Native Tongue (42 page)

“You must remember,” said Nazareth, glaring at Aquina, “that it will be many years before the men notice. They’re used to hearing the little girls practicing Alien languages they’ve never heard before and may well never hear again, not to mention any number of Terran languages completely unfamiliar to them. So long as we convince the children that it’s a secret to be kept from the men—like so many other secrets we’ve taught them to keep, loves—ten years will go by, perhaps more, before the men suddenly realize that too many little girls are making the
same
unfamiliar sounds. Dear heaven, they’re so entirely convinced that the Project is only Langlish, and so entirely convinced that we can barely find our way to the bathroom without a map! It may be decades before anything actually needs to be done, in the way that Aquina means. Please do realize that.”

“But—”

Nazareth cut Aquina off, raising her hand in the ancient gesture of teachers. “But I agree with Aquina that the decisions have to be made, and made right now, in case they are someday needed. She’s absolutely right. If we did need to make some sort of move, there’d be no time then to decide what it should be, and
anything we did in panic would be certain to be the wrong thing. We must make the plans, however unlikely it is that we’ll ever have to use them, and put that behind us.”

“Thank heaven for someone with sense!”

“Thank
you
, Aquina,” said Nazareth. “Now, you others, can we proceed with this?”

Proceed. From an endless Project, going on generation after generation, to “can we proceed?” It was too much, and they were stunned by the prospect.

“It’s not complicated,” Nazareth assured them. “Word should go out to all the Barren Houses as quickly as can be managed, using the recipe-codes. In each Barren House those women who are best at speaking Láadan are to begin practicing it with one another, never mind how badly they do, until they are at ease enough to serve as roughly adequate models. And then, they are to begin using Láadan and only Láadan with the female infants of the Lines whenever there are no men about.”

“Or women still living in the Households.”

“Or women still living among men, yes,” Nazareth agreed. “Whenever it is as safe as it ever will be safe. Meanwhile, those who know almost nothing about it will turn to and
learn
. Without drawing the attention of men, and without slacking on our other duties.”

“And the planning?” That was Aquina.

“And the planning must begin,” said Nazareth. “In every Barren House, there must be meetings to discuss alternatives. For every choice of action that you feel the men might take when they learn that they’ve been duped, there needs to be a corresponding action that all the women are agreed upon and are prepared to move on at a moment’s notice. The results should be exchanged among the Barren Houses until there is a consensus—until we all understand just what we would be expected to do in each possible hypothetical crisis. And we will do whatever we
must
do to prepare.”

“Just like that, Nazareth?”

“Just like that. You’ve put it off far too long already.”

“Well,” said Susannah. “Well! Someone must go upstairs and tell the others. They have a right to know.”

“And someone,” Caroline pointed out, “must set the tables for dinner and call in the sentries before they decide we’ve all died in here.”

They folded up their work and put it away in the deep needlework bags with the jumble of yarns and laces and scraps hiding
the useful false bottoms. And tried to decide whether to rejoice or to weep.

“Is it a time for celebration, do you think?” hazarded Grace.

“Who could know? It’s a time for terror. That much is certain.”

“It’s stepping out into the void,” said Susannah solemnly.

“And it’s all Nazareth’s fault,” said Nazareth.

In the abashed silence, she added, “Any beginning is also an ending, you know. You can’t have just the one.”

Chapter Twenty-one

You go from us

into a new becoming;

we rejoice for you and wish you an easy journey out

into the Light.

The winds will speak to us of you,

the waters will mention your name;

snow and rain and fog, first light and last light,

all will remind us that you had

a certain way of Being

that was dear to us.

You go back to the land you came from

and on beyond.

We will watch for you,

from Time to Time. Amen.

(funeral service for The Lovingkindness Church)

Michaela woke before dawn, with a pounding headache, drenched in an icy sweat. Before the soft tone of the Household alarm that roused everyone—unless sick or given some special dispensation—at five o’clock in the morning. Here in the depths of the hill that sheltered Chornyak Household there was nothing else to wake you . . . no light filtered in here below the earth, except in the long halls that ran down either side of the building, where there was some illumination from the ground floor skylights extending the full length of both halls. And there was no sound . . . no birdsong, no thunder, no traffic from the streets or skies, nothing. It was absolutely still, and absolutely dark. And
except in the dormitories the linguists had constructed the sleepingrooms to offer the maximum possible amount of soundproofing; it was, after all, the only privacy there was within the houses of the Lines.

If the couple who had the room next to yours chose to while away the night in erotic pleasures or forbidden rituals—something Michaela could not imagine in the linguists, who seemed to her almost excruciatingly proper, almost puritanical, but then you never knew—you would never know about it. You would never hear a moan, a gasp of pleasure, an obscene incantation, even a scream of ecstasy at orgasm. The builders of these houses had insisted on that, and it had been very wise of them.

But with the dreams that had been tormenting her nights lately, Michaela needed nothing to wake her, not even the alarm. The dreams were more than sufficient. Dreams in which each of the men she had killed lined up before her and held out imploring arms, begging for their lives back, whimpering pitifully like babies trapped in cellars or small animals caught in fences. . . . She shuddered, and threw back her damp sheets, loathing the feel of them against her skin.

It was so ridiculous, damn it! Except for Ned Landry—and by God, she would kill
him
again in an instant, if she were given the chance—every one of those men had gone peacefully and probably gratefully to his grave. Every last one had been at the end of a long and fruitful life of hard work; every one had reached that stage of life where none of the physiological systems could really be counted on any longer, and the body began to betray the embarrassed spirit; every one of them had been more than ready for some rest. Rest she had given them. Painlessly. Sweet rest.

Grandfather Verdi, for instance. It was absurd that she should dream of him begging for his life back! He had been so anxious, in a completely healthy way, to be rid of it.

“Like a baby, that’s what,” he would grumble. “Like a baby! Diaper me and bathe me and oil me and powder me, powder me and diaper me like a baby! And feed me baby
food
, too, filthy stuff! No way for a man to go on, Mrs. Landry, no proper way at all! Bunch of flaming damnfool, that’s what it is!” And he would tug furiously at the diapers that shamed him so, and toss on his pillows, and curse the magnificent genetic heritage that tied him to a world he was good and sick of. . . . he would not have been asking for that life back. He would have been thanking her for the blessing of release. And it was the same with the others.

Except for Ned. And as for Ned . . . if she had dreamed only of him, groveling and begging and pleading for mercy, she would have positively enjoyed it. She hoped he was burning in hell. Slowly. With some devil always keeping him
waiting
. She did not regret having killed Ned Landry, any more than she regretted it when she destroyed a polio virus with a vaccine for the children. Same sort of filth, same sort of pestilence, same sort of service to humanity, getting rid of Ned Landry. She was staunchly glad she’d done that.

But the others? It was absurd, and she knew it was absurd, and still they haunted her nights. Even though they were all men. Even though they were all Lingoes. Even though, by rights, they deserved killing.

Pain lanced through her head with the thought, and she smiled grimly into it . . .
you
deserved
that
, Michaela! Because you are a liar. You are a liar, all the way from your head to your toes. THEY DESERVED KILLING. . . . You know better now. And that was the problem. She thought she had escaped from the problem when she left Barren House and redefined her targeted victims so that they would always be only male linguists, but she had been wrong.

Paul John Chornyak, for example. Ninety-five years old. At an age where death would be no more surprising than the sun coming up in the mornings. A bit of a nuisance to Thomas and the other senior men, because he’d once been Head and couldn’t forget it, insisting on attending meetings and being part of the business decisions of the Line. Not that his mind wasn’t still sharp, it was; but his memory wasn’t what it had been, and his patience was a toddler’s patience. She served his meals away from the communal diningroom now, except for Sunday dinner and holiday meals and the odd occasion when he just suddenly decided that he by damn did not
wish
to eat alone in his room. And even that happened only in the evenings, when he was like most very old people and knew he faced a nearly sleepless night . . . he hadn’t really needed any sleep to speak of for years, and he got bored waiting for morning. It made him petulant, and he would sometimes insist on going to the diningroom for his evening meal just to cut into the span of the endless evenings and nights. Breakfast, though, and lunch—those Michaela served him in his room, staying with him if he wanted her, listening to him talk. Which meant that any day, any day at all, she could ease him on his way as she had eased the others on, ridding the burdened world of one more linguist.

But she loved the old man.

That brought her
wide
awake; and she lay there staring at the ceiling, shocked at her own thoughts. It was true. She loved him. She had loved Grandfather Verdi, too; she knew that now. She loved the old women at Barren House. She loved Nazareth Chornyak, whose face she’d begun to seek out first whenever she went into a room where linguists were; she knew she made excuses to touch Nazareth as she passed her, to brush an imaginary thread from her tunic or straighten an imaginary wrinkle . . . to rub aching muscles after a day of difficult work . . . yes, she loved Nazareth as well. It seemed to Michaela suddenly that she was running over, brimful and running over, with love. For Lingoes! For filthy, effing Lingoes, unspeakable Lingoes, that she’d hated all her life as did any decent citizen, that had taken her baby and killed it and given her a hunk of metal in exchange . . . Where had all that love come from? She had not known she had it in her, that ability to love.

Thomas, now, she felt no love for, any more than she’d felt love for Ned. She had turned her attention to convincing him that he had seduced her, because she knew his power and respected it and she knew no other way to make use of it. But she felt no love for the man. Loving someone who considered you only one small notch above a cleverly trained domestic animal, and made no secret of it—that is, loving any adult male—was not possible for her. It would be a perversion, loving your masters while their boots were on your neck, and she was a woman healthy of mind. Like most women she had suffered one violent case of the Romantic Love that everyone learned about in Homeroom and had spoonfed to them (with a giant spoon) by the media. When she was very young. And like most women, that one case had cured her for life.

It had been her good fortune that it had happened to her
before
she met the man she was to marry, sparing her the soul-destroying experience of “falling in love”—and then out of love again—with her own husband. She
serviced
Thomas, as she had serviced Ned, and she had no reason to believe she’d lost her touch. Thomas would never be like Ned, never a fool, never swift-melting putty in a woman’s hands, no. But she worked at it very hard, and she was extremely careful; she knew that she was as nearly indispensable to Thomas now as it was possible for any woman to be, with such a man. As indispensable as poor Rachel, at least; probably more so. And he would be wondering where she was—it was past time for her to be seen up and about her duties.

“I’m tired,” she said aloud. “I’m absolutely worn out. I
cannot get out of this bed and go upstairs and be a nice lady.” After which, of course, she stood up, stripped the bed of its sheets for the laundryroom, pulled on a robe for her definitely necessary trip to the nearest shower room, and headed out into the corridor to begin her day. At least in the daytime she was too busy to be haunted by her row of little old ghosts, with Ned as their token youngster. She shut the nonsensical plaints of her victims up in her room along with her bone-weariness, and went gracefully about her business.

She was very late; when she reached the diningroom it was nearly empty. All the children had gone long since, and even the section where the adults ate was thinly populated. Mostly by the very senior men, who no longer went out on negotiations, and who reminded her unpleasantly of what she’d only just put out of her mind. She stood in the doorway trying to decide where she should sit and seriously considering skipping breakfast altogether. She could go straight on to Barren House, where they’d give her a cup of good tea and some fresh-baked bread, and where she could count on good company and good conversation. Versus sitting with one of these men and being told what the world was coming to and how it was all the fault of either the President or the women, depending on which had most recently irritated the old gentleman in question.