Phylogenesis (10 page)

“You—” Desvendapur continued to hesitate over the words even though it was clear that the human understood him. “—You don’t mind it?”

“It’s not bad out today, and I’m dressed for it.” With a soft, fleshy hand that boasted five flexible digits the human began brushing accumulated rilth from the errant thranx’s head and thorax.

“But your face, and your hands—they’re exposed.”

The creature had only two opposing mouthparts instead of the usual four. These parted to reveal teeth as white as the falling rilth. Des did not have teeth, but he knew what they were. He struggled to recall the library information that dealt with the utterly alien aspect of human facial expressions. While the bipeds could and did gesture with their limbs, they preferred to use their obscenely flexible faces to convey meaning and emotion. In this ability they exceeded even the AAnn, whose visages were also flexible but because of the scaly nature of their skin, far more stiff and restricted.

As the human continued to brush rilth from the thranx’s numbed body, seemingly oblivious to the dangerous damp coldness melting against its hands, Des marveled at the exposed flesh. Why the rippling pink stuff simply did not slough off the internal skeleton was another of nature’s marvels. There was nothing to protect it: no exoskeleton, no scales, not even any fur except for a small amount that covered the top of the skull. The creature was as barren of natural cover as the muscles that were barely concealed within. The poet shuddered, and not entirely from the cold. Here was the stuff of nightmares indeed—and of shocking inspiration. Animals could exist so, but something sapient? He found it hard to believe the evidence of his eyes.

“We’ve got to get you inside. Hang on.”

If Des had wondered at the biped’s ability to ambulate on only two limbs without toppling sideways at every third or fourth step, he was positively stunned when it bent at the middle lower joints, reached beneath his abdomen, and lifted. He felt himself rising, the lethal cold of the drifted rilth sliding away from his exposed feet, the heat of the creature reaching out even through its protective clothing. Then he was being carried. That the biped, heavily burdened with its load, did not immediately fall over backward was scarce to be believed.

Not only did it not collapse or lose its balance, it carried Des all the way back through the temperature curtain. Warm moist air enveloped them like a blanket. Feeling began to return to Desvendapur’s limbs, and the creeping stiffness started to recede.

“Can you stand by yourself?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Once they were through the main door the human set him down, keeping a steadying hand on his thorax. Despite the absence of a supportive exoskeleton, the digits were surprisingly strong. The sensation was one no library spool could convey.

“Thank you.” He gazed up into the single-lensed human eyes, trying to fathom their depths.

“What the hell were you doing outside like that? If I hadn’t come along you’d be in a bad way.”

“I would not be in a bad way. I would be dead. I intend to compose a sequence of heroic couplets about the experience. The sensation of the cold alone should be worth several inspiring stanzas.”

“Oh, you’re a poet?” Absently, the human checked a numerical readout attached to his wrist. Desvendapur had decided the creature was a male due to the presence of certain secondary sexual characteristics and the absence of others, though given the thickness of the voluminous protective clothing it was difficult to be absolutely certain.

“No,” Des hastily corrected himself. “That is, I am an assistant food preparator. Composition is a hobby, nothing more.” To try to change the subject he added, “If you have sampled thranx fare, I have probably worked on the initial stages of its preparation.”

“I’m sure that I have. We eat your stuff all the time. No way we could import enough to keep everybody fed and still maintain our privacy here. Willow-Wane fruits and vegetables and grains are a welcome change from concentrates and rehydrates. What’s your name?”

“Desvenbapur.” He whistled internally as the human gamely assayed a comical but passable imitation of the requisite clicks and whistles that comprised the poet’s cognomen. “And you?”

“Niles Hendriksen. I’m part of the construction team working with your people to expand our facility here.”

Expand, Des thought. Then the human presence on Willow-Wane likely
did
consist of more than just a small scientific station. Still, that did not make it a colony. He needed to learn more. But how? Already the human was exhibiting signs of impatience. It wanted to resume its own schedule, Des suspected. Furthermore, perspiration was pouring down its exposed face. Even deprived of every last piece of attire, Desvendapur knew, it would find the heat and humidity within the unloading area acutely uncomfortable.

“I would like to see you again, Niles. Just to talk.”

The human’s smile was not as wide this time. “You know that’s not allowed, Desvenbapur. We’re breaking a couple of pages of stipulations and restrictions right now by just standing here conversing. But I’ll be damned if I was going to walk on by and let you freeze to death.” He started to back up, still without falling down. “Maybe we’ll see each other again. Why don’t you apply to come work in our sector?”

“There is such a position?” Des hardly dared to hope.

“I think so. There are always a couple of thranx working with our own food people. But I think they must be master preparators, not assistants. Still, with the installation expanding and all, maybe they can use some lower-level help.” With that he turned and headed back up the ramp, closing the door at the top behind him.

Thoughts churning, Desvendapur made his way back to the central dock and the waiting truck. A distraught Ulu and an angry Shemon were waiting for him, having long since completed the unloading.

“Where were you?” Shemon inquired immediately.

“I needed to relieve myself. I told you.” Desvendapur met her gaze evenly, his antennae held defiantly erect.

“You’re lying. Ulu went to check on you. You were not in the facility.”

“I was having digestive convulsions so I took a walk, thinking that it might ease the discomfort.”

She was having none of it. Her antennae dipped forward. “What more appropriate place to deal with intestinal convulsions than the hygienic facility you were already inside?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. I am sorry if I caused you to worry.”

Ulunegjeprok stepped forward and spoke up in his coworker’s defense. “There is no need to torment him. Look at his eyes. Can’t you see that he is not feeling well?” He reached out to lay a reassuring hand on Des’s thorax.

Desvendapur quickly stepped back. His friend gestured surprise, and Des hastened to concoct an explanation. “I am sorry, Ulu. It’s nothing personal, but I do not want to be touched just now. I am afraid it might irritate my insides, and they do not need any more stimulation.” The real reason was that his chitin was still chilled from his sojourn on the surface, a phenomenon that would not be so easily explained away as his extended absence.

“Yes, I can see that.” His colleague gestured concern. “You should report to the infirmary immediately upon our return.”

“I intend to,” a relieved Des replied.

Little was said on the return journey down the access tunnel. Desvendapur kept, physically and verbally, largely to himself. Believing him ill, neither Ulu nor the still silently fuming Shemon intruded on his personal privacy.

Once back in the complex, the poet excused himself. He went not to the infirmary but to the preparation area. There he searched until he found a suitable bin of spoiled
hime
root and ripely decomposing
coprul
leaves. From this he fashioned a suitably noxious meal and forced himself to eat every last leaf and stem. Within half a time-part he was able to present himself outside the complex’s medical facilities with a genuine, full-blown case of severe gastrointestinal upset, for which he was tenderly treated.

By the next day he was feeling much better. He could hardly wait for his work shift to end, whereupon he retired to his cubicle, set a flagon of thin
!eld
by the side of his resting bench, lowered the lights, activated his scri!ber, and in the carefully crafted privacy of his quarters, prepared to compose. And then a strange thing happened.

Nothing happened.

When he struggled to find the words and sounds to describe his encounter with the human, nothing suitable manifested itself. Oh, there were sounds and phrases at his disposal: an ocean of suitable components wanting only inspiration to lock them tightly together. He assembled several stanzas—and erased them. Attempting to mime the sound of the human voice while utilizing thranx terminology, he constructed an edifice of hoarse clicks—and tore it apart.

What was wrong? The words were there, the sounds—but something was missing. The consecution lacked fire, the framework elegance. Everything had happened so fast he had only been able to react, when what he really needed was time to absorb, to study, to contemplate. Concentrating on survival, he had not had time to open himself to inspiration.

The only explanation, the only solution, was obvious. More input was needed. More of everything. More contact, more conversation, more drama—though next time, not of the life-threatening variety. He remembered the words of the human Niles. But how could he apply for a professional position in the human sector that might not even exist? Or if it did, how could he ingratiate himself with the necessary authority without revealing information he was not supposed to know?

He would find a way. He was good with invention, with words. Not inspired, perhaps. Not yet. But he did not need to be inspired to proceed. He needed only to be clever.

Would the human speak of their encounter to his own superiors or coworkers? And if he did, would word of the unauthorized contact reach the thranx authorities who administered the indigenous half of the complex? Desvendapur waited many days before he was convinced that the human had kept the details of the confrontation and rescue to himself. Either that, or his coworkers did not feel the incident worthy of mention to their hosts. Only when Des felt halfway confident that news of the occasion had not been disseminated did he risk probing possibilities.

“I do not understand.” Rulag, Des’s immediate superior, was gazing at the readout on her screen. “It says here that you are to report for service to the human sector tomorrow morning at sunrise. You have been assigned to the inner detail.”

Somehow Desvendapur managed to contain himself. This was what he had been waiting for. “I have repeatedly applied for any opening in food preparation in the human sector, in the hopes that they might expand our presence there.”

“You know very well that they have been doing so, albeit slowly and carefully. But that’s not what puzzles me.” With two digits of a truhand she indicated the readout, which was positioned out of Des’s line of sight. “It says here that you are to bring all your belongings with you. Apparently you are not only to work in the human sector; you are also to reside there.” She looked up at him. “To my knowledge, all thranx who work with the bipeds have their quarters here, on the border of Geswixt proper.”

He shifted edgily on all four feet. “Obviously there has been a change in policy. Or perhaps it is part of some new experiment.”

Her interest as she studied him was genuine. “This doesn’t bother you? You are prepared to go and live among the humans?”

“I will be with others of my own kind.” He genuflected confidence. “Surely I’m not the only one to be so assigned. The humans would not request only a lowly assistant food preparator to come live and work among them.”

“No, there have been others. You are right about that. Only you from our division, but I have talked with other level-nine supervisors. One from meteorology has been similarly assigned, another from engineering—you will have company.” She gestured brusque negativity. “
I
couldn’t do it.”

“You don’t have a sufficiently open or exploratory nature,” Desvendapur replied gently. It was not a criticism.

“Yes I do, but only where innovative food preparation is concerned.” Rising from the desk, she dipped her antennae toward him. “I will miss you, Desvenbapur. Not particularly on a personal basis, but in the kitchen. You are a good worker. In fact, I don’t believe I have ever seen such dedication in so prosaic a classification. It is almost as if you have the capability to achieve much more.”

“As you say, I like to work hard,” he replied evasively, refusing to bite on the bait of the compliment. “At first light, you said?”

“Yes.” She turned away. “Report to the transition chamber, dock six. I am told there are three others who are going at the same time, so your first encounter with the humans will not be a solitary one.”

He had already had a first encounter, but that was and would always remain a private matter. “It will not take me long to gather my things.”

“No, from all that I’ve been told you are not an accumulator. I suppose that under the circumstances that’s all for the best. Farewell, Desvenbapur. I hope you find your stay among these creatures enlightening, or at least not too frightening.”