Filaria - Brent Hayward [14]
However, a short while after setting the left-hand pair of wings, staring dreamily at the exposed white shapes and delicate system of veins, Deidre heard a very faint sound. She had the immediate and disconcerting impression that this voice — for it was indeed a voice — might have been speaking for some time but she had only just now registered it. When did it start? Had the muted tones been whispering the entire time she’d been here, working on the bianca? She strained to listen. The source did not seem far away, certainly not from the fields outside, but as if someone infinitesimally tiny were calling out from within the sanctum itself. She was unable to discern any words, nor tell if they issued from man or woman, human or machine. Nor even if they were in the language she knew and spoke.
Holding the spreading needle in one hand, she stepped back into the hallway; the voice became slightly louder. She crept down the narrow hall, anxious but not especially nervous. From the second room of the chain, where she kept her paper and sketching charcoals, there came a flicker of bluegrey light, the colour of static. Nothing in that room could give off light — other than the ceiling. Certainly nothing could emit a flicker like this.
The murmured voice, unreal — ceasing when she held her breath, resuming when she shifted — came from in there.
“Sam?” Deidre whispered. “Sam? Is that you? Who’s in there?”
No answer. The light continued to flicker. The voice continued to whisper. She curled her fists, took a deep breath, and stepped forward —
The tiny man was fifteen centimetres tall. Dressed in an outfit such as a pilot might wear — hood pulled up over the back of his head, leaving his face, which was turned to the ceiling, exposed — he stood with both hands at his sides. He did not look her way. Over his eyes he wore goggles, and a thin mask covered his mouth, as if there was dust, or perhaps a virus, borne in the air. Deidre got down on her haunches and moved closer; the man wavered, blurred, coalesced.
A gram.
She felt disappointment. Elegia showed her grams of all sorts, whenever she asked. They were boring and mostly acted out dumb plays or tried to teach her stuff. Granted, this particular one did seem more detailed than those she normally viewed — its face more expressive, the concern near palpable — but it was a gram nonetheless. She waved her hand over the tiny, luminous figure, coming at it from various angles until it eclipsed and only the quiet voice remained. Squinting, she looked up, scanning for the source.
She stood and searched the walls with her fingertips, searched the counter, feeling for the patch that controlled the size and volume of the projection. She had never found any in this room before but she had never had reason to look. And there it was, under the rim of the countertop, a small wet spot. Rubbing it caused the figure to erupt until the man suddenly filled the room, surpassed it, one glaring boot massive at eye-level —
“Damn . . .”
Managing to adjust the figure to her own height, Deidre sought the volume with a second finger. The insubstantial whisper became a loud voice:
“ — had lost two cows from his flock. They wandered off when his son fell asleep.”
Yes, Deidre’s own language, but spoken with a strange accent. Someone from far away? The man did not seem like an actor, or a teacher. Nor, for that matter, anyone particularly barbarous.
“The patrol was searching for indications of the breach. Coming up over Amusement Ridge, looking for debris on the ground, Captain Elrion spotted what looked to be massive scorch marks. Yes, sir, twin trails of scorched dirt and brush. In one place, the base structure had been exposed, rocks melted away, right