Work Text:
"Please shut the door, Translator, you're letting all the warm air out." Kalr Five hovered just inside the building entrance, and I could see she was trying not to wring her gloved hands.
Translator Zeiat (certainly not Dlique, and not any other name, as she had somewhat ominously reminded us upon arrival at Athoek Station five days ago--though I knew Medic was not convinced it was the same individual as before) looked at Five with some puzzlement. Frost beaded along the fringe of her hood. "Would you like some of my warm air? It would be no trouble."
Kalr Five shook her head harder than was strictly necessary. "No thank you. I'll--I'll just come outside with you, shall I."
I pulled on my scarf and followed them out into the snowy yard, as much from curiosity as from a desire not to see Translator Zeiat come to harm. I could not be certain but I suspected the Presgar did not spend much time on the winter-bound hemispheres of planets. Certainly Zeiat was now scuffing her boots through the forty centimetres or so of snow on the lawn with an expression of extreme interest. She scooped up a handful and held it close to her face.
"It fell from space?" she asked dubiously.
"From the lower atmosphere," I said. "It's just water, in crystal form." Then, hastily, "Yes, you can eat it," as Zeiat stuck out her tongue and lapped at the snowflakes in her palm. We were far enough from major sources of pollution that it ought to be safe; but then, it was possible the Translator could have eaten gravel from the road and been perfectly fine.
"Oh!" she said, wrinkling her nose. "I like that. A little cold, though. And now it's water." She sighed in disappointment as her breath melted the flakes in her hand. "It's like the fish. They stop moving just when you've found out how interesting they were. Do you grow snow in this yard, fleet captain?"
"No," said Five, and then, "We play games with it. Sometimes." I recalled that Five's aunt lived in a place much like this, and lived there year-round rather than visiting occasionally as Governor Giarod did with her mountain cabin. Presumably, Five had more experience with snow games than Zeiat did. "Have you ever made a snow-person, Translator?"
"Now you sound like Dlique," said the Translator in a reproving tone. "Making a person! The bits never go together properly after you've taken them apart. There's always a splanch or something missing."
Five coloured, and glanced to me in some distress. I signed Go ahead. Show her what you mean and Five drew herself up straighter. "No," she said again, and bent down for her own handful of snow. "Like a doll, made out of snow. A sculpture. It doesn't have to look like a person, but it can."
She squeezed her handful of snow together more firmly, then dropped it on the ground and began to roll it across the yard. Zeiat watched, head tilted to one side, as Five's snowball picked up more and more snow. By the time Five made it back to where we stood in front of the house, her snowball was almost as high as my waist.
Zeiat said, "That's a very big head," but Five only laughed. The wind had teased strands of her hair free from under her hat, and the exertion and cold had turned her cheeks red. I did not need implants to know that she was happy.
Five said, "Help me make another one."
The second was larger than the first, and then Five had to explain to the Translator about stacking them on top of one another. Zeiat made the third ball on her own, and pushed and prodded it with her mittened hands in an attempt to give it a human-like face while Five ran to grab sticks from the side of the yard. Her facial sculpture was unnervingly precise, and looked a lot like Five. I did not suggest the use of root vegetables for a nose.
"Use these for arms," Five said, slightly out of breath, and handed Zeiat a fallen tree branch about a metre long. As Five began to jam a second stick into the shoulder area of the sculpture, Zeiat looked from her own arm to the stick Five had given her, and back again.
"I think I prefer my arm as it is," she said after some contemplation. "If you like, however, I can replace yours?"
"Oh, no," said Five quickly. "Thank you, but I meant to give the snow-person an arm."
"Ah," said Zeiat. "Are you certain? I'm sure it could be done."
"Very certain," said Five, and turned the conversation towards clothing options for the snow sculpture. The Translator's opinions on fashion were perplexing and strange, but were less likely to involve impromptu surgery.
It was at this point that Mercy of Kalr spoke in my ear and asked what was happening, and I found myself entirely unable to describe the scene before me. It seemed, however, that Five's happiness was contagious, and I hummed to myself under my breath as I turned my attention to the ship.