Lirlowil screamed at the Fant, “Don’t lecture me. You don’t know how it is. Flesh shapes mind. Mind shapes flesh. It’s not so different than Speaking.”
“It should be. If you worked to make it so. But you’re weak. Lazy.”
Lazy? Her? She flashed on going through training, endless days of running obstacle courses, agility exercises, hand-to-hand combat. She could field-strip nine different weapons, survive in a desert with only a blade, make love nonstop for two days until her partner collapsed from exhaustion and dehydration. But no, she’d done none of that; that was someone else.
“I’d hoped you could be my partner in this, that we could both gain from such extraordinary circumstances.” The Matriarch’s tone dripped with contempt. “I dislike being wrong. You don’t have the discipline to seize the opportunity I offer you. You can’t even see how to dam this torrent of foreign recollections you’re drowning in.”
“I can’t help you. I won’t help you.”
“Oh, Child, you so underestimate yourself. You can, and you will. Willingly and actively, or not. But for now, just sleep!”
A fat-fingered gray hand seemed to close around her mind, squeezing consciousness out of her. Lirlowil struggled against it, sliding from her chair and collapsing alongside the fallen security guard. And then the world went away.
* * *
A short time passed. Lirlowil’s body responded more readily with the Lutr unconscious. Margda knelt, head bowed, and heard the arrival of three more Pandas. She raised her head, noted their drawn weapons but gave no outward acknowledgment. Without a word, an Ailuros lifted his fallen comrade into his arms and backed out of the converted warehouse. Another stepped forward, careful not to block the line of fire of the remaining Panda; when he stood in front of the Otter, he backhanded her with enough force to make her body rise off the floor before she crumpled to a heap.
“When this is done, when the major has no more need of you, we will remember what you did today.”
Margda struggled to sit up, one delicate hand gingerly touching the side of her new face where the Ailuros had struck. She spoke, her voice strong with none of the fear or cajoling or self-importance that she imagined always marked Lirlowil’s conversation with the security detail. Margda’s words, as the Eleph moved inside the Lutr’s body.
“When this is done, if any of you still matter to me, I will choose what you remember. Now, take me down to Barsk and where I need to be. I’ve waited far too long to reach this point.”
She got to her feet and walked out into the corridor, empty now. The Panda lowered his weapon and led the way. “There’s a shuttle waiting. This way.” The one who’d struck her, followed behind. They didn’t matter. They meant nothing to her.
Gaining more control over her borrowed body with every step, Margda allowed herself to be escorted from Lirlowil’s prison of so many days, moving with determination but none of the Lutr’s natural grace, plodding instead like an old woman several times her size. If the Pandas noticed, they wisely gave no indication. Margda assumed that a trip downwell would have little novelty or interest to her host and did her best not to gape at the viewport, though it was difficult. In her life, she’d never been off Barsk, and the view of her homeworld from low orbit brought an unexpected joy. Riding the Lutr’s body felt little different than commanding her own, save for the annoying ghost proprioception she kept experiencing of a trunk that this body lacked. Suppressing Lirlowil herself had been easy enough; any defenses the Otter might have possessed had vanished in the onslaught of unwanted Panda memories. From her vantage point, Margda had simply stepped out of the way of the mnemonic flood, and instead of throwing Lirlowil a rope to haul her to safety, she’d shoved a metaphorical weight into her hands. It wouldn’t be so easy taking dominance over this mind next time, but she had no intention of relinquishing control until she completed her task. She had waited, dead, for the better part of eight centuries, she could damn well endure the mewling whimpers of a spoiled Lutr for a few days. In the meantime, she needed to acquire precision, and for that she’d have to allow the Otter to wake up again and teach her to use the power with more delicacy. Thistles indeed!
NINETEEN. DEGREES OF WRONG
HAVING stood on other worlds, it was easy for Jorl to believe he wasn’t anywhere on Barsk. Somewhere beneath his feet was good earth, but he could dig and dig for days and never reach it. He stood upon hard-packed snow, beneath which lay sheets of ice that had been put down season after season, year after year, as the snow compressed and transformed under its own weight. Underneath it all lay the actual surface of the polar continent. He trusted in this with the belief of things unseen that marked most of science.
Jorl had the exercise yard to himself as he had since his first day there. What need did the Dying have for exercise? They shuffled back and forth to the vast basin that provided their drinking water, or leaned against the barracks that formed three sides of the yard’s square, or sat on cots they’d pulled from inside. Misery lined their faces, but not because they couldn’t bear to stay inside rooms built of plastic, nor because sleeping outside meant the cold reached into their bones so they shivered constantly, waking or sleeping. Physical discomfort paled alongside the horror of their existence severed from the proper flow of time. They should be dead. And yet they breathed, ached, cried, and waited in agony for some semblance of normalcy to return, to complete that last journey and die.
Twice a day self-propelled troughs of bland and processed vegetable clusters appeared in the middle of the yard. Distinctions like breakfast and lunch, dinner and supper failed in this place where the dim daylight endured far longer than a day should, and the span between dusk and dawn passed while one watched. It didn’t matter that the provided food had little flavor, none of the Dying Fant possessed any appetite. Every other day most would make a pilgrimage down the length of a trough. Trunks would dip within, secure a portion of the tasteless clusters, transfer them to mouths that automatically chewed and swallowed. And again and again, until the Fant reached the far end of the trough, finished that last mouthful, and returned to sit or stand by the barracks’ walls. Even after all the Fant wanting to eat had done so the troughs remained more than half full. Upon some unseen signal, they withdrew from the yard.
On the fourth morning since arriving, the routine changed. As the troughs departed, Jorl saw six short figures skitter past them and enter the yard. Unlike the Fant, their tiny feet left no imprint in the packed snow.
“Badgers,” said Jorl, following them with his eyes as they veered off toward a group of Fant congregating outside the far left barracks. “Taxi,” he said again, using the name they used among themselves. He’d only met one during his time in the Patrol, a woman who epitomized aggression, spoke in short sentences, and did everything with sharp, quick movements. His shipmates had assured him she was a fair representation of her people, and universally loathed her only slightly less than they disliked him.
Jorl had spent the first two days making an effort to meet all the other Fant. Only Phas and her friends had proved willing to talk to him. His status as a Bearer let him move among them, and grudgingly earned him their names, but nothing more. As they saw it, none of them had anything to say to someone who was obviously still living.