use your legs. I cannot lift you by myself.”
Admonished brain activated muscles, and Pyreau found himself erect amidst Armageddon. Stepping back, the thranx looked him up and down. “You wear the uniform of a soldier.”
“I…I am a soldier, but a chaplain. Do you know what that is?”
Antennae searched in opposing directions to parse as much of the acrid atmosphere as possible. “I’m afraid not. You are with the rescue team that arrived promptly but too late.”
“Yes.” Pyreau nodded. “I’m sorry about that. We got here as fast as we could.”
“I am certain that you did.” A truhand gestured at the quiescent carnage surrounding them: waves of dead flesh frozen in midcollapse. “There will be trouble over this. Loud whistling and clicking and abundant recriminations to go around.” Golden compound eyes rose to meet the padre’s. “Enough for both species. What does a chaplain do?”
Pyreau gestured helplessly at the massed bodies, the majority of which were thranx. “I represent one of humankind’s principal religions and, when necessary, all of them. I provide spiritual counsel to the men and women of the unit I happen to be assigned to, lead them in prayer on certain traditional days and also in private, minister to the sick at heart, and perform specific ceremonies that have religious overtones, such as the burying of the dead.”
A truhand and foothand rose to gesture in the direction of the fanatic Pyreau had just shot. “You certainly ministered to him.”
Pyreau did not look back—not because he was incapable of it, but because he did not want to. “I had no choice. It was him or me. Although I believe in a life after death, I’m in no hurry to trade this one for the other. It will come in its proper sequence, as it does to all of us.”
“An interesting assertion of belief.” Reaching up and across with a foothand, the thranx tapped his own right shoulder with all four fingers. In the manner of thranx body decoration, a small, glistening black circle was inlaid in the hard blue-green chitin. Even in the dim light of the damaged corridor it shimmered with iridescence. “Do you know what this insignia signifies?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” The young priest badly wanted a drink of water. “I haven’t paid much attention to the details of contact between your kind and mine. There hasn’t been much new information available.”
“I know.” The thranx made a gesture that the good father did not recognize for the expression of resignation that it was. “Your people are preoccupied with the Pitar. About them you want to know everything.” This observation was quietly stated and in no way accusing, but Pyreau felt oddly embarrassed just the same.
“It’s not my job to decide what appears on the tridee. I have nothing to do with the media. If it means anything, I’d like to know more about both species.” To prove that he’d been listening, he nodded slightly in the direction of the black inlay. “What does it signify?”
This time all four hands wove a quick but complex pattern in the air. “It means that we are colleagues.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am…I do not have an exact translation that would fit a Terranglo term with which I am familiar. You might call me a consulting physicist of the soul. I am also a counselor. It is a traditional calling that was in place even in pretechnological times. When a member of the hive has a question that cannot be answered by anyone else, by a specialist or teacher or artist, they come to such as myself. We attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible, to understand that which has no explanation, and to provide some solace in the absence of cognition. We are the last resort when reason and logic fail, a repository of compassion in the face of a cold and indifferent universe.” He ambled forward on four legs to examine the body of the xenophobe Pyreau had just killed. “Of course, we make a lot of it up as we go along, but in
Admonished brain activated muscles, and Pyreau found himself erect amidst Armageddon. Stepping back, the thranx looked him up and down. “You wear the uniform of a soldier.”
“I…I am a soldier, but a chaplain. Do you know what that is?”
Antennae searched in opposing directions to parse as much of the acrid atmosphere as possible. “I’m afraid not. You are with the rescue team that arrived promptly but too late.”
“Yes.” Pyreau nodded. “I’m sorry about that. We got here as fast as we could.”
“I am certain that you did.” A truhand gestured at the quiescent carnage surrounding them: waves of dead flesh frozen in midcollapse. “There will be trouble over this. Loud whistling and clicking and abundant recriminations to go around.” Golden compound eyes rose to meet the padre’s. “Enough for both species. What does a chaplain do?”
Pyreau gestured helplessly at the massed bodies, the majority of which were thranx. “I represent one of humankind’s principal religions and, when necessary, all of them. I provide spiritual counsel to the men and women of the unit I happen to be assigned to, lead them in prayer on certain traditional days and also in private, minister to the sick at heart, and perform specific ceremonies that have religious overtones, such as the burying of the dead.”
A truhand and foothand rose to gesture in the direction of the fanatic Pyreau had just shot. “You certainly ministered to him.”
Pyreau did not look back—not because he was incapable of it, but because he did not want to. “I had no choice. It was him or me. Although I believe in a life after death, I’m in no hurry to trade this one for the other. It will come in its proper sequence, as it does to all of us.”
“An interesting assertion of belief.” Reaching up and across with a foothand, the thranx tapped his own right shoulder with all four fingers. In the manner of thranx body decoration, a small, glistening black circle was inlaid in the hard blue-green chitin. Even in the dim light of the damaged corridor it shimmered with iridescence. “Do you know what this insignia signifies?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” The young priest badly wanted a drink of water. “I haven’t paid much attention to the details of contact between your kind and mine. There hasn’t been much new information available.”
“I know.” The thranx made a gesture that the good father did not recognize for the expression of resignation that it was. “Your people are preoccupied with the Pitar. About them you want to know everything.” This observation was quietly stated and in no way accusing, but Pyreau felt oddly embarrassed just the same.
“It’s not my job to decide what appears on the tridee. I have nothing to do with the media. If it means anything, I’d like to know more about both species.” To prove that he’d been listening, he nodded slightly in the direction of the black inlay. “What does it signify?”
This time all four hands wove a quick but complex pattern in the air. “It means that we are colleagues.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am…I do not have an exact translation that would fit a Terranglo term with which I am familiar. You might call me a consulting physicist of the soul. I am also a counselor. It is a traditional calling that was in place even in pretechnological times. When a member of the hive has a question that cannot be answered by anyone else, by a specialist or teacher or artist, they come to such as myself. We attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible, to understand that which has no explanation, and to provide some solace in the absence of cognition. We are the last resort when reason and logic fail, a repository of compassion in the face of a cold and indifferent universe.” He ambled forward on four legs to examine the body of the xenophobe Pyreau had just killed. “Of course, we make a lot of it up as we go along, but in
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