Lilith's Brood: Dawn, Adulthood Rites, and Imago (Xenogenesis Trilogy) (63 page)
Read Lilith's Brood: Dawn, Adulthood Rites, and Imago (Xenogenesis Trilogy) Online
Authors: Octavia E. Butler
“If it doesn’t rain, half the town might burn. Fools.”
“It isn’t going to rain. Now be quiet, Gabe.”
“If they catch us, they’ll probably kill us!”
“What? Who?”
“People from town. Not everybody. Just troublemakers.”
“They’ll be too busy trying to put out the fire. It hasn’t rained for days. They chose the wrong season for all this. Just be quiet and let me help you. I won’t make you sleep, so you might feel something. But I won’t hurt you.”
“I hurt so bad already, I probably wouldn’t know if you did.”
Akin interrupted the messages of pain that Gabe’s nerves were sending to his brain and encouraged his brain to secrete specific endorphins.
“Jesus Christ!” the man said, gasping, coughing. For him the pain had abruptly ceased. He felt nothing. It was less confusing for him that way. For Akin, it meant sudden, terrible pain, then slow alleviation. Not euphoria. He did not want Gabe drunk on his own endorphins. But the man could be made to feel good and alert. It was almost like making music—balancing endorphins, silencing pain, maintaining sobriety. He made simple music. Ooloi made great harmonies, interweaving people and sharing pleasure. And ooloi contributed substances of their own to the union. Akin would feel that soon when Dehkiaht changed. For now, there was the pleasure of healing.
Gabe began to breathe easier as his lungs improved. He did not notice when his flesh began to heal. Akin let the useless burned flesh slough off. Gabe would need water and food soon. Akin would finish by stimulating feelings of hunger and thirst in the man so that he would be willing to eat or drink whatever Akin could spot for him. It was especially important that he drink soon.
“Someone’s coming,” Gabe whispered.
“Gilbert Senn,” Akin said into his ear. “He’s been searching for some time. If we’re still, he may not find us.”
“How do you know it’s—?”
“Footsteps. He still sounds the same as he did when I was here before. He’s alone.”
Silently Akin finished his work and withdrew the filaments of his sensory tentacles from Gabe. “You can move now,” he whispered. “But don’t.”
Akin could move too, a little more, although he doubted that he could walk.
Abruptly Gilbert Senn found them—all but stumbled over them in the moonlight and the firelight. He leaped back, his rifle aimed at them.
Gabe sat up. Akin used Gabe to pull himself up and managed not to fall when he let go. He could hurry everyone’s bodily processes but his own. Gilbert Senn looked at him, then carefully avoided looking at him. He lowered the rifle.
“Are you all right, Gabe?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re burned.”
“I was.” Gabe glanced at Akin.
Gilbert Senn carefully did not look at Akin. “I see.” He turned toward the fire. “I wish that hadn’t happened. We would never have burned your home.”
“For all I know, you did,” Gabe muttered.
“Neci did,” Akin said quickly. “She and the man who wanted to get into the house to see me. I heard them.”
The rifle came up again, aimed only at Akin this time. “You will be quiet,” he said.
“If he dies, we all die,” Gabe said softly.
“We all die no matter what. Some of us choose to die free!”
“There will be freedom on Mars, Gil.”
The corners of Gilbert Senn’s mouth turned down. Gabe shook his head. To Akin he said, “He believes your Mars idea is a trick. A way of gathering in the resisters easily to use them on the ship or in the Oankali villages on Earth. A lot of people feel that way.”
“
This
is my world,” Gilbert Senn said. “I was born here, and I’ll die here. And if I can’t have Human children—fully Human children—I’ll have no children at all.”
This was a man who would have helped cut sensory tentacles from Amma and Shkaht. He had not wanted to do such things to children, to females, but he honestly believed it was the right thing to do.
“Mars is not for you,” Akin told him.
The gun wavered. “What?”
“Mars isn’t for anyone who doesn’t want it. It will be hard work, risk, and challenge. It will be a Human world someday. But it will never be Earth. You need Earth.”
“You think your childish psychology will influence me?”
“No,” Akin said.
“I don’t want to hear it from you or from Yori.”
“If you kill me now, no Humans will go to Mars.”
“None will go anyway.”
“Humanity will live or die by what you do now.”
“No!”
The man wanted to shoot Akin. Perhaps he had never wanted anything as much. He might even have come into the field hoping to find Akin and shoot him. Now he could not shoot Akin because Akin might possibly somehow be telling the truth.
After a long time, Gilbert Senn turned and went back toward the fire.
After a moment, Gabe stood up and shook himself. “If that was psychology, it was damn good,” he said.
“It was literal truth,” Akin told him.
“I was afraid it might be. Gil almost shot you.”
“I thought he might.”
“Could he have killed you?”
“Yes, with enough ammunition and enough persistence. Or perhaps he could have made me kill him.”
He bent to pick Akin up. “You’ve made yourself too valuable to take risks like that. I know guys who wouldn’t have hesitated.” He shook himself again, shaking Akin. “God, what’s this stuff you’ve smeared me with? Goddamn slimy shit!”
Akin did not answer.
“What is it?” Gabe insisted. “It stinks.”
“Cooked flesh.”
Gabe shuddered and said nothing.
T
ATE WAITED AT THE
edge of the forest amid a cluster of other people. Mateo and Pilar Leal were there. How would Tino take seeing them again? How would they take seeing him with Nikanj? Would he stay with his mates and his children or go with his parents’ people? It was not likely that Nikanj could let him go or that he could survive long without Nikanj. Mars might even make Tino’s choice of the Oankali more acceptable to Tino. He would no longer be helping Humanity breed itself out of existence. But he would not be helping it shape its new world either.
Yori was there, standing with Kolina Wilton and Stancio Roybal. Sober now, Stancio looked tired and ill. There were people Akin did not recognize—new people. There was Abira—an arm reaching out of a hammock, lifting him in.
“Where’s Macy?” Gabe asked as he put Akin down.
“He hasn’t come,” Kolina answered. “We hoped he was helping you with Akin.”
“He went out when he heard Neci and her friend setting the fire,” Akin said. “I lost track of him after that.”
“Was he hurt?” Kolina demanded.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
She thought about this for a moment. “We have to wait for him!”
“We’ll wait,” Tate said. “He knows where to meet us.”
They moved deeper into the forest as the light from the fire grew brighter.
“My home is burning,” Abira said as everyone watched. “I didn’t think I would have to watch my home burn again.”
“Just be glad you aren’t in it,” one of the strangers said. Akin knew at once that this man disliked Abira. Humans would carry their dislikes with them to be shut up together on Mars.
The fire burned through the night, but Macy did not come. A few other people arrived. Yori had asked most of them to come. It was she who kept others from shooting them as they were spotted. If they shot anyone, they would have to leave quickly before the sound drew enemies.
“I have to go back,” Kolina said finally.
No one said anything. Perhaps they had been waiting for this.
“They could be holding him,” Tate said finally. “They could be waiting for you.”
“No. Not with the fire. They wouldn’t think about me.”
“There are those who would. The kind who would hold you and sell you if they thought they could get away with it.”
“I’ll go,” Stancio said. “Probably no one’s even noticed that I’ve left town. I’ll find him.”
“I can’t leave without him,” she said.
“But we have to leave soon,” Gabe said. “Gil Senn nearly killed Akin back there in the field. If he gets another chance, he might pull the trigger. I know there are others who wouldn’t hesitate, and they’ll be out hunting as soon as it’s light.”
“Someone give me a gun,” Stancio said.
One of the strangers handed him one.
“I want one, too,” Kolina said. She was staring at the fire, and when Yori thrust a rifle at her, she took it without turning her head. “Keep Akin safe,” she said.
Yori hugged her. “Keep yourself safe. Bring Macy to us. You can find the way.”
“North to the big river, then east along the river. I know.”
No one said anything to Stancio, so Akin called him over. Gabe had propped Akin against a tree, and now Stancio squatted before him, clearly not bothered by his appearance.
“Would you let me check you?” Akin asked. “You don’t look well, and for this you may need to be … very healthy.”
Stancio shrugged. “I don’t have anything you can cure.”
“Let me have a look. It won’t hurt.”
Stancio stood up. “Is this Mars thing real?”
“It’s real. Another chance for Humanity.”
“You see to that, then. Don’t worry about me.” He put his gun on his shoulder and walked with Kolina back toward the fire.
Akin watched them until they disappeared around the edge of the cornfield. He never saw either of them again.
After a while, Gabe lifted him, hung him over one shoulder, and began to walk. Akin would be able to walk himself tomorrow or the day after. For now, he watched from Gabe’s shoulder as the others fell in, single file. They headed north toward the river. There, they would turn east toward Lo. In less time than they probably realized, some of them would be aboard shuttles headed for Mars, there to watch the changes begin and be witnesses for their people.
He was perhaps the last to see the smoke cloud behind them and Phoenix still burning.
Octavia Butler
To Irie Isaacs
I
METAMORPHOSIS
1
S
LIPPED INTO MY FIRST
metamorphosis so quietly that no one noticed. Metamorphoses were not supposed to begin that way. Most people begin with small, obvious, physical changes—the loss of fingers and toes, for instance, or the budding of new fingers and toes of a different design.
I wish my experience had been that normal, that safe.
For several days, I changed without attracting attention. Early stages of metamorphosis didn’t normally last for days without bringing on deep sleep, but mine did. My first changes were sensory. Tastes, scents, all sensations suddenly became complex, confusing, yet unexpectedly seductive.
I had to relearn everything. River water, for instance: when I swam in it, I noticed that it had two distinctive major flavors—hydrogen and oxygen?—and many minor flavors. I could separate out and savor each one individually. In fact, I couldn’t help separating them. But I learned them quickly and accepted them in their new complexity so that only occasional changes in minor flavors demanded my attention.
Our river water at Lo always came to us clouded with sediment. “Rich,” the Oankali called it. “Muddy,” the Humans said, and filtered it or let the silt settle to the bottom before they drank it. “Just water,” we constructs said, and shrugged. We had never known any other water.
As quickly as I could, I learned again to understand and accept my sensory impressions of the people and things around me. The experience absorbed so much of my attention that I didn’t understand how my family could fail to see that something unusual was happening to me. But beyond mentioning that I was daydreaming too much, even my parents missed the signs.
They were, after all, the wrong signs. No one was expecting them, so no one noticed when they appeared.
All five of my parents were old when I was born. They didn’t look any older than my adult sisters and brothers, but they had helped with the founding of Lo. They had grandchildren who were old. I don’t think I had ever surprised them before. I wasn’t sure I liked surprising them now. I didn’t want to tell them. I especially didn’t want to tell Tino, my Human father. He was supposed to stay with me through my metamorphosis—since he was my same-sex Human parent. But I did not feel drawn to him as I should have. Nor did I feel drawn to Lilith, my birth mother. She was Human, too, and what was happening to me was definitely not a Human thing. Strangely I didn’t want to go to my Oankali father, Dichaan, either, and he was my logical choice after Tino. My Oankali mother, Ahajas, would have talked to one of my fathers for me. She had done that for two of my brothers who had been afraid of metamorphosis—afraid they would change too much, lose all signs of their Humanity. That could happen to me, though I had never worried about it. Ahajas would have talked to me and for me, no matter what my problem was. Of all my parents, she was the easiest to talk to. I would have gone to her if the thought of doing so had been more appealing—or if I had understood why it was so unappealing. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t shy or afraid, but when I thought of going to her, I felt first drawn, then … almost repelled.