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A Flight of Words

by Sheila Finch

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Copyright (c)1997 by Sheila Finch

First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, February 1997

Fictionwise

www.fictionwise.com

Science Fiction

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       The prisoner's birdlike warbling reached Corry Padmasam's ears as she turned the corner at the top of the narrow stairs. The alpha sequence she'd started this morning in preparation for interface kicked in, heightening the lingster's senses till she was aware of the separate grains of packed earth in the wall and subtle movements of the stale air, as well as minute variations in the alien's pitch and tone.

       The Tlokee guard, padding on five of its six legs beside her, gestured impatiently with one black-furred leg. High Mother had ordered this interview with the prisoner, and in the guard's view, High Mother was god. With the sixth leg, it held a dim lightstalk -- mostly for her benefit, Tlokee eyes being adapted to underground darkness. She thought of the warning from the ferry captain who'd brought her here: High Mother had an unpredictable temper and a taste for violence.

       The stairs led down from the maze-like tunnels of the warren, ominously cold and dark in contrast to the warmth and luxury of High Mother's quarters. She rubbed briskly at her arms. New Tlok was a world of sharp contrasts: scorching days and icy nights, a planet with an atmosphere as thin at its surface as Earth's was high in its mountains. She'd been a lingster for a long time and she'd served the Guild of Xenolinguists with dozens of aliens on worlds all over the Orion Arm, and she was no longer excited by the idea of meeting a new one. Lingstering was a young person's trade. Time to retire.

       High Mother Q'taka M'ung Zy, conqueror of this planet she'd renamed New Tlok, had explained this morning that she needed a lingster to forge an interface between the language of the rulers and that of the native race displaced by the recent immigration of the Tlokee. "We are not an uncivilized people, dear lingster Corry," High Mother had said, the dull gold fur of the head ruff that marked a queen of her species unfolding and folding. The Tlokee resembled a child's favorite stuffed animal, but lingsters knew better than to judge by appearances. "We wish to bring these poor refugees into Our caring embrace." Corry must've looked skeptical at that, for High Mother added, "And it would be pleasant to count the wealth We have here, the beasts and the harvest."

       William of Normandy had managed to get his Doomsday Book without benefit of a lingster, Corry thought as her escort fumbled with a wooden door at the bottom of the stairs. She spent most of her off-duty hours studying Terran history, a hobby that sometimes allowed her insight into the pronouncements of the Guild but only occasionally helped in the field. Earth seemed to have worked its way through a rather minor series of choices, as far as societies along the Arm were concerned.

       The door swung open and she stepped into the cell. The guard set the lightstalk in a niche on the wall.

       The prisoner -- disinherited original inhabitant of the planet -- was vaguely humanoid, with gangly legs, a small head and large eyes, luminous in the guard's dim lightstalk. Where a bird would've had wings, the creature sprouted thin, knobby arms with an extra joint, and it quivered with a fear so potent Corry could smell it: a sweetly acid odor like urine and sour sweat. Guild lingsters often encountered reluctance in subjects -- a lingster's ability to create interface was often perceived as mystical, perhaps even magical -- but rarely fear like this. For a moment, she felt apprehensive.

       As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized the alien did have wings; the dull reddish-brown feathers bedraggled and broken-looking, they seemed hardly capable of lifting a hollow-boned bird let alone this skinny starveling.

       _Her mother had run a small inn in the foothills of the Himalayas. One day, in her eighth year, an itinerant peddler had stopped at the inn. She remembered a grubby, pinched-face man with a dozen ramshackle bamboo cages piled on a rickety cart. Song birds for sale, smuggled to Earth from worlds far away, most of them pining for skies they'd never see again, some of them obviously ill. She'd stood in the cobblestoned courtyard, drawn by the proud, undefeated gaze of a bird the size of a Terran eagle. Its feathers were red as blood, and it balanced awkwardly on one leg because the other had been mangled in the trap that caught it...._

       She shook the memory away.

       Now she felt the soft prick of the link opening in her brain as the computer, several floors above her in the warren, prepared to receive the images her eyes were seeing.

       "This piece of excrement will give no trouble!" the Tlokee guard said, aiming a kick in the prisoner's direction.

       "Take the manacles off."

       The guard growled, but did as it was told. The manacles fell with a dull clang to the packed earth floor. One good thing to be said about a hive-mind race like the Tlokee, she thought, all it took was a strong personality to boss them around.

       "And you leave now."

       The Tlokee displayed a jaw full of sharp teeth, but she stood her ground. She waited till it had left the cell, then took a step forward.

       The bird alien jerked back in alarm from her approach, the wrists it had been studying when the manacles were removed still held up to its eyes. It had never seen a human before, and probably found her as odd-looking as she found it.

       She shut her eyes tightly for a second, dispelling the lingering dizziness caused by hyper-awareness, then opened them again and studied the alien. She would've guessed the creature was a non-sentient, but then High Mother's desire to communicate with it and its fellows rather than herd them would've made no sense.

       There was no furniture in the cell other than a pile of thin straw bedding, and an exposed section of a tree's deep root that served as a footstool. Upstairs, the AI was prepared to receive data, its detail enhanced by the alpha sequence of drugs she'd already taken. It would catalog and process samples, discover the grammatical underpinnings of this language and feed the information back to her in a loop growing ever more complex. And when she'd completed her task, it would set up a program for High Mother to use

       She indicated with gesture and pantomime that the alien should be comfortable on the straw. The creature settled down in a misshapen hump of bony limbs and bedraggled, dirty feathers, gazing at her with a myopic, wistful expression. Unfastening the field-pack she wore on her belt, she sat on the thick root, then laid the pack's contents out on the floor between her feet and studied it.

       Small plastiglass vials of the lingster's stock in trade -- the alpha sequence: neurotransmitters, and the beta sequence: state alterers -- gleamed in the dull light. The vials were carefully labelled, but her hands knew them by their distinctive, failsafe shapes. A young lingster fresh from Earth had told her there was talk now of subcutaneous pumps and artificial glands; she was glad she was too old to be required to use them.

       She glanced at the alien crouched trembling on the straw across from her and felt sympathy; the process wouldn't hurt, but the alien didn't know that. The job could take several hours or several days, depending on the amount of cooperation she received from the alien and the degree of uniqueness of its language.

       Her hand played over the beta sequence vials as she considered the choices. While it was not a good idea to take risks, any experienced lingster knew how to find shortcuts. She opened a narrow vial and allowed two drops of thin, briny liquid to drip onto her tongue.

         * * * *

Four hours later, she'd learned the planet's true name was Xsi and that its people were the Inxsienga -- before High Mother renamed it New Tlok in honor of her own homeworld. And unlike the Tlokee with only one true personality among them, High Mother herself, these people had individual names. This one was male and he was called Vxwi.

       With luck, she wouldn't be summoned to High Mother's chambers to deliver a progress report. She wanted to look over what High Mother's AI had done with her preliminary work.

       She sat and pulled out the oddly designed keyboard that suited High Mother but made her own ten fingers seem fat and clumsy. Probably a Venatixi design; Venatixi technology was the best in the Arm. The thought made her smile. She'd acquired a lot of useless information in her years lingstering; she'd make a good acquisitions clerk if nothing else when she returned to the Guild. Some lingsters -- especially the younger ones -- insisted on bringing their own AIs along on assignment, as if they and the machine had bonded. It seemed an affectation to her; she came from an earlier generation that made do with whatever the employer provided and the link every lingster carried in the brain.

       She amended the phonetic spelling the AI had assigned to the Inxsienga names she'd just learned, then switched to voice mode.

       "The other one's name was Hoyxi," the AI said.

       "What other one?"

       "The one Q'taka M'ung Zy killed. There were two, before you came."

       Startled, she asked, "Why would she do that? She seemed anxious to be able to communicate."

       "High Mother realized her mistake later. Then she sent to your Guild for a lingster."

       "Mistake?"

       "A little too much pressure in her attempt to break the language barrier. The alien was weaker than she expected."

       Her stomach stirred queasily. She'd heard of lingsters being required to forge interface with unwilling candidates, but the Guild never knowingly sent lingsters into unethical situations. She'd worked with difficult aliens, but none that had truly resisted. Lingsters told all manner of outrageous tales when they met on starships between assignments, and she didn't believe all she heard.

       A familiar, faint tingling in her skull signalled data bleeding out to the AI. Nothing she needed to do; she shut her eyes and let it happen. Behind her closed lids, she saw the caged birds in the inn courtyard again.

       _"He don't need but one leg to sing," the peddler said. "Brings in customers for the other birds."_

       _"He's not singing now," the child pointed out._

       _The peddler looked around for a stick. "Will when I poke him."_

       _"Why don't you let him go?"_

       _"Money in him."_

       _"It's cruel to keep him!"_

       _"Crueler still to make a human starve."_

         * * * *

High Mother did expect her presence for supper, and High Mother was used to being obeyed. Reluctantly, Corry changed into a clean white tunic and black trews, combed her short hair -- almost entirely grey now, she noted; when had that happened? -- and crammed feet that were swelling with tiredness back into her one pair of sandals.

       She found Tlokee food revolting. But it wasn't acceptable for a lingster to offend a client by refusing to accept a meal if it was edible by humans. It helped to remember that after this she'd be returning to the Guild, to cheerful feasts in the Academy's sunny refectory high in the Alps, surrounded by good friends and admiring young students. She could manage a false affability for a little while longer.

       High Mother's chambers were larger and higher-ceilinged than any other rooms in the warren. Workers had tamped the earth walls smooth and lined them with a paste of chewed leaves and bark juice so they shone a dull, metallic brown. Narrow light wells from the surface brought natural illumination tumbling over reflective stones to fill the cavern with a warm glow even at night. She remembered what the ferry captain had said about them: _A race of six-legged, spacefaring moles that hoard technology from all over the Arm, but never develop any of their own!_

       A line of Tlokee workers wound slowly through the cavern, bearing bowls of soup in which floated chunks of half-raw flesh, strips of bark and shrivelled roots for seasoning. The rancid smell of these delicacies banished any hunger she might've had to begin. High Mother, hunkered on a fur-covered throne of elaborately braided roots, made a selection of morsels from some of the bowls with two forelegs, and rejected others with a cuff across the head for their bearers with a third. The favored dishes were then offered to the assembled drones of her harem. Behind the Tlokee queen, a group of players entertained with an ear-splitting, high-pitched, wailing and clicking music.

       "Dear lingster Corry," High Mother said as Corry took a seat. "How do you like Our musicians tonight?"

       "Exquisite," she said, hoping the Tlokee queen didn't understand sarcasm, but too tired to care much if she did.

       High Mother merrily waved an unoccupied foreleg. "Come, come! We know you've heard better elsewhere in the Arm. We Ourselves heard better at home."

       "Then it must be the elegant company, High Mother."

       "Ah," High Mother said, nodding. "You are a pretty speaker and not to be trusted guarding the eggs! But We are anxious to hear what progress you have made with Our subject."

       Since High Mother appeared to be in a good humor, Corry decided to go straight to the heart of the matter. "I must protest the conditions under which the prisoner is forced to work, High Mother."

       Q'taka M'ung Zy turned her small eyes on Corry curiously. "What does it matter? The creature is a sack of bones, dust, nothing."

       "The Guild works by cooperation, not coercion."

       High Mother shook her head from side to side as if in amusement. "How can excrement cooperate, lingster Corry?"

       "Nevertheless, High Mother -- "

       "Does the Guild encourage you to argue with Us?"

       Corry saw the golden ruff slowly unfolding over the black velvet fur of her shoulders, warning of High Mother's growing irritation. High Mother was right, of course; the Guild with its strict emphasis on neutrality actively discouraged questioning an employer's requests.

       "Sometimes a gentle touch moves mountains," Corry said.

       High Mother extended a long claw and examined it. "Do your work swiftly and well, lingster, for We have a whole world here to develop. Then perhaps We will have time to be gentle."

       The Tlokee queen turned away to converse with a succession of drones who lined up by the throne. Corry excused herself as soon as she could without giving insult.

         * * * *

The next session with Vxwi went better. Corry entered interface smoothly, manipulating the overwhelming rush of impressions and concepts from the alien world-view. The AI picked words and structures out of the growing verbal web, organizing them and feeding them back to her.

       Vxwi's language was not a complex one, once she'd made the adjustments necessary to see the universe the way the Inxsienga did. They lived in a floating, ever-present Now, with no past or future tense to disturb them, and very little understanding of the galaxy they inhabited. The language had evolved to express the simple relationships of their uncomplicated lives. It would take maybe one more session, she hoped, to finish up the task High Mother had hired her to do.

       "Invaders kill Hoyxi," the Inxsienga said suddenly.

       She stood up to leave, still groggy, though the effect of the drugs was receding; it took her a moment to recognize the name, and another to get her tongue around the still-unfamiliar sounds of the alien's language.

       "You not have fear," she said. "Invaders not kill Vxwi."

       The alien trilled and made an attempt to stretch his wings, one of which seemed broken. "Not fear. Protector is. Protector sees."

       It had the ring of a mantra, she thought. She stared at him through lingering fog, anxious to take the beta neutralizer that would clear her head, but concerned she might have to continue the session. After a moment, Vxwi subsided onto the straw and appeared to go to sleep. Corry went out of the cell and the waiting guard locked it behind her.

       Upstairs, she stared tiredly at the screen, scanning the results of her work so far. She thought of eleventh century Norman scribes in Saxon villages, pointing and counting, scribbling their lists. A shared language was not necessary for inventory taking, and conquerors rarely stooped to understand the speech of those who'd lost the battle.

       "It may surprise you," the AI said suddenly, "to learn that a cyberintelligence can experience pleasure."

       She was absorbed by her work, and it took her a moment to hear what had been said. "What do you mean?"

       "The joy of working with pure data. The satisfaction of dealing with an at least partially rational being."

       She waited for it to elaborate, but it was silent. She asked a question of her own: "Why is High Mother so anxious to learn this language?"

       "There's a prophecy -- or perhaps a legend -- of some kind of philosopher, a lawgiver, among the Inxsienga."

       "The 'Protector?'" she guessed.

       "Affirmative. But High Mother doesn't know if this person has already been born and is dead, is still alive, or is yet to come."

       "Present tense problems?" Something pricked in her mind as if she'd asked the wrong question. She rubbed her hand over her head in an effort to banish tiredness, but nothing came to her.

       The AI didn't answer.

       She thought of the holy leaders of her homeland's past; in the twentieth century, the Dalai Lama had been exiled by the armies of the Chinese. "What would a warrior queen have to fear from a weak and conquered people?"

       "Probably nothing. But the Tlokee are oviparous, and High Mother's eggs will hatch at any moment. She and her brood are vulnerable at such a time. And this is a prime batch. It'll contain at least one new queen."

       Cyberminds were more precise than human. "_Probably_ nothing?"

       "Oh, delightful!" the AI said. "A being that appreciates exactitude! Shall I quote statistical probabilities?"

       Maybe all Venatixi AIs were this quirky, she thought, but if she'd been High Mother she would've been very wary of this one. "That won't be necessary."

       "Pity! Tlokee queens kill to protect their eggs. That was the reason why High Mother brought her pack to Xsi: to protect them. Tlok's a small world with too many High Mothers, and therefore much bloodshed among them."

       Tlokee spaceships seemed primitive -- an economy version developed by the Venatixi. It took courage to venture all in such craft, like the first Terran colonists sailing the dark seas of space in primitive starships in search of new worlds. Or brute arrogance, like Normans braving the evil-tempered English channel in their flimsy craft, Chinese streaming over the high mountain passes. Yet neither the Normans or the Chinese had prevailed in the long reaches of time, she thought. The suppressed language of the conquered Saxons had re-emerged to become the planet's dominant tongue -- the Inglis that she spoke today; and the Dalai Lama had reincarnated many times in the land that still venerated him when the rest of Earth had given up mysticism.

       But in the meantime, the Inxsienga were not prepared to fend off a conqueror such as High Mother. They had no technology, not even an understanding of the need for it, and beliefs couldn't ward off bloodshed. They didn't stand a chance.

       Lingsters who allowed themselves to get sucked into the quicksands of planetary politics were unable to do the job they'd been hired to do. Worse, they endangered their own lives. The Guild taught strict neutrality as a life-saving protocol: _Never judge the message or the sender or the cause._ A wise law, she'd always thought, and one she'd leaned on many times in a long and rich career.

       Best thing to do would be wrap this one up as quickly as possible and return to Earth. She allowed herself a moment to savor the honors of retirement that awaited her, the philosophical debates with her peers, the pleasures of teaching young students as she'd been taught.

       This time, she managed to avoid the revels in High Mother's chambers and worked with the AI until late.

         * * * *

Two things struck her, next morning, as she opened Vxwi's cell door: the sour stench of fear had worsened, and someone was there before her.

       "We are glad to see you so energetic this morning, lingster," Q'taka M'ung Zy said, her voice a barely controlled hiss of anger. "When We lacked your company last night, We feared you were sick."

       Corry inclined her head slightly, reading from High Mother's agitated, jerky movements, the way her ruff quivered, that the Tlokee queen was on edge. Better remember she was just a servant for the time being, and put on the mantle of Tlokee obsequiousness she'd observed.

       "Apologies, High Mother. This unworthy worker hoped to please you by getting the work done quickly."

       High Mother dismissed the apology with a sweep of foreleg. "We wish to watch you work. Begin!"

       "I'm still building the Inxsiengi/Inglis interface," she protested. "I'm not ready -- "

       "We give an order, lingster!"

       She couldn't forbid High Mother being here even if she didn't like it. She turned her attention to the prisoner. Vxwi was rolled into a tight ball on filthy straw in a corner. Corry seated herself, fanning the contents of the field-pack out on the floor between her legs. By now the choices were automatic, but still she paused to consider them again. _Take nothing for granted,_ she'd been taught by the Guild's wise teachers; everything must lie open to reconsideration.

       The drugs took her quickly down into interface.

       She was mostly seeking vocabulary, tracing the exposed bones of the language, a blind woman feeling the exhibits in a sculpture garden. With other tongues, she might've been pinning down nuance and subtlety by now; here they didn't exist.

       Something hissed and buzzed at her ear. She tried to shake it away, then felt a sharp scratch of pain, and became suddenly aware of her arm. She surfaced from the interface, gasping for breath, buffeted by turbulence in the transition zone. Something warm and sticky trickled over her skin, but she couldn't concentrate enough to identify it.

       "You will do what We order!"

       Corry turned her head and blinked at High Mother. She could see blood on the claw of High Mother's left front leg. She teetered awkwardly, suspended between the misty world on the border of languages and the reality of the dank cell.

       "Ask the creature. Who is the one they call the Protector? Where is he? We will have the answer."

       She peered groggily from High Mother's bloody claw to Vxwi cowering on the floor.

       "Ask!"

       She felt drunk, her head thick and dizzy with the drugs of interface. The words of the mantra all lingsters learned coursed through her mind: _I am a conduit, a channel; through me flows language.... First was the Word, and I am its carrier...._

       Calm restored, in control once again, she slid back down into deeper water, strengthening the connection between herself and the alien. She conveyed High Mother's question as best she could.

       But Vxwi either didn't know or wouldn't say where the Protector was. Perhaps there was no Protector; it was just High Mother's paranoia.

       Pain shot through her, so vivid hot that in the connection of interface she couldn't at first tell who felt it, herself or the alien. She floundered in the shallows again, gasping. Her head pounded with the pressures of ruptured interface.

       "We are not pleased, lingster! You will ask again."

       Bleary-eyed, she squinted at Vxwi. The alien had folded back into fetal position on the straw and lay moaning. The mangled feathers were drenched with blood.

       High Mother's ruff quivered. "This takes too long."

       _Never judge the message_  -- Corry's head pounded and nausea rose in her throat -- _or the sender_ -- Neutrality. Cling to that. A lingster is neutral. The second law of the Guild. She'd never broken the Guild's laws in all the years she'd been a lingster.

       "If We do not get the answer, We will pursue the scum's tribe to the ends of this planet -- We will kill all the tribe's young -- one by one -- "

       Perhaps she could lie? Pretend to have an answer? The Guild taught absolute truthfulness went hand in hand with absolute neutrality. And since High Mother was bound to find out some time, the end result would be the same as far as Vxwi was concerned.

       Vxwi screamed in pain again.

       It was impossible for her to defy the Guild -- like spitting in the face of her own mother. But lingsters were also taught to take nothing for granted. Did that apply to the laws of the Guild?

       She couldn't let the Tlokee queen get away with torture. "I cannot continue like this."

       "You will get the information We want."

       She forced herself to breathe deeply. She needed to think how to handle the situation, but her brain was still clogged with the beta sequence drugs, and thoughts moved sluggishly.

       High Mother reached impatiently past her and slashed the Inxsienga's face, laying it open from the hairline to the chin.

       The shock pulled Corry sharply out. "I will not work under these conditions!"

       High Mother paced the floor of the narrow cell, hissing in fury. "We will know the answer, or We will kill."

       "As you killed Hoyxi?"

       Small eyes blazing, High Mother stared at her. "You defy Us, lingster. We will not forget this."

       Before she could react, High Mother seized the alien's uninjured wing in one of her strong front legs and ripped. Corry heard the sound of muscles and tendons tearing -- Vxwi's high-pitched shriek of agony --

       But the little alien still didn't speak. She marvelled at his bravery; if there really was a Protector, the fellow should be very grateful for the loyalty of followers like that.

       High Mother's ruff had turned burning copper-gold with fury; she wouldn't hesitate to kill again, right before Corry's eyes. Blood pounded so loudly in her ears, she could barely hear what High Mother was saying.

       Then the door of the cell burst open. A Tlokee worker stood uncertainly, front legs jerking nervously before its face.

       "High Mother! The eggs -- "

       Q'taka M'ung Zy looked at it stupidly for a second. Then she pulled herself free of the blood madness that had taken over. Shoving Corry aside so that she almost stumbled against the worker in the doorway, High Mother raced out the door. The worker hastily followed.

       Corry's first impulse was to run. She knew beyond doubt that High Mother would kill her too whether she cooperated or not.

       "Kill Vxwi," a weak voice said suddenly. "Kill now. Vxwi not tell of Protector."

       She gazed down at the trembling figure. Dim light slanted across the Inxsienga's broken wings, the blood smeared feathers. She was struck by the sense of awe that invested the word he'd used. She wondered if there was anything she held dear enough to die for.

       "Kill...." the little alien said again.

       How much more could he bear before he snapped and gave High Mother what she wanted? He was so fragile, it would take so little --

       She stared at her own large, strong hands. It would be a kindness, like killing a suffering animal --

       She couldn't do it.

       Then a Tlokee guard appeared and gestured for her to leave the cell. The door clanged behind them, and the guard herded her up the stairs and into her own room. When her own door too slammed shut, she felt as much a prisoner as Vxwi in his cell.

       Anguished, she considered her options.

       If she followed her training and obeyed the Guild's law of neutrality -- and how could a lingster defy the Guild? -- she'd become a party to torture. But after she'd successfully completed this assignment she could go home to the Academy in Geneva and the rewards of retirement. Yet then she'd live the rest of her days with a conscience as shredded and bloody as Vxwi's wings.

       Or she could thwart High Mother by not completing the interface and getting out of here while the Tlokee queen was occupied with her hatching eggs. Somehow, she'd find her way to the small spaceport -- talk her way aboard a neutral trader -- But even if she managed it, she'd have to throw herself on the mercy of a Guild always cautious about giving offense to worlds more powerful or more warlike than Earth. The Guild would take her back, but she'd be an embarrassment; she'd never wear the ceremonial emerald robes of a teacher.

       Neither option satisfied.

       Another thought occurred. She'd been working in the primary interface, between Inxsiengi and Inglis; the AI would do the rest. "How serviceable is the interface into Tlokee?"

       "Serviceable enough," the AI said. "High Mother will be able to get the information she needs when you're gone."

       The damage had already been done.

       In her mind she saw that childhood scene from more than fifty years ago.

       _"Why doesn't the peddler let him go?"_

       _Her mother gazed at the scarlet bird. "Poor thing's injured, by the look."_

       _"He could fly..."_

       _"He'd never make it far. And this isn't even his own world."_

       _The child bent down to look deep into the bird's eyes. "But he'd like it better than this cage."_

       _She lay in her bed, listening to the drowsy murmuring of songbirds on the peddler's cart in the courtyard. The crippled bird made no sounds at all. That night she dreamed the smaller birds had escaped and only he remained, but the words of his song lofted in flight over the roof of the world._

       Soon after, a man came through the village speaking of the Guild of Xenolinguists; her mother apprenticed her and let her go. The Guild became mother and home, and later, mate and lover too, and all the children she would never have. She'd never regretted it, never questioned its laws. Until now.

       "Damn the Guild!" she said in frustration. "How can they expect us to be neutral in the face of something like this? It's inhuman."

       "As I understand your Guild," the AI said, "your life is valuable to it. If you don't follow its teachings your life will be lost, and the work of the Guild will suffer. What is the life of one Inxsienga by comparison?"

       "I can't accept that reasoning."

       She stood with her back to the console, staring at the wall. This pragmatism was not what she remembered from her student days; the Guild had held them to higher principles. Or perhaps, she thought, it had been there all along but it was not what she'd chosen to hear. All these years, perhaps she'd been loyal to something that existed mostly in her own imagination.

       "Then see it another way," the AI suggested. "Q'taka M'ung Zy will have what she wants no matter whether you decide to throw your life away or not."

       "She needs to be stopped."

       "And how will sacrificing your own life bring that about?"

       "There has to be another option!"

       She'd always regretted not creeping out into the inn courtyard at midnight and releasing the scarlet bird from its prison. That childhood incident had led her directly to this dilemma.

       "I could try to take Vxwi out of here -- "

       "And look for sanctuary on a planet you don't know? Perhaps the Inxsienga will find you before High Mother does."

       She could imagine a desert exile unfolding into the rest of her life. Would the Guild come looking for her? And how would anyone know where to find her if they did?

       Something that had been bothering her for a while fell suddenly into place. "How did High Mother come to learn about this Protector -- before any possibility of translating from Inxsiengi?"

       "What a long time it took you to ask that! I told her, of course."

       "But you didn't have an inter...