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I may join the tribe or clan that adopts me off the plain。
I may obey a leader…for life has hierarchies that one must endure。
Yet inside I serve one mistress。 Me！
Can humans ever know how their gross smell scrapes my nostril membranes？ They make good warriors and smiths； it's true。 They brought fine music to Jijo。 These are valid things。
Yet one conceives how much better the world would be without them。
We had fought our way up high before they came。 From the plains to fiery mountaintops； we stretched our necks over all others on Jijo…till these bipeds dragged us down； to be just another race among Six。
Worse； their lore reminds us…（me！）…how much we have lost。 How much is forgotten。
Each day they make me recall how low and brief my life is doomed to be； here on this spinning ball of mud； with bitter oceans all around。。。
The indignant narration gallops past our ability to follow。 Its resentful thread is lost； but another takes its place； imposed from the outside by a force that throbs through the little mountain vale。
This beat is much easier to follow。 A cadence that is heavy； slow to anger…and yet； once roused； its ire seems hopeless to arrest short of death。
It is not a rhythm to be rushed。 Still； it beckons us。。。 Beckons us to ponder how often the quicker races tease we poor； patient hoon；
how they swirl around us；
how often they seem to talk fast on purpose；
how they set us to the most dangerous tasks；
to face the sea alone； although each lost ship wrenches a hundred loved ones； tearing our small families apart with wrenching pain。
Humans and their stinking steamboats； they have kept the skills； pretending to share； but not really。 Someday they will leave us rotting here； while they go off on ships made of pure white light。
Should this be allowed？ Are there ways they can be made to pay？
Confusion reigns。
If these pernicious messages were meant for each separate race…to sway it toward aggression…then why are we/i receiving all of them？ Should the Rothen not have targeted each sept to hear one theme； alone？
Perhaps their machine is damaged； or weak。
Perhaps we are stronger than they thought。
Breaking free of the hoonish rhythm； we sense that two layers of bitter song remain。 One is clearly meant for Earthlings。 Reverence is its theme。 Reverence and pride。
We are superior。 Others specialize but we can do anything！ Chosen and raised by mighty Rothen； it is proper that we be greatest； even as castaways on this slope of savages。
If taught their place； the others might learn roles of worthy service。。。
we/i recall a phrase。 Direct empathic transmission…a technique used by Galactic science for the better part of half a billion years。
Knowing makes the manipart stream of voice seem more artificial； tinny； even self…satirical。 Of course this message was to have been amplified somehow through our Holy Egg； at a time when we would be most receptive。 Even so； it is hard to imagine such prattle winning many believers。
Did they actually think we would fall for this？
Another fact penetrates our attention： There is no layer for the wheeled ones！ Why is that？ Why are the g'Kek left out？ Is it because of their apparent uselessness in a program of genocidal war？
Or because they were already extinct； out there among the stars？
One resonance remains。 A drumbeat； like hammers pounding on stacks of stiff round tubes。 A reverberation that howls in a manner this posite self finds eerily familiar。
Yet； in some ways it is the most alien of all。