Beowulf's Children Part 41

Her hand stroked his cheek. From the dark of her hindbrain she felt the hope rising. "But we don't have to do that. I'd be happy-"

"No!" And her hand froze where it was. "My children will be perfect." He blinked, and then smiled, almost shyly. "At least, as perfect as we can make them."

Permission. She didn't have to be pregnant. Swollen, clumsy, imprisoned . . . But a tiny part of her had awakened, and was watching him, sensing something wrong.

He babbled on. "They will be our children. And they will own this land. You ask me if I love you. Can I come any closer than that? Do those words mean anything to you? Anything at all?" His weight was on her, and Jessica tried to fight. No. She wasn't ready emotionally. There was too much . . .

Truth?

In the air between them. She needed a moment to prepare herself, to slip back into the comfortable sh.e.l.l of sensuality she understood so well, nurtured by Sir John Woodruff and the Perfumed Garden, and the Quodoshka and the manuals of Taoist s.e.xuality, and the erotic works of a world left far behind. But this moment wasn't one of the complex, artistically perfect couplings she had known with Aaron Tragon. This was something too d.a.m.ned similar to rape. She could call out, and it would stop-but so would any link between them. His was a need so deep that it burned. The hands on her, the mouth upon her, the thighs, hot and hard, that forced her legs open were somehow vulnerably, endearingly clumsy.

This wasn't the man she knew and loved. This was almost a boy, a boy who needed something that she couldn't quite bring herself to give.

And so he took it.

And took it.

And she pushed at him, and tore at him, and came to the edge, but didn't quite call out for help. And Aaron held her more tightly than he ever had, more insistently, his body one driving urgency.

He arched, and flushed, his face suffused with a kind of ecstatic, incandescent madness, his eyes, looking off to the horizon as he spasmed, seeing . . . what? What world of spires and mazes? What cities and glorious constructions of the far future? What world-girdling belt of roads and skyways that he might never live to see, but which children unborn might inherit?

Or did he see something else? His G.o.d, the grendel, perched upon a kill, perhaps his own torn corpse? And was this moment, and all of the other moments that they had had together, nothing but a means of slaving that moment off, of giving it some kind of meaning?

Did Aaron and her father share the same nightmare?

And was that why she loved them both?

Aaron collapsed atop her. His breath was hot and sweet, his hands curled up around her shoulders, his face tucked into her breast, his breath hot against her. She stroked his head and whispered to him, and knew that something had changed between them. She wasn't certain what, or what it would cost them. She knew only that there would be a cost, as certainly as Tau Ceti rose and set upon both Man and Grendel.

Chapter 25.

ASIA MINOR.

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?

O, stay and hear, your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low.

Trip no further pretty sweeting, Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter.

What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Twelfth-Night They were calling the Scribebeast "Asia."

"It's not that big," Jessica giggled, but Ruth's name stuck anyway.

Aaron had made time and commandeered the NickNack, and all to come see Asia. He'd brought Ruth Moskowitz and both of their chamels. Justin wondered what Jessica thought of that. He hadn't seen her in two days.

Ruth and Aaron rode Zwieback and Silver along the Scribe's long blue lip. One great eye was tracking them.

"Not there," Justin said into the comm card. "Aaron, see me? I'm on the rise east of you, with four tall horsemane trees behind me. Asia will go around the trees. You'll get a great view of the life-forms on her back . . . "

Why bother? They were halting now, both chamels, much too close to one of the great eyes. He hadn't really expected Aaron to take suggestions.

Anyway, were they really in danger? Asia flowed like a continent across the savannah. Or like a crippled old woman; you could observe motion. Justin sighed and raised his war specs. He and Ruth would get here eventually. It was nearly lunchtime, and their lunch was on its way, packed in the belly of a skeeter.

Even the chamels didn't seem nervous. One great eye gazed upon them, and that would have had Justin twitchy. Ruth gaped in delight and awe.

That didn't surprise Justin. But Aaron was doing that too: mouth open, face empty. Had any human being ever seen him like this? He suddenly turned Zwieback and trotted toward the hill. Ruth followed, belatedly.

Over the next hour most of the survey team gathered on the hill, skeeter, trikes, and all, to watch the pa.s.sing of Asia.

The trees were festooned with wet blue blankets.

The Earth Born insisted that Cadzie-blue blankets must go everywhere humans went on the continent. It was nearly their only demand, and not so onerous as all that; but the blankets didn't arrive clean. Mothers borrowed them first. Babies lived in them for a few days. The Earth Born never had to wash their baby blankets; they just sent them to the mainland.

And the survey team had finally had it with the smell. They'd been washing blankets in what had been a grendel lake and was now a samlon reservoir. Clean blankets would dry while Asia pa.s.sed.

Pterodons were wheeling above the Scribe; more held station above the watching humans. Ruth presently said, "Justin? The birds?"

"I pointed them out to Little Chaka. Then I had to listen to him lecture."

"They're eyes for the Scribe!"

"That's what Chaka thinks. The Harvester can't see through gra.s.s, but she can look up and see where the pterodons are. Early-warning system. If something came right at an eye she'd see it when it got close . . . what the h.e.l.l would she do then, dodge? For that matter, what would a Scribe be afraid of?"

"A cliff?" Ruth glanced sideways at Aaron, but he maintained his silence. "She'd see a cliff before she went over. And the pterodons would show her where water was, wouldn't they? Where there's water, there's carrion. Where there are grendels, they'd fly higher."

"I don't think Asia gives an icy d.a.m.n about grendels," Aaron said. "Ruth, a million years from now we still won't have found a bigger land beast."

"Breeding," Ruth said.

Justin frowned the question.

"How do Scribes find each other?"

"Maybe they're hermaphrodites."

Ruth shook her head. "Maybe, but-"

"Or maybe baby Scribe beasts are the males," Aaron said. "That's how grendels work it."

Jessica remembered what it had cost the First to learn that samlon were not only immature grendels, but were all males. They became females when they made the transformation from a fishlike swimmer that lived largely on pond sc.u.m to the adult amphibious omnivore.

"But think, the paths cross," Ruth said.

"Or used to cross," Justin said thoughtfully. "Ca.s.sandra, consider the Scribe beasts. Is it likely that the crossing patterns of their paths is random?"

"There is negligible probability that the crossings were caused by random walks," Ca.s.sandra said. "I record seven cases in which the paths altered to approach each other. This is from records of past decades. At present the probability that the paths will cross is under ten percent."

"They're avoiding each other now?"

"It would so appear."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," Justin said. "First they cross, now they don't. I betcha Ruth is right, the pterodons guide them, and now they're steering them away from each other."

"Why would that be?" Aaron demanded.

"Avalon Surprise!" Ruth shouted in glee. "Actually, I think it's got something to do with Edgar's variable star. The weather's changing, and the Scribes-"

Aaron wasn't listening. He was staring out at the Scribe beast.

Justin joined the group who were loading food on the tables. Cold snouter meat, turkey and turkey eggs, vegetables and heads of lettuce from Camelot. The mainland crops weren't in yet. A gla.s.s cauldron of water was beginning to boil. Katya and Little Chaka zipped open a bag that held water and three wriggling samlon, and tilted them into the pot. Chaka chopped rapidly with his wand of a chain saw at a stack of root vegetables, then threw them in in handfuls.

Aaron said, long and low, "Wow!"

The edge of Asia's sh.e.l.l was sc.r.a.ping the rocky outcropping at the foot of the hill. Aaron stood at the hill's crest, not eating. Justin, with a turkey leg in his hand, tried to guess what Aaron was seeing. He'd never before heard Aaron say Wow.

The rippling blue lip was nearly hidden. They caught glimpses . . .

"Wow," Justin repeated softly. He turned and shouted, "Hey!" Heads turned. "The lips!" Justin shouted. "The lips are the only soft part of the beast! Everything else is armored. Why don't the grendels tear into the lips?"

Little Chaka left his place at the soup pot and came trotting to look.

Justin cried, "Chaka, it's Cadzie blue!"

Aaron whooped and began running. Justin saw him s.n.a.t.c.h the chain saw from its place on a flat rock.

Chaka looked down, nodding. "Poison, likely enough. There are life forms on Earth that signal like that, with some distinctive color. Snakes and insects and such. 'I'm poison, get away.' Sometimes it's a bluff. Yes, that would . . . that would do it. The baby's blanket."

Aaron slowed as he approached Zwieback. Zwieback didn't shy; Ruth had trained him well. He spoke to the beast, then swung up. Zwieback began to move, to run. As he did, he faded from view. Justin watched, shaking his head and grinning.

They all stood at the edge of the cliff. Ruth was horrified. Justin was trying to find admiration in himself for Aaron. Admiration was all around him, at any rate, for the flying man on the nearly invisible chamel. Aaron rode straight toward the leading edge of Asia, then turned sharply to ride along her endless prow. The great eye of Asia watched placidly.

Aaron reached out with the slender wand of the chain saw, and slashed, and leaned far forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed. He rode away waving half a square meter of blue flag.

Chaka said to Justin, "Camelot has your photos, you know. Ca.s.sandra has the view through your war specs and Katya's. If that's Cadzie blue, it's a wonder Ca.s.sandra hasn't told us."

Justin shrugged. "Ca.s.sie's got ice on her mind too." The computer program had been damaged in the first grendel attack. Recovering most of its memory had been the task of years. Lost medical techniques were still killing people.

Asia was just beginning to react. Her eyes closed. Her prow dipped to the earth, closing her off to the world. Now she was all earth-colored sh.e.l.l, a shallow b.u.t.te spa.r.s.ely covered with nests.

Aaron pulled up whooping, just short of the dining table. The dead Scribeskin, taken with an edge of twenty-second-century sharpness, was only two or three millimeters thick. It was already beginning to wrinkle.

Aaron swung down, holding the swatch of blue high in one hand. Ruth was there. He swept her into his arms. And kissed her hard.

Ruth whispered in his ear.

Aaron froze. Then, "Wonderful!" he said cordially. "Your family will be so pleased!" He strode past her. Justin saw the shock on her face, and wondered for an instant, but he had to watch as Aaron let the slice of skin settle like a veil across a tree spread with Cadzie-blue blankets.

Justin turned away to hide the grin he couldn't stop.

Yes, it was Justin's idea. And if Aaron hadn't done something, Justin might have had the credit for solving Avalon's murder of Joe Sikes and Linda Weyland. But Aaron had stolen his thunder . . . and it had blown up in his hand.

Against the Cadzie-blue blanket, the thin piece of Scribeskin was conspicuously pale. The skin was the wrong color. Anyone could see it. Heads were shaking; Aaron was furious.

Ruth . . . Ruth handed Silver and Zwieback over to Katya, then spoke in low tones to Little Chaka. She pointed to Skeeter II, and then again toward distant Shangri-La. Chaka nodded. Ruth sat down next to him and stared at the ground.

It was a gorgeous, brilliant morning at Shangri-La. Clouds raced across the sky in streamers. The breeze was stiff and warm; still air would have made it an oven. The light . . . well. Dawn light had been different when Ruth was a child. Less dazzling, less . . . active? And Sol was even cooler than Tau Ceti, they said . . .

Less than two hours by Little Chaka's skeeter, and she was back at the base camp, back in a world where she didn't have to ache every time she looked at Aaron Tragon.

Horsemane trees stood huge and ancient along the eastern edge of the plateau that held their base camp. A ladder rose along the bare side of the biggest and oldest tree. Big Chaka held the ladder's foot. Little Chaka, at the top, reached around the bare side of the trunk and probed with a stick at the mane. A bit more than halfway up the tree, something hidden was nipping at his stick, shortening it in three-centimeter bites.

The Chakas might not have noticed a pair of long-armed crabs in the tree's peak. Three now, each as big as a small dog, leaned out of the brilliant green foliage as they peered down at the intruders. Ruth fished for her comm card without taking her eyes off the crabs.

Then she relaxed, because Edgar Sikes was on the far side of the tree with his face wrapped in war specs, and both Chakas were looking up. Edgar must have warned them. He was twitchy about top crabs, wasn't he? These might be related to the Camelot variety- Something fell slantwise from the sky. It smacked into one of the top crabs and knocked it free.

Trees hid the rest of the action, and Ruth mewed in frustration. Her hand was on the phone now, and she put it to her mouth and ear and- "Ca.s.sandra! Did you get that?" Edgar's voice.

"I have views through Chaka Junior's war specs and yours, Edgar.

Processing."

"Yah!" Edgar ran for the mess hall. Saw Ruth. Ran over, s.n.a.t.c.hed her wrist, and continued running. Startled at first, Ruth let him pull her, then laughed and tried to pull ahead.

She was barely keeping up. And some m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic part of her didn't want the exhilaration. She had earned her pain, dammit, and . . . oh, what the heck. It felt good to run. You couldn't mope when you were running.

They pa.s.sed over the drawbridge, ran past the open gate of the electrified fence, guard dogs yipping their greeting. Past a happy maze of half-erected buildings: bare wooden beams, naked iron struts, plastic sh.e.l.ls, drop-clothed wire frames.

The mess hall was a rounded half-cylinder on the main square. It was constructed of fabric on semicircular struts, sprayed with quick-setting foam. It was the first building erected, seven months before, and had served as both dormitory and cafeteria for weeks. Serving trays were an arc along the back. The big holostage was unfolded in its center, and Ruth made for that. Edgar was puffing, but heyyy, Edgar used to be a cripple!

Trish Chance, eating alone at the far end, stared at the intrusion.

Edgar sang, "Trish!"

"Don't have time, Edgar. Got to catch the Veldtbound skeeter in about fifteen minutes. Hi, Ruth."

"Make time, this time, just this once," Edgar said. "Ca.s.sandra, you done?"