A Different Flesh by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page B

pained her or something external upset her.
    The female sim that had scratched its head might have been the mother of the infant with whom Joanna was being compared. It took Joanna away from the wounded sim and lifted her to a breast. The baby nursed as eagerly as if it had been Anne. Wingfield told himself that was something his wife never needed to know.
    He invented and discarded scheme after scheme for rescuing his daughter. The trouble was that the sims would not leave her alone. Even while she was feeding, they kept coming up to stare at her and touch her. She ate on, blissfully oblivious to everything but the nipple.
    â€œBy God, I shall get her back,” Wingfield said.
    He spoke loud enough to distract Allan Cooper. “What? How?” the guard said.
    And then Wingfield knew what he had to do. “Do you three cover me with your weapons,” he said, “and should the sims harm Joanna or should I fall, do as you deem best. Otherwise, I conjure you not to shoot.” Before his comrades’ protests could more than begin, he got up from his concealment and walked into the light of the sims’ fire.
    The first sim to see him let out a hoot of alarm that made the rest of the band whip their heads around. He walked slowly toward the fire, his hands empty and open; he had left his crossbow behind when he rose.
    Had the sims chosen to, they could have slain him at any instant. He knew that. His feet hardly seemed to touch the ground; they were light with the liquid springiness fear gives. But the strange unreality of the moment gripped the sims no less than him. Never before had an Englishman come to them alone and unarmed (or so they must have thought, for the pistols in his boots did not show—in truth, he had forgotten them himself).
    But then, the sims had never stolen a baby before.
    Females snatched up youngsters and bundled them away in their arms as Wingfield passed. Lucas had it right, he thought wryly; it was as if Satan had appeared, all reeking of brimstone, among the Jamestown cabins.
    He stopped a few feet in front of the male he had fought. That one had stooped to grasp a sharp stone; many of them lay in the dirt round the fire. But the sim made no move to attack. It waited, to see what Wingfield would do.
    The Englishman was not sure if the sim knew him. He pointed to the plastered-over cut he had given; to the bruise and scab on his own forehead; to Joanna, who was still nursing at the female sim’s breast. He repeated the gestures, once, twice.
    The sim’s broad nostrils flared. Its mouth came open, revealing large, strong teeth. It pointed from Wingfield to Joanna, gave a questioning grunt.
    â€œAye, that’s my daughter,” Wingfield said excitedly. The words could not have meant anything to the sim, but the animated tone did. It grunted again.
    Wingfield dug in his pouch, found a strip of smoked meat, and tossed it to the sim. The sim sniffed warily, then took a bite. Its massive jaw let it tear and chew at the leathery stuff where the Englishman had to nibble and gnaw, and made its smile afterward a fearsome thing.
    When Joanna finally relinquished the nipple, the sim holding her swung her up to its shoulder and began pounding her on the back. The treatment was rougher than Wingfield would have liked, but was soon rewarded with a hearty belch. The female sim began to rock Joanna, much as Anne would have.
    Wingfield pointed to his daughter, to himself, and then back in the direction of Jamestown. As best he could, he pantomimed taking Joanna home. When he was done, he folded his arms and waited expectantly, trying to convey the attitude that nothing but going along with his wishes was even conceivable.
    Had he hesitated, faltered for an instant, he would have lost everything. As it was, that aura of perfect confidence gave him his way. None of the sims moved to stop the female when it came forward and set Joanna in his arms.
    He bowed to it as he might have to a