“You did well,” she said deliberately, watched the response, a little touch of relief.
Limited sensitivity. Suspicion washed over her, answers she did not want. He made appropriate responses, human responses, answered to affection. Some azi could not; likely Max and Merry were too dull for it. But even Jim, she thought suddenly, did not react to stress as a born-man might. She touched him; he touched her. But the responses might as easily be simple tropisms, like turning the face to sunlight, or extending cold hands to warmth. To be approved was better than to be disapproved.
Lia too. Even Lia. Not love, but programs. Psych-sets, less skilfully done than the betas’ own.
Beta revenge, she thought, sick to the heart of her. A grand joke, that we roll learn to love them when we’re children.
She hated, for that moment, thoroughly, and touched Jim’s face and did not let it show.
And when she was lying with the azi’s warmth against her, in Merek Eln’s huge bed, she found him—all illusions laid aside—simply a comfortable presence. He was more at case with her than he had been the first night, an incredible single night ago, on the Jewel; he persisted in seeking closeness to her, even deep in sleep, and the fact touched her. Perhaps, whatever he felt, she was his security; and whatever his limitations, he was there, alive—full of, if not genuine humanity, at least comfortable tropisms…someone to talk to, a mind off which her thoughts could reflect, a solidity in the dark.
It stopped here; everything stopped here, at the Edge. She lay on her back staring up, her arm intertwined with Jim’s. The storm had passed and the stars were clear in the skylight: Achernar’s burning eye and all, all the other little lights. The loneliness of the Reach oppressed her as it never had. The day crowded in on her, the Outsider ship ghosting past them in the morning, the presence of them in the house.
What’s out there, she wondered, where men never changed? Or do we all…change?
Perspective shifted treacherously, as if the sky were downward, and she jerked. Jim half-wakened, stirred. “Hush,” she said. “Sleep.” And he did so, head against her, seeking warmth.
Tropism.
We created the betas, built all their beliefs, but they refused to live us we made them; they had to have azi. They created them, they cripple them, to make themselves whole by comparison. Of what did we rob the betas?
Of what they take from the azi?
She rubbed at Jim’s shoulder and wakened him deliberately. He blinked at her in the starlight. “Jim, was there another azi on the Jewel, more than one, perhaps, that you would have liked to have here with you?”
He blinked rapidly, perplexed. “No.”
“Are you trying to protect them?”
“No.”
“There was none, no friend, no—companion, male or female?”
“No.”
She considered that desolation a moment, that was as great as her own. “Enemy?”
“No.”
“You were, what, four years on that ship, and never had either friend or enemy?”
“No.” A placid no, a calm and quiet no, a little puzzled.
She took it for truth, and smoothed his hair aside as Lia had done with her when she was a child, in Kethiuy.
She at least…had enemies left.
Jim—had nothing. He and the majat azi, the naked creatures moving with will-o’-the-wisp lights through the tunnels of the hive—were full brothers, no more nor less human.
“I am blue-hive,” she whispered to him, moved to things she had never said to any human. “Of the four selves of majat…the gentlest, but majat for all that. Sul sept is dead; Meth-maren House is dead. Assassins. I’m blue-hive. That’s what I have left.
“There was an old man…seven hundred years old. He’d seen Istra, seen the Edge, where Kontrin won’t go. Majat came here to live, long ago, but Kontrin wouldn’t, only he. And I.” She traced the line of his arm, pleased by its angularity, mentally elsewhere. “Nineteen years ago some limits were readjusted; and do you know, they’ve never been redone. Someone’s taken great care that all that not be redone.
“Nineteen years. I’ve lived on every hive-world of the Reach. I’ve caused the Family a minimum of difficulty. Not from love, not from love, you understand. Ah, no. There’s an old woman in Council. Her name is Moth. She’s not dictator in name, but she is. And she doesn’t trouble me. She does the nothing she always preferred. And the things let loose nineteen years ago—have all come of age.
“The Houses are waiting. Waiting all this time. Moth will die, one of these days. Then the scramble for power, as the Reach has never seen it.”
“Sera—”
“Dangerous listening, yes. Don’t call me that. And you have sense enough to keep quiet, don’t you? The azi down in the azi quarters…are not to be… Never confide in them. Even Warriors knows the difference, knowing you were with me before they were. No, trust Warrior if ever you must trust anything; it can’t tell your face from that of any other human, but hail it blue-hive and give it taste or touch, it or any blue. I’ll show you tomorrow, show you how to tell the hive-markings apart. You must learn that and show Max and Merry. And if there’s ever any doubt of a majat kill it. I mean it. Death is a minor thing to them. Warrior—always comes back. Only humans don’t.”
“Why—” From Jim, question was a rarity. “Why did they attack us at the port?”
“I don’t know. I think they wanted Warrior.”
“Why?”
“Two questions in sequence. Delightful. You’re recovering your balance.”
“Sera?”
“Raen.” She struck him lightly with her fist, an excess of hope. “My name is Raen; call me Raen. You can manage that. You were entirely wasted on the Jewel. Handling of arms: everything that pair downstairs can do; and anything else, anything else. You can learn it. You’re not incapable of learning. Go back to sleep.”
He did not, but lay to this side and that, and finally settled again when she rested her head against his shoulder.
Security.
That, she reckoned, was somewhat mutual.
BOOK SIX
i
The Mother of Istra blue took taste, and heaved herself back, mandibles working. Drones soothed Her, singing in their high voices. She ceased, for a moment, to produce new lives.
“Other-hive.” She breathed, and the walls of the Chamber vibrated with the low sound. “Blue-hive. Blue-hive Kontrin. Meth-maren of Cerdin. Kethiuy.”
The Drones moved closer, touched. She bowed and offered taste to the foremost, and it to the next, while She gave to a third. Like the motion of wind through grass it passed, and the song grew in its wake. An impulse extraordinarily powerful went out from them; and all through the Hill, activity slowed. Workers and Warriors turned wherever they were, oriented themselves to the Chamber.
In the egg-chamber, frightened Workers, sensing vague alarm, began building a seal for the shafts. Theirs was the only activity. Mother lowered Her head and reached out for the reporting Warrior yet again; and Warrior, knowing fear of Mother for the first time in its existence, locked a second time into Mother’s chemistry, suffering the reactions of Her body as the messages swirled through Her fluids.
Others crowded close, seeking understanding.
They could not interpret fully. Each understood after its own kind.
There was impression of a flow of chemistry which had begun many cycles ago, a tiny taste of Cerdin, homeworld. The Mind Remembered. There had been a small hill. The memory went back before there were humans, salt-tasting, quick-perishing; before the little lake had filled; before the hill itself had stood. There were ages, and depths. The Mind reeled in ecstasy, the reinforcement of this ancient memory. There were partings, queens born of eggs ship-sent, hives hurled out to the unseen stars, over distances the Mind comprehended only when majat eyes beheld a new heat source in the heavens, different in pattern and timing and intensity, only when majat calculations reckoned angles and distances and an impression of complexities beyond the comprehension of the Mind, mysticism alien to majat processes.