The bulky form was above him, clinging somehow to the side of a building, concealed in shadow. Nobody nearby had noticed.
“With Dad acting that way, it had to happen.”
<Still, it brings acrid currents flowing among us.>
“Freedom starts between the ears, sticky-paws. I had to follow what I know. So did you. Thanks.”
<I acted to preserve the possibilities for both of you.>
“Really? Do you think I should give Shibo back to him?”
<I have no views on so species-specific a question.>
“Come on!”
<My qualifications do not extend to your own, individual, cerebral symphonies.>
Toby leaned against a wall, watching Quath clamber down the gray ceramic building—which shuddered and popped with the strain—and said, “I don’t hear much music these days, buggo. Just noise.”
<It is your unconscious, trying to speak.>
“How would you know?”
<Only creatures who lack such mental architectures can see them clearly.>
“You don’t have unconscious thoughts? I mean, impulses, things that just turn up when you’re not thinking about them?”
<All aspects of myself are delegated to subminds. For your species, the mind is made by adding segments atop older elements. Not I. Your makeshift construction is typical of a phylum which has not reshaped itself fundamentally.>
“Maybe we like ourselves the way we are.”
<A matter of taste. To me, an [untranslatable], your relation to Shibo is understandable. I delegate to my under-selves. Is it that way for you?>
“Ummm.” He recalled the sensuous moments, his deep, troubling sweats. “Not really.”
<You are too close, too (untranslatable] for judgment.>
“So I can’t really think about Shibo? That’s why I’m so messed up?” He felt exhausted, and not from his running. He let himself slide down, back to the wall, legs splaying out until he was sitting in the alley.
<Myriad impulses scurry and clash across the single, open stage of your mind. Factions hide offstage and shout from the wings. They are your suppressed, accomplice minds, and you cannot consult them directly, as can I.>
“That’s . . . why we feel so much . . .”
<Pain? In a way—but do not conclude that such as I do not also know inner bloodknot clash. I can speak to all my subminds, which does relieve some of the tough, sinewy agonies.>
“And we can’t.”
<You find yourselves through action. Through your bodies the deeper cellars of your layered mind can speak.>
Toby wondered if he would ever know what stormy emotions tossed him about on the surface of a deep, troubled inner sea. He shrugged. “In that case, maybe I’ll feel a smidge better if I do something more than sit on my fat ass, waitin’ for Cermo to fall over me here.”
<I admit I have no idea what you can do. I acted perhaps hastily, blocking them. I may have merely worsened your position in this grave matter.>
“Hey, without you I’d be having my spinal chips picked clean.” Toby got to his feet, feeling lighter, easier in himself.
<Still, when they seize you, I cannot—>
“Like my grandfather used to say, bug-brain—Cheer up! We’ll live to piss on the graves of our enemies.” It seemed odd to be giving Quath a pep talk.
<He must have been a strong man.>
“Part of the line. We got plenty more like him.” It felt good to say it, even if he didn’t really know if it was true. Maybe no son ever did know.
<I do not know where this course leads.>
Quath rustled her legs, then restlessly played her boosters, hovering in air. People in the street nearby looked up, startled, and moved away. They were pretty savvy, but Quath was a bit much.
“Neither do I. We can’t stay here, though. You’re kinda conspicuous and I’m a wanted man.”
<What then?>
“I dunno. We flew Argo in through the grand entrance and they were ready for us. Is there a back door to this place?”
Phase Creatures
Above the disk nothing made of metal or ceramic can survive.
Perpetually the great turning disk grinds down the stuff of stars. Tides suck inward, shredding.
