It was more difficult to walk this planet than Ninth Translator had expected. The yellow and umber landscape was strangely compelling, extending out to an almost invisible horizon lost in the haze. The carefully crafted atmosphere so closely mimicked the ancient world which had first given birth to her kind, it awoke sickening body-memories of strife and war and unending violence.
Part of her remembered what it was like to be bold and take whatever she wanted, to settle for nothing less than what she'd always known, though she had to turn whole ecologies inside out to achieve it. That fearful legacy was coded into her cells almost as deeply as the story of the Singers.
But they were becoming many now, as Maker after Maker was seduced into their song. A growing army of identical white forms turned and marched with them toward the city. Actinic green flashed through the murky air as the furred ones fired back at attacking Makers who had not yet responded. The waste grieved her, but then many lives also had to be sacrificed at the Feast of Leavetaking each year, and this was similar, the sacrifice of a relative few, so the rest could be returned to harmony.
The way was long, the air thick and hot. Her cracked carapace gave with each step so that the splintered ends stabbed tender skin and organs beneath, but she thought she might yet live long enough to sing amidst the canted spires of the city itself. Her participation was no longer vital, of course. They had acquired more than enough voices to be effective without her, but she found a curious strength of will sustaining her. It would be rewarding to walk that oddly familiar city, to have a part in turning its inhabitants away from wanton violence, before the pain forced her to terminate her body.
She misstepped, staggered, and nearly fell. Fourth Translator surged forward on one side so that she could hold fast to her, while Eighth pressed against her undamaged side on the other. They each took a portion of her weight, steadying her, and so, in tandem, the three sang their way toward the white city in the distance.
It was so abominably hot! Kika felt like snapping at the torrid heat of this terrible place. It deluged her until she was overflowing with it and no amount of panting helped.
A tiny blue spark bloomed at the tip of one claw, as she plodded along, then another, welling up like bright drops of light, and then she understood. This gruesome heat was fueling the special receptor cells in her body far more effectively than the milder sun of Oleaaka. But restoring took concentration, and, in the middle of battle, she doubted she would be effective. Still, she tried to relax and open herself to the heat. The moment might come when she was needed.
The hodgepodge force moved through the noxious yellow haze in a sea of sound that was not music to Heyoka's human-trained ears. It scraped along the nerves, too shrill at its heights, deeply resonant whenever two or three of the sliding rhythms came together unexpectedly at a single note. He was growing accustomed to it, so that it was easier to function, but its effect on the flek they encountered was startling, the result of body-memories, as Mitsu had tried to explain. Long ago, the flek had been something else entirely, and, deep down, their cells retained the stamp of that other mind set.
Not so with hrinn, he thought. What they were now was what they had always been—fierce, proud, stubborn. It had been his job to help them adjust to human behavior patterns so they could leave Anktan and carry this all-important fight across space to the flek. They hadn't been able to remold themselves to fit human ideals though, and that had to be his fault. With Ben Blackeagle's guidance, he had done it, so obviously it was possible. He just hadn't shown them clearly enough, found the right words, used the proper examples. If only he had a medium as potent as the laka's, he might have been able to make them understand.
When they were nearing the city itself, with its irregularly spaced towers and soaring walkways, a new swarm of twenty or so air vehicles arose from its interior, not spheres this time, but tiny military craft, fleet individual fliers that would be impervious to laser rifles at this range. He had encountered them in battle on a dozen worlds. They would be armed, while his force was caught out in the open with inferior weapons and no cover.
"Run!" He took off, though his legs were leaden and his head felt as though it were solid wood. "We have to reach the city!"
Mitsu glanced up at the attack wave sweeping toward them, then spoke urgently to the singing laka. The flek would surely know enough to keep their coms turned off by now and the transports were bound to be soundproof.
The first bombardment took out the leading edge of their converted force in a hellish rain of orange fire. Burning bodies tumbled to the ground and lay scattered in smoldering heaps. The laka faltered, but he saw Mitsu urging them around the carnage. The pale-green one fell and her companions had to pull her back onto her feet. The attack wave swept past, then banked for another run.
"Split up!" Heyoka yelled. "Don't give them a decent target!"
Most of the combined force couldn't understand him though. Mitsu had to relay the message, which cost precious seconds as the flek roared back toward them and the city. Heyoka saw the architect staring up at the yellow sky, not even trying to hide. Being of a higher caste, it might be of use, once they reached the city. He reached inside for the speed to sweep it away from danger, then found himself nose-down in the rancid yellow dirt with no memory of having fallen.
He lurched back up, exhausted from even trying blueshift and furious with himself. His legs threatened to buckle. Stupid, stupid! He couldn't afford the energy drain. They had too much to do here, too far to go.
Out of nowhere, someone else caught the architect, carried it twenty or so yards, then left it on its feet, out of the line of fire. Most likely Kei or Skal. Unlike him, they were both still whole. He ought to resign his commission and spend the rest of his days in some out-of-the-way males' house telling wild tales to cublings who didn't know any better.
The complex of white walls and walkways began abruptly a hundred yards ahead. Several laka had reached it now, though at least one had been killed along the way. He swerved over to Mitsu, who looked about to pass out.
He took her arm. She started to protest, but lacked the breath to do so and he hustled her into the white city.
The architect reeled, then regained his balance. Strong hands had gripped his arms for just an instant, then he was abruptly somewhere else, dazed, but out of the line of fire. It was as though a whirlwind had snatched him up, then released him some distance away, but he had fine-tuned this world's weather himself. No whirlwinds were possible.
He had heard reports about battles with the Enemy of course. Makers had been at war with humans for generations, but he had never once seen actual fighting before today. Dead and dying lay all around him now, their bodies smoldering with a sickly acrid odor. Even as he watched, the dying turned themselves off, winking out like stars, one by one. It was to be expected. They were now valueless to the community and there was no point in prolonging their own suffering. Their lifeless red eyes looked curiously empty and he found himself surprised not to be among them.
The furred ones, along with the surviving Singers, reached the city ahead and disappeared amidst its curves and crannies. The fliers zoomed back toward the city, seeking their quarry, leaving him out here alone with the bodies.
The song had broken off, but he could still remember what it had promised, that beguiling glimpse of another way to live, even more ancient than the culture he had been born into. Beside that, though, remained the imperatives of the Makers: organize, build, possess, transform. These had always proved satisfying and successful, and to some degree still appealed. It was as though two different conversations were raging inside his head at the same time and he did not know which to heed.
He stared around, trying to fathom his own reactions. It was his talent to craft worlds, tweaking chemical balances, pH, the mix of atmospheric gases, to produce something workable out of what had formerly been unsuitable; but crafting oneself, as the song had suggested, sounded far more challenging.
He wandered toward the city, his mind already at work on exactly how that might be accomplished.
Once again, Mitsu found herself inside the curving alabaster city, surrounded by white walls, staring up at bizarre lopsided towers. There was light everywhere, streaming up from every square inch of building surface so that the entire city was a source of light. Beams of colored light danced overhead, pinks and greens and purples. The stench of flek bodies permeated the air and there was an underlying chitter that she could feel in her bones.
Heyoka hovered over her like a black-furred duenna, ears drooping with fatigue. She wanted to tell him to back off, but couldn't find the strength.
Kei was suddenly there, between one blink of the eye and the next, then Skal, both dropping out of blueshift.
"Warrior-drones up ahead," Kei said.
Skal waited for orders, head bowed, breathing heavily, his piebald fur matted with thick ivory blood.
"Where would the communications center be?" Heyoka asked Mitsu.
"I don't know," she said. "Last time, I entered the city in a transport sphere and it landed on one of the upper galleries. We need one of the flek, maybe the transfer-grid-tech or the world-architect. Either one of them might have been there too."
The smaller tech was nowhere to be seen, but the architect was strolling toward them, its head craning casually as though on a sightseeing tour. Four laka were huddled against one of the white walls, staring about them with shocked pink eyes. Mitsu had a flash of anger at their naivete; they had thought they would just sing a few carefully chosen notes to the flek and they would cave in. Now they understood the full measure of what they had bitten off. She had tried to tell them, but it was too late.
A coughing spasm overtook her and she staggered back against the hot white wall. Montrose reached for her arm, but she waved him away. No one could help. Tears streamed down her face before she managed to control the fit, but the whole scene seemed unreal and distant and she didn't know how much longer she had before she passed out again.
"The—architect!" she wheezed at the laka. "Bring the architect—here. We have to—question him."
Fourth Translator ventured out across the bare, sulphur-stained earth hesitantly and urged him back with her into the city. Umber dust rose with every step, then settled lazily back to the ground. Mitsu waited, head down, hands clenched. Each breath was a struggle, far more difficult than the last.
The architect seemed in no hurry, as though he didn't realize his danger as the last few fliers headed back to the towers. He was not a warrior-drone, she thought, so quite possibly he really did not understand. The flek were very specialized and other concerns were coded into his genes.
Onopa slipped around the next corner, along with Kei and Visht. Scouting, Mitsu supposed. They probably had only a few moments more before the flek organized themselves enough to confront this combined force throughout the city.
Fourth Translator brought the architect to her. Mitsu raised her head and tried to focus. "The communications center," she said with great difficulty, "have you ever been there?"
"Of course," he said, then cocked his head owlishly.
"Do you know how to find it from this location?" she said.
"This way," he said, as though she'd asked directions to the nearest stream, and set off.
She nodded to Heyoka and he signalled the group, such as it was, to follow.
"Tell them to si—-," he began in a low voice, but before he could finish, the laka were already singing on their own.
Heyoka trailed the architect through the bewildering maze of spirals and lopsided buildings. None of them had doors or windows or openings of any sort. Flek had no need of openings. They used a building material that could be rendered porous with the right sort of field generator. Otherwise, what they wished kept out, stayed out.
The gravity on this world must be higher than Oleaaka's. Either that, or his attempt at blueshift had drained him to the dregs. He doggedly put one foot in front of the other and plodded on.
Fourth Translator had taken Mitsu up on her back and he kept his eyes on that improbable sight. His partner was clinging to the laka and struggling to breathe. Under the double onslaught of heat and toxic atmosphere, she'd already stopped sweating, and he knew, for humans, that was a very bad sign. He had to get her out of here soon, or she wouldn't make it.
As for himself, the heat seemed a palpable presence, permeating his cells and lighting fires within. It was as though he'd steeped in a thermal pool all day and now was filled to bursting with power. He put that thought aside, though. The last time he'd overextended himself in blueshift, he'd nearly died.
The broad tilted walkways were the worst. Evidently flek had a much better sense of balance and didn't require adaptations like guardrails and stairs. The walkways rose abruptly and dropped off on either side. Montrose's bad leg slipped, and he slid perilously close to the edge. Kika pulled him up, her ears flattened.
He heard sporadic weapons fire up ahead, but the flek could not get close enough to kill without being exposed to the laka's song. Once they heard it, they were snared, and sang along with them. The sound reverberated off the sleek curves of the city, carrying far into the interior. Often, when they rounded a corner, a bevy of some utilitarian caste awaited, already echoing their song.
Ninth Translator fell finally at the foot of a steep ramp, her green sides heaving. "She is too weak," Mitsu said, after the ailing laka spoke. "But she says she has sung in the city and is ready to die now. We must go on without her."
Heyoka knew that flek always chose death when captured or disabled. That was why the Confederation could never capture prisoners to interrogate. But there was too much death here already today and, besides, long ago the laka had chosen not to be flek.
"Ask her to try a bit longer," Heyoka said and urged the injured translator back onto her feet. The cracks in her carapace had spread to the edges and the stain beneath was now very dark indeed.
Ninth Translator blinked at him, then spoke in recognizable Standard. "Why?"
"Because you are important to us," he said, "a friend. We can't just throw you away like a used-up power pack."
Mitsu passed a hand back over her clammy face. "There is no word for `friend' in High-Flek. I'm not sure we can make her understand."
Heyoka grimaced and took the laka's foreshoulders in his hands. "Don't die," he said to Ninth Translator. "Just don't die."
The laka spoke haltingly, then Mitsu translated. "She says she won't, for now, if you do not wish it."
"I don't!" he said more forcefully than he had intended.
And they went on.
The architect led them up and up, threading through tiny crevices that surely could not have been meant as corridors, then along soaring walkways that seemed to lead only to precipices, where they had to scramble down, hand over hand. She peered over the edge at one point and saw how the walkways below formed swirls like the interior of seashells. There was obviously a flekish logic involved in navigating here, which Mitsu could not perceive. She found that oddly comforting. She never wanted to think like a flek again.
The air was hot and noxious, much worse than even the last time she had come here. Her eyes watered until she could barely see. Lower castes emerged through the walls as they passed, then followed them in droves.
If possible, it was even hotter on each new level as they climbed. Mitsu knew, if she had not been riding on Fourth Translator, she would have fallen by the wayside long before now. Ninth Translator struggled on, close to Heyoka. The injured laka watched him with fervent eyes, as though he were a star and she, a ship using him to steer by.
Six times, a wave of warrior-drones swept over them from out of the convoluted city byways, but always they held them off until the song took effect.
Montrose skidded over the edge of a walkway during one of those flek charges, then Skal disappeared after the next. She wasn't sure if the two Rangers were dead or just injured. They didn't dare stop to find out. They had to keep the remaining laka together and safe. She was sure, if their ragtag force didn't find the communications center soon, the flek would find a way to stop them.
They were at least a thousand strong when the architect stopped before a broad alcove made of three screens and open at the top. The laka song shrilled around them like a coat of armor, but insubstantial, a shield that could be disrupted any second.
From within the enclosure, several dozen warrior-drones emerged, already singing, leaving five great, hulking flek shoulder to shoulder beneath irregular screens that formed the three walls. Pink and green and purple lights bobbed just above their heads, tiny message couriers, she recognized from her stint on Anktan.
Her fingers tightened on Fourth Translator's shoulders. The architect was right. She had hazy memories of standing in this place or one very much like it. These flek were Deciders, perhaps even the same ones who had dispatched her back to Oleaaka.
"Spy-Drone 87650," one of the Deciders said, its voice amplified artificially to carry above the laka song. "You have disregarded your instructions by bringing the perverted ones back to us, rather than the information cache."
She rubbed her aching temples. Something was wrong. Why weren't the Deciders singing?
"But this does present an efficient way to deal with the taint." It craned its head at an approving angle. "It will be necessary to dispose of this facility, but we judge the opportunity to be worth the loss of one flawed garrison world, not even suitable for breeding."