The remaining few sharpwings broke off the attack and flapped away, sending mournful long songs forth. “Very good,” Asenath said.
“Let us escort the tadfish down, then,” Memor said. “We can land and take possession.”
Asenath conferred with the Kahalla, then turned to address Bemor, ignoring Memor. “We can swallow such a small tadfish. No need to land. We can continue to higher altitudes and catch the fast winds toward the upper Mirror Zone.”
Bemor sent approval-displays, but his eyes did not move from his comm plate. “Good. Do so. We need the other Late Invaders.”
Memor felt shunted aside. She had been pursuing these vagrant primates for a great while, and now Bemor—and even worse, Asenath—would get credit for their apprehension. But at least it was done. “Why are they so useful? I am happy to have them in hand, of course, but—”
Bemor gave a low, bass growl. “The Ice Minds command it. Events proceed elsewhere. A crisis threatens. We must get the primates.”
“We have this one here—” A gesture at Tananareve.
“We may need more. The Ice Minds want to use them to converse in an immersion mode.”
Memor stirred with misgivings. Her Undermind was fevered and demanded to be heard, but there was no time now. “Immersion? That can be destructive.”
Tananareve seemed to be following this, but wisely said nothing.
“That is why we need several pathways. The connection may be too much for them, and we will need replacements.”
Memor said softly, feeling a tremor from her Undermind, “What crisis?”
“It goes badly in the jet.”
PART XII
THE WORD OF CAMBRONNE
It was at Waterloo that General Cambronne, when called on to surrender, was supposed to have said, “The Old Guard dies but never surrenders!” What Cambronne actually said was, “Merde!” which the French, when they do not wish to pronounce it, still refer to as, “the word of Cambronne.” It corresponds to our four-letter word for manure. All the difference between the noble and the earthy accounts of war is contained in the variance between these two quotations.
—ERNEST HEMINGWAY, MEN AT WAR
THIRTY-SIX
The first sight of the Folk commanding the big skyfish was daunting. Cliff had seen these Folk aliens when his team came through the lock, in what seemed a very long time ago. Later he had heard fragments about the Folk from the scattered SunSeeker transmissions.
But now these before him seemed different—larger, with big heads on a leathery stalk neck. Their feathers made the body shape hard to make out. The Folk back at the air lock had feathers, but not nearly so large, colorful, and vibrant. As Cliff’s team and Quert’s Sil entered, the three big Folk rattled their displays, forking out neck arrays that flashed quick variations in magenta, rose, and ivory. Their lower bodies flourished downy wreaths of brown and contrasting violet.
“They’re … giant peacocks,” Irma whispered.
Cliff nodded. Back Earthside, peacocks used their outrageously large feathers to woo females. But these rustling, constantly shifting feather-shows had far more signaling capacity. Beneath the layers, he could glimpse ropy pelvic muscles. Loose-jointed shoulders gave intricate control to the feathers. “More like, those flaunt unspoken messages, I’d guess.”
Quert gestured and said, “Quill feather gives mood. Tail fan on neck cups sound to ears. Fan-signals are many. Rattle and flap for more signal. Color choice gives messages, too.”
Aybe said, “Structural coloration, I’d say. Microfibers, fine enough to interfere with the incoming light, reflect back the color the creature wants.”
Cliff watched the beautiful iridescent blue green or green-colored plumage shimmer and change with viewing angle. “Reflections from fibers, could be.”
They all stood bunched together, humans and Sil, as the Folk came slowly into the big room, passing nearby with a gliding walk before settling on a place. The big things loomed over them and rattled out a long, ordered set of clattering sounds. “What’s that sound say?” Terry whispered.
“Greet to visitor. But visitors inferior and should say so.”
“Say so?” Irma whispered. “How?”
Quert gave the other Sil quick sliding words, a question. They all responded with a few other short, soft words. Quert’s face took on a wrinkled, wry cast. “Sil not say, you not either.”
“Good,” Aybe said, and the others nodded. No tribute, no submission.
Cliff regarded the Folk’s unmistakable piercing eyes, big though now slitted and slanted beneath heavy, crusted eyelids. Their pupils were big and black, set in bright yellow irises. There was something going on behind those eyes. Cliff had an impression of a brooding intelligence measuring the small band of humans and Sil. The tall, feathered Folk held the gaze of humans and Sil as they settled back on their huge legs and tails and gestured, murmuring to each other while still peering down at the humans. Cliff felt a prickly, primitive sensation, an awareness of a special danger. His nostrils flared and he automatically spread his stance, fists on his hips, facing the three aliens fore square.
The three Folk settled into the high room bounded by pink, fleshy walls. Attendants flanked the three, and others scurried off to unknown tasks. There were small forms with six legs and plumed heads, carrying burdens and arranging the flesh-pink walls with quick energy. Constant motion surrounded the Folk, who went slowly, almost gliding. It was like watching an eerie parade with three big, frightening floats.
“Irma! Cliff!” Suddenly Tananareve Bailey appeared from behind one of the Folk. She ran toward them.
Meeting any friend in this bizarre place was wonderful. They all embraced Tananareve as she rushed into their arms. To Cliff, she was as lean and steely as a piece of gym equipment; you saw the skull beneath the skin. Irma said, laughing, “At last! Some woman company.” And they all laughed long and hard. Giddy jokes, ample smiles.
A long loud sentence from the largest of the Folk broke them out of their happy chatter. They looked up into big yellow eyes.
“They said they needed you,” Tananareve translated, “but I never know if they’re telling me true.”
“This skyfish just swallowed our tadfish,” Irma said. “I thought we were goners.”
“Better than a fight,” Terry said. “But … we’re captured.”
The enormity of this last hurried and harried hour came to Cliff. He had kept his team free for so long now, barely escaping in one scrape after another … only to fail so quickly, swallowed, a slap in the face with cold water. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. The others were still happy just to have Tananareve, but the implications were stunning.
“Maybe they want to negotiate,” Cliff said, not really believing it.
Tananareve said, “They got orders from someone to grab you, pronto. They’ve been tracking you ever since you saw something called the Ice Minds. It took this long to catch up with you. They’re big and can’t crawl through the Bowl understructure. They kept complaining about having to take the other transports that can handle their size.”
“What’s up?” Aybe asked.
“They’re under pressure. I don’t know why.” Tananareve stood near the Folk and introduced Asenath, Memor, and Bemor. It took a while to explain that Memor and Bemor had nearly the same genetics, were something like fraternal twins of different sexes, but that Bemor was somehow enhanced and held a higher-status position. “He can speak to the Ice Minds. Whereas Asenath”—a nod to the tall, densely feathered creature, sharp-eyed and rustling with impatience—“is a Wisdom Chief.” A shrug. “As near as I can tell, that’s kind of like an operations officer.”