Remnant Population

The pies were done early enough that the house did not get too hot. She would bake the roast in the house next door, or in the center. Ofelia set the pies on racks, then moved the kitchen table into the other end of the main room. She went back to the center, and found a length of heavy material in blue which would serve as a tablecloth. On it, the plain dishes looked almost festive. The dayvine flowers would not stay fresh when cut, but she made a centerpiece of herbs and fruit.

She had just time to hurry down the lane with a tray of little pies, one of the loaves of bread she’d baked, a pot of jam, a length of hard beef sausage, some fresh fruit, before the final rush of cooking. The advisors and the pilot — she had not seen the pilot before — were doing something to a third vehicle, but they noticed her quickly. This time, they came forward to take the tray.

“Thank you,” the quiet one said. “This is very kind of you.” He took one of the pies. “I hope your head feels better… it was unfortunate that you startled me that way.”

Ofelia smiled at him. She still wished it had been the other one, the one she could not have liked anyway.

“It does not hurt now,” she said. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Of course not,” he said. He bit into the pie, and his expression changed from polite neutrality to surprise.

“This is really good,” he said, as if he had expected to bite into a bitter lime. “Excuse me,” Ofelia said. “I must get back to the cooking. I’m making a roast—” She gave enough details to make them thoroughly jealous of the ones who were coming. She could see the envy and dissatisfaction rise in them like bubbles in bean soup. They eyed the tray with less appreciation now that they knew what they were going to miss.

When her guests arrived, she had it all laid out on the serving dishes. The sliced tomatoes and onions in vinegar and oil, with rosemary and basil making a wreath around the whole. The roast lamb, which had been rolled in crushed herbs… it was unfortunate how baked rosemary looked like bits of burnt insect, but it smelled good. And when she sliced it — her guests sucked in their breath. She had boned the roast and laid it flat, then stuffed it with cheese and vegetables and herbs. Each slice made its own unique design. She herself had no appetite, not only because she had nibbled as she cooked. She was on her feet more than sitting, as she fetched new dishes, and took away those they had finished. “I had no idea you could do this, Sera Falfurrias,” said Likisi, when he saw the slices of stuffed roast lamb. “Were you the cook here, for the whole colony?”

“No, Ser Likisi. After the first time, before we had houses, each family cooked for itself. We all cooked some extra to store in the center, for those who might be sick. We used the big kitchens to cook for the school, or special times when more workers were needed in the fields.” Or during the floods, or the epidemics, but she didn’t say that.

After the first cautious nibbles, all four of the team had begun eating as if they had not eaten in days. By the time Ofelia brought over the remaining little pies, they were leaning back in their chairs with the half-sleepy look of those whose bellies are overfull. Just as she’d hoped. Ofelia took away the messy serving dishes and platters, and cleared the dirty plates. She offered them little plates for the pies, then sat down herself in the chair she’d hardly used all evening.

Her legs ached, and her back; she had been working too hard to notice until now. Aches never killed anyone. Wars did. She smiled at her guests, and they all smiled back, their mouths full of sweet pies. They were as mellow as they were going to get. Beyond them, in the twilight, she saw Bluecloak and two others go into the center.

This time when she began talking, she had their silence, if not their full attention. She began where she had begun the day before: the indigenes were upset, because they thought the humans did not understand what had happened. The attack on their nests had caused the attack on the colonists, but the indigenes were not worried about retaliation.

“They believe their action was just,” Ofelia said. “They will not tolerate more intrusion.”

“Surely you told them there was no question of further colonization?” Likisi said, looking at Bilong.

“I tried,” Bilong said. “I thought I’d gotten it across.”

“You see, Sera Falfurrias,” Likisi said to her, “they are protected under our laws — no one will try to colonize here — but they can’t just go around killing people because they’re upset—” “The colonists killed their people — their children and nest-guardians,” Ofelia said. “But that was an accident,” Likisi said, “They must understand that — the colonists made a mistake, but what they did was deliberate. We can accept that it was also a mistake — no one is howling for revenge… well, some are, but the government won’t allow it. But they can’t use violence against us again. And we will be sure they don’t have the technology to do us any real damage, until they’ve matured enough not to use it.”

Ofelia felt as if someone had crocheted her insides into one big complicated knot. She forced herself to go on. “But from what you and the others have told me, they have cities far north of here, and boats with sails. How can you keep them from learning on their own?”

Likisi laughed. “It will take them years — centuries — to get to a real industrial base. Its unfortunate that they came down here and found out about electricity, but they’ll have to figure out how to make generators and batteries… it took humans thousands of years, and they won’t figure it out in less. Anyway, as long as they can’t get offplanet, they can’t do us any real harm.” Humans had not had the finished product to look at, Ofelia thought. How long had it taken the humans who didn’t invent the new things to learn to use them? To make and repair them? Bilong spoke up. “I don’t understand, Sera, how you know all this. You haven’t really studied the language—” “I have lived with them longer,” Ofelia said. “They want to talk to me.” “Yes, but you can misunderstand so much,” Bilong said. “For instance, that word I’ve heard you say… I did an acoustic analysis, and you don’t say it anything like they do.” Bilong took a breath and produced a “click-kaw-keerrr” that sounded right to Ofelia. “That’s how they say it, and what you do is — ‘click-kawkeerrr’ — can you hear the difference?” Ofelia couldn’t.

She wasn’t sure there really was any difference; Blue-cloak understood her well enough when she said it. “My point is,” Bilong said, leaning on the table with both elbows, “you don’t really understand them; you just think you do. And they came when you were all alone, probably even psychotic from the solitude, and you think of them as friends. They aren’t friends; they’re aliens. Indigenes, I mean,” she added with a quick glance at the others.

Ofelia looked out the window. It was dark outside, the brief tropical twilight was over. If she knew anything about humans, the two military advisors and the pilot, sure that their nominal bosses would be away for hours, would have accompanied their lesser feast with whatever illicit drink they had offered her the day before. If they had any form of amusement, entertainment cubes or hardcopy, they would be gathered around it now. It was too early to worry, too early for “anything to happen,” They would be more alert later, when they might be expecting their boss to return.

What she could not know was what kind of safeguards might be on the shuttle itself. She had explained to Bluecloak the kinds she knew about, the little beams of light or sound that reacted if interrupted, the pressure plates, the locks that required known palmprints or retinal patterns. Bluecloak had not seemed concerned. And that was not her problem now. “They are very intelligent,” Ofelia said. “They learn very fast, even as babies.”