CHAPTER 21
Hit takes her own scans after I do, compiling data. It would be just our luck to arrive during hibernation season again. I’d come in trying to bring a hatchling home, and wind up waking another one. But no. That can’t happen, not without March. I won’t touch any birthing mounds as he did, nor will I sing the Coming-Forth song. Things will be different this time. I’ll make it better.
So I ask, “Do you see any life signs down there?”
“Thousands.”
Thank Mary. Unlike last time, the ship sails through the atmosphere smoothly. I stare out at the tangles of green jungle flashing past the hull. It’s raining, but on Marakeq that’s nothing new. If the Mareq are active, then it’s a warm shower.
Either Hit’s a better pilot than March—and to be fair, he was out of practice when we put down here the first time—or this ship’s more maneuverable. It might be a combination of the two. Either way, within moments, we set down gently in a muddy clearing less than a klick from the river. No damage that I can see.
“Really well-done.”
She flashes me a cocky grin. “Like you expected anything else.”
“True enough.”
I check the small bundle beneath my shirt, and Baby-Z2 seems content enough, plenty warm and lapping at the protein on my chest. If things go well, I won’t be wearing him for long. I’ll give him back to his mother to assuage my sore conscience. Leaving the cockpit, I head for the hub to look for Vel.
Not surprisingly, he’s already waiting with his ubiquitous bounty-hunter pack, weatherproof gear in hand. We can’t afford to let the hatchling get cold or to have the rain wash his food supply off my skin. It’s a couple of kilometers to the settlement from here. While Hit might have been able to take us in closer, I was afraid of frightening them. I want to ensure a peaceable exchange.
In transit, I downloaded all the sounds Fugitive scientists have recorded, and my chip has been working on processing them. Nonhuman languages are more difficult to decipher because sometimes the sounds don’t have equivalent word meanings; they’re more nuances, intimations, and hints. But the Mareq tongue appears to be fairly complex, and my chip now has some idea how to decode them, which means my vocalizer can attempt a reply.
After checking Baby-Z2 one final time, I shrug into the slicker and take my pack from Vel. “Ready?”
“I am.”
“We’re gone,” I call, without touching the comm since it’s a small ship. “I’ll signal when and if it’s safe for you to join us.”
“Because I can’t wait to take my own walk in the mud,” Dina grumbles.
But she smacks me on the back as a measure of her affection when I go past her toward the exit ramp. I lead the way with Vel at my back, the way it should always be. He’s been quiet since we left Gehenna, but I’m hoping this mission will distract him from his loss. Deep down I know one person can’t replace another, but at least he’s not alone.
“Do you need scrubbers?” I’m already fitting mine in place.
The last time, Doc reminded me to wear them, but he’s gone, and I have Vel at my side instead of March. Everything changed once on this planet. I think this is where I started to love him, no matter how much I didn’t want to. I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change again.
“Yes. The atmosphere has spores and pollens that make raw inhalation a risky proposition.”
It also contains trace elements of chlorine, hence the scrubbers. Vel fits himself with compact breathing apparatus, slightly different from my nasal plugs, but they function in the same fashion. Once we’re ready, we step off the ship and into the muck. The planet is every bit as dismal as I remember, algae growing in the mud sucking around our feet. All around us, the jungle breathes, leaves rustling, rain spattering on the sodden trunks. But even the plants have a secondary layer of green growing over the top of them, moss or mold in swirling patterns.
Before we move away from the ship, he scans the area with his handheld. “No large predators.”
“The Mareq hunt to keep the territory surrounding their settlements safe.”
That’s all I remember from Canton Farr, other than the fact that he was a terrifying lunatic. As far as I know, none of the Fugitive scientists who studied the Mareq ever made contact, which means this is a historic moment, and it should be recorded for posterity.
“Turn on your ocular cam?”
“Already done,” Vel answers.
“Then let’s move out.”
The air is hot and sticky, even beyond the rain. There’s a heaviness to it that weighs on a warm-blooded creature, though I imagine it’s quite comfortable for the Mareq, who depend on the weather to regulate their body temperature. It must be simple and peaceful to live according to the changing seasons.
Vel follows a path down to the river, no more than an area where the vegetation has thinned from frequent passage. Rain sluices down his back; he isn’t wearing protective gear. No need when you’re already armored. Beneath my shirt and slicker, Baby-Z2 wriggles around, a testament to his fortitude.
Almost there, little guy.
The hike is miserable. Neither of us complains, however. At the swollen stream, Vel reaches for my hand, and we cross together, fighting the current. It rushes at my legs, trying to topple me, but with his help, I push onto the other shore. He stands for a moment in the rain, face upturned.
“Did you know, Sirantha, that my people cannot weep?”
I didn’t, actually.
He continues, “We have no tear ducts. Instead, on Ithiss- Tor, there is a mourning song, uttered by every surviving member of the clutch.”
“Do you only sing for clutchmates?”
“Or progenitors.”
“Never for friends or partners?”
He shakes his head, water dripping from his mandible. “It is not done. But here, it is as if the whole world weeps.”
“Teach me,” I say impulsively. “Teach me, and I’ll sing with you. For Adele.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Please.”
And so I learn the mourning song. It is full of clicks and hisses and long-held low notes, sounds I could never make without my vocalizer. Though I know it’s imprecise at best, the chip in my head translates it thus:Oh, though you are gone beyond all knowing
We will join you one day
Many become one
In the wholeness of the Iglogth
Away, away, far you are becoming
We are less with your loss
Away, away, our song sends you safely
But we keep you always in our minds.
Away, away,
Away.
The last note stretches for an unbearably long time. I’m sure I would find it painful, were my throat doing the work. All around us, the jungle falls quiet. And then the most extraordinary thing occurs. The insects in the wetlands echo the sounds back to us, imperfect, but mimicked, as if they recognize the gravitas of this moment. For a glorious, astonishing moment, it’s as if a whole clutch mourns Adele properly.
Vel reels with it, stumbling back to brace against a rain- slick tree. His posture communicates such raw pain that I’m helpless as to how to help. And then I realize he’s shaking, not from cold, but the Ithtorian equivalent of silent tears. I pull him to me because that’s the human way, and he’s lost a human love. Surely it will offer him some comfort.
He rubs the side of his face against the top of my head. It’s not a kiss like he gave Adele, cheek to cheek, but it’s more than he’s ever done before. So I guess I’m doing something right. His claws dig into my back, hurting me a little, but it’s a pain I’ll bear gladly. Endless moments later, he steps away, composed once more, and now the rain is only rain.
“Better?” I ask.
Vel responds with a quiet inclination of his head. He is not prone to such emotional displays, but that doesn’t mean he feels nothing. “Shall we continue?”
The rest of the journey passes in silence. As before, I glimpse the settlement through a tangle of trees. This time, however, the mounds are not dark and silent. Small lights are set all around; they look to be some natural-glowing lichen, and there is movement, the Mareq going about their daily lives. My stomach coils into a knot, and I touch Baby-Z2 reflexively. The hatchling makes a quiet sound beneath my hand, a little trill. He’s still there, still whole and healthy, my offering to those from whom I stole. Mary grant it’s enough.
CHAPTER 22
No point in further delay. It won’t get easier.
I step out of the jungle and into the village. Immediately, five nearby Mareq surround me. But they don’t appear hostile; instead, they seem fascinated. I’ve only seen images of them, captured by Fugitive scientists, and here I am, up close and personal. This is it—first contact. I haven’t done this in such a long time . . . and it was never my specialty. I have rudimentary training just in case, but my personality doesn’t lend itself to diplomacy and careful interaction.
I expected I might have to do some fast talking, but their chief response appears to be wonder, not fear, anger, or violence—a more human response. The Mareq are innocent souls, then. They haven’t been taught that the unfamiliar cannot be trusted. At least, I hope it’s experience that causes the difference in our reactions—and that humans aren’t naturally more aggressive.
They speak to me all at once, the sounds jumbling together until I can’t do anything with it. Just noise. Since I’ve failed to comprehend their language, at least in this first moment, I don’t have much time to make the right impression. Slowly, carefully, I shed my slicker, despite the rain, and a gasp goes up from the Mareq. Widening of the eyes is a universal expression of surprise, it seems, and these bulging frog eyes reveal astonishment that I’ve peeled off my skin. They all draw back at the pasty flesh beneath, but I’m not done yet.
Carefully, still shielding Baby-Z2, I open my shirt and show them the hatchling. More croaking. The chip still can’t differentiate anything about it, so I can only guess what they’re saying. Look, it’s a baby Mareq. But how did it get one? Let’s call the Elder.
Whatever they said, one of them does run to get another Mareq, leaving the others to watch Vel and me. A tall male is bold enough to rap on Vel’s chitin as if testing to see whether it comes off, too. They seem more fascinated than frightened at this point, which is a good sign. I want a peaceful meeting. So long as we make no sudden moves, it should be fine.
A female Mareq, heavy with eggs, waddles in our direction, and her throat flushes bright red when she sees the infant clinging to my chest. A low, sweet noise trills from her throat, and to my amazement, Baby-Z2 replies. She takes him from me, and he attaches to her with visible shivers of pleasure.
There’s no question in my mind. This is his mother. He knows her. Even if he’s not the son I took away, he’s close enough for her to be glad to see him. That brightness on her neck indicates joy. Despite the warm rain on my head, a tremor rolls through me. I don’t deserve to be part of such a tremendous moment. Turns from now, anthropologists will study Vel’s record of this meeting.
