“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 coworker. 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—”
Kira stamped the ground like a cow beset by flies. “I only meant that if you were going to say you didn’t know, I had already seen you—oh, never mind.” She glared at Ofelia; behind her, Ofelia saw the loud man’s mocking grin.
By then Ofelia had thought what she could say. “They had found the place I hid when the colony was evacuated,” she said. “I had left something behind, and they wanted to know if it was mine, or yours.”
“Oh.” Kira did not want to believe it; Ofelia could tell she was in the mood to disbelieve anything Ofelia said, but that was so ordinary. Reluctant belief; her brows relaxed. “Well. We just wondered.”
Ofelia thought of embroidering that tale, and decided against it.
“I guess they saw me go out in the forest to take tissue samples . . . they might have thought I left equipment behind.”
“I believe that’s what they thought, Sera,” Ofelia said.
“Did you want something in particular?” Likisi said. “Or were you just keeping our guardians and advisors company?” He made it sound as if she had been doing bad things with them, and even though she had been retailing filthy gossip, Ofelia resented it.
“I wanted to speak with you, Ser Likisi,” she said. “And with Sera Stavi, if that is permissible.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, very well. But if you’re going to argue about staying, you might as well save your breath and my patience.”
“That’s not it, Ser Likisi,” Ofelia said. She was trying to sound humble, but it came out less humble than she intended. The woman Kira glanced at her sharply, but said nothing.
“Oh, come on,” Likisi said. “Come inside—it’s too hot out here.” He led her past the truck and the advisors, who both looked as if they were sucking lemons, through the doorseal and into the big softsided shelter.
Inside, it was stuffy despite the rushing sound of the aircooler, and not as cool as a shady room in one of the houses. Likisi flung out his arms.
“Ah—that’s better.” Then he flung himself down on a padded bench. “Kira—be a dear and get us something cold, will you?”
Now it was the other woman who looked as if she’d bitten a lemon. But she bit back what she wanted to say, and instead asked mildly what Sera Falfurrias would like. Ofelia politely refused anything twice, then accepted water. Kira disappeared around a partition. She had not asked Likisi what he wanted; that meant she had fetched drinks for him before.
Likisi watched her between narrowed lids. “What is it now? Were you wildly curious about this shelter? Do you want to know how much you can bring with you when we leave?”
“No, Ser Likisi,” Ofelia said. He had not asked her to sit down, and she stood, hands folded in front of her. The air moved by the aircooler fans dried the sweat on her back, and chilled her.
“Here—” Kira handed Ofelia a glass of water with ice blocks in it. “Sit down, for goodness sakes. You don’t have to stand there.” She handed Likisi a glass of something purplish, and took her own glass of clear liquid to one of the chairs arranged around a low table. “Here—sit by me, if you want.”
Ofelia walked over and sat. The chair squirmed under her, and she jumped up, glaring at Kira.
“Sorry,” the woman said; her expression said she meant it. “I didn’t realize—these chairs adjust to each person who sits in them. Please—forgive me.”
Ofelia sat back down, her back stiff. The chair squirmed under her buttocks, her thighs, trying to make her relax. It was hard to sit stiffly, and she felt her resistance giving way. As she relaxed, the chair molded itself to her. It was comfortable, she had to admit. She sipped her water. It tasted cold and flat, nothing like the live water she was used to. “Thank you, Sera,” she said politely. “This is very nice.”
“They use similar furniture in geriatric residence units,” Kira said. “It prevents sores.”
“How interesting,” Ofelia said. She still had no plan for how she was going to convince them. She sipped again. “Sera—the . . . indigenes, you call them . . .”
“What about them?” Likisi asked.