Gaggii relaxed just a little. “Are you Holy People?” Several of them exchanged glances, enjoying the novelty of eyes. One laughed softly.
“We hate the ones you call Holy People. To them we are less than nothing.”
“We exist because of what they have defined,” said another. “Without their definitions we have no existence.” Gaggii nodded to himself. The ants might aspire to utilization of the garbage, but the fleas could never do more than exist in it.
“Why do you take these shapes?”
“In this place these are the shapes that fit,” explained the first speaker, as if restating the unavoidably obvious. “The place within a place,” said another.
“No,” interjected a third, “a place without a place.” Quite unexpectedly they fell to arguing among themselves, emanating loud, disturbing, immature noises.
“This shape is less uncongenial than others,” declared the second speaker. “It was the first shape we encountered in this place.”
“In and out,” chanted another, “in and out.”
“Why assume it now?” Gaggii inquired.
“A shape once assumed is a shape learned. Make us an opening.”
“In time.” Templates, Gaggii mused. So much of this is about templates. These shapes they take are no more than that. Are we no less? What else is my DNA but a template?
“I will tell you what I intend.”
They listened silently to him; some with apparent indifference, others with casual interest, though he suspected that all heard.
“Is it dangerous?” he asked when he’d finished.
“The concept is meaningless. Only existence has meaning.”
“Good. Then you have no reason not to help me. If you refuse, I won’t make an opening for you. This I know you cannot do for yourselves, or you would have done it already instead of sitting and listening to me.”
“We could hurt you,” one insisted in a flat, emotionless voice.
“You cannot hurt me enough to make me do what you want, and if you hurt me too much then I will die and leave you trapped here forever in these forms. If you help me, I will make a good opening for you.”
Again several of them exchanged glances. “You have (old us what you intend. Can you imagine what it involves?”
“I have studied it and have some idea.” Gaggii tried not to seem overly eager. “I suspect I will need to make use of Hasjesh-jin’s fire. Do you still have it?”
All of them laughed then, an eerie yet familiar collective amusement that echoed across the mesa and down into the side canyons.
“You pass on long memories,” one finally declared.
“Then you no longer have it?” Gaggii was crestfallen.
“No,” said another, “but something akin is near here. You are right to say that you will need to make use of it to do what you intend.”
“Can you help me make use of it?”
“Once before we stole it,” announced a member of the semicircle. “Why should we not steal it again?”
“This could be of interest,” said the one next in line. Gaggii looked at it. “You told me only existence has meaning. Why should you care about this?”
“As your words say, we are frivolous. This is a fortunate thing for you.” The first speaker smiled at him, showing many teeth. “We will help you steal Hasjesh-jin’s fire, though this time not from Hasjesh-jin. Be aware that though danger is meaningless to us, it is not to you. This thing you intend could threaten your existence, which is far more transitory than ours.”
“My existence is my concern. You simply exist. I, on the other hand, have purpose. I exist to learn. I believe that knowledge can transform existence.”
“Knowledge is camouflage,” he was told. “It merely disguises what lies beneath.”
“I want what lies beneath,” Gaggii declared flatly.
“As you say, that is your concern.” The first speaker shifted his position on the hard ground. “Ours is an opening.”
“Where will we find Hasjesh-jin’s fire?”
One of them turned and pointed. “That way, not far.”
“By whose standards?” Gaggii gazed through the harlequin twilight toward the far horizon.
“Not far, by your standards.”
Gaggii frowned as he considered what lay in the indicated direction. Then he understood, and was able to smile. “We will lead you,” said the speaker, turning to leave. “No. This is a place we cannot go to all together. I will meet you slightly to the north of it. I will describe the exact spot where we can gather.”
“This is a strange reality,” one of them murmured ;is In-gazed at the dark sky and shadowy mesas. “I will he glad to leave it.”
Gaggii wound cable as he spoke, still careful to keep his spinner close at hand. Around such as these one could never relax vigilance.
“I want to move quickly. I have reasons.” He stowed the last of his equipment and climbed into the motor home. Making sure it was still in all-wheel drive, he flicked on the engine, backed up, and began to edge down the dirt track that cut into the flank of the mesa like a brand on an old horse.
Behind him the coyotes dispersed, each taking a different route but all inclining northwest. There were almost a hundred of them. They were coyote from their wet black noses to the tips of their bushy tails, but they were not of pure coyote lineage. This was not their plane of existence. An ancient template imprisoned them in their present form. They would remain thus until Gaggii made them an opening and allowed them to return to the place where they existed.
They remembered only a little of where they were, but they had correctly sensed the nearest source of Hasjesh-jin’s lire. Playfully they moved toward it, anxious to do whatever was necessary to flee a reality they found unpleasantly constricting.
CHAPTER 17
The detective lumbered into the conference chamber. Ooljee was setting up his spinner while Samantha Grayhills looked on. Moody eyed her thoughtfully. Having little natural aptitude for academia, he was uncomfortable with those who did. Higher education was a tradition which was alien to his family. Everything he’d learned since leaving home he’d acquired through long hours of hard work and arduous study, poring over disks and through mollys, learning through drill what swifter minds seemed to absorb with nary a glance.
None of that, however, qualified one for promotion to the rank of detective. So he’d plowed relentlessly through every manual and text available until he’d mastered enough information to pass the requisite tests through sheer force of will, trying not to watch while college-educated candidates flipped through the questions faster than he could read them.
But Grayhills was different. She was proof one could be academically inclined without being narrow-minded. It helped that she wasn’t a cop. He could discuss weaving with her without having to bring up relevant police technique. Practical applications gave them common ground for conversation.
He was conscious of her greater intellect, but because she was patient and understanding it didn’t bother him. Whenever the conversation grew too technical for him or his partner she would back up, slow down, and explain—without being in the least patronizing. And always there was that radiant smile; the smile of one who understood, the smile of instant sympathy. The smile of someone who didn’t need coffee first thing in the morning.
Ooljee looked up tiredly as his friend approached. “Lisa’ll be back tonight, so I have to play husband again as well as cop.”
“Just so long,” Moody quipped as he shut the security door behind him, “as your kids don’t figure out how to access that web.”