He paused for what seemed a very long time.
"Your people tell stories, yes?"
She nodded, but he did not respond, and she suddenly realized that the gesture perhaps had no meaning for him. Hastily she wet her dry mouth, and whistled, "Yes, we tell stories."
"Contrary to fact, and true?"
"Yes."
"Teller of stories sees those-who-live in story all-at-once." Then he fluted another phrase with upper-level modulations, similar to the first. "If story not satisfactory at end, lives of those-within changed at beginning. They will differently, act differently." Another trill, again with the same bizarre tenses.
Was this mode of discourse for storytelling, then?
"We/you live in entropy, struggle against entropy, but not in stories. There we live outside entropy."
"Yes," she said, hesitantly.
"So, too, we/you know entropy on two levels, more. So, too, servants of knowledge speak of entropy on two levels, more."
"But we do not experience it that other way."
"No," said Zhot. "We"—and here she heard the emphasis—"do not. We are servants." Again a complex fluting.
Subject is-was-will-be servant to those who choosing-choices-made dance above decay.
"The Yilayil?"
Zhot emitted the choking snort she had guessed meant laughter in his race. Another trill.
Choices made-making termination-of-volition for subjects.
A thrill shot through her. Down the timeline the Yilayil were savages.
"Then Yilayil…" She hesitated, not wanting to give away the fact that she knew anything about time further on. "Decay?"
Zhot trilled again.
Improper transition in mode of discourse.
Saba stifled the urge to groan and hold her head. Instead, she listened as the other two took up the conversation and labored through a painstaking discussion of tenses. Saba had tremendous difficulty following it—her headache was considerably worse at the conclusion of the lesson—but at least she was fairly sure of one thing. The Virigu and the other being were exactly as confused as she was.
CHAPTER 17
EVELEEN LOOKED AT the Jecc swarming about her, all at waist height, and thought, They are like children. They moved fast like children, rammed each other and exchanged buffets and shoves, and their squeaky whistles and drones all reminded her of children. Unpleasant, nightmarish children, to be sure. There was nothing cute or appealing in the stares from those deepset eyes, or the rows of needle-sharp teeth in the coldly grinning beaklike snouts. Or in the little hands— or tentacles—that tried to steal parts from Eveleen's pile if she didn't watch them constantly.
She twisted her head, working her neck as she looked about the cavernous assembly chamber. It smelled of hot alloys and lubricant and a little like burned toast. That was the Jecc. They all smelled a little like burned toast sprinkled with rosemary.
How long would she and Ross have to work among them? As her fingers operated automatically at disassembling a cooling unit and replacing the worn-out parts, she considered the other beings in the department.
No one seemed to make any rules. The Virigu in charge certainly didn't. They merely oversaw, ordering people about when there was apparently a need. People reported for work when they wished to, apparently, and took days off when they wanted.
In this department, as yet no one among the few other species had been promoted—or transferred—which gave her nothing by which to calculate the duration of their probable stay. As for the Jecc, any number of them might have been transferred or promoted, but they looked so much alike that it was difficult to tell.
Not that they were interchangeable. They were all more or less the same size and mass, and they all wore identical plain coveralls, but their gray-green skin was mottled and stippled with iridescent blue dots. She'd realized one morning that the dots made subtle patterns, when a couple of them actually sat still enough for her to scrutinize them. And she memorized the pattern, endeavoring to watch these particular Jecc.
So she did—that day. She saw the one with the snail-shell whorls clip at least three connectors from other Jecc; the one with the braided whorls seemed to concentrate on stealing from other beings.
The next day, though, neither of them was present—at least, as far as she could tell. After she finished reconstructing one directional unit she moved about, on the pretext of getting more parts, and scrutinized as many stationary Jecc as she could—and though she did see that snail-whorl pattern again, it seemed tighter, smaller, with more dots. Different.
All new Jecc?
Or was the blue stuff paint?
She asked Vera that night, "Have you found out any more data on the Jecc?"
"No," Vera said, pausing in the act of wolfing down some food. She grinned briefly. "All the others do is curse them. No one likes them. Apparently they don't even live in the city, though how that works is beyond me. But the Moova, everyone else, call them pests." She swallowed, and sighed. "Sorry—no chance to eat today."
Irina nodded her sleek head. She ate daintily, as though she sat in a duchess's formal dining room. "I begin a new labor today." She frowned, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. "Excuse me—my English seems to be regressing. I began a new job today. I work now for Lootignef of the Moova."
"And I for Toofiha," Vera added.
"Moova?" Ross asked.
Both Russians nodded.
"And they don't let you eat on the job?"
Both heads shook decisively.
"They are rivals," Vera said. "We did this on purpose, hoping to find out more information that way. The Moova are very jealous of data, and of their foods."
"Sure is good, though," Ross said, holding up a thin roll of some kind of rice-bread mixed with seasoned vegetables. "Big change from the raw stuff, healthy as it might be."
Vera sighed. "How I dream of coffee! And ice cream. And torte…"
Eveleen saw Irina glance over at Vera, her black eyes narrowed. Irina's refined face was largely serene, but that could very well be a facade. Right now, if Eveleen was any judge of character, it seemed that the ex-ballerina was thoroughly tired of her partner.
Of course Eveleen said nothing. She just continued to watch as she worked through her katas. Her stomach was hungry, but her joints were achy and her neck tight. The only remedy, she felt, was to work out, which she couldn't do while full. Her share of the food sat on a napkin next to Ross.
Ross was frowning. "They say bad things about the Jecc? Isn't that anti-deportment? Anti-harmony?"
"Not," Irina said precisely, "if what you say is to point out ways in which the Jecc are anti-harmonious."
Eveleen snorted. "I guess they aren't going to get promoted to the next level anytime soon, eh?"
Vera said, "The Moova say they don't try to harmonize, but I don't know how much of that is just talk. No one has much real data about them, this I can say with certainty. To bring up the subject is to hear, over and over, that they are thieves and pests—stealing things that don't even matter."
Just then Gordon's familiar tap sounded at the door, and Ross moved to open it.
Gordon came in, bringing a swirl of rain-scented air with him. "Big storm out there," he commented.
"Must be," Eveleen said, sniffing for that rain scent. It was already gone, filtered out. The ubiquitous clean, sterile air smelled just as always—and of course there were no windows to look out of. Eveleen fought a sudden surge of claustrophobia and forced up the pace of her kata. "Any news?" she asked over her shoulder.
Gordon shook his head. "Status quo." He sat down and Vera handed him his food. "Pollen count still up?" he asked.
Vera said, "It is. Very high." She smacked her lips as she finished her food.
Eveleen watched Irina, who worked studiously through her food as if the room were silent. Was there another reason why the two had not taken jobs at the same place? Not necessarily, Eveleen thought. Irina, at least, was too dedicated to the missio
n. She wondered if Vera even knew how irritating she was to her partner.
With a snap and whirl, she finished her last move, then she sank down next to Ross. Gratitude for his presence suffused her. She might be feeling claustrophobic—restless—but at least she had him. And wasn't it better to let the others do their jobs than to think about going out and exploring during the long evenings?
Ross sat back. "Bringing me to what's been bothering me since the first briefing, and that is: who decides? Are the Yilayil watching us when we work? Or do the various Virigu spy on us and send in reports? Or what?"
"Another thing for us to discover," Gordon said equably.
Eveleen noted the tense postures and tight faces in the others. "What I wish," she said, "was that we had TV. I'd even watch alien TV. These nights sitting in this room get a little old."
And she saw an immediate reaction in the two women. Sympathy now flooded her, but she tried to hide it; though the authorities on Earth had been worried about married agents in the field together, they probably hadn't considered what a relief it would be to be penned up with someone you love, rather than someone else with whom you might have little in common outside of the job at hand.
Ross, however, was frowning. "That's another thing," he said. "Deportment—conformity. The Nurayil are kept utterly in the dark, far as I can see. We don't know what our labor is worth. We don't have access to what passes for news, or any kind of data. We don't even get local entertainment."
"I can address that," Gordon said as he worked his neck by twisting his head slowly back and forth. His expression was calm, as always, but his blue eyes were tired. "Every race has its own entertainment—I see it as I pass through the city on my rounds. The Yilayil don't seem to care what beings do in their own space, just as no one has interfered with our laptops or our brief spurts of signal. And someone, at least, has to know. The technology here is sufficiently advanced that it seems safer to assume that they do, rather than the opposite."
Irina nodded. "This is so. I have seen the Moova gathered round their gyoon—" And, gesturing with her long hands, she described a round flat plate on a table that projected holographic images. "It looked to me like Moova writhing underwater, but they were very intent."
"Sounds like gargling," Vera put in with a grin. "I have seen this as well." Her round face was briefly serious. "But it is only in private—not when they interact with the rest of Nurayil."
Good spy work, Eveleen thought, and her appreciation for the Russian women increased. They've seen more than we have. Again—stronger—she felt that intense urge to be out and exploring, but she repressed it. If she went, Ross would go—Ross, who always took chances. Thinking about what had happened to the First Team's biologist always cooled her wish to see Ross out taking risks.
She stole a look at Ross—just in time to catch a glance from his narrowed eyes, his dark brows quirked. What was he thinking? For once she couldn't guess at his thoughts.
"I am tired," Irina said suddenly. "I think it is time to sleep."
Vera yawned. "I must admit I have had a headache most of the day. I need sleep as well."
Gordon smiled, said, "Maybe it's something in the air— I've had that headache as well."
Vera said, "The pollens I can measure for we are supposedly immune to. But we have to accept that there might be others that we cannot measure for."
Gordon nodded. "Maybe that's it. Allergies! What a planet! Well, on that note, I think I'll call it a night." He stood, and followed the two women out, everyone wishing one another good night and good rest.
As Ross turned away from the closed door, he said, "Get the feeling everyone is sick of everyone else?"
Eveleen gave her head a shake. "I get the feeling that everyone feels lousy, and no one wants to complain." She decided not to mention that glance she'd caught from Irina— not until she knew she was right. To speculate without facts felt too much like gossip, and even though it was only Ross, what she said might affect how he responded to the others. And Irina, at least, Eveleen thought with sudden conviction, was very, very observant.
"They're not the only ones," Ross said, surprising her. "I have to admit it's hard to think with this headache on me."
"You didn't mention it," Eveleen said, instantly concerned.
He shrugged, an abrupt motion that made it clear how much he loathed any kind of personal weakness. "What can I do about it? Complaining would bore us both."
"Mentioning a headache isn't exactly complaining," Eveleen said wryly. "As it happens, I've been feeling achy all day. Not so much my head as my joints. Neck."
Ross looked up, frowning. "Gordon said allergies, but maybe it's something more than that. Think we're getting sick? Not just us, but the whole team?"
"Oh, lord, I hope not," Eveleen exclaimed. "I don't want to even think about what kind of alien microbes we might be fighting…" Horrible scenarios reeled through her mind—the Jecc carrying some kind of dangerous virus, Ross and Eveleen exposed, and exposing the others. Or was it the Moova, through their food?
She shook her head firmly, wincing against a pang in her temples. "No," she said out loud. "I won't think about it—not until I have evidence."
"In that case," Ross said with a twisted grin, "let's do what Gordon and the Russians are probably doing right now: let's break some pain reliever out of our packs and get some rest."
* * *
A WEEK LATER, they still felt much the same.
Ross had stopped taking anything but the anti-allergens. He'd already run through half his allotment of pain killers, and though he didn't say anything, his grim thought was if they felt any worse, they'd need them.
They certainly hadn't gotten better. After a couple nights, Gordon got everyone to state their symptoms so he could keep a record, just as the First Team had reported, in detail, their malaise a month or so into their stay.
"I thought the medical brains had decided it was allergies," Eveleen said to Ross one day when they were walking to work. "Didn't they say that at our first briefing?"
"I can't remember what anyone said," Ross admitted, grinning.
The rain was very heavy, and most beings were under the awnings to avoid it. Ross and Eveleen had donned their rain ponchos and walked right through the deluge.
"Ahhh," Eveleen said, taking a deep breath. "It might just be psychological trickery, but I feel like the air is cleaner."
"So you do think it's allergens making us sick?" Ross asked her.
She shrugged, giving him a wry look. Her face was slightly tense, and her eyes shadowed from broken sleep, but she didn't look dangerously sick. She'd better not, he thought. If she did get seriously ill, mission or not, they were going back down the timeline to the sterile air of the ship.
"I don't know," she said. "How could I? I just imagine the air being full of guck that our immune systems don't like. And when it rains like this, I convince myself the air is purified, and I hope this stupid headache will vanish."
Ross said nothing. He'd begun to wonder if he'd live with a headache all his life. Even with the meds, it was never really gone.
"Well, we got every damn anti-allergen in us they could concoct," he reminded her. "And the science team did do an allergen check when we landed, remember?"
Her thin brows furrowed. "Hard to remember anything, except how to build cooling units," she said with a soft laugh. "So you think what's hit us is viral?"
"I don't know," it was his turn to say. "It can't be just exposure to the Jecc or the Moova or one of the other races because Misha and Viktor are apparently sick as well."
Eveleen sighed. "I'd forgotten that. Not that Gordon was exactly gabby with the details."
Ross shrugged. "What's to detail? They feel much like we do, and they haven't seen anyone—despite those flyers chasing them whenever they catch sight of them."
They neared the big building housing Transport, and slipped back into Yilayil. Ross could feel Eveleen's reluctance as strong as his own. It was har
d to think in any language when your head continuously ached—and double that for an alien tongue.
Eveleen trilled the equivalent for: "I'll want something hot for midday meal."
"A good idea," he responded, and they both fell silent.
Three or four weird purple-greenish beings moved in ahead of them, reminding Ross of seven-foot-tall crosses between teddy bears and sharks. They disappeared in the direction of the rail-skimmer body shop. Apparently they were so strong they could lift most of the big alloy plates that most other beings needed cranes for.
They were quiet, they worked hard, and they didn't give anyone any trouble. Yet here they were, among the Nurayil.
Ross felt a surge of impatience. He hadn't voiced a growing conviction even to Eveleen, but he was wondering if the whole deportment thing was a myth in order to get free—or almost free—labor from all the other races.
The idea of his working so hard, while sick, in what might be a royal scam put him in a thoroughly rotten mood.
The Jecc didn't help. When he and Eveleen got to their workstation, it seemed like there were more of them than ever. He sniffed the gritty, oily smells, and looked at the worn parts they were supposed to retool. When a Jecc rammed against his hip as it scurried down an adjacent corridor, the sudden jar sent a pang through his already aching head.
Annoyance crystallized into the need for action. He watched Eveleen square her shoulders and march off to collect parts for her portion of the day's work—wrapping them tightly in her rain poncho and holding it with both hands. Then she disappeared in the direction of the assembly benches.
Ross smiled to himself.
It was time, he decided, to do a little consciousness raising by showing the Jecc just how it felt to be hassled.
So he shifted a big part into one hand, keeping the other lightly resting against the cool alloy as he paced along a row of Jecc busily retooling connectors and exhaust valves.
And when one reached to alter what Ross called the buffing machine (though it didn't look remotely like any buffing machine you'd find in a mechanic's shop on Earth), he whipped his fingers out and snagged a fine set of data chips from where they stuck out of the Jecc's overall.