Silent Songs (7 page)

"I believe you," Tesa assured him, meaning it. She felt a pang of jealousy at him for having someone to share that with.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she turned to find Old Bear. "Grandfather! I should've known you'd be up early. Everyone else still sleeping?"

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"Yeah. I left the coffee on for them." He smiled enigmatically as he offered them orange leaves.

They each took one; Jib eyed his warily as Tesa popped hers casually in her mouth. It was one of the Grus' favorite herbs and they used it for many things, including scenting their feathers and cloaks. The plant was cal ed "blood-of-the-World" because it grew everywhere. Its bright blue berries poked out of the light snow they had here in winter, but its leaves were especially good in the fall, when they were in full color. Its minty sweetness made her hungry.

"I had a dream last night," Old Bear signed casually, glancing quickly at Jib.

Tesa stopped chewing, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise. Her grandfather's dreams weren't something to ignore-- and she'd had a beauty of her own last night. There'd been terrible images of a river running thick with blood and she'd jerked awake, gasping. She wondered, not for the first time, if she should tell him. "What was it about?"

"Your trip." He stared out over the bluff as if recalling the images and framing their story. She realized then that he didn't want to speak in front of Jib, someone he barely knew.

Tesa noticed that Thunder had stopped preening and watched the old man intently. Jib glanced between her grandfather and herself, looking a bit skeptical and uncomfortable.

Finally, Old Bear spoke. "I dreamed . .. there were spirits in the sea. I couldn't see them because the water was all churned up, but they were big."

"And fierce?" Thunder asked, stretching her neck.

The old man laughed and shook his head. "No, not fierce. Not these spirits."

He stared at his granddaughter. "I dreamed the sea spirits would touch
you,
Good Eyes. I dreamed you would
hear
them." He grinned at her.

Tesa smiled back. "Very interesting. Anything else?"

He sighed, his smile fading. "No . . . just... be careful, honey. I worry about you."

Thunder drew herself up tall, a behavior she'd picked up from the Grus.

"Don't worry. I'll be there to protect her."

The old man nodded, and touched the raptor reverently. He was proud that one of Tesa's companions was a living Thunderbird.

There was something about the dream he wasn't telling her, Tesa knew. She knew also that there was no point in trying to drag it out of him, so instead she hugged him, kissing his cheek. "I'm
always
careful!" That made both of them laugh.

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"By the way," asked Jib, gingerly chewing his leaf, "what's in these things anyway?"

"Some complex sugars," Old Bear signed, "vitamins, calcium, oils. At least, that's what Meg tells me."

"That's all?" Jib seemed surprised, obviously remembering K'heera's almost miraculous recovery after eating one.

"Not quite," replied the old man. "It also carries the blood of the World. That's powerful medicine, son."

Old Bear sat on the edge of the bluff, watching the mismatched group fly south. The rattling vibrations of powerful Grus voices washed over him as the flock called good wishes to their friends.

Meg joined him on the bluff, resting her shoulder against his. Such a fine woman, this blue-eyed Russian. Intelligent, curious, funny, and so attractive.

He'd be a lucky man if she fell in love with him.

The dark shadow of his dream passed behind his eyes again, and he wondered again if he should've told Tesa all of it. No, he'd done the right thing. The part he'd told her had been the first part of the dream, the good part. If he'd told her the rest, she would never have left him.

He
had
dreamed that Tesa had heard the song of a sea spirit. He had no idea what that meant, if anything, but that wasn't what concerned him. No, that part made him glad, because it meant that she would not be here when. ..

He didn't want to remember, didn't want to see the terrible vision, but it was in his mind's eye and he couldn't shed it. There had been a shadow on the moon, on Father Moon, like blood, and it had grown, rich and red, mottled with bright blue arterial blood. The blood had dripped onto Trinity, spattering and spreading. It had covered the bluff. And he, Meg, Grandma Lewis, and Szuyi were swallowed by it, completely devoured.

Slipping an arm around Meg, Old Bear watched their friends fly south and prayed that his dream was nothing more than the wicked workings of a tired mind.

"Thank you, Arvis," Atle sang as his son finished oiling his skin. "That was very relaxing." He held out his arm to be helped into his garment. "I don't get to relax much, anymore."

The amiable servant blinked his appreciation as he tugged at his father's sheer, one-piece outfit. It was tailored perfectly for the First, designed not only to help retain warmth and humidity,

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but to keep the poison patches open and visible, and to match, exactly, the wearer's mottled skin coloring.

Atle had had clothes designed for his Industrious children, but they never looked right. Where Atle's clothes complemented his wrestler's physique, Arvis's always made him seem oversized and lumpy and the dull color of his impotent patches made him appear ill. His sister, Sine, didn't wear hers much better.

The First had been much younger than Arvis was now when he'd earned his name, given him by his powerful mentor. He had earned it wrestling males twice his size and winning. In those days he'd loved to fight more than anything--but then he'd met Dunn.

"How's your mother?" Atle asked. "I haven't seen her since this morning."

The boy looked downcast. "No matter what we say to cheer her up, sir, she's still sad."

Atle's throat quivered as he patted his son consolingly. "Well, you keep trying. You and your sister are all she's got."

"Yes, sir," the servant sang, pleased.

"Tell your mother I'll have dinner with her this evening. After the staff meeting. Will you remember?"

"I'll remember, sir."

The First left his personal bath, taking an a-grav transport to the conference hall. While traveling through the ship's corridors, he scanned the computer's latest updates.

The
Flood
had parked herself behind the largest moon of this world and had sent her last two robots onto its surface. For the past month, as this planet measured time, they'd observed the comings and goings of the tiny space station and its planet.

Their discoveries excited his staff; morale soared. Then, halfway through the month, the ship had detected a new player entering the theater. A moderately sized spaceship had headed for the station as casually as an egg delivery service. A small shuttle had taken off from the ground camp and been swallowed by the station just before the newcomer had docked with it.

A short time passed, then the shuttle had returned to the planet as the spaceship disengaged from the lock.

Atle stopped his flyer near the conference hall. Inside was the Council, the collected leaders of the different groups that represented a cross section of their society. As he entered, all music hushed. Everyone squatting around the low, circular table lifted to their feet. The First motioned them back down.

"Who wishes to speak?"

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"I do," sang Dacris, Second-in-Conquest. "These beings have a stardrive far superior to our own!"

"You think so?"

"I do. That ship traveled quickly. It wasn't a sleeper like the
Flood."

"I agree," Atle admitted, looking around the table. "We could make good use of such an efficient stardrive." He sang this softly, this massive understatement.

"Then we'll pursue the ship before it leaves the solar system," the Second asked eagerly, "before it engages its drive?"

"No."

Dacris' throat quivered with surprise. Around the long table other eyes glanced back and forth. The Troubadour was well liked among the

scientists.

"You disagree?" Atle asked.

"Respectfully, First, I do."

"What would you do?" Atle asked, honestly curious.

"Overtake the ship." The Second's mottling glowed with the passion of his convictions. "Capture it. Commandeer its passengers and crew. Discover its secrets."

"Who agrees with this?" asked the First quietly.

"We do," sang Gillat, a Flat-Spine, indicating the scientists at her end of the table. The mathematicians and physicists were hungry to get their fingers on a new spacedrive.

"What about you?" Atle asked Rand of the Hooded, squatting at the other end of the table.

This race consisted mostly of bio-scientists. There was grumbling, but finally the big green and brown pharmacist stood.

"We disagree," Rand grunted. "We're simply not ready." The pharmacist's wide mouth opened spasmodically, as though he were tasting something.

"We need biological representatives. If we had even a
few
of the aliens, we could refine the drugs needed to control them. Then, there would be no risk of needless bloodshed and waste."

Papu of the Chorus stood. She was a powerful political figure as the senior member of a group that contained mostly accountants, bureaucrats, and political scientists. The Chorus always agreed among themselves, making them a formidable force. She was small and dull green, so she always had to stretch to be sure she could be seen. "The pharmacists are right. We
must
know more about beings who make 'routine stopovers' between the stars before we act. If their stardrive is more powerful than ours, then their weapons must be also."

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Dacris swelled impatiently. "I respectfully remind Papu that your people were conquered centuries ago by just such an attitude. You feared the expense of war, but not of committees. You'd be in meetings still if we had not overpowered you."

"It's true, Dacris," she responded acidly, "we were conquered centuries ago.

But we have been Chosen for over two hundred years. And it was because of our committees that the Chosen were finally able to conquer the last ethnic holdouts, the Cliff-Dwellers and the Armored, and bring peace to our Home. A peace we have enjoyed for one hundred years. I submit, Glorious First, that people who have not conquered a nation in one hundred years need to practice a little caution."

Dacris turned to his First. "If these aliens are warlike conquerors, then where are the cities they could surely build, where are their armies? Why isn't the space around this world filled with stations, crowded with ships going back and forth reaping resources? Where are the armies to protect this planet?"

"Those are good questions," Atle agreed, "and the answers are near, in that space station, just waiting for us to translate them. We've already translated the station's original message; we can use that to unlock their secrets--and make them ours."

Atle saw Dacris unsuccessfully mask his resentment. "Second, do you disagree with this decision?"

The Troubadour hesitated. One by one, the other staff members squatted down, leaving only the Troubadour and the First standing. The Second's skin blushed vividly.

Atle's own colors flared in response to the challenge. His poison patches flared yellow, then began to sweat.

The sight of the weeping poison brought fear to the table as the others stared straight ahead, motionless, dulling their color. But Dacris' look was one of stark terror--a look Atle had seen before.
He's wrestled a One-Touch,
he realized. It was hard to win a match when you could only concentrate on warding off the arms of your opponent. With immediate treatment a victim could survive, but recovery involved weeks of pain and paralysis.

"I follow your command, Glorious First," the Troubadour sang softly as he squatted on his heels.

"Then ready a transport and a crew of technicians," Atle ordered Dacris.

"You
will board the station--but prevent it from sending an alarm. Staff it around the clock. Papu, assemble translators, historians, . and technicians for Dacris. Rand, you and your best pharmacists and biochemists will go also. We must understand these beings' biology if we hope to

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control them. The three of you will be personally responsible for that."

Rand and Papu blinked acknowledgment. Dacris sat immobile.

"Sooner or later," Atle sang, "the ship that left will return. And you, Dacris, will be waiting. You must be prepared to take it, and everyone aboard. Then you, your staff, and a skeleton crew of the aliens will take the ship Home.

When that alien ship comes back, Dacris, will you be ready?"

The Troubadour faced his First, his color brightening. "Yes, First. Thank you, First." It was an important task. But was it enough to assuage the Second's boundless ambition?

"I'll need a crew myself," Atle continued. He turned to the far end of the table where the lower-classed Armored and Cliff- Dwellers sat. "Tipes, Bufo, I want soldiers and strongarms, your best, fully equipped. Rand, I'll want a small medical crew. And a zoologist. Dacris, I'll need a ground surveillance specialist. We'll surprise the station's ground camp and take them."

He paced around the table to face the Red-Legs, who were mostly

technicians. "You, Ensa, will organize our first settlement, somewhere near where the probe landed. Once we capture the beings at the camp, we'll join you at the settlement and conduct research there. Your people should continue to awaken the staff and families, Chosen and Industrious, and send them planetside until we are at full capacity. Third-in-Conquest Amaset will be running the ship, and will coordinate transports."

Atle would be more comfortable once their resources were land-bound. It was a big planet; there they could spread out. Here they were one large, easy target.

He turned to face the table. "We don't know how long it will take us to learn how to control these beings. We will have only a finite number of them to work on, and a finite amount of time before the spaceship returns. But we have never been a people to abide waste or squander resources. To lose the potential of any of these intelligent beings would be terrible indeed. Go slowly. Go carefully. And remember." He paused for effect. "I will not hesitate to punish the careless--or to reward the careful."