“But it makes sense, Orel! Gibbering, wandering the woods, seeking vengeance: they’re the metin of folks who’ve been murdered!”
Orel tapped her back. “Only those murdered incorrectly. With a shot to the head, the metin is killed as well.”
By now, the metin had crawled up to Lynn’s other shoulder, and she touched it gently. “Are you comfortable?”
“I am a ghost.” Its antennae tickled her ear. “I shall never be comfortable again.”
She had to swallow as she turned to look into the smoke. “Orel, any luck with the radio yet?”
“None, mistress.”
“Great. So which way do we go?”
She felt the rachnoid shift, saw one leg point up the road. “From what I can make out of our surroundings, I would guess this way, mistress.”
“Okay.” Rising into a half-crouch, Lynn started scooting along in the direction Orel had pointed, the voice of the metin still whispering along her shunt: “…flitting fitfully even in sanctuary, I am dead and yet I live…”
She hadn’t gone far when Orel hissed: “Shapes ahead!”
Lights flashed on, a voice called, “Stop or we’ll shoot!” and out of the smoke came a group of tayshil dressed in pale vests; four or five had weapons, all pointed at her. One stepped forward, and in the light from behind, Lynn could see a scar puckering the fur along its left cheek. “Human,” the farmer’s voice came to her. “I told you to leave town.”
The others had moved up to surround her, and Lynn heard one say, “Hey, that thing’s got two metin.”
Voices mumbled from the circle, and the farmer stepped closer. Her eyes moved from Orel to Mr. Chonik’s metin and back again, and she scowled into Lynn’s face. “What’re you up to, human? Where’d you pick that up?”
Lynn licked her lips. “It’s Mr. Chonik’s. Your shooters got him in the stomach, then ran off before finishing their job. Even I know that’s not right.”
Fur bristled over the farmer’s face, and she spun to glare at the tayshil behind her. They had all taken a step back, their ears flicking, and even the farmer looked a little shaky as she turned to Lynn again. “So. That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing with it.”
Lynn thought quickly. “Well, it asked me for sanctuary.” She didn’t hear the translation, so she stopped. “Orel? Tell them it asked—”
“Mistress, let me remind you that we are entering unknown areas of social discourse. Caution may be—”
“Orel, we’ve got a real, live ghost here, and they’re the murderers! Remember Mr. Chonik’s stories? They’ve got to be scared! If we stick with the metin, I’ll bet they won’t mess with us! Now, go on: tell ’em!”
A brief moment of silence, then Lynn heard Orel’s version of her voice: “It asked for sanctuary. I’m granting it.”
The farmer brushed her cheek fur. “Right. You speak the language of ghosts, human?”
Lynn reached up and touched the metin on her shoulder. “I do, yes.”
The tayshil all gave a hiss; several jumped another step back. The farmer’s whiskers stopped quivering. “You… you lie. You lie, human!”
Even in the smoke and the heat, the sweat on Lynn’s forehead had gone cold. Knowing Orel would speak her words in the steady voice she couldn’t manage, she said, “Would you like me to ask it the names of its assailants?”
The farmer’s ears sprang up, and one of the armed tayshil stepped forward. “How?” he asked. “How can a thing like you know the language of ghosts? You’re an invader, not a—”
“Shut up!” The farmer whapped the other in the chest, then turned back to Lynn. “I think you’d better come with me back to headquarters, human.”
Lynn raised her left pinkie. “Another truce, then?”
The others just stared, but Lynn saw the farmer’s lips purse. “All right,” she said, pointing her little finger. “Another truce.” She turned to the tayshil who had stepped forward. “Dirosh, take the troop around the perimeter again. I’ll escort this human myself.”
His hands twitched on the gun barrel. “You sure, Prin?”
“Hey, didn’t you see?” The farmer flicked her fingers at him. “Me and this human, we’ve got a truce.”
“This isn’t a game, Prin! These are invaders!”
The farmer whapped him in the chest again. “Get going, Dirosh.” She looked back at Lynn. “What’s not to trust in a face like that?”
Dirosh swiveled his head toward Lynn, and Lynn tried her best to look harmless. After a moment, he let go of the gun with one hand, flicked his fingers at the farmer, then called out, “All right, let’s go! We’ve got a town to secure here!”
The group trickled past—wide around her, Lynn noticed—till they were lost in the smoke. Prin stood with her arms crossed, then said, “This way.”
She started off, and Lynn followed. “Orel,” she muttered, “any idea which direction we’re headed?”
The rachnoid shifted on her shoulder. “Back into town, I would guess, mistress. Away from the road, at any rate.”
“Great.” She stuck close to the farmer, the scene of heads being pulped still vivid in her mind: one stray bullet, that was all it would take.
A few patrols stopped them, but they were all wearing the pale vests and all seemed to recognize the farmer. Lynn saw other bodies, their heads gone, sprawled around the market, saw groups of tayshil huddled together, armed tayshil standing around them. But wasn’t this an antihuman riot? Why were they holding other tayshil? She cleared her throat. “May I ask, Ms. Prin, what all this is about?”
“No,” came the reply. “Just walk.”
So she walked. After a few minutes, they came to the ring of warehouses and passed through them into the village. Thatched huts slid by in the smoke as the farmer led Lynn around corners and down streets. “You recognize anything, Orel?” she muttered.
“No, mistress. I am only familiar with the market and the government buildings around Mr. Chonik’s house. I would hazard a guess that we are on the other side of town.”
Down a few more streets, and smoky torches began appearing on every corner, armed tayshil standing beside them; they waved, and let her and the farmer continue. Around one more corner, and Lynn found herself staring at a well-guarded and torchlit hut, twice as long but narrower than any of the others, tayshil in pale vests filling the street in front of it. And sitting on the ground by the door were four humans: Mr. and Mrs. Conover, their daughter Lucy, and Malcolm.
Lynn felt her shoulders loosen. “Orel, can you get in touch with their rachnoids from here?”
“Possibly, mistress,” she heard, then she saw the four all suddenly sit up. Malcolm tried to rise, but several tayshil swung their weapons toward him. Orel’s voice came to her: “They say they are fine but are concerned for our collective safety.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Lynn muttered as the farmer led them into the press of dark-furred bodies.
“Make way!” the farmer was yelling over the mumble of the crowd. “Coming through, here!”
The tayshil parted before them, some with a hiss and a jump, till they came to those guarding the humans. One of them flicked her fingers. “One more, huh, Prin?”
“No,” the farmer replied. The two stroked each other’s metin. “This one’s gotta go inside.”
“Why?” Malcolm was on his feet again, the others following. “What’d she do? You can’t—”
“Malcolm, please.” Mrs. Conover took his arm. “What’s going on, Lynn? No one’ll tell us—” She broke off then, her brow wrinkling. “What’s that on your shoulder?”
“Enough,” the farmer said, her whiskers fluttering. “You humans have been in collaboration with our invaders since you arrived here, and right now you have exactly one chance to avoid their fate.” She crooked one of her thumbs at Lynn. “If this one comes out alive, you and your settlement will be released into her custody. If she doesn’t, you’ll go to trial with the rest of the invaders. Understood?”