Analog SFF, April 2012 Read online

  “Here we are.” I shut off the motor.

  We climbed out and stretched our legs in a clearing by a mossy brook. Karen looked expectantly into one of the big trees that arced up in a giant spiral, massive limbs curving out from its trunk horizontally before climbing toward the sky. Its bark had been worn smooth by generations of nomads climbing to the woven bowers they built in the cup at the base of each branch. There were five or six of these dwellings scattered through the woods close by. As I expected, no one was home.

  Karen tucked her pant legs into the tops of her boots against the bugs. “Lloyd said they'd be here.”

  “They will be.” I pulled supplies from the rover. “There are always a few families here, this time of year.”

  “But not necessarily today.”

  “They're probably in the woods looking for berries.” I laid out the blanket on the grass. “They'll be back before dark.”

  Karen settled herself on the blanket. She was interested in everything, and as we sat in the shade and ate lunch she interrupted herself continuously to point out bugs, small birds or brilliant bits of flora while quizzing me about being a translator, about my husband's research into nomad neurophysiology, about how the operators farmed miles of open prairie by remote control, and about everyone who lived in Tumbling River. Then we drowsed in the hum of the afternoon heat, watching the trees’ photosynthetic filaments flutter overhead like perpetual motion machines.

  Karen shook me. “Amanda.”

  I swam back to consciousness. The shadows had shifted; it was mid-afternoon.

  Karen pointed to a pair of eyes in the depths of the foliage.

  I climbed to my feet.

  High forehead, arching mane of symmetrical black and white stripes, tufted shoulders. “Fred!”

  “Fred?” Karen whispered.

  “Names are a bit tricky in their language, so we just call him Fred.” I opened my hands, low and to the sides in the nomad style of greeting. Karen stood behind me near the vehicle, watching.

  There was a rustling in the bush to Fred's left and I picked out Mae and Dot, and after a moment, Grandpa. Fred took his time, but after a bit he came forward. "Who's the new one?"

  "Our replacement doctor. This is Karen. Karen, this is Fred.”

  Fred held his hand up and I tapped his knuckles with my own, in the nomad style. I could see Karen was a little relieved that Fred was shorter than she, and she took his nudity in stride. She lifted her knuckles and Fred tapped them gently. Mae, Fred's wife, a slight creature, came forward dragging her baby, keeping her good eye to us. The older child, Tosh, scampered forward curiously. Grandpa, with his characteristic limp, and Dot, Fred's sister, came up behind them.

  "Where are the boys?" I asked. “Fred and Mae have two more.”

  Fred grunted noncommittally. "Hunting birds." He lowered his sack to the ground—I could see Karen noting it was an Alliance micro-weave bag—and produced fruits and tubers and a couple of dead mice. "You will eat with us." He rummaged at the base of a dwelling tree for a gourd to bring water.

  Each of us brought out what we had to share and we sat in the grass. The baby, covered except for her face in sparse, fluffy blond hair, crawled up to me, and using my shoulders to bring herself to stand on two sturdy legs, poked an inquisitive finger in my ear, feeling the cartilage all around. I yipped as she bit my ear with little needle teeth. The adults pressed their lips together and snorted, exchanging delighted glances, their expression of laughter. I chuckled, but gently pushed the little one away. Karen squinted at the bruising on the child's face.

  Tosh scampered to the picnic blanket and took things out of my pack. I'd learned a long time ago that everything brought to the nomads’ place had to be locked up or considered disposable.

  Dot produced an Alliance hairbrush and settled in to comb brambles from the graying pelt that covered Grandpa's back, upper arms and the backs of his thighs. Her own mane and dorsal coat shone deep mahogany—except for a few tufts, marking scars—darker than her brown-tanned skin. The white crest at the front of her mane gave her the wide-eyed look of a VR star captured by a camera's flash. I'd long thought Dot more attractive than mousy Mae, with the scar that half-closed her left eye.

  "Is Karen married?" Without meeting the doctor's gaze, Mae handed Karen a pale tuber with clumps of dirt clinging to it.

  Karen turned at the sound of her name, inexpertly pronounced but recognizable. She accepted the gift, unsure how to eat it.

  "Yes. Her husband cares for many of our children," I replied, pulling the toddler's finger out of my ear again.

  There were many grunts of approval at this.

  The baby climbed over my lap to investigate my other ear.

  A shriek startled us. Fred had leapt up the trunk of the nearest tree home, his fingers clamped around Tosh's ankle before the boy could disappear into the upper branches. Fred yanked him from his perch and the boy tumbled with a thump to the ground. He was about to rise and run when Fred landed beside him, slapped his head and bit his shoulder with long, sharp incisors.

  Tosh lay, silently quivering, his shoulder bleeding, as Fred returned to our circle.

  "This is yours, Manda." Fred tossed a gold foil package on the grass before me: a disposable tent, one of half a dozen I owned.

  Karen blanched and her nails dug into the tuber she still held. To her credit, she remained seated and silent.

  "Kids." Mae shook her head in gentle exasperation. "Sorry, Manda." She helped herself to a power bar I'd added to the banquet.

  "We found one of your beehives, gone wild," Fred said, munching on one of the mice. "Tomorrow, we'll show you where it is. Karen will like the honey."

  “Tomorrow” could mean anytime in the next week or two. "That's great," I responded, detaching the toddler, whose long toenails were scratching my back as she tried to climb my head, and handed her back to Mae. "But today we must leave soon."

  "That was a short visit." Grandpa scowled his disapproval of our rudeness.

  "We came because Karen has a gift for you, but she has to get back to her own child."

  Grandpa's face cleared in understanding and the others grunted their respect.

  I translated as Karen explained the vaccination procedure and her request to collect baseline data on their health. Though the procedures were noninvasive, the nomads were skeptical until Fred said, "You may protect me. I will decide."

  Karen nodded; with professional efficiency, she applied the vaccine to the skin just below his ear. She put a new pad on her diagnostic machine, labeled it, and pressed it to his wrist.

  Fred sat back watching Karen, and waited a moment. "I see no harm," he announced at last.

  Dot handed her brush to Grandpa and came around the little circle to Karen, and Karen repeated the ritual.

  Mae came next, and then allowed Karen to treat the baby.

  "And Tosh?" Karen asked. "And your other sons?"

  "Tosh," Fred agreed. "The boys, tomorrow."

  Tomorrow. Well, there would be other tomorrows. Karen took her medical kit to where Tosh still lay in the grass. The adults returned to eating a final few delicacies, chatting and stretching out in the sun's slanting rays.

  Tosh watched with increasing interest as Karen applied the vaccine and took a reading on his health. I also saw her feel his arms and legs, and inspect the bite on his shoulder. She gave me a brief questioning look, and I shook my head. She frowned, and sprayed the boy's shoulder with an antibiotic anyway.

  Seeing she was done, I made our good-byes and we departed.

  * * * *

  Dusk slowed our trip through the forest, but we emerged onto the prairie track before the long line of dusty farming machines rotating into town for maintenance, which was a blessing. We rolled down the windows and took off the bug nets, and I watched the glorious sunset as Karen dictated her medical notes. The evening breeze was welcome after the heat of the day.

  “That little boy. Tosh.” Karen put away her pod. “He didn't su
ffer any broken bones from his fall today, but he has a limb deformity I want to check. It could be a badly healed break.”

  “We don't visit the nomads on a regular basis,” I said, slowing for a particularly deep pothole.

  “You know what I suspect.”

  I didn't respond.

  “Abuse.”

  I increased our speed a little to stay ahead of the dust gusting up from the farming machines on the track behind us.

  “It's pretty clear,” she said. “Mae's eye. Dot's scars. Grandpa's limp. And what we saw today.”

  “Alliance law would say we shouldn't interfere.”

  “Alliance law! I don't see a lot of evidence that Lloyd or anyone else on this planet is concerned about Alliance law. And the Alliance does have laws about abuse.”

  I searched through the deepening twilight for sparks on the horizon that would indicate we were approaching Tumbling River. I wished Karen would stop talking about Tosh.

  “You've been here eight years. Am I wrong?”

  “No.” The exchange between Tosh and Fred replayed in my mind. And other incidents.

  “But?”

  “No ‘but.'” The dry track became firmer and I picked up speed. “You're right. This isn't the first time we've seen . . . I guess, family violence. Some in town are pretty upset about it.”

  “And what have they done about it?” She braced herself against the jolting of the rover.

  I shrugged, feeling rotten. “Not much, I guess.”

  “Nothing?”

  I avoided a rock. “Lloyd's talked to some of the nomads.”

  “Who?”

  Who? “The nomads don't have government or elders or chiefs.”

  “And have Lloyd's discussions made any difference?”

  The lights of town winked in the distance. I felt as though Karen were grilling me, as if she held me accountable. “Not really.”

  “What do the nomads say?”

  I shrugged. “This is how you raise kids. It's good for them.”

  “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” she said with disgust. “Has anyone suggested there are other ways to discipline?”

  “That's tough, Karen. That brings us right into cultural non-interference.”

  Karen gave me a look that asked since when was Lloyd, the Corporation, or even the Alliance really concerned about cultural noninterference? When I dodged her hint, she sat back the best she could in the rocking vehicle and glared out the window.

  Sunset faded and the prairie sped by, and I was relieved when she didn't bring up the topic again.

  * * * *

  Doc had only vaccinated the few nomad families who traveled close enough to one of our settlements to come in touch with colonists. Karen, on the other hand, had me question the nomads she vaccinated to discern their contact patterns, pointing out that microbes could move well back into the hinterlands on the goods we gave them, infecting nomads who'd never met a colonist.

  In our travels together we saw a lot of evidence that many adult nomads—not just Fred—disciplined their children to the point of injury. Karen kept notes, and when she judged the time was right, presented them to Lloyd.

  Lloyd eyed her and said he'd look into it.

  She also shared her data with anyone who would listen, which pissed Lloyd off, because then he got complaints from all the villages. He asked Karen to let him handle the situation—in other words, to keep her nose out of it—but they both knew she was within her rights to share her information.

  * * * *

  A couple of months after Karen and Michael arrived—a busy time when the second quarter's harvest was almost in and the Corporation was already putting seed machines onto the fields for the next planting—I was sitting with a cup of mint tea at Jasmine's Café reading over a treaty Lloyd was negotiating with the nomads for land to be used as an airport, checking for errors in the translation software. Jasmine had a couple of tables under an awning that kept the heat off in the dry season, and today, sheltered me from the rain. Dan, my husband, was scheduled to return from his xenoneurology conference before the third quarter was out, but I was feeling restless and lonely.

  It was mid-afternoon when Karen nudged my elbow. “Hi.”

  Sam, her four-year-old, hung from one arm and she wrestled with an umbrella in the other.

  I flipped my pod to sleep and pulled out a chair. “You just saved me from having to sort out a mess of irregular verbs that don't conjugate properly in the software I wrote. Tea?”

  “Love some.” Karen sat in the chair.

  “Mummy!”

  “Today was a special day at school.” Karen pulled off her rain slicker. “A nomad family's in town, and the auntie brought three little ones to school. Wish you'd been there to translate. Michael turned it into a lesson on alien-Alliance communication.”

  “Mummy!”

  “But Sam isn't old enough for school.” I ordered Karen's tea.

  The child in question flopped to the veranda and rolled into a third chair, knocking it over.

  Karen righted the chair. “It was a good opportunity, so Michael suggested I bring him. But he's tired now. We're going home for a snack and a rest before supper.”

  “Mummy!” Sam threw his face into his mother's lap.

  “Here.” I fished in my pocket. “Can I buy him a cookie?”

  Sam's face poked over the edge of the table.

  “Well,” Karen smiled. “We usually try for a healthier snack, but he's been pretty good all afternoon.”

  “Can I? Can I?” Sam hopped on one foot.

  “All right.”

  I gave him a credit. “Just ask Jasmine for the one you want.”

  He snatched the credit from my hand and ran toward the door.

  “Say thank you!” Karen called.

  Sam poked his head back through the door. “Thank you!” And was gone.

  “So Dan will be back next month?” Karen smiled as Jasmine's daughter brought tea. “What's he presenting at the conference?”

  “Integration of sensorimotor pathways in nomad children,” I told her. “He's pretty pumped about it. He found a relationship between environmental stimuli and develop—”

  A scream shrilled from the café, accompanied by the thump of something falling.

  “Sam!” Karen sprinted from the table before I even recognized the voice as her son's. I rushed into the café after her.

  Sam lay, still and white, next to a toppled table, cookie smashed on the floor beside him. Lem, the nomad who'd brought his family to town, bent over him, fangs bared and fist raised. Jasmine and the other patrons were frozen in a tableau of horror.

  Karen inserted herself at her boy's side as Lem straightened.

  "Lem." I nodded toward the door. "It's crowded in here. Let's go outside."

  Lem ducked a nod, and picking up a loaf of bread, ambled with me into the rain. "You like my rain jacket?" He tucked the bread into the oversized pocket of the yellow slicker. "Lloyd gave it to me. It's your custom to be covered." He bobbed his head in respect.

  The rain battered my shoulders. "The little boy. In there." I gestured toward the café. "Did you hit him?"

  "Yes. He wasn't watching where he was going. He ran into me."

  "Lem, you can't hit colonists. It makes them very angry."

  Lem reflected on this. He nodded. "A custom," he said.

  "A strong custom," I confirmed. "Very strong."

  "Very well. I will remember." He touched my knuckles with his, and strolled toward the school. I doubted if he would remember.

  * * * *

  Sam suffered a “mild” concussion, but Karen said there was no such thing. The effects of concussions were cumulative and led ultimately to brain damage, she said. Michael was incensed and he hounded Lloyd, but if it did any good, neither Michael nor Karen could see it. Lloyd and I spoke with Lem, and I think Lloyd tried to explain to Michael and Karen that living on another sentient being's planet came with costs and cautions. We weren't here to int
erfere with the nomads’ culture. “'Even with its dangers, life in Tumbling River is a hell of a lot better than life on some space station,'” Karen quoted him, shaking her head.

  Neither Karen nor Michael was satisfied, but it was clear that the matter would be dropped. Lloyd suggested cultural sensitivity and prudence be added to the school curriculum, then took off for a couple of weeks’ negotiations with some of the more distant tribes. Michael seized on this idea and implemented it immediately; and, to his credit, taught a balanced viewpoint that didn't vilify the nomads.

  Dan came home and I took a week's holiday, during which nothing outside the two of us mattered. Then life returned to normal, with Dan spending a week in the bush for every forty-eight hours he was at home, and me going back to feeling lonely and restless.

  * * * *

  The third quarter ended, and with it, the rain.

  Dan and I were sitting on our veranda after dinner one evening; he, working on a paper on infant brain development in nomads, and I, flipping through local news items on my pod. The sky sparkled with constellations. Faint conversation and the glow of pods drifted to us from two or three of our neighbors’ verandas. Someone up the road—the McTaggarts, likely—had a campfire. The smell of wood smoke and the hum of distant harmonies underlay a perfect evening.

  “Did you hear?” I sipped my wine.

  “Hmm?” Dan silenced his earbuds.

  “They're going to put gravel down on the first five miles of the road onto the savanna.” I scanned ahead in the article.

  “Waste of money.” Dan flicked his pod to sleep. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He'd been analyzing data all day. “The fuel cell factory'll be online next quarter. Won't need the roads. Good thing, too.”

  An engine roared in the distance. I closed my pod and shut off the bug screen to let my eyes adjust to the dark, and peered down the road. “I wonder if that's Karen.”

  “Awfully late.” Dan cradled his beer in his lap and put his feet up on the stool.

  “I was talking to Michael before dinner.” I tracked the sound of the engine as the rover approached. “He said she was called out to one of the seeder fleets south of town. An accident.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think the operator twisted an ankle or something, tripping on the stairs in the control tower. Not major. Michael was surprised she wasn't back.”