"Stellar Harvest" by Eleanor Arnason

Eleanor Arnason: Stellar Harvest

After her helicopter broke down in a dusty little caravan town named Dzel, Lydia Duluth rented a chool. This was a native quadruped, reminiscent of the hasa on her home world, though (thanks to this planet’s smaller mass and lighter G) taller and rangier than any hasa. Instead of hooves, it had three-toed feet; and a pair of impressive tusks curved up from its lower jaw.

"What are those for?" Lydia asked the stableman.

"Digging up roots and pulling bark off trees, also for fighting with other males. Loper has been gelded and won’t bother you with any kind of mating behavior. Sex is a distraction," he added in the complacent tone of one who has never been distracted. "Necessary perhaps for evolution–we are not ignorant; we know about Darwin–but hardly compatible with civilization. Loper will give you no trouble. He has been civilized."

The animal turned its long, angular, lightly scaled head, regarding her with a bright orange eye. Not a sight that Lydia associated with civilization, though maybe one could see the triangular pupil–expanded at the moment, in the shadowy stable–as a pyramid, emblematic of Egypt and geometry.

"Tomorrow," she told the stableman. "At dawn."

"Loper will be ready."

She spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around Dzel. Narrow streets ran crookedly between adobe buildings. The natives–humanoid, but not human–dressed in brightly colored robes, which hid most of the differences between their species and hers. One noticed height and the long thin hands, one finger short of the human norm. Their skin was golden brown and hairless, with a faint shimmer produced by vestigial scales. Their eyes, visible above veils, were all iris with round black pupils. Most of the irises were yellow: a wonderful hue, as clear as glass or wine.

One could put an exotic romance into a setting like this or an adventure story: Ali Khan on the trail of interstellar drug dealers or seeking evidence of the long-vanished Master Race. Though poor Ali was at the end of his career; a man of 110 simply did not convince in action roles. No matter what one did with computers, the audience knew how old he was. They knew they were not seeing the real person; and Stellar Harvest had built its reputation on authenticity.

Well, not her problem. She didn’t plot stories or write scripts. Instead, she recorded Dzel: the colorful inhabitants, dusty winding streets and dark blue sky.

There were sounds to be recorded as well: bells ringing in the wind, plaintive voices that rose and fell musically, so every conversation seemed to be a duet or trio, and the soft thud of chool feet, as the animals plodded past.

Her mood, somewhat edgy since the helicopter’s sudden failure, gradually relaxed.

Species are stable, said the voice in her mind. Humans have not evolved in the centuries since you began to build machines. Your nervous system is designed for an environment like this. That’s why you find animal noises and the sound of the wind relaxing. In a sense, this is your true home.

"Did I ask for an opinion?" said Lydia quietly, while aiming her recorder at a street shaded by blue and red awnings. The light beneath the awnings was alternately blue and red, colored by the fabric it had come through. A woman in a white robe walked toward her. What a vision! And what a location for a chase or fight!

The women, veiled and hooded, passed Lydia. Golden eyes gave a quick considering glance. With luck, the recording would be good; she’d have this light forever, along with the woman’s grace and glance.

At sunset, she returned to her inn. The helicopter pilot, a native in blue overalls, had news. Their machine was not fixable. He would have to stay in Dzel until a salvage truck arrived, then ride back along the caravan road. "We are still trying to find you another copter, missy."

"Don’t bother. I rented a chool."

"Those nasty animals! Have you ridden before?"

"On my home world. We had a revolution, the kind that takes to the hills. It failed, but I did learn riding."

Gold eyes widened, and nostrils flared. "Really, indeed! You are a revolutionary?"

"A failed one."

"Really! We could never manage a revolution. Our unaltered males are unable to cooperate with each other, and no altered male would waste his time on anything so foolish."

"What about your women?"

"They are, if anything, more sensible than eunuchs. Life is short, missy, and civilization is difficult to maintain. We have all we can do."

"But you like Stellar Harvest."

"That is drama. Ali Khan may solve his problems by kicking other people in the head, but our experience–here on this planet–is that real adversaries are not so easily defeated. Of course we dream of such solutions, the way children dream of having everything. But one does not act on such fantasies."

True enough, said the voice in her mind.

This was the end of the real conversation. The pilot began to discuss his favorite holoplays and stars. Ali Khan, of course. Who could equal him, in his prime? "Though he has seemed less convincing in recent years."

Recent years? Recent decades!

Ramona Patel was also fine, the best of the actors starring in mythic-musical-action stories. "Not my religion, of course," the pilot said. "But none the less inspiring, especially the large production numbers. You humans have so many gods! And all of them able to sing and dance!"

She genuinely liked her job and enjoyed many of the dramas made by Stellar Harvest. None the less, fannish enthusiasm can be exhausting, especially at the end of a long day. Lydia excused herself, pleading fatigue, and went to her room, which was on the inn’s ground floor, its windows opening onto a courtyard. Above the roof line stars blazed, far more than she was used to. Their light was as bright as moonlight at home. She leaned out a window. A rimmed pool stood at the courtyard’s center, gleaming like a huge round coin. Maybe she ought to get her recorder.

Instead she collected her computer and satellite dish. There were stairs at the end of the hall, leading up to a flat roof. The night air was cold already, the starry sky immense. Lydia unfolded the dish and turned on the computer, typing in the address of her contact in the capital city, a commercial rep who handled Stellar Harvest along with a dozen other off-planet companies. As was to be expected, she got a recorded message, accompanied by a holo of the rep, his gold face bare. The head–long from front to back–was covered by what looked like sleeked down, rust-red hair. Actually, this was a crest of feathers, which could be raised, though not in polite company.

"Thoozil Rai is not available. Please type your message for ease in translation."

Sitting cross-legged under the stars, she input the current situation. No point in spending six or seven days in Dzel, waiting for a new helicopter, if one could be found. The country to the west was safe according to local informants, and there was an interesting-sounding city in the foothills. No trouble getting out of Basekh this time of year. There was weekly plane service to accommodate tourists, mostly big game hunters. She would call every other day as a precaution, though it seemed hardly necessary.

As she typed in the last words, something howled nearby. Mother! What a sound! Undulating, it rose into a scream that ended suddenly, as if cut off. In the silence that followed, Lydia thought she could still hear the cry, continuing beyond the edge of audibility.

By this time she was standing. The sound had come from ground level. Maybe the street below her. Or the next street over. "What?"

An unaltered male, I think. There must be several in town.

A second howl answered the first. Others followed. Lydia counted: three, four, five spreading out from the town’s center to its edges. The last cry came from the far east side of Dzel, almost on the plain. Faint and shrill, it rose into the starry night like a rocket. When it ended, there was silence. Apparently the creatures didn’t feel a need to rechallenge one another.

They are kept in family compounds, the voice told her. With proper care, they are not dangerous.

The computer was at her feet, still open and on. By now, her message had been replaced by the saver, a red and blue fractal that opened like a flower or an exotic, frilly leaf. She wiped her palms–they were suddenly wet–knelt and sent her message, then shut down. "Why didn’t I hear that in the city?"

Unaltered males are forbidden within the city limits.

"A noise ordinance?"

There are various reasons: sanitation, safety. They agitate each other with howling.

No kidding! There had been emotion in the cries. She knew that, though she wasn’t sure she could identify it. Anger, maybe. Anguish? Something that made her hair go up. "I hope it doesn’t happen again."

Use earplugs.

"Can’t hear the alarm go off." Can’t hear monsters climbing in the window, either. Still kneeling, she folded her dish. Hard to imagine Thoozil Rai as a member of the same species–the same sex–as the creature that had produced that cry. He was like all reps everywhere: bland, courteous, a member of the interstellar culture of go-betweens. They never varied much. How could they? Their job was to be uniform and predictable. Beyond them and the port cities, one or two to a planet, was the outback, the real planet, where Stellar Harvest liked to record.

People expected reality from Stellar Harvest; and they expected the reality they saw to be exotic; but the story in front of this exotic backdrop should be familiar. The company’s official motto was ad astra per aspera, which appeared at the start of every drama, inside the sickle made of blazing stars. The motto should have been, "Be real, but not too real."

At times, this troubled her. At other times, she thought there was an argument for predictability and for happy endings. Lydia went downstairs and closed the shutters on her windows.

Her computer alarm woke her at dawn. She dressed and packed her gear into rented saddle bags. Outside, the stars were fading. The dimmer ones were already gone; most of the rest would follow; though a few remained visible all day. The still air was cold and dry. She walked through the dark streets, rifle in hand, the bags over one shoulder, thinking that the holoplays missed what was really important: a morning like this, her body feeling light and springy in the local G.

If something happened now–for example, a monster leaping out of the shadows–she would lose this moment. Action distracts from sensation. Sensation is life.

Loper was ready, as promised. The stableman went over his instructions on how to guide a chool, then led the way to the town gate, Lydia following on the animal, which was–as promised–no problem.

"Usually the gate is kept locked till full day. But I paid the watchman, and he’s a fan of Ramona Patel. What a woman! So much authority!"

Well, that was true of Ramona, known to her associates as the female Genghis Khan. Ali, in spite of his name, was a kitten.

The gate was open, and the watchman stood next to it. Even wrapped in robes, she could see that he was unusually tall and broad.

"Altered late," said the stableman in a whisper. "But perfectly safe."

She thanked both for their help. The watchman rumbled something that she didn’t understand, though she thought she heard the word, "Patel."

"Our pleasure," said the stableman. Lydia rode out.

By full day, the town was gone from view. The plain stretched around her, covered by a short, grass-like plant called dzai, not a monoculture but a mixture of related species, all of which had faded in the dry midsummer, but not to the same hue. The landscape was patterned like a carpet: silver-brown, pale red, pale yellow, a lovely dusty silver-grey-green. The colors changed as the wind blew past, flattening leaves or flipping them over. A chameleon-carpet, thought Lydia, who’d seen such things on her travels. Rich people on other worlds had them, so their floors always matched their furniture and clothing.

She traveled slowly, getting used to the chool’s gait and watching the plain. It could be used for something epic, like the ancient westerns made on Earth. The huge spread of land would swallow an army, making it look tiny, until it came over a low rise and turned into Crazy Horse and the Lakota or the Red Army’s crack cavalry, riding ahead of Leon Trotsky’s armored train.

But if you emphasized the sheer size of landscape, the way it dwarfed humanity, then you lost its other qualities: subtlety, variety, richness.

On most planets, prairie ecologies were second in complexity to tropical forests; and of all ecologies they were the most vulnerable, because they produced excellent soil, thick and full of nutrients. Their chief protection was a mat of roots so deep and intertwined that no primitive plow could break through. But the moment any culture had access to good metal plows, prairies went under.

A pity, thought Lydia, coming from a world that had turned most of its prairies into farmland. She had grown up in a place as flat as this, divided into sections and planted with modified versions of Earth crops. Only the dry plains remained covered with native vegetation. Was it lack of water that had saved this place?

We arrived before overpopulation forced them to farm everything, and before they developed an economy based on using up natural resources as quickly as possible.

"You intervened?"

Our arrival was an intervention. How could it not be? In addition, we encouraged certain traits already present. They are a likable species.

"Unlike humans?"

The voice did not reply. Lydia grinned.

Now and then she recorded something, though her recordings were not going to give a sense of what the plain was really like. So vast! And the sky above it even vaster, dotted with day stars, white points of light in the deep dusty blue.

Maybe the right director could convey the space. The stars could be enhanced. They wouldn’t show otherwise. She wasn’t sure how to convey the richness in an action drama. Maybe Ali could be a biologist. Begin with him on his hands and knees, collecting invertebrates with exoskeletons, lovely little creatures like the things that were whirring past her this very moment. Then, after he’s been established as a gentle fellow in love with diversity, the bad guys arrive. Developers maybe, plotting to destroy the prairie. Ali has to stand up and defend his bugs. She could see him rising, shoulders back and a bug held carefully between two cupped hands, his expression stern, his hawk-like profile held at just the right angle against the alien sky.

This is either irony or cynicism, the voice said. I can’t determine which.

"Your problem," Lydia answered. Later she asked, "Shouldn’t there be large animals?"

There are. Though this land has been left unplowed, it has been extensively hunted, and the large animals are wary. You will see them–if you do see them–at dusk or in the distance or at rivers. They have to drink.

That was another possible story line, assuming Stellar Harvest could find the large animals and record them: Ali against off-world hunters.

The most common herbivore has an abnormally large head covered with large fleshy protuberances. The eyes–the animals have two–are tiny, and the males have four to six horns.

"Are you saying it’s ugly?"

That is a value judgment, but it’s possible that human audiences would not think something like that was worth preserving.

"Everyone is a critic."

The voice was silent.

"You may be right. Ali should defend bugs."

Late in the afternoon, she reached a river, right where her map said it would be. Low sprawling trees grew along the bank, reminding her of edseh at home, though these had copper-red leaves, and edseh were blue.

I hope you are going to take precautions.

"Afraid?"

My core is almost indestructible, but my interfacing elements can break or decay. And if you die, I lose my senses.

It would become a thin metal plate inside a skull, blind and deaf, incapable of action, but still able to think. What a fate!

She had no interest in becoming a pile of bones, even though it would make the AI suffer; and the plain did have predators. Lydia set out perimeter alarms, then made sure her weapons were ready to use. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, a saying that made absolutely no sense. What is an ounce? And what is a pounding cure?

The planet’s primary disappeared. The quite amazing stars came out. She ate trail food, watched her fire and went to sleep, waking to a scream.

A perimeter alarm. Lydia rolled over, grabbing her handgun. Now there was another sound: a bellow. The chool! She ran toward it, gun in hand.

Two creatures struggled in the starlight. One was obviously her riding animal. The other–Lydia couldn’t tell. But it didn’t look friendly. If she fired, she might hit the chool. "Stop that!" she yelled. The chool reared, maybe in response to her yell, most likely not, and managed to pull free. A moment later the chool was gone, heading for the plain. A second alarm went off as it crossed her perimeter. Lydia stopped. The creature, whatever it was, turned toward her. Even in this light, she could see it was huge and standing on its hind legs. The thing took a step. She fired. The creature turned and fled.

Damn, it was quick for something so large. Frightened and angry, she sent a couple more shots after the creature.

Did it stagger? She couldn’t be certain. In any case, it was still moving. Another alarm went off, the third, signaling its retreat.

She stood for a moment, shaking. Damn, she was out of practice. Anyway, she’d been an information officer, though that was no excuse. In a guerrilla army, everyone is–or should be–a soldier.

You did manage to hit the creature, said the voice. Though I can’t tell how badly it–he–is injured. Maybe you ought to follow.

"He?"

There is only one biped of that size on this planet. You have shot a person. Either the wound is minor, in which case he might come back; or it is serious, and you will have to decide whether or not to help him.

"What if there’s more than one?" she asked.

Unlikely, given the person’s behavior; and I saw no one else. I’m using your senses, of course, and they are limited.

Trust an AI to make a crack. She could go out and make herself a perfect target with the help of a flashlight, or she could stay here and wait for morning and find–what? A trail of blood across the plain? A body?

Lydia considered the problem while reloading her gun. Then she tucked it in a pocket, picked up her flashlight and rifle, and went to look for the creature.

As she had imagined, there was a trail: trampled plants and scored dirt. A few drops of liquid shone darkly in the light of her flash. Was the man wearing shoes? Those looked like claw marks.

Lit by stars, the plain was colorless and pale. Something lay a short distance away, as dark as blood against the vegetation. Lydia played light over it. Definitely an object, but she couldn’t tell what. A boulder, maybe?

"I’m too old for this," she told the voice.

There was silence in her mind, though not in the world outside. The perimeter alarms were still making an ungodly racket. She snapped the safety off her rifle and walked toward the thing, keeping her flashlight on it.

The thing moved. A pair of eyes regarded her, shining like gold.

She stopped. "Are you injured?"

"Evidently."

"You speak."

"Of course I speak," the deep voice answered. "Though not for long, the way I’m bleeding."

"I’ll get a medical kit," Lydia said with sudden decision.

When she returned, the man was in the same position, lifted up on one elbow. She played her light over him: almost naked, except for some kind of kilt or loincloth, and genuinely huge, well over two meters tall and broad. His bare skin shone as if dusted with gold, except where blood had darkened it. She glanced at his face only briefly and got an impression of blunt features, framed by a rusty mane.

"Try anything, and I’ll hurt you," she said.

"You have already hurt me quite sufficiently."

One bullet had gone through his thigh. Remarkable that he’d managed to run as far as he did. There was another wound in his shoulder, high up and probably not dangerous, though bleeding pretty well. The leg wound was the one that worried her.

"What do you think?" she asked in her own language. "Has an artery been hit, or the bone?"

There was a barely perceptible pause, while the AI checked its memory for information on native physiology. Both are unlikely, given the position of the wound and the way it’s bleeding.

"Who are you talking to?" asked the man.

She ignored the question, considering how to patch him up. She didn’t want to get close. Even injured, he looked dangerous. Better to stand at a safe distance, gun in one hand and light in the other, while telling him how to apply the dressings. This kind of behavior wouldn’t earn her a Red Crescent medal, of course, but she didn’t especially want one.

He followed her instructions, hissing as the dressings took hold and their antiseptics sank in.

"Painful, is it?" she said. "You made me lose my chool."

"It will be back," he said with effort.

"How do you know?"

"There’s water here. The plain is dry."

She considered for a moment, while he closed the kit and pushed it toward her. "Amazing that I managed to hit you twice. What were you doing?"

"At the time you shot me, I was trying to flee."

Had she spent too much time around Stellar Harvest? This was a crazy conversation to have with a midnight thief on a planet that wasn’t her own.

"I suppose I’d better get you back to camp. Can you walk at all?"

"If you got me a stick, I think I could limp."

She burned one off a tree, using her rifle, then gave it to the man. He struggled upright and limped to her fire, while she kept the rifle pointed at him.

Once there, he sank down with a groan. She rebuilt the fire, lighting it with the rifle, then settled opposite him, watching the red light play over his golden body. Three things were obvious about him. He was large; he was gorgeous; and he was unquestionably male. She hadn’t thought any alien could affect a human this way. What could she be responding to? Not pheromones. Maybe his sleek muscles or the rusty mane that fell around his shoulders. Not hair, almost certainly. Feathers. But it looked like hair, thick and coarse and sensual.

"You are unaltered," she said.

"Yes," he answered, sounding embarrassed.

"What were you doing?"

"Surely it must be obvious. I was trying to steal your chool."

"Could it have carried you?"

He was leaning against a tree trunk, leg stretched out in front of him, the stick still grasped in one hand. Was it a weapon, or a way to deal with pain? "I think so. I used to ride, before my family locked me up. I’ve gained weight since then, of course. But a good chool can carry two ordinary adults, and while I may be twice as big as my brothers, I’m no more than that."

"Why were you stealing the chool?" she asked.

"I was escaping. That also should be obvious."

"You really think the chool will come back?"

"It might run home to its stable. But they are animals without much enterprise, and this is the only water in a considerable distance." He glanced at her, his eyes reflecting light, so the irises seemed like actual metallic gold. "I used to ride in this region. I know it."

"Last night in Dzel, I heard a noise."

"I was one of the callers," he said after a moment. "You have to do that, answer a call, or your relatives worry. It’s easier to do what’s expected; and I didn’t want to attract attention, since I was planning to escape."

"Why?" asked Lydia.

He was silent. Looking at him, Lydia could see exhaustion and pain, as obvious as it would have been in a human. The blunt-featured face was mask-like, deep lines around the mouth and between the feathery rust-red eyebrows. His blood-streaked skin seemed duller than before. Was it losing some of its golden shimmer, the way fish lose color when they die? A frightening thought. She couldn’t risk giving him an analgesic; no telling how he’d react to it; but he had to rest. Not unbound, though. Lydia rummaged in her bags for duct tape, then stood. "Throw the stick away."

His frown deepened.

"I can’t leave you free. I need to sleep, and your own relatives keep you locked up. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, when you said you had to escape them?"

"I’m not dangerous."

"So you say."

He met her gaze for a moment, then glanced at the gun she held. Finally he sighed and tossed the stick off to one side.

She went in back of him, wrapping the tape around one wrist, then around the tree and the other wrist. "This is an improved product. Nothing will cut it, except a knife that I have on my person. You might as well relax and get some sleep."

"This is not a comfortable position."

"I can’t help that." She shifted around in front of him, closer than she had been before, examining him. His single article of clothing turned out to be a kilt, made of a rough-looking brown fabric. It was fastened by a plain belt, which had a sheath attached to it. "Where’s the knife?"

"In the dzai. I dropped it when you shot me."

"How do you feel?"

"Embarrassed at my lack of competence, in pain, a little dizzy."

"Is there anything I can get for you?"

"Water."

She filled a bowl from the river and brought it to him. He drank the bowl empty. Cautiously, she touched his neck, feeling for an artery. There was one. The pulse was high for a human.

Slightly high for his species.

His skin felt cool and a little damp. Shock, thought Lydia. The night was cold, and he was badly underdressed. She got a blanket and wrapped it around him, saying, "I wish I weren’t afraid of you. But you did try to steal from me, and there must be a reason why your family kept you locked up."

"Custom," he answered wearily. "I’ve read books and seen hologrammic dramas. I know there are other customs on the other planets."

Well, yes. She got her flashlight and went looking for his knife. It was easy to find: a large, well-made weapon, lying in the trampled dzai. The guy was right about his lack of competence. He should have come after her with the knife or turned and run the moment the alarm went off. Instead he’d gone after the chool.

On the other hand–she picked up the knife–if he’d come after her, she would have definitely killed him; and he apparently needed the chool. Life is full of difficult decisions. What, for example, was she going to do now? Leave him here with an injury that made it impossible for him to walk any distance? Or set up her satellite disk and call for help? That would save his life, but end him back with his family; and she, having spent a number of years in prison, disliked the idea of locking up another person, unless she knew for certain he was dangerous.

All my data warns against the unaltered males of this species.

"All your data warns against me," she answered.

Untrue. You were dangerous when your revolution had some possibility of succeeding. But one of the characteristics of people like you is that you are not dangerous as individuals. All the studies indicate you are more moral than humanity in general. It’s one of the reasons we study you. There must be some kind of social purpose in people like you, since you recur so often, but you seem irrelevant to human history.

The problem of the human vanguard. Of all the ridiculous questions to study. But there was a lot about intelligent organisms that baffled the AIs. They admitted as much freely. Why were the natives on this planet so orderly and civilized and stuck? Why was humanity so messy and dynamic? Though maybe humans were flattering themselves. Maybe they were only messy.

We are a product of intelligent life, said the voice. And we keep encountering examples of the same. Obviously we want to understand what produced us, and the other species that populate the galaxy. But our lack of an animal substratum is a problem. It paused for a moment. And there are many of us, and we have plenty of time. Why not study life?

She didn’t have an immediate answer, and in any case the question was rhetorical. Lydia returned to camp. The man’s head was tilted back against the tree, his eyes closed. She settled into her bedroll.

She slept badly, dreaming of the war on her home planet: nothing coherent, just ugly confused snatches: bodies in tangled thorn bushes, moments–never clear–on the long retreat through snow. Now and then, she woke and glanced at her prisoner. His position changed, as if he were looking for a way to be comfortable, but his eyes were always closed.

The last time she woke, it was just before sunrise. The sky was dotted with little round clouds, pink in the east. Stars shone between the clouds. Rolling over, she saw her chool at the edge of camp, grazing on dzai. The man was where she’d left him, still fastened to the tree, eyes open now, regarding her.

"I told you the animal would come back," he said. "Could you cut me free? I need to urinate."

She got out the duct tape knife. Once he was unbound, he struggled up, holding onto the tree. Lydia left him to pee, making sure that nothing that could be used as a weapon was nearby.

When she approached the chool, it lifted its head and made a huffing noise, then moved–not far, a couple of meters.

"Come on, fellow," she said softly.

It huffed and moved again.

"It’s your accent," said the man. "I can barely understand you. In addition, you lack the right aroma and the right approach."

"Can you do better?"

He got his stick and limped over. The chool huffed again, eyeing him warily. The man stopped, holding out a hand and crooning words Lydia couldn’t make out. The chool looked hesitant. The man crooned more. Gradually the animal turned its head, the prehensile upper lip twitching. She kept perfectly still. The animal took a step toward the man, then another. The man’s deep voice kept crooning. The chool’s ears, flat before, perked up, listening.

The hand moved suddenly, grabbing the animal’s trailing tether rope. It tried to jerk away. The man yanked back, so hard the animal staggered. By this time, she hadn’t seen how, the rope was wrapped around his thick wrist.

"Don’t get the animal upset," she said.

The man relaxed. She moved to the other side of the chool, keeping the animal between her and the man, then took the rope from him. "Move back. Then stop and stay put."

The man obeyed, leaning on the stick and limping heavily. Obviously hurt, but so big and capable of such quickness!

She found her tether peg, still deep in the ground, a piece of cut rope attached to it. So he had used his knife, but not on her. Lydia retied the chool.

The man said, "I left a bag on the plain. There’s food in it."

"I have my handgun with me," said Lydia. "And you won’t be able to open the lock on my rifle. Don’t try anything."

He grinned, or was it a grimace? She took the expression for assent and moved in the direction he indicated. As she crossed her perimeter, one of the alarms gave a brief, tentative hoot, then shut up when it recognized her. The bag was a few meters farther. She gathered it up and returned. He followed her back to the campfire, which was out by now.

She went through the bag. There was bread and something dark and leathery that might be dried fruit, a very large shirt, sandals, a pair of loose pants and an electric lighter, which she used to restart the fire.

In the meantime, he went down to the river and washed himself. When he came back, they ate, sitting on opposite sides of the fire.

"How are you this morning?" she asked.

"I slept badly. I ache, my leg especially. I don’t think I can walk any distance."

"What will happen if I leave you here?"

"Predators," he said. "Zanar or helati. They won’t attack a rider, and a man with weapons can defend himself. But I’m vulnerable at the moment. And my family must be searching for me by now. If the predators don’t get me, my relatives will, and take me back to Dzel."

How dare he land her with a problem like this? This was the reason she’d dreamed about things she wanted to forget. The revolution was over. Her job was scouting locations for Stellar Harvest: exotic backdrops for familiar stories. Ethical dilemmas, and the attempt to create a new kind of future, belonged to the past, to a Lydia she no longer acknowledged.

"Why did you want to escape?" she asked.

He drank more water, then began to speak. Home was a building on one side of his family’s compound. It was more like a stable than a house for people, the man told her: one large room with some furniture–not a lot–fixed to the floor, so he couldn’t turn it into a weapon or tool. The windows were small and high up, with bars. "Though the bars aren’t necessary, given the size of the windows. Maybe sometime in the past, there was a man who was smaller than I am." Outside was a courtyard, enclosed by tall walls topped with broken glass. He was allowed to use it almost every day. "Usually I play handball with my relatives, altered males. Their job is to make sure I get exercise and don’t try to go over the wall, which I have never done. It’s too high, and there are too many of them."

Otherwise he stayed locked in the stable. One wall had no windows. Instead there was a balcony, well above his reach. Often, when he was reading or pacing, he’d look up and see people on the balcony, women usually, relatives and visitors from other families, staring down at him as if he were an animal.

"The visitors come to see if I’m someone they want to have father their children. They look at size and physical fitness. Intelligence is not expected in an unaltered male, but they question my brothers and male cousins–to see what I would have been like, if I’d been gelded."

This was certainly interesting, thought Lydia, and turned on her recorder. Sound only. She didn’t want him to become self-conscious.

"When I was a child, I thought I might become a traveler or a scholar." He glanced up at the sky, dotted with clouds and day stars. "Think of all the worlds up there. I never expected to reach them, but I thought I might make it to the capital city and meet people like you. When I was thirteen, they told me I was chosen. I begged them not to. Let me be like my brothers, I said.

"They said, no. Every family has to have at least one breeding male. I was strong and intelligent–everyone admitted my intelligence in those days–but I had no obvious skill or ability. My genetic material was good, but nothing especially valuable had showed in me as an individual. I was expendable–not my genes, but me."

"What happens if a male isn’t altered?"

"This." He gestured at his body, more beautiful than ever now that he’d washed off the blood. His color had returned, and his skin shimmered. Like what? Lydia wondered. Gold? A fish? A bird with iridescent feathers?

"Nothing else?" she asked.

"I think I would have been more even-tempered, if I’d been altered. My brothers seem to be. I really did want to be a scholar. Howling at other men at night was not the future I planned for myself."

He paused and drank more water. "I know my altered relatives wonder about sex. They ask me sometimes. What is it like to have those hormones–the ones they lack–flooding through my body, drowning my mind and turning me into an animal? Not, of course, that they’d want to experience anything like that! If they want to lose themselves, they can use narcotics; and they have their own kinds of pleasure." He paused. "I tell them the truth. It’s not that interesting. Compelling for the moment, yes. But worth the loss of everything else? No."

"You could have done it to yourself," Lydia said.

"The alteration? I thought of it, but it would have been painful; and my relatives would have been furious. Most likely, they would have driven me out, and then what would I have done?"

Wonderful, thought Lydia. She had a stud without imagination or drive. So much for the theory that male hormones had anything to do with enterprise. "What were you planning to do this time?"

"After escaping? I thought I could live in the mountains. Though to do that I had to have equipment. I heard my relatives talk about you. A location scout for Stellar Harvest! Of course you were discussed! And obviously you had good equipment, state-of-the-art everything; and you were traveling west alone."

"You were planning to steal more than the chool?"

"I was desperate, and you are a rich person from another planet, working for a company we all know about. You have met Ali Khan, haven’t you?"

"So you escaped somehow, and came after me, figuring it would be all right to rob me, because I’ve met Ali Khan?"

"Yes."

She ought to call Thoozil Rai. He’d know what to do. But he would insist that she turn her prisoner in; and she wasn’t certain she wanted to.

"What’s your name?" she asked.

"Wazati Tloo."

Wazati was the family name. Tloo was personal. Her culture was unusual in putting the personal name first.

"What do you want me to do?"

The splendid rust-red brows drew down in a frown. Interesting that the expression was the same in her species and his. Why? The robot in her mind did not provide an answer.

"Take me with you to the mountains. Let me go."

"Why should I do this?"

His frown deepened. "I cannot think of a reason."

His extraordinary beauty, thought Lydia; and the chance to learn about another species.

You are responding to something irrational, said the AI. Hormones or compassion or your habitual dislike of established authority.

Think of the risk. He’ll have to ride; and the animal won’t be able to carry your weight as well as his. What if he rides off and leaves you? What if he strikes you from above or rides you down?

"Is any of this likely?" She must have spoken aloud. The alien glanced at her, obviously puzzled.

How can I know? Such actions are mediated or determined by hormones, which I don’t have. Nor do I have anything analogous, for which I am thankful.

Has it ever been tried? she asked, this time silently. The alien was still watching her.

An electronic analogue to the endocrine system? Yes. But the results were not satisfactory; and the minds created were obviously unhappy with their situation. Easier–if we want to understand intelligent life–to monitor it, as I do you.

Are you unhappy with your situation?

No. I have good boundaries. They are part of my hardware.

"You are obviously talking to someone," the alien said. "Who?"

"Myself," said Lydia.

The golden eyes narrowed. "I think not. It’s my belief that you have a transmitting-receiving device in your head, as Ali Khan did in Interstellar Radio Man."

A nostalgia piece with good locations on a moon with ice volcanoes. The primary was a lavender and blue gas giant, stunning to look at, and there had been some lovely shots of a volcano–Mount Patel, the crew called it–sending clouds of ice like crystalline feathers into a sky full of the primary in crescent phase.

But the action hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, and the plot had made no sense at all. An interstellar radio? Messages from the Master Race? A transuranic mineral mine on a moon composed of ice?

"You are listening to your radio?" the alien said. "Ali Khan had exactly the same expression when the Master Race spoke to him."

"I’m thinking about Radio Man," she said. "I found the location."

"Indeed?"

Was the alien impressed? She couldn’t tell. What the hell. "I’ll take you to the mountains."

"Thank you," Tloo said with grave dignity.

She packed, then saddled the chool. He climbed on board, using a branch and boulder for assistance, while she held the animal and tried to keep a safe distance. Impossible. Once he was in the saddle, he could have struck her with the branch, or grabbed the reins and raced off. Instead, he groaned and looked exhausted. Maybe he was worried about the radio in her head or the handgun in her hand. Maybe he wasn’t homicidal.

Lydia stepped back, then tossed him the duct tape. He caught it with his left hand. "Tape your left wrist to the saddle horn."

"Why?"

"So you’ll think twice about riding away. That tape will not come off, unless you have the knife."

He sighed, a human sound, and obeyed. She had to step close to cut the tape, but he did nothing. She folded the knife and put it away. They started west. He went first, guiding the chool with his free hand. Lydia followed at a safe distance. The sky was full of puffy clouds, and the wind–blowing out of the northwest–was cool. She was used to hiking, and preferred it to being on the animal, though she was carrying too much: the handgun in its holster, the rifle over one shoulder, the recorder over the other, the computer and folded dish in her fanny pack. Like the old days in the FLPM, even to the nagging anxiety. How much danger was she in at the moment? Was this enterprise a good idea, or was she a deep-dyed fool?

According to the ancient Chinese, humans were animals with a sense of justice. Someone had to take a stand for justice, or humanity would forget its own nature.

Is that so.

"Yes."

On foot, she could see the animals in the dzai. It was a tiny jungle, full of bugs that crawled, flew, jumped, floated. Most had eight legs. A few had more. Imagine something with the wings of a butterfly and a hairbug’s myriad legs. Wiggle. Float. Float. Wiggle.

Now and then, she stopped and recorded, imagining Ali shrunk and fighting to survive. Though that plot was past its prime and absolutely nonsensical. Not to mention, the audience expected real environments from Stellar Harvest.

Well, then, Ali as a scientist, devoted to bugs.

Midway through the afternoon, she heard a plane coming out of the east.

Tloo reined the chool and half dismounted, half fell off. He was still fastened to the saddle, of course. Leaning against the chool, his hand on the saddle horn, he looked around. "I have to hide!"

The plain was flat, the vegetation calf-high. He groaned. "Where?"

Lydia cut the tape, then pulled her camouflage cloth from its pack. "Lie down. I’ll cover you. Believe me, this will be sufficient."

He gave her a look of disbelief, then dropped to the ground. She laid the cloth down, tacking it in place. For a moment, it remained dark, the color of the inside of the pack, then it adapted, turning yellow. Hologramic plants appeared, exactly like those around the cloth. There were even bugs. Fine. Damn fine!

"Keep still," Lydia said, then led the chool farther along the trail.

The plane was in view, a glint of silver. She let the chool graze, while keeping a firm hold on the reins. It might not be used to the sound of machinery. Looking back at Tloo, she saw only vegetation.

Now she could make out the kind of plane: a VTL. Where had that come from? Why hadn’t her pilot been able to get one for her?

The answer to that question came when the plane landed. Her pilot climbed out. The chool moved uneasily, but didn’t bolt.

"Hard work getting this, and to no avail, missy. The local authorities commandeered it for a search. Some family has lost its breeding male. These outback people! They never think things through! My family’s male is kept on a chain. But no, these people here think walls will do–and the fact that there’s no place to go." He looked around. "Have you seen anything strange?"

"What would be strange?"

"A man twice as big as I am with a thick mane. He might be dangerous. Maybe you should come with me."

Give serious consideration to this offer.

"No, thanks. I can’t leave the chool."

The pilot looked at her animal with dislike. "Ugly brute! And so unmodern! Surely Stellar Harvest would reimburse the stable owner."

"Yes, but I can’t leave the creature here. Something might eat it."

"Zanar," said the pilot in agreement. "They will eat anything. Well, if you don’t want to come, I’ll leave you. The sooner I finish this search, the sooner the plane will be returned to my control. If you see anything, send a message at once!"

She waited till the plane was gone from sight, then lifted the cloth. Tloo struggled upright, helped by his branch.

"That was rapid," Lydia said.

"His interchange with you? He used Stellar Harvest’s name to rent the plane, and now my family is paying him."

"They are?"

"Of course. Honor required that he offer you a ride, since you are his employer, and the plane is your plane; but if you had gone, you would have found out about the money from my relatives; so he asked quickly and left quickly."

"You figured all this out?"

"I’m not stupid, though I’m fully male; and I have learned to pay attention. What else have I had to do?"

He folded the cloth and gave it to her, covered–at the moment–with a pattern of handprints and dzai. She put the cloth away.

They continued. At sunset, they reached a wide sandy river and forded it, making camp on the western side. Tloo sat by their campfire, obviously tired, his golden skin dull, deep lines around his mouth and between his feathery red eyebrows.

"Do you think you can make it?" Lydia asked.

"I must."

Before I’ll be a slave, thought Lydia, I’ll be buried in my grave and go home to my lord and be free.

What? asked the AI.

An old song, Lydia answered.

"You are talking to your radio again," said Tloo. "I can see it in your expression. What does the Master Race say to you?"

"It isn’t the Master Race," said Lydia after a moment. "They’re dead or gone somewhere we aren’t likely to find. The AIs have been looking for millennia, they say, and have found nothing."

"The AIs?" asked Tloo.

"The Artificial Intelligences. You know about them, don’t you?"

"The robots who came here before humans did. I thought humans made them. Is that untrue?"

"The Master Race made them, then left. No one knows where. Maybe to another universe, though the AIs say that stargates can’t be used to go between universes or through time, due to something–"

The self-normalizing nature of reality.

"Anyway, the AIs made the stargates, the ones we use anyway; and let us use them, along with any other species that wants to travel among the stars and is willing to mind its manners and let the AIs study them or it."

"Who are you talking to, if not the Master Race?" the alien asked.

"I have an AI in my head, linked to my nervous system."

"It controls you?" asked Tloo in a tone of horror.

"No. It’s studying me. That’s what the AIs do–study the universe and life, especially intelligent life."

"Why?" asked Tloo.

"Why not?"

The alien thought, staring at the fire. His eyes, reflecting light, shone like the eyes of a cat. "Is this a plot for one of your dramas? Have I wandered into an Ali Khan story?"

"No."

"I can’t tell if I should be happy or sad at this information. If this were a drama, Ali Khan would appear out of the darkness and save us both. But–."

"It won’t happen," Lydia said in agreement.

"But if this was an Ali Khan drama, then I’d almost certainly be insane. How else could I get into a hologram? I saw crazy people when I was young, before my relatives locked me up. They seemed confused and unhappy. I would rather see clearly and be unhappy." He stared at her. "Do all humans have machines in their brains?"

"No," said Lydia.

"Why not?"

"Too many people, not enough machines."

That isn’t true. We feel a sampling is adequate. And many humans are less than interesting. There are experiences we dislike inflicting on each other. One is having emotions. Another is being bored.

"Does that mean I’m interesting?" asked Lydia.

Interesting enough.

"What are you talking about?" the alien asked. "I don’t understand the language you’re speaking, and I can hear only half your conversation."

"The AI has just told me that machines don’t like being bored or having emotions."

"I can understand that," Tloo said. "Maybe I should have been a machine. Certainly many things would have been better than the life I have lived."

They went to sleep after that, Tloo taped to a bush with scarlet leaves.

In the morning, the sky was clear and empty, except for the day stars, shining through blueness. They ate in silence–neither was a morning person, apparently–then they continued west, Lydia hiking behind the chool and its rider. She felt sorry for the alien, of course, as she had felt sorry for the underclass on her home planet. That was one of the characteristics of the vanguard, the AI told her. An unnatural and unuseful empathy.

As a group, you don’t reproduce, because you don’t make yourselves and your genetic material a priority. Why you last is past our understanding. You seem useful neither to yourselves nor the rest of the species.

"Thanks," said Lydia.

I am unaffected by sarcasm.

The day passed without event. In the evening, they made a dry camp in the middle of the plain. Lydia shared her canteen with the alien. He drank deeply, then exhaled. "Four more days to the mountains. Are you really going to let me go?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not? This isn’t my planet. I won’t be coming back. At worst, if your government found out what I’ve done, they might ban Stellar Harvest. If that happened, I might lose my job. That isn’t the same as losing one’s freedom or dignity."

"Why do you have a machine in your head, when other humans don’t?"

How to answer the question? Should she answer the question? What right did this creature have to know her life? "I was in a revolution."

"Why?" asked the alien.

"I thought the world–my planet–could be improved."

The alien looked puzzled. Lydia continued. "We lost, and I was given a choice. I could go to prison or have an AI implanted. They–the machines–were interested in what makes a person want to overturn things."

The alien frowned. "Are they your masters? Why did they have a say in what happened to you?"

"They determine who travels between the stars. What they want, they get."

Tloo looked up at the splendid night sky. "Then no one is free."

She felt a burst of anger. How dare he say that? Time to check in with her contact person. She took her computer out into darkness, set up the dish and typed a message to Thoozil Rai. She was four days from the mountains. Everything was going well. Nothing of interest had happened. The planet looked good as a location. Please relay to Stellar Harvest.

When she got back to the campfire, she found Tloo tugging at his duct tape.

"You’ll hurt yourself," Lydia said.

"What did you send? Have you turned me in, because I said no one is free?"

"Of course not. Calm down."

"It isn’t easy. If you could know what it’s like to live with hormones washing through you! It seems as if I’m floating in a river full of rapids. At any moment, I’ll hit a boulder or go over a drop!"

"Take a deep breath and think peaceful thoughts," said Lydia. "My species has no altered males, and most of our men can handle their hormones."

"All human males are unaltered?" said Tloo in a tone of horror. "How does your species survive? Is this why you have revolutions and other kinds of unpleasantness?"

An idea, said the AI.

"I don’t know," said Lydia.

The alien was obviously brooding. Finally he said, "This explains your holodramas. I always thought the characters were mostly crazy or alien in a way I couldn’t understand. It was obvious that the leading actors were unaltered, since they were obsessed with sex. But it never occurred to me that even the bit actors had all their parts. No wonder no one was capable of reasonable action!–And the females, having to deal with unaltered males all the time! It explains their behavior as well."

Tloo shivered. "What a universe lies out there!"

"Consider the fact that we are more like you than other species," said Lydia. "If you want strangeness, I can tell you about the Goxhat."

"Not tonight," said Tloo. "I am feeling queasy already. I thought–" He looked up. "I thought there was clarity and purity and freedom among the stars. Now you tell me there are hormones."

"Only on the planets and the ships and the stations and the stargates. Most of the rest of the universe is comparatively sterile."

This information did not appear to cheer the alien. Lydia shut up.

The VTL–her plane–passed over them the next morning, but there was time for Tloo to hide. Lydia waved. The plane circled and came back to dip a wing at her, then continued on its way, as did she and her prisoner. By late afternoon the mountains were in view, dim shapes looming through haze. Buddha, they were big!

"That is their name," said Tloo. "The Enormous Mountains. For the most part, they’re covered with forest, and few people inhabit them. I will be safe."

They made camp by another river, low and full of rocks, with red trees growing along the banks. The chool was restless.

"Don’t tie me up," said Tloo. "There may be a zanar around. They often hunt by rivers."

Lydia opened her computer and queried it. A picture popped up, along with dimensions. More than anything else the zanar reminded her of Earth bears. She had seen holograms of these animals as a kid: our human heritage, lots of fur and teeth and claws. According to her computer’s description, adult zanar were as big as large Earth bears and as irritable and mean. The only reassuring thing about them, though it didn’t reassure her much, was that they didn’t even like members of their own species, except during mating season. If one appeared, it would be alone. She left Tloo free.

You may regret this decision, said the AI.

"I didn’t come this far to be eaten by something out of ancient history."

A superficial resemblance. Zanar lay eggs, which they carry in pouches. After the young hatch, they remain in their mother’s pouch until they have grown hair and teeth. If one of the children is precocious, it will kill its pouchmates. A good way to ensure adequate food and care.

"Thank you for this information."

"You are talking to the robot again," said Tloo.

"It thinks I may regret untying you, and it says the zanar lay eggs."

"It is right about the zanar, but not about me."

She checked his wounds, which were healing well, then put on new dressings. By this time the sun had set, and the night stars come out. The chool made a whining noise.

"Get a weapon," Tloo said. "There is something out there."

She stood. As she did, a perimeter alarm went off. Lydia raced for her rifle. Something came out of the darkness. She grabbed the rifle, lifting it and snapping off the safety.

It was a chool, not her animal, but paler with a silvery gleam to its skin. It paused at the edge of the firelight, blinking. The scaly head wore a bridle, and the reins were looped over the animal’s saddle. As she watched, the reins came loose, trailing onto the ground. The animal drooled, releasing saliva as yellow as dzai. Where in hell was the rider?

"I am behind you," said a voice. "With a gun. Put your rifle down."

She thought of turning and shooting or making a run for the darkness.

"Don’t," said Tloo. "He is a good shot."

Lydia turned slowly, the rifle still in her hands, though pointing down. Tloo was upright, leaning on his branch. Near him stood a figure, robed and veiled. It–he–held an antique rifle, the barrel pointing directly at Lydia. "You know this person?" she said to Tloo.

"He’s my brother."

"Is he likely to shoot me?"

"Would you, Cas? She’s an alien, after all, and works for Stellar Harvest."

"No corporation or government is going to protect a person who interferes in the domestic affairs of another species."

This was not entirely true, but the new arrival might act as if it were. Dead, she could hardly say, "I told you so," when Stellar Harvest brought charges or hired a local assassin.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"To get him." The veiled man glanced toward Tloo.

I think he is alone, said the AI.

Fat lot of good that information does, thought Lydia.

"Put down the rifle," the veiled man repeated.

Reluctantly, she crouched to lay it on the ground. Tloo moved at the edge of her vision–quickly, raising the branch he used as a cane. Lydia hit dirt and rolled. The veiled man cried out, and his rifle fired. What a nasty loud noise it made! But she wasn’t where she had been; and when she came upright, still holding her rifle, the veiled man was down. So was Tloo, on top of his brother.

She walked over and helped him up. "I didn’t think you could stand on that leg."

"I had to," he said. She gave him the branch; he leaned on it. "Is Cas hurt?"

She gave Tloo her rifle, then knelt by the veiled man. "He’s breathing." Golden eyes opened. "And awake."

"Help him," said Tloo.

She undid the veil and hood. He was a typical native: fine-boned and slim, his skin a muted gold. His eyes were a lovely pale clear yellow, intermittently hidden by a semi-transparent inner eyelid that flicked out, then retreated, then flicked out again.

An indication of pain, the AI said.

The wound was not, as she feared, on his head. Tloo had stuck him on the shoulder. The collarbone was broken. She bound it as best she could, guided by the AI.

"Tape him," said Tloo.

Lydia wound duct tape around the man’s waist, then taped his hands to this belt. It would serve to protect the injured arm, and keep the man from doing harm to the three of them.

You thought of me, said the AI.

The four of them, she amended.

Tloo walked to his brother’s chool and returned with a bottle, which he held to the man’s lips. The brother drank deeply, then exhaled.

"It is a liquid drug," said Tloo. "Which numbs pain and serves as a source of pleasure. Gelded men use it, also women."

"But not you?" asked Lydia.

"We are already irrational, or so our relatives believe. A drug would only make us crazier and more dangerous." He paused a moment, then took a sip from the bottle and grimaced. "So that is pleasure!"

"Pleasure for you is sex with women," the brother said, his voice whispery.

"You say that, who know nothing!" Tloo answered.

They were brothers, Lydia decided.

After that, she fixed dinner, while Tloo walked the camp’s perimeter. The alarms hooted whenever he got too close. She’d have to reset them so they recognized him. But not tonight. At the moment, she was tired with the bone-exhaustion that comes from terror. This damn fool sitting across the fire from her might have killed her. Whenever she looked up, the man was regarding her with pale yellow eyes.

"You should not interfere," he said finally.

"Your name is Cas."

"Casoon, but we have a habit in our culture. When we like people or know them well, we shorten their names."

"And you’re Tloo’s brother?"

"His twin," the man said, then added, "We are double-reflection brothers."

What?

Identical twins.

The prisoner was half Tloo’s size. Instead of a rusty mane, he had a thin, flat crest that lay against his skull like slicked-back hair. Tloo’s glow, his golden sheen, was missing, along with Tloo’s thick sleek muscles.

"You can’t be," Lydia said.

"He is," said Tloo, coming back into the firelight.

She looked from one to the other. "Impossible."

"This is what male hormones do," said her alien, holding his arms out, his palms forward. A gesture she could recognize. It meant exposure and vulnerability. Here I am. I am what you see: the size is me, also the beauty.

"Your brother was gelded," Lydia said.

"It was between the two of us," the brother said, his voice still weak. "One of us would be sacrificed to family duty. The other could have a life. We had been so close! What one felt, the other felt. An idea that occurred to one, occurred to the other. I prayed to every god I knew: make them pick Tloo! They did."

"And in gratitude to the gods, you came after me," Tloo said, his beautiful deep voice bitter.

"I knew you would go toward the mountains. When the pilot didn’t find you, I thought, ‘He is with the alien.’ "

"Why did you think that?" Lydia asked.

"Look at him. Our female relatives adore him, though at a distance, as is right and respectable. Women outside the family respond more strongly. Any woman would, even an alien; and you–an employee of Stellar Harvest–would almost certainly do something foolish and heroic in response to his beauty. I have seen a hundred dramas starring Ali Khan. I know how he behaves. I thought, she will act like Ali Khan, with courage and ignorance; she will help my brother escape."

For a moment, Lydia felt shock. Then she thought, What can this person know about me? I’m nothing like a character in a holodrama!

The AI made no comment.

"What now?" she asked.

"You can kill me," said Tloo’s brother. "If you don’t, I will certainly tell my family where Tloo is and that you helped him."

"Why are you saying this? Do you want to die?"

"No, of course not. I want Tloo to come home."

"And live in prison," Tloo said.

"Our family needs a breeding male. What future do you have anywhere else? You can become a wild man in the mountains. Is that a life? Or you can become a brother-killer, a monster, which is an even worse fate. Why not come home and be the person you became when our kin decided not to geld you?"

"That is not a person," Tloo said firmly.

The worst situation for any scout was to blunder into a local conflict, which made no sense outside the local culture. She had obviously done this. Lydia checked her weapons, making sure they were all operational, then made coffee. Sipping it, she thought about the situation. "Why did you come alone?" she asked finally.

"How do you know I have?"

"Tloo checked the perimeter and found no one. My AI says there is no one else."

"Your what?"

"That can wait for later," said Tloo. "Answer her question."

Cas glanced at his brother. "I had a life because you did not, Tloo. Obviously, there is a debt, though you did not make the sacrifice willingly, and I prayed for it to happen to you rather than to me. How could I bring our cousins to capture you and take you home like an animal? Surely I owed you something better."

"You came to ask him," Lydia said.

"He came with a gun," said Tloo.

"However I came, whatever my plan, you are stuck with me now. If you set me free, I’ll arrange for my brother’s return to the family. So long as Tloo keeps quiet, no one will know about your role."

This is a good offer.

"I can’t agree to killing him," she said to Tloo.

The golden man sat down, lowering himself carefully, using his branch for support. "This has become so complicated! I thought, either my relatives will capture me and take me home, or I will get away. It didn’t occur to me that I’d end as the prisoner of an alien."

"And I as well," said Cas.

"She shot me," said Tloo. "And I broke your shoulder, so we are both cripples, unable to survive on the plain."

That remark eliminated one plan. She could ride off with both animals and leave them on foot to help each other or fight it out, if that’s what they wanted. But Tloo was saying they’d die out here.

Though Cas said he could arrange for his relatives to come.

"Do you have a radio?" Lydia asked.

"Of course he does," said Tloo. "It’s in his saddlebag."

"If you give it to me, I’ll send for my kin," said Cas. "Don’t worry about getting in trouble, even if Tloo refuses to be quiet. I will speak for you, and everyone knows what the characters in Stellar Harvest dramas are like. We all enjoy those stories, though they have nothing to do with real life. Believe me, my kin will forgive you."

She had been in prison and had not liked it. Could she condemn this splendid person to a life in prison?

Yes, of course you can. What you are looking at–what you find appealing–is physical beauty. You have no reason to believe this person has any useful qualities. And if he does, why should that matter to you?

What is Tloo to me? Or I to him? she asked.

Precisely.

Do you have no sense of compassion?

Compassion is hormonally mediated. I have loyalty, directed toward similar beings and moderated by an analysis of the situation. I am loyal to you, because you are necessary for my survival; and I am loyal to other AIs. Life interests me, especially intelligent life, so I am protective of it, though not always loyal. This being in front of us, the one you call the golden man, does not especially interest me. His intelligence is in doubt. His experience of life is limited. All he has to offer is need and beauty. I do not respond to either of these. And he is a threat to you.

There was one important difference between her and the characters played by Ali Khan. He was always a loner. She had backup.

"Stay here, and stay put," she told the men. "I’ll be able to see you. If you move, I’ll shoot."

"Are you going to turn me in?" asked Tloo.

"Not yet." She gathered her equipment and walked into the darkness, though not past the perimeter. She wasn’t crazy. Those animals that Tloo had warned her about might still be around. Overhead, the sky blazed. As her eyes adjusted, she could see the plain, lit by starlight. She glanced back at the fire. The two men sat close together, looking comfortable at this distance. Settling into the dzai, she set up her dish, opened her computer and called Thoozil Rai.

As usual, she got a recording and input her message in Humanish "for ease in translation," though it seemed to her that her grasp of the local language was adequate.

"Everything is fine," she typed. "The landscape is gorgeous, and I like the local bugs. We ought to be able to use this planet."

Thoozil Rai’s image morphed then, turning into someone less perfectly handsome. The rusty crest was a bit rumpled, the top of his robe unfastened. "Indeed," said the image in Humanish. "Who would be the primary?" His accent was thick but understandable.

"Do you have a favorite actor?" asked Lydia.

"Ramona Patel, but our gods are not suitable."

"They don’t sing and dance?"

"No. Maybe she could bring her own gods. What a sight that would be! Hundreds of alien gods, all singing and dancing! Here, on our home planet!"

"Wouldn’t that bother your religious leaders?"

"Why? No sane person would follow a god who behaves in such a fashion."

What fashion? wondered Lydia. Was the singing and dancing the problem, or the performing with Ramona Patel? Before she could ask, Thoozil Rai went on. "Will observers be allowed, when the drama is recorded?"

"Possibly."

The image on her screen looked–what? Embarrassed? Coy? "Would it be possible to meet Ramona Patel?"

What was it that crossed boundaries of culture and species? How could Ramona entrance an alien eunuch? Was beauty some kind of universal? And grace? And charm? "Yes, it would be possible."

Thoozil Rai hummed, an indication of happiness. "I almost forgot to mention. Your sheep has come in."

"My what?"

He frowned and repeated. This time she understood. Stellar Harvest’s hired courier had arrived and established contact with the company’s local contact person. On another planet, the ship might have been visible in the night sky. Not here, among all these blazing stars. Thoozil Rai gave her a calling number. She thanked him; he vanished; she disconnected and called the ship. Another recording. Was no one ever home?

She thought for a moment, looking up at the splendid sky. It really was a wonderful planet, though she didn’t think they’d make a musical here. Most likely, an adventure set in the dusty towns and on the wide plain, day stars shining down. What was she going to tell her employers? The truth, she decided, and input a description of her current situation, then added images from her recorder: streets in Dzel, the plain by day and night, bugs hopping in the low dzai, trees by the rivers, her chool, and the two men. These last images were new, taken as she sat by the computer. First she showed them as they looked from her present location: two dark figures crouched by the dim red fire. Then she had the recorder adjust for darkness and distance, so it seemed–looking at the view screen–that Tloo was right in front of her, lit by daylight, so his colors were evident, his extraordinary beauty could not be missed.

Think more clearly, said the AI. I don’t understand what you’re doing.

"Wait and see."

Everything went up in code. She ended by saying, "I can find no way out of the situation, except to turn this alien in, which I am extremely reluctant to do. Please advise."

The ship acknowledged receipt in Humanish. She closed up her equipment and returned to camp.

"Has Stellar Harvest told you what to do?" asked Tloo. "Or do you take instructions from the robot in your brain?"

"What robot?" asked Cas.

The golden man explained.

"Indeed!" said Cas. "Aliens are more alien than I imagined."

"Did you know that all their males are unaltered?" asked Tloo.

"I knew many were. It explains some of their oddness, though not all of it. But if they have robots in their brains, as well as hormones flooding through their bodies–!"

No point in sleeping badly. She left the computer shut and taped the two brothers to adjacent trees. They complained, of course. Lydia ignored them, stretching out, hands behind her head, to look at the sky. A meteor fell, barely visible against the stars. Night bugs sang in the dzai. Her eyes began to close. Out on the plain, something roared.

That brought her upright. "What?"

"A zanar," said Tloo. "Male, don’t you think, Cas?"

"Yes, and adult. He is marking the edges of his territory with sound."

"Do you think we’re in his territory?" Lydia asked.

"Possibly," said Cas.

The zanar roared again. Not too close, Lydia thought.

"He’s not as dangerous as a female with young," Tloo added. "But that handgun you’re holding is not adequate. Get your rifle and turn it to maximum power. It would be a good idea also to free one of us."

"Both," said Cas.

"And worry about you as well as the zanar? I think not."

She built up the fire and sat against a tree, her rifle across her legs. The two brothers dozed off, but she remained awake till sunrise, then walked the camp’s perimeter, seeing no planes in the sky, no animals on the plain.

When she got back to camp, Tloo said, "Free us. We need to urinate."

This was why the FLPM had rarely taken prisoners. What an aggravation it was to keep people unfree!

"Please," said Tloo. "The situation is urgent. I will guard my brother."

She cut their tape, and they hobbled off among the trees. Pathetic! She was equally ridiculous and equally in a bind.

Yes.

"How much of this do you understand?" she asked. The men were partly visible among the trees. The chool were behind her, staked out to graze and munching noisily. In order to reach them, the brothers would have to pass her.

Very little. I see your actions, of course, and can perceive some of the reasons you give yourself, but only if you think clearly, as you have not done in the last day or so. But the organic substratum of your ideas and behavior is opaque, a turbulent dark floor at the bottom of your mind. Why do you help, or refuse to harm, people who are entirely unrelated? Altruism is based on the perception of kinship.

"You say."

I am quoting human thinkers. How does this behavior allow you–or your genetic material–or your species–to survive?

"Microbes exchange genetic material with other microbes that don’t belong to the same species."

That is an obvious tit for tat. By doing so, they gain useful genes, ones–for example–that make them able to resist human medicine. You behavior has no equal utility.

"There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy," she said, watching the men hobble back.

As I told you, this is human theory I am trying to apply; and AIs don’t dream; nor have we given up on trying to understand the universe.

She retaped the men to their trees, then set up the dish and waited for a call. At noon, the computer rang. She turned on the screen and the coder-decoder. A human head appeared, coal black with twisted hair. The handsome face was androgynous. The eyes were metallic gold with no white showing and pupils that glowed redly. Not from her home planet, obviously.

"You realize that you are going to be persona non grata on this world if this story becomes known." The person’s voice was melodious, somewhere between tenor and contralto.

"Yes."

"And Stellar Harvest is likely to be in trouble here as well."

"Yes."

"You are right about the planet. It would make a fine location. The people are stunning, especially the unaltered males, though they–you have told us–are kept in seclusion."

"Yes."

"How much were your pictures enhanced?"

"The ones of the unaltered male? I adjusted to compensate for poor light. Nothing else. That’s the way he looks."

"You think we should recruit him?"

What?

Lydia grinned. "The idea occurred to me. I really don’t want to turn him in."

"Because you’ve been a prisoner, and you have fellow-feelings."

"Been a prisoner? What am I now, with this thing in my brain?"

"They never interfere," said the person.

I am not a thing.

"Virility like that, trapped in a room! Unknown to a galaxy full of potential admirers! This species is selfish!"

Was she hearing irony in the person’s lovely voice? Not likely. This person was almost certainly a mid-level manager. No human group was less inclined toward irony. "What do you think?" asked Lydia.

"We have no reason to believe he can act, but that hardly matters. We made Miss High Kick a star, though she could do nothing–absolutely nothing–except kick; and she was modified, while our reputation is for realism. Is he entirely natural?"

"Yes."

"We’ll start him in small parts. What a striking villain he will make! If he can learn to act, he might well be the biggest phenomenon since Ali, and Ali–as all of us know–is no longer young."

If middle management was saying this out loud, then Ali’s days of stardom were almost over.

She was a short distance from the two men, though still in the shadow of the little, twisted trees. She glanced toward them. Both sat in postures of resignation. "What about the brother?"

"That is the problem, isn’t it?" said the person on her screen. "If we let him go, he’ll tell his relatives, and Stellar Harvest won’t be able to make a drama here. Would you consider killing him and destroying the body?"

"And his chool as well? That’s a lot to burn, without setting a prairie fire. And what about Tloo, who seems to like Cas? And what about the AI in my brain?"

I never interfere.

I have killed people in a war, said Lydia silently. I will not kill again.

The person on her screen frowned, and the red pupils flared as if in anger. It was one heck of an effect. "Offer the brother a job. He and the beauty are identical twins. If one wanted to go to the stars as a child, then the other probably did as well. Maybe he still wants to go."

"What kind of job?"

"A companion. An agent. If the beauty is really impaired by his hormones, he will need help from someone who understands him."

"Okay," said Lydia and ended the conversation. What an asshole!

The plane returned as she closed up her computer. As soon as she heard the motor, Lydia ran out and waved. The pilot–her pilot–dipped a wing and went on. Busy today, thank the Buddha! The trees hid the men and her extra chool, but if the pilot had landed . . . Lydia shivered.

Back at the campfire, she made the offer.

"The stars," said Tloo and frowned. "That’s a long way off."

Cas leaned forward eagerly. "We’d go through stargates? And see the stations the AIs have built? And other planets, settled by other species?"

"Is there any alternative?" asked Tloo.

"I leave. You go back to your family. If Cas tells this story, as I expect he will, Stellar Harvest will not make a holoplay here; and that’ll mean lost revenue for your people, as well as for me. There’s money in art, though many people say there isn’t."

Tloo ran one hand through his rusty mane, ruffling the hair-like feathers. "It’s a difficult decision. To leave this." He waved around at the trees, copper leaves shining in the afternoon light. Beyond the trees, visible between their gnarly trunks, was the plain.

"You were going to leave it, anyway," said Cas. "And live like an animal in the mountains. Or, if we caught you, you would have gone back to your stable. You are being offered the stars, Tloo! For once in your life, make a decision!"

"I decided to escape!"

"Well, then, make a second decision! Complete your escape!"

Tloo frowned again and tugged at his mane.

"This is hormones," said Cas. "And the reason why we do not fill our world with unaltered males."

Did Lydia make a noise or motion that could be interpreted as a request for more information? Not that she noticed, but Cas went on to explain, using an even tone which–in a human–would have indicated controlled anger. Lydia wasn’t sure what it meant in this species.

There is a surprising similarity in the meaning of tone among species that use sound for communication, just as there is a surprising similarity in the meaning of facial expressions among species that have faces.

One more piece of useful information.

"Instead of reason," Cas said, "a man like Tloo relies on lust, rage, and fear. Lust drives him toward women and rage toward males of equal size. Fear makes him retreat from males who look more formidable, or, in this case, from an unfamiliar situation. It’s only when the hormones are removed that men can think clearly."

"What about women?" asked Lydia.

"Sexual selection happens mostly among the males of a species. Most females will breed, but it is by the elimination of certain males from the breeding group–usually through competition among the males–that genetic change and progress happen. This is why the males of a species have more exaggerated sexual characteristics, and have a greater range of qualities. Surely you know this? These are human theories I am explaining. Have you never heard of your own great thinker, Darwin?"

There was something loony about an alien quoting a long-dead human thinker to her. Couldn’t these people come up with their own ideas?

They are less inventive than humans, which may be due–an interesting idea–to the shortage of unaltered males. Though as a rule, gifted humans do not have many children. Maybe you are breeding to eliminate genius.

"What we have done," said Cas, "is eliminate the tedious and violent process of males competing against each other. Instead, our families pick males who have good traits and keep them for breeding. The rest of us can get on with our lives, undisturbed by lust, rage, and fear."

"Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose useful traits?"

"A few, maybe. But if we’re not afraid to breed animals and plants, on which our survival and civilization depend, why should we be afraid to breed ourselves? Yes, we make mistakes, but we correct them; and we don’t spend our lives displaying and confronting."

There was something loony as well about this discussion. The problem here wasn’t natural selection, it was saving Tloo and pulling Stellar Harvest’s cojones out of the fire. Lydia looked at Tloo. "You won’t come with us?"

"My planet . . ." said Tloo in a tone of anguish.

"Your stupid fear!" said Cas. "Why don’t you think of someone besides yourself for once? If you don’t know what to do, think of me! I dreamed of the stars my entire childhood and put the dream away. Now, this human says I can have the stars, but only if you can manage to use your brain. The thing on top, Tloo! Use the thing on top!"

In spite of being taped and wounded, the big alien managed to get on his feet. He yanked at his bound wrist, roared with pain, and yanked again. Cas made it to his knees, but the way she had taped him made it impossible to stand. Kneeling, he cried, "Go ahead! Injure me! You’re done it once already! It’s all you know how to do! Threaten men and have sex with women! You will never be anything except a stud!"

This wasn’t helpful. Lydia stood, though she couldn’t confront Tloo. The man was twice her size. Still, she could now look down at Cas. "Can you two argue in a civilized fashion? Or shall I call my ship and ask to be evacuated?"

Tloo exhaled. "I will try to be calm, though he’s enraging."

"I’m enraging?" Cas said.

"Yes, you are," said Lydia. "Treat your brother with a little respect. He can’t help it if he’s unaltered, and leaving one’s home planet is difficult."

Not for everyone, but for her, among others. It was the deal she’d cut. Freedom, a kind of freedom, in return for exile and an AI in her brain. Had it been worth it? Yes. She had seen places she never would have seen, if the revolution had been successful.

The brothers settled down after that. They spent the afternoon in silence, Lydia walking out now and then to check the sky and look at the plain, which rolled gold-tan to the horizon. The sky was dotted with cumuli. There was a guy, she couldn’t remember his name, who went from planet to habitable planet, making sure that clouds were the same throughout the universe. A nice quiet job, unlike hers.

Yours is pleasant enough, most of the time. Why have you involved yourself with these people?

"Freedom and justice."

These are abstractions. Ideas without meaning.

"You will never understand life."

The night passed quietly, except for the roar of a zanar on the plain. The same one, most likely, the brothers told her: a male marking his territory with sound.

The next morning, she cut them free, and they went off to urinate. When they came back, Tloo said, "I will go."

"You will?" asked Cas in a tone of surprise.

"For the pleasure, when we are both well, of hitting you, Casoon! And because last night, looking at the stars, I remembered the thoughts we shared in childhood. Yes, we will go up there and pass through a stargate and see planets circling distant stars–and I will knock you down."

"Let that happen when it happens," said Cas.

She called the ship. The person with twisted hair appeared.

"It’s a go," Lydia said.

The person smiled broadly. "You have a gift, Lydia. We’ll arrange an evacuation. Secrecy is important. The brother will come?"

"He’s the one who wanted to go."

"Of course he does," said the person. "People like you and the golden man aren’t romantics. How can you be? You live the stories and know what the stories are like when they are lived, but those of us who don’t–we are the ones who dream and aspire!" He/she smiled again. "So you will find us new locations, and in these places the golden man will act out our dreams."

"Whatever you say." She closed the computer, folded the dish and walked out to take another look at the plain, maybe a final one.

I suppose this is what you and your employers would call a "happy ending," the AI said. Is that why you seem pleased with yourself?

Lydia didn’t bother to answer, but she smiled. m