Before They Were Giants (29 page)

“What point, then, shall I put forward to the SEC rep, T’orre Na? The necessity for concrete reparation, or the implementation of an education programme regarding burnstone?”

Oriyest answered. “Both,” she said.

Annoyingly, the lieutenant looked to T’orre Na for confirmation. T’orre Na did not oblige. The lieutenant was forced to respond to Oriyest.

“I’m not really sure that both matters should be raised at the same time.”

“Why?”

“Because of the way bureaucracy works.”

“Is your bureaucracy so stupid it can only think upon one thing at a time?”

Jink watched Day carefully school her expression to hide her amusement. The lieutenant grimaced.

“Not precisely. If, only if, the SEC rep decides to pass on your complaint, things will be made difficult if the complaint encompasses more than one area. That will mean the involvement of more than one sub-committee, which will lead to delays.”

“The difficulty, then, is one of time?” Oriyest asked.

“Yes, exactly.”

Oriyest smiled. “Well then. There is no rush. Speak of both.”

“I don’t believe you understand the kind of timescales involved here.” She turned to face T’orre Na. “Even supposing I went out that door now, this minute, and that Courtivron decided without pause for thought to continue with this action, and even supposing his superiors on Earth agreed to back us, which is by no means certain, that would just be the beginning. Evidence would have to be assembled, shipped out—it might even mean going off-planet for these two,” she nodded at Oriyest and Jink. “After that there’ll be delays for feasibility reports and if, at long last, it’s all agreed, then there are advisory bodies to be formed, supervisory employees to be selected ... And during all this, Company will be blocking and fighting everything. They have planetsful of lawyers.”

Neither T’orre Na nor Oriyest seemed perturbed. Jink was barely listening; the small space felt as though it was crowding in on her. Day’s expression was politely attentive but Jink had a feeling that the Mirror’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“At the minimum,” the lieutenant was saying, “we are talking of three or four years. At the maximum. . . who knows. Ten years? Twelve?”

When T’orre Na merely nodded, the lieutenant looked exasperated.

“Do you know how long a year is?”

“We are familiar with your reckoning. Are you familiar with ours? No,” she waved a hand to dismiss the lieutenant’s nod, “I don’t speak of how many of our seasons there are in one of your years. I speak of deeper things. You think of us as passive creatures. We are not. We have been learning, watching. I know your customs, your attitudes, your food. Your beer.” She grinned at Day, who seemed startled but grinned back. “How much do you know of us?”

“Much.” The lieutenant’s cheeks
were flushed. “I know you all came originally from Earth, a long time ago. I’ve read articles on your culture, your art, the structure of your society—”

“And dismissed it. Look at me, Hannah. How do you see me? As a child? A primitive you wish to study for your amusement? Look at my hand.” T‘orre Na held out her hand and Hannah did as she was ordered. “This hand can birth children, this hand can weave, sow crops and harvest them. This hand can make music, build a dwelling. This hand could kill you.” T‘orre Na spoke quietly. “Look well at this hand, Outlandar. Do you truly believe that the owner of this hand would allow herself to be treated as nothing?”

The journeywoman’s eyes were deep and black.

~ * ~

Day stared at T’orre Na, realizing she had never seen so much strength in a person before. Her breath whistled fast and rhythmic as in combat alert; the lieutenant might take exception to what could be a threat. Once, on Earth, she had seen a spire of red rock towering up over a desert. From a distance, it had seemed fragile but up close its massiveness, the strength of its stone roots had been awe-inspiring.

Gradually, her breathing slowed and relaxed: there would be no violence. A child kicking a mountain was not violence, merely futility.

~ * ~

The lieutenant was pale but kept her voice steady. “What are you going to do?”

T’orre Na smiled slightly. “What we are doing now. Seek ways to educate you. Will you help us?”

“Yes.”

Jink stood up. “I have to leave,” she said. “It’s too small in here. I can’t breathe.”

“We can speak somewhere bigger if you prefer.”

“No, Oriyest. You know what I know. Speak for us both.”

Danner cleared her throat. “Officer Day.”

Day straightened to attention. “Ma’am?”

“Escort Jink wherever she wishes to go. Be back here within two hours. You will be needed to escort the journeywoman and her companions to the perimeter of the camp.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

She palmed the door plate and they stepped over the raised sill. “I need no escort,” Jink said as soon as the door hissed closed behind them.

“I know. Neither of us has any choice.” She hesitated. “If you want, I’ll leave you, meet you here again in a couple of hours.” She waited while Jink considered it. “But I’d rather show you something of Port. I...” She hesitated again. “I still haven’t thanked you for . . . coming back. When the burnstone went.”

Jink waited.

“Thank you,” Day said. “You saved my life.”

Jink just smiled and touched her on the arm. They walked in silence past the canteens and kitchen.

“What would you like to see first?”

“The place where you heal the sick. If you have one.”

Day raised her eyebrows. “The hospital?” She had expected Jink to ask to see the space shuttles.

“Have I said something wrong?”

“No. You just surprised me. Again.” Jink nodded. “You’re so . . . different.”

“But of course. Come. Show me the hospital.”

~ * ~

Clan snorted and butted Jink as she pulled the flatbread from the cooking stone. She tossed him a piece. He huffed in disgust; it was too hot to eat. Oriyest and T‘orre Na were already spooning beans into their bread.

“When will you move?” the journeywoman asked.

“When the younglings are sturdy enough to keep up with the rest of the flock,” Jink said over her shoulder. “Ten days, maybe less.”

“We’ll journey to Jink’s clan land,” Oriyest said, “they have spare grazing. After the hot season we’ll hear of other land we can use?”

“Yes.” T’orre Na nodded. “We will be swift.”

They were silent a while, eating.

“The burn could have been worse,” Oriyest said at last. “We went to see it, yesterday. Three seasons, no more, and we can return.”

“So. Good news.”

“Yes.” Jink stretched, watching her long evening shadow. “We took Day to see.” She looked sideways at T’orre Na. “She is learning to think of larger things, that Mirror.”

The journeywoman nodded approvingly. “Learn from each other. It will be needed.”

Oriyest put down her bread, plucked idly at the grass. “She would like to help us move the flock. When the time comes. We told her yes.”

T‘orre Na looked thoughtfully at Jink, smiled as she saw the flush creeping up the herder’s cheeks.

“Ah, so that’s how it is.” She laughed, touched Jink’s hair. “Such friendships are good, but stay mindful of your differences. Both of you.”

They nodded. T’orre Na yawned. “Now, I must sleep.”

“A song before dreaming?” Jink held her pipe out to the journeywoman. T’orre Na gestured for her to keep it.

“Play something soft. I will sing.”

So Jink played, a low quiet melody, and T’orre Na sang of hills, of air, of patience. Oriyest, banking the fire before they slept, joined in to harmonize.

~ * ~

Nicola Griffith

icola Griffith is a writer. She is also—in the most laudatory sense possible—a complete badass. Before immigrating to the United States from her native Yorkshire, England, she earned money arm-wrestling in bars, teaching self-defense classes, and fronting a decidedly aggressive band called Janes Planes. When she did decide to immigrate— and was subsequently denied—the resulting legal battle was so intense as to result in a new law, with the U.S. State Department declaring it was “in the National Interest” for her to live in the States. The case even appeared on the front page of the
Wall Street Journal,
where Nicola’s victory was used as an example of the United States’ declining moral standards.

Not surprisingly, Nicola’s writing is equally revolutionary. Through such formative novels
as Ammonite
and
Slow River,
as well as her co-edited
Bending the Landscape
anthology series, Nicola has become one of the foremost voices for societal Others in genre fiction, winning the James Tiptree, Jr. Award, the World Fantasy Award, the Nebula Award, and a total of six Lambda Literary Awards for work exploring LGBT themes—a tendency evident even in her very first story.

Looking back, what do you think still works well in this story? Why?

I like the varied pacing. I like the juxtaposition of raw new settlement and age-old landscape. I like the characters—a mix of old and young, wise and foolish, innovative and patient. I love Jink’s stubbornness and idealism, Day’s final willingness to accept another worldview, Danner’s determination to be a good officer. Also, I’m irrationally fond of the herdbird.

If you were writing this today, what would you do differently? What are the story’s weaknesses, and how would you change them?

I would cut all the vaguely ESP stuff. In
Ammonite
I turned it into a biological process, a side effect of the Jeep virus. Here, in what turned out to be the prequel story, it’s utterly unthoughtout, and new-agey clichéd. I don’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps I’d just finished reading something by Marion Zimmer Bradley...

What inspired this story? How did it take shape? Where was it initially published?

It grew from a dream: fireball; slight, skinny thing rescuing a person in armor; running across an overcast plain. When I woke up I wanted to know who or what the skinny thing was, and what happened next.

At this point—1986—I’d been an unconscious writer, scribbling away with a fountain pen on lined paper. “Mirrors and Burnstone” was different. I approached it carefully, consciously (though still by hand). When I finished and read it over, I thought, Oh, this is a real story; I want to send it out for publication; I’ll have to learn to type. So for my birthday I begged my parents for, and got, the money for a used typewriter. After much deliberation I chose an IBM Selectric. I set out to teach myself to type. I borrowed a book—and two days later found myself becoming annoyed when I couldn’t touch-type flawlessly. “Mirrors” is seven thousand words long; no matter how many hours I banged at those keys, I couldn’t produce a decent-looking typescript. Finally a friend of mine couldn’t stand it anymore and offered to type it for me. She did such a fine job (thanks, Maggie, wherever you are) that when I sold the story a few months later to
Interzone
(the contract is dated October 1987; I made £238) the typesetter sent me a letter telling me it was the cleanest piece of fiction he had ever seen. My first sale; my first fan letter. I grinned a lot.

Where were you in your life when you published this piece, and what kind of impact did it have?