Lilith's Brood: Dawn, Adulthood Rites, and Imago (Xenogenesis Trilogy) (31 page)
Read Lilith's Brood: Dawn, Adulthood Rites, and Imago (Xenogenesis Trilogy) Online
Authors: Octavia E. Butler
Lilith sighed. “Heaven help anyone who tries.”
“You think it would be a mistake to tell them?”
“Why bother asking me what I think?”
“I want to know.”
She stared into the fire, got up and pulled a small log onto it. She would not do this again soon. She would not see fire or collect inga and palm fruit or catch a fish …
“Lilith?”
“Do you want them to come back?”
“They will come back eventually. They must.”
“Unless they kill one another.”
Silence.
“Why must they come back?” she asked.
It turned its face away.
“They can’t even touch one another, the men and the women. Is that it?”
“That will pass when they’ve been away from us for a while. But it won’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“They need us now. They won’t have children without us. Human sperm and egg will not unite without us.”
She thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “And what kind of children would they have with you?”
“You haven’t answered,” it said.
“What?”
“Shall we tell them they can come back to us?”
“No. And don’t be too obvious about helping them get away either. Let them decide for themselves what they’ll do. Otherwise people who decide later to come back will seem to be obeying you, betraying their humanity for you. That could get them killed. You won’t get many back, anyway. Some will think the human species deserves at least a clean death.”
“Is it an unclean thing that we want, Lilith?”
“Yes!”
“Is it an unclean thing that I have made you pregnant?”
She did not understand the words at first. It was as though it had begun speaking a language she did not know.
“You … what?”
“I have made you pregnant with Joseph’s child. I wouldn’t have done it so soon, but I wanted to use his seed, not a print. I could not make you closely enough related to a child mixed from a print. And there’s a limit to how long I can keep sperm alive.”
She was staring at it, speechless. It was speaking as casually as though discussing the weather. She got up, would have backed away from it, but it caught her by both wrists.
She made a violent effort to break away, realized at once that she could not break its grip. “You said—” She ran out of breath and had to start again. “You said you wouldn’t do this. You said—”
“I said not until you were ready.”
“I’m not ready! I’ll never be ready!”
“You’re ready now to have Joseph’s child. Joseph’s daughter.”
“… daughter?”
“I mixed a girl to be a companion for you. You’ve been very lonely.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Yes. But a daughter will be a companion for a long time.”
“It won’t be a daughter.” She pulled again at her arms, but it would not let her go. “It will be a thing—not human.” She stared down at her own body in horror. “It’s inside me, and it isn’t human!”
Nikanj drew her closer, looped a sensory arm around her throat. She thought it would inject something into her and make her lose consciousness. She waited almost eager for the darkness.
But Nikanj only drew her down to the log bench again. “You’ll have a daughter,” it said. “And you are ready to be her mother. You could never have said so. Just as Joseph could never have invited me into his bed—no matter how much he wanted me there. Nothing about you but your words reject this child.”
“But it won’t be human,” she whispered. “It will be a thing. A monster.”
“You shouldn’t begin to lie to yourself. It’s a deadly habit. The child will be yours and Joseph’s. Ahajas’ and Dichaan’s. And because I’ve mixed it, shaped it, seen that it will be beautiful and without deadly conflicts, it will be mine. It will be my first child, Lilith. First to be born, at least. Ahajas is also pregnant.”
“Ahajas?” When had it found the time? It had been everywhere.
“Yes. You and Joseph are parents to her child as well.” It used its free sensory arm to turn her head to face it. “The child that comes from your body will look like you and Joseph.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“The differences will be hidden until metamorphosis.”
“Oh god. That too.”
“The child born to you and the child born to Ahajas will be siblings.”
“The others won’t come back for this,” she said. “I wouldn’t have come back for it.”
“Our children will be better than either of us,” it continued. “We will moderate your hierarchical problems and you will lessen our physical limitations. Our children won’t destroy themselves in a war, and if they need to regrow a limb or to change themselves in some other way they’ll be able to do it. And there will be other benefits.”
“But they won’t be human,” Lilith said. “That’s what matters. You can’t understand, but that
is
what matters.”
Its tentacles knotted. “The child inside you matters.” It released her arms, and her hands clutched uselessly at one another.
“This will destroy us,” she whispered. “My god, no wonder you wouldn’t let me leave with the others.”
“You’ll leave when I do—you, Ahajas, Dichaan, and our children. We have work to do here before we leave.” It stood up. “We’ll go home now. Ahajas and Dichaan are waiting for us.”
Home?
she thought bitterly. When had she last had a true home? When could she hope to have one. “Let me stay here,” she said. It would refuse. She knew it would. “This is as close to Earth as it seems you’ll let me come.”
“You can come back here with the next group of humans. Come home now.”
She considered resisting, making it drug her and carry her back. But that seemed a pointless gesture. At least she would get another chance with a human group. A chance to teach them … but not a chance to be one of them. Never that. Never?
Another chance to say, “
Learn and run!
”
She would have more information for them this time. And they would have long, healthy lives ahead of them. Perhaps they could find an answer to what the Oankali had done to them. And perhaps the Oankali were not perfect. A few fertile people might slip through and find one another. Perhaps.
Learn and run!
If she were lost, others did not have to be. Humanity did not have to be.
She let Nikanj lead her into the dark forest and to one of the concealed dry exits.
Octavia Butler
To Lynn—write!
I
LO
1
H
E REMEMBERED MUCH OF
his stay in the womb.
While there, he began to be aware of sounds and tastes. They meant nothing to him, but he remembered them. When they recurred, he noticed.
When something touched him, he knew it to be a new thing—a new experience. The touch was first startling, then comforting. It penetrated his flesh painlessly and calmed him. When it withdrew, he felt bereft, alone for the first time. When it returned, he was pleased—another new sensation. When he had experienced a few of these withdrawals and returns, he learned anticipation.
He did not learn pain until it was time for him to be born.
He could feel and taste changes happening around him—the slow turning of his body, then later the sudden headfirst thrust, the compression first of his head, then gradually along the length of his body. He hurt in a dull, distant way.
Yet he was not afraid. The changes were right. It was time for them. His body was ready. He was propelled along in regular pulses and comforted from time to time by the touch of his familiar companion.
There was light!
Vision was first a blaze of shock and pain. He could not escape the light. It grew brighter and more painful, reached its maximum as the compression ended. No part of his body was free from the sharp, raw brilliance. Later, he would recall it as heat, as burning.
It cooled abruptly.
Something muted the light. He could still see, but seeing was no longer painful. His body was rubbed gently as he lay submerged in something soft and comforting. He did not like the rubbing. It made the light seem to jerk and vanish, then leap back to visibility. But it was the familiar presence that touched him, held him. It stayed with him and helped him endure the rubbing without fear.
He was wrapped in something that touched him everywhere except his face. He did not like the heavy feel of it, but it shut out the light and did not hurt him.
Something touched the side of his face, and he turned, mouth open, to take it. His body knew what to do. He sucked and was rewarded by food and by the taste of flesh as familiar as his own. For a time, he assumed it was his own. It had always been with him.
He could hear voices, could even distinguish individual sounds, though he understood none of them. They captured his attention, his curiosity. He would remember these, too, when he was older and able to understand them. But he liked the soft voices even without knowing what they were.
“He’s beautiful,” one voice said. “He looks completely Human.”
“Some of his features are only cosmetic, Lilith. Even now his senses are more dispersed over his body than yours are. He is … less Human than your daughters.”
“I’d guessed he would be. I know your people still worry about Human-born males.”
“They were an unsolved problem. I believe we’ve solved it now.”
“His senses are all right, though?”
“Of course.”
“That’s all I can expect, I guess.” A sigh. “Shall I thank you for making him look this way—for making him seem Human so I can love him? … for a while.”
“You’ve never thanked me before.”
“… no.”
“And I think you go on loving them even when they change.”
“They can’t help what they are … what they become. You’re sure everything else is all right, too? All the mismatched bits of him fit together as best they can?”
“Nothing in him is mismatched. He’s very healthy. He’ll have a long life and be strong enough to endure what he must endure.”
H
E WAS AKIN.
Things touched him when this sound was made. He was given comfort or food, or he was held and taught. Body to body understanding was given to him. He came to perceive himself as himself—individual, defined, separate from all the touches and smells, all the tastes, sights, and sounds that came to him. He was Akin.
Yet he came to know that he was also part of the people who touched him—that within them, he could find fragments of himself. He was himself, and he was those others.
He learned quickly to distinguish between them by taste and touch. It took longer for him to know them by sight or smell, but taste and touch were almost a single sensation for him. Both had been familiar to him for so long.
He had heard differences in voices since his birth. Now he began to attach identities to those differences. When, within days of his birth, he had learned his own name and could say it aloud, the others taught him their names. These they repeated when they could see that they had his attention. They let him watch their mouths shape the words. He came to understand quickly that each of them could be called by one or both of two groups of sounds.
Nikanj Ooan, Lilith Mother, Ahajas Ty, Dichaan Ishliin, and the one who never came to him even though Nikanj Ooan had taught him that one’s touch and taste and smell. Lilith Mother had shown him a print image of that one, and he had scanned it with all his senses: Joseph Father.
He called for Joseph Father and, instead, Nikanj Ooan came and taught him that Joseph Father was dead. Dead. Ended. Gone away and not coming back. Yet he had been part of Akin, and Akin must know him as he knew all his living parents.
Akin was two months old when he began to put together simple sentences. He could not get enough of being held and taught.
“He’s quicker than most of my girls,” Lilith commented as she held him against her and let him drink. It could have been difficult to learn from her smooth, unhelpful skin except that it was as familiar as his own—and superficially like his own. Nikanj Ooan taught him to use his tongue—his least Human visible organ—to study Lilith when she fed him. Over many feedings, he tasted her flesh as well as her milk. She was a rush of flavors and textures—sweet milk, salty skin smooth in some places, rough in others. He concentrated on one of the smooth places, focused all his attention on probing it, perceiving it deeply, minutely. He perceived the many cells of her skin, living and dead. Her skin taught him what it meant to be dead. Its dead outer layer contrasted sharply with what he could perceive of the living flesh beneath. His tongue was as long and sensitive and malleable as the sensory tentacles of Ahajas and Dichaan. He sent a filament of it into the living tissue of her nipple. He had hurt her the first time he tried this, and the pain had been channeled back to him through his tongue. The pain had been so sharp and startling that he withdrew, screaming and weeping. He refused to be comforted until Nikanj showed him how to probe without causing pain.