The Far Shore of Time

I could have wished for fewers ifs and maybes, but I could feel my heart speeding up. Pirraghiz was looking at me curiously. She had certainly heard every word, but if she wanted to say something about the exchange, she didn’t have a chance, because just then the singing stopped at some signal I hadn’t caught. Everyone was silent. Even the robots paused in their rounds for a moment, as the Greatmother began to speak.

“Nestmates and honored guest,” she began-I noticed the “honored guest” was in the singular; Pirraghiz and I were not included. “We rejoice at this time at the reunion of a lost nest with the grand consortium of the Horch. We are greatly, and most pleasantly, surprised to have Djabeertapritch, descendant of our people of the Two Eights, with us. I have made him a promise, which I will keep at this celebration.” She darted a coquettish look in Beert’s direction. “What I have not decided,” she went on, sounding like a teasing Santa Claus with a young child on his lap, “is whether it is better to prolong his suspense a bit longer or to reveal the surprise to him now.” That brought on murmurs from the audience. I could hear that some of them were saying, “Now!” while others said, “No, make him wait,” and a fair number were speaking what I took to be jocular obscenities. But they were all laughing about it, even the Greatmother. (“I believe they have had a great deal of the intoxicating liquid,” Pirraghiz whispered in my ear.)

The Greatmother bent her neck to her least grandson, who was tugging at her arm. I noticed that Kofeeshtetch was hanging upside down relative to her, but she didn’t seem to care-well, that didn’t matter as much for the Horch as it would for us, since their heads could go every which way.

Then she lifted her head, giggling. “My least grandson asks to have the surprise now,” she announced. “Djabeertapritch? Do you agree?”

Beert wasn’t doing any of the laughing, seemed to have something serious on his mind, but he rose to the occasion. “I will be pleased with whatever pleases the Greatmother,” he said diplomatically.

“Yes, of course. Very well. This surprise is a very great fool, Djabeertapritch. She was unwise enough to come to this place after the fighting had begun, and we did not allow her to leave.” The Greatmother paused for dramatic effect, then issued an order to the robots. “Bring the prisoner in!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Every Horch head in the banquet hall turned toward one of the vertices of the tetrahedron, where the diners were scrambling to get out of the way. They needed to, for what entered was a procession.

First came a fighting machine in full combat alert, backing into the room with its weapons trained on what followed. That was a couple: a Christmas tree chained to a creature with spindly legs and arms and a head like a jack-o’-lantern. Another fighting machine brought up the rear, also with dead aim on the captive.

I knew what she was at once.

I was in the presence of one of the Others. One of Dopey’s Beloved Leaders. A member of the species that, at this very moment, was casually deciding whether it would be more advantageous to annihilate everyone I knew and loved, or turn them into abject slaves.

When Pirrzghiz put one worried arm on me I realized I was shaking. I gave her a nod to reassure her, but I couldn’t stop.

I wasn’t the only one affected. For most of the Horch this poor captive was old news, but not for Beert. His neck and both arms were stretched out toward her, frozen motionless, and his little snake mouth was open in shock.

The Greatmother made that choking, staccato sound that was a Horch laugh. “Well, Djabeertapritch,” she said, delighted with her effect. “How do you like your surprise? Would you like to speak to her? Ask her some questions about how it feels to be a captive, as you were to her people?”

He managed to make a slow, negative shake of his head, but that was it. The female Beloved Leader was not so reluctant. She turned that great, round, scarecrow head toward Beert and spoke through her huge teeth. “I excrete into the mouth of your Greatmother,” she said in a shrill, piping, venomous voice. “I will do the same to all of you when the Eschaton comes and you organisms are all shrieking in pain as we trample you under our feet.”

She was speaking perfect Horch, far better than Beert’s farm-boy drawl. I saw the reason: one of those ribbed, golden scabs tucked under the swell of the pumpkin where it joined the skinny neck. When she leaned forward to hiss at Beert, I saw, too, that the last link of the chain that held her to the Christmas tree had actually been grafted into her flesh. They were taking no chances with this representative of the ultimate enemy.

The Greatmother was switching her head about ominously. I thought for a moment there was going to be a major hissing match between the two of them, if not something more physical. Beert prevented it. He spoke up.