The sorrow that rose up in Kit surprised him as he gazed across the plain, where the lighting hovering above the gating complex was now a beacon to the southward, and the distant glitter of electronic campfires coming on was like starlight to a sun. All those people, he thought, shaking his head, and tilted his head back to look at Thesba again, and let out a long pained breath, his eyes stinging. All this way we’ve come for them, and there’s nothing we can do…
From down by where Kit’s feet were stretched out on the long wide seat of the Throne, something rustled. And then a voice spoke.
“Cracker?”
Kit stared through the dimness and then—he couldn’t help it—just started laughing. “Oh no,” he said. “Not you again. Seriously, no…”
“Cracker please?” it said.
Kit rubbed his eyes. “You’re a clever guy, aren’t you,” he said. “You know a good racket when you see one. Sneak away from home, track down soft-hearted aliens, shake them down for food, then get carried home and welcomed like a returning hero.”
There was no immediate response to this assessment, just more rustling.
“Oh, come on,” Kit said. “Come up here.”
After a moment or so the long green-blue tentacles started curving up over the end of the Throne’s seat, and with a couple of jumping wiggles the sibik hoisted itself up onto the stone and then hunched itself down against it, abdomen raised so that it could look at Kit with all those hopeful eyes.
Kit rolled his eyes at his own inability to resist being taken for a sucker. “Come on,” he said, “I’ve got what you want right here…” He reached sideways to the opening of his otherspace pocket, found it, reached in, and pulled out the very last package of saltines.
Kit sighed as he turned it over in his hands. “Do you have any idea how far these have come? Huh?”
“Very far,” the sibik said, creeping closer.
“Yes, that’s right! Very far. Two thousand light years, nearly.” Kit pulled the cellophane at the top of the package apart. “And you and I are going to finish them up, right?”
“Please,” said the sibik, creeping closer.
Kit smiled, because he knew this move. At home it had once meant that in a few moments you wound up with a dog’s nose on your knee. And then sniffing at the bottom of the saltine package… and then in the saltine package.
“And thank you,” the sibik said, sliding over his knees. It was surprisingly heavy.
“Wow,” Kit said, “you’re better at talking than you were yesterday, aren’t you.”
“I think so,” said the sibik.
Kit thought of that intense wave of experience, of emotion, that had washed over him before and after the little Tevaralti boy seizing his pet again and cuddling it close. Something’s happened. To it? To me? Or both? Who even knows, right now? He turned his attention back to the sibik. “You remember what these are called?”
“Saltines.”
“That’s right. Now we’ll learn a new word, yeah?”
“Yeah please.”
“Good. We’re going to share.”
“Yes share, please and thank you,” said the sibik with enthusiasm, hauling itself up wholly into Kit’s lap.
Kit laughed. “Okay. Do you know what share means?”
It eyed him. “Tell me?”
“It means you get some, and I get some.”
“That sounds good,” the sibik said. “Who gets more?”
Kit snickered, then shook his head. “We both get the same. That’s what sharing is.” At least most of the time, Kit thought. Certainly the definition broke down somewhat with Nita where Ben ‘n’ Jerry’s “Cherry Garcia” ice cream was involved.
“Okay,” said the sibik, sounding just slightly regretful. “Please share the saltine crackers now.”
It was very demurely keeping its tentacles to itself, though they were twitching. There was no way Kit could delay rewarding such good behavior. “So this is how we do it,” he said. “I give you one. Then I give me one. And that’s the way it goes until we’re done and they’re all gone.”
“That will be sad,” said the sibik solemnly, its eyes not leaving the saltine package for a moment.
“Yes it will,” Kit said. He pulled the first cracker out and looked at it with a sigh. “Just so long as you’re clear that these are the very last saltines on this planet, and the next nearest ones are…”
“A long way away,” said the sibik.
“That’s right. So here.” He handed the sibik the first saltine.
It took it reverentially, stuffed it into that blunt-toothed, half-hidden eating orifice, and started crunching.
Kit took out the next one and crunched it up too, sighing just once at the thought of the ketchup which would not be going on any of these. Oh well, he thought. Mamvish’ll be putting that to good use. Some good use. One of these days, when all this was over, he was going to find out exactly what good use. I just hope it’s something that won’t make me need to reach for the brain bleach afterward.
“So,” Kit said. “Want another?”
“I would like another saltine please,” said the sibik.
“Your syntax is really improving, you know that?” Kit said as he pulled out another saltine.
“What’s syntax?” said the sibik as it reached out and took the cracker.
“The way you speak. Sort of.”
It stuffed the second cracker into the eating orifice and started crunching again. “All right,” the sibik said perfectly clearly.
“Interesting,” Kit said. “Whatever you use to talk, it’s not the mouth you eat with…” He had his next cracker, and looked out past the sibik toward the plain, trying to work out in his head approximately where he and Ronan had found this one’s people the other day. I could take the pad over instead of walking all that way, he thought. The manual will have rough coordinates for the edge of the encampment…
“Another please?”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Here.” Kit handed the sibik its next cracker while feeling faint amusement at the roles that the Powers that Be appeared to have dropped him into here. Official Shouter at Machinery, he thought, pulling out a cracker for himself. Provider of Probably Controlled Substances to Species Archivists. And Freelance Animal Control Officer and Rehomer. …For certain values of rehoming.
But that thought made Kit pause. This entire project—the whole business of rafting life away from a doomed world—was in its way a gigantic rehoming effort. If no one was paying attention to the effect it had on the pets, if everybody was concentrating on the dominant species, maybe that was reason enough for his presence here, gates or no gates. Even if I can only help one of them. ‘All is done for each,’ isn’t that the saying about wizardry?
And anyway, what makes me think I know what job’s most important for me here? Kit thought about the little moulting Tevaralti boy, desperate to have his lost pet back, overjoyed to have him in his arms again. If somebody had sent a wizard to help Ponch if he’d been in trouble when I was just a kid, I’d have thought that wizard was the most important one in the world… no matter what the wizard thought he was doing.
“You’re not eating yours,” said the sibik.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”
“If you gave it to me,” the sibik said thoughtfully, “I could have more.”
More dog biscuits, said a familiar voice in Kit’s memory, yay!
Kit absently gave the cracker to the sibik, smiling slightly. Yet still he found himself wondering. He’s spoken to me before, often enough, through other people’s pets. Especially the doggy ones. These guys are doggy enough. Why’s he being so quiet? It was strange. Once Ponch had found out that he could communicate with Kit, when he was still a dog, it had been impossible to shut him up. Even now, when off about his newer, much larger business, he often found time to break through to Kit and have a word.