Hellspark (24 page)

“All right,” said Tocohl, “now that we’ve got our trusty native guide, let’s get this expedition off the ground, shall we?”

Buntec said, “I think you’re crazy, Hellspark, but at least you picked one that doesn’t talk back—not to us. You just made Timosie’s day in more ways than one.” She turned to her instruments, adding over her shoulder, “Give a holler if your fine-feathered friend gets too hopped up. I’ll take this as slow and easy as I can.”

Swift-Kalat was pleased. Within minutes after he had removed the wrappings from the corpses of the golden scoffers, the first sprookje to see them—his own, in fact—had nipped each of them in turn. The first it had bitten twice, each of the others only once, as if extrapolating from the first.

He placed the bitten corpses into sterile boxes. In a few days, he’d know whether or not the sprookjes themselves were the source of the garbage plants. Whether or not that datum would make a difference to the survey team, he had no idea.

Layli-layli calulan

’s reasoning seemed farfetched but he was not one to ignore any theory without good cause. If the sprookjes were consciously injecting the garbage plants into all the human debris to cleanse their world of human-borne poisons, might they not also wish to cleanse their world of the human intruders as well?

Stacking the boxes, he paused to consider the sprookje and found it watching the arachne.

The arachne, oddly enough, had skittered from one end of the table to the other. There it crouched, then suddenly shot up to its full height, crouched a second time, and skittered the length of the table once more. His first thought was that something had gone wrong with it but, no, its movements were too purposeful…

“Maggy… ?” he began; so did the sprookje.

The arachne sprang once more to full height, startling the sprookje back in mid-query.

“I wanted to see if I could get it to notice the arachne.” The voice from the vocoder sounded pleased. “It did.”

Swift-Kalat suddenly regretted that he had not called another surveyor to record for him.

However well Maggy recorded the sprookjes, the film would not include her own behavior which, to him, was equally intriguing. Then he remembered that Tocohl was in constant communication with Maggy through her implant. He and the sprookje asked, “Did Tocohl suggest you try that?”

“No, she’s busy. She told me to hush. I’ll show her later.” The arachne made another abrupt bob.

This time the sprookje only blinked at it. “I deduce that it considers the arachne harmless,”

Maggy said.

“Yes,” he said, the sprookje seconding him. He picked up the boxes to carry them inside the cabin, pausing on the threshold to scrape some of the mud from his feet. The arachne sprang
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from the table to follow him. The sprookje did not; perhaps, like most of the surveyors, it was drying its feathers.

There was an odd sound behind him. He turned to look and found the arachne scraping its legs one against the other in imitation.

“Shall I enter the material in your files?” Maggy asked.

“Yes, please, Maggy,” he said. “You are very useful to have around.”

The arachne bobbed a bow. “Thank you.” It pricked its way on delicate feet to the console and stuck an adapter into one of the tiny receipt openings. The rest of its legs straightened to give it the height to reach the keyboard.

“Do you need help?” asked swift-Kalat, suddenly realizing how much he was taking for granted about the capabilities of this probe.

Implausibly, a chuckle came from the arachne. “No,” it said, “my arm’s not broken.—Did I say that correctly?”

Swift-Kalat laughed, as much from astonishment as from amusement. “Yes,” he said, “I think so: you sounded very like Alfvaen.”

“Good,” said the arachne, setting about its task.

For a long moment, swift-Kalat watched; there was nothing to see. At last he remembered the sterile boxes he still held and crossed the room to put them in a safe place. When he returned, it was to draw up a chair and sit, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and the best possible view of the arachne.

His bracelets clashed down his arm to his elbow.

His expertise, he found, was being challenged by more than the sprookjes. By definition, an extrapolative computer was not sentient but, by definition neither were the sprookjes. The only difference seemed to be that Maggy responded to questioning.

When the arachne withdrew its adapter, he said “Maggy, are you sentient?”

There was a long pause. Whether it indicated deep thought—and Maggy’s deep thought would be faster than human—or was merely supplied for aesthetic reasons, swift-Kalat couldn’t judge.

At last, Maggy said, “I don’t know. From what Tocohl says, none of the definitions of sentience in my memory is true and sufficient to cover all cases. Legally speaking, however—no, I’m not sentient.

Why do you ask?”

“In reaction to the extent of your curiosity.”

“That’s basic to an extrapolative computer. Curiosity is rather simple to program in: If the information

received doesn’t gibe with other information I have stored, I seek additional information; if I don’t have enough information, I seek additional information. In me that’s called programming.

In a human, that’s called curiosity.”

“Again, a matter of definition,” swift-Kalat pointed out.

“I see what you mean. Yes, a matter of definition.”

Swift-Kalat fell silent. If he were asked, he wondered, would he be able to say, as he had with the sprookjes, that he deduced sentience in an extrapolative computer? The question brought him full circle to the legal definition: art, artifacts, language. Language, Maggy certainly had. And given the proper waldoes, he did not doubt that she could produce an artifact if she chose to.

The computer console chimed an interruption to his thoughts and he rose absently to answer it.

The caller was Kejesli. “Hello, swift-Kalat. Is Tocohl with you?”

“Buntec took her into the flashwood. I don’t know how long they’ll be gone.”

“So she’ll miss what she seems to have started. Well, you come then. It should be of interest to you as well: there’ll be a brief lecture on landscaping in the common room starting about five minutes from now.” With that, he signed off.

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When swift-Kalat glanced down he saw that the arachne was already on its way. He followed.

“Curious?” he asked.

“Curious,” she agreed as the two of them started across the compound. “Besides,” she added,

“I

want to see the look on Kejesli’s face.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but it’s important to Buntec. If I record it for her, maybe she’ll explain why,”

Maggy said, then added, “If she tells me, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Edge-of-Dark skirted the barbed-wire perimeter to the main gate, her arms laden with stalks of flowers and leafy branches representing almost all of the local flora of the chlorophyll and rhodopsin families. She’d picked too many; she always did. Getting the gate open would probably require as much skill as arranging the flowers—and no less art.

She smiled to herself, thinking it wasn’t often she’d been called upon to put her artistic talent to use on a survey. The chance gave her satisfaction of a kind she’d never before experienced.

The ground under the flashgrass became uneven. Not having a very good view, she slowed, stepped cautiously. The intermittent sight of the green boots brought a second smile to her face and shoulders.

Amid the flicker of the flashgrass they were wonderfully aesthetic. Perhaps she had been going about her clothing incorrectly; perhaps it should be taken as a whole with its surroundings…

What the Hellspark wore was in some peculiar way more fashionable for Flashfever than her own carefully chosen garb.

Guessing that she’d neared her destination, she halted to shift her still-dripping burden enough to look for the gate. To her relief, Timosie Megeve stood beside it, waiting to hold it open.

“Thank you, Megeve,” she began, then she peered again through the foliage. She was no expert on

Maldeneantine expressions, but he seemed agitated. “Is something wrong? You look like a womble about to bite someone.”

Even as it left her mouth she realized he probably wouldn’t understand the expression, but before she could explain he said, “Nothing’s wrong, Edge-of-Dark. At least, I hope not.

Hellsparks are crazy, that’s all.” He swung the gate wide and went on, “They took a sprookje along with them—in the daisy-clipper!”

“Who else went?” And when Megeve told her, she smiled as broad a smile as was possible with her arms full and, to reassure him, she added, “I wouldn’t worry. With Buntec piloting and a serendipitist along, they can hardly get into trouble.”

Megeve started. “I hadn’t thought about the serendipitist. Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

“I believe in anything that works, I suppose.”

A stalk of penny-Jannisett fell from the crook of her arm; Megeve stooped to retrieve it. He held it out to her, but realizing she had no free hand, he said, “Shall I carry some of that?”

“Just the one you’ve got. If I try to divide it up, I’ll drop it all, I’m afraid. It would be gracious of you

to help me into my cabin.”

“Of course.” He swung the gate shut behind her and took a few quick paces to lead the way.

“What’s all that for?”

“You missed our brilliant idea,” she said, “

Buntec

’s brilliant idea, in truth, although she is gracious enough to name me her collaborator…” And
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on the way to her cabin, she explained at length, her enthusiasm growing still more as she spoke.

“I see,” he said, holding aside the membrane to her cabin to ease her entry. “It is a theory worth exploring, I suppose.”

He watched as she maneuvered her plant cuttings onto a low table. When her hands were free, he held out the sprig of penny-Jannisett. “Edge-of-Dark,” he said, “if you don’t mind my asking—why did you start wearing boots all of a sudden?”

“Fashion,” she said, over her shoulder. “Although I admit I have had some further thoughts on that subject.” Deciding those would be of little interest to him—the Maldeneantine had no aesthetic sense that she had ever seen—she said simply, “You’ll find a digital picture on the table by the console. The

Hellspark tells me that’s current fashion.” She went from closet to closet to gather her working materials:

scissors, wire, bowls, and vases.

To her deep regret, she had not been able to bring as large a selection of containers with her as she had wished. That was always true, but this time, the lack of choice frustrated her. Perhaps, she thought suddenly, she might ask the rest of the team. Who knows what sort of container Om im or even Kejesli might have brought, as art or as ritual item…

Megeve said, “I thought you were Vyrnwyn, Edge-of-Dark. Why should you be interested in

Ringsilver fashion?”

It took her a moment to understand the implication of his question. “Ringsilver?” She strode across to stare at the picture over his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he said. “I was there just a few years ago and they all dressed like that.”

But Edge-of-Dark realized she had no need of his answer. Taking the picture from his hands, she stared at it. “

Ringsilver

!” she breathed, and promptly burst into laughter, fully expecting Megeve to follow suit.

She looked up to find a scowl on his face.

Subduing her laughter, she raised her hand to splay fingers at her throat. “Your pardon, Megeve.

It’s not you I’m laughing at, it’s me. Won’t Om im love this! I have been—ever so graciously—tricked by that Hellspark of his!”

She flourished the picture at him and went on, “What a great deal of trouble to go to, to get me into boots for the sake of Buntec’s sensibilities! What is it Buntec would say, ‘Crazy like a Hellspark’? It’s true isn’t it?”

“You mean she hoaxed you? And you’re not angry about it?”

The question sobered her. She gave it the respect it was due and concluded, “No, I’m not angry.

Consider for a moment: when I put on boots, I suddenly became human to Buntec.

And Buntec reciprocated”, she added, as the thought occurred to her, “by learning the Vyrnwyn formal greetings—so she became human to me.”

Her long nails tapped the picture absently. “Almost like an equation. Edge-of-Dark plus boots equal human. Buntecreih plus formal greeting equals human. What do you suppose we have to add to the sprookjes to arrive at a similar result?” Thoughtful, she stared at Megeve without really seeing him.

“Well,” she said, “perhaps it’s flower art. If you’ll help me carry out the table, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Megeve’s only response was to bend to the task.

Outside, they placed the table in the mud. While Megeve leveled it with small flat stones, Edge-of-Dark settled herself on the bottom step, ignoring the damage the mud might do her clothes, and began laying out her tools and her bowls.

A sprookje, perhaps the one that mimicked her, approached, its golden eyes widening at the
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sight of the flowers. Although she admitted that might be nothing more than wishful thinking on her part, she vowed to do her best for this audience of one.

She began with the black lacquer bowl and reached for a stalk of tick-tick. As she brought the cutting upright, it began to chide gently. “For sound,” she said happily, “I must choose them not just for sight, but for sound!” The sprookje agreed, but caught up in the wonder of her new creation, Edge-of-Dark scarcely heard the echo.

From the perch on which swift-Kalat had placed the arachne, Maggy had an unobstructed view of the whole of the common room, including Kejesli’s face.

Hitoshi Dan waited for the small interested group to assemble and quiet, then he thrust Dyxte ti-Amax forward in a manner Tocohl would have called “showing him off.” That might have been because his 2nd skin was elaborately patterned, in reds and blues, to resemble the anatomical pattern of human veins and arteries. Maggy, interested in defining Tocohl’s concept of “beautiful,” made a note to ask later, when Tocohl was no longer occupied, if she thought this beautiful as she had Geremy Kantyka’s patterned 2nd skin.