Ann Maxwell - Concord 1 - The Singer Enigma

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The Singer Enigma
Concord, Book 1
Ann Maxwell
1976
THE TRUTH SEEKER
Tarhn had the blood of the rulers of space in his veins—and a mysterious horror shadowing his secret
soul. He knew only that he had been exiled from the planet where he was born, and raised by an alien
race for the psychic powers he possessed—but what fearful force had stripped him of his childhood
memories and almost of his sanity still remained unknown as he reached manhood and the challenge he
could avoid no longer.
Now, as an all-destroying blight spread from planet to planet, from galaxy to galaxy, Tarhn had to
find out the truth about himself and his past no matter what the terrible cost For if he went on living a lie,
the entire universe would die ...
Excerpt from a closed discussion of Assembly Council PA382 (Singer), Councillor Elenda speaking:
We are taught that when we lose ourselves on the spiral of knowledge, it is best to remember where
we have been, and why. Let us begin again with a review of our responsibilities to this Council, to the full
Assembly, and to the Concord.
The Concord has only one command: No group shall wage undeclared war. The Assembly’s primary
function is to expel, proscribe, or annihilate planets that break this command.
Did the Singers wage undeclared war?
It would seem a simple matter to decide. A group is defined as three or more persons acting in
concert toward a common goal. Undeclared war is any group act which, in the absence of a Declaration
of Intent, results in the premeditated deaths of more than one hundred Concord citizens within eight
Centrex days.
There is no doubt that the Singers fit our definition of a group. There is no doubt that more than one
hundred citizens died within eight days. There is no doubt that no Declaration of Intent was issued. Only
premeditation is in doubt. The full Assembly could not resolve that doubt. Three thousand beings from
three thousand distinct cultures can rarely agree on the simplest matters; whatever else the Singers may
be, they are not simple.
The Assembly delegated the Singer decision to this Council. We have spent years, many years,
attempting to understand the Singers. We have not succeeded. Fortunately, we are not alone in our
search for understanding. There exists a group/society/entity called Carifil which also sifts nuances out of
ambiguities, seeking the residue of pattern which permits insight into Galactic events.
Though the Carifil have no legal existence under the Concord Charter, Carifil talents have been very
useful to the Concord. We do not know who the Carifil are, but we do know that they have no single
planet home, no single racial identity, no allegiance except to the Concord. Their information is not tainted
by parochialism. Carifil have been called everything from assassins to saviors; they are both, and neither.
Some Carifil have Attained high Concord positions, most have no official powers. All have unusual
mental abilities. None is infallible.
Which brings us to the Singer enigma once again ....
I
N’Lete’s urgent, silent call brought Tarhn out of sleep into instant wakefulness. His mind had
overridden the breathing reflex—danger in the air. In a blur of motion Tarhn ripped nasal filters out of his
personal baggage and fitted them on himself and the slakes. Though the filters looked exactly like those
carried by sensitive Galactic travelers, the filters did more than block out exotic odors.
Tarhn breathed cautiously, but smelled/felt/sensed nothing unusual. The slakes showed no reaction
except relief at being able to breathe safely again.
With a few swift motions Tarhn dressed. Unless the slakes’ hypersensitive olfactory perception had
sounded a false alarm, someone would be by shortly. He was more than a little curious to find put
whether that someone wanted him dead or merely unconscious.
The slakes were less discriminating. When they heard the door being unlocked they rose soundlessly
on their rear legs and folded their wings. Their attitude of sharp-toothed eagerness made Tarhn want to
laugh aloud.
*Not this time, my friends,* he thought firmly. *I need him quiet, yes, but still conscious.*
The slakes grumbled silently, but when the intruder entered only n’Lete bit him. And at that she only
allowed herself a small bite, enough to ensure that her paralyzing venom would penetrate quickly.
Tarhn caught the man before he fell to the floor, ensuring that no loud thumps reached curious ears.
The intruder wore the standard uniform of an Adventure crewman.
*Others?*
By way of answer, the slakes spread their huge wings and calmly began a grooming ritual.
*Good.*
Tarhn bent over the man and began to probe. No mind shields slowed him as he drilled key words
into level after level of the crewman’s mind. It was a technique the Carifil used in psychic integration, but
it served equally well for inquisition.
After long minutes of silence Tarhn ended the probe. The crewman knew little, but what he knew
was tantalizing. To him Tarhn was no more than an ordinary tourist who had passed the afternoon in the
ship’s forward lounge. All forward lounge passengers were to receive a dose of amnesian, enough to
wipe out any memory of the previous twenty-six hours. But amnesian was unpredictable; different races
had varying degrees of resistance to it. Apparently whoever had planned the operation considered it
important enough not to risk unmeasured doses via the ventilating system. Instead, the victims were
knocked out by an airborne drug. When they were safely asleep, an individually calibrated dose of
amnesian would be administered.
Neatly planned.
Efficiently executed.
But why?
Tarhn rapidly reviewed the past day. As ordered, he had begun his surveillance of Lyra early
yesterday. Together with other tourists bound for Wilderness, they had entered a special Access and
emerged on the sixth planet in the Wilderness system. Then they had embarked onto the Adventure, a
ship on which they were to savor the archaic joys of sublight interplanetary flight. Lyra had gone straight
to her quarters, not to emerge until after today’s midday meal. He had watched, chosen his moment, and
effected a natural entry into her life. At no tune had he seen or sensed anything unusual, other than the
orange man.
And Lyra herself, of course.
Tarhn gave a muffled exclamation and injected the amnesian into the helpless intruder.
*Quickly, slakes. We go hunting.*
The slakes scrambled onto his shoulders, claws cool and sharp against his neck.
*Gently, n’Lete.*
The slake obligingly retracted her claws and wrapped her sinuous lower body around Tarhn’s neck.
Tarhn moved past closed doors in a crouching, weaving run. Though he could sense no guards,
certain precautions were a matter of reflex. As he neared Lyra’s door he removed a pronged ornament
from his belt. Without hesitation he jammed the prongs deep into the circuit which controlled the door. A
short, low hum vibrated through his bones, then the door retracted part way.
Lyra’s body blocked the door from fully opening. Obviously she had sensed something was wrong,
but couldn’t unlock the door in time.
Tarhn sent the slakes out of sight and stepped over Lyra into the room. He bent down, searching her
still body for signs of life. Neither pulse nor respiration. Skin stiff and cool as a slake’s claws.
Tarhn cursed himself for wasting time on the crewman. He should have come immediately to her. On
an impulse he probed her mind. The probe was easy, so easy; her mind was familiar the instant before
discovery, floating free and light, brilliant with potential, pulsing with subtle rhythms, more subtle songs.
Even as he withdrew, Tarhn felt nearly dizzy with relief. She was alive. Whatever drug they had given
her suspended mind and body, but did not kill. Someone either knew more about her mind than he did,
or was very cautious.
Though alive, Lyra was totally helpless.
At the sound of men approaching, Tarhn closed the door silently. Startled cries and the heavy sound
of falling bodies made Tarhn’s lips curve in an unpleasant smile. He opened the door.
*Well done, hunters. *
N’Lete rose and flicked the narrow tube of her tongue over Tarhn’s hand.
*Conscious, too. Such restraint!*
Tarhn’s praise sent delighted ripples through the slakes’ sinuous bodies. He stroked their triangular
heads while he probed the helpless crewmen.
As he had suspected, Lyra was the eye of this storm. One of the ship’s emergency lifecraft waited.
They were to load her aboard, release the lifecraft to its pre-set course, and report to sickbay for a dose
of amnesian.
At Tarhn’s signal, n’Lete and Bithe injected enough venom to keep the crewmen unconscious for
several days.
Tarhn lifted Lyra easily and settled her across his shoulders. Not for the first time he realized that
being uncommonly big was at times uncommonly useful. On the other side, though, once in the hallway he
would be a fine target and would gladly trade sizes with a Gallian dwarf.
The slakes moved swiftly down the hall. Tarhn waited for several seconds, then ran lightly after.
Twice he had to leap over crewmen sprawled unconscious across the narrow hall, capsules of amnesian
rolling from their nerveless fingers. Other than those two, though, Tarhn saw no one. It was unlikely that
the decks would be so deserted unless the entire crew had been bought.
He hoped they had. Otherwise there would be an immediate alarm when one of the lifecraft emerged
from the mother ship.
Tarhn entered the lifecraft bay at a speed which proved his trust in the slakes. Nor was he
disappointed; they both were coiled proudly next to their latest victim.
*And your last for a time, I hope.*
The slakes politely but completely disagreed.
*Bloodthirsty beasts, aren’t you?* he thought fondly.
N’Lete and Bithe opened their mouths in hissing agreement.
Tarhn strapped Lyra into the lifecraft nearest the exit portal. He yanked out the course tape and
switched the controls to manual.
*In.*
The slakes scrambled. When they realized that Tarhn intended to strap them down, they clacked
their wings loudly.
*Hold still or be left behind. *
The slakes held still.
Tarhn strapped himself into the pilot’s seat. His fingers moved rapidly over the controls, lifting the
craft into humming life. With a final glance around, Tarhn threw the lever which separated lifecraft from
ship. As the tiny vehicle puffed outward into space, Tarhn breathed deeply for the first time since he had
awakened.
“We were lucky, Lyra,” he said softly, “though you’re in no position to appreciate it. The exit portal
was on the sunward side; even if an unbought crewman or passenger should be foolish enough to look
out a portal, all they’ll see is a great burning sun.”
Tarhn held the craft toward Wilderness’ sun. Later he would change course into a nearly flat
trajectory which would put Wilderness between them and the cruise ship. But now there was little to do
but sit, review what had happened, try to guess why.
The assignment had begun in the usual manner—mental alert from a Carifil, vivid image of whom he
was to watch, directions as to the place he should intercept her. So he had soon found himself aboard the
Adventure. He had discreetly watched over Lyra’s cabin until she finally left it. When she went to the
forward lounge and sat alone, he sat well behind her, waiting to see whether she had friends or enemies
aboard.
Although the lounge was thick with people, his quarry was easy to keep track of. Lyra Mara was a
silent amber pool surrounded by flocks of yammering life. Not so much as a ripple of awareness crossed
her face when a man dyed the last shade of orange sat beside her and attempted conversation.
A discreet mental probe of the gaudy man gave Tarhn only the impression of a fashionable predator
seeking diversion from the boredom of interplanetary flight. Tarhn was not satisfied. His own mind was
broadcasting the fiction of a rich tourist, in case anyone was curious enough to probe. The orange man
might easily be working beneath a similar cover.
Tarhn stepped up the probe in stages until it reached the point of diminishing returns; more
information could be gained only at the cost of revealing the probe to an alert psi. If the orange stranger
was other than he appeared to be, a cursory probe would not uncover him.
After a few minutes of listening to the persistent stranger, Tarhn was ready to believe that he was no
more than his mental and physical surface proclaimed, a vain, mildly intoxicated man of wealth who could
not believe that Lyra was not interested in him.
Tarhn chuckled deep within himself. At least the slizzard showed good taste. Lyra had a tranquil,
self-contained beauty that made others appear garish. Her hair could have been spun of the finest amber
and her skin had-a rich translucence which invited, even demanded touch. And her eyes ... though he had
seen only a vicarious mind-picture of her when he had been given the assignment, he was certain that no
gemstone in the galaxy could match the red-brown depths of her eyes, much less the tiny starburst of
gold which was their center. Most Galactics had only darkness for pupils. Was the dilating mechanism
the same as his? Would sudden light, interest, fear, or mental effort cause the gold to expand?
With practiced ease, Tarhn brought his thoughts back to duty. Lyra was undoubtedly attractive, but
she was also endangered, dangerous, or both, and in some way also pivotal to Galactic politics. The
Carifil wouldn’t waste him guarding a nonentity, no matter how beautiful.
Tarhn leaned forward fractionally, his senses on full alert. The orange man was entirely too persistent
about getting Lyra to his cabin. Either he was uncommonly crude or had more than simple pleasure on his
mind.
With the easy motion of a hunting cat, Tarhn rose and walked up the aisle.
“I am unaware of your home planet,” said Tarhn in high Galactic. “Is it one on which ceremonial
rudeness is practiced?”
Perhaps it was Tarhn’s sheer size which made the stranger speechless. When Tarhn repeated his
question in low Galactic, the now furious man interrupted.
“I understand high Galactic better than you,” the man said loudly.
Tarhn’s dark hands lifted in a polite indication of disbelief, then turned palms up in an apology which
was thoroughly negated by his ice blue eyes. At the same time, the severe planes of Tarhn’s face
smoothed into the expression of one who waits patiently for a dull child to answer a simple question.
“On Danir I would have you killed,” said the man in a guttural tongue.
“And on Tau,” replied Tarhn in the same language, “I would feed you to the slakes—after you had
been bathed. As we are here rather than there or Danir, I await your pleasure.”
“I wouldn’t lower myself to touch you,” said the man.
Tarhn bowed and murmured, “Good ... for you.”
The insult was doubly telling, for Tarhn had delivered it in the gutter patois of Danir, a language which
a Danirian aristocrat wouldn’t understand. The stranger’s surge of outrage proved that he had indeed
understood, but to admit it would be a further humiliation.
As the stranger retreated, Tarhn turned to Lyra. Looking no higher than her lips, he addressed her in
high Galactic.
“I hope that I have not offended you, your people, or your gods.”
“Kindness is rarely offensive,” responded Lyra in the same language.
Her words lacked all trace of planetary accent, but even more surprising was the quality of her voice.
It was rich with muted harmony, vibrant in a way that made all remembered music pale and flat.
Tarhn bowed and turned his hands palm up in the Galactic gesture of greeting or parting. When Lyra
made no further comment, he moved to return to his seat. Then he felt her fingers warm and light on his
palm.
“If it would please you to sit with a strange and awkward woman ....”
Tarhn’s fingers returned the pressure of hers, savored the texture of her skin.
“Stranger you may be, but awkward? To listen to your voice is to know the heart of beauty.”
Boldly Tarhn raised his glance to her eyes, only to find himself caught and held, a fly in amber.
“You are kind,” said Lyra, “and your mind is disciplined. Your presence is welcome.”
Tarhn hesitated, then regained control of his wits. His momentary tension must have relayed itself to
Lyra, for she removed her hand quickly.
That is what I meant by awkward,” she said softly. “The nuances of Galactic Courtesy often elude
me. On my birth planet a mind both kind and disciplined is ...” She paused, obviously searching for the
right word. “‘Good’ is the only word your language has, but it is a meager analogue.”
Tarhn searched Lyra’s face, but could detect no more than her words told him. He was not surprised
that she thought him kind; he’d been careful to imbue his mental camouflage with that lack of aggression
which can be construed as either harmless or kind. But how had she sensed the discipline beneath?
“I have been called many things; disciplined isn’t one of them. May I ask why you think me so?”
“You don’t invade others with your thoughts. I’ve discovered that such control is rare out here. I
have come to value discipline highly.”
Tarhn continued the conversation with just the surface of his mind; the remainder was analyzing her
words. In order to “discover” that the average person radiates thought/emotion like a star radiates
energy, Lyra must have come either from a planet of psi nulls or psi masters. He would assume the latter.
For one, it would explain Carifil interest in her. For another, he had been taught to overestimate a
potential enemy. Fewer nasty surprises that way.
Not that Lyra seemed a candidate for enmity. By now they were laughing and talking in middle
Galactic, the language of friends. They had even exchanged names. And the scent of her nearness was as
clean and heady as flowers at dawn. In spite of himself, he felt pleasure creeping through him, and not
even the sternest self-reminders diminished his growing ease with her. Lyra’s laugh alone was worth the
sudden assignment. His residual irritation with Carifil vanished. Though they had called him away from his
first freetime in years, being ordered to stay close to Lyra was ample compensation.
At last Tarhn’s conscience pricked him hard enough to get results—n’Lete and Bithe would be
hungry. Lounge rules forbade “pets,” though Tau slakes could hardly be classified in the same category
as Libern velvets or Sthian lap mice.
“I’m sorry, Lyra, but if I don’t feed n’Lete and Bithe they will gnaw through my room and come
hunting for me.”
Lyra responded with a phrase from Courtesy which showed confusion, but did not demand an
explanation if he did not wish to give one.
“According to lounge rules, they are pets. On Tau, the children of the Helix are given battle slakes to
raise. N’Lete and Bithe are more companions than pets. Would you like to meet them?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lyra, giving him a delighted smile. “On my planet there are no animals.”
After a long moment Tarhn said neutrally, “No animals?”
“None. Many plants, marvelous plants. But that’s not the same. To have flesh live and not be
human!”
Lyra’s voice left no doubt that such a miracle was to be savored and explored. Tarhn filed that
incredible fact under the growing mental category called Lyra Mara. He wanted to ask the name of her
home planet, but that would be a curdling breach of Courtesy. Better to wait, grow closer, observe, as
the Carifil had trained him to do. And they had trained him well. Not so much as a flicker of incredulity
escaped his mental discipline.
He was almost as wary about communicating his appreciation of Lyra’s radiant grace. He thought of
complimenting her, but said nothing out of fear that she would be offended.
“I’m not,” said Lyra softly.
Though Tarhn’s walk never missed a beat, his mind flashed instantly into defensive silence.
“I’ve been clumsy again,” said Lyra. “Forgive me. Your mind is deeply disciplined, yet ...”
She stopped and lifted her strange eyes to his. For a moment Tarhn felt swept by vertigo as he
looked into the widening gold at the center of her eyes. Then the feeling passed and he found himself
listening tensely to her.
“... No word for it here. Complement? Yes, but more. Far more. Ease and rightness and creation.”
When there was no lessening of his mental barriers, Lyra lowered her eyes and said sadly, “Of all the
aspects of Courtesy I don’t understand, the injunction against truth is the most baffling. I know our minds
would be unity, one with the other, as surely as I know we are man and woman. Yet I must say nothing
or risk offending you. I risked and lost. I will offend no further.”
Tarhn watched her walk away, divided between profound relief and a numbing sense of loss. Out of
the turmoil which passed for thought came the certainty that whatever else might pass, Lyra had told the
truth as she knew it. He would bet his life on it.
He already had.
The realization that there lived a psi who could easily penetrate at least the outer levels of his mind
moved through him like a shock wave.
Abruptly he turned toward his cabin. What had been a quiet cruise on an amusingly archaic
spaceship had turned into a trap. No Access. No way for the Carifil to replace him. No way to escape.
Tarhn paused in midstride, surprised by the intensity of his emotions. Just what was he escaping
from? A beautiful woman who found him desirable? A terrible crime, surely, punishable by extended,
intimate confinement with him.
He debated going after her and apologizing for his rudeness, but a cold thread of unease held him
back. He tried to pursue the thread, to discover its source and thus know whether it was tied to real or
imagined threat. But the thread was born of patterns he had avoided so long that they were inaccessible
to him now.
With a surge of impatience at his coy mind, Tarhn started swiftly after Lyra. Whether the danger was
real or not, he had a job to do.
“Lyra,” he said, catching up with her. “Let’s forget Courtesy for a while. It’s more suited to people
who have little in common and less common sense.” When she hesitated, he added, “Minds as ...
perceptive as yours are rare. You surprised me. I’m not used to being surprised. I reacted badly.”
Lyra’s sudden smile told him that the contact was retrieved.
“My slakes are still hungry. Are you still interested in seeing them?”
In answer, Lyra put her arm through his and leaned lightly against him. The subtle moonlight scent of
her skin made Tarhn take an involuntary breath. Instantly she pulled back, fearing she had offended him.
Tarhn’s arm tightened, holding her close.
“I like it this way,” he said, leading her back down the passageway.
“Let’s start again,” he said lightly. “Though born on Tau, I’m essentially a Concord citizen. I’ve lived
on twelve planets and visited many, many more. Cultural variations seldom surprise me, and the only
thing which offends me is intentional cruelty.”
Lyra moved her right hand in an unmistakable gesture of approval.
“Good,” he said. “Now. The most logical, rational approach for us would be to use your cultural
norms, at least until we understand each other well enough to make our own private rules. Agreed?” he
said, stopping and facing her,
“Yes.”
Tarhn smiled and allowed his fingers to touch her . shining hair. She tilted her head slightly toward
him, inviting further touch.
“I assume that touch between strangers isn’t tabu in your culture,” he said, enjoying the cool, sliding
pressure of her hair between his fingers.
“Tabu?”
“Forbidden. Or at least discouraged, hedged with rituals and social distance.”
“Oh, no. We have no tabus on—”
But instead of naming her planet, Lyra simply repeated that there were no tabus.
“We also have no word for strangers,” she added thoughtfully. “At least, not stranger in the sense
carried by the Galactic word.”
Tarhn’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Semantics. The curse of man. What would the word stranger
mean in your language?”
“Nothing, for we have no strangers. Your fingers tensed, Tarhn. What’s wrong?”
Tarhn was amazed by her acute perceptions; his fingers hadn’t tightened enough to register on a
Carifil bio-monitor, yet she had known immediately.
“Just surprise,” said Tarhn lightly. “It’s hard to understand how, on a planet with a population large
and advanced enough to join the Concord, there would be no strangers.”
“Then imagine what a surprise the galaxy has. been, and still is, for me. Since leaving home, you’re
the first person I’m glad to be close to, even with your baffling sharp edges. No, that’s not fair. I must be
as unexpected and jagged to you as you are to me. Yet in so many ways you feel like a—like one of my
people. I keep forgetting you aren’t.”
Tarhn looked into her intent amber eyes, gold-centered, serious and inviting, and wise and confused,
and wished for an instant that he had no reason to know Lyra other than the sweet reason that he wanted
to. But he was Carifil, and he had many reasons, some of them unclear even to himself. He took Lyra’s
hand and resumed walking, slowly.
“I’m surprised you left your planet,” he said.
“It was necessary.”
When Lyra didn’t elaborate, Tarhn went back to the subject of strangers.
“Even though your people aren’t strangers among themselves, didn’t they consider the Galactics to
be strangers?”
“Not in the sense of alien. We called them otherwise. Our word has no exact analogue ...” She
frowned in concentration. “Is there a word in Galactic for children who have strayed, but still retain the
potential to return and be unity again?”
“Lost?”
“No, that’s too accidental and too final. The straying has an element of choice, more mental than
physical. Although, of course, physical distance often follows mental distance.”
Tarhn laughed suddenly. “Prodigal children. Nearly every culture has its own version of the child who
grows and/or goes away from its cultural values. After various experiences, the child comes to accept the
values it was born with.”
“That’s it,” said Lyra. “We call the Galactics prodigal children.”
“Then you believe that Galactics should embrace your cultural values rather than their own?”
Lyra hesitated, then gestured agreement. “In some senses, yes, but ...”
Tarhn waited.
“Do stars embrace the way of light rather than darkness?” she asked finally.
“Hardly. By definition, a star is matter which radiates energy within certain wavelengths.”
“Exactly. Galactics will realize, as you do, that intentional cruelty is as ... as ... oh, you’re right,
semantics can be a. curse!” she said, smiling yet serious. “Intentional cruelty is like a star choosing
darkness—not impossible, but highly improbable. A violation of what it means to be a star.”
“You have a difficult culture to live up to,” said Tarhn, stopping before a closed cabin door.
“Not for them. My people.”
“Oh?” said Tarhn, pausing as he removed a key from his belt.
“Yes. For example ... I’ve heard that Galactics, some of them, can physically destroy—murder? is
that the word?—that they can actually murder another person.”
“It’s been known to happen,” said Tarhn grimly.
“And the one who murders lives?”
“It varies from culture to culture, but most often the murderer survives.”
Lyra’s hand made a curt Galactic gesture of negation-from-disbelief.
“At home, only a very few of my people could even hold the thought of murder. And of those few,
even fewer could carry the action out. Not one of them could survive it.”
Tarhn smiled without humor. “If all planets were as efficient, and lethal, at catching their murderers,
we wouldn’t have a problem either,” he said, inserting the three-pronged key into the lock circuit.
“I wasn’t clear,” said Lyra. “The one who murders—murderer? yes—the murderer would die as a
result of the act, even if there was not one other person in the universe to know or catch him. To take
another’s life is to negate your own.”
“That philosophy isn’t unique to your planet.”
“It’s not a philosophy,” said Lyra patiently. “It’s a fact. Like gravity.”
“Then,” said Tarhn, twisting the key in the circuit, “yours would be the only known planet in the
galaxy where philosophy had the inevitability of universal constants.”
“You don’t believe what I’m saying, do you?”
“Intellectually, I concede the possibility of anything,” said Tarhn carefully. “Emotionally ... well, let’s
just say I find the whole idea improbable.”
“As improbable as I find the idea of animals?” asked Lyra, with no rancor in her tone.
Tarhn laughed and his impatience fell away. If Lyra wanted to believe her culture was perfect, and
perfectly good, why, he’d once made the same mistake about his own culture. She would soon discover
that no culture condoned intentional cruelty to one’s own kind. Of course, the definition of just what
constituted “one’s own kind” was sometimes very exclusive.
“Come on,” he said. “I’d like you to meet two animals who are more improbable than most, A
warning, though. They’re predators, and quite proud of it. While they certainly won’t harm you, I’m
afraid their delight in the predatory state might offend you.”
“Do they think as we do?”
“Ummm. Let’s say that they’d never intentionally harm someone they care for. It’s just that they care
for so few people.”
A smile flickered over Lyra’s lips.
“I left my planet to learn; perhaps they have something to teach me.”
Tarhn sent a quick, tightly shielded mental command to the slakes. When the door opened fully, they
stayed wrapped about their ceiling perches instead of launching themselves across the room in their usual
greeting. He heard Lyra’s murmur of surprise as the slakes turned and examined her with startling blue
eyes.
“But they’re beautiful,” she said softly. “Such eyes, like yours.”
The slakes rattled their wings slightly; blue light cascaded off the scaled patterns on the wings.
“They don’t frighten you?” said Tarhn.
“Oh no. Such beauty.” She looked at him suddenly. “Should I be frightened?”
A small smile came to Tarhn’s lips. “Some call them the deadliest animal ever to be allied with man.
And most people find them ugly. Or at least unattractive.”
“Then I must see differently than most people. How do the slakes move?”
“Very quickly,” laughed Tarhn, holding out his arm. N’Lete flashed off her perch and coiled securely
around his arm and shoulder.
“You must be strong, to hold her weight so easily,” said Lyra, measuring the slake with her eyes.
“She’s nearly as long as you, though very thin.”
Tarhn wondered how Lyra had known n’Lete’s sex, but let it pass.
“Slakes have a low density,” said Tarhn, stroking n’Lete’s long neck. “On Tau they glide and, when
forced, fly on the shoulders of the wind. And the wind always moves, swift and deep. So they have little
need for heavy muscles to power their wings. Their bones are hollow and their skin and flesh are light,
resilient, yet very strong.”
N’Lete opened her mouth wide and air rushed hissing through serrated teeth. Two long fangs folded
down from the roof of her mouth.
“Yes, n’Lete,” he said, chuckling, “I was just leading up to that.” Then Tarhn stopped smiling and
looked at Lyra. “Perhaps you won’t find them so beautiful when I tell you how and what they eat. If my
description ... disturbs you, I’ll stop.”
Lyra said nothing, waiting and watching him with clear amber eyes.
“The two long teeth (fangs) are hollow. When she bites, a drug flows through the teeth into the veins
of her prey. The prey immediately is paralyzed or tolled, depending on the amount of drug n’Lete pumps
in.” Tarhn watched, but other than a slight dilation of gold Lyra showed no reaction.
“Why,” she said slowly, “do they kill?”
“Food. Slakes must eat.”
“Are there no plants for them? No ... you have no word for it!” she said wonderingly. “Symbiosis?
Yes. No.” Lyra paused, searching. “Let me describe what I mean. On my home planet, there are many
plants. Some of them are fulfilled by nurturing us. Slow trembling delight that the fruit of their bodies
mingles and becomes one with ours. Is it like that out here?”
Tarhn hesitated, then plunged. “Yes and no, Lyra. Some Galactics are sensitive enough to the lives
and needs of plants to sort out which plants give willingly and which give only because they can’t get
away. But most Galactics don’t have that sensitivity. All they have is their rumbling stomachs. If a plant or
animal isn’t lethal or very quick, it is eaten. It has always been this way. The survival imperative. The
biosystem of every known planet is based on it, civilizations are based on it, and individuals accept it with
varying degrees of distaste or pleasure.”
Lyra said nothing for a long time; her mind and body fairly hummed with concentration. In the sudden
silence, he remembered the lyrical voice, subtle music that should have been alien but was more familiar
than the texture of n’Lete’s tongue sucking soothingly against his palm. Once he thought he heard music,
a rhythmic exchange, dispersing. But it must have come from outside the cabin, for inside all was quiet.
With utmost delicacy, he attempted to eavesdrop on Lyra’s thoughts, but the rhythmic music disturbed
him.“Teach me more.”
Tarhn started. “About the slakes?”
“Any aspect of unity describes the whole.”
“What?” said Tarhn, then as he felt the mist of sweat on his skin he realized just how hard he had
tried to penetrate Lyra’s thoughts.
Unsuccessfully.
He gathered his fraying concentration and returned to the slakes.
“Tongue ... yes .... her tongue is basically a straw with rasping edges. She sucks the blood from the
paralyzed prey, then shreds the flesh finely and swallows it. Not all of the flesh, unless the wind is strong
enough to lift her and her meal to a safe place, a place where she may lair up until her body transforms
enough of the prey that she can lift and glide on a normal wind.”
“Safe? Then slakes, too, are hunted as food?”
“A grounded slake is as good as dead. There are many predators on land, all of them hungry.”
“And the plants ... ?”
Tarhn turned his hand palm up. “It takes energy to live. Few plants offer as much energy, unit for unit,
as flesh. Survival again.”
Lyra’s eyes were as opaque as her thoughts for a moment, then she said, “May I touch her, or her
mate?”
“Bithe thought you’d never get around to him; he was getting lonely. Here,” said Tarhn, bracing her
with his free arm, “hold your arm out as I did.”
“I thought you said they were light.”
“They are, but—” Tarhn steadied Lyra as Bithe swooped onto her arm and shoulder. “—they push
off hard,” finished Tarhn.
Bithe and Lyra studied each other for a moment, then Bithe’s tongue flicked out and tickled Lyra’s
nose.
“Behave yourself, Bithe,” said Tarhn.
Lyra laughed delightedly. “No, let him touch as he pleases. He’s not heavy at all. Like lightning ... all
power and movement.”
“And danger,” muttered Tarhn. But not for Lyra. She had a voice and touch that would charm a
rogue slizzard.
When Lyra’s fingers unerringly found the patch of skin under Bithe’s wing that forever needed
scratching, Tarhn realized that Lyra must be in some type of rapport with the slake. He probed
discreetly, but neither of the animals had the sluggish mind and muscles that betrayed an animal under
mental control. And Bithe fairly rippled pleasure at finding another pair of hands that knew where he
itched. Tarhn sighed inside himself; the Carifil weren’t going to be happy when they found out the
qualities of Lyra’s mind. Or were they? Maybe they already knew. Maybe—
“Sorry, Lyra, I wasn’t listening.”
“The slakes. They enjoy the touching, but I sense they would enjoy it more after they’re fed.”
“Getting nervous?”
“Not about Bithe,” smiled Lyra. “n’Lete is less tolerant of hunger and strangers. But, to raise young in
the world you’ve described, I guess intolerance would be useful.”
“Necessary.”
“Yes ... but she is grace and blue fire just the same.”
N’Lete’s sinuous body rippled.
“Keep talking,” laughed Tarhn. “You’ve just made a convert to tolerance.”
“Vanity?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Tarhn, stroking n’Lete’s head with his fingertip. “She knows
she is the culmination of five thousand years of Helix breeding. She’s just pleased by your discrimination.”
Lyra ran her fingertips lightly down n’Lete’s back. The slake’s head lowered fractionally in response.
Then both slakes jumped to the floor. They waited, wings folded, balancing on their rear legs and long
tails.Tarhn opened a travel bag and brought out a handful of synthomeat strips and two soft bottles of
clear fluid.
“How often do they eat?” said Lyra, her eyes never leaving the slakes as their serrated teeth quickly
rasped the meat into paste.
“It varies,” said Tarhn, poking open the bottles. “The more active they are, the more they eat. This
will hold them for about two standard days. Longer, if they don’t get some exercise. They need water
every day, though if they must they can go without longer than I can.”
Quiet sipping sounds made a counterpoint to Tarhn’s words. The sounds increased in volume as the
liquid diminished.
“What will they do now?”
“Sleep, if we let them. Incurably lazy,” added Tarhn, laughing softly. The slakes ignored him, except
to request a lift to their perches. Tarhn obliged, throwing them lightly upwards.
“Have you eaten yet?” he said to Lyra. “Or is public eating not a practice among your people?”
“We eat when and where we are hungry. Usually twice a day. I’m hungry now.”
“Ship food? Or did you bring your own?”
“Ship food.”
摘要：

TheSingerEnigmaConcord,Book1AnnMaxwell1976 THETRUTHSEEKERTarhnhadthebloodoftherulersofspaceinhisveins—andamysterioushorrorshadowinghissecretsoul.Heknewonlythathehadbeenexiledfromtheplanetwherehewasborn,andraisedbyanalienraceforthepsychicpowershepossessed—butwhatfearfulforcehadstrippedhimofhischildho...

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