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79.
He awoke some time later, feeling drained.
The headache was gone, replaced by a muzzy feeling as if he’d been drugged. He was inside a room...no, a hut insulated with brownish, dry vegetation over a bamboo-like frame. The floor was clean, beaten earth and the air smelled fresh and clean. A light pall of smoke blew in through the open door, along with a stream of bluish daylight. It must be high noon at L5, he thought as he shifted stiffly on his bed of straw wrapped in roughly woven but soft cloth. Then he remembered what had happened to Maryan, and all humor left him. He turned over onto his stomach, buried his face in his arms, and wept.
Some time later, several shapes entered the room. Three were male, carrying tall thin spears and wearing furs draped over one shoulder. The rest were female and wore what appeared to be the standard women’s garb—a short tunic with a basic dark background and lively foreground color patterns like circles, squares, or flowers. All wore bangling white bracelets. Two of the women carried small children in slings under their furry breasts. The third woman, wearing a white necklace, came closer carrying a bowl of something steaming that smelled like soup or stew. “Take this,” she said in a thickly accented English but he understood her well. “You need food.”
“I am going to go kill Nizin,” he said, scrabbling to get up.
She pushed him gently down. She spoke with a soft, slurry accent. “You can do that soon. Now you must rest and gather your strength.”
“How do you speak my language?”
She shook her head. “You speak our language. We learn from Lekto.” Of course—more of those virtual kiosks. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, frozen in the act of getting up. Seeing her free hand raised palm forward in a staying motion, he stopped and looked into her eyes. She was tiny. Even the tallest male was about the size of a small human boy maybe four years old. They had large heads in comparison to their spindly but robust bodies. They all seemed to have large bellies, which reminded Alex of an ancient people called Pygmies. They seemed to be a curious mix of Siirk and Takkar and maybe one or two other species. Their heads were large and angular like those of the Takkar, but were entirely covered, like the rest of their bodies, with silky whitish Siirk hair. Their palms, lips, and nipples had a natural reddish tinge, and their bellies a bluish tinge under the fur. They had almond-shaped eyes with yellow irises, set far apart over small, humanoid noses. Yes—they even had some human characteristics, as if the genetic stock of Alex and Maryan’s ancestors lived on in them.
Alex accepted a bowl of soup from her. It had an island of bread in it amid bits of vegetable and a few flecks of what looked like chicken meat. “You know of a kiosk?” Against hope, he thought, maybe he could reach the station’s central memory.
She pointed in some direction with one downy arm. “Kyost is a holy place in the world.”
“Good.” He used the bread to capture bits of flotsam. The soup was hot and tasty. “This is good.”
“Almena kreed adeewal,” she said.
“Eh?” He said, hungrily chewing and sipping. At times, steam rose over his eyes and obscured his view of her young, yellow, eager probing eyes.
As soon as the edge was off his hunger, Alex lost interest in the food and set it aside. He felt a numbing wall of pointlessness. The scene of Maryan being speared and dying before his eyes as she disappeared into the water kept playing over and over in his mind. The natives seemed to realize that and remained silent, hovering at the periphery of the spacious room. From their pained, dark looks and avoiding eyes, he sensed they understood his bereavement.
The young woman tried to cheer him. “Almen. You are almen, yes?” She pointed at him.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Olwi mina kreed adeewal, Lektro says.”
“So you have met the librarian.”
“Ribra—?”
“Librarian. Lector,” he explained patiently. Men entered the structure. He assumed were they were dignitaries or warriors. They stood with their spears against the wall, watching and probably reserving judgment.
“Lektro good,” she said. The others murmured assent.
She said: “My name is Leeree. And you are?”
“Alex.”
“Alek-es.”
“Alex.”
She practiced saying his name several more times. He watched her wrestling within the pinkness of her tiny mouth, with its glittering china teeth. “Alek-s. Aleks. Alex.” She tittered with delight at her accomplishment.
“The others,” he said, pointing around the room. “Your people.”
“My people LooWoo!” she said. She repeated: “LooWoo!”
“WoopWoop,” he said.
They laughed. She repeated slowly: “LooWoo!” she waved her arm in a rising motion to indicate the little “woop” at the end of the second syllable.
The others introduced themselves, too many for him to remember, with names like Leelee and Tzoofaa and the like, suggesting a culture with at least some brightness and happiness in it.
He grew tired and fell asleep. A woman’s hands appeared—for a moment he almost thought they were Maryan’s and then he realized as if a knife were going through him that there would never be another Maryan. The woman’s hands took the uneaten food away, and the aroma of food slowly gave way to the freshness of the air. It was a windy night out, and he heard the endless sighing of air in tree crowns, the ocean-like ebb and flow of leaves.
The sound lulled him to sleep, and someone put a blanket over him, covering him up to the ears so he would be warm. And he was.
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