A stranger sat there, legs crossed, hands on thighs. The nose and mouth and eyes were rimmed in white that graduated to a dusting, except the eartips. The crest was stark white. The arms were gaunt. Thorn stared, thinking he saw disease.
"Come closer." It was a thin voice, matching the body. He walked closer and stood staring. "You're Haras. Thorn."
(Gods, doesn't he know?) Laughter welled up like blood in a wound, but he could not laugh in this great sterile quiet. (He?) Thorn suddenly suspected not, for reasons he could not quite define. "Where's Elanhen?
Where's Sphitti and Cloen?"
"My name is Sagot. You're staring, boy. Does something about me bother you?"
"I'm sorry. Where are the others?"
"Gone, Sit down. Sit down, Thorn."
He did not know how to refuse a voice so gentle. Duun had not taught him how to say no to authority. He had learned it on his own; and the world was too perilous to go recklessly in it. He sought the nearest riser and sat on the edge of it, feet dangling.
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"I'm Sagot. You haven't seen anyone old before, have you?"
"No, Sagot." Saying anything seemed difficult. (Age. Gods, she's so brittle— it
is
she, it has to be. Will I get like that? And she knows me…
she's a friend of Duun's—)
"I'm going to teach you now."
"Not them?"
"No. Just you. Shall I call you Haras or Thorn? Which do you prefer?"
"Either. Either, Sagot." (What do I call her? Is she hatani? Or one of the meds? Oh, get me out of here, Duun, I want them back! Even Cloen, if not Betan, at least Sphitti! At least Elanhen, at least someone I know!)
"I've had two children. Both boys. They're grown and have children of their own and their children have grown children. It's been a long time since I taught a boy. I always liked it."
(O gods.) The gentleness found quick flesh, slid in like a knife: shocked the tears loose again so quickly there was no retreat, no covering it; Thorn put his face into his hands, disgracing himself and Duun, and his chest ached as if something had broken there. He sobbed. He shook with tears.
When he had gotten control again he wiped his face and nose with wet hands and looked up because he had to.
"You're a fine young man," Sagot said. "I like you."
"You're lying, you're lying, Duun put you up to this—"
"Doubtless he did. But you're still a fine young man. I can see that in you.
I can see more than you think I see, I've brought up too many boys not to have had a young man wail and pour his troubles into my lap now and again, and young women too— I confess to you, even a few who weren't so young, all wailing and shaking with the troubles that were great to them then. Lamentations like that, they're like great storms. They're good for you. They come sweeping through the woods and break a few limbs. But 124
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they herald change. They bring the turn of seasons. They make things new. There, that's good. Your eyes are bright— very handsome eyes, if different. They're blue, aren't they, when they're not running."
"Let me alone!"
"It's amazing how much young men are alike; first the wails, then the shouting. I know it hurts. I've buried two husbands. I know something about pain."
"Are you hatani?"
She smiled. "Gods, no. But I know Duun. You know a hatani can do a lot of things, but when it comes to others, well— reason can't solve everything. 'Take care of him,' he said, 'Sagot, talk to him, teach him—'
'Now why should I do that?' I said. 'I've got my work, I've got things to do, I've got fourteen great-great-grandchildren, I don't need another boy—'
But then I got to thinking, it's been so very long. They're all grown. I'm a hundred fifty-nine, young lad, and I've traveled all over the world, I've trekked down rivers, I've been to the two poles, I've written books— some of the books you study, by the by; I've had nine husbands, lovers I've forgotten, a few I haven't, and I've patched young knees, set bones, birthed babies and seen enough in this world not to be shocked at anything, that's the truth."
"Maybe that's why Duun wanted you with
me."
Bitterly. But somewhere in the chatter the pain in his chest stopped, and Sagot made it stop, and he had no more wish to run away. He sat there with his feet dangling, his five fingered hands in his lap and the remnant of tears drying on his naked face. (But Betan's furred skin was silk and tasted like she smelled—)
"I don't think you think enough of yourself," Sagot said. "It's very well to be hatani, but you're not
all
that thing, you know, the way you're not just that pair of eyes or that pair of hands or that sex between your legs—"
(The heat flew to his face.) "Oh, well, boy, I know, I know, you've only now discovered it and for a while it's the most of you, but that passes, it gets less important, the more of you there gets to be, the more abilities, the more thoughts, everything changes and shifts until the world's so wide and 125
Cuckoo's Egg
the things you are get so complex there's no containing them. You're not just Thorn who was born in a lab, right down this hall; you're Thorn the hatani, Thorn my student, Thorn who'll go places and do things and be things Thorn hasn't even thought of, and I haven't, and you'll find answers to your questions and questions yet to answer, which makes life, after all.
So wail and take on if you have to, and if you want to come here every day and pour it all in my lap, well, that's doing some good, if you need to. But when you're done with that and you're quite ready I've got a lot of things I want to give you— it is giving, you know, a kind of gift. When you've lived as many years as I have you want to leave something in the world, and my teaching's that thing; it's what I do."
Another sob overtook him, unexpected, like a sudden breath. But it hurt less. Thorn wiped his face with a swipe of his hand, quick, distasteful. He slid back on the riser and tucked his feet up. There was no choice. Sagot left him none. "I'm listening, Sagot," (O gods, what has she got to teach?) Sagot teemed with secrets, frightening as Duun. As implacable. As difficult to get around. "Are you sure you're not hatani?"
Sagot laughed and even that was gentle, a fragility about her voice. "I take that for a compliment. What do you like best, what study?"
"Physics."
"Physics, then. Show me what you know. I'll find out where to start."
* * *
"Goth."
"And distant—?"
"5 light-years."
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Cuckoo's Egg
"5.1. Be precise for this. And this man was forty; and he left a sister on earth when he went…."
* * *
"You were there?"
"Child, I lived nine months on the Sgoht, and I had a village magistrate for a lover. He had a ring threaded so, right through the side of his lip, and it looked odd, I'll tell you, when he smiled. He had been married six times and he had a great notch in his nose where one of his wives took a stick to him, but she was a crazy woman and her daughter was crazier. She took it into her head to sell her mother's land, that's right, without owning it— she was going to sell her
expectation
of inheriting it to this man she was living with so she could get the money to go downriver and get a husband who owned a grocery, don't ask me why, but I think food was quite all she could think of— she must have weighed two hundred, all of it. Well, the magistrate my lover finally gave her the money to get her out of town, and that fool man she was living with went after my lover with an axe—"
"Gods, Sagot!"
"He did. And chased him round and round the office and out into the street before someone shot this crazy man. Rumor had it the cattle sickness got him, that that woman fed him from diseased animals; but my lover the magistrate said anyone who married that woman was crazy from the start."
* * *
"Of course I remember."
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"Well, this isn't a copter. It's a plane. Use the toggle and the keys— let me show you. Here's the runway— this is an old-fashioned plane. But we'll start with that."
"Can you fly?"
"Oh, well, yes, I used to. My eyesight's against me now. I stay to the commercial planes."
"Commercial."
"Dear lad, planes go back and forth all over the world all the time, how do you think one would go?"
"Rail."
"Oh, well, it's all mostly freight, nowadays. Let's try taking off again; I'm afraid we've just crashed."
* * *
There were no tales in his life but Sagot's; there was no sound in the house, but sometimes in the long evenings he and sometimes Duun played the dkin with indifferent passion— Duun aimlessly or working out long and vexing compositions that frayed Thorn's nerves; Thorn playing gloomy hatani songs or the lightest, most trivial ditties he had known from childhood, like accusations hurled at Duun. And Duun would sit and listen, or retreat to his office for peace and (sometimes, for Duun's side pained him) Duun would take a sedative and close the door of his room.
He was Sagot's ward. Duun only lived with him and went turnabout at fixing meals, and saw to his drill and his practice (but Duun ached when he breathed and even that was indifferent).
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(He held me all night, that night. That must have hurt. He could hardly move when he woke up. He never complained.)
(Is it ever going to heal?) In one part of him the sight of Duun reduced to walking into the gym and giving instructions and walking out again gave Thorn satisfaction.
(But he's too quiet. He doesn't talk to me. What's he waiting for?) (O gods. I wish he'd yell or frown at me or even look me in the eyes. His shoulders stoop. He moves like Sagot does. I'd never have caught him in the first place, but his balance was on his bad side in that pass. If he was younger, if he hadn't ever been hurt, gods, he must have been impossible to beat. I'd hate to have met him then.)
(O Duun,
look
at me!)
(Why should I care that he took Betan, he took Elanhen, Sphitti, even Cloen, he takes everything I care for, he sent Sagot and someday I'll walk in and he'll have sent her away too, everything, everyone.) (He spied on me. He's probably tied into the computers there at school, I know he could, all you have to do is put the codes in, we're in the same building. He knew everything, he read everything Betan and I passed back and forth, probably the guards reported to him.) (O Duun, I don't
like
this quiet. I don't like you looking like that, it hurts.) But one noon he came back from Sagot and Duun was in the gym, was waiting for him when he had shed down to his small-kilt and got out on the sand. Thorn waited for instruction, but Duun walked out, swinging his left arm a bit and working it back and forth.
"Duun, be careful."
"Thorn, I don't need
you
to tell me careful. Just remember what I told you: no all-out strikes. Let's go a fall or two."
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Duun took him. It took a good long while, and it was craft that worked Thorn off his center and brought Duun's foot against his back.
"I'm dead," Thorn said, and sat down on the sand. Duun sat down less quickly, breathing hard, licking at his teeth. Thorn panted for breath and leaned on his knees and stared back at him. Grinned suddenly, because getting beaten by Duun was in the nature of the world and made it feel less lonely.
Duun grinned back. No words. It was better after that. Duun played that night, one old familiar piece after the other, and the music brought them back, dkin and drum, not the sad songs but the songs with tricks, hatani humor, subtle and cruel.
Thorn slept that night, and waked about the middle of the dark with the stars giddy about his bed and the air breathing false chill winds as if they came off winter snow; everything was still, and he had some vague terror that he could put no name to.
(Duun was here. He was here a while ago.) Perhaps it was a subtle scent the air-conditioning had dispersed. But the door was closed.
Thorn's eyes searched the room, the dark, seeking outlines and knowing Duun's skill. (Is he still in the room? Is he waiting till I move?) Thorn's heart raced, the veins pounding in his throat. (This is foolish. How could he pass the door? It's noisy; I couldn't sleep that soundly.) (Could I?)
His heart hammered wildly. (He wouldn't. He
couldn't.
Not after Betan.
He knows I'm mad. I hate him. I hate him that he does this to me.) He hurled himself out of bed. (Never trust him. Never take Duun for granted—) But there was nothing there, only the false stars in their slow dizzy movement.
Thorn sat down again on the edge of the bed. His heart still slammed against his ribs.
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(What's the world like? Full of Sagot's kind? Or Duun's? What's he up to?
What was I made for? Why does the government care whether I live or die— enough to call on a hatani to solve my problem? He could kill them.
Kill me. He gives me a chance, he says… a chance against
what?
) (A hatani dictates others' moves. A hatani judges. A hatani wanders through the world setting things to rights again. A hatani can leave a pebble in your bed— in your drink— can pass a locked door and track you in the dark. He's a hunter… not of game. Of anyone he wants. What else is he?)