tell them apart, to see the tiny variations in color and shape that was the only markers of the individual. So much the same, all of them.
Noses centered in the middle of the sphere, eyes above and mouths below, ears around the sides. A collection of senses, all but touch, concentrated in one place. Skin over bones, hair growing on the crown and in strange furry lines above the eyes.
Some had more fur lower down on the jaw: those were always males. The colors ranged through the brown scale from pale cream to a deep almost-black.
Aside from that, how to know one from the other?
This face I would of known among millions.
This face was a hard rectangle, the shape of the bones strong under the skin. In color it was light golden brown. The hair was just a few shades darker than the skin, except where flaxen streaks lightened it, and it covered only the head and the odd fur stripes above the eyes. The circular irises in the white eyeballs were darker than the hair but, like the hair, flecked with light. There were small lines around the eyes, and her memories told me the lines was from smiling and squinting into sunlight. I knew nothing of what passed for beauty among these strangers, and yet I knew that this face was beautiful. I wanted to keep looking at it. As soon as I realized this, it disappeared.
Mine, spoke the alien thought that should not have existed.
Again, I was frozen, stunned. There should have been no one here but me.
And yet this thought was so strong and so aware!
Impossible. How was she still here? This was me now.
Mine, I rebuked her, the power and authority that belonged to me alone flowing through the word. Everything is mine.
So why am I talking back to her? I wondered as the voices interuppted my thoughts.
Chapter 2: Overheard
The voices were soft and close and, though I was only now aware of them, apparently in the middle of a murmured conversation.
"I'm afraid it's too much for her," one said. The voice was soft but deep, male. "Too much for anyone. Such violence!" The tone spoke of revulsion.
"She screamed only once," said a higher, reedy, female voice, pointing this out with a hint of glee, as if
she were winning an argument.
"I know," the man admitted. "She is very strong. Others have had much more trauma, with much less cause."
"I'm sure she'll be fine, just as I told you."
"Maybe you missed your Calling." There was an edge to the man's voice. Sarcasm, my memory named it. "Perhaps you were meant to be a Healer, like me."
The woman made a sound of amusement. Laughter. "I doubt that. We Seekers prefer a different sort of diagnosis."
My body knew this word, this title:Seeker. It sent a shudder of fear down my spine. A leftover reaction.
"I sometimes wonder if the infection of humanity touches those in your profession," the man mused, his voice still sour with annoyance. "Violence is part of your life choice. Does enough of your body's native temperament linger to give you enjoyment of the horror?"
I was surprised at his accusation, at his tone. This discussion was almost like... an argument. Something my host was familiar with but that I'd never experienced.
The woman was defensive. "We do not choose violence. We face it when we must. And it's a good thing for the rest of you that some of us are strong enough for the unpleasantness. Your peace would be shattered without our work."
"Once upon a time. Your vocation will soon be obsolete, I think."
"The error of that statement lies on the bed there."
"One human girl, alone and unarmed! Yes, quite a threat to our peace."
The woman breathed out heavily. A sigh. "But where did she come from? How did she appear in the middle of Chicago, a city long since civilized, hundreds of miles from any trace of rebel activity? Did she manage it alone?"
She listed the questions without seeming to seek an answer, as if she had already voiced them many times.
"That's your problem, not mine," the man said. "My job is to help this soul adapt herself to her new host without unnecessary pain or trauma. And you are here to interfere with my job."
Still slowly surfacing, acclimating myself to this new world of senses, I understood only now that I was the subject of the conversation. I was the soul they spoke of. It was a new connotation to the word, a