic action would indicate to all extant hives that the genome which had engendered his branch of architects was faulty and therefore not worthy of continuance. He would have to be very vigilant.
"I wish only to be of service," he said humbly.
"Very well, then," she said. "Revive this pathetic shell, if it is not already too late."
The disgusting creature had called for water earlier, so the architect sent another courier for more, then directed it to pour some upon the creature's mouth in hopes that it might swallow.
Coolness bathed Mitsu's face, drawing her out of the steaming red dark. Water trickled down her nose. She sputtered, coughed. Her hand flailed weakly at her cheek and came away wet. She could not think where she was, or how she'd come to be here. It was so hot, so sodding, sodding hot, and her lungs strained to inhale.
She sat up, ran trembling fingers back through her soaked hair, cracked her eyes open. Garish flek pinks and purples and greens assaulted her and the smell of sulphur was overwhelming. She wrapped her arms around her chest and rocked. She had dreamed this repeatedly on Anktan, that she had returned to the flek, and now had to fight her way back to sanity all over again. Only, this time, it was real.
Her hands trembled and she struggled not to be sick. She was still in the Deciders' chamber, seated on the slick white floor, surrounded by screens with filled with incomprehensible scenes. One of the small flek couriers stood a few feet away, holding an empty container.
"This Enemy shell is weak," the Decider said in lilting High-Flek. Disgust colored its tone.
"I—regret its inadequacy," Mitsu said.
"You must return," the Decider said, "before the shell expires. There, you will retrieve the information you collected on the perverted ones and bring it back here for our evaluation." It beckoned to a row of waiting warrior-drones. "These shall accompany you, along with the world-architect, who wishes to take readings at the site of the abandoned environmental engines."
She counted over thirty warriors, far too many to deal with herself, without even taking into account the blasted architect. Her heart sank. They must suspect her story, and no wonder. It was utterly lame. If she could get back to the grid without collapsing again, perhaps she could disable it from this side. Every breath now was more difficult than the last. Her time was growing short. If she died here, without closing the grid, Oleaaka would fall again to the flek, and Heyoka and his hrinn along with it.
There had to be a way.
The architect loomed over her, almost bumbling for a flek. She shuddered and tried not to look at its eager, smashed-in face. "I am ready," she said, and set off at its side down the broad white sweep of the concourse. The city was broadcasting a unity song now and she could hear thousands of synchronized feet walking in time on the plazas.
The phalanx of warrior-drones followed.
Ninth-Translator-at-large cowered outside the cavern entrance. She was surrounded by out-of-control breeders. She had always been warned breeders were unstable, that one had to maintain constant vigilance, lest they veer away from communal harmony and the old horror sweep back again, but she had never before seen any evidence that such cautions were valid.
She saw it now. The miscreants had taken hold of her, actually dragged her here, so close to this site of ancient troubles. On the way, Tenth Breeder had thrust her into a rock wall when she struggled and cracked her side. She trembled at the memory, sickened. It was all true, the old stories of violence and strife, folly and hatred. She realized she had never really believed them, not in the same sense that one trusted one's own day-to-day sense memories.
They had to be put down, as Fourteenth Coordinator had ordered back in the ceremonial arena, and, now that she was damaged, her own time of service was over. She would never be whole again. At the first sign of dysfunction, she would be put down herself as well.
The light was fading. Soon it would be dark. She should be back in the compound with the other translators, sharing everything that had been seen and said and done this day among the laka, comparing notes, deciding how to serve the colony even better.
Miserable and shaken, she crept a single step closer to the trees, whenever her captors were not watching her. The foolish breeders boasted among themselves, strutted about singing songs she had never heard before, forceful chants with strong, bold rhythms. Where was their concern for the needs of the community, she wondered. How could they be so misguided?
A low hum sprang up, traveling through earth and rock as much as the air. Tenth Breeder's head swiveled and his pink eyes gleamed with eagerness. "It returns!"
Second Breeder, the most vulgarly aggressive of the lot, beat his hands more loudly against his sides, so that his wicked song of fighting echoed throughout the clearing.
The sound was coming from the recently reopened cave, she realized and shuddered. Down there was the most forbidden place on the entire island, worse even than the ruins in the forest, and they were ghastly. She could not go down there. If necessary, she would struggle until they killed her, but she could not bear to be in the presence of such bitter wrongness.
She edged closer to the tree line, closer. The wall of silver-green leaves stirred in the breeze, promising concealment. Two of the four breeders had disappeared into the cave by the time Second Breeder glanced her way and realized what she was doing.
"Stop!" he cried in the simple breeder dialect.
Instead, she bolted into the dark pool of shadows, keeping her head down, going always toward the most tangled vines, the slimmest opening, the deepest cover.
Behind her, the terrible hum which had presaged all this grew louder, more shrill. She could feel her pursuer's dilemma. Breeders found that sound exciting; it seemed to mean something to them. Now, he had to decide whether to ignore it and chase after her, or return to the depths and bask. She pressed on, weaving through protruding roots, squeezing between trees, climbing outcroppings of rock.
She ran and ran, going always uphill, away from the colony, since he would not expect that, until abruptly, she was alone with the screams of disturbed avians, the scuttle of minuscule feet fleeing her approach, the whisper of leaves in the breeze.
He had given up the chase.
Heyoka realized the creature was laka. He extracted himself from the prickly bush, leaving a good deal of black fur behind, and stood slowly. Rain pattered down through the dense leaves and dripped off the native's head as it studied him. The figure was smaller than the specimens he'd seen back at the grove, though sturdily made, graceful in its quick, precise movements.
"I'm sorry," he said in Standard. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
The native scuttled backwards at the sound of his voice. A basket full of pale green melons was strapped across its back; it had probably been gathering wild fruit up here on the slopes.
The insistent rain trickled down branches and trunks, pooled on leaves, then overflowed and soaked into the already soft ground. The sharp green scent of the forest intensified with each passing moment. He spread his hands, careful to keep his claws retracted. "I won't hurt you."
It froze, obviously terrified.
He pressed his hands over his eyes, wishing it would just go away. His head was spinning with weariness and there was no way to communicate with it. No one had bothered with even rudimentary laka language tapes on the trip over. Little progress had been made in deciphering the language over the years. A successful translation of laka would have required at least one laka to speak to on a consistent basis, and the natives were notoriously shy, avoiding Confederation forces on all occasions possible.
At any rate, he didn't have time to attempt contact now. He needed to get back down the mountain to Onopa and Montrose before Skal returned. He didn't know how the new Leader felt about working with humans, but he suspected a break was planned, perhaps even a fatal one.
To his relief, the laka lowered its head and melted into the underbrush. He pushed a handful of wet mane out of his face, leaned back against the nearest trunk and took stock. The aching drain of blueshift still pulled at him and he was far colder than the temperature warranted.
Anger simmered beneath that exhaustion though. He stared back up at the looming gray mountain with its verdant greenery and his savage other looked with him, snarling in the recesses of his mind. He'd never lost a fight to anyone but his sponsor, wily old Nisk, and he had been a worthy opponent, respected by hrinn all up and down the Mish River Valley. Skal, on the other hand, was only an ignorant brawler. He should have been able to disable him with both hands tied behind his back and not even breathing hard. Maybe Skal was right, though; a hrinn who couldn't hold blueshift wasn't fit to lead. The rest of the hrinn would follow Skal now, until one of them successfully Challenged him, or Heyoka found some way to do it himself.
He made his wobbly legs carry him to a clearing and then tried to get his bearings. The sun had almost set, but he noted its position, dimly visible just below the clouds, as well as the downward slope that led eventually to the sea, and calculated roughly where he was. The base camp must be off to the east, probably a good hour's hike or more. The lower cave entrance itself was less than a half mile down the side of the mountain.
Priorities, he counseled himself. Skal, Kei, and Visht did not have much farther to go to place Bey's body close to the sky, then they would be coming back. He had to locate his human personnel and move them to safety, though he didn't know how he was going to do that without laying a trail Skal could easily follow.
One hand braced on his aching ribs, he started working his way downhill. Motile silver-green vines snared his feet, slithering as often into his path as out of it. The air was thick and humid, the forest claustrophobic and dark and dripping with the persistent rain. Although hrinnti night sight was better than a human's, he still needed a bit of light to see by, and, between the clouds and the dense canopy, little penetrated.
Panting, he stopped at a rushing mountain stream and drank his fill. He waded into the shallows and dribbled a handful over his head and ears, closed his eyes, thought again about the fight up on the ledge. He'd gotten his tail thoroughly whipped, there was no doubt about that. But he had blueshifted, there at the end, just for a second.
It had taken weeks, after he'd overextended himself during that last battle on Anktan, before he'd been able to see normal colors again, longer before everything didn't taste and smell of ashes. Nisk had said he'd burned himself out and would never be able to draw power again.
This was the first indication he'd had that perhaps Nisk was mistaken, he might be able to use metabolic overdrive again, at least to a limited degree. If only there were a thermal pool somewhere he could soak in to recharge his cells and find out.
Then he snorted. Get real. There was no time for soaking in pools at the moment or for anything else. He had to find Onopa and Montrose, then come up with some clue as to what the devil had become of Mitsu. He feared she was dead on some flek hellworld. And, if she weren't dead, then she was a prisoner again, a scenario far worse.
He took one last drink, then plodded on through the dim, sweltering forest, paralleling the stream, the sultry air thick enough to ladle. After a few minutes, though, he became aware of a definite throbbing presence, more of a sensation than a sound, rumbling up through the earth.
It was the grid. Someone had set the crystals off again as Kei and Mitsu had inadvertently done the day before. Perhaps the laka had gone back down there for their own inscrutable reasons.
On the other hand, it could be the first wave of a flek occupation force coming through. Damnation! If only he had some demolitions! He would have to sweep back by the abandoned base camp at some point and see if Dennehy had left any behind. That cave needed to be collapsed, no matter how disappointed Confederation scientists would be later on.
For now, he had to get down there and see who, or what, was coming through that grid. He climbed a half-fallen snag and took his bearings again to make sure he wasn't walking in circles.
Something stirred in the underbrush on the opposite stream bank. He caught the scent of laka and pinned his ears back. He didn't have time for more of their bizarre fun and games.
Claws bared, he eased into the stream, up the far bank, tracked the telltale movement in the vegetation for a few strides, and pounced. He brought down a warm, thrashing body and pinned it on the mossy ground with one knee. He raised his handclaws, threatening to strike. "Be still!"
The terrified laka squalled, then went limp. Its pink eyes were fixed and staring, and he could see each beat of its blood beneath the pale-green skin of its delicate neck.
"I won't hurt you, if you don't fight me." He eased the pressure. "What are you doing here?"
It spoke in a soft hurried voice in its sibilant tongue. He did not understand a single word.
"Were you going down into the cave?" He pantomimed "down," pointing to the earth.
It shuddered and struggled to regain its feet.
"So you do understand that much." He pulled it up, keeping an iron grip on the closest of its four wrists. Its sides heaved, as though with emotion, and it braced both pairs of legs. Four arms and four legs, he thought with a prickle of disgust. Even though the pigmentation and proportions were wrong, its body had a distinctly flekish cast. "Is that how you survived all those years ago?" he asked. "Because you look like them?"
The vibrations from the grid increased. At this distance, it was merely annoying, like the whine of a mosquito in his ear. Down in the cave, though, it would be brain-rattling. He looked at the trembling laka. Now that he could see its other side, it was obviously injured. Green had pooled below a cracked body plate like a bruise.
Killing it was out of the question. The natives were civilians and relations were already precarious at best, but he couldn't just release the damn thing either. If it fetched its fellows while he was busy checking out the grid, their sheer numbers could overwhelm him.
"So," he said, more to himself than the laka, "you'll have to come with me."
It didn't understand at first, but when he dragged it downhill in the direction of the cave, it suddenly reared back and struggled anew to free itself.
It realized where they were going and was terrified. He shook it into submission, then wondered what it knew that he didn't.