Fieldborn

The shuttle settled with a sigh of ducted fans onto the plateau. Behind it, a vast mountain rose into the sky. Ahead, endless grass out to the horizon dotted with grazing llamas. President Olga Chung stepped out behind her two security guards. Even in these days of relative peace, she had to have some protection, if only for appearances. The cold air was so clear she could still see the glint of the research airship Heart of Gold high above. Struggling after her, a late-middle-aged, tall, pale man fought the large rug perched on his bony shoulder and the small case in his hand. Finally, he put both on the ground and took a deep breath of the thin air. “Good of them to meet us,” he told her. “We’re still pretty high, but we’ll be ok for a few hours. Use your breather if you get lightheaded”.

“I know, but thank you, Doctor,” she replied, trying to conceal a spurt of irritation. Under her glove, her Bracelet was monitoring her body the same as his. Well, some small part, anyway; most of its attention would be centred on the host of environmental factors around her., analysed down to the atomic level in real-time. Even she wasn’t immune to the necessities of Citizen Science, the Pulse as it was popularly known. Her Bracelet was just one amongst untold billions constantly sending data back to the AI modellers, ever watchful for problems in the biosphere. Bitter lessons of the past learned at the cliff edge of extinction. And so many lost.

“You both read the briefing, and I expect you to follow it to the letter.” she told her two guards, and before the senior one even blinked, added, “Remember, whatever you may think, we’re meeting a sovereign, a ruler, and there will be no incidents.” She looked at the younger one hard, noticing the slight bulge at her waist. “I’m also sure it said no weapons. Get rid of what-ever-that-is before I notice, Sheila”. Her senior agent looked daggers at the departing back before turning her bland professional face back on to scan the horizon. Thirty seconds later, her security was again complete. The youngster wasn’t breathing even slightly harder. Olga turned to Dr Keynes, “Now that we’re organised, perhaps you’d like to lead on?”

They walked out from under the shuttle’s cupped wings onto the sward, breath misting, the scientist’s eyes scanning in front for something two decades of effort had taught him to recognise. Ahead, the llamas took little notice, random heads coming up for a second before continuing their grazing, ignoring what was obviously no threat. “Here,” he said, carefully unfolding the rug, his movements slow, precise. “We’re as close as is, well, polite. Now we wait” He offered an arm, and she accepted the gesture, sinking onto the rug with as much grace as age gave her to sit upright on her heels with her hands folded into her lap. Behind her on either side, both agents slid to the ground like snakes, adopting the same posture with a fluidity that she’d never match, while off to her side, Dr Keynes huffed and puffed as he pulled his legs awkwardly under himself. Olga composed herself as best she could. Conscious of how they must look: penitents in a church with neither walls, roof or alter. Grateful for the efficient cold-weather gear and thick rug and sorely missing her hat. Time passed.

The sun had just started to kiss the far mountains when they came, led by an old llama with a dull brown fleece, grey muzzle, and spotted ears. A study in contrasts with the young female the colour of honey, walking fluidly by her side. Trailing the stiff steps of their leader, two sturdy middle-aged females, both white, ears locked forward. They came to a stop perhaps two metres away, waiting until the old llama kneeled down onto her front legs, sitting as her back legs folded, tiny audible clicks from her joints, limbs disappearing from view under her body as she settled her fleece around her with a shake. Only then did the rest sink to the ground, old and young side-by-side, security detail behind them, like a mirror image.

Olga dipped her head as she’d been coached, confident her security sat like statues behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor do the same as he opened his case. Slowly, smoothly, bringing out a circle of silver to put it on his head. The device that had altered how humanity saw itself forever.  A hiss of static in her earpiece, a flick of an age-spotted ear in front, and she heard, “Welcome, Heart, StoryTeller. This is Akna, cria of Xpiayoc, the na-Heart. She will hold the herd’s pride in her mouth after me.”

Olga felt the familiar itch of jealousy. Keynes was sub-vocalising both his thoughts and the llama’s for her benefit, and the recorders of her agent. About forty per cent of humanity could use the device Keynes had on his head. He’d been very careful never to call it telepathy. though he really needn’t have once the secret was out. In fact, he always said thought-walkie-talkie or TWT. There was no mind-reading: whoever was sending was received by anyone within a few metres. But, to send, you had to consciously push those thoughts out. It seemed only about ten per cent of users could do that as well. Olga might be Chair of the Federated Globe, ‘Heart’ of the herd of humanity. But couldn’t do either. Like many, not a trace remained in her Lingual Gyrus of the atrophied structures that made the miracle work.

The ear flicked again. “I wish Akna to hear your Story, our Story. She is young, cloud-born, stubborn. She says that we have no interest in two-leg affairs. Because you are not Herd. Pah!” a huff of breath hung for a moment before the wind carried it away. “But I am still Heart, the last of the field-born, and so she will sit and listen if she wants to keep her ears whole.” Olga knew she meant Keynes, her StoryTeller: those who kept the history of the herd. 

Beside her, Keynes started talking quietly in her ear, and her mind drifted with the familiar words. She’d read his book in college and watched all three VRs. Her favourite moment was the calm before the storm. A young Keynes sitting dejected in his uncle’s field eating his packed lunch. Sitting in a metal thicket, the array of amplifiers he’d cobbled together because no institution would support the research of a lunatic. On his head, an old-fashioned cap of electrodes with a thick tail of wires coiling down to a hastily printed box on his belt. Experiment after obsessed experiment. Nights spent building and rebuilding and nothing to show for it but the hiss of static. The break for lunch, forgetting to turn off his equipment and offering his apple core to a curious young llama. The neck tentatively stretched out, the lips picking it from his hand. Then, the look, the famous look, as her thoughts echoed in his head, bright with wonder at the first sweet taste of her short life.

Daisy, cria-of-Heather, was clever, curious and loved apples. She kept coming, and Keynes spent every day for two more years in her field, keeping his research secret, refining his equipment and recording everything she said. He learned about their culture, their Stories, and their leader, the Heart. Both mother and soul of the herd: connecting them together in a way Daisy found impossible to explain. Only that it was right. Heart and herd, even for the dozen females in his uncle’s quiet, safe field.  

And then, inevitably, and despite his best efforts, his discovery got out, and the world found itself looking in a mirror. Finding that perhaps it could accept speech/thought. What cat or dog owner had not suspected that? Harder to swallow was that animals might have culture and history. Not just sentient but comparable to any indigenous tribe. An animal world suddenly revealed, as diverse and widespread in their views and behaviour as any faction of humanity. For a while, there was chaos. Human values got ruthlessly projected as everyone took sides, patronised whatever animal they felt an affinity to and fought the others. Screaming “slavery” and demanding reparations for their clients, whether they wanted it or not. Below the froth and crash of outrage, though, things quietly changed. Consumption of meat dropped ninety per cent over the next six years. Poaching fell to almost nothing. Not because poachers cared a jot if animals could talk, but the fact that no one would touch something like ivory any more than they would buy something made from human teeth. Be it getting a cat, buying leather shoes, or visiting a zoo. At every touchpoint, a little distance appeared between humanity and the new tribes. 

Through all the turmoil, the quiet voice of Daisy talked about her herd and what it meant to be a llama. Talked about the need to act as one when danger threatened. Although she’d never seen a puma in her life, her little herd would have spun and fled in a heartbeat if one had appeared. Because to save all, all had to act in the moment. She talked of Pride, the worth of the herd. Not measured by those outside but felt by those inside. She talked of making the best of what was there, not wishing for things that could not be achieved. That hope was like sunshine, but delusion was like rain. Her thoughts resonated with the bitter lessons of the 2030s. Too hot here, too cold there, rising waters drowning the cities, the inevitable conflict of billions displaced. Act as one or die. In the end, for humanity, it had been as simple as that. 

Olga realised Keynes had stopped talking. Daisy’s head was now on the floor, her long neck stretched out. She quickly accessed the bio-monitor that the old llama wore on her chest, almost entirely hidden by her fleece. Organ failure, erratic heartbeat, the heralds of death from old age. She heard her tell him to go on, her mind still clear. Listening now, one eye on the bio-data projected by her implants, knowing he could see the same, hoping there was time.

Daisy captured the world’s imagination. Calm, certain of her place, content. Except sometimes, she dreamed. She told Keynes it always started the same: grazing with her herd on a vast sea of grass, not a fence or a tree, nothing except a far horizon of smudged mountain peaks. She told him of running as she never had, flat out with the herd bunched tight around her and the blood pounding in her ears. And her dream herd had males. there watching for the Enemy, ears turning for the tiniest scrape of whisker on grass. A wistful feeling of completeness, knowing they were there, like a warm day sleeping in the sun.

She’d been Heart for three seasons when Keynes came and asked if she wanted that dream made true. If she wanted her cria to be cloud-born. She knew he was StoryTeller for the humans, that he had Rank and the ear of his Heart, but still astonished he offered. So many two-leg Stories not really understood a decade on. Really, Olga had been happy to do it, the cost minimal, the land unoccupied. Good news all around. The Federated Globe swung into action. The only problem was Daisy’s herd was too small to be viable. It took another year and some persuasion to assemble two hundred llamas who would accept her leadership. Choosing an alpha male wasn’t as much of a problem. The eighty males they assembled would shake out very quickly into a pecking order, and then the top tier would fight until there was a winner. Over the summer, they were lifted by airship to the Plata del Mayo in South America. A national park twelve thousand feet up where they could be left undisturbed. High enough for the blood to tingle. Not so high that their field-born bodies would suffer until they could adjust. A satellite quietly watched in case they got into trouble, but otherwise, as requested, they were left alone to rediscover their heritage. They thrived. 

Keynes had finished and was watching the old llama intently as she flicked her ear, deathly still else. “Do you see, youngster? That we field-born looked out even as we remembered this place in our dreams. That the cloud-born look in, having known no other life. You are so certain, so traditional, and it is so dangerous to think we are not part of the world. Akna, you will hold us in your mouth. Look up from time to time. Remember these two-legs and the world outside. Meet them out on the grass if they come. Exchange Stories as herds do. Do not forget them, and do not let them forget us. I am Daisy, cria of Heather, Heart and field-born. I say this knowing what is right and the will of the herd.” 

And just like that, all the telltales in Olga’s vision turned red and she was gone. With a flicker of ears, the young llama, their new Heart, got up, and in a moment, all were standing. Behind her, a low, brief hum from the herd carried on the wind as they realised what had happened. “A swift Rebirth, Heart”, one or all three of them, she couldn’t tell. Then the youngster paused, ear flicking, “Come if you will. We will meet as herds do”  Just that, then she turned and walked away, trailed by her new Companions. 

Beside her, Keynes took off his circlet with a sigh and put it back in the case. As if he’d forgotten they were there, he got up, reached into his pocket and produced a small apple which he placed by Daisy’s head. The same young llama who had taken that core out of his hand all those years ago. Putting his hand between her ears for a moment, Olga heard him quietly say, “A swift ReBirth, my old friend,” before they all walked away. And if the wind made his eyes water a little on the way back to the shuttle. No one mentioned it.