searching there is truth, and sometimes, even to our own astonishment, we manage to get something right.”
“You—you’re a priest?” Pyreau struggled to recall what was known about the thranx, or at least what he himself had studied. “I didn’t think…didn’t know you people had priests. I didn’t even know you had religion.”
“That by any other name, as one of your famous writers once avowed.” With its largely fixed, inflexible countenance the thranx could not smile, but Pyreau had the impression of gentle amusement nonetheless. “Semantics are irrelevant in the face of the spirit.”
“Do you believe in God?” Pyreau asked without thinking.
“In your sense, no. In ours…This is not a question easily or casually answered. Do you find it so?” The valentine-shaped head cocked sideways.
“Some of my superiors do. I don’t. I was taught to believe, but I was also taught to question.”
“Ah,
crri!kk,
those eternal antagonists. Always making existence more difficult and complicated than we would like it to be. But no one asked us, did they? My name is Shanvordesep.” The soft alien voice grew suddenly alarmed. “Are you going to lose consciousness? You do not look so good.”
“Just…thirsty. I am Cirey Pyreau.” Pyreau muttered the response as he looked past the thranx and down the corridor, wondering when someone would find him. He had completely lost contact with the rest of his unit.
“As opposed to ultimate questions of divinity and existence, that much is easily remedied.” Reaching back with a truhand, the thranx drew a cylinder of some shiny spun material from the pouch slung across his thorax and held it out to Pyreau, who eyed it uncertainly. The coiled drinking spout was unfamiliar to him.
“Like this.” The thranx demonstrated briefly before passing the cylinder back to the padre.
Pyreau took it shakily. Probably he ought to have first smelled of the contents, but he was too tired and thirsty to care. Besides, there were times when a man had to take the word and judgment of another on faith, even if the individual in question came equipped with one too many pair of limbs.
The water was cold, fresh, and tasted better than the finest Chardonnay. Despite his desperate thirst he was mindful not to drink all of it, making sure to hand it back to its owner at least half full. With his right forearm he wiped the back of his mouth. The blood on the sleeve had already dried.
“What do we do now?” he wondered aloud.
Although the blue-green body remained facing him, the head swiveled an astonishing amount, enabling the thranx to look almost directly back over its shoulder. “I suppose we wait. I could go for help, but in the confusion I’m not sure your comrades would respond readily to my entreaties. If they are proper soldiers they will be following the orders of their superiors. In such a situation they are unlikely to listen to someone such as myself.” Antennae twitched and mandibles clicked. “I am sure someone will find us before long.”
Without pause or obvious attempt to change the subject, Shanvordesep crouched to examine the body of the nearest thranx. Curled tightly, all eight limbs had been drawn up against the body. Its head was missing, blown to bits by an explosive shell, nerves and longitudinal supportive muscle protruding from the open neck.
“I am given to understand that you recycle your dead differently from us.”
Pyreau was appalled, though he was careful to control his expression in the event the thranx might comprehend it. “We don’t recycle our dead. We give them, in most cases, a proper and dignified burial.”
Still investigating the corpse, Shanvordesep looked back and up at the human. “You bury them in the ground. Then what happens to them?”
“They rest there.” Pyreau wondered why he was being asked to explain the obvious.
“And then what happens to them? Later?”
Pyreau shrugged. “Unless special preservative techniques or
“You—you’re a priest?” Pyreau struggled to recall what was known about the thranx, or at least what he himself had studied. “I didn’t think…didn’t know you people had priests. I didn’t even know you had religion.”
“That by any other name, as one of your famous writers once avowed.” With its largely fixed, inflexible countenance the thranx could not smile, but Pyreau had the impression of gentle amusement nonetheless. “Semantics are irrelevant in the face of the spirit.”
“Do you believe in God?” Pyreau asked without thinking.
“In your sense, no. In ours…This is not a question easily or casually answered. Do you find it so?” The valentine-shaped head cocked sideways.
“Some of my superiors do. I don’t. I was taught to believe, but I was also taught to question.”
“Ah,
crri!kk,
those eternal antagonists. Always making existence more difficult and complicated than we would like it to be. But no one asked us, did they? My name is Shanvordesep.” The soft alien voice grew suddenly alarmed. “Are you going to lose consciousness? You do not look so good.”
“Just…thirsty. I am Cirey Pyreau.” Pyreau muttered the response as he looked past the thranx and down the corridor, wondering when someone would find him. He had completely lost contact with the rest of his unit.
“As opposed to ultimate questions of divinity and existence, that much is easily remedied.” Reaching back with a truhand, the thranx drew a cylinder of some shiny spun material from the pouch slung across his thorax and held it out to Pyreau, who eyed it uncertainly. The coiled drinking spout was unfamiliar to him.
“Like this.” The thranx demonstrated briefly before passing the cylinder back to the padre.
Pyreau took it shakily. Probably he ought to have first smelled of the contents, but he was too tired and thirsty to care. Besides, there were times when a man had to take the word and judgment of another on faith, even if the individual in question came equipped with one too many pair of limbs.
The water was cold, fresh, and tasted better than the finest Chardonnay. Despite his desperate thirst he was mindful not to drink all of it, making sure to hand it back to its owner at least half full. With his right forearm he wiped the back of his mouth. The blood on the sleeve had already dried.
“What do we do now?” he wondered aloud.
Although the blue-green body remained facing him, the head swiveled an astonishing amount, enabling the thranx to look almost directly back over its shoulder. “I suppose we wait. I could go for help, but in the confusion I’m not sure your comrades would respond readily to my entreaties. If they are proper soldiers they will be following the orders of their superiors. In such a situation they are unlikely to listen to someone such as myself.” Antennae twitched and mandibles clicked. “I am sure someone will find us before long.”
Without pause or obvious attempt to change the subject, Shanvordesep crouched to examine the body of the nearest thranx. Curled tightly, all eight limbs had been drawn up against the body. Its head was missing, blown to bits by an explosive shell, nerves and longitudinal supportive muscle protruding from the open neck.
“I am given to understand that you recycle your dead differently from us.”
Pyreau was appalled, though he was careful to control his expression in the event the thranx might comprehend it. “We don’t recycle our dead. We give them, in most cases, a proper and dignified burial.”
Still investigating the corpse, Shanvordesep looked back and up at the human. “You bury them in the ground. Then what happens to them?”
“They rest there.” Pyreau wondered why he was being asked to explain the obvious.
“And then what happens to them? Later?”
Pyreau shrugged. “Unless special preservative techniques or
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