Second, she fashioned one who turned back the light, a man with constantly opened eyes. Enki looked at the man who turned back the light, the man with constantly opened eyes, and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.
Third, she fashioned one with both feet broken, one with paralysed feet. Enki looked at the one with both feet broken, the one with paralysed feet and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.
Fourth, she fashioned one who could not hold back his urine. Enki looked at the one who could not hold back his urine and bathed him in enchanted water and drove out the namtar demon from his body.
Fifth, she fashioned a woman who could not give birth. Enki looked at the woman who could not give birth, and decreed her fate: he made her a weaver, fashioned her to belong to the queen's household.
Sixth, she fashioned one with neither penis nor vagina on its body. Enki looked at the one with neither penis nor vagina on its body and gave it the name eunuch and decreed as its fate to stand before the king.
—Enki and Ninmah, The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature
House of Sargon, Mesolimeris
Moties weren’t given to emotional displays—at least, not to displays that humans could easily interpret—but Lagash’s reaction to being greeted in a stream of archaic languages was unmistakable. The old Keeper visibly wobbled on Enheduanna’s arm, and the bone-wrenching feeling that Asach was beginning to recognize as sub-audible communication between Masters ensued.
Before they could react, in the mish-mosh of languages they thus far shared, Asach said: “I talk Anglic. You hear many words. You stop you hear words you understand,” then punched on the auto-translator, now beefed up with fifteen languages judged by the Blaine experts as the widest-possible cross section in time and space known from the Motie Library of Alexandria.
“Good Morning.” Fifteen possible variations screeched and twittered from the cowl of Asach’s cloak.
“My name is Asach. You know this already.” Trilling and rumbling ensued as the cloak sent the translations.
“Do you understand any of this?” Zipping and—then Lagash shouted the word that even Laurel could understand.
“Hold! What is that?”
Asach glanced at a sleeve, noted the indicator, and set it as the default translator.
“I have made lists of words. Do you understand?”
The Masters heard in their own language something akin to: I awrát weaxbredu tala ealdspræca. ðu ackneaow? That is, it was about as close to Mesolimeran as Old English was to Modern Anglic. It meant nothing to Enheduanna. But to Lagash, it was very like the language of the oldest form of the oldest myth known.
“Listen,” said Asach, “then repeat in your own language.” Asach activated an auto-learn program. It was crude, but it rapidly built a syntax and lexicon by comparing the projected phrase to the one spoken back.
Lagash was fascinated. It appeared that overnight Asach had acquired the ability to speak by projecting words directly from the chest and throat, without involvement of the mouth or lips. The interactive program itself was also interesting. Motie-designed, it was succinct. It did not suffer from the agonizing slowness of working directly with the human. Within an hour, it was as smart in Mesolimeran as a bright child. And it already knew Anglic. Enheduanna joined in. Machine-assisted, their mutual patois came faster and faster now.
“We must have food now. We must have cleanliness. We must have these feces and urine removed. We will sicken and die. We already feel ill from hunger.”
“The Protector grants meals. It is not in our power.”
“Please inform the Protector that we request an audience.”
“The Protector is aware of your request.”
Asach was finally irate. “Inform the Protector now!” Interestingly, what boomed from the cloak was not merely a translation. There came a greasy undertow to the air: transmissions in the sub-audible. Enheduanna flinched. Lagash answered.
“Yes, milord. We inform the Protector now.”
Bowls of dark green jelly arrived within the hour. It looked like slime. It tasted like manna. Next came a cleanup crew, and chamber pots. Next returned Lagash and Enheduanna.
Then the real work began. Five thousand word groups are enough to communicate like a five-year-old child. Ten thousand enough to make your way about as an adult in a foreign land. Twenty thousand enough to speak with the expertise gained by a university education. The simplest Mesolimeran myth contained thirty thousand word groups, with tenses and cases unknown in any human language. The Masters worked until they had exhausted the downloaded vocabulary. Then they all worked until they had exhausted their shared Tok Pisin and Anglic. At the end of the day, Asach’s headache was blinding. Enheduanna seemed unfazed. The working group had bonded. They could communicate with relative ease. Simple questions followed.
“Where are we?”
“At the House of [idiomatic translation of a proper name for a powerful and fertile leader with jurisdiction over former wastelands, descended from wanderers=Sargon], [idiomatic translation for a formal rendering of the proper name for the-land-between-the-mountains=Mesolimeris].”
“Why are you holding us?”
“At the order of Lord Sargon.”
“For how long?”
Lagash answered. “Tomorrow, Lord Protector Sargon will begin the interrogation. Then the Excellency will decide.”
Then, thankfully, they departed. Asach beamed everything to Renner and Barthes, with a simple request: “Send More. Find us.”
Asach awoke before dawn, surprised to discover the cape draped at the foot of the stone chaise, and Laurel bustling about the room. How it was possible to bustle in an unfurnished space containing nothing save two couches, two chamber pots, and a washbasin was unclear, but that’s what it felt like. Laurel’s outer garments were neatly folded; she was vigorously splashing and rubbing and running fingers through her hair. Asach observed this though half-closed eyes, then pointedly yawned and stood, facing the opposite direction, fumbling about in the cape.
“Here.” Asach proffered a comb, and a sliver of soap, one arm stretched rearward.
“You have soap?”
Asach shrugged. “I travel light, but carry the essentials.”
“Essentials?”
“You’d be surprised how many diseases are prevented by judicious hand-washing.”
“You can turn around, you know.”
“But I thought—”
“I just didn’t want to reveal myself to them. People are all right.”
“So you’re not shy? Embarrassed?”
Laurel snorted. “After twenty years of camp life? Please.”
Asach sat on the chaise while Laurel lathered. “You seem to be feeling better today.”
Laurel nodded.
“Welcome back.”
Laurel paused, mid-froth. “Back?”
“You’ve been sort of on auto-pilot.”
Another scrub; a rinse, her answer bubbling through the water. “Auto-pilot?”
“You know, like—oh, never mind.”
There was nothing to dry with. Casting about, Laurel settled for the back of her tunic. “I just had a lot on my mind.”
“I’d say.”
“But now, I’ve been fed manna by the hands of Angels. Just like the prophesy. So I feel fine.”
Asach groaned inwardly.
“Manna?”
“Yes.”
“That green slime?”
“Yes.” Interestingly, her manner was not in the least defensive.
“Is that what you call it?”
“That’s what it is.”