Silent Songs (41 page)

"Yes,
takoja,"
he signed in Plains Indian sign language, "it's me. And Meg's here, too. Give me a good hug. I've missed you so much."

Feeling like the little girl he'd helped raise, she flung herself into his embrace, making sure he was real, not some transmitted spirit from another planet. Maybe the Sun Family had sent her a sign, a reward for all the risks she'd been taking.

Old Bear's embrace was not as strong as it had once been. Finally, she stepped away, and he wiped the tears off her cheeks.

"Don't cry,
takoja.
It makes your eyes all red."

"How did you get here?" she asked, still weeping. "Meg's with you? I don't understand. Where did you come from?"

"It's a long story. We were released a few hours before you rescued Weaver.

The Hunters helped us find our way here. We arrived before you, but all we could do was sleep. I'll explain everything over some food. Wake your group up, they need to be part of this discussion."

Tesa nodded, rubbing the last of her tears away. Looking back at the lean-to, she saw First-Light had already roused the others, who were crawling out, blinking sleepily. When they saw Old Bear, they greeted him warmly.

"You took good care of Javier, I hope," the elder signed confidentially. "He's a good man, don't you think,
takoja."

Tesa stared at her grandfather.
First Weaver, then Taller, now Old Bear!

Does everybody think this guy is a saint?
"I suppose so," she answered reluctantly. "A little old, though."

Her grandfather startled her and the whole cohort by throwing his head back and laughing heartily.

235

A web work of walkways stretched over the interior of the Chosens' hatchery like the crosshatched branches of a ladder tree. Below the narrow, railed walkways lay an organized gridwork of rectangular pools, each pool fil ed to capacity with four Industrious egg-laying females and the Chosen males that would fertilize their valuable product.

The hatchery was working at peak capacity, the machinery pumping in chemically balanced clean water and pumping out soiled water, even as fertilized eggs were sucked out of the pools and deposited into holding tanks filled with carefully monitored nutrient broth. The Troubadour Dacris, formerly Second-in-Conquest but now having nothing to do with conquest at all, stalked the overhead walkways, contemplating the vast mechanical organism that was now his charge. The factory was his only responsibility and the shame of this simple duty burned him.

He paused to watch the Industrious attendants feed the egg- laying females their chemically controlled diets. The egg-layers, considerably more stunted than their attendants, stared ahead glassily, swallowing their meal without a thought, as their bodies pumped a continuous string of eggs into their pool.

Behind the females, clutching them chest-to-back in the nuptial embrace of amplexus, were Chosen males who either had not taken enough of the inhibiting hormone to resist the rains, or whose duties allowed them to be free enough to enjoy a breeding season.

Dacris watched the pools where the frenzied coupling and egg production continued around the clock, and thought of his own sleeping pool, ruined last night by their marauding human enemy. He and the others in his barracks had had to sleep in the river. The taste of that water had been all wrong, and he'd been constantly buffeted by its currents. The soldiers that had once been under his charge had gone to find the terrorist, while he'd endured the ultimate humiliation--being left behind. Dacris took a bitter joy 236

in the knowledge that the perpetrators had not been found. Had
he
been in charge .. .

He wondered how Atle justified releasing two humans just hours before the unseen raid that had damaged the water system of four barracks, freeing several humans and the only captive avian they had kept alive. To make matters worse, one of their people, a Troubadour, had been brutally murdered, and another guard killed by a scratch from a primitive projectile weapon tipped with a One-Touch's toxin. In the past,
five
humans would have been sacrificed and eaten to make reparation for each dead soldier.

But that was in another day, long gone and, to most, forgotten.

Dacris blinked and slowed his breathing. As far as he was concerned, he was more a true Chosen than Atle would ever be. And when he thought of the creatures they'd discovered here, his anger grew hotter.

These aliens had no fear, no respect, for the powerful people who had conquered them, and why should they? He imagined the hideous creatures being forced to eat one of their own or starve--that would give them some incentive to obey! Dacris glowered into the pools, hating the males who felt free enough to yield to their passion, hating the placid Industrious females who endured their endless, unnatural breeding cycle, hating the four-footed alien worker who just now came into view---but most of all hating Atle with every cell of his being.

Dacris watched the furred slave of Atle's slave move around the pools'

edges and lower walkways and raged in silence, thinking of that imbecile, Arvis, being given Chosen status, being al owed to
train
this valuable servant, and worst of all, being allowed--no,
induced
--to breed a female of
rank!

He struggled to bank his anger as the Simiu went about her work, methodically going from computer station to computer station, checking readouts. If he could only catch her in an error! Then he could vent his rage in her justifiable discipline, but her ability was so far beyond their expectations that he had yet to find an excuse.

She was just another reminder to him of the need for clear- thinking servants, instead of the mindless Industrious drones they were burdened with. His mind traveled to the future, to conquered
planets
filled with her kind. He would train them the old way--it would be his right, no one could stop him.

He dwelled on that sweet fantasy ... until he remembered his demotion.

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Would Atle al ow him to ever again
own
his own workers? He doubted it. He watched the alien padding around the network of pools and walkways and ached for her to make an error--just one. He swallowed hard, struggling to get a grip on his fury.

To distract himself, Dacris strode to the end of the upper walkway, to the computer station there. The Armored Industrious working at the terminal scrambled off the padded bench and Dacris moved into her place. The graphics on the tank seemed like a child's game, but were actually a functional diagnostic program that the Industrious could use. Someday there would be no need to expend such energy just to keep the State running. He dumped the Industrious technician's work, not caring that she would have to start over from the beginning, and accessed the alien's work.

He wasn't just searching for an error, he was doing his job. Besides, what new shame could Atle inflict on him if he failed even this simple assignment? He scanned the work the Simiu had already done, double-checking her' readouts, her responses, her actions. He eliminated the part of the program that was in her language so he could follow her work in his. His eyes moved along the changing data. No errors. A good servant.

His skin felt dry and he moistened it with the odorless oil left there for the Industrious. The poor-quality lubricant only irritated him further, as the computer moved into the work she was currently doing. This supervisor's program would not let her know she was being observed as he watched her manipulate data, correct problems, improve the efficiency of the system. Her perfection frustrated him, and his skin glowed in anger.

Dacris moved to turn off the machine in disgust when something caught his eye, some small change that seemed somehow ... not right. He moved closer to the tank, watching, figuring in his head. He blinked slowly, his lower lids covering his eyes for a restful moment. She went on to the next station, and his program followed her, this time seeking a similarity. Yes.

There it was. An
error.
His skin flushed.

At the next station there was another change, and that made him pause. The mistake was in the same place, changing the same values, but wrongly. He scanned backward, but there was no record of the alteration--and that in itself was incorrect. After a few minutes, he padded away from the station to the walkway to observe her actions. She was deaf and seemed unaware of him. According to the computer, she was making changes and adjustments to the filter stations--changes that should have been

238

physical
--switching or testing filters, but in reality she was doing nothing but manipulating the program itself.

She made similar, subtle changes at each place on her route. What did it mean? He forgot about discipline and focused on the larger issue. The tiny changes she made in the computer programs were, in themselves, not terribly intricate, but cumulatively . . . they could be significant. The fact that the program had been altered so that he could not review what had been done to it meant that all the automatic saves had been overridden.

Once the alien finished her work here, she would move on to the tanks that nurtured the eggs until the growing embryos were at the optimal age for consumption. Her work affected every phase of production. Was this bold slave trying to undermine the
entire
factory? What ambition! It was worthy of a One-Touch!

If he told Atle this, the First would have to admit his error in disciplining his Second and reinstate him. Because of the scope of the transgression, Atle would be forced to grant ownership of the Simiu to Dacris. He would have to make his own son--that moronic servant!--hand her over to the Troubadour.

Dacris returned to the walkway in time to watch the Simiu move away from her last station. Sensing his presence, she glanced over her shoulder, staring at him before moving away quickly. I
know you're not loafing, good
servant.

He moved toward the exit, imagining Atle's face when he made his claim. He saw the First's expression as he handed the slave over to Dacris, saw the One-Touch explaining the new reality to his dullard son. Dacris only wished he could implicate that silly Industrious in this and successfully claim him as well.

As he neared the exit, his steps slowed. Suppose he
didn't
tell?

If the hatchery was damaged, Dacris would be accountable.

Wait.

Suppose he held the critical information until it was too late to correct, releasing the news to the
Council,
not just the Glorious First. He might be able to manipulate this into something more important than the ownership of one slave. It was
Atle
who'd decided this alien could serve the hatchery. It was the First who had permitted her greater responsibility. Her betrayal would reflect not on his Industrious son, but on himself.

239

Dacris turned away from the exit and prowled the walkway, no longer entertaining dark fantasies of discipline and fear. Could he use this slave's clever sabotage to overthrow the First and supplant his position?

Yes, Dacris thought, that was a much more profitable plan than plotting to destroy one simple slave.

K'heera made the final override adjustment on the last station in the egg-laying room and prepared to leave. Her whole body quivered in fear, she stank of it--how was it no one noticed? The things she did required courage and honor, but she felt neither brave nor honorable, only desperate.

Six months ago, if anyone had told her she would have found herself longing for the company of a human, she would have challenged that fool. But now, as she made adjustments to this complicated alien program, adjustments that were getting harder and harder to conceal, she longed to see Bruce's sly smile, to take heart from his casual confidence, his outstanding courage, and the honor he wore so easily. He was her true uncle, and the fear that threatened her resolve was partly for him. Where was he now? What was he enduring at the hands of these monsters?

Don't think about that, l'il darlin',
she could hear him saying in her mind, the only place she could hear anything now.
We'll lay a hurtin' on these
bastards, you'll see.

She finished her work and slowed her breathing. It sickened her to think of the countless embryos nurtured nearly to hatching. What kind of a people devoured their own young? In shame, she remembered her sanctimonious criticism of the Honored Interrelator as she consumed a lower form of life.

K'heera had thought she understood what was right and wrong then.

She shook her head, needing to be clear-minded now. She owed that to the Interrelator, she owed it to Bruce.

The Interrelator had done her part. Word was that she'd damaged barracks and freed some captives, including Weaver, who had killed a guard. K'heera knew that wouldn't have happened if not for the information she'd given Thunder, and was proud of that. The Simiu knew, too, that the Interrelator had used a weapon to slay another guard and save Weaver's life. She knew it and was glad and paused not a moment at that incongruity.

But that disruption might have meant terrible punishment for Bruce or Szu-yi, or anyone that was close to the Interrelator.

240

Don't worry about that, lil darlin',
Bruce assured her in her mind.
It's nothin'

we can't handle.

K'heera didn't want to think about what would happen when the eggs died.

She refused to wonder if the innocent egg-layers would sicken in their pools.

She wouldn't think about the soldiers coming for her, as they had for Bruce.

She wouldn't let her mind wander--not even for a second--about what they would do to her when they determined she was responsible.

Stop thinking. Just work.
She moved forward, then felt something odd, and nervously looked over her shoulder.

That's when she saw the new soldier who'd been put in charge of the hatchery. His very presence was enough to terrify the Industrious, and even the Chosen trainers seemed frightened of him. And now he was watching
her.