Elizabeth Moon: Remnant Population

“Nnot go!” Bluecloak said loudly. “Ssstopp tim.”

Were they saying they would protect her ? Looking at them, she did not doubt they would try. But had they believed anything she’d told them of the humans’ weapons? Bright as they were, they would have no chance against those chunky firearms the military advisors carried, the weaponry mounted on the shuttle itself, let alone what the ship aloft might have. She didn’t want them to die for her; she wasn’t worth it. She tried to say that, and Bluecloak hissed; so did all the babies, like a multiple leak in an air line, three slightly different notes.

She was worth it; she was their nest-guardian, and the nest-guardian was the most important position the People had. All the eyes, adult and baby, stared at her as the toes drummed agreement. She: nest-guardian. She: important. Tears burned her eyes; she had never felt such affirmation. The toes stilled, and Bluecloak went on, as if explaining one plus one to a small child. What she had to do was make those other humans understand. They must let the People learn; they must help the People learn; they must be respectful of Ofelia and all nest guardians, and all nestmass. And the People would deal only with Ofelia… if Ofelia were taken away, they would not deal at all. Demands Ofelia understood, though she was not used to them from this direction. The creatures — the People — had been so reasonable before, so childlike… she pushed that thought back. Children demanded; she had demanded, when she was a child. The part of her that stayed behind had not been the oldest part, but the child part, the part determined to get its own way, to grow its own way… or, as these People would say, hunt its own scent-trail.

She could imagine how the team members — especially pompous Likisi — would react to all this. They were supposed to listen to her , to the person they thought of as a nuisance, almost an embarrassment? Her old voice embroidered this design at length, as the People sat waiting for her response. She had no education; she had no profession; she had no powerful family She was bringing a message they would not want to hear; neither messenger nor message would please them, and she would be the one to take the brunt of their displeasure. They would laugh at her; they would be angry; they would ignore her. The baby in her lap sat up, and tapped its right foot. She glanced down, and it stared at her, still tapping the right foot. Disagreement. Dissent. What was it disagreeing with? The bright eyes stared into hers, unblinking. Ofelia sighed.

This time, with this child, she would do it right. This time she would give what she had never really wanted to withhold. “You,” she said to the baby, feeling a red smile relaxing her face. “You want me to do the impossible, don’t you?”

Now it blinked, once, and the left foot drummed. Impossible. Do it. It couldn’t possibly understand; it was only days old. But other humans thought she couldn’t possibly understand, because she was too old, too stupid. Maybe all the humans were wrong — she about this child, the others about her. But these are aliens, the old voice argued. No. These were people, people with babies and children and grandmothers who took care of the babies, and she could not refuse the eagerness in those bright eyes, the desire in those little taloned hands.

It was impossible, it was all impossible, and she might as well get on with it. Impossible things didn’t get done by sitting around in the shade playing with children.

Nonetheless, before she left, she played with all three of them, even bending down so they could explore her hair, which seemed to fascinate them most.

When she got back to the village, in the hot afternoon, she still couldn’t quite believe what had happened. The old voice insisted she couldn’t possibly do what the creatures wanted. She had no talent, no training, no letters after her name. She was too old, too stupid, too ignorant. She closed her eyes a moment, and the babies’ golden eyes stared at her from the darkness behind her eyelids. She had promised the babies… she, the click-kaw-keerrr. She had to do it, possible or not. She could not even find the team members at first. They weren’t in the center, or in the lane. They hadn’t been in the sheep meadow, and she didn’t see them in the part of the river meadow visible from the lane angle. She looked into a few houses, but saw no one. It was too hot to walk all the lanes, look into all the houses and gardens. Could they be eating or resting in their own shelter? Ofelia walked down the lane, and saw the military advisors hunched over one of the old rusty trucks. One of them spotted her and nudged the other. They both stared.

She didn’t like to turn her back on them; they made her uneasy enough when they were in front of her. She came nearer, slowly, cautiously. She wasn’t even sure which one had hit her. They were both so big, so much the same shape, and their expressions seemed fixed in wary contempt. “What do you want?” one of them said, when she was close enough. He spoke loudly, as if he thought she was deaf.

“I wanted to speak to one of them,” she said. “Ser Likisi, or—”

“They’re not here,” the man said shortly, cutting her off. He turned back to the truck.

“Do you know when—” Ofelia began; again he interrupted, this time without looking at her. “No. They don’t tell me their schedule.” After a moment, she realized he was not angry with her, but with the others. He didn’t like them. She had suspected that before, but she had seen these men only in company with the others, where they would naturally mask their feelings. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Ofelia said formally. That got another look, this time of mild surprise, from both men. “Its nothing,” the other man said, not as loudly. “Was there anything else?” “No,” Ofelia said. “I just wanted to talk to them.” But curiosity held her. “What are you doing to the truck? Do you want to use it?”

They both laughed. “No, grandma,” said the second one. “It’s past that. But bossyboots told us to dismantle the engines, just in case those lizards could learn to use them.” Ofelia blinked. Bossyboots? Was that Ser Likisi, who certainly deserved that or a worse nickname, or Sera Stavi? And lizards? Was that how they saw the creatures?

“Shut up!” said the other one. He glared at Ofelia. “You won’t go telling our noble leader what we call him, will you.” It was not a question, but a command. His voice was heavy with threat. “No,” Ofelia said. “I won’t tell him.” Nor would she tell these two how much she agreed with them… or should she? “He’s very… sure of himself,” she said, making it obvious that she could have said it another way. The two men looked at each other and laughed.

“You could say that,” the milder one said. “You don’t like him either? He was a Sims corpsucker, I heard;

switched to government work when he got his ass in a crack—”

“Kedrick!”

“Never mind, Bo, this little grandma isn’t going to tell any tales. She doesn’t like lickspittle Likisi any better than we do, do you?” Ofelia grinned, but said nothing. Interesting how little humans varied, from one organization to another. She had heard comments like this before, from disgruntled colonist-trainees. “Want a little… refreshment?” the man asked her, miming a drink.

It had to mean something contraband; they would have something illegal, all such men did. She remembered how quickly after the colony’s Company advisors left someone had rigged a still to make alcohol from whatever they grew. She remembered the arguments, the fights, the smashing of one still, and the quick reappearance of foul-tasting fiery liquid passed from one to another in little flasks… “I’m too old,” she said, but she smiled at them. Men like this — she had known men like this all her life, even though these men would not have recognized the resemblance. “But thank you,” she said. One did not dare to act superior to men who dosed themselves with illegal substances. “’S all right, grandma,” the loud one said. “Just you don’t go tellin’ peerless leader, huh?”