A song for lya pdf free download

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There was noise too, a constant clamor. Kids whistling, Shkeen talking loudly with grunts and whimpers and squeaks, whiners whining and their carts rattling over the rocks. Lya and I walked through it all silently, hand in hand, watching and listening and smelling and… reading. I was wide open when I entered Shkeentown, letting everything wash over me as I walked, unfocused but receptive.

I was the center of a small bubble of emotion—feelings rushed up at me as Shkeen approached, faded as they walked away, circled around and around with the dancing children.

I swam in a sea of impressions. And it startled me. It startled me because it was all so familiar. I'd read aliens before. Sometimes it was difficult, sometimes it was easy, but it was never pleasant. The Hrangans have sour minds, rank with hate and bitterness, and I feel unclean when I come out. The Fyndii feel emotions so palely that I can scarcely read them at all.

I read them strongly, but I can't find names for the feelings I read. But the Shkeen—it was like walking down a street on Baldur. No wait—more like one of the Lost Colonies, when a human settlement has fallen back into barbarism and forgotten its origins. Human emotions rage there, primal and strong and real, but less sophisticated than on Old Earth or Baldur. The Shkeen were like that: primitive, maybe, but very understandable. I read joy and sorrow, envy, anger, whimsy, bitterness, yearning, pain.

The same heady mixture that engulfs me everywhere, when I open myself to it. Lya was reading, too. I felt her hand tense in mine. After a while, it softened again. I turned to her, and she saw the question in my eyes. Shkea might be an older Earth, with a few minor differences.

But you're right. They're more human than any other race we've encountered in space. Just the reverse. There was nothing suicidal in the emotions I'd read, nothing unstable, nothing really abnormal. Yet every one of the Shkeen went off to Final Union in the end.

They were off to the left somewhere, nearly lost in the city's gentle roar. I tugged Lya by the hand, and we ran down the street to find them, turning left at the first gap in the orderly row of domes. The bells were still ahead, and we kept running, cutting through what must have been somebody's yard, and climbing over a low bush fence that bristled with sweethorns. Beyond that was another yard, a dung pit, more domes, and finally a street.

There were four of them, all Joined, wearing long gowns of bright red fabric that trailed in the dust, with great bronze bells in either hand. They rang the bells constantly, their long arms swinging back and forth, the sharp, clanging notes filling the street. All four were elderly, as Shkeen go—hairless and pinched up with a million tiny wrinkles. But they smiled very widely, and the younger Shkeen that passed smiled at them.

On their heads rode the Greeshka. I'd expected to find the sight hideous. I didn't. It was faintly disquieting, but only because I knew what it meant. The parasites were bright blobs of crimson goo, ranging in size from a pulsing wart on the back of one Shkeen skull to a great sheet of dripping, moving red that covered the head and shoulders of the smallest like a living cowl. The Greeshka lived by sharing the nutrients in the Shkeen bloodstream, I knew.

And also by slowly—oh so slowly—consuming its host. Lya and I stopped a few yards from them, and watched them ring. Her face was solemn, and I think mine was. All of the others were smiling, and the songs that the bells sang were songs of joy. I squeezed Lyanna's hand tightly. We read. Me: I read bells. I read what the Joined felt as they pealed their bells, their happiness and anticipation, their ecstasy in telling others of their clamorous contentment.

And I read love, coming from them in great hot waves, passionate possessive love of a man and woman together, not the weak watery affection of the human who "loves" his brothers. This was real and fervent and it burned almost as it washed over me and surrounded me. They loved themselves, and they loved all Shkeen, and they loved the Greeshka, and they loved each other, and they loved us. They loved us. And with love I read belonging, and sharing.

And Lyanna? I reeled back from them, and shut myself off, and looked at Lya. She shook her head, as if to clear it. Below that love there's more love, and below that more, and on and on forever. Their minds are so deep, so open. I don't think I've ever read a human that deeply. Everything is right at the surface, right there, their whole lives and all their dreams and feelings and memories and oh—I just took it in, swept it up with a reading, a glance.

With men, with humans, it's so much work. I have to dig, I have to fight, and even then I don't get down very far. You know, Robb, you know. The torrent of feeling that had washed over me must have been a tidal wave for her. Her Talent was broader and deeper than mine, and now she was shaken. I read her as she clutched me, and I read love, great love, and wonder and happiness, but also fear, nervous fear swirling through it all.

Around us, the ringing suddenly stopped. The bells, one by one, ceased to swing, and the four Joined stood in silence for a brief second. The smallest of the Joined threw back the cloth, and the aroma of hot meatrolls rose in the street. Each of the Joined took several from the basket, and before long they were all crunching away happily, and the owner of the rolls was grinning at them. Another Shkeen, a small nude girl, ran up and offered them a flask of water, and they passed it around without comment.

Then, even before she told me, I remembered. Something from the literature that Valcarenghi had sent. The Joined did no work. It was an honor to feed a Joined, and the Shkeen who had given up his meatrolls was radiating pride and pleasure. She looked back at me. I mean, they still love us, and all. But now their thoughts are, well, sort of more human. There are levels, you know, and digging isn't easy, and there are hidden things, things they hide even from themselves. It's not all open like it was.

They're thinking about the food now and how good it tastes. It's all very vivid. I could taste the rolls myself. But it's not the same. But not really. But not thoughts, not the detail. I can read them, but they don't read each other. Each one is distinct. They were closer before, when they were ringing, but they were always individuals.

If the Greeshka had minds of their own… "Nothing," Lya said. She nodded, and we walked up to where the Joined were munching their meatrolls. But the fourth one, the little one whose Greeshka was a rippling red cape, bobbed his head up and down. I suddenly forgot what I was going to ask, but Lyanna came to my rescue.

He grinned. Tall, you know, with hair and skin that's pink or brown or something? His head bobbled from side to side. Shome look ash you. Would you Join? There's no pattern to it, nobody keeps track. It's all random. Some travel in groups, some alone, and new groups form every time two bunches meet. He reached into the basket on the ground and his hands came out with two steaming meatrolls. He pressed one into my hand, one in Lya's.

I looked at it dubiously. I pulled at Lya with my free hand and we walked off together. The Joined grinned at us as we left, and started ringing once more before we were halfway down the street. The meatroll was still in my hand, its crust burning my fingers. She took a bite out of hers. We had them last night in the restaurant, right? And I'm sure Valcarenghi would've warned us if the native food was poisonous.

Those had been golden, flaky things, seasoned gently with orangespice from Baldur. The Shkeen version was crunchy, and the meat inside dripped grease and burned my mouth. But it was good, and I was hungry, and the roll didn't last long. She swallowed, and nodded. He was happy, even more than the rest. He's older. He's near Final Union, and he's very thrilled about it. We were at a crossroads, with Shkeen bustling by us in all directions, and now we could hear more bells on the wind.

That we don't already know? What are the odds? It was now late afternoon. Get an earlier start tomorrow. Besides, Dino is probably expecting us for dinner. His quarters, it turned out, were on the level below, but he preferred to entertain upstairs where his guests could enjoy the spectacular Tower view. There were five of us, all told: me and Lya, Valcarenghi and Laurie, plus Gourlay.

Laurie did the cooking, supervised by master chef Valcarenghi. We had beefsteaks, bred on Shkea from Old Earth stock, plus a fascinating blend of vegetables that included mushrooms from Old Earth, groundpips from Baldur, and Shkeen sweethorns.

Dino liked to experiment and the dish was one of his inventions. Lya and I gave a full report on the day's adventures, interrupted only by Valcarenghi's sharp, perceptive questioning. After dinner, we got rid of tables and dishes and sat around drinking Veltaar and talking. This time Lya and I asked the questions, with Gourlay supplying the biggest chunk of the answers.

Valcarenghi listened from a cushion on the floor, one arm around Laurie, the other holding his wine glass. We were not the first Talents to visit Shkea, he told us. Nor the first to claim the Shkeen were manlike.

No, sir. They're much more social, for one thing. Great little city builders from way back, always in towns, always surrounding themselves with others.

And they're more communal than man, too. Cooperate in all sorts of things, and they're big on sharing. Trade, for instance—they see that as mutual sharing. I just spent the whole day trying to work out a trade contract with a group of farmers who hadn't dealt with us before.

It's not easy, believe me. They give us as much of their stuff as we ask for, if they don't need it themselves and no one else has asked for it earlier. They expect it, in fact. Sex is sharing, you see, and it's good to share with everyone. But the sharing has to be real and meaningful. That creates problems. But they can't do it, they're too human, too possessive. If he'd been able to manage it without hurting his older relationship, the sex would have been meaningless.

His wife would have been proud of him. It's quite an achievement for a Shkeen to be in a multiple union that works. Without sharing. The Shkeen had little crime, he told us. Especially no violent crime. No murders, no beatings, no prisons, no wars in their long, empty history.

On Old Earth, the same cultures that had the highest suicide rates often had the lowest murder rates, too. And the Shkeen suicide rate is one hundred percent. They do not kill Shkeen, or humans, or Greeshka. He went to the bar for more wine, brought out a bottle, and filled our glasses.

I drank it, and nodded, remembering the flood of euphoria that had swept over us earlier that day. The Shkeen submit to it willingly and die happy. The joy is real, believe me.

We felt it. Not so. We've experimented on the Greeshka, and…" He must have noticed my raised eyebrows. He stopped. They wouldn't have liked it, not at all.

Greeshka's just an animal, but it's their God. Don't fool around with God, you know. We refrained for a long time, but when Gustaffson went over, old Stuart had to know. His orders. We didn't get anywhere, though. No extracts that might be a drug, no secretions, nothing. Then, couple hours later, we yanked the straps.

Damn whiner was furious, screeching and yelping, attacking the thing on its head. Nearly clawed its own skull to ribbons before it got it off. A feeble rescue attempt. I assumed she was thinking about the conversation. But the door to our suite had barely slid shut behind us when she turned toward me and wrapped her arms around me.

I reached up and stroked her soft brown hair, slightly startled by the hug. Make love to me now. Lya generally comes on impish and wicked when she's horny, but now she was all troubled and vulnerable.

I didn't quite get it. But it wasn't a time for questions, and I didn't ask any. I just pulled her to me wordlessly and kissed her hard, and we walked together to the bedroom. We joined our bodies as one, and I felt Lya stiffen as her mind reached out to mine. And as we moved together I was opening myself to her, drowning myself in the flood of love and need and fear that was pouring from her.

Then, quickly as it had begun, it ended. Her pleasure washed over me in a raw red wave. And I joined her on the crest, and Lya clutched me tightly, her eyes shrunk up small as she drank it all in. Afterwards, we lay there in the darkness and let the stars of Shkea pour their radiance through the window. Lya huddled against me, her head on my chest, while I stroked her.

Her voice was soft and small, so small I barely heard it. I know it. And you know how much I love you, too, don't you? The Normals have only words. Poor little Normals. Even when they make love, even when they come, they're always apart. They must be very lonely. I looked at Lya, into her bright happy eyes, and thought about it. They don't know any other way. And they try, they love too.

They bridge the gap sometimes. We have so much more. And I reached out to read her too. Her mind was a haze of satisfaction, with a gentle scent of wistful, lonely longing. But there was something else, way down, almost gone now, but still faintly detectable. I sat up slowly. And before, when we came in, you were scared.

What's the matter? The Joined, I think. I kept thinking about how much they loved me. It—I don't know. It bothered me. I mean, I didn't think I could ever be loved that way, except by you. I felt kind of lonely, just holding hands and talking.

After the way they were all sharing and everything, being alone just seemed empty. And frightening. You know? We do understand each other. We're together almost as they are, as Normals can't ever be. We went to sleep in each other's arms. Dreams again. But again, at dawn, the memory stole away from me. It was all very annoying.

The dream had been pleasant, comfortable. I wanted it back, and I couldn't even remember what it was. Our bedroom, washed by harsh daylight, seemed drab compared to the splendors of my lost vision. Lya woke after me, with another headache. This time she had the pills on hand, by the bedstand. She grimaced and took one. We were drinking Veltaar last night, remember? My father gave me my first glass of Veltaar when I was nine.

It never gave me headaches before. She was right. Her whole forehead throbbed with pain. I withdrew quickly before I caught it too. The pills will take care of it, though. Meanwhile, we've got work to do.

She'd never let anything interfere with work yet. The second day was a day of manhunt. We got off to a much earlier start, had a quick breakfast with Gourlay, then picked up our aircar outside the Tower. This time we didn't drop down when we hit Shkeentown.

We wanted a human Joined, which meant we had to cover a lot of ground. And, of those humans, only about half were actually Joined yet.

The Shkeen had seen aircars before, of course, but it still had some novelty value, particularly to the kids, who tried to run after us whenever we flashed by. We also panicked a whiner, causing him to upset the cart full of fruit he was dragging. I felt guilty about that, so I kept the car higher afterwards. We spotted Joined all over the city, singing, eating, walking—and ringing those bells, those eternal bronze bells. But for the first three hours, all we found were Shkeen Joined.

Lya and I took turns driving and watching. After the excitement of the previous day, the search was tedious and tiring. Finally, however, we found something: a large group of Joined, ten of them, clustered around a bread cart behind one of the steeper hills. Two were taller than the rest. We landed on the other side of the hill and walked around to meet them, leaving our aircar surrounded by a crowd of Shkeen children.

The Joined were still eating when we arrived. Eight of them were Shkeen of various sizes and hues, Greeshka pulsing atop their skulls. The other two were human. They wore the same long red gowns as the Shkeen, and they carried the same bells. One of them was a big man, with loose skin that hung in flaps, as if he'd lost a lot of weight recently. His hair was white and curly, his face marked by a broad smile and laugh wrinkles around his eyes. The other was a thin, dark weasel of a man with a big hooked nose.

Both of them had Greeshka sucking at their skulls. The parasite riding the weasel was barely a pimple, but the older man had a lordly specimen that dripped down beyond his shoulders and into the back of the gown. Lyanna and I walked up to them, trying hard to smile, not reading—at least at first.

They smiled at us as we approached. Then they waved. Are you new on Shkea? I'd been expecting some sort of garbled mystic greeting, or maybe no greeting at all. I was wrong. And I read the weasel. He was genuinely pleased to see us, and just bubbled with contentment and good cheer. The weasel stretched his grin farther than I thought it would go. My name is Lester Kamenz. What do you want to know, brother? I decided I'd let her read in depth while I asked questions.

You are in the Union. All that thinks is in the Union. When did you realize you were in the Union? I was admitted to the ranks of the Joined only a few weeks ago. The First Joining is a joyful time.

I am joyful. Now I will walk the streets and ring my bells until the Final Union. I ran computers, in the Tower. But my life was empty, brother. I did not know I was in the Union, and I was alone. I had only machines, cold machines. Now I am Joined. Now I am"—again he searched—"not alone. But now there was an ache too, a vague recollection of past pain, the stink of unwelcome memories.

Did these fade? Maybe the gift the Greeshka gave its victims was oblivion, sweet mindless rest and end of struggle. I decided to try something. It's drinking your blood right now, feeding on it. Finally it will start to eat your tissue. Or maybe you could remove it yourself. Why don't you try? Just reach up and pull it off. Go ahead. I got none of these. Kamenz just stuffed bread in his mouth and smiled at me, and all I read was his love and joy and a little pity. Only those who have no Greeshka die.

They are… alone. Oh, forever alone. I glanced at Lya. I looked back and began to phrase another question. But suddenly the Joined began to ring. One of the Shkeen started it off, swinging his bell up and down to produce a single sharp clang. Then his other hand swung, then the first again, then the second, then another Joined began to ring, then still another, and then they were all swinging and clanging and the noise of their bells was smashing against my ears as the joy and the love and the feel of the bells assaulted my mind once again.

I lingered to savor it. Something happened to the Joined when they rang, something touched them and lifted them and gave them a glow, something strange and glorious that mere Normals could not hear in their harsh clanging music.

I was no Normal, though. I could hear it. I withdrew reluctantly, slowly. Kamenz and the other human were both ringing vigorously now, with broad smiles and glowing twinkling eyes that transfigured their faces.

Lyanna was still tense, still reading. Her mouth was slightly open, and she trembled where she stood. I put an arm around her and waited, listening to the music, patient. Lya continued to read. Finally, after minutes, I shook her gently. She turned and studied me with hard, distant eyes. Then blinked. And her eyes widened and she came back, shaking her head and frowning.

Puzzled, I looked into her head. Strange and stranger. It was a swirling fog of emotion, a dense moving blend of more feelings than I'd care to put a name to. No sooner had I entered than I was lost, lost and uneasy. Somewhere in the fog there was a bottomless abyss lurking to engulf me.

At least it felt that way. I repeated my question. I want time to think. What was going on here? I took her hand and we walked slowly around the hill to the slope where we'd left the car. Shkeen kids were climbing all over it. I chased them, laughing. Lya just stood there, her eyes gone all faraway on me.

I wanted to read her again, but somehow I felt it would be an invasion of privacy. Airborne, we streaked back toward the Tower, riding higher and faster this time. I drove, while Lya sat beside me and stared out into the distance. Kamenz was a computer programmer, as he said. But he wasn't very good. An ugly little man with an ugly little personality, no friends, no sex, no nothing. Lived by himself, avoided the Shkeen, didn't like them at all. Didn't even like people, really.

But Gustaffson got through to him, somehow. He ignored Kamenz' coldness, his bitter little cuts, his cruel jokes. He didn't retaliate, you know?

After a while, Kamenz came to like Gustaffson, to admire him. They were never really friends in any normal sense, but still Gustaffson was the nearest thing to a friend that Kamenz had. Her eyes still wandered. He was still afraid, still scared of the Shkeen and terrified of the Greeshka.

But later, with Gustaffson gone, he began to realize how empty his life was. He worked all day with people who despised him and machines that didn't care, then sat alone at night reading and watching holoshows. Not life, really. He hardly touched the people around him.

Finally he went to find Gustaffson, and wound up converted. Now…" "Now…? For the first time in his life, he's happy. He'd never known love before. Now it fills him. There were levels, but digging wasn't as hard as it usually is—as if his barriers were weakening, coming down almost…" "How about the other guy?

That was Gustaffson…" And that, suddenly, seemed to wake her, to restore her to the Lya I knew and loved. She shook her head and looked at me, and the aimless voice became an animated torrent of words. The Greeshka has accepted him, and he wants it, you know? I mean yes, but that's not what I mean. Final Union isn't death, to him. He believes it, all of it, the whole religion.

The Greeshka is his god, and he's going to join it. But before, and now, he was dying. He's got the Slow Plague, Robb. A terminal case. It's been eating at him from inside for fifteen years now. He got it back on Nightmare, in the swamps, when his family died. Gustaffson got all wild and tried to reach them before the end, but he grabbed a faulty pair of skinthins, and the spores got through.

And they were all dead when he got there. He had an awful lot of pain, Robb. From the Slow Plague, but more from the loss. He really loved them, and it was never the same after. They gave him Shkea as a reward, kind of, to take his mind off the crash, but he still thought of it all the time.

I could see the picture, Robb. It was vivid. He couldn't forget it. The kids were inside the ship, safe behind the walls, but the life system failed and choked them to death.

I'd read about them, and seen holos. I could imagine the picture that Lya'd seen in Gustaffson's memory, and it wasn't at all pretty. I was glad I didn't have her Talent. You know. He killed them all with a screech gun. He loved her, and they were really close, and his career had been almost charmed. He didn't have to go to Nightmare, you know.

He took it because it was a challenge, because nobody else could handle it. That gnaws at him, too. And he remembers all the time. He—they—" Her voice faltered.

There was nothing to say to that. After a while, Lya began to speak again. He still remembered it all, and the way it had hurt, but it didn't bother him as it had. Only now he was sorry they weren't with him. He was sorry that they died without Final Union.

Almost like the Shkeen woman, remember? The one at the Gathering? With her brother? And his mind was open, too. More than Kamenz, much more. When he rang, the levels all vanished, and everything was right at the surface, all the love and pain and everything. His whole life, Robb. I shared his whole life with him, in an instant. And all his thoughts, too… he's seen the caves of Union… he went down once, before he converted. I…" More silence, settling over us and darkening the car.

We were close to the end of Shkeentown. The Tower slashed the sky ahead of us, shining in the sun. And the lower domes and archways of the glittering human city were coming into view. I have to think a while, you know? Go back without me. I want to walk among the Shkeen a little. It's a long way back to the Tower, Lya. Just let me think a bit. The thought fog had returned, denser than ever, laced through with the colors of fear. What's wrong? I didn't know what else to do, so I landed.

And I, too, thought, as I guided the aircar home. Of what Lyanna had said, and read—of Kamenz and Gustaffson. I kept my mind on the problem we'd been assigned to crack. I tried to keep it off Lya, and whatever was bothering her. That would solve itself, I thought. Back at the Tower, I wasted no time. I went straight up to Valcarenghi's office.

He was there, alone, dictating into a machine. He shut it off when I entered. She wanted to think. I've been thinking, too. And I believe I've got your answer.

I sat down. I think it's clear why he went over. He was a broken man, inside, however much he smiled. The Greeshka gave him an end to his pain.

And there was another convert with him, a Lester Kamenz. Check out the other converts, and I bet you'll find a pattern. The most lost and vulnerable, the failures, the isolated—those will be the ones that turned to Union. Only it's no answer, not really.

But why turn to the Cult of the Union? The psychs can't answer that. Take Gustaffson now. He was a strong man, believe me. I never knew him personally, but I knew his career. He took some rough assignments, generally for the hell of it, and beat them. He could have had the cushy jobs, but he wasn't interested. I've heard about the incident on Nightmare. It's famous, in a warped sort of way. But Phil Gustaffson wasn't the sort of man to be beaten, even by something like that.

He snapped out of it very quickly, from what Nelse tells me. He came to Shkea and really set the place in order, cleaning up the mess that Rockwood had left. He's gone through a personal nightmare, but it hasn't destroyed him. He's as tough as ever. And suddenly he turns to the Cult of the Union, signs up for a grotesque suicide.

For an end to his pain, you say? An interesting theory, but there are other ways to end pain. Gustaffson had years between Nightmare and the Greeshka. He never ran away from pain then. He didn't turn to drink, or drugs, or any of the usual outs.

The colonial office would have done anything for him, after Nightmare. He went on, swallowed his pain, rebuilt. Until suddenly he converts. But something else brought him over—something that Union offered, something he couldn't get from wine or memory wipe.

The same's true of Kamenz, and the others. They had other outs, other ways to vote no on life. They passed them up. But they chose Union. You see what I'm getting at? My answer was no answer at all, and I realized it. But Valcarenghi was wrong too, in parts.

Gustaffson hadn't really beaten his pain, not ever. Lya was very clear on that. It was inside him all the time, tormenting him. He just never let it come out. I don't think so. But… anyway, there was more. Gustaffson has the Slow Plague. He's dying. He's been dying for years.

I've read that some eighty percent of Slow Plague victims opt for euthanasia, if they happen to be on a planet where it's legal. Gustaffson was a planetary administrator. If he passed up suicide for all those years, why choose it now? Lyanna hadn't given me one, if she had one. I didn't know where we could find one, either unless… "The caves," I said suddenly.

We've got to witness a Final Union. There must be something about it, something that accounts for the conversions. Give us a chance to find out what it is. I expected it would come to that.

It's not pleasant, though, I'll warn you. I've gone down myself, so I know what I'm talking about. She's out now trying to walk it off. I'll set it up for tomorrow. I'm going with you, of course. I don't want to take any chances on anything happening to you. Valcarenghi rose. You have any plans for dinner? What readers are saying What do you think? Write your own comment on this book!

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