She didn’t like to turn her back on them; they made her uneasy enough when they were in front of her. She came nearer, slowly, cautiously. She wasn’t even sure which one had hit her. They were both so big, so much the same shape, and their expressions seemed fixed in wary contempt. “What do you want?” one of them said, when she was close enough. He spoke loudly, as if he thought she was deaf.
“I wanted to speak to one of them,” she said. “Ser Likisi, or—”
“They’re not here,” the man said shortly, cutting her off. He turned back to the truck.
“Do you know when—” Ofelia began; again he interrupted, this time without looking at her. “No. They don’t tell me their schedule.” After a moment, she realized he was not angry with her, but with the others. He didn’t like them. She had suspected that before, but she had seen these men only in company with the others, where they would naturally mask their feelings. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Ofelia said formally. That got another look, this time of mild surprise, from both men. “Its nothing,” the other man said, not as loudly. “Was there anything else?” “No,” Ofelia said. “I just wanted to talk to them.” But curiosity held her. “What are you doing to the truck? Do you want to use it?”
They both laughed. “No, grandma,” said the second one. “It’s past that. But bossyboots told us to dismantle the engines, just in case those lizards could learn to use them.” Ofelia blinked. Bossyboots? Was that Ser Likisi, who certainly deserved that or a worse nickname, or Sera Stavi? And lizards? Was that how they saw the creatures?
“Shut up!” said the other one. He glared at Ofelia. “You won’t go telling our noble leader what we call him, will you.” It was not a question, but a command. His voice was heavy with threat. “No,” Ofelia said. “I won’t tell him.” Nor would she tell these two how much she agreed with them… or should she? “He’s very… sure of himself,” she said, making it obvious that she could have said it another way. The two men looked at each other and laughed.
“You could say that,” the milder one said. “You don’t like him either? He was a Sims corpsucker, I heard;
switched to government work when he got his ass in a crack—”
“Kedrick!”
“Never mind, Bo, this little grandma isn’t going to tell any tales. She doesn’t like lickspittle Likisi any better than we do, do you?” Ofelia grinned, but said nothing. Interesting how little humans varied, from one organization to another. She had heard comments like this before, from disgruntled colonist-trainees. “Want a little… refreshment?” the man asked her, miming a drink.
It had to mean something contraband; they would have something illegal, all such men did. She remembered how quickly after the colony’s Company advisors left someone had rigged a still to make alcohol from whatever they grew. She remembered the arguments, the fights, the smashing of one still, and the quick reappearance of foul-tasting fiery liquid passed from one to another in little flasks… “I’m too old,” she said, but she smiled at them. Men like this — she had known men like this all her life, even though these men would not have recognized the resemblance. “But thank you,” she said. One did not dare to act superior to men who dosed themselves with illegal substances. “’S all right, grandma,” the loud one said. “Just you don’t go tellin’ peerless leader, huh?”
“Of course not,” Ofelia said. “Not that he listens to me anyway.”
They regarded her tolerantly. Clearly she was no threat, and she was behaving just as an ignorant old woman should. “Of course he doesn’t listen to you,” the quiet one — Bo? — said. “He’s the team leader, isn’t he? He doesn’t listen to anybody but maybe the oversoul of the universe—” Ofelia wanted to ask if anyone still believed in that, but she knew better. Never ask about religion; it makes people angry.
“I guess you had it good, here by yourself?” the quiet one went on. “All the machines working, all the food for yourself, huh?”
“It was very quiet,” Ofelia said. “But yes, the machines made it easier.” “That bitch Kira said you were mucking about with the official log. Writing stories or something? Were you some kind of writer or something before they sent you here?”
Ofelia shook her head. “No, Serin. I did not write anything before. The log — I was reading it, and it seemed boring, just names and dates. I thought no one would ever see.”
“So you spiced it up. Kira says you put in about love affairs and stuff—”
Ofelia realized that he wanted to read it… that he wanted to hear about the sneaking around, the betrayals, the fights… and yet he had no excuse. She grinned, an intentionally complicit grin, the dirty-minded old woman to the dirty-minded younger man. “It was like a storycube,” she said, lowering her voice and glancing around as if to be sure virtuous Kira were not in hearing. “You must understand, Serin, how isolated we were. And the stress—” The man snorted. “Stress! What do civvies know about stress? But sex—” “Well, of course there was sex,” Ofelia said, in the most insinuating voice she could produce. “We were here to breed and enlarge the colony. No birth-limits, bonuses for every child above four. And there are some who stay more — more comely, you understand.” Was she being too obvious for them? No. The loud one had put down his tools and was leaning on the side of the truck, ready to hear more. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” Ofelia said with fake piety. “Sera Stavi doesn’t like it that I added to the official log, and perhaps—” The loud one said what Sera Stavi could do with her opinions; it did not differ from the things the men in the colony had said. Not for the first time, Ofelia wondered if humans had thought of anything really new in the past ten thousand years. Had they only wandered the stars because they were tired of their stale jokes and curses?
But she began on a juicy story that wasn’t even in the log, because the creatures had come and she had never finished — the story of the young girl Ampara and her teasing ways that had half the grown men — let alone the few boys her age — upset for half a year.
“And what did she look like?” the loud man asked. The other, quieter one had continued to work on the truck, banging loudly to indicate his annoyance with his lazy co-worker. Ofelia grinned even wider, until her jaw hurt.
“You expect me, an old woman, to know how to tell you that?” But that was only the teasing, part of the ritual of storytelling. She went into explicit detail, more than she knew of her own knowledge, remembering what such men liked to hear about abundant soft hair flowing down long supple backs, about curves and round firmness and soft moistness. He was breathing fast now, and she was running out of ideas.
“Look out!” the quiet man said suddenly, in his professional voice. “They’re coming.” Ofelia stopped short, and turned slowly, Ser Likisi and Kira Stavi, striding along as if in a walking race, and both looking grumpy.
“Sera Falfurrias!” Kira sounded annoyed with her, and Ofelia wondered why. “Yes, Sera,” Ofelia said meekly. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, the servant ready for orders. Inside her head, the new voice mocked her. “What are those things up to, do you know?” “Up to, Sera?” Ofelia asked.
“The indigenes. They’ve disappeared, all but one, and it’s not communicative. Have they gone back where they came from, or what? I saw you going into the forest with one this morning, so don’t tell me you have no idea.”
Her first plan frustrated, Ofelia went after a side issue. “Why would you think I lie to you, Sera?”
“I didn’t say that,” Kira began, impatiently.
“Excuse me, Sera, but you said—”