"Janat Kagan - Hellspark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kagan Janet)

“sound of strength” and “source of strength.”
Again following GalLing’ usage, I do not capitalize the Jenji title “swift—” except where it begins a
sentence.
—MLL, ed.

Prologue: Lassti

SOUTH OF BASE camp, a daisy-clipper skimmed through the flashwood, buffeting the
undergrowth into a brilliant display of light. Its beauty was lost on swift-Kalat twis Jalakat. The dazzle
was merely one more distraction that might prevent him from finding some trace of Oloitokitok, the
survey team’s physicist—he had been missing for two days now.
Swift-Kalat, a small slender man with a ruddy complexion and, normally, an easygoing temperament,
punched the daisy-clipper’s comtab as if it were to blame for Oloitokitok’s disappearance. The weighty
silver bracelets that on his homeworld of Jenje would have chimed his status here clashed and jangled.
The sound only served to remind him that such expertise was useless in the situation he faced, and he
jammed the bracelets almost to his elbows to silence them. When he addressed himself to base camp, his
voice was clipped with exhaustion and anger.
“Swift-Kalat and Megeve,” he began, identifying himself and his companion, “we have completed the
search of sector four.” He paused to choose his words with care. In his own language, he would have
had no hesitation; his own language would have included in any statement the warning that he was neither
suited to this task nor physically reliable because of his weariness. In GalLing’, he was unable to speak
with such accuracy. He found himself limited to saying: “We’ve seen nothing we are able to interpret as
an indication of Oloitokitok’s presence.” His eyes flicked to the right, seeking a denial from Timosie
Megeve, the Maldeneantine who piloted, but it was as futile as asking the loan of a Bluesippan’s knife.
He received only a glare of anger and frustration.
“Nothing in sector four. Acknowledged.” The answering voice was low and weary, despite its careful
control: it was that of layli-layli calulan, the team’s physician—and Oloitokitok’s wife. She went on,
“Dyxte says there’s another storm, a bad one, coming up fast in your area. Return to base and get some
rest.”
The small screen on the pilot’s side lit to show the projected path of the storm. Frowning at it,
Timosie Megeve opened his mouth as if to voice an objection, but before he could even begin, layli-layli
added, “Doctor’s orders.”
“Acknowledged,” said swift-Kalat wearily. He thumbed the comtab off and closed his eyes.
“She’s right, I suppose,” said Megeve. “We’ve been searching for nearly twenty hours.” He ran a
cream-colored hand through a tangle of gray curls, dropped it to his thigh, and stared at it unseeing.
“We’re both so tired we’d likely miss a drab-death’s-eye if somebody dropped it into our laps.—And if
we miss something we should spot, we’re worse than useless.”
What Megeve spoke was true, swift-Kalat knew, but he also knew that rest would not come easily:
even Oloitokitok’s disappearance could not drive the sprookjes from his mind.
Megeve shifted forward, glared at the instrument panel, then thrust out a hand to tap a nail against an
indicator. He said something in his own language that was clearly a curse and tapped it again before
returning to GalLing’. “One equipment failure after another,” he said, still growling. “This wouldn’t have
happened if that transceiver hadn’t failed on us.”
“This wouldn’t have happened if Tinling Alfvaen had been here,” swift-Kalat countered, surprised to
find that the statement approached the proper degree of reliability even in GalLing’.
“Who?—Oh, your serendipitist friend.” With a second disgusted snort, Megeve gave up on the
indicator and guided the daisy-clipper forward, following the snaky curve of the river back to base camp.
“Maybe, maybe not. A serendipitist isn’t all-seeing, you know.”
Swift-Kalat made no response, but the thought worried him further.
Allowing three months for the letter he’d sent with the last supply ship to reach Alfvaen and another