Water dripped, dripped, dripped onto her face. Mitsu brushed at it with the back of her hand, but the irritating trickle continued. She was hot and sticky, as well as soaked, and lying on the ground, she realized. Had she bunked down in a damn creek bed?
Her eyes flew open and she stared bewilderedly up at silver-backed leaves and tightly interwoven limbs shifting in the wind. The air was redolent with mud and leaf mold and rotting wood, which struck her as wonderful for some reason. Rain pattered against the leafy canopy above and a small percentage of the errant drops were working their way through and hitting her in the face. She turned her head away and tried to think. This was obviously a forest, so she must be in the field somewhere on patrol. But on what world? The air didn't smell like Earth or Anktan or Enjas Two. And where was furface?
When she raised up on her elbows to look, blinding pain stabbed through her head and she slumped back to the waterlogged ground with a strangled moan. Heyoka's face swam into her field of vision.
"Lie still," he said in that familiar rumbly voice of his. "You took in some water when I snatched you from the flek, and then there was this rock—"
The flek? She massaged her aching forehead, trying to think.
"Can you still speak Standard?" His voice sounded strained. "You were entrenched with a flek unit just outside the cave, speaking High-Flek again like a native."
"Flek?" She couldn't make it come together. "Come off it. What would I be saying to a stupid flek?"
"You tell me."
"I—" She had an intense flash of a poisonous yellow sky, the everpresent stink of sulphur, a relentless red sun. Her heart lurched into overdrive as memory flooded back. "I went through the grid after that tech," she said in surprise. Why hadn't she killed it on the other side? She massaged her throbbing temples. Surely she'd meant to take it out.
His black eyes were enigmatic, but she thought she read worry in them, or perhaps even fear. "What happened?" he said. "How did you persuade it to transport you back here?"
The oddly shaped pieces were jumbled inside her head and some of them seemed to be missing altogether. "I lost my rifle," she said. She remembered being so afraid, she couldn't breathe, the bitter flatness of the water they'd provided in the flek city, how the Decider had looked at her. Had it known she was faking? Why hadn't it just done away with her on the spot? A great shudder wracked her body and for a second she was trapped in that white room again, and trapped as well in a human body. She stretched a trembling hand out to touch the wall and it faded.
"I realize it's not your fault, but I have to know," Heyoka said. "What did you tell them? Do they know how few we are here?"
The shattered pieces of her memory drifted just out of reach, refusing to assume their correct shape. "Where are we?" She didn't seem to be able to make linear connections between his questions and the proper answers, as though all her thoughts were being rerouted along safer passages and she had to arrive at the desired information by circuitous means.
"We're in the rain forest halfway up the mountain, close to the laka village," he said. He took her face between his hands and tried to make her meet his fathomless onyx gaze.
The silkiness of his fur against her skin was startling. For a moment, she recoiled. Flek didn't touch each other that way, her traitorous subconscious whispered. But she wasn't flek, she told herself. She didn't have to abide by flek rules.
"What did you tell them?"
She jerked free, then struggled up to her hands and knees. All-Father, but her head ached! "How did I get here?"
"I told you—I stole you out from under their noses," he said. "Look, we don't have time for this. I've designated the village as our rally point, so we can rendezvous with Montrose, Onopa, and Naxk, but before we go, I need as much information as possible so I can plan. What do the flek want here? Why have they come back after all this time? Are they going to reoccupy Oleaaka?"
"They came because of me," she said. Rain dripped down her neck and she shivered, even though the forest was a steam bath. "I told them I had hidden information here, so we came back for it."
A silent snarl wrinkled his forehead. "What information?"
"There—isn't any."
"Right," he said. "You brought them all the way back here for information that doesn't exist."
"I made it up," she said unsteadily. "I could, because I didn't lose myself this time."
"Sure," he said and pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled and he took her weight. "Come on. You can rest, once we get to the village, then maybe you'll be able to make more sense."
"The laka village?" Pinwheels of light were bursting behind her eyes like fireworks—red and green and white. Like the room on Anktan. She flinched. "They won't go there, the flek. They're—"
"What?" His black eyes pierced her soul.
"They're afraid of them," she said unsteadily. Her stomach was on the point of rebelling. She felt so sick, she could hardly see. She blotted the cold sweat on her forehead with the back of her sleeve. "The flek think they're `perverted.' They're afraid to talk to them or even listen to anything they say."
"Why?" Heyoka bent down to maintain eye contact. "Mitsu, this is important! You've got to remember!"
"I—don't—know why," she said. The trees spun and she pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes. So dizzy.
Heyoka picked her up. He'd lost his shirt somewhere in the last day and her cheek was pressed to the familiar musk of his fur. "I didn't lose myself," she whispered into the plush blackness. "I held on this time."
"It doesn't matter," he said, but his voice was fading. "Just tell me what . . ."
But it was too late. She couldn't hear him anymore. For such a long time back in Rehab, she would have given anything to hear his voice again, but now it was just too bloody late.
The warrior-drones remained quite agitated after the furred beast abducted the Enemy-born spy. World-Architect 549 had stood back as six of them plunged into the cold water and attempted to retrieve it. The current was swift, though, and the stream bed studded with rocks. Two of the largest warriors were swept into boulders at the fall line and damaged themselves going over. The rest detoured around and swarmed down the cliff.
The architect had followed at a safe distance, curious to see if they would recover the creature. By the time they reached the pool below, though, both the furred one and the Enemy had disappeared into the forest.
Warrior-Drone 21487, who had been assigned command of this phalanx, was furious enough to tear off the head of the unfortunate drone who was closest at that point. The neck joints gave with a dreadful snap, then he cast the skull into the water and watched it bob downstream out of sight. The headless body fell to the bank and spasmed.
The architect sat back on his haunches, mildly disapproving. Wasteful of their limited resources, he thought. That drone might have proved useful later on. 21487 should have been practical and killed one of the damaged ones instead. "Before we return, I must take readings at the former site of the environmental engines," he said.
"No!" 21487 said. His red eyes had a terrible, wild look. "I cannot spare an escort. We must recover the spy unit!"
The architect took care to remain well out of reach. "I believe the Deciders may be quite pleased with my findings, upon our return, and therefore with you too. With what I've already recorded, my preliminary readings suggest it may be possible to tip the balance here in our favor with less commitment of resources than previously calculated."
"And what will you do if the perverted ones approach?" the warrior said.
"Only one has presented itself so far," the architect said. "And it ran away without attempting to speak. Much time has passed since Makers walked this world. Perhaps they are afraid of us now."
The warrior hesitated, and the architect turned his head away, giving the commander a chance to work through the variables. It was a well-known fact that warriors, bred for fighting, were poor at making decisions outside of combat conditions. And that was as it should be. Decision-making was, of course, the province of Deciders. Architects, however, were bred with a fair amount of leeway in their mental parameters. Creative world design required unfettered thinking and an eye for possibilities. His kind had to be able to see beyond the moment and manipulate abstractions, as well as project viable alternatives.
"The Deciders will be displeased, if you do not recover the spy," said the architect, "but they might be persuaded to overlook the loss, if I have more interesting matters for them to consider. And, if we return later in force, the spy might be recovered more easily then."
The warrior-drone's front hands clenched. It squared up both pairs of shoulders. "Take ten drones as your escort. The rest will search with me for the spy. We will meet back at the transfer grid, when all objectives have been achieved."
That might be a very long time, in the case of the departed spy, the architect thought, though he prudently did not voice this. Ten of the guards fell in as he headed downstream.
Ninth Translator, waiting beneath a luminary tree in the compound's center, heard numerous reports of the approaching aliens before she actually saw them. Fortunately, there were only two, returning scouts said. They were of widely divergent somatic types, both very strange. She wondered if this meant the aliens had finally succeeded in differentiating their body types. That would signal a marked step forward in their social development. They might actually become civilized.
The gentle rain filtering through the great tree's leaves was soothing, but her side ached so that she could hardly remain still. Longing for the moment she could lay down her life, she had to concentrate to turn her attention from her fear of the violent ones and focus on this new development.
One of the aliens was quite tall, covered with luxurious black fur, walking on two legs, rather than four. It carried in its arms a second alien, small and delicate, nearly as devoid of hair as a laka, but as soft of skin and defenseless as a hatchling. As the two drew closer, she realized she had encountered them both before, though separately.
The entire colony was gathering, waiting for what she had to say. Cultivators and gleaners scattered out of the furred one's path as it descended into the communal area. Why had it come here, she wondered numbly. Why didn't it just go back to its own world? Didn't they have enough problems as it was?
It laid its burden down beside her, arranging the head and limbs with what seemed to be great care, almost with the tenderness of a keeper, she thought.
"Why come?" she asked, using her limited command of its language.
It regarded her with glittering black eyes, then spoke. Most of the sound combinations it used were unfamiliar, but she did extract one bit of meaning out of the vocal stream—"help."
Did it want laka help? Or was it offering to "help" them? From what she had seen already, its notion of "help" would doubtless be forceful and violent, and that would be of no use at all. The breeders needed to be soothed, not encouraged in their current path. And as for the disharmonious ones, violence would not work there either.
"We must handle this ourselves," she said in laka. "You cannot do what must be done. Only we can."
It shook its head.
"No help," she told it in what little she had of its language. "Go back. We help."
It spoke again, but she understood nothing. This was getting them nowhere and she had so little strength left, she needed to save it for what lay ahead.
The smaller one stirred, dragged an arm over its face and sat up. Its eyes weren't black, like its companion's, but a startling combination of blue nested within white. It seemed weak, though there were no overt cracks in what she could see of its outer covering. Perhaps its injuries weren't serious.
Everyone was watching Ninth Translator-at-large now, sanitizers and coordinators, gleaners and scouts, keepers and even a few of the rounded-up breeders. She gazed out at the sea of bodies and faces. They were so beautiful, she thought, each giving her or his best to the colony, never asking for more. In a way, they were like a song, each caste contributing its particular note. The laka could not give up what they had worked so hard to establish on this gentle world. Somehow in the past, they had made the violent ones listen before. They must do it again.
"Wise ones," she said, speaking first in the coordinators' dialect, "the disharmonious invaders have returned. I have seen them myself."
A wave of disquiet ran through the assembled coordinators. The other castes waited patiently. They would be told all they needed to know when the moment was right.
Fourteenth Coordinator pushed forward, accompanied by her full retinue. Both pairs of her shoulders were set with determination. "Then the proper songs must be sung at once."
"Yes," Ninth said. "And the breeders should be shut away, lest they become further agitated."
"Have they all been brought in?" Fourteenth Coordinator asked.
"No," Ninth said. "One small group is still at large. They dragged me away and held me against my will for a short time, though I was able to escape. I fear the four of them have veered too far out of synchronization and will have to be put down as soon as they can be located."
"That must wait," Fourteenth Coordinator said. "First we will attend to the violent ones. Then we must find some way to destroy that wretched cave. We gave up before and sealed it from without. We should have made sure there was no way they could ever come back."
"But who knows the songs?" Ninth asked wearily. She stared out at the gathered multitude of simple workers. Their pastel sides shimmered in the rain and they gazed back, as yet uncomprehending. "Which of those among us can we ask to go to these creatures?"
"You will go, child," Fourteenth Coordinator said, "as will I; we all will, coordinators, gleaners, sanitizers, scouts. This song is woven through our very blood and it will come to you at the proper moment."
"You must be mistaken," Ninth said, trembling. "I know every dialect of the colony, but I do not remember any such song."
"Your body remembers," Fourteenth said. "When the time comes, you will know what to sing."
The knowledge was hidden within body-memories then. Ninth hung her head and tried not to think about how very tired she was, how her cracked side ached and life fluids were hemorrhaging beneath her carapace. It was strange how one might contain things never suspected in the mundanities of day to day life, how one might well be larger than she ever suspected.
"Instruct the keepers to seclude the breeders," said Fourteenth Coordinator. "Then we will go to the cave."
Several of her sister translators took up Fourteenth Coordinator's instructions, repeating them first in the gleaners' dialect, then in all the others, one by one. With a sigh, Ninth gathered her feet beneath her and went to the keepers, who were doing their best to restrain the headstrong breeders.
"Rest now," she told them as their pink eyes rolled and their feet shifted restlessly. "You had a long, tiring night without food. Stay here with your keepers, feast on bluemelon, and all will be well."
A chunky young breeder with a carapace of such a dark pink, it was almost red, advanced upon her with far too much assurance in the jaunty set of his head. "We refuse to be shut away in the darkness anymore. We want to run through the forest on our own, go wherever we will!" Several more breeders crowded in behind him and pressed close upon Ninth. "There are things," he said importantly, "that we were meant to do."
Appalled, she backed up, as the dismayed keepers surged forward to deal with their unruly charges. "I—
Behind her, the shorter alien cried out in surprise, then turned to the furred one and rattled something off in their own choppy language. Ninth could not separate out more than one or two words—something about "speaking" and "Flek," whatever that meant.
The furred one snarled.
Mitsu was flushed. "It's speaking flek, I tell you!"
Heyoka felt the fur bristle across his shoulders. Could she possibly be right, or, more likely, was she just disoriented, as when she'd fired upon defenseless civilians?
The sea of laka swung their gaze to him, to both of them, and he realized a snarl had escaped his throat. He forced his other to quiet. "Are you sure?" he said as evenly as he could manage.
"Damn right I'm sure!" Mitsu darted forward, then swayed and had to catch herself on the tree trunk. Her face went pale as watered milk. He could see cold sweat on her brow. "And I was right the first time back there in the grove too! They are flek!"
"We've been over this before," he said. "They resemble flek, just like some alien sentients are humanoid, but not human. Form follows function and all that."
"And I'm telling you that laka just spoke High-Flek!" She was breathing too fast, perhaps having another breakdown right before his eyes. Two hectic spots of red bloomed in her cheeks.
"All right," he said, desperate to divert her attention. "Calm down. I believe you."
"You do?"
"Sure, shortstuff." He gestured at her as the sun broke out from behind the clouds and the rain drizzled a last, few rainbow-tinted drops. "Now sit down, before you fall down, and stop frightening the locals."
"We have to get off this world," she said, "and report back to Command. This planet is crawling with flek, and has been for years!"
"Yeah," he said, "we'll do that." And all the while, he was trying to decide what to do. She'd obviously flipped out again. Being wrenched through the grid, then trapped on a flek world, for heaven's sake, would make anyone crazy. If she hadn't been over the edge before, she certainly was now.
"We have to rendezvous with Montrose and Onopa," he said. "Let's pick a point out in the forest and meet there."
"No," she said, "you already said they were coming to the village. Besides, I want to question the laka and find out why they never told the Confederation anthropologists they were really flek."
"Not now!" he said. Her right hand twitched downward and he eyed her boot sheath with worry. She'd lost her rifle somewhere along the way, but she probably still had that damn knife. If so, with her experience and training, she could carve up half this village and never break a sweat.
"Yes, now." She released the tree and tottered toward the pale-green individual who'd spoken to them earlier.
The laka looked up and he realized this was the same one he'd met in the forest.
Mitsu started to speak, but he took her arm and jerked her back. "Don't tip our hand!" he said in a low urgent voice before she could protest. "Think! They've been covering for the flek for years and we're stranded behind enemy lines. Don't blow what little advantage we have."
She blinked, seeming to consider what he was saying, as though it made sense. "I—"
A green bolt of laser fire sizzled through the air, scalding the edge of Heyoka's boot and carving a deep fissure in the towering tree. The trunk convulsed as he and Mitsu both dove for cover, but the laka just stood there, frozen, uncomprehending. A familiar, telltale nose-burning stink permeated the air and his hands itched for a weapon.
"Get down!" he called, even though he doubted the laka understood. He groped for the com unit on his belt and punched in Montrose's code.
"Sarge?" Montrose's voice said. "We're almost within sight of the village, but I thought I heard laser fire just a minute ago. Are you all right?"
"Take every precaution on your approach," Heyoka said. "We're pinned down by flek fire."