At Cross Purposes

Juliette Wade

Before you come to an agreement with somebody else, you have to understand what they want—on their terms, not yours.

* * * *

1. Lynn

The more sector done; we shuck off our helmets with a groan and strap into the shuttle, guys in back and me in the pilot’s seat. Six hours in a suit dusting rigs and adjusting chemical mixes will pretty much wear you out. I take us up in a wide circle, as a kind of salute to the part of me I’ve left in each of these big machines over the years. In glaring sunlight, the newly cleaned rigs twinkle like a pattern of tiny stars against the gray desolation of Kasemsarn’s world—a.k.a. our big experiment.

But eyes can’t see what we’ve really accomplished.

When I look at K’s world, I see the color of numbers flowing. Numbers in the ice trees that branch under the soil; numbers in the still-too-thin atmosphere that tell me our machines are working, shifting molecule by molecule until the balance tips. Numbers will bring life to this place, they say, in our lifetimes.

As I pull out of the curve, a shadow on the instruments grabs me by the heart.

A cloud?

It’s ultra-high altitude, around 200 kilometers. I can’t help my adrenaline reaction—I’m tempted to abandon course and go looking for it.

“Sung, Kenneth,” I say over my shoulder. “Can you guys see this?”

No answer. The guys always like to gossip in back, and right now they seem awfully excited. I glance over my shoulder, dip in an ear just as Kenneth says, “Bloody hell, you got this from the Headmistress? I’d heard the rumor, but—”

“Seriously,” says Sung. “A hacker in the system.”

My blood vessels freeze stiff. We might call her Headmistress, but Doris Grabko is Chief of Information Security. “Kenneth, what are you talking about? A hacker?”

“I know, unbelievable, right?” he says. “But people have been talking about it, even though there isn’t a ship anywhere near enough to pick up our comm traffic, much less hack our systems.”

Sung snorts, “So either she’s imagining things, or someone’s hacking from the inside.”

“It can’t be,” I say, and my voice breaks. “Everybody knows Doris is a control freak.” I just hope she doesn’t have Sung’s grasp of logic! Could she have found what I did?

“Don’t stress, Lynn,” says Sung. “It’ll be okay—if there is a hacker, the Headmistress will destroy him long before he can ruin all our work.”

As if I’d ever ruin our work! I’m trying to save this project—from an oncoming asteroid, an earthquake, or who-knows-what disaster. Dr. Kasemsarn struts and puffs about his genius terraforming concept, but he hasn’t given a single thought to the devil in the details, not since they gave him a planet with his name on it. He spent almost ten years gambling the entire project’s success on a centralized control program. Single point of failure, hello?! Anyway, I didn’t really hack his baby; it’s still purring along in its own little machine. I’ve just borrowed enough processing power from each rig we visit to give that baby a twin inside a distributed, virtual machine—a backup that no single catastrophe can shut down.

“Guys,” I say, grateful for an excuse to get off the topic. “Can you look at this reading? Does that look like a cloud to you?”

Kenneth and Sung sit up straighter. “Cloud! Where?”

“I’m not sure.” Suddenly the red comm light flashes beside my right hand. “Just a sec—” I punch it. “Shuttle Five here.”

“Hey, Shuttle Five.” It’s Kelly from Base, and she sounds scared. “We’ve got an emergency shaping up. Three unidentified shuttlecraft, incoming.”

“What?!”

“They’ll be down here in less than a minute—George is taking the defense team out to meet them. You guys better hold tight there for a while until we can confirm their intentions.”

“Okay.”

Stunned silence in the cabin. We pass our coordinates for the next set of rig checks without even slowing down.

At last Sung says, “How can there be unidentified shuttles with no mother craft?”

“Shuttles don’t come out of nowhere,” Kenneth agrees.

A thought clenches my heart into a fist. “Unless what I’m seeing isn’t a cloud. Two hundred kilometers is low orbit. “

“Shit,” says Kenneth. “If Base is in trouble . . .”

My hands are already flying over the controls.

2. Tsee

Unexpected aliens—truth! Oh sing, sing!

I dance eager rhythms with my feet, even while we maintain control of our planet-diver. By my side, Chkaa my brother shares this excitement, observed: His eyes are bright, his whiskers held forward in anticipation. Together we bring the planet-diver down to rest on the gray glimmering dust, and leap from our control station in the same second, exhilarated, ready.

This planet was supposed to be lifeless, witnessed. It was supposed, overheard a thousand times, to be for the Purpose of others. How surprised, then, were the architects and constructors, choreographers and dancers when we discovered live creatures in our ship’s witness! For a dead planet may serve the designs of the Form Purpose and the celebrations of the Performance Purpose, yes, but aliens properly belong to followers of the Great Tree Purpose.

To us—joy!

Hereby we claim them, bringing down our own planet-diver alongside those of the other Purposes, landing beside the largest of the alien constructs—the alien nest-place, speculated.

Quickly we prepare a linguistic model-projector for the interaction. Hail the Great Tree Purpose, which beckons to us from outside this door, calling, Pursue, pursue! Chkaa looks at me—we touch noses—ready. We activate our protective bubbles and hop out.

The aliens come to meet us. Eight, counted. In physiology their heads resemble the inhabitants of the Diditsaatsi planet, observed, inside transparent helmets; beneath their opaque suits the similarity continues, likely, for the limb positions match. Pointed at us are weapons, deduced—these aliens are as wary as the Rodhrrrdkhi, suspected. But unlike Rodhrrrdkhi they allow us to step free of the planet-diver into their midst.

“Oh, Tsee, sealed suits. They really are spacefarers,” croons Chkaa, merging our bubbles, leaning his whiskers close to mine. He touches our hands together in rhythmic patter—his habit when excited with Purpose.

“Speculated,” I caution him. But my heart drums, truth! For to travel space, a creature must possess the glimmer of higher intelligence, necessarily, and higher intelligence requires an understanding of a pfaa—the duality that holds agreement in one hand and conflict in the other. Apfaa is a law of nature: for one side, always the other to match—truth!—and for one force, always its equal opposite. Those who live as isolates are planetbound, witnessed. And no aliens have ever lived as apfaa, like us, but neither have any traveled the stars.

The nearest aliens cry out thin sounds that wake the model projector between my hands, a subtle vibration within its dome, and they wave their weapons at us, keeping their bodies between us and their low, ugly building. Energy weapons, deduced—but whether strong enough to penetrate our bubbles, unknown. They need our reassurances, surely, and we need more of their talk. So we set the projector in the dust and hold out our hands. The most successful approach to wary aliens, witnessed, is that of joy.

“We are ChkaaTsee GreatTreePurpose. We dance our apfaa,” I say, and Chkaa, “Apfaa, apfaa.” We raise our voices in harmony and dance for them. My brother is big, his movements fluid. Chkaa is the deep-water shadow, beauty, his dark fur a mystery beneath the white labyrinths he has painted on his body. I am smaller, sharper. Tsee is the glint of light on ripples, and my golden cape-net sparkles with jewels, beauty, in the unnatural bright light. We are the apfaa ChkaaTsee, truth, and our dance brings the spirit of the river to this lonely, dry dust.

The aliens slowly lower their weapons—oh, welcome! They speak more sounds. Projected from their helmets, speculated. The sounds are thin in the half-breathed atmosphere of this ice desert, but enough, it seems, for capture by the flickering model projector.

“We come here for Purpose,” says Chkaa. “Our species is named Cochee-coco: Pursue-Purpose, pursue, pursue.”

“Truth,” I chime. “And our ship is Star-Pattern-Celebration.” We’ll have to say this again later when the projector is fully functional, certain, but for now it’s enough just to make talk. “What is your species?”

“Hear, hear,” says Chkaa. “And what is your Purpose?”

A dark-faced alien takes a step toward us, speaking sounds. We strain to catch vowels, consonants, but then, ow!

A terrible shrieking sound breaks all understanding—it’s coming from the low building behind them, observed, where lights now flash crazily, red and white. The aliens raise their weapons at us—ah, no—four of them run away toward the building and the remainder yell at us. Anger, certain.

“Ship,” I cry, “speak, what has happened?” And Chkaa, “Speak, speak!”

The aliens scream when they hear our voices. They shoot weapons at the model projector, and energy reflects from its curved surface—bounces away, observed, but leaves behind a dull glow that suggests power enough to damage it, possibly, certainly enough to damage u s. The weapons are at our faces now; if we try to f lee, do they shoot? I recurve my back, making myself smaller, and raise my hands to them.

“Peace, peace . . .”

“Peace,” says Chkaa.

Then voices from the ship speak out of the sphere-of-witness strung around my neck. “The Form Purpose pursue the improvement of this ugly alien edifice, but the aliens attack them!” “Unprovoked, witnessed!”

Not unprovoked, perhaps—I speak low. “Have the Form Purpose tried to construct? Have they changed the edifice?”

Aliens jump at us, screeching, weapons pointed at our noses. Punished for speaking? Oh, disaster! Another grabs the model projector. Now we’re seized by the arms and dragged through the rough dust into the building.

A room of no color, tables and couches all squared, observed, and around it lie long-limbed alien bodies, unmoving. Dead or alive? Impossible to tell.

This is the Form Purpose’s doing, truth! We must speak!

“Ship, stop the Form Purpose fast!” I cry, and Chkaa, “Fast, fast, put back what you’ve changed, the aliens are dying!” And I, “Truth, witnessed!”

An alien shoots me. The bolt of energy hits my bubble, which spits and heats—I smell my fur singed—Chkaa shrieks in horror. I recurl myself, quick, and shut my mouth. Forceful hands against our bubbles shove us forward, help, we’re propelled down a hall toward a door and through. Inside is another featureless room, flat image-projections of the gray planet on its walls, observed, and below them banks of colored lights and switches. One alien is lying on the floor, motionless, while another alien, wearing a suit, is standing.

One alive, one dead, oh horror! Has this one been severed? Does it berserk?

It draws a weapon.

What to hope for, oh, that this alien be isolate, knowing nothing of apfaa so it may not behave as the severed and kill us in rage? But how can we hope for this, how, how, when we’ve dreamed of alien spacefarers for so long?

Quick bursts of talk come from the aliens who hold our arms, answered by this lone creature who guards the inmost room. Is it enough, hoped? Will the model projector be satisfied with its intake soon, oh please, enough to allow us to pursue our Purpose, at least to try to communicate, to right this terrible wrong? We could call to the Martial Purpose for help—oh tempting—but to call them would be to relinquish our claim on these aliens in return for aid. No, truth, we must pursue!

The aliens who brought us here release our arms, but—late realization—they’re leaving. They abandon our model projector on a raised table alongside the armed alien, observed; it’s flickering silently. The armed alien continues to threaten us, alarming, and doesn’t speak again.

Chkaa invites my gaze to his—welcome, but how shall we pursue Purpose now?

Chkaa gives a low whistle, brave, brave, and starts to sing. Oh, I can’t breathe! The armed alien listens a second, two, then speaks a sharp sound, disapproving. The projector flickers—oh please—but doesn’t wake. My brother sings again; I dare a note—

The alien whirls toward me and shoots. Pain—Chkaa shrieks in fear and rage—the alien turns on him instead and shoots once, twice, three times, sparks flying—

“CHKAAAA! Brother, apfaa!” Oh, he lives but his bubble sputters—if it fails, only a single held breath keeps him from death. I dive to him, merge our bubbles, oh, let it be enough!

We will not be severed, truth! As together we were born, so together let us die!

3. Lynn

That’s not a cloud.

I’m looking at the thing, and I’m still guessing. I adjust the view, magnify. “Damn.”

“It’s no pirate frigate,” says Kenneth. “No configuration I recognize.”

Sung murmurs, “Guess it’s not company goons from New World or Awaken Enterprises, then.”

“But you guys agree it’s a ship.” It has to be. It’s shaped like a coral reef, a lakeweed, or a sea sponge—but it’s too symmetrical, and too solid at the middle. It shimmers with a million colors. “It has no edges—that’s how it screwed up our sensors. Take a look at this energy reading.”

“That could be weapons,” says Kenneth grimly. “We’re not equipped to fight something of that size. I’d bet it’s not even Allied Systems.”

None of us say anything, but we’re all thinking it: We’ve made a serious mistake. If there’s a third spacefaring species out there, we’ve just entered a whole different game—lost our chance to try stealth, and these guys could shoot us down any second.

My airways contract and my voice shrinks. “You think I should hail them?”

“Base first,” says Sung.

We haven’t heard from Base since the claxons stopped. I swallow and depress the button. “Shuttle Five to Base. Is anyone there?”

A voice comes from the comm. “Shuttle Five, the defense team needs backup. Get down here now. “

That’s Doris, her voice tight enough to strip gears. It scares me almost as much as the cloud ship. I take us down, praying we don’t get vaporized before we land. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, waiting for lightning.

Base looks weird. Emergency lights flashing—that I’d expect, but something else— they’ve painted it? Red, purple, green, gold, white. I can see the beginnings of a complex pattern from here. What the hell? And there’s another pattern on the ground around it, less color, more random; maybe if I magnify—

Bodies.

Oh my God, it must be half our crew, lying in the pale gray dust. No sign of whatever killed them.

I bring the shuttle down—crappy landing—and fumble on my helmet; Sung hands me a weapon, but my hands are shaking so much I don’t know if I’ll be able to use it. Terrafirm Inc. never trained us for Armageddon. I follow Kenneth out the door warily, with an eye for trouble that doesn’t seem to be coming. Yet.

We walk among the bodies. The defense team is past needing us—there’s George, recognizable because he’s lying face up. I lift his arm, but I can tell there’s no saving him, even though I can’t see damage to the enviro-suit, or any injuries. These marks in the dust could be footprints, but they’re vague, like the print of a knee, or a ball. Through the rasp of my own breathing, I hear Kenneth start to sing a lament.

“Guys, quick,” I say. “Let’s get to the lock.”

Dust puffs under our running feet. We shut ourselves in and activate the airlock. No green light; the inside door opens anyway.

They’re all dead.

Our workmates, fallen on the floor, or slumped on the tables where we used to talk numbers, play cards, or share the occasional piece of chocolate.

Sung’s voice comes quietly from the speaker at my ear. “They’ve destroyed the life support.”

“Goddamn,” says Kenneth. “Do you think these bastards killed everyone just for the hell of it? Or was it to kill the project?”

The project! Central Control—I’m already running down the hall.

“Lynn!” barks Kenneth’s voice in my ear. “They could still be in there!”

The door opens as I approach it. I jerk backwards in terror.

No, that’s not an alien or a pirate. It’s Doris. She’s standing side-to-the-door, pointing her weapon at something—someone?—across the control room. “George, quick,” she says.

“Doris, it’s Lynn.”

She wheels around.

I gulp. “George is dead.”

Doris stares for a second, pale behind the faceplate of her helmet. Then she grabs my arm. “Come on.”

She hauls me in—I almost trip over a body as she drags me to the main console. Oh, shit, that’s Kelly. . . . I crane over my shoulder, but can’t see what Doris was aiming at.

“What are we doing?”

“Kelly panicked and didn’t get to her suit,” Doris says, clipped and severe. “I need a second voice code.”

She’s hurting my arm. I blink stupidly. “Voice code?”

“To wipe the control program,” she snaps. “These dancing creatures are just a diversion, some backwater species picked up on the other side of the Systems.”

“Dancing—creatures?! Where?”

“Awaken Enterprises has been working toward active camouflage for years; what better way to test their new prototypes?”

“But there’s an alien ship!”

“Well, obviously they’ve fooled you.” She keys in a sequence of numbers, and an icy-calm computer voice speaks out of the air. “Terrafirm Incorporated, Kasemsarn Operation, omega omega omega. Requesting authorization one.”

“Doris Grabko, Chief of Information Security.”

The voice replies, “Accepted. Requesting authorization two.”

I can’t speak. Why should we gut the system now? These are aliens, not industrial spies! I could give the authorization and trust my backup system to come online, but that would expose everything I’ve done. Doris would kill me.

“Lynn Gable!” Doris shakes me hard. “Dr. Kasemsarn is dead—the project isn’t salvageable. They’re poised to take everything. You’re a Terrafirm employee, now act like one.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I say. “Dr. K isn’t the only one who—”

“Just shut up and—”

A sudden light fountains into the room. I turn—there’s a glowing dome on one of the consoles, and it’s spouting gold light like crazy. Doris shoots. The bolt ricochets off it and sears one of our screens on the other side. The light from the dome splits and forks over and over, and then abruptly the tip of every tiniest branch glows brilliant red, and it stops.

I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look like a red and gold tree. Are we looking at some kind of alien fiber optics? A hologram?

“God—what is that thing?” When I speak, the tree moves, connections forming and reforming inside it. Reminds me of the fractal simulation I sometimes run on my personal terminal, numbers in color to model the effect propagated by our terraforming array. A moment later there’s this weird chirping, clucking, and whistling, and then a choppy voice speaks.

“A language—Don’t shoot—mistake—Purpose—talk—hear, hear.”

It’s some kind of holographic translator?

Doris’s hand grips my shoulder, but I look past the bright glow of the tree to the wall. There they are: Two large furred bodies lie curled around each other, one painted with elaborate designs in white, the other with sparkles in its fur. They’re both coated in a flickering sheen of light. Slowly, in perfect synchrony, the two aliens raise their faces toward me.

Pointed, whiskery faces.

Holy shit. We’ve been killed off by giant otters?!

No—I shouldn’t trust my own snap judgment. These creatures’ limbs aren’t short enough for otters, and their black fingers are too long, furless and half-webbed. Plus they have no eyebrows; above each of their wideset eyes a strip of pebbly black skin extends up to the ear.

Non-Systems creatures, or I’m a codfish.

They begin shaking their heads, chattering agitatedly. “Color suits—truth,” stutters the translator. “Fight Purpose! Wait—please—Great Tree Purpose claims aliens—talk—”

Doris growls, “Shut up or I’ll shoot you again.”

Suddenly I get the awful feeling they’re not talking to us. Something moves in the corner of my eye—I whirl around—see nothing, but pieces of the room distort into bulky alien shapes all around me. A yellow flash in an invisible hand expands to fill my vision. I can’t move.

4. Tsee

We didn’t ask to be rescued, truth! We didn’t want to be rescued!

Yes, to be returned to Star-Pattern-Celebration and the meticulous care of TshinKai GreatTreePurpose, welcome; to groom Chkaa, reassuring ourselves of apfaa while we participated in their scans, wondrous relief!

But to be disconnected from the beauty of the Great Tree, preempted by the Martial Purpose? Torture! More painful than the minor injuries which TshinKai so kindly remedied. Being of the Great Tree Purpose like us—hail!—they understood our need to pursue, pursue, and encouraged us when we plunged into the interconnecting arteries of the ship.

Now we swim the glass mosaic tunnels, fast, knowing that once again our Purpose lies ahead—oh, such relief! Chkaa is the stronger one of our apfaa, undeniable, so he cuts water while I skim wake. The linguistic model projector is safe, ready, tucked against my chest; its precious learnings remain hidden within, for now. Silently agreed, we hold our breaths long for speed through the bright water, following guidance markers at each junction toward the region of the ship where the aliens have been nested.

We must not allow our claim on these creatures to be stolen by the Martial Purpose—resolved!

Here a marker indicates we’re getting close, but look beside it; the next one shows another apfaa present, by name, KirHaa MartialPurpose, working in the last chamber before that of the aliens. There’s the doorway—I worry, unavoidable. An apfaa of the Martial Purpose, placed thus, must be intended to guard the aliens, too likely—They emerge into the artery! Oh, no!

I push with tail and feet, push, push, closing distance with Chkaa, who skims a whisker’s distance from the mosaic wall, tight! Twisting, we barely miss the noses of KirHaa MartialPurpose—slick past, but no relief, truth. They’re following us. Ahead, the silvery field of an arterial breather wobbles amidst the rays of colored light—my breath is growing stale, worrisome, but if we stop KirHaa will confront us. Try to stop us, no doubt!

Chkaa slows when he sees the bubble—ah, what sweet apfaa; he understands that I push my breath. In the second of his hesitation, I overtake him, unplanned. The breather falls behind us, and I glimpse a shadow breaking the patterned light—surprise. A pursuit profile, almost familiar; at one tenth that size it might be a taahitsikho, delectable—Is this an alien?

But their suits were taken, witnessed, and they have no length of breath! They should not attempt the arteries, no—their disadvantages will drown them.

Resolved: None must die under our claim!

I flick my tail and speed straight for the alien. It won’t have breath enough to return to the room it came from, probably; the breather is closer. Matching my head to its head—there—I flip and roll out, a full direction switch that sends my own wake over me. Chkaa, following, rolls in behind the alien’s back in another rush of water. We take its arms—risky, but it makes no struggle, perhaps understanding now that our arteries possess no surface. We swim fast. This one needs air, truth—KirHaa or no KirHaa!

It doesn’t breathe like a Diditsaatsi, fervently hoped, or it won’t survive.

Without decelerating, we punch straight through the field into the breather. Chkaa curls, tumbles, and hits the wall. The alien lurches into him. I twist—ineffective maneuver in air—and hit both of them. The linguistic model projector rolls off to one side, no no; I dive after it.

The alien vomits water, draws a little air, falls to hands and knees on the mosaic shelf and starts a gasping, gurgling cough. Its clothing sucks wet to the skin, revealing distinct chest protuberances—mammaries, speculated, so this is a female, probably. Long strings of hair dangle from its head, observed, much like the natives of the Oaaatsih planet.

“Look, sister.” Chkaa bends over her rubbing his hands, observed—half worry and half eagerness. “No webbing on hands or feet.”

I nod. “Truth, brother. She hasn’t enough water speed to get anywhere.”

“Obvious, that.” He shakes his whiskers, disapproving. “To have attempted the arteries, especially hampered by clothing, she is either stupid or out of her senses.”

“Probably ignorant?” I suggest, but then, glimpse her face. Ah, no, out of her senses she may be, indeed—this is the alien who shot us, witnessed! “Chkaa!” I cry.

Apfaa brings him diving to me; we press together our shoulders and tails—oh, grateful—and he touches his hand to mine.

Then two noses break the force bubble.

“We are Kir!” says the first, and the other, “Haa; MartialPurpose, truth!”

They move with fierce grace, intimidating. Both have prominent, masculine brow-character—attractive—but Kir bears a pattern like thorns, while Haa has deep folds like cooled lava. Deduced: These two were not born as one, but instead, chose each other for apfaa. Each wears a belt, or the appearance of one—color-mimetic suits, recognized, safe for water and scant atmosphere alike. Likely, these two were among our invisible, unwished-for rescuers.

“We are Chkaa,” my brother answers.

“Tsee,” I chime. “Born of TsaaTso; GreatTreePurpose, truth.” We will not show disrespect, but together, we move to place the recovering alien between us and the artery wall. Quarters are close with five bodies in a single bubble—alarming, that. At any time, attack might come from before or behind. We must be sure not to invite it in any way, certain, or we’ll have no chance!

“Give the alien to us,” Kir says, his voice high and vicious. Haa chimes, “Comply. You are in error, for you have no claim on these creatures.” They push their heads into our faces. Says Kir, “Resolved.”

Chkaa looks uncertain, observed; his muscles go taut but he stays quiet. Intelligent choice, that.

I stand taller, match noses with Chkaa, and declare, “We listen to you, KirHaa. ‘Resolved,’ we hear you say. Resolved, but not witnessed.”

In our whiskers I feel Chkaa’s satisfaction. “Yes, sister—speak.”

“Trace the claims if you wish; ours is previous to yours. Our Purpose is proven, or our linguistic model projector wouldn’t function.”

“Truth,” Chkaa agrees. “Look.”

Together we stroke the pattern on the projector’s surface to bring forth the Great Tree of the aliens’ language, marvelous, and I stamp my feet. “Our Purpose has not been ceded to Martial Purpose or any other. The Great Tree must not grow in shadow.”

“Hear, hear,” says Chkaa.

The alien’s coughing has slowed, noticed. She shifts behind me—oh, the hairs on my back rise in fear of blows, truth. . . . The machine has begun translating, but whether she understands us from translation alone, unclear.

Haa says in a low whistle, threatening, “These aliens attacked the Form Purpose, killed two apfaa, and severed three.” Adds Kir, “Witnessed. Their violations of apfaa prove our Purpose.”

I wave off their words. “Your claim is on the dead, KirHaa—a claim ceded to you by the Form Purpose, who prematurely exercised Purpose on the ugly edifice on the planet.”

Says Chkaa, “Your claim touches only that edifice, and its defenders. The aliens here on our ship took no part in your Martial Purpose, neither killing nor severing any Cochee-coco.”

I nod. “Hear, hear. Their attacks on us, we accepted, never turning our noses away from our Purpose toward yours.”

And Chkaa, “Witnessed. Sometimes the cause of communication requires sacrifice.”

KirHaa shift foot to foot impatiently—understanding the strength of our claim, no doubt. They know what all Cochee-coco will see in witness when the claims are traced, oh, yes; We’ve argued well enough. Haa punches Kir in the shoulder and the two fight hands and feet for a moment, a surge of Purpose tempered by apfaa.

Kir snaps his head toward us. “Ungrateful ChkaaTsee GreatTreePurpose,” he whistles, “captured among such creatures, you needed rescue.” Haa adds, “Obvious, that! They are low and violent.” KirHaa grind their feet on the mosaic shelf, insulting. “Truth,” Kir chirps. His lips pull back from his sharp teeth slyly. “Even worse, their violence is graceless, as if they had no Purpose at all.” Says Haa, “Observed.”

Oh, sickening! “What?” I cry. “No Purpose?!” The accusation raises hairs on my face, appalling. Chkaa finds my hand and we squeeze together, apfaa. “KirHaa, you insult needlessly. They must!”

“Surely,” Chkaa agrees, though his fingers quiver in mine. “They are proven to have language, the first prerequisite. And they travel through space.”

KirHaa interject before I can speak. “One says they travel through space—” “The other says nothing?”

“Deduced!” I shriek. How dare they force between our words to accuse me of failing apfaa?

“Crcrcr,” Kir laughs, deep in his muscled chest. “They travel through space. To say this, as if such aliens could approach our intelligence.” “Ridiculous,” chimes Haa. “They can’t even create proper shielding from our weapons.”

Now, behind us, the alien stands. Bad, bad—Chkaa shifts to flank her before she can decide to rush out into the artery, and I block her aggressive step toward KirHaa. Just in time—fortunate, that.

She utters language sounds, her eyes narrowed and teeth bared, then curls, coughing. The language projector relays, “We do travel space—we have friends—”

KirHaa hiss with derision. “Neither witnessed,” says Kir and Haa, “Nor spoken for; truth.”

Ah, but now we have them! “KirHaa,” I cry, “you unspeak yourselves, for if you expect apfaa of this alien, then you imply she must have Purpose.”

“Oh, sister,” Chkaa laughs, “deduced and witnessed!”

KirHaa shift irritably and tense their hands, observed. But now we swim in our own Purpose, and we’ll be victorious, resolved!

I pat Chkaa’s hand in excitement. “KirHaa can’t expect apfaa behavior of an isolate.”

“Speak, sister,” says Chkaa.

“Such insults they make, yet we may find this alien species is apfaa to our own, and what then?”

“Surely, sister, what then?”

Haa gives an explosive snort. “Impossible.” Kir echoes, “Impossible.”

Yet it’s not impossible, truth! All we who pursue the Great Tree Purpose—pursue, pursue!—know that as each unit enters a pattern, always that pattern forms a unit on a larger scale. As patterns grow in crystals, thus they also grow, observed, in winds and in speech—so, deduced, they should grow in apfaa. Ah, the beauty of what we pursue!

The alien speaks again, her body in closed and guarded posture. “What are you saying?”

We smile at her and nod our heads. “We won’t leave you to speak alone, but will return you to your people.”

Chkaa chimes, “Truth!”

The alien grimaces and coughs.

“Not without us,” Kir says. “Resolved,” chimes Haa. “If you don’t want to kill her taking her back, then we come with you. We’ve brought breath-bubbles.” Kir chirps a laugh as sharp as the thorns of his brow-character. “Deliberate, that.”

Maddening—KirHaa aren’t without intelligence, clearly. But my brother presses his shoulder to mine, and apfaa raises my courage, water under a stranded boat. “KirHaa MartialPurpose,” Chkaa says, “We accept your offer of aid to the Great Tree Purpose.”

I nod. “Witnessed.”

But, truth, now we must carry our danger with us.

5. Lynn

I shouldn’t have let Doris swim out there.

Maybe if I’d told her about my hack, she wouldn’t have toggled straight from theyre-going-to-steal-our-data to they’re-going-to-destroy-our-project-with-one-shot. Maybe she would have believed Sung and Kenneth when they tried to tell her the three of us could run the array and keep the project going long enough to get help—and been in less of a rush to risk her life going after the aliens’ plans.

I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have killed me if I told her; not now, when there’s no one left. Since there’s nothing in this surreal room we can use to rig a signal, Sung and Kenneth and I can only wait. We huddle together, listening to alien voices sing softly while light shimmers across the curved walls in a blue-green dance. At the same time we count the seconds since Doris swam out, waiting to see if four lives become three.

“Damn it!” says Kenneth finally, and shakes his big hands like he’s pissed that they’re still trembling. “I just don’t get it. Why would aliens come all this way to stop the project? What’s in it for them?”

Sung’s lips stop moving, but you can bet he’s still counting seconds in his head. “Nothing.”

I snort. “There’s got to be something. “

Sung casts his dark eyes around the room. “Not really. We’re surrounded by noncompatible technology. Maybe this is about territory, or plain old xenophobia, but it’s not going to be about terraforming.”

I can’t help but flinch. Our habits of secrecy are well ingrained—the Headmistress forbade certain words even for routine comm traffic. “Is that it?” I ask. “We just have to wait to see if Doris learns anything?”

Sung frowns. “Four minutes . . .”

“I’ve about had enough of this.” Kenneth stands up and walks toward the door. “I should have gone with her to rig a signal.”

“Kenneth,” I say, “if she gets an opportunity she can do it herself. It’s a beacon, not a massive array.”

He doesn’t look at me, but folds his arms. “You should have told her.”

My stomach drops. Has he found out about my hack? “Told her?”

“That we can run the array, like we said.”

I can’t help feeling relieved—but it’s embarrassing. We’ve been kidnapped onto an alien ship, for God’s sake. Why should I even care any more if Kenneth knows?

“You have to put aside how much you hate Doris,” he says. “She does care about the project.”

“I wanted to—she hates me, too, you know.”

He runs one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “We need everybody on the same side here, Lynn. What about those gorgeous color simulations you showed us when we were ref ining the mix strategy in sector 1249? If you told her about those, she’d see that you get it.”

I sigh. “Kenneth, I did, long ago.” It was part of what got me hacking. “She was there when I showed the sims to Dr. K. He blew me off. Couldn’t see the added value, he said. And Doris told me to keep them to myself.”

Sung looks at me, his face greenish in the flickering light. “To yourself? Why?”

“Because they’d be distracting.”

“Distracting? To have a visual model where we can simulate the effects of our chemical alterations—that’s distracting? “

I rub my face. “It’s not an art to them. Only an equation that ends in money.”

Kenneth harrumphs. “I don’t know how much money was in it for Doris. She doesn’t understand how a butterfly can cause a hurricane, but that was never in her job description. Dr. K was the one who was too high and mighty to take advice.” He glances over his shoulder, then straightens. “Hey, guys—visitors.”

Doris has been caught. I scramble to my feet as she comes in with an escort of four, drenched and coughing, but alive. The two biggest aliens stop on either side of the force field door—sleek, muscular guards wearing metal belts, and necklaces with black spherical pendants. Their faces are bizarre: The bare skin above their eyes looks transplanted, one from a horned lizard and the other from a shar pei. The two slightly smaller ones herd Doris toward me.

Wait a second—aren’t those the aliens she was holding hostage in Central Control?

They have to be. It’s a miracle they haven’t killed her. They’ve got sphere necklaces just like the other two, but they’ve got that pebbly skin over their eyes, and the bigger one has the maze design in his fur, while the smaller wears a long net of gold and jewels that makes me guess she’s female.

When they release Doris, we take her in a huddle. Kenneth is right; we’re already too few, and we need every member of this team. “Are you okay?” I ask. “I’m sorry. I really should have gone with you.”

Doris shakes her head. “No,” she rasps. “It’s all water out there. It’s either get caught or drown.” She starts coughing.

Sung murmurs. “Aquatic aliens . . .”

Doris gets a breath. “They don’t seem to know about the array,” she says. “If we say nothing, we might be able to keep it safe. We have to get a distress signal out as soon as possible.”

I try to look her in the face. “Don’t risk yourself again. We need you, and the array—well, it isn’t as fragile as all that.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but we’re interrupted by a surge of light. The aliens have just activated their translator.

The female alien steps forward, her sparkly net defying gravity as if it were underwater. She and her pattern-furred partner wave hands at one another, execute an incongruous little dance step, and begin chattering at us. The tree shivers, and here comes an English translation—choppy, with little delays.

“Well come. We show respect. We are DarkLight, born of GiveReceive; GreatTreePurpose. Truth!”

Ho-boy. When is English not English? At least it’s not threats or interrogation.

Doris clears her throat. “So you’re playing nice, suddenly?”

The aliens look at me, as if expecting me to speak—but what can I say? I shake my head.

“Sung,” whispers Kenneth. “Any clue on the dark light stuff?”

Sung shrugs. “Introducing themselves maybe?”

At once the aliens jump into a dance step, and pat one another’s hands. “Yes, yes, we speak ourselves,” says the small one. “Light!”

“Dark,” says the maze-patterned one.

“Light!”

“Dark.”

Something’s localizing the translation to their positions. They repeat the words several times before announcing in unison, “We are DarkLight. Truth!”

I can’t help a nervous laugh.

“Truth, hell, “ Doris mutters, and clears her throat. “Tell us your demands.”

Both the aliens look at me again.

I lean to Doris’s ear, whisper, “If they’re being helpful, could we maybe ask them to send a signal. . . ?”

Doris snorts. “Five minutes ago they were arguing about which of them owned us.” She steps in front of me. “Look here. We work for a company called Terrafirm. I’m the senior representative here, so if you want to talk, you can talk to me.”

Dark and Light look at each other, then cast a glance back toward the door. The guards are shifting from foot to foot now, which makes me nervous.

“We pursue Purpose,” says Light, with a wriggle that makes her cape swirl and sparkle. “We speak, and you want to speak to us.”

“Hoped,” says Dark. “Not to DodgeStrike. Their Purpose is not to speak, but to fight. If you fight, they claim you. But if you speak, you are ours.”

Doris reddens. “But we don’t belong to any of you!”

Dark and Light look at me again. I can see Dodge and Strike moving nearer, oh so gradually, and my gut says they’re bad news. I’m not getting all of this, but the ugly truth is we d o belong to these guys—they’ve got us. And I’d far rather deal with Dark and Light, because I’m betting Dodge and Strike could kill us easily.

“We’d rather talk than fight,” I blurt out. “We’re humans, my name is Lynn, she’s Doris, and those guys are Sung and Kenneth. We don’t want to die. We need to send a signal to Terrafirm—”

“Lynn!” Doris gasps. She starts coughing.

Light and Dark dance and pat their hands together. Light cries, “Oh sing, sing, they speak! Oh LynnDoris, SungKenneth, the die-ing is our sadness, a terrible mistake!”

Dark echoes, “Terrible, terrible mistake. The Form Purpose saw your home ugly, and changed your tools without knowing their function.”

“Witnessed,” says Light.

Holy moly—what was that, an apology? I guess I didn’t think about how they might answer. Dodge and Strike are close to charging distance now, and panic is rising in my chest. If only Doris would take over . . . but she’s still coughing, tears leaking into the wrinkles beside her eyes. Then, thank God, Sung murmurs behind me.

“Our home . . . that could be Base. Our tools—life support?”

My stomach churns. “Or it could mean . . .” The array. But now that the aliens are translating I can’t say that out loud.

Kenneth shakes his head. “What about all the people they killed outside the Base?”

Dark and Light press their shoulders together and blink at us. “When the Form Purpose pursued upon your home, humans came out and killed some of us,” Dark says. “The Form Purpose called to the Fight Purpose for help. The Fight Purpose took claim.”

Light nods vehemently. “Witnessed, that.”

Doris finally draws an indignant breath. “Does this mean you’re blaming us? “

One of the big guards cuts her off. “DarkLight are kind,” he barks.

“Too much,” shrieks his companion. “Truth!”

I flinch. Coming from these two, the word “truth” sounds righteous and dangerous. Next thing I know they’re fighting each other, striking with their hands, dodging with the craziest limbo moves I’ve ever seen—their backbones are like water. It only lasts a second, but now I’m sure they could jump us any time.

“DarkLight, you and your Great Tree,” one of them says.

“No sense,” says the other. “These aliens talk, but you forget the most important test of new species. We must determine their value in Purpose.”

“Hear, hear,” says the first. “Humans, what is your Purpose?”

Doris tenses. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, to send a signal?” I’m guessing. “To talk? Um, to stay alive?”

“Careful, Lynn,” Doris murmurs. “We can’t trust them—they could well be messing with us. Who knows what they might really be after?”

“Purpose! Always, first and last,” says Light. Her eyes brighten, and the pebbly skin flexes above her eyes. “We pursue Purpose: Everything fits into the pattern.”

Dark echoes, “Pursue, pursue.”

Whatever Purpose is, they want it bad.

“Look here,” says Doris, clearing her throat. “I don’t see why this is any of your business. Let us call our people for help, and then we’ll talk.”

Dodge and Strike let out an eerie trilling sound. Dark and Light stare at me with their mouths open, and for the first time since they came in, all their little motions have stopped. Every vestige of cuteness is gone from their reptilian-mammal faces, and their white teeth are needle sharp. I think we’ve made a dangerous mistake.

I say quickly, “How about you tell us your purpose f rst? Tell us why you came to this planet.”

Everyone looks at me.

“What in hell are you thinking?” hisses Kenneth. “They’ll kill us—” But Dark and Light jump in the air and clap their hands together as if they’ve just scored points. “Tell our Purpose, oh yes,” says Light. She picks up the translator.

“Yes, yes,” says Dark. “Come to the Heart.”

I hope I haven’t done something fatally stupid. But even Dodge and Strike seem happy with the proposal; they come forward and give each of us individual force fields.

“Hmph,” says Doris, as they clip hers to her waist. “Not a bad idea, Lynn.”

“Thanks.”

Sung fiddles with his field generator. “This is one nice piece of tech. These guys are way ahead of us.”

Kenneth nods. “Imagine if we could crack one open and—” “No,” snaps Doris. “Don’t give them any reason to expect a look at our tech.” She comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Try to stay by me. They seem to expect you to back me up.”

I swallow. “Yeah, okay.”

I’m not comfortable with the force field—it feels wet on my face and hands—and I don’t have the nerve to match Dark and Light’s enthusiastic dives through the door. With a deep breath, I walk through.

My feet immediately float off the floor. We’re not in a pool—this is a water-filled tube of translucent material, about two bodylengths in diameter and seemingly endless. As we go, the tube widens and joins others, coming from left, right, above, and below. The junctions are marked with floating clusters of holographic symbols. Pairs of aliens swim near us, but none show any curiosity. They pass by in a rush of water, trailing colorful baubles from their patterned bodies, and disappear into rooms while we bob and spin in their wake. Every so often we pass glimmering room-sized bubbles with more alien pairs reclining inside them. One door, blue instead of gold, has multicolored fish swimming behind it.

Our guides move languidly, while the rest of us pant and struggle and need lots of breaks—there isn’t much swimming on K’s world. At last we reach a huge bright nexus where at least twenty tubes come together. Dark and Light swim upward to a force door surrounded by glowing symbols, and lead us through into breathable air. I switch off my force field.

“This is the Heart,” says Light.

Dark nods. “Truth! Come, come in.”

I’ll be damned. It’s an otter nightclub.

The room is big and shadowy, its curved walls almost invisible. To our left, alien couples recline together on curved interconnected couches, grooming each other or sleeping. On our right is the blue-glowing entrance to a room full of fish. Dark and Light lead us toward the dancers—more alien couples, each pair twisting and waving arms amidst a flashing spherical whirl of holographic confetti. The only thing that doesn’t seem to fit here is the low volume of the music, a weird undercurrent to the whistling chatter of alien voices.

I think we’re all too confused to speak. Even Doris, though she’s trying to look assertive by keeping us close behind our hosts’ tails. They lead us up to a dancing pair at the center of the room—two albinos, with white fur and pink skin. Both are wearing long earrings, but given their size difference, I’d guess they’re a male and a female.

As we reach them, Light turns and bobs her head at us. “These are BlueOrange, born of BlackWhite, PatternPurpose, who cut water among us.”

“Hail,” says Dark.

I hope the translator isn’t faltering. Dark and Light don’t interrupt the two albinos, but stand and wait. I’m scanning around for anything that looks like it could be hot-wired as a transmitter when Kenneth’s voice behind me hisses, “Guys. Tactile holograms.”

I frown at him, but he points me back toward the dancing aliens. It’s serious brain overload—Kenneth has a better eye for whirling, flashing lights—but then I glimpse something I can follow. The big albino makes a lightning snatch and catches a ball of light in his hand. As he pulls it toward him it flashes into a three-dimensional image, and he pokes at it, then passes it to the smaller one, who does the same before pushing it away, back into the whirl.

I glance at Sung. He’s watching, mouth open. No kidding—I’d give my eyeteeth to know how those things are generated!

Finally the big albino turns away from his images. His facial fur is dyed blue to match the color of his jingly earrings, while the skin above his eyes stands out in sagging lobes like pink fungus. “Well come, humans,” he says.

How does he know who we are?

“Speak, brother,” calls the smaller one, never stopping her dance.

He nods. “It is our joy to share our Purpose. This ship is named Star-Pattern-Celebration, following the Pattern Purpose before all others. We come to this planet, tracing a line of color in the great star pattern. Once here, we’ll celebrate together with the Form Purpose and the Performance Purpose, building and dancing. Then we’ll seek another path to continue the pattern.”

“Truth!” calls the small albino. “The great star pattern lives in four dimensions.”

I glance at Kenneth and Sung, but they look baffled.

“We don’t understand,” says Doris.

The aliens look at me again.

“What does that mean? “ I ask, and Doris gives me a satisfied nod. “I mean, to start with, what’s a pattern purpose?”

“Orange,” says the big albino.

“Here,” answers the small one. She jumps, catches an image, and pulls it down, turning toward us for the first time. Her facial fur is dyed orange, and she’s got lobes above her eyes, but less exaggerated, hardly protruding beyond her fur. She pokes the image she’s caught, and it expands in the air, to a sphere about a meter in diameter.

It’s a star map. A sophisticated one, with glowing symbolic notations hovering at its surface. The only regions I recognize are in the lower near quadrant—all non-Allied areas except for the K’s world system.

“Joy,” says Blue. “Watch the great star pattern.”

Orange nods, echoing, “Joy, joy!”

A star flashes near the center of the sphere, and glowing curved lines expand outward from it. When they hit star systems or planets they spark with colors, then continue onward and outward. Orange and Blue start dancing, Dodge and Strike clap rhythms as they watch, and Dark and Light burst into song—it’s strangely easy to get caught up in the blooming pattern, the alien rhythms, and the music. After some minutes, the very last line curves and curls into our system here, and the aliens fall silent.

Doris breaks the spell. “You honestly expect us to believe that you came to this planet for no better reason than to draw a gigantic picture?”

Spined, wrinkled, and lobed furry faces turn to me.

“Well?” I shrug. “Is it a picture?”

“Not a picture,” says Light.

And Dark, “No, no; a drive, a beauty.”

He can’t mean anything like FTL drive. “I don’t know,” I say, “but it is beautiful. And you have to admit, it’s awfully elaborate to be a lie.”

Sung nods. “She’s got a point. That pattern would take days to make, even just drawing it on a computer.”

“Decades,” adds Kenneth, “if they actually drew it with ships.” His eyes go wide. “That’s a huge territory.”

“You’re right, Kenneth.” Doris scowls. “The picture is a distraction; it’s why they’re trying to claim us that matters. These guys have impressive tech. They’ve killed enough of us to fit K’s world into their pretty pattern—they might consider forcing the whole Allied Systems to fit.”

Goddamn—am I supposed to back that up? I glance away from Doris’s pale determination and the inscrutable aliens, to my friends. Kenneth is wringing his hands, and even Sung looks worried. “Guys,” I say, “don’t you think this Purpose thing seems pretty vague? Wouldn’t they have told us if they wanted—”

Doris cuts me off before they can answer. “Lynn Gable. You’re an engineer. You don’t know anything but your numbers. I can understand you not seeing the bigger picture, but if you don’t see the need to pry past this front of childish enthusiasm, you’re an idiot.”

“Doris,” Kenneth objects, and Sung hisses in a breath.

Me, not seeing the bigger picture—what a load of crap! Here I thought she wanted me on her side! Dark and Light are staring at me, and my ears are burning. “But what if this was all a mistake? Shouldn’t we consider asking them to help us contact our people?”

Dodge and Strike interrupt, clapping their webbed hands sharply. “Purpose first.”

Light is calm, but firm. “LynnDoris, we’ve told you our Purpose, and now you must respect—” There’s a word in there that the translator can’t handle. “For one side, always the other to match.”

“Truth!” says Dark. “What is your Purpose?” They lean closer, while Dodge and Strike move in from behind like menacing shadows.

Oh shit. I started this tit for tat, and now we owe them. What if this question of Purpose is the only thing keeping them from wiping K’s world clean? I have to say something!

“My purpose—is my job,” I say. “Is that what you mean? I can draw pictures, too, you know—I have some in my computer, if you want to see. . . .”

“You’ll show them nothing!” Doris roars. A blur comes at my face—

6. Tsee

Violation!

Doris has hit Lynn, no chance to stop her, truth! SungKenneth leap forward but KirHaa leap too, faster. Lynn’s knees fail— “Chkaa!” I shriek. Holding the translator I’ve no hands, oh, oh!

Chkaa catches Lynn—relief—but KirHaa are already on Doris. Kir’s hand strikes; Haa’s foot sweeps, observed, and Doris lands wheezing on her back. KirHaa whirl around with whiskers extended, seeking more Purpose, certain, but SungKenneth don’t invite them. Instead they fall to their knees beside Doris, observed, and turn only twisted faces toward Lynn—perhaps too frightened to approach my brother.

“Enough!” “Resolved!”

Ah, the commanding voices of TsorrPfiirr PatternPurpose, welcome! With a shake of their ear chimes and a wave of their unpigmented hands, they stop us all at once.

“Hail, TsorrPfiirr,” I say.

And Chkaa, “Hail.”

I bow my head, respectful, pressing my shoulder to my brother’s beneath Lynn. Observed: She breathes, but she isn’t conscious. “We’ve made an error,” says Chkaa softly, “expecting apfaa between these two.”

I struggle not to fail my reply. The pattern we envisioned was so perfect, truth: two spacefaring races, each graced with apfaa as a foundation of their superior intelligence! I can’t ignore Chkaa’s reasoning, certainly—for if we maintain our vision, Doris has just indicted herself within it. But to deny the pattern—oh, how can we not pursue?—would be such a tragedy!

“Maybe,” I murmur at last. “Perhaps another one was the true apfaa, and she seeks healing with Doris, unsuccessful.”

Chkaa answers gravely. “Possible.”

KirHaa have also bowed their heads before TsorrPfiirr, observed, but their bodies are restless. “Hail,” they begin, but then Kir declares, “We’ve been invited in our Purpose.” “Witnessed,” chimes Haa. “Great Tree Purpose must now cede their claim to these creatures.”

I raise my head. “Untrue!”

“And unfair,” says Chkaa. “Doris invited, but you have already delivered her answer.”

“Witnessed!” I say. “It’s enough. She may be severed, and invite conflict blindly; we’ve seen her with a dead one of her species at her feet.”

And Chkaa, “Possible, as this was witnessed.”

Kir stamps his foot. “If she were severed, the other humans would never skim her wake, and yet they do.” Haa chimes, “Observed.”

“Not only hers,” I say. “SungKenneth also allow the one named Lynn to cut water.”

“Witnessed,” Chkaa agrees, nodding. “And these few look to still others to cut water—the ones they speak of contacting. They are not alone of their species.”

“Deduced.”

We speak too fast for the partially trained model projector, I think, or perhaps SungKenneth don’t understand what it tells them. Observed: They’re watching us with tension in their faces.

TsorrPfiirr take a step back, gazing at one another—hail!—deep in apfaa. Tsorr gives soft clicks of his tongue, pensive, while Pfiirr counterpoints, tapping her pale claw tips together. “In fact, Tsorr,” she says, “we’re cutting water when Cochee-coco discover another species in the great star pattern.” Tsorr purrs solemnly, “Witnessed. Enough argument. We should seek immediate consensus.” Says Pfiirr, “Resolved.”

Serious, that! I glance across Lynn to meet eyes with Chkaa; he’s worried, observed, and KirHaa seem nothing but eager, overtaken with the Martial Purpose.

Oh, hoped, if Lynn would only wake! Her unconscious body is a terrible accusation against Doris, even against her entire species. Doris hasn’t yet gained sufficient breath to speak, observed, but she is claimed by KirHaa, and will invite them again, likely enough—while SungKenneth, seemingly, are unwilling or afraid to speak for themselves. Our claim is in danger, truth!

TsorrPfiirr reach into their controls, swift, fishing out apfaa for the consensus: ones who cut water upon their ships, ones who direct the Form and Performance Purposes upon Star-Pattern-Celebration, one even from the Rodhrrrdkhi planet, found available for immediate witness. The faces of each apfaa hover in conjoined globes above TsorrPf iirr’s shoulders, observed, but they don’t speak. Their eyes still glance about to their own controls while they seek past witness to understand what has happened here.

“The test of a new species falls to consensus,” says Tsorr. And Pfiirr, “Not simply to the few.” Tsorr chimes, “Truth!” He waves his hand, observed, to us and to the consensus watchers. “The species, humans, possesses language.” Pfiirr adds, “First claim, ChkaaTsee TsaaTso GreatTreePurpose: witnessed.”

“Second claim, KirHaa MartialPurpose,” says Kir. “Witnessed,” chimes Haa.

TsorrPfiirr nod at them. “Yes,” says Pfiirr, shaking her blue ear chimes. “The second claim is also recognized.” Says Tsorr, “Truth! But our consensus does not trace claim; it evaluates this species’ capacity to grasp Purpose.” And Pfiirr, “Resolved. KirHaa, do you offer observations to serve the test?”

“Yes,” says Kir. “These creatures fight with no grace, no pattern, and no conviction.” “Witnessed,” says Haa. “They have the hysterical drive of panicked animals, but to our view they possess no Purpose.” And Kir, “No Purpose.”

Oh, how it makes me shiver, like a severing or a death!

The consensus listeners speak in shock, all at once. Pfiirr leaps swiftly to the controls, dexterous, untwining their voices.

“No Purpose?” “Awful!” “But they speak, which suggests intelligence.” “Truth!” “There must be another explanation.” “Surely; only on three planets have such impaired species been found.” “Not another impaired species!” “But your planet there is half breathed, its ice frozen underground.” “Truth—how could you find such creatures there?” “Certainly they are not native.” “Concurred, but how could they have arrived there?”

Tsorr speaks. “ChkaaTsee GreatTreePurpose say that these creatures are a spacefaring species.” “Witnessed,” agrees Pfiirr, “but it is not necessarily so.” Tsorr bends his nose to his claw tips and ruffles the fur of his broad white shoulders, observed. “They may be pets, kept in an enclosure on this planet by someone else.” Says Pfiirr, “Possible.”

Now Kenneth gets to his feet, observed, and cries out. Unfortunate: The model projector does not catch everything. “We are—not pets!”

I await Sung’s answer, but from the floor, Doris wheezes, “I knew it.”

More murmurs from the consensus listeners, observed. Chkaa looks at me—in his eyes, unmistakable, a call to notice that Sung and Kenneth may not be apfaa either. Oh, I take his meaning, certain, but if Sung won’t chime for Kenneth, I will—resolved.

“These creatures aren’t pets,” I say.

“Truth!” says Chkaa. “We’ve entered their halls; witness, all apfaa here, that the controls and accommodations in the edifice that the Form Purpose damaged are fitted to this species and no other.”

I nod and stamp my feet. “Witnessed.”

Among the consensus listeners, the apfaa from the Rodhrrrdkhi planet speaks, observed. “We agree that these are not pets.” “Indeed—yet if they direct themselves, travel through space, and yet have no Purpose, this is a catastrophe.” “Concurred.”

TsorrPfiirr look down at us, solemn. “To discover Purposeless spacefarers would be an unimagined circumstance,” says Pfiirr, and Tsorr, “Truth, that! It would require an unprecedented response.”

Oh, does Chkaa my brother feel in his heart the agony I now feel in mine? The three impaired species, each without the capacity for Purpose, caused great mourning, truth! Avoiding them changed the entire composition of the great star pattern. And now, shall such creatures travel into our pattern? Unthinkable!

“It can’t be,” I say.

“Surely,” says Chkaa. “For if they have no Purpose, how can they be spacefarers at all?”

“How indeed, brother?” I stamp feet, keeping my eyes up toward the consensus and away from KirHaa. “Theory suggests that spacefaring requires apfaa.”

“Speak, sister.”

“And even if this were not so, such advancement requires Purpose.”

“Surely!” chimes Chkaa. “For how could their artifacts and artificial atmosphere be created without Purpose?”

“How, how?”

Lynn stirs on our shoulders, observed, but doesn’t wake. Could she be a Purposeless entity, truly? Could she be so utterly alien? No, no! She is too sane to be severed, observed. Possible: She may be isolate. But not Purpose-less! That we have not discovered Purpose in humans means only that we have not yet seen it, resolved! We need more time, truth—Lynn would speak to us, but for now she cannot.

KirHaa aim blows at one another. “Look, all apfaa here,” chirps Kir, “No impaired species must be permitted to alter the great star pattern.” “Hear, hear,” Haa agrees.

Sounds of agreement come from the consensus listeners, unwelcome.

“Speak, KirHaa,” says Pfiirr, and Tsorr, “Speak.”

“Martial Purpose alone can stop this,” Kir whistles. “Resolved,” says Haa. “This much we have learned from our mistake: That humans are unable to shield from our weapons, and are easily eradicated.” Says Kir, “Witnessed.”

“Be patient,” says Tsorr. “This may be true—” “Possible,” chimes Pfiirr. “But such a mobilization of the Martial Purpose—” “Can be swift as snatching fish!” Kir declares, and Haa, “Resolved!”

Lynn moves on my shoulder, forcing me to rebalance—hope!—but she only takes a deeper breath and then subsides.

She still stands at the heart of this, decided. She tries to understand, truth—she speaks of Purpose when no one else does. If she is apfaa to Doris, to speak to her alone would be violation, awful! But if Chkaa is right—I relinquish my pattern, but save something more important, perhaps—and I still carry our model projector . . .

I turn with Lynn on my shoulder toward the door. Chkaa yips in surprise but follows, and soon we’re running. KirHaa come after us, observed—but they’re too late, Purpose-blind as they have been in their petition to the consensus. Chkaa activates Lynn’s bubble—just in time, truth!

We pierce the water.

7. Lynn

Ohhh my jaw hurts.

What happened? The whole world is moving—and why do I feel wet?

Holy shit! Otters!

I open my eyes, but can’t focus—too close. Something round is right beside my nose, a sphere with a pattern behind it, white and dark.

Dark.

That’s his fur. And those must be his hands under my arms; suddenly I’m sure that Light is right behind me. My heart pounds. Bubbles twirl past. I crane my neck and glimpse the water tunnel we’re in, just as a doorway field comes at us. The otters pull on my arms, flipping their hindquarters forward as we punch through—I’m going to fall on my stomach—!

I stumble onto a white surface, smooth and hard but uneven, it curves into crazy translucent shapes that fill half the room, as if we’ve been frozen inside a wave.

Why have they brought me here?

Knees quivering, I pull away and fumble off the nasty wet force field. Dark and Light chatter briefly at one another, then turn to look at me. Dark holds his whiskers forward; his peb bled brows drip water. Light steps to his side, her fur gleaming wet, her gold net swirling behind her. She sets down the translator dome and summons its holographic tree.

“Where is this place?” I ask.

Light pats the air with her hands. “We haven’t come far from the Heart. This is a room for Celebration of Form.”

And Dark, “Truth. We want to talk.”

I swallow hard. “Why did you bring me here? Please, take me back to the others.”

Light shakes her whiskers. “Please, please, Lynn. We need to talk to you. We’re trying to help you. The Fight Purpose want to claim humans.”

Dark gives a chirp. “Truth!”

“Like DodgeStrike?” My chest contracts. “Wait, what do you mean, humans? Do you mean, all humans?”

Light nods. “DodgeStrike argue that humans are a limited species without the capacity for Purpose.”

“Witnessed,” says Dark. “Our species always avoids such limited creatures.”

“Truth! If such creatures traveled the stars, they would create chaos in the great star pattern, and they must not do this.”

“Resolved!”

“So the Fight Purpose wishes to stop you.”

“Truth!”

“Unless, Lynn, you can tell us humans are capable of knowing Purpose.”

“I’m trying . . .” My sore head isn’t up to this; I sink down on the floor. Dark and Light follow me down with a liquid-backbone curl, landing on their stomachs.

“Please, Lynn,” Light says. “The dying of any of your species is not our wish.”

Dark echoes, “Please.”

I rub my face with both hands. “I told you my work was my Purpose. That’s not good enough for you?”

“Even species too limited for language can work,” says Light.

“Certain,” Dark agrees. “But work itself is not Purpose. Advanced species turn their work to serve Purpose.”

Light adds, “Truth.”

This is going to drive me crazy. “But I don’t know what you mean, so how can I answer? Why is this so important that DodgeStrike want war over it? What is Purpose, anyway?”

“Oh, sing, sing!” cries Light, and they both burst into song.

I watch helplessly until they stop.

Finally Light says, “Any creature with the capacity for Purpose can feel the call of many Purposes, but always one they will choose to answer.”

“Truth,” says Dark. “One Purpose above all that floats us higher. Purpose is our reason to live, to strive. The force behind all creation—this is Purpose.”

And Light adds, “Hail!”

No way. Could there be anyone less well qualified than me to discuss the meaning of the Universe? I search through every human spirituality I can think of, but how can I explain them? I have to, though—if I’m the only one standing between humanity and mass attack by these bizarre creatures who’ve just wiped us out!

Hyperventilating—my lips and fingertips are getting numb. The fact is, I can’t save the human race. I don’t know anything that would give all of humanity a purpose. All I really know is my numbers.

“Please ask someone else,” I say. “I can’t help you—I don’t even know if I believe in God. I just—” I clench my fists on my knees, feeling tears in my eyes. “Doris was right; I’m just an engineer. All I want to do is go back to my project—my machines and their beautiful numbers. They’re down there waiting for me. I built them the best protection I could, but they can still drift off course if we leave them too long. That’s all I care about right now.”

Silence.

When I look up, Light and Dark are staring at me, softly patting hands with one another. “Tell us more about your beautiful numbers,” says Light.

And Dark, “Tell how beautiful, tell why.”

“Please, oh, please.”

Oh, boy. I shouldn’t have mentioned the project—shouldn’t even have hinted at the existence of the array. But I’ve never seen these guys so intense. They obviously think I’ve said something important. If it means averting a war, how can I refuse to answer my favorite question in the world?

“It’s a question of numbers converging,” I say, hoping the translator can keep up. “You know those pictures I told you about? They’re a graphic, um, picture simulation of two massive number sets coming together.” I hold out my open hands, cradling one set lovingly in each, closing my eyes to savor their colors, their flavor, and complexity. “The planet conditions here. The array function over here. And then—then it gets awesome.”

Dark and Light start this weird purring sound.

As I bring my hands together slowly I can see it in my head, like falling in love with the project all over again. “Here’s the thing. If you shoved them together, they’d crash. All the effects would be lost. But if instead you slide them into each other slowly—you intertwine the ice trees, and the microvortices in the atmosphere—of course, it requires a special variety of chaotic responsiveness, that was the fundamental breakthrough—then you can magnify the effect exponentially! Eventually, the colors won’t just be in the simulation. They’ll color the whole planet blue and green. Imagine it.” My throat tightens up. “God—we have to keep it running! Somehow—though with all our crew lost . . .”

I hear a long, trilling whistle. It’s Light. She says softly, “Purpose . . .”

“Truth, sister,” Dark answers. He and Light stand up and shake from nose to tail, fur rippling, and start tapping rhythms with their web-toed feet.

Light cries, “Hail the Great Tree!”

“Hail!” echoes Dark, and next thing I know they’ve picked me up, one on each arm, and they’re dancing me in a circle.

“Whoa—stop, you’re making me dizzy!”

Light stops with her black nose right beside mine; her whiskers tickle my cheek.

“You’ve shown us your Purpose,” she says. Her chuckling speech comes from her throat, but the translation comes out lower: It’s the necklace that’s been localizing the translation. That thing has more functions than I thought.

Her brother declares, “Truth, witnessed! You are of the Great Tree Purpose, just like us.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know—”

“Listen,” says Light. “All who pursue the Great Tree Purpose know this: As each unit enters a pattern, always that pattern forms a unit on a larger scale. If you can speak of ice trees, and change patterns in atmospheres, you know this also.”

“Observed,” Dark agrees.

Unbelievable. Their Great Tree—it’s fractal structure? It has to be; it’s staring right at me, in the holographic translator, the cloud ship, the very shape of this room.

“Okay, I see it.” I frown. “But that isn’t Purpose, is it?”

“The Great Tree is only the particular nature of our Purpose,” says Light. “Purpose is seeing the beauty of that nature—the instinct that drives us to create, to pursue, pursue.”

“And drives you also,” says Dark.

“Witnessed!” Light declares. “Let’s return to the consensus.”

“Resolved.”

We find the others waiting: Sung frowning; Kenneth white-knuckled; Doris trying to shrug off the unforgiving grip of Dodge and Strike; Blue and Orange standing in the midst of a holographic array of alien faces. Every one of them watching us.

Light activates the translator dome, and she and Dark bow their heads, saying in unison, “Hail, BlueOrange.”

“So,” says Blue. “We see that the minds of humans are capable of understanding Purpose.”

“Witnessed.” That’s not just Orange answering, but all of them—Dodge, Strike, and the stranger otters too.

Witnessed?

Doris growls, her face flushed with rage. “Damn you, Lynn Gable—I’ll have your head for this breach of contract! You’ll never receive clearance anywhere again.”

When I look at the guys in horror, Sung murmurs, “We heard everything.”

“What? Everything?!”

“Handing Terrafirm’s proprietary information over to aliens, “ Doris snarls. “And now that I know who hacked our systems, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

I gulp. “Doris, they were going to declare war—” “Our security has been compromised. I’m shutting down the project.”

Kenneth bursts out, “No!”

“You can’t do that.” “Truth!”

That wasn’t Sung.

Light stamps her feet. “The claim to this project is not yours, Doris,” she says. “It belongs to Lynn GreatTreePurpose.”

“It belongs to the late Doctor Kasemsarn and Terrafirm, Incorporated,” says Doris.

Dark snuffs indignantly. “To Lynn GreatTreePurpose, witnessed,” he says. “But if Doris wishes, then she may ask to trace the claim.”

Light nods. “Do, do.”

Orange sorts through holographic shapes and fishes out two closely conjoined spheres, exactly like the images of the otters above her head. I see Dark and Light, one in each sphere; my own head floats in the intersection of the two. My face grimaces, and words come from my mouth.

All I want is to go back to my project—my machines and their beautiful numbers. They’re down there waiting for me. I built them the best protection I could, but they can still drift off course if we leave them too long. That’s all I care about right now.

Orange says, “This is the first statement. There is no witness of prior claim.”

Blue turns to Doris. “Truth, that! If you wish to dispute, you must prove your Purpose upon the project. Show us that you pursue.”

“Show, show,” Orange agrees. “Explain the beauty of this project from the eyes of your Purpose, as Lynn has done.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Doris. “Dr. K was the expert, and you killed him.”

“Then you have no claim,” says Blue.

“Truth,” says Orange. “The project belongs to Lynn GreatTreePurpose.”

“Witnessed.”

Doris flushes red. “This is outrageous! I’ll have Terrafirm on all of you for this, and anyway, you’ll find there is no project. You killed it when you killed everyone with your stupid mistake—four people on Base isn’t enough, no matter how much Lynn thinks she knows.”

Doris is right. I hold out my hands to Blue and Orange, and the alien faces above their heads. “Please—can you help us? Do you have a transmitter we could modify?” I suspect transmitting to Terrafirm will be the easy part—knowing what to say will be much harder.

A webbed hand touches my left shoulder and Light peers into my face. “You may call for help,” she says.

“Certainly,” agrees Dark from my right, “but for now the Great Tree Purpose can mobilize to skim your wake.”

I blink at them. “When you say mobilize, do you mean—”

Light holds up one hand. “Possible,” she says, nodding toward the albinos and the holographic witnesses. “If other Purposes do not wish to contest the claim.”

Blue shakes his head so his earrings jingle. “The Pattern Purpose is already satisfied in its pursuit, for we have touched the planet.”

“Truth, that!” says Orange, and turns her face upward. “Let the Form Purpose and Performance Purpose speak claim if they wish.”

“The Performance Purpose maintains claim without dispute,” comes a voice, one of two aliens with thin parallel ridges above their eyes. Its twin adds, “Resolved. Our dance celebration can go forward without harming the Great Tree Purpose.”

Another pair speaks. “We speak for the Form Purpose,” says one, and the other, “Truth. Why not pursue as we began, upon the existing structure?” “Hear, hear. In this way the human breath-bubble may be restored, and the structure be improved as a fitting monument to Form.” “Proposed.”

Orange and Blue don’t look for my approval, but give a decisive nod. Looks like there’s some kind of party coming, and Base will probably never be the same—but it’s clear the aliens are helping us now, and I really like the human breath-bubble part. Remodel or not, life gets a hell of a lot easier if Base is livable until Terrafirm gets here.

Blue announces, “Resolved!”

“The consensus is released,” says Orange. She waves an arm and the holographic faces shrink back into the whirl.

My eyes and temples ache after too much input. “What do we do now?” I ask. “How long until we can get started?”

“We can start now, swift as snatching fish!” says Dark.

“Witnessed!” cries Light with a delighted trill. She pats the sphere at her neck. “Oh Lynn, the creation of a living planet, what a sparkling project for the Great Tree Purpose, a jewel in the great star pattern.”

“Truth,” Dark agrees. “Tell us how to begin.”

“Tell us.”

With Doris giving me the look of death, I can’t answer. “Uh—can I talk to the guys for a minute first?”

“Yes.” “Certain.”

I try to take Sung and Kenneth aside, but Dark and Light are following us. “Privately?” I ask.

Dark extends his whiskers. “Why?”

“Yes, why?” asks Light. “Why would you endanger your claim to ideas by expressing them without witness?”

“Oh, dear God,” says Kenneth.

“Lynn,” murmurs Sung, “what have you just gotten us into?”

I swallow hard. “Look, I don’t know—but it’s not a war, and right now we need their help. Don’t we?”

Kenneth takes a deep breath. “I guess we do. Of course, when Terrafirm gets here we’ll be in a royal mess.”

Sung nods. “And then come the diplomats.”

“Yeah, well—I guess we deal with those guys when they get here.” What matters right now is that we can pursue a common purpose: restore our Base and honor the work of our lost colleagues by keeping the numbers flowing, painting the barren dust, creating a work of art unlike anything the Universe has ever seen. I look around at them all: Kenneth, Sung, Dark, and Light. We need every member of this team. “So,” I say, “let’s go find ourselves a shuttle.”

The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll see a real cloud.

Copyright © 2010 Juliette Wade