Support it couldn’t have needed, because the entire four‑meter‑long animal was lucently transparent. It was a projection.
“You are wrong, esthelichMichelangelo Osiris Leary Kusanagi‑Jones. Planetary margins are irrelevant. The cosmocline is not in this brane,” the ghost of a Dragon said, and paused before it continued.
“Good morning, esthelich. Kii greets you. Kii is explorer‑caste. Kii speaks for the Consent.”
BOOK TWO
The Mortification of the Flesh
13
“YOU OPPOSE CONSENT,” KII SAID, THE SPIKED TIPS OF folded wings canting back as it settled onto its haunches, knuckles extended before it like a crouching dog’s paws. Its long neck stretched, dipping slightly at the center as it brought its head to Kusanagi‑Jones’s level. Its phantom tongue flicked out, hovered in the air, tested, considered. “You are disloyal.”
Kusanagi‑Jones had no answer. He was poised, defensively, ready to move, to attack or evade. But there was nothing here he could touch, and the creature’s capabilities were unmeasured.
It paused, though, cocking its head side to side as if to judge distance, and nictitating membranes wiped across wide golden eyes. It seemed to consider. “Perfidious,” it tried, and Kusanagi‑Jones could see that the thing wasn’t actually speaking. The voice was generated stereophonically, so it seemed to originate near Kii’s mouth–if Kii was the animal’s name, and not its species identifier or a personal pronoun or something Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t even thinking of–but the mouth didn’t work around the words, and its breathing flared and flexed nostrils, uninterrupted. “Treasonous,” it considered, lingering over the flavor of the word, and then shook its head like a bird shaking off water. “Disloyal,” it decided gravely. “You are disloyal.”
Michelangelo found himself quite unintentionally disarmed by this haphazard pedantry, though he fought it. He straightened, breathing slowly, and let his hands fall to his sides. He kept his balance light, weight centered on the balls of his feet. He would move if he had to and try to look calm in the meantime. The preliminary indicators were that Kii was nonaggressive. It might be a sort of…user‑friendly interface bot designed for a Dragon. The alien’s equivalent of an application assistant.
“Request clarification,” Kusanagi‑Jones said.
Kii’s tongue flickered. It settled another notch, lowering itself to its transparent belly, drawing its head back, neck a sinuous curve. The tension in Kusanagi‑Jones’s gut untwisted another notch, the lizard in the back of his skull reacting to a lowering of threat level–as if the Dragon’s appearance of ease mattered at all. Any attack, if it came, need have nothing to do with a hologram; a laser concealed in a wall port would suffice.
“You are a member of a population in competition with the local population,” Kii said. “But your transmissions indicate that your allegiance to your own population is…” It paused again, head rocking and eyes upcast. Kusanagi‑Jones imagined the Dragon was searching for an unfamiliar word again. “–spurious.”
Kusanagi‑Jones licked his lips. It wasn’t technicallya question. More an observation. Maybe he could return a question of his own. “Are you House? Wait, belay that. Are you the intelligence known as House?”
“Kii is…”
Kusanagi‑Jones thought that the approximations occurred when it was searching for a word in New Amazonia’s patois that matched a concept in its own language. He waited it out.
“Kii is not‑House,” it said. “House is House. House is a construct. Kii is of the Consent.”
Not I. Kii.Maybe not a personal pronoun. But it understood them–it used youfluently enough. So there was some reason it didn’t think of itself as I. Or even we,the logical choice if it were a hive‑mind. “Kii is a virtual intelligence?”
“Kii is translated.” It stopped again, nictitating. “Transformed. Molted,” it said, and then, triumphantly, the spiked fingertips flipping up to reveal cream‑and‑ultramarine wing leather in blurred, torn‑paper patterns: “Fledged!”
Kusanagi‑Jones put his hand against his mouth. He pressed it there, and thought. “You’re a transcendent intelligence,” he said. Kii blinked great translucent eyes. “What do you want?”
What he meant was, why haven’t you killed me the way you killed the last Coalition forces to land here?But that seemed an impolitic question. I’m not trained for first contact–
But this wasn’t first contact either. First contact was handled. First contact was more than a hundred Terran years ago. It didn’t matter if the New Amazonians knew that the Dragons still inhabited their cities, after a fashion–which was something that Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t prepared to assume–because the Dragons definitely knew rather a lot about humans.
“Your population is expansionist,” Kii said, after it had given Kusanagi‑Jones adequate time to consider the stupidity of his blurted question. “But intelligent. Kii wishes to encourage dйtente.” It showed him teeth, back‑curved spikes suitable for holding and shredding meat. “Kii is not eager to repeat, no, reiterate a massacre.”
“I am not eager to be massacred,” Kusanagi‑Jones replied. “You’ve ethics.”
“You have aesthetics,” Kii said. “But no Consent. No true Consent.” It hissed, frustrated. “You act in ways that are not species‑ordained.”
“And you do not?” It was surprisingly easy to relax with the thing. For all its alienness, it made no threatening gestures, did nothing but occasionally tilt its head and twitch the spikes of its wingtips into a more comfortable pose.
“Kii follows Consent,” it said. That ripple of the downy feathers on its neck almost looked like a skin‑shiver. “Consent is…ordained.”
It was watching him. Trying the words in turn and seeing how he reacted. Testing them on him, until something–his body language, his scent–told it he was understanding as it wished.
“I follow my leaders, too.”
Could that be the thing’s answer to a smile? After 150 years of observation, it must comprehend human body language. Especially if it was reading his responses.
But he was a Liar.
“Biochemical,” it explained after another pause.
Oh. Ah. Not a group mind, then, but something closer to a political structure…albeit one enforced by biology. Or programming, in the case of a life form that wasn’t biological anymore. “Consent?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t argue my people out of coming here. They’ll–” Kusanagi‑Jones shrugged and spread his hands out, pale palms up, dark backs inverted. They won’t leave something like you at their flank.A raw frontier world with a powerful bargaining chip, they mightnegotiate with, if the cost of occupation was deemed higher than the benefit gained. But a Transcendent alien species, with no apparent defenses, and the promise of all that energy, all that technology–
The Coalition had proven its acquisitiveness. On Ur, on New Earth–spectacular failure though thathad been–and on half a dozen other worlds. Thiswould be one bastard of an interesting brawl in Cabinet, in any case. It might be worthwhile to send combat fogs into the population centers just on the chance there might be pieces to pick up later.
“If you cannot convince your population to leave Kii’s…pets, Kii’s associates, in possession of these resources,” Kii said, “Kii will kill them. As necessary.”