Hellspark (17 page)

The design—for design it was, she realized—caught her eye and held it: three rich red-purple leaves from a flames-of-Veschke, their spear-head shapes rising from the container, each higher than the last; a single intricate piece of arabesque vine bound them loosely and wove its way down to a tiny knot of penny-Jannisetts…

Like light sculpture, but done in plants! Buntec had never seen anything like it. She rose, intending to take a closer look.

“No,” said Edge-of-Dark, “it is to be seen from a distance; we call that naoise-style

.”

“Is it something you invented?”

“No, of course not. Flower art isn’t done on your world? It’s very common on mine. Not everyone is good at it, but everyone does it.”

Buntec, her attention torn between the flower art and the food, said, “Jannisett’s a farm world.

We grow a lot of plants inside, especially the flowering ones, but nobody ever thought of doing anything like that! And it sounds to me as if you’re talking about more than one kind of flower art, like different schools of light sculpture.”

“I wasn’t, but there are. Within each school, there is a viewing-distance factor. For example, joliffe flower art, no matter what school, would be something we’d place in the center of this table, to be viewed at this particular distance;

joliffe-che would be a composition to be seen from all sides at this distance.”

Buntec said, “You must be a grand master, or whatever is the appropriate term.”

“Thank you,” said Edge-of-Dark, “but I’m scarcely more than an occasionally inspired amateur.

If you like that, you really should see the works of Shadow-Blue or Spite-the-Devil. They are grand masters!”

Edge-of-Dark lifted one of the as yet untouched plates of food and offered it; Buntec took some. As she chewed it slowly, trying to figure out what the aftertaste reminded her of, Edge-of-Dark said, “Flashfever opens up a whole new world of flower art. If only I could find some way to keep frostwillow or flashgrass or Christopher-bangs fresh, the sounds and lights would add a completely new dimension to a piece! But that’s hardly as simple as putting penny-Jannisetts in water…”

“But that should be easy!” said Buntec.

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“

Easy

?”

“Sure, all you’d have to do is—” Buntec, excited by the idea herself, launched into a highly technical description of how it could be done. Somewhere in the middle of it, she realized that Edge-of-Dark wasn’t following her. “Sorry,” she said, “it is easy, though. I’ll make you some little things you could kind of plug the frostwillow or whatever into. Movable, so you can put them in the right place.” She swung her broad hand, “And for the drunken dabblers, we can build a fountain—recycle the water but move it fast enough to keep them alive and healthy.”

Grinning, Buntec spread flattened hands. “I think I’d better calm down. I’m not paying the food the attention it deserves. I’m sorry if I sound like a little kid who’s just discovered outdoors.”

She looked

again at the work of art that graced the corner table and shook her head in amazement. “I never saw botanical art before and it’s—” The thought struck with the force of a blow. Unable to complete the sentence, Buntec let her jaw drop and stared…

“Buntec? Is something wrong? You have the oddest look on your face. Is the food all right?

Buntec!”

“

Wrong

!” said Buntec, hard put to keep from bellowing the news: “Everything’s perfect

!

Everything’s wonderful

! We’re geniuses, you and I!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Edge-of-Dark, think of the damn sprookjes—swift-Kalat has that fruit without seeds. He says it’s a biological artifact. Well—

hell

!—if the sprookjes have biological artifacts, what kind of art do you suppose they’d have?”

Grinning, Buntec waited. Edge-of-Dark did not disappoint her—the Vyrnwyn’s face lit once more in that beautiful glowing smile—and she whispered back, “Biological art. Botanical art. Flower art.”

Astonishment mingled with delight, Edge-of-Dark half rose, “We’ve been looking for the wrong things!

We must tell everyone… !”

“Down, girl,” said Buntec, “first things first.” Choosing another red curl, she scooped paste and, this time, brought it to her mouth without incident. “Well,” she said, grinning in triumph, “as you say, perfection never lasts… but it sure oughtn’t go to waste! First, we eat—

then we wise up the yokels!”

ITH THE STORM now raging overhead, Maggy judged it time to move the arachne out of danger. As the discussion she monitored through Alfvaen’s handheld made it clear that swift-Kalat intended to dissect one of the golden scoffers, her choice of shelter was obvious. She couldn’t watch and record the dissection through the hand-held, only through the eye of the arachne.

She scratched politely at the entrance to swift-Kalat’s cabin; behind her a flash of lightning made her acutely aware that human politeness was often at odds with survival. She stored that observation to look into at some later time, while she attempted to calculate the effect of an
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unannounced entry.

Alfvaen saved her the trouble by splitting the membrane. “Hello, Maggy,” she said, “come on in.” A

second jagged fork of lightning ripped through the air behind her. Having been invited, Maggy bent the arachne’s legs and sprang it to safety. There were only two mobiles, after all, and she wouldn’t be able to watch a thing if something happened to this one—a least, until she could send another down.

“Hello,” Maggy said in return, responding from the hand-held. “Is that correct, Alfvaen? I thought in

GalLing’ you say hello only when you first meet. Or is that a holdover from Siveyn custom?”

Alfvaen glanced down at the unit on her hip and made a noise that Maggy tentatively interpreted as not understanding. To test the interpretation, she elaborated, “I’ve been listening to your discussion; for some time now.”

“Oh,” said Alfvaen—in a tone that conveyed sufficient confirmation for Maggy to tag the previous noise as understood. “You’re right. But you haven’t said anything through the hand-held for hours, so I

thought you’d gone away.” She cocked her head to one side and stared directly at the arachne. “I guess

I’m not used to the fact that you can be in two places at once. The arachne makes your presence more visible somehow, solider, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” said Maggy, “I’m sorry, Alfvaen, but I don’t understand.”

Swift-Kalat, who up to this point had merely watched the two of them, said, “The human eye is automatically drawn by the movement of the arachne. Were the arachne still, and silent, we would be inclined to forget your presence, as Alfvaen did with the hand-held monitor.”

“Oh,” said Maggy, employing the same tone she had heard from Alfvaen only moments before.

“The arachne seems more of a discrete entity?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Alfvaen. “After all, it’s dripping on the rug.”

Clearly, that was construed as impolite; yes, except when she was very excited, Tocohl toweled off carefully on entering a shelter. “I’m sorry,” Maggy said, dipping the arachne in the bow of apology

Tocohl had taught her, “I hope I haven’t given offense.”

“None given, none taken,” Alfvaen said, “but let me find something to dry you off with.”

Given Alfvaen’s greeting and explanation of it, given also the way Maggy’s voice seemed to startle

Alfvaen whenever it issued from the hand-held, given this new use of “dry you off” that unmistakably meant the arachne, Maggy concluded that it was convention to think of the mobile as the whole.

Accordingly she said, this time using the vocoder in the arachne, “If I understand you correctly, you would be more comfortable if I spoke from here?”

“I would,” Alfvaen admitted. “It’s not so much of a surprise that way.—Ah.” She pointed and swift-Kalat, who had been watching their exchange with evident interest, turned, reached for a towel, and brought it to Alfvaen.

Kneeling, Alfvaen held it out. Maggy sent the arachne to her as gingerly as its mechanisms would permit, to avoid further dripping. When it was within reach, Alfvaen said, “May I?”

Tocohl would have categorized that as Dumb Question. “I can’t do it myself,” Maggy said, but because it was Alfvaen who asked, she simultaneously checked the odd usage. Concluding that Alfvaen had intended to be polite, she immediately added, “Oops. You meant to be polite, didn’t you? I’m sorry again, Alfvaen.”

“No offense,” Alfvaen said as she toweled the arachne briskly. “Yes, I meant it to be polite.”

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Maggy turned and tilted it to expose its various surfaces. Scraping mud from its legs, Alfvaen said, “Stop being sorry, though. Your use of ‘oops’ was absolutely perfect.”

She cast a quick glance upward at swift-Kalat. “Maggy learns,” she explained, “so it helps to tell her when she does something right, not just when she does something wrong. Just like any kid.”

She smiled directly at the arachne’s lens. “In fact, like most you get a rather low-angle view of everything. Why don’t

I put you on the table where you can see something besides feet?”

“Yes, please. If swift-Kalat won’t mind?”

“I don’t mind—” swift-Kalat began. Alfvaen lifted the arachne. “Where would you like to be, Maggy?” she asked.

“Where I may watch and record swift-Kalat’s dissection of the golden scoffer.”

Alfvaen set the arachne on the table, giving it a clear view of the small furry cadaver. Maggy shifted it slightly, to avoid obstructing swift-Kalat’s work with its shadow, and settled the arachne with its legs folded.

“Maggy,” said swift-Kalat, “I would appreciate some information.”

“I have tapes of an animal not in your computer’s memory,” she offered, “I recorded it in the flashwood at the perimeter of the camp. I will transfer them if you wish.”

“You are in two places at once!” said Alfvaen.

“Four places,” Maggy corrected, to set the record straight.

Swift-Kalat said, “Yes, I would like you to transfer your record, but I meant a request for specific information from you.”

“I’ll answer as reliably as I can.”

“Please understand that I mean no offense. I do not know what culture you belong to or I would avoid the known taboos.”

“Hellspark, I think,” Alfvaen said.

“Yes, that’s right,” Maggy confirmed, “Hellspark is the culture I’m most familiar with. I have a good working knowledge, Tocohl says, of the Jannisetti, the Sheveschkemen, the Holyani, the Dusties—”

Laughing, Alfvaen held up her hands. “Enough, Maggy. You’re definitely Hellspark.” To swift-Kalat, she added, “Her Siveyn is very good, and her knowledge of Jenji is better than mine—she has the vocabulary at her command; I don’t.”

“I can look things up faster than you can, Alfvaen, and I don’t have to worry about where to stand.”

“You’re sweet, Maggy.”

“Am I? Tocohl says I’m a pain in the butt.”

“It is possible to be both.”

“Oh,” said Maggy, and filed that for future reference. “What information do you request, swift-Kalat?

I apologize for having strayed from the subject.”

He paused. Maggy recognized this only because Tocohl had given both her and Alfvaen training in the timing of responses in Jenji. This was, for Jenji, too long a pause; Maggy inferred that he was having trouble framing his question.

At long last, he said, “Maggy, how old are you?”

That was an oops, thought Maggy, that implies he thinks I’m a child, and a Hellspark one too.

Tocohl had told her not to tell people she was an extrapolative computer, but this was a Jenji asking, and

Tocohl had also made a point of telling her not to lie to Jenji. Tocohl was busy or she would have asked

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Tocohl what to say. As it was, she balanced odds one way, then another, and decided that swift-Kalat had hired them both. So she shouldn’t lie to him, even if she had permission to lie to Alfvaen about the judgeship. Alfvaen was likely to correct his impression, anyway, so Maggy had better find a way to do so politely. She took a nanosecond more to search through all she knew of the Jenji…

Alfvaen said, “Oh, no! Maggy’s n—”

That would have been impolite, the way Alfvaen was headed. Maggy interrupted, “I was manufactured eight standard years ago, thirteen and a half Jenji, but Tocohl says I’m only three standard.”

Alfvaen closed her mouth, peered curiously at the arachne. “Why three standard, did she say?”

Maggy would have replied with Tocohl’s own words had they not been in Hellspark. Instead she translated: “Because that’s when I started mouthing off.”

Tocohl sat at a large table in the common room, Om im beside her. To another Bluesippan, the blade offer and acceptance needed no announcement; that he sat at her left hand and thus guarded her unprotected side would have been enough. The surveyors took it for simple gallantry.

As a handful of others, among them John the Smith and Rav Kejesli, approached the table, Tocohl said softly in Bluesippan, “Don’t let your instincts run away with you, Om im. I won’t take a parting of blades for a threat—at least, not yet.” She had asked him about the Inheritors of God but, to his knowledge, no one on the team was a believer in the faith. Aside from that, she was not yet ready to jump at shadows.

“I know, Ish shan,” he said, “and John the Smith will be the first. I guarantee that, and I guarantee my own judicious behavior.”

“Good,” she said, “I can’t stand the sight of blood.—Why John the Smith?” But the question came too late for Om im’s answer for the party was already in hearing.

John the Smith promptly answered the question in his own way by attempting to draw a chair between Tocohl and Om im. He was Sobolli—of course!—his status accorded him a place to the left of the one he addressed. Om im took it well; as promised he did not take the action as a threat, he merely closed in on Tocohl and doggedly refused to relinquish his position to John the Smith.