Chaining the Lady (5 page)

–knyfh, etamin, weew–

‰detail?‰

*(percen, your elements are misformed)*

%? sorry, recent recombination confuses%

/if we are finished with the personal hygiene/

–etamin agent discovered and circumvented by locals this indicates that natives are aware of our purpose and are attempting to prevent our knowing
they
know no real problem as we have alerted our discovered agent, but any spread of resistance would be awkward knyfh is sophisticated magnetic culture resembling % status there uncertain bears scrutiny lest they countertrap us at moment of action weew may be a misreport investigation proceeding–

%no adverse indications from lodo or bhyo? These also are formidable center-galaxy cultures%

–no adverse indications suggest delay of overt strike until investigations completed primarily knyfh–

*concurrence?*

–/%CONCURRENCE–/%

*POWER*

–/%CIVILIZATION%/–

* * *

The door-panel slid open and she stepped into a hall. A human man stood there. Sure enough, as Yael had reassured her, he did not leap to impregnate her, though he looked as though the notion had crossed his mind.

“Greetings, Mistress Melody,” he said. “You have adapted very well. Do not be afraid; we shall take good care of you.”

The information was in her mind, but Melody hardly cared to delve through the layers of cultural meaning. She spoke silently to Yael: “Why does he call me 'mistress'? Why does he think I am afraid?”

“I don't know,” Yael admitted. “Unmarried girls and Miss, and Mistress means a concubine.”

“He'd going to impregnate us!” Melody cried, alarmed.

“He wouldn't dare. All we have to do is scream.”

So the Solarians did use sound for defense, just as Mintakans did. “How would a scream stop him?”

“Other men would come.”

“Because
they
wanted to be first to do the impregnation?”

“To enforce the law. Alien transferees aren't supposed to be molested.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I was afraid–”

“But now I remember,” Yael interrupted. “Mistress also mean a rich lady, or maybe even a child, I think.”

“Or an alien lady?”

“Maybe.”

So the address confused the native too. Odd note. How had the Solarians achieved such galactic influence when their language suffered from such imprecision? But she knew the answer: a thousand years ago Sphere Knyfh had brought the secret of transfer to Sol instead of to one of the larger spheres, for reasons that were opaque to those other spheres, and this had given Sol a phenomenal start. But Sphere Sol had not been able to handle galactic matters effectively; thus the fringe planet of Outworld, which possessed strong Polarian currents, had moved into prominence. Outworld's system of Etamin had taken over the segment without ever forming a sphere; perhaps that was one reason the spheres were willing to accede to it. Outworld's interest was the segment, nothing else. If the segment fell apart, Outworld would be nothing.

The man guided her to a larger chamber set with plush chairs contoured for Solarian torsos. “Sit down, my dear,” he said. “The Colonel will arrive in a moment.”

Melody plumped down. The man looked away.

“Better close your legs,” Yael advised.

“Legs? Why? They're comfortable.”

“The dress—it spreads when you sit, so he can see up inside your thighs. That's not supposed to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it—he–it just isn't–”

“Girl, you're dischordant!” Melody was aware that she was invoking another imprecision of the language; to her a musical chord was good and a dischord unpleasant, but the human “discord” was unrelated. Well, she could not be held responsible for the inadequacies of human speech. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Yael was obviously embarrassed; Melody felt her reactions. “When a man sees up a girl's legs, he gets all excited, unless he's a doctor. Same as when he sees into her blouse. Sex, you know.”

“Oh, that's right! Solarians are sexed entities,” Melody said, remembering. She had been acutely conscious of this all along, yet had overlooked it because she had been thinking in terms of mammaries. “They cover themselves so carefully to avoid visual stimulation.” She pulled her legs together.

“Didn't you know?” Yael asked, surprised. “You were so worried about impregnation–”

Melody was amazed. “You mean sex is connected with impregnation?”

“Well of course!” Yael laughed with embarrassment. “How else can–”

“Do you know, I never really made the connection?” Melody said. “I knew the sight of mammaries caused the male to impregnate the female, but the concept of sexuality itself—I mean as an aspect of looking at the genital organs—well, Mintakans are basically neuter, and the genitals are always exposed. We don't have sex play in that sense.”

Now Yael was amazed. “Then how do you—make more Mintakans?”

“We bud them, of course. Gender has nothing to do with it, except as gender is affected
by
reproduction. And most buds are produced by paired males.” Then, as an afterthought: “But if seeing up legs has the same effect as seeing mammaries, I'll certainly keep my legs covered. Why didn't you choose a longer skirt?”

“Well, a girl wants to have
some
sex appeal.”

“I don't understand that at all!”

“I don't understand Mintakan sex either.”

“But I explained it!” Obviously the girl's limitation of intellect was the problem here. “Still, I should have grasped the pervasiveness of human sexuality from my Tarot studies. This shows how ignorant an entity can be, despite intensive study.”

“But aren't you female? Transfer can't change sex.”

“I am female
now.
However, if–”

“I'm getting confused again.”

The Colonel arrived: old, brisk, suave, sure. “So the little girl is with us at last,” he remarked, glancing down at Melody. “Orderly, fetch some ice cream.”

“Little girl?” Yael inquired internally. She had no voice except when Melody expressly facilitated it. “My body is twenty years old.”

“That's only two and a half Mintakan years,” Melody told her. “I'm four times your age, chronologically.” Then she did a human double take. “Ten Mintakan years—they forgot to make the translation!”

“You mean your years are longer that ours?” Yael inquired.

“Eight times as long, dear. I am referring to your standard Solarian years; I think there is another ratio for Outworld years.”

“There is. But we standardized on Sol, finally, because the Outworld year is thirty years and it gets confusing.”

“Precisely. There has to be standardization. I'm an old neuter. Eighty Solarian years, two and a half Outworld years. But here's the humor:
they think I'm a child of ten Earth years.
”

Yael began to laugh, and Melody joined her. Then it became overt. They laughed out loud.

“Are you all right?” the Colonel inquired, concerned.

“Where's my ice cream?” Melody demanded, stifling further laughter for the moment. “I want my ice cream!”

“It's coming,” the Colonel said. “Now I want you to understand several things, Melody. First, we are at war, but our own government doesn't know it yet. I am acting in a private capacity, and we cannot tell even our own segment ministers. It's a big secret, you see. Do you understand that?”

“No,” Melody said honestly enough. How could the segment be at war without the ministers knowing it? How could a Solarian officer, and not one of the highest ones, if she comprehended military rankings at all, keep secrets from his own superiors? It was nonsensical.

“We will return to that later,” the Colonel said. “We never would have required the service of a person your age if we were not desperate. But we are doing all we can to protect your identity. Once the enemy gets at our Population files–” He shook his head. “The point is, you have the highest Kirlian aura ever measured. Do you comprehend the significance of that?”

“My ice cream is coming,” Melody said promptly.

The officer rolled his human eyeballs expressively upward. “Er, yes. Momentarily. Uh, Melody, the Society of Hosts forbids the exploitation of children, so they have no child-hosts. And it is essential that we work through the Society. That's why we had to transfer you to the body of a young woman. This body is larger and more, er, mature than you are accustomed to, quite apart from the change in species. When we get a dispensation through the Society, we'll retransfer you to a more appropriate host. I apologize for the uh, awkwardness.” His eyes strayed to her legs, which had fallen apart again.

Melody snapped them shut. “I want to go home,” she said, screwing up her human face to its version of misery. She was beginning to enjoy this.

“I wish you'd stay,” Yael said wistfully. “You're putting that officer through hoops! I'd never have the nerve.”

But the Colonel was talking again. “We can't send you home yet, Melody. We are at war. Secretly. It is a crisis. Now first you'll have to join the Society of Hosts.”

Melody pouted. “No.”

Yael objected. “You
have
to join the Society! You're a transferee!”

“Where's my ice cream?” Melody demanded. And privately to Yael: “That ice cream had better be good. Exactly what
is
it?”

The Colonel signed, expelling wind through his mouth in a manner impossible to a Mintakan. He made a gesture with his hand, and the orderly entered, bearing a covered tray.

“It's fattening,” Yael said.

Melody worked that out rapidly. It seemed slenderness was a desirable physical quality, and what they fed children made the body grow. She didn't want to degrade her host's body.

“Here is your ice cream,” the Colonel said, forcing a smile.

Melody peered at it. It was a whitish mass of cold substance in a flat dish. Not at all like Mintakan food. “No.”

“What?” the Colonel asked, startled.

“Eat it yourself,” Melody said.

The man's brow furrowed. “You wish me to eat your ice cream?”

“You can't do that!” Yael protested. “He's almost a
general
!”

“Yes,” Melody said aloud. Childhood had its privileges.

“Then will you cooperate?” the Colonel inquired wearily.

“I want to go home!”

The Colonel took the dish and began spooning the noxious substance into his mouth. “Uh, takes me back thirty years,” her remarked around melting cream. “Now about the Society of Hosts–”

“They can have some ice cream too,” Melody said brightly. It should not require much more of this to convince them to send her right back to Mintaka.

The Colonel grimaced. He leaned over and touched a button. “SOH rep to office,” he snapped.

“I think he called your bluff,” Yael said nervously. “He's just buzzed the Society of Hosts.”

Almost immediately a creature appeared in the doorway. “Circularity,” it said. It resembled a large blob with a tapering trunk above and large ball below.

“A Polarian!” Melody exclaimed internally.

“I am Fltosm,” it said, buzzing its trunk-ball against its own hide.

“Hello, Flotsam,” Melody greeted it.

“Have some ice cream, comrade,” the Colonel said.

“If you will place a quantity on the floor,” the Polarian suggested, indicating with its speech-ball where the appropriate place for such a deposit would be.

The Colonel poured a little melted ice cream on the floor. The Polarian rolled over it several times. The cream adhered to its wheel and was drawn up inside its wheel-housing. “Very good,” it said.

The Colonel turned to Melody. “Now if you are satisfied...”

“I want to go home,” Melody repeated.

“You are very clever, Matriarch,” Fltosm said, glowing.

Melody grimaced. “You solved the conversion!”

“Circularity.”

The Colonel looked around. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” Melody said. “What are the advantages to membership in the Society of Hosts?”

“It is essential to our war effort,” the Colonel exclaimed. “We can't trust any other–”

“In a moment,” the Polarian interposed neatly. “Matriarch, the home-body of the transferee must not be neglected. It must be occupied and exercised regularly, lest the synapses become detuned. Were an entity to remain in transfer for a period as long as a Sol-year without accommodation for its own body, that body would become unsalvageable, and the entity's aura would accelerate decay. The two are linked, always—aura and body—in fact they are one, mere aspects of the wheel of life. Separation is deleterious.”

“The wheel of life!” Melody repeated, thinking of the Tarot Trump titled the Wheel of Fortune. That was naturally the way a Polarian would think. “Flotsam, you make unholy sense. The Society of Hosts takes care of hosts—and of transferees too. But I'm not going to be in transfer long, so I am ill-behooved to join.”

“Circularity.”

The human officer puffed up. “See here, are you
agreeing
with her?” he demanded of the Polarian. “You know the vital importance to our galaxy of–”

“The interest of the individual is paramount,” Fltosm replied, vibrating its ball apologetically against the bulging expanse of its lower torso.

“But we
need
her!” the colonel said. “She has an aural intensity of two hundred twenty three, the highest ever measured. With our own government infiltrated by hostages–”

Yael was amazed. “Two hundred and twenty-three times normal? It's impossible!”

“The aura is possible,” Melody informed her. “My cooperation may not be.” Then, aloud: “Flotsam, I like your Polarian logic. Will you assist me in returning to my natural state?”