“It is not necessary that you use friendship spores on us,” he said calmly into the underbrush ahead.
The brush parted. A Slaasriithi of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s general physiology and size appeared. Its pelt was somewhat darker, it wore a backpack, and its finger-tendrils were festooned with numerous control rings akin to those the legation had seen used on the shift-carrier. “I believe you mean amity spores,” said a pleasant but machine-generated voice from the Slaasriithi’s backpack, “although the meaning is similar. However, I did not project amity spores upon you. That would compromise your freedom of action and will.”
“Then what did you use?”
“A combination of relief and rapport spores.”
“Rapport sounds as though it might influence one’s will, as well,” Gaspard pointed out as Veriden and Macmillan drew closer.
“It does not. It maximizes”—the computer-generated voice uttered a set of meaningless twitters and squawks—“between species which otherwise lack a shared medium of communication. Such as our two species.”
“Yiithrii’ah’aash seems to understand us just fine without a magic box.” Veriden’s voice was sharp, cautious.
“Yiithrii’ah’aash? Is he the Prime Ratiocinator who directs the actions of the Tidal-Drift”—more unintelligible squeaks and yowls from the backpack—“to-Shore-of-Stars?”
“Eh?” grunted Macmillan.
Caine understood. “Is that the name of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s shift-carrier?”
“Yes. I am not well informed in the matter of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s mission here or your identities, other than that you are humans who have been invited to travel on to our homeworld.”
“And that someone is trying to kill us all.”
“Yes. This also we have deduced.”
“Have deduced?” Veriden shouted. “What, wasn’t it obvious enough when ships are getting blown to pieces right over your heads?”
The Slaasriithi seemed to start backwards slightly. “Your tone is one of agitation. I am unsure what I have—”
“It has been a very trying time for us,” Caine interrupted. “Several of us who crashed in our shuttle were killed, several others wounded.”
The Slaasriithi’s tetrahedral head turned slightly, as if he might be considering Caine more closely. “You are not well, either.”
Caine waved off the concern. “It’s nothing. We have more immediate concerns. We are running out of both food and water. I am sorry to ask for help even before we have exchanged names and learned more of each other, but it is imperative that we see to the needs of our group.”
“The water in the river is safe for your species to drink—”
— which we would have discovered, out of desperation, in the next few days—
“—but the matter of food that is both palatable and nourishing will require the labor of several taxae. To initiate that process, I must coordinate with my partners. Will it alarm you if I bring them here to join us?”
“Not at all,” Gaspard jumped in eagerly. “We have hoped to meet you, to meet anyone. How fortunate that you have found us at last!”
“In actuality,” the Slaasriithi responded slowly, “we have been following your movements for three days now. I just arrived yesterday, however.”
“For three days—?” Gaspard blinked rapidly. “Then why did you not offer help? Why did we have to beat the bushes to discover you? This is most inconsiderate.”
The Slaasriithi reeled in its neck a bit. “We were instructed only to observe and, when feasible, report. But that has been difficult, due to the OverWatchling’s general elimination of broadcast signals.”
“OverWatchling?” Macmillan echoed.
“A planetary, uh, guardian?” Caine guessed. “But not actually part of a taxon?”
The Slaasriithi turned towards him. “Yes, it is as you say. It has been coordinating all activities.”
“Are there no ratiocinatorae on Disparity to temper this OverWatchling’s actions, then?” Gaspard pressed.
The Slaasriithi’s “head” hovered a bit more erect. “I am a ratiocinator, but even Seniors of my taxon rarely, if ever, challenge the instincts of an OverWatchling.”
Gaspard considered that. “May we know your name, ratiocinator?”
“I am W’th’vaathi. Allow me to summon the others who speak for their taxae, here.”
“Please do.”
W’th’vaathi slid swiftly and noiselessly back into the brush.
Riordan turned to Macmillan. “Go back to the group, tell them what’s going on, and that they should sit tight. This is not, I repeat not, a threat scenario.”
Moments after Keith had left, the brush parted more widely; two other Slaasriithi were with W’th’vaathi, both wearing similar backpacks. One was slightly taller, but proportionally similar in build. The other was considerably smaller and had rings on its toe-analogs as well as its fingers. It was of lighter build, but had a proportionally longer neck. The sensor cluster capping it jerked to attention. “Humans,” a slightly different voice announced from its backpack. It was, from the tone, a self-confirmation, not an attempt to summon their attention. “I am Thnessfiirm. I have the honor of speaking for the cerdorae, here.”
Gaspard frowned in an apparent effort to focus his recollections. “Cerdorae,” the ambassador mused. Then, turning to W’th’vaathi, “That taxon is the one that is machine- or device-focused in their activities, correct?”
“You might see it that way, yes.”
“And so he is that taxon’s local spokesman?”
“In a manner of speaking,” W’th’vaathi allowed, “but Thnessfiirm is not, to use your term, a spokesman. He is a she. As I am. Technically.”
“‘Technically’?” Dora’s tough-as-nails demeanor lapsed just long enough for her to sound completely baffled.
“Distinctions of gender, or sex, are mostly meaningless to us. We adopt the sexed pronoun appropriate to our last reproductive role, since any of us may perform any of the roles.”
Gaspard and Dora looked at Caine, who looked at both of them. “That’s, um, a new concept for us,” he confessed.
“We presumed that it might be. And the Slaasriithi to my right is Unsymaajh.”
The largest of the Slaasriithi bobbed. “I have the honor of speaking for all convectorae. The smallest and fleetest of my taxic family have been watching you for the past several days. You will appreciate, I hope, that, lacking any concrete information of what transpired in space, we had no way to be certain that you were the guests of Yiithrii’ah’aash, rather than those who attacked him. We are glad to learn that you are friends and that our paths may be joined, now.”
“So are we,” Riordan affirmed as Macmillan returned. “And speaking of joining our paths, we should resume our journey and get as far away from the wreckage of our shuttle as possible. And if that silver object at the north end of the valley is a construct of yours, it would be best to—”
“I regret interrupting.” W’th’vaathi had risen up again; her hip joints seemed tense. “However, you must abandon your current path. The Silver Tower you have seen is not the place that Yiithrii’ah’aash and Disparity’s Prime Ratiocinator, T’suu’shvah, determined that you should be received and housed.”
Riordan paused. Was W’th’vaathi reluctant to continue on to this Silver Tower because that might attract hostile attention to it, or was she simply determined to follow the letter of the law? “W’th’vaathi, but is our current path not the best one?”
W’th’vaathi’s pause was halting, puzzled. “We should not travel there because it is not where you are to be received.” W’th’vaathi said it slowly, as if she presumed that Riordan had not heard what she said the first time.