Hellspark (14 page)

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Perhaps because of her silence, perhaps because, for him, the emergency was over, Kejesli’s manner softened. As he drew the membrane aside and stepped into the wan sunlight, he said, “Come, Hellspark—for you it is only a theft at Festival. For me, it is a good deal more.”

She did not reply. If her oblique appeal to Veschke’s good opinion had not worked, then the only way around him was by the rule book. Her quarantine ploy would have worked—could still work. A

glance at her hand showed redness remaining; it would take her only minutes to reestablish her spurious

infection with layli-layli calulan

’s assistance.

Tocohl plunged through the crowd that had gathered outside Kejesli’s quarters in anticipation of the ritual that marked the end of their job. Alfvaen swift-Kalat, and van Zoveel turned anxiously to her but she brushed them aside absently. “I can stay,” she said, “but the report goes.”

The news brought a mixed reaction. Swift-Kalai turned abruptly and walked a short distance away, anger and disappointment stiffening his gait. Tocohi automatically caught Alfvaen’s arm to prevent her from following him: an angry Jenji is, by definition, unreliable. He would not appreciate her company at the moment. Still without conscious thought, Tocohl drew Alfvaen along with her.

Watchful, the shaman stood quietly apart, a jievnal stick laced through her hair. Her eyes followed the sprookje that wandered among the humans. Only layli-layli calulan had the power to grant the sprookjes a stay of execution, Tocohl thought. Would she?

Thrusting Alfvaen forward—a talisman of serendipity to influence a shaman—Tocohl folded her arms across her chest and stared long and hard at layli-layli calulan

, willing her to speak.

“Tocohl Susumo!” swift-Kalat’s voice and instantaneous sprookje-echo rang with such command that all, Kejesli included, turned to him.

Caught by his tone, Tocohl responded formally. “Yes?”

Swift-Kalat’s bracelets flashed as he leveled his arm at the sprookje. The sprookje, feathers ruffling, imitated his gesture with frightening accuracy. And, as swift-Kalat spoke, it echoed word for word: “I

accuse the sprookjes of the deliberate premeditated murder of Oloitokitok. Will you agree to judge?”

At Tocohl’s side, Alfvaen gave a short, sharp gasp. Tocohl caught her shoulder and gave her a look of silent command. Alfvaen held her tongue.

“Yes,” said Tocohl, “I agree to judge.”

Maggy pinged furiously for attention and, when Tocohl ignored her, said, (The penalty for impersonating—)

(I know, Maggy, now just shut up.)

“You can’t,” said Rav Kejesli. It came out like a plea. “The sprookjes would have to be sentient in order to commit murder.”

“Yes,” said Tocohl, “they would.” She could not help but grin. “I will first be obliged to make a judgment on the sentience or non sentience of the sprookjes.—Would you be kind enough, Captain

Kejesli, to have your team put their files at my disposal?”

For a long breath, Kejesli said nothing; his face had the look of a man in great pain. Then, slowly and almost implausibly, he smiled.

“In that case, I will hold my report until you have made your judgment.” His eyes shifted from her face to the pin of high-change in her cloak. “—In Veschke’s honor!” he finished.

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ORTY-TWO MEMBERS OF the survey team crowded the common room with excitement, jostling each other and speaking in whispers. You’d think, and Tocohl did, that surveying an unchartered planet would be enough excitement for anyone, but obviously it was not so.

News of a judgment, coupled as it was with the accusation of murder, stirred even the oldest and most blase of the team members.

Tocohl scanned the crowd for the reactions of those she had already met. Om im had been accorded a position in the front, in deference to his size, and he grinned at her and winked broadly, gesturing across the room to Edge-of-Dark. To her costume of the night before, the programmer had added a second victoria ribbon, this one pale green, which crossed her breast at right angles to the first, and tall laced softboots of Ringsilver fashion. Tocohl flashed a wink at Om im; her pictures of Madly had worked.

Captain Rav Kejesli made a grudging formal introduction and the room became silent but for the monotony of rain.

“By now,” said Tocohl, “you’ve all heard that the sprookjes have been accused of murder; and most

of you realize we’ve an unusual situation on our hands. In essence, in order to judge the guilt or innocence of the creatures, I must first know to my own satisfaction whether or not they are sentient.”

The whisper of noise became a surprised chatter of voices, and Tocohl raised a hand. “Wait and hear me out.”

When the noise quieted once again, she continued, “I know that your primary specialists all seem to have reached the conclusion that the sprookjes are not sentient, but I would like to keep an open mind on the question. Some of the secondary specialists are not so convinced, and a secondary specialist is not mere backup. Survey teams were designed to have as many talents and specialties available as possible, and I believe that the original intent was to take advantage of the synergistic effects among the surveyors as well.

“So I’m asking for your cooperation in an experiment. Let us for the moment forget authority.

If anyone has anything to say on the subject of sprookjes, I want to hear it. I don’t care how wild it is, I

don’t care if it’s totally out of your field of expertise—I want to hear it anyway. I’ll even listen to anecdotes about the sprookjes.” She flashed a grin at Om im. “Story for story,”

she finished, to add a bit of a bribe for their effort.

Once more, she scanned the group—surveyed the surveyors, she thought with a smile. By virtue of the novelty of the situation, she’d get her cooperation and then some. As for slighting the primary specialists—each primary specialist had a secondary or tertiary specialty; given the chance she offered, they’d be delighted to show off.

“One last thing,” she said, “before I send you all off to dig out material for me. Has anyone here fallen on Pasic?”

There was a titter of amusement—obviously some had.

It was John the Smith who pushed forward to say, “Pasicans are the closest things I’ve ever met to the Hershlaing in the flesh. They’re as nontechnological as they come, at least within the known human realm. They don’t even have, oh—matches or flints!”

Within the known human realm, Tocohl observed with satisfaction, you’re thinking already.

“True,” she said aloud. “Now, a Pasican once told me the difference between himself and an orival—that’s a small native animal. ‘An orival does not know how to put branches on the fire when it is dying, therefore a Pasican is human and an orival is an animal.’”

It brought a chuckle of superiority from the crowd. Tocohl waited for it to pass, then she said,
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“I may not be human to a Pasican.”

That got their full attention. Spreading her cloak for the added drama of the gesture, she went on, “My 2nd skin provides me with all the warmth I need. My spectacles can push for available light. A fire is of no particular use to me.—Not knowing I must prove myself human in this one fashion, I may let the fire go out

!”

“See here!” It was John the Smith again, and this time he was angry. “Are you saying that the sprookjes may be so advanced—.”

Tocohl said, “No. I’m saying that they may be so different that we don’t recognize one of their artifacts when we get our noses rubbed in it… And I’m saying that even Homo sapiens within historical time have had difficulty in proving their humanity to other Homo sapiens

. I’m asking that you all consider the circumstances in which you would be hard put to prove your sentience, especially if you were unaware that you were being tested.”

Enlisting Buntec and a daisy-clipper, Tocohl and Alfvaen made a quick trip out to the Margaret

Lord Lynn

. Maggy, for once giving no warnings and predicting no doom, taped Tocohl’s subvocalized message on the way and waited with open door when they arrived.

Buntec stowed their belongings in the daisy-clipper amid cheerful obscenities and colorful blasphemies. And Alfvaen said, in Siveyn, “You told me you weren’t a judge.”

Tocohl said quietly, “I lied to you.”

“But why? We’d only just met; you had no reason to lie to me.” The small hand flew lightly outward, dismayed.

“No offense intended,” said Tocohl easily. “I like to keep in practice. In Veschke’s honor.”

Tinling Alfvaen frowned up at her, as if squinting into the sun. Tocohl could almost read the thoughts as they rippled through the Siveyn’s mind: anger, then suspicion, and, finally, concern.

“All right,” said Alfvaen. “You lied to me. No offense taken.”

Alfvaen would keep her own counsel; but the concern in the Siveyn’s green eyes did not fade.

Buntec bellowed from the hatch, “All stowed! Let’s move—Flashfever looks about to do its act again!”

As they sped toward base camp, Alfvaen maintained a pensive silence as Buntec cajoled and cursed the daisy-clipper along its way.

Behind them, the

Margaret Lord Lynn rose solemnly into the sky and disappeared. Tocohl watched the ship go, and answered Buntec’s query with an economical, “Geosynchronous orbit. Better for communication.”

“Oh,” said Buntec, “if I’d known you had one of those top-line computers, I’d’ve stuck around to watch. You have an implant too?”

“Yes,” said Tocohl, and Buntec said, “Before you run out on us, give me a guided tour, will you?

Talk about technological toys… !”

Tocohl grinned. Not only did Buntec have a passion for technological toys but, Tocohl suspected from the way the Jannisetti handled the daisy-clipper, she was a gifted player as well.

She hadn’t seen any research on the subject, but she’d always suspected that there was an espability relating to machinery that was kith and kin to the more common “green thumb.” A

“metal thumb,” perhaps; whatever it was, Buntec was a prime example. “If you’ll keep Maggy’s abilities to yourself for the duration, Buntec, I

promise you a chance to talk to her yourself.”

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“Talk to her?

That top-line?” Buntec raised her eyebrows, simultaneously demonstrating her pleasure by raising the daisy-clipper in a neat arc as well. “A nosy-poke computer?”

Tocohl laughed; she’d never heard the Jannisetti term for a computer of Maggy’s capabilities, but she was willing to bet that a literal translation. “A nosy-poke computer,” she repeated, “that she most certainly is.”

(Should I resent that?) Maggy asked. Tocohl couldn’t help but repeat the query for Buntec’s benefit.

“Resent it?” said Buntec. “Shit, no! Wow! And hello there, Maggy! I meant it as a compliment.”

(Tell her thank you for me.)

Tocohl relayed the message.

“You’re on, Tocohl. My mouth is stitched shut. But I do warn you there are a couple-three smartasses in the crew might spot a nosy-poke faster than me.”

“Just don’t give them any help.”

(Stabilization of orbit in three minutes,) said Maggy, sparing her the details. (I launched the message capsule, and it should reach Sheveschke in about six days, unless something goes wrong.)

(Fine,) said Tocohl. (Now if Alfvaen asks you whether or not I’m a judge—though I doubt she will—if she does, you are to tell her that I am.)

(You want me to lie?) Maggy somehow managed to sound outraged.

(That’s it exactly. I want you to lie.)

(I can’t lie.)

(Nonsense. Of course you can. That’s a direct order, so I’ll have no more of your lip.) (Suppose Captain Kejesli asks his own computer: it won’t lie. I tried to talk with it, and it’s too stupid to lie.)

(Nicely phrased, Maggy.—And no doubt it does contain a list of byworld judges. In which case it will contain the name

Tocohl Sisumo.)

Maggy made a rude noise, and Tocohl almost choked with laughter. (That’s your father,) said

Maggy. (That won’t help at all.)

(The rude noise,) said Tocohl, (was not quite appropriate, but I’m glad you’ve added it to your repertoire—at least, I think I’m glad. In any event, if Kejesli sees Tocohl sumo, he’ll assume it’s a

Si lousy transliteration into GalLing’. Stop worrying, Maggy; Kejesli would stand for a higher garble-factor

than that.)

(That’s not what I’m worried about,) Maggy said primly.

(Okay, okay. But keep your worries to yourself,) Tocohl finished, and turned her attention back to

Buntec, who said cheerfully, “Gossip away. Don’t let me interrupt.

Move ass

, you dopes!”

This last was shouted out the window, as Buntec steered the daisy-clipper into the compound, spraying all those who hadn’t turned and run with a comprehensive layer of red mud. Directly opposite swift-Kalat’s door, Buntec grounded the daisy-clipper with feather lightness.

“You’re not interrupting,” Tocohl said. She slid from the craft, caught at the door frame abruptly.

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“Watch your step,” she cautioned, “it’s slippery out here.”

“Always is,” said Buntec. “Makes a fine mess of things, doesn’t it?” She landed beside Tocohl with a splash. “I’ve been thinking,” she said as she snatched luggage from the daisy-clipper,

“swift-Kalat says he’s got a biological artifact—Hitoshi Dan say it’s not an artifact, but he can’t figure out how it propagates, right?”

“Right,” said Tocohl as she took her parcels from Buntec. “What do you have in mind?”

“Suppose,” said Buntec, hefting the last of the parcels herself and following them up the steps into swift-Kalat’s quarters, “Suppose we just assume it’s an artifact and go from there. Where does that get us?”

“Good question: by Comity standards, we’ve got to prove the sprookjes have language, artifacts, and art or religion. It could be argued that language is an artifact—and has been, in fact. As I recall, both dolphins and whaffles whistled by on the strength of their poetry. And that,” said Tocohl, dropping her bundle, “means that art and artifacts overlap as a category.”