Footsteps in the Sky (16 page)

Chapter Eighteen

I know their legends. I stood in their sky—their sky—and sifted the streams of words down the long, damaged riddle of my brain. Trying to sort the data into sensible meanings. It would not sort, would not be broken down, and yet even then, I felt that there was meaning there; it just happened to be irreducible.

The legends filtered up to me every year during the “season” they name summer. Sand has explained to me why this distinction is made; because the axial tilt of their home planet is much greater than that of this world, so that dramatic differences in weather occur throughout the cycle of the planet's rotation. And summer—the hot part of the year when life is most active—summer is the time of the Kachina, when they live among human beings and tell their stories. The people of the Fifth World cluster in the pueblos and in the seashore settlements, but many, many more live far and scattered in small towns and single dwellings, tending vast kilometers of forest-to-be. For them, the kivas transmit the stories and dances which they are themselves unable to attend. And to me, above.

So I know their legends, and I know the name Sand has given me; Tuchvala, the spittle from which human beings were formed. A substance of life, a precondition for it. I also know their belief that they have moved from world to world, always enduring, always surviving. The poetry of this struck me, even when I was a creature of vacuum and flickering light; it reminded me of the beliefs of the Makers. The Makers had a strong sense that the world on which they evolved was not the world where they belonged; that only by escaping it could they realize etadotetak, which is something like what Sand means when she says “compassion”. It is deeper than compassion, however, and of all the beasts on the homeworld of the Makers, only they evolved it. To them, this was a much more important evolutionary step than their intelligence; intelligence had already come and gone on their world—twenty million years earlier—and left little behind it except a few remarkable ruins. The homeworld, with its terribly high mutation rate and its inconstant star, was, to the Makers, a place to be escaped, and it was etadotetak—not intelligence—that would allow them to do so.

Thus they sent out my sisters and me, and others like us. To change things. The legends—both Human and Maker—speak of change, of climbing to a new place.

I thought of all of this because I knew that I was changing, that the place where I had been was no longer where I belonged. I was coming to understand that life—real, organic life—recreates itself with each moment, adapts, finds new paths. I was becoming incorporated into Sand's life, and she into mine, and this kind of interaction I had never known. After all, my sisters and I had been created together and virtually identical. Only deterioration had differentiated our personalities. Sand, though, was making me alien. Many of my thoughts were becoming responses to her presence, anticipations of her responses. It was if my own single voice had become two; mine and Sand's.

Sand glanced at the moving points on her doppler screen. They were moving fast, but not fast enough.

“They want you bad, Tuchvala,” she remarked.

“Why?” Tuchvala wiped at her brow, clumsily smearing the sweat still beaded there. “I had anticipated interest in me, I must admit. Your people have been probing and testing my sisters and I since we arrived at this Farm. But why this crazy violence, this persistent chase?”

“I'm not sure about that myself,” Sand began, but detested the dishonesty behind her words. She began again. “No, that's not true. The truth is that all human beings do not share the same goals and motivations. My people—the Hopi—came to this planet to re-create the life we believe we were meant to live, a way of living that had become impossible on Earth. Not long after we came here, however, there was a breach amongst the children of the founders. Some became angry because they felt they had been isolated from the mainstream of human civilization and technology, consigned to do a hard and thankless job.”

“Was this true?” asked Tuchvala.

“You tell me. You've been forming worlds for half a million years.”

“I don't think it's the same,” Tuchvala replied.

Sand shrugged. “Yeah, I guess they had a point,” She admitted. “I've often felt that way myself. It all depends on whether you think the traditional ways are a satisfying way of life.”

“Do you find them so?”

“Not always,” Sand confessed. “But what I do find satisfying is to see sterile, black soil covered in taproot dandelions and clover, to watch the trees grow taller, to see a metric ton of grass seed float out behind me as I fly along. I don't talk about it much, and neither did my mother, but that's one way we were very much alike. I believe in the project, in making the Fifth World a fit place to live. And the traditionals believe this with all of their heart and soul. They believe terraforming is our holy, ordained purpose, and every song and story we chant accentuates the beauty of what we do. The lowlanders, though—sometimes I wonder about them. They're so bitter—sometimes I think that they would rather just flee the Fifth World and go back to Earth. They think that the project is important, too, but not with the same determination as the traditionals. I think they might turn inward, given the chance, build their cities on the coast, where the living is easy, and let the interior fallow or green as it would. They just don't have the drive it will take to make the whole planet grow. The religion.”

“So there is a conflict between your two groups, distrust. What has that to do with me? And the off-world ships?”

Sand began to speak, but something Tuchvala said clinked and rattled in her head. They were flitting over the foothills, now, and before long they would be back in pueblo territory, where the pursuing ships—certainly from Salt—would not follow. The land was misted with green that grew deeper and thicker with each kilometer. The sky was azure, arabesqued with wisps and veils of cloud from horizon to horizon.

“Tuchvala, how did you know they were from off-planet?” Sand nodded back towards their unwilling passengers.

“Are they from the starship? I didn't know that. I did know about their ship: I saw it coming, of course. They tried to hide themselves, but all of my faculties haven't fled me. I didn't know what they represented, and I was afraid that they would antagonize my sister into action. That was the reason I came down here prematurely. It may be the reason that my plans all seem so vague to me now.”

“Well, they are from the Reed. They funded this project, paid for it, brought our ancestors here. In a sense, we work for them. The deal is that we carry out the terraforming project and the world becomes ours. At least, that's what our ancestors thought.”

“I'm having a hard time understanding this, Sand. This is yet another human faction?”

“Tuchvala … we—the Hopi, whether traditional or lowlander—are like you and your sisters. We were sent out to work, generation after generation, to make this world livable. Our ancestors agreed to this, because they believed that, though it would be difficult, their descendants would live free on a fresh new world. However, those who sent us—as you say, another human group—are using us to their profit, or so many of us suspect. When we have done the work, they will take the planet from us. By force if we resist. You understand that?”

“I think so. Go on.”

“The Hopi do not have the power to withstand this, but I believe that the lowlanders think that you and your sisters might. That if they can bargain with you, you could stop the Reed warships when they come.”

“Oh.” Tuchvala said, and she turned her head to look out at the terrain rushing by.

“Oh.”

“The Reed, of course, saw this danger, and so sent a ship of their own to protect their interests.”

“All on the possibility that my sisters and I would have the power they suspect—and the will and ability to use it?”

“I think. I'm not certain about any of this.”

Tuchvala shook her head. “This is terrible.”

“I think so. I think they are wrong, too. Why should terraforming ships have weapons anyway?”

“Oh, that's not what I meant,” Tuchvala said. “We do have weapons. We have weapons that could kill every living cell on this planet. Your people—humans I mean—are right about that. What they don't know is the division that exists between my sisters and me. The balance is so fine, Sand. If my sisters decide your race is threatening them, they will kill you all. They will sterilize this planet and begin again.”

“Can't you convince them? Explain to them that we have this special kind of compassion your Makers had?”

Tuchvala grimaced; Sand was unsure what emotion she meant to convey. “First of all, I'm not certain that you do. Etadotetak bound the Makers all together, it didn't tease them into factions. That is, however, beside the point, because I have etadotetak. I would gladly convince my sisters to move on, if I could. I will try, if given the chance. As I may have said, though I am perhaps the least damaged of the three, I am—was—still very confused. The Makers gave us rather explicit instructions against farming inhabited worlds. The problem is that they never allowed for the possibility that one of their uninhabited farm worlds should become peopled by aliens. Now, since my essence has been in this brain, things have begun to sort out, and I think I can see quite clearly what the Makers would have preferred in this situation. This is especially true because … because …” Tuchvala abruptly choked and fell silent.

Sand had been watching the mesas approach, listening to Tuchvala's voice rise and fall like the contoured terrain. That voice was always full of ambiguity, miscued stress and inflection, which made it difficult to read emotion into it. Sand was thus shocked when she realized that Tuchvala was crying and further, that the strange woman was bewildered by her own tears.

“Tuchvala, What … ?”

But the other woman only gasped when she tried to talk, frustrated by the incomprehensible spasm that obstructed her speech.

“Just stay calm,” Sand said, trying to sound soothing. “Tuchvala, you're just crying; you must be upset about something. You'll stop in a moment, and then you can speak again.”

Tuchvala went on crying for another few moments, reaching out her fingers to press them against the transparent windshield, like a child who did not know what chainglass was.

“What,” Sand urged, when Tuchvala's sobbing subsided.

“My Makers,” Tuchvala said—small, brittle words. “They must be dead.”

“Listen, Tuchvala, it's been hundreds of thousands of years. I don't know how long their species lived, but …”

“No, no. They must all be dead. The race, the species. They will never claim this or any other world I have farmed.”

“You know this?” Sand asked, gently.

“I feel it. How many worlds has your race colonized?”

“Ah … six. Maybe more, by now. We don't get much news from the Reed.”

“Six. Six planets like this, with the same life-forms that we placed here. And your race has never encountered any other sign of the Makers? They are gone, Sand. I must face that.”

Sand cut her speed back; she needed to think about sending ahead that she was coming, and she had a lot to worry about. She had a dead Whipper and his stolen ship in her possession, and that would not go lightly. But for the moment—for one moment before she released her mind to those worries—she reached over and gripped her companion's arm.

“We're both orphans, then,” she said gently.

Yuyahoeva's gnarled face looked back at Sand from her screen.

Shit, she thought, the old man himself. She remembered their last exchange, just before her mother's funeral, and braced for the lash of words she knew must be coming. The other clans must have been all over him by now, to bring in his wayward granddaughter. It's his job to deal with me and show he had no part in this.

Not for the first time, Sand found herself proven wrong.

“Sand, little granddaughter,” he began, and Sand was astonished to see that the fiercely wrinkled caverns of his eyes held not anger, but deep concern. Sand knew Yuyahoeva, knew him well. He did not wear masks unless he was dancing with the Kachina. What one saw in his face was the truth. It was just that one usually saw disapproval, if one were Sand.

“Are you okay, little one?” The old man continued. His eyes edged to the right of the screen; the monitor must be just barely showing part of Tuchvala, and he was surely curious who was with her.

“I'm alright, In'na. I'm coming home.”

“That's good, Sand. It's not safe for you out there. Come back here, where your clan can protect you.”

“I will. But In'na, I came there before, as you must surely know. Someone set the Whipper upon me.”

The hard face sharpened at the edges, obsidian showing through basalt. “I know. We don't know how this happened, yet, but we will discover the two-heart soon enough. You know that it was not Chavo himself, I hope? Your cousin loves you, Sand.”

“I know. In'na, I did not kill him, but Chavo is dead.”

The old man nodded his head; he was used to grief, to seeing the young die before him. Chavo was his sister's daughter's boy.

“I have his body, and those who killed him.”

“The outworlders?”

“You know about that?” Sand asked.

“Not much, child. We only learned of this recently. Sand, we monitored part of your conversation with Hoku, but his references made no sense. He seemed to be speaking of an alien, of something not human.”

“In'na,” Sand replied, “I will explain everything when I land. I'm taking my old place near my mother's home. You will want to bring warriors to handle these captives. And come yourself, In'na. I need your strength and your advice.”

The old man smiled briefly but with comforting warmth.