Carnival

Michelangelo found himself quite unintentionally disarmed by this haphazard pedantry, though he fought it. He straightened, breathing slowly, and let his hands fall to his sides. He kept his balance light, weight centered on the balls of his feet. He would move if he had to and try to look calm in the meantime. The preliminary indicators were that Kii was nonaggressive. It might be a sort of…user-friendly interface bot designed for a Dragon. The alien’s equivalent of an application assistant.

“Request clarification,” Kusanagi-Jones said.

Kii’s tongue flickered. It settled another notch, lowering itself to its transparent belly, drawing its head back, neck a sinuous curve. The tension in Kusanagi-Jones’s gut untwisted another notch, the lizard in the back of his skull reacting to a lowering of threat level—as if the Dragon’s appearance of ease mattered at all. Any attack, if it came, need have nothing to do with a hologram; a laser concealed in a wall port would suffice.

“You are a member of a population in competition with the local population,” Kii said. “But your transmissions indicate that your allegiance to your own population is…” It paused again, head rocking and eyes upcast. Kusanagi-Jones imagined the Dragon was searching for an unfamiliar word again. “—spurious.”

Kusanagi-Jones licked his lips. It wasn’t technicallya question. More an observation. Maybe he could return a question of his own. “Are you House? Wait, belay that. Are you the intelligence known as House?”

“Kii is…”

Kusanagi-Jones thought that the approximations occurred when it was searching for a word in New Amazonia’s patois that matched a concept in its own language. He waited it out.

“Kii is not-House,” it said. “House is House. House is a construct. Kii is of the Consent.”

Not I. Kii.Maybe not a personal pronoun. But it understood them—it used youfluently enough. So there was some reason it didn’t think of itself as I. Or even we,the logical choice if it were a hive-mind. “Kii is a virtual intelligence?”

“Kii is translated.” It stopped again, nictitating. “Transformed. Molted,” it said, and then, triumphantly, the spiked fingertips flipping up to reveal cream-and-ultramarine wing leather in blurred, torn-paper patterns: “Fledged!”

Kusanagi-Jones put his hand against his mouth. He pressed it there, and thought. “You’re a transcendent intelligence,” he said. Kii blinked great translucent eyes. “What do you want?”

What he meant was, why haven’t you killed me the way you killed the last Coalition forces to land here?But that seemed an impolitic question. I’m not trained for first contact—

But this wasn’t first contact either. First contact was handled. First contact was more than a hundred Terran years ago. It didn’t matter if the New Amazonians knew that the Dragons still inhabited their cities, after a fashion—which was something that Kusanagi-Jones wasn’t prepared to assume—because the Dragons definitely knew rather a lot about humans.

“Your population is expansionist,” Kii said, after it had given Kusanagi-Jones adequate time to consider the stupidity of his blurted question. “But intelligent. Kii wishes to encourage dйtente.” It showed him teeth, back-curved spikes suitable for holding and shredding meat. “Kii is not eager to repeat, no, reiterate a massacre.”

“I am not eager to be massacred,” Kusanagi-Jones replied. “You’ve ethics.”

“You have aesthetics,” Kii said. “But no Consent. No true Consent.” It hissed, frustrated. “You act in ways that are not species-ordained.”

“And you do not?” It was surprisingly easy to relax with the thing. For all its alienness, it made no threatening gestures, did nothing but occasionally tilt its head and twitch the spikes of its wingtips into a more comfortable pose.

“Kii follows Consent,” it said. That ripple of the downy feathers on its neck almost looked like a skin-shiver. “Consent is…ordained.”

It was watching him. Trying the words in turn and seeing how he reacted. Testing them on him, until something—his body language, his scent—told it he was understanding as it wished.

“I follow my leaders, too.”

Could that be the thing’s answer to a smile? After 150 years of observation, it must comprehend human body language. Especially if it was reading his responses.

But he was a Liar.

“Biochemical,” it explained after another pause.

Oh. Ah. Not a group mind, then, but something closer to a political structure…albeit one enforced by biology. Or programming, in the case of a life form that wasn’t biological anymore. “Consent?”

“Yes.”