It took a little sorting out, especially the demonstration of how to add a word in either language. That evoked a great deal of chatter from Hakuut to the others.
Then, from Hakuut, a gesture to the units and a question involving, apparently, the ceiling and walls—a question, Bren surmised, as to whether the devices were linked only to each other or linked through another unit.
So there, first off, was a question of trust.
Should he admit what any person used to such systems might suspect as a matter of course: that they were under observation, they were being recorded?
In fact they were not only being recorded, every individual word was being computer-captured and linked to context—because nobody since the first human settlement on the planet had had to deal with a completely strange language. Ragi at least was within human ability to pronounce, but neither human nor atevi could figure the booms and thumps that ranged into the bottom range of hearing. Yes, the devices all linked to a master system.
Tell them that Tano—whose specialty was demolitions, about as far from linguistics as one could get—was in the sitting room of the paidhi’s apartment making the best real-time analysis he could manage? Tano was following the conversations, looking at the situational use and helping the computer build a sort of dictionary, flagging repetitions in other contexts, and, if Tano thought of one, even assigning a best-guess definition.
It certainly wasn’t Tano’s field of Guild expertise—but Jago, who was their best at languages, was part of the security team Prakuyo knew, and Jago and Banichi needed to be present with him. Tano and Algini, whom the kyo did not know, and who had more expertise with computers, were behind the scenes, taking notes, making decisions, communicating offsite. Waveform analysis was also part of that record, and Geigi was involved with that, with techs who again weren’t going to get regular shifts or sleep. Bren ached to get a look at the record, whether the sounds were individual, freeform, or whether they were regular, specific and precise. He wanted hours to sit and go over that record.
He didn’t have hours. He had to steer the conversation that provided the data into areas they wanted to talk about, and he had to make the decision to tell Hakuut the truth or withhold it.
“More computer,” he said in kyo, with an encompassing wave at the surrounds, as Hakuut had done. “We want to hear.” He tapped his ear. “Humans, atevi do not hear all kyo sound. The atevi ear is better. But not hear. Machine hears.”
A little animated kyo discussion followed that, rife with those frustrating booms and thumps and hums that neither human nor atevi throats could duplicate. Back at Reunion, when Prakuyo had expressed distress on one occasion, tea had quivered in a cup. The sound when Prakuyo was really agitated, as he had been in the struggle to rescue him, made itself felt, quite scarily so. Waveform analysis could reveal what they could not hear. But it didn’t tell them what it meant. It didn’t tell kyo, either, what it meant when a human tensed a small muscle near the mouth.
The kyo were discussing something, maybe the monitoring, maybe the limitations of human hearing—there was no knowing. But he didn’t intend to have the conversation spiraling off into speculation neither side could answer.
He keyed the next word, deliberate distraction. Solar system. A generic star system. A touch on each object generated not just his voice and the word, but the path of the planet or moon around the star, the moons taking that distinctive sine wave pattern of a body caught in a moving gravitational well.
Hakuut was with him immediately, and repeated the words, then, with screen taps, put in the kyo words for planet, and for moon, orbit and year. Lifted the stylus and touched again, obviously delighted to hear it play back, first the kyo word, then, a third touch, the atevi word again, going on to make some observation that contained the words atevi solar system and planet.
Prakuyo made a thump, somewhere in his chest. Hakuut glanced at him, then closed his mouth and was silent.
Was that a caution, from Prakuyo? A warning not to push too far, a little wish not to go into whatever that statement had been?
Prakuyo made a triple boom, then took over. Using his own screen, Prakuyo repeated the words quietly, slowly, in a way now, Bren noted, that carried far less of the resonance of normal kyo speech.
Curious. Was it to accommodate him, when he had said he didn’t hear everything?
Was it some simplification, the same way Ragi—which leaned heavily on numbers, with complex substitutions to make an infelicity felicitous—had what they called the children’s language, which used far simpler forms and notably lacked those particles?
Hakuut and Matuanu immediately followed suit, and when they next spoke, their speech was higher, more in the front of the mouth, lacking those deep sounds.
Baby talk, God help him. It was a little embarrassing—and possibly psychologically affecting how they heard him. But when he repeated those words in that simplified form, he drew hums and booms of approval.
Prakuyo was, all things considered, no fool. If there was a way, Prakuyo tended to find it, from survival—to dealing with foreigners.
Bren called another graphic, assembled photos with no size reference: the atevi solar system, the Earth, and Alpha Station, a tiny Phoenix orbiting nearby, and the kyo ship a white shape docked at the mast.
“Here,” Bren said, and pointed to the Earth. “Atevi planet,” he said, and touching the planet, he said, “Earth. My name is Bren. The planet’s name is Earth.”
The kyo carefully repeated the word, touching the image for a playback until they agreed each had said it correctly.
He touched the station in the image.
“Alpha Station,” he recorded, and: “Ship. The ship’s name is Phoenix. Kyo ship. The kyo ship’s name is . . .”
“Hraksuhi ha Ahko.”
That took some work. He said it twice before Prakuyo said, “Yes.” And had no clue whether it was a poetic name or some other designation.
Bren went on, planet to planet, giving atevi names.
Then, up close with the Earth and Sun. Orbit of the planet. Year. Rotation of the planet. Day. Hour. Minutes. Seconds. They had time in their collective knowledge.
“Kyo planet?” he asked then, casually, and Hakuut said something that was half a thump.
A rapid, soft sound from Prakuyo, one Bren didn’t recall hearing before. Hakuut’s skin pattern flared, spots coming into view and fading.
Reciprocity, offering information, then asking it in return. It might be a pattern. It might be an ethic. He might have burdened them, offering information, then asking a return.
Pushing too far too fast. Ramirez had done that.
Then Prakuyo said, “Kyo planet name is Tuan.”
It was, however, a good time to state principle.
Tuan could mean forbidden. Could mean almost anything. He ventured to confirm what it was.
“Tuan. Earth. Two planets. Earth is atevi planet.”
“Tuan is kyo planet. Atevi planet is Earth.” Then. “Earth is atevi and human planet?”
Oh, that was a sharp question. And not an easy one to explain. They’d traveled that territory before—back at Reunion, and never quite explained it to Prakuyo’s satisfaction. Now they were orbiting the reality of that question. They were on a station where that question mattered.
And he’d prepared a graphic.
“Earth is atevi planet.” He tapped the screen. There was so much to tell—from the human viewpoint nearly inexplicable. How did you possibly explain you’d misplaced your whole solar system?
Explaining the accident to the ship—was impossible.
Explaining the atevi perspective was far easier.
He showed an atevi country cottage. Children playing.
Showed a night sky, and pointed to a bright star. “Star comes. Atevi see it. Atevi look with telescopes.” He showed that picture. “They see Alpha. Man
y years.”
Discussion. “Human make Alpha Station?” Prakuyo asked.
“Yes. Phoenix came to the Earth of the atevi. They built Alpha. Many years. Humans on Alpha see the Earth, want go to Earth, make association with the atevi. Phoenix says no. Phoenix not want association. Phoenix goes. Humans on Alpha come down to the Earth of the atevi.” Picture of a parachute. “Humans come down to the atevi. Ask help.”
“Help.”
“Food. Houses.”
Photo of same. Two people. Children, playing in front of the house.
Photo of the world. And indication of a point on it. “This is an island. Water all around. Island. This big island is Mospheira. Atevi give this island to Alpha humans. All happy. Alpha humans are now Mospheiran humans. Mospheiran humans give atevi machines. Atevi give Mospheirans food. All safe, all good.”
Discussion, then, a fairly lively one, in which he caught the words station and planet, atevi and human.
“More,” he said, and changed the image to Phoenix.
That brought silence. Sharp attention.
“Phoenix, two hundred years, makes number two station. Reunion. Mospheirans do not see Reunion. Two hundred years, humans on atevi planet do not see, do not hear Phoenix. One year Phoenix comes to Alpha. Phoenix says not good at Reunion. Kyo are upset. Bad. Bad upset. Please come help Reunion humans come to Alpha. Atevi say—yes. We go. Atevi help Reunioners come to Alpha. Atevi send dowager, Cajeiri, Bren on Phoenix.”
He left it there. Going much further led to risky places. And no use trying to explain the warring factions, either on the station or on the Earth.
Silence persisted a moment. He waited. Nobody stirred.
“Reunion,” Prakuyo said then. “Phoenix go Reunion. Come. Go. Come. Many years.”
What was that human ship up to? Why this going and coming?
Really good question, that one.
“Phoenix goes from Reunion, wants to see a star and planets. Kyo come. Phoenix upset. Big upset. Phoenix goes quick.”
They had not yet discovered a word for mistake. Or sorry. Or bad move.
Tea quivered in the cup. The table might be vibrating ever so slightly. Human ears didn’t hear it. Waveforms would surely show it. There was such a feeling of danger. Of apprehension. Like a thunderstorm in the distance.
In deep silence Narani came over and substituted clean cups. Bindanda quietly poured tea. They might have heard it. Human ears could not.
“Atevi and Mospheirans,” Bren said, “want kyo all happy. Phoenix does not go to kyo space.”
Audible thump. The cups quivered.
“Bren say ship not go. Ship say?”
Does the ship take your orders? Another really good question. And one with a complicated answer.
“The dowager says ship not go. Mospheirans are not happy to hear Phoenix upset the kyo.”
Two times Prakuyo struggled to say something, ending in a triple thump deep in his throat and a slight shake of the head. “Not good,” Prakuyo said. “Not good the ship comes to kyo place.”
“Good the kyo come to Alpha,” Bren said quietly, maintaining calm. “Good Bren and Prakuyo and dowager talk.”
Emotion showed in the booms and thumps. What it showed, there was no knowing. Not-good covered so damned much territory. Good. Not good. Black. White. Shades of gray were the very devil to manage when one started with table, chair, food. Abstracts were like so many grenades, apt to go to wrong places and blow up on them. Alien minds, alien cultures, alien ethics—all, all unpredictable in combination. Substances that became actions. Actions that had substance.
Low booms came from Prakuyo, slow and somber.
“Bren. You. Bren. Atevi human.”
“Yes. I, Bren. Atevi human.”
“Not ship human. Not Reunion human.”
“No. Mospheiran human.”
“Polano—” Prakuyo said the name very carefully, as he would a word he was trying to get right, and Bren nodded. “Polano ship-human. Jase-aiji ship-human.”
“Yes.”
A rumbling discussion with his associates, then Hakuut colored brightly and said, in careful Ragi:
“Kyo-we see Bren, see dowager, see Cajeiri, see Polano, see . . .” A nervous tension, a glance at Prakuyo. “ . . . Much atevi.” Holding his hands wide. “Atevi and atevi and atevi. Much atevi? Yes?”
“Many atevi. Yes.”
“Good!” Hakuut’s voice gained confidence. “Atevi food. Atevi bed. Kyo-we want go see all the station human. Want see the many station human. Many ship-human. Yes?”
Hakuut was quick. And armed with vocabulary. Did the subordinate ask the pointed question, giving Prakuyo the chance to disown that question? Possibly. Prakuyo hadn’t disowned it yet.
Did he accept the question, from the one who seemed juniormost?
Ilisidi certainly might not. He was, however, just the translator.
“Here. They are all here.” He brought up a picture of Alpha, touched one side . . . it lit up. “This is atevi side of station.” He touched the other. “This is human side: they are Mospheiran.”
“Mospheiran.” There was no luck with the m sound in initial position. It came out an h. So did the ph.
“Mospheirans do not speak Ragi. Atevi do not speak Mospheiran. Associated—” He pressed his hands together, then opened them wide. “Not one.”
God, he hoped they got that. But Hakuut blinked, then spoke rapidly to Prakuyo, who hummed.
Then Prakuyo said: “Jase-aiji is in Bren room. Yes?”
God. Subsonics. What did they have? Radar? Could they hear the voices? The movements behind two walls?
Jase had been in ops. Jase had talked to the kyo ship. Prakuyo had identified that presence, right along with his.
“I shall call him,” he said matter-of-factly, and took out his pocket com, with no reference to the listening that was already going on, and the likelihood that Jase already knew his name had been invoked. “Jase-ji? Prakuyo heard your voice. He’d like to see you. Will you come join us?”
“No problem,” Jase answered smoothly, and Bren translated it: “Jase-aiji is happy to come.”
How much else might they have heard? He had no idea. Guild could drop into their own modes of expression.
But, God, there were the Observers, as well as those more accustomed to strangers. One only hoped they were circumspect.
A door opened in the larger room. Steps crossed the tiles, and the carpet. Even human ears could follow that set of sounds. Jase, in ship’s uniform, arrived in the doorway of the kyo sitting room, gave a little bow, atevi-style, and offered a pleasant face.
“Prakuyo-nandi!” A bow and then, in kyo. “Good see Prakuyo. Hakuut. Matuanu. Good see.”
The two kyo rose and bowed and bobbed, Prakuyo acknowledged the arrival with a lift of his hand. “Jase-aiji good see. Sit, yes.”
Jase, with a glance at Bren, slipped into the chair next to him. There was, naturally, the solemn quiet of tea service, a quiet sip or two, time to factor Jase’s presence into the situation and give Jase a moment to settle.
Jase had kept ops chatter confined to charts and diagrams, Jase had assured him. Hadn’t tried verbal communication, except small words like go, and yes. No freehanding of conversation.
Had he identified himself to them? Possibly, so routine a matter Jase might not have registered it.
But how much detail of a voice did kyo pick up—granted sound might be a far, far more important sensory gateway for them than it was for humans or atevi?
They’d not gotten nearly as much booming and thumping in their meetings with the kyo at Reunion. Had that been profoundly restrained—not to give way to emotion in the negotiations?
Prakuyo had had less restraint—personally. They had remarked that at the time.
Prakuyo and the other two showed no su
ch restraint now, among themselves. A group of kyo all emoting, he suspected, could more than rattle a teacup. All upset at once was something he didn’t want to see.
“Good Jase-aiji come,” Prakuyo said. “Kyo-we want see Reunioner. Want see Mospheiran. Want see atevi. Want see station.”
Jase drew in a breath, made a face, and kyo eyes flicked his way, wondering, possibly, what that twitch could possibly mean.
Bren knew. “Security nightmare,” Jase said.
“They want to see the association,” Bren said in ship-speak. “They want to see— Cooperation.” The image of kyo in the broad main corridors with random traffic, God, no. With the general apprehension, the recent brush with a Reunioner-Mospheiran quarrel breaking into riot. No. Quiet areas. Where there were humans. “We can take them to Central,” he said. “Let them witness a handoff. Take them to human Central, then over to atevi Central at the handoff. Gin. Geigi. Their staff is steady—we’ve had proof of that.”
“To do that, we have to take them through the crossover,” Jase said.
A public area. Random persons. Security could make it a little less random.
“Can we fix that?”
“I can do it,” Jase said. “Shall I?”
“Yes.” He shifted to Ragi and said to Prakuyo. “Yes. Jase is going to talk to the station. This night we sleep. Tomorrow we go to see the station.”
He hoped Prakuyo would take the delay and not interpret it as a setup, which it somewhat was. He wanted to close down the session and get some rest—the adrenaline was running out. He wanted to sleep. Finally. Things were working. The situation hadn’t blown up. He wanted to sleep.
“More words,” Prakuyo said. “Go tomorrow. More words now. Talk. Listen.”
God. At least the word for the visit upstairs was tomorrow, one Prakuyo had remembered on his own.
They were set. It was working. The kyo were working on their own charge of excitement, everything new, and quite possibly they’d gotten regular sleep on the trip in.
He’d last. Staff would.
18
Narani, Bindanda, Banichi and Jago all stayed staunchly on duty, with minor absences . . . sitting down for a while, one hoped.