“Accurate,” Speaker says. “The vocabulary, tone, and inflection of my speech made up ninety-three percent of the variation seen in your incoming signals. We inferred that this was standard diction.”
“No,” Nasha says, and rubs her forehead both hands. “It’s not. Mickey just needs more friends.”
I shoot her a sour look, then turn back to the creeper. “You’re the one we saw, aren’t you? Two days ago, on the hill overlooking the dome.”
“Also accurate,” Speaker says. “We were observing your nest. We had assumed previously that your people would eventually either leave or die out, but both of those possibilities have begun to seem less likely as time has worn on. Consequently, we have been considering ways to open a dialogue.”
“You could have said something to me then. It would have saved me a lot of trouble.”
A ripple runs the length of its body. Was that a shrug? “You did not seem happy to see me. Understand—we put a great deal of work into this construct. Your vocal apparatus in particular is absurdly complicated. We did not wish to risk having to start over due to a misunderstanding.”
“Fair point,” Nasha says. “After what happened last winter, we’re a little touchy about creepers close to the dome.”
Speaker rears up until its head is level with ours, mandibles spread wide. Nasha takes a quick half step back and her hands go to her burners. I quickly step between them.
“No!” I say. “No. None of that. We’re here to talk, right?”
“Apologies,” Speaker says, and sinks back down to the floor. “I thought that this was the appropriate time for us to engage in dominance displays. Did I misunderstand?”
I glare at Nasha until she takes her hands away from her weapons, then turn back to Speaker.
“Yes,” I say. “You definitely misunderstood. We’re not here for dominance displays. Right, Nasha?”
“Right,” she says, and folds her arms across her chest.
“Oh,” Speaker says. “This is a ‘Nasha’?”
“This is the Nasha,” Nasha says. “Mickey? Why does it know who I am?”
“‘Nasha’ is a frequent topic of discussion in the communications we used to build our language model,” Speaker says. “We have to say, you are not what we expected.”
“Really,” Nasha says. “What, exactly, did you expect?”
“I think this is getting off topic—” I begin, but Speaker cuts me off.
“Based on your conversations, we assumed ‘Nasha’ was some type of combat ancillary. You may remember that when you first arrived here, our ancillaries destroyed several of yours. The majority of them had weaponry of various sorts, and metallic exoskeletons. We thought ‘Nasha’ was likely of that type, only perhaps larger and more dangerous.”
“Well,” Nasha says, “you’re at least half-right there.”
“Not helpful,” I say. “Really not helpful.”
“You have no idea,” Nasha says. “We’re gonna talk about this later.”
I need to redirect this conversation.
“Speaker,” I say, “you know I’ve been here before, don’t you?”
“Unclear,” Speaker says. “Ancillaries of your type have been here several times. Two of these, we disassembled. The other two we permitted to leave. Are you saying you are one of those two?”
“First, those weren’t ancillaries. I tried to explain this the last time I was here. Our kind doesn’t have ancillaries. Each of us is an independent intelligence. We’re all what you would call Prime.”
“You misspeak,” Speaker says. “Or I misunderstand. The ones we took were ancillaries.”
I shake my head. “I did not misspeak. Our kind does not have ancillaries. Each of us is Prime. I’m not sure how many ways I can say this.”
“No,” Speaker says. “This is not true. We do not accept this.”
“Why?” Nasha asks. “What’s so hard to understand?”
A shudder runs the length of Speaker’s body. “What you say cannot be true. If it were, this would mean that we have killed. You would not come here to talk if we had killed. We have seen your weapons. You would have brought them here, and you would have tried to kill us in return.”
I consider mentioning that that is, in fact, precisely what we tried to do.
Probably best to keep that to myself, though.
“Apparently,” Nasha says, “we’re a very forgiving people.”
Speaker rises and turns to face her. “We do not believe you.”
“Look,” I say. “Not the point. The point is that yes, I’m one of the ones who was here before. In fact, both of the ones you allowed to leave were me.” I unbuckle the chest and belly straps on my pack, slide it off my shoulders, and swing it around to rest on the floor between us. “The last time I was here, I carried a pack that looked a bit like this one. Do you remember?”
Speaker settles back to the floor.
“There were two of you. One we disassembled. One we let go. The one we disassembled was an ancillary. You told us this.”
I bite back the urge to snap at him. We need to stay on topic here. “Not important. The pack is what’s important. Do you remember?”
“Do you deny telling us that the other was ancillary?”
“Please,” I say. “Can we focus? These packs—they’re important to us.”
“You said the other was ancillary. It was identical in every way to the first one we disassembled. How could you have multiple identical Primes? This is nonsense.”
“We’re not like you,” Nasha says. “Look at us. Isn’t that pretty obvious? Why would we have the same social structure?”
“No,” Speaker says. “We did not kill.”
“You did kill,” Nasha says. “You killed Six. You killed Eight. You killed Gabe Torricelli and Brett Dugan and Tom Gallaher and Rob Jacks and Gillian Carden. We’re not here to call you to account for any of that, but these are facts.”
I turn to Nasha. Her hands are back on her burners. Speaker’s mandibles are opening and closing rhythmically.
“The packs,” I say.
“No,” Speaker says. “We cannot speak now. We need time to consider.”
It curls around on itself then, and scuttles back to the giant still filling the center of the chamber. A coil lifts to admit it, and it disappears.
“THINK HE’S COMING back?”
I shrug. We’re sitting on the cold stone floor now, against the wall near the opening where we entered the chamber. I’m leaning against my pack. Nasha’s leaning back against me. She lifts her rebreather long enough to take a bite of a protein bar, then holds it up to me over her left shoulder. I bite off half of what’s left, chew and swallow. It’s been over an hour now since the big creeper has stirred.
“What do we do if he doesn’t?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I could try to ping them. Seemed like we were in contact that way before Speaker showed up.”
“Try.”
“What, now?”
“Yeah,” Nasha says. “I don’t want to spend the night down here.”
“Unless they’re willing to help us out, I’m pretty sure the ship has sailed on that one. It’s a hell of a long way back to the surface from here if we go back the way we came—and even if we could find a shorter route, it’s already dark topside, and depending on where we come out, we have to be at least a couple of hours’ walk from the dome.”
She leans her head back until her cheek rests against mine.
“Ping them,” she says. “Please?”
Fine. I blink to a text window.
<Mickey7>: Hello?
<Mickey7>: Are you there?
<Mickey7>: We really need to discuss those packs.
<Mickey7>: Hello?
I’m about to tell Nasha that they’ve apparently gone radio-silent when I get a ping-back.
<Speaker1>: We hear you.
<Speaker1>: We are not ready to speak.
“Sorry,” I say. “I guess they’re still thinking.”
She groans, leans forward, and presses her fists against her forehead.