Playing God(33)

“Thank you, Members.” Umat reached out and quickly touched Member Ris's hands. “We stand ready for further assignments.”

“As is expected.” Member Vreaith dipped her ears approvingly. “We have nothing further in this special area for you until we hear about the schedule. Go home and spend the night with your family in health and peace.”

The Members did not bother with a parting touch. They just bent back over their table and sorted through the papers, talking in low voices about what was indicated by this missive and that note. Lareet politely folded her ears to muffle the conversation.

Umat, radiating satisfaction, tucked her arm into the crook of her sister's, pivoted them both around, and waved to indicate that Lareet should go first down the stairs. Lareet gripped the rungs tightly with her toes and tried to shake the unease that had settled against her skin as she climbed down to the main floor.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Umat softly, as they returned to the vaulted foyer. “You're as twitchy as a newt on hot concrete.”

Lareet nodded to the soldiers who opened the double doors. She did not speak until she and Umat had crossed the shaded lawn with its thick ferns and moss, been checked out through the gate, and walked five yards down the crowded street.

“I was talking with Scholar Arron this morning,” Lareet said finally. “He makes some strong arguments for the Confederation.”

Umat squeezed her arm. “Scholar Arron is our sister in all but blood, but he is naive. He believes the devna can be talked out of killing us.”

Lareet held her sister's arm tightly for a moment. “He also believes we can be talked out of killing them.”

Umat drew herself up short. She turned and faced her sister. “Listen to me, my pouch-sister. I agree with Scholar Arron that the wars must stop. We will all of us be dead if they don't. We are going to stop them.”

“You're right.” Lareet laid her hands over her sister's. “I'm just feeling we should be united in this. Our Members are not even acting for the full Defenders’ House…”

“Our members are constantly gathering support, Lareet. By the time everything's in place, they'll have the entire Parliament.” She blew across her palm, trying to send Lareet's worries to the wind. “We will make the world safe for our blood.”

Let that be true, Lareet breathed silently to the ground. Please, let that be true.


Boats crammed into the harbor. They jostled one another's sides and tangled one another's anchor cables. Little fishers and squared-off houseboats clustered around the sides of the big barges, freighters, and the two mammoth warships.

It could have been a harbor from any of a hundred times and places in the history of the Humans’ Earth. There were only so many shapes of vessel that could carry a biocular biped with two opposable thumbs efficiently across open water. Physics as much as body shape determined the way you built your ships, and physics varied a lot less than form.

Torches, candles, and lamps reflected their light on the black, trash-speckled water. The wind was choked with scents of salt, dead fish, hot oil, hot fish, smog, and charcoal. Voices called to each other in six or eight different dialects, punctuated here and there by the splash as someone dived into the water to swim for somewhere they couldn't walk to.

Cabal walked across the harbor by stepping from boat to boat. His boots clumped heavily against damp wood as he stepped on decks, chests, or boxes. Seawater soaked the cuffs of his work trousers, and more of it spattered his canvas shirt and short jacket. Sometimes heads turned as he passed. Sometimes someone shouted at him to get his poison off their boat. Mostly, however, he was ignored as an equal with the dozen or so Dedelphi who made similar zigzag paths to and from the shore.

Finally, he swung his leg over the side of a well-kept fishing boat. It was bigger by half than most of the others in the harbor, built for market fishing rather than just subsistence. He negotiated his way between ropes, chests, kegs, and nets.

“Who's home?” called Cabal in the major Getesaph dialect.

A hatch swung back, creating a square of yellow lamplight in the deck.

“Who's asking?” came the reply from belowdecks.

“Your brother,” Cabal used the English word. There was no true equivalent in Getesaph.

“Come in, then.”

Cabal descended the ladder. Belowdecks was a single room with bunks built into the walls, a galley area at one end, and a workshop at the other. Two Getesaph sat on the farside of a central table. They were both stripped down to canvas breeches and rubber boots, like fishers usually were.

“Advisor Tvir, Advisor Cishka,” he said quietly as he sat down on the bench opposite them.