He couldn’t figure the past tense. He suspected a similar difficulty. And began to suspect Prakuyo’s language, besides having an array of nots, didn’t use I, was shaky on you, and worse, took truly emotional exception about he and they.
Which wasn’t wholly a linguistic worry. It was, granted Prakuyo was sane, a window into a mentality that really wasn’t quite human or atevi, that had all along had trouble with that he-they concept, and wasn’t happy with the you-word, either.
That was where they’d taken their last break. And his brain was fogging. He had a hundred and one methods for getting vocabulary out of an interview and he didn’t know how to get past the pronoun problem. It seemed one of those right-wrong things, one of those trained-from-birth things, downright invisible to the owner of the reactions, but yes, Prakuyo got upset about pronouns, and, complicating matters, in adult Ragi, their preferred language of communication, atevi continually shifted the number of persons in you or me .
And somewhere in the hard-wiring of Prakuyo’s own massive body, this damnable elusive quantity was, clearly, so simple—if one were Prakuyo. If one’s brain had the sights and sounds and smells and emotional context of being Prakuyo. Which a human hadn’t, and wasn’t, by a long shot.
“We.” Prakuyo said that last in ship-speak. And pointed at him, and Banichi and Jago.
Wrong. That should be a you, and he opened his mouth to say so.
And shut it. Prakuyo looked—dared one think—quite earnest about that mistake.
Bren followed a gut instinct. Pointed to himself and Banichi and Jago. “We.” To himself and Prakuyo and Banichi and Jago. “We.”
Prakuyo got up quickly, making that alarmed booming sound. Banichi and Jago were on their feet just as fast.
But Prakuyo subsided back into his chair as if the air had been let out of him, and thrummed and boomed and clenched his hands together in front of his mouth—not pleased. Or at least—not feeling particularly stable at the moment.
And at a loss for words.
“ Not we?” Bren pushed the point.
He won a dark-eyed, distraught look.
Banichi and Jago sat back down, stoic and impeccable.
“We.” That word again, indicating him, Banichi and Jago, but not including Prakuyo.
Don’t include me. Don’t assimilate me. Don’t absorb me.
We—some quality of we—was as disturbing to Prakuyo as it was ordinary and all but invisible to humans and atevi. But not a take-for-granted among atevi; and not, even in his lifetime, an easy given between humans and atevi. A fogged brain began to gather, beyond the obvious answer of a xenophobia Prakuyo never had demonstrated, that he simply had no wish to be included, and did not give his consent to be included. That somehow, with him and with his kind, we was a fenced-off, difficult word that might imply anything from visceral distaste to outright hatred of outsiders—no evidence in Prakuyo for that; though that hole in the station might attest differently.
What was behind that reaction? Prakuyo’s wrist was as large as a human upper arm. Strength, immense strength: this wasn’t a species that, in its evolution, easily hid or ran; it might, perhaps, take direct solutions; but with complementary delicacy, these hands had built spaceships. Prakuyo’s kind must have made pots, learned agriculture, domesticated animals, made villages, made towns, made cities, made whatever political structures let Prakuyo’s kind cooperate and launch itself into space.
But Prakuyo’s people had trouble including other species with itself.
Or Prakuyo had trouble being included by others, or by them, specifically.
Politics? Social structure? Something that disgusted or frightened?
Prakuyo, however, was willing to sublimate that feeling enough to talk, to learn, even to express enjoyment.
And suddenly something reverberated through the hull, a deep, distant shock. Banichi and Jago both got up, and Banichi left them.
A shot? Bren wondered with a chill. Hostilities with the station, or had that ship out there moved in and simply decided to blow its own way into the hull?
Was all time up?
Prakuyo was incapable of looking worried, in human terms, but he looked at the door, looked about him, the same.
“Hear,” Bren acknowledged the event. He had not yet gotten words for know and not know , was unsure of those pesky soft-tissue conditionals if and then . His attempt to extract them with a flow chart had produced uncertain results—which, along with the absence of pronouns, could mean bad news. A set of conditionals that didn’t jibe with Mosphei’, which was relatively simple, nor Ragi, which wasn’t simple at all. If that was an explosion, nadiin, then we have a problem…
He was losing his focus, getting wobbly.
“Nandi,” Jago said, from the doorway, and he looked at her. “Jase reports that the alien craft has arrived and established a connection.”
Adrenalin ran like static through nerves already on overload.
Then the habits of the aiji’s court came to the rescue, providing stability for a small bow, an utter microfocus on the Prakuyo matter.“Prakuyo ship, Prakuyo-ji. It has come. Go up.”
Prakuyo absorbed that information and solemnly rose. Bren started for the door, then remembered the notes, frantically gathered them up and gave them to Jago as they reached the door. “These must get to Jase. To C2.”
“Yes,” Jago said.
As their party ran up against the resident seven-year-old, rigged out in lace and red and black brocade, and behind Cajeiri his great-grandmother, in much the same, with gold; and behind the dowager, Cenedi and reinforcements.
The dowager didn’t move that fast. Someone had been in close touch with Jase while he had been locked in the throes of new vocabulary.
“This has gone on long enough,” Ilisidi said, and banged her cane against the deck. “We have our invitation, one supposes, since the ship has complied with Jase-aiji’s instruction. Prakuyo-ji, we shall see this ship of yours and settle this business.”
Prakuyo bowed, deeply, even gracefully. The change in dress had provoked no comment—of course the staff had come up with something suitable: the dowager expected such miracles, and was prepared to lead the way.
“My best car,” Cajeiri said, holding it safely in his arms. A bow. Very best behavior, as well.
Banichi came out of the security station and quietly waited for them.
A second stamp of the dowager’s cane, a motion down the corridor toward the door. “Well,” she said. “Shall we dither here, or have this business on the road?”
“Nandi,” Bren murmured, and drew a deep breath, and fell in with her, and with Prakuyo, Cajeiri closing up ranks and staying rather closer to his great-grandmother—not a swift progress: not in the dowager’s company, but steady. They gathered up Banichi by the security station, and how the papers got passed, or what arrangements flew in a handful of words between Jago and Asicho, he had no idea, but he trusted the ship would ultimately have diagrams if he needed them.
The guards at the farthest doors opened them, and they walked to the lift and requested a car. Bren drew out his pocket com and requested through to Jase during the wait.
“Jase,” he said, “I understand we’ve got a connection to the ship. We’re on our way. Looking reasonably good. Got some graphics coming up to you.”
“ We’ll handle it ,” Jase said. “ Bren. Bren, take very good care. I wish I was backing you .”
“You are,” Bren said. “No question. Our car’s coming. Which lock?”
“ Number 3. That’s 243 on the pad. We’re watching you, far as we can. Good luck .”