Avengers
In ancient days, when Poseidon still reigned and the ships of man were as weak as tinder, bad luck struck a certain Thracian freighter, who foundered and broke apart under an early winter storm. All hands were lost under those savage waves, save one—the boat’s mascot—a monkey.
As the fates would have it, a dolphin appeared just as the monkey was gasping its last breath. Knowing of the great love between man and dolphin, the monkey cried out, “Save me! For the sake of my poor children in Athens!”
Quick as a streak, the dolphin offered its broad back. “Thou art very strange, small, and ugly for a man,” the dolphin said as the monkey took a desperate grip.
“As men go, I might be quite handsome,” replied the monkey, who coughed, holding on tightly as the dolphin turned towards land. “You say you are a man of Athens?” the wary sea creature asked.
“Indeed, who would claim it were he not?” the monkey proclaimed.
“Then you know Piraeus?” the suspicious dolphin inquired further.
The monkey thought quickly. “Oh, yes!” he cried. “Piraeus is my dear friend. I only spoke with him last week!”
With that the dolphin bucked angrily and flung the monkey into the sea to drown. The moral of the story, one might suppose, is that one should always get one’s story straight, when pretending to be what one is not.
M. N. PLANO
The image in the holographic display flickered. That was not surprising, since it came from many parsecs away, refracted through the folded space of the Pourmin transfer point. The muddy picture wavered and occasionally lost definition.
Still, to the Suzerain of Propriety the message was coming in all too clearly.
A diverse collection of beings stood depicted before the Suzerain’s pedestal. It recognized most of the races by sight. There was a Pila, for instance—short, furry, and stubby-armed. And there was a tall, gangling Z’Tang who stood beside a spiderlike Serentin. A Bi-Gle glowered lazily, coiled next to a being the Suzerain did not immediately recognize, and which might have been a client or a decorative pet.
Also, to the Suzerain’s dismay, the delegation included a Synthian and a human.
A human!
And there was no way to complain. It was only appropriate to include a Terran among the official observers—if a qualified human were available—since this world was registered to the wolflings. But the Suzerain had felt certain that there were none employed by the Uplift Institute in this sector!
Perhaps this was one more sign that the political situation in the Five Galaxies had worsened. Word had come from the homeworld Roost Masters telling of serious setbacks out between the spiral arms. Battles had gone badly. Allies had proven unreliable. Tandu and Soro fleets dominated once profitable trade routes and now monopolized the siege of
Earth.
These were trying times for the great and powerful clan of the Gooksyu-Gubru. All now depended on certain important neutralist patron-lines. Should something happen to draw one or two of them into an alliance, triumph might yet be attained for the righteous.
On the other side of the wing, it would be disastrous to see any of the neutrals turn against the Great Glan!
To influence such matters had been a major reason, back when the Suzerain of Propriety originated the idea of invading Garth in the first place. Superficially this expedition had been intended to seize hostages for use in prying secrets out of the High Command of Earth. But psychological profiles had always made success in that seem unlikely. Wolflings were obstinate creatures.
No, what had won the Roost Masters over to the priest’s proposal was the possibility that this would bring honor to the cause of the clan—to score a coup and win new alliances from wavering parties. And at first all seemed to go so well! The first Suzerain of Cost and Caution—
The priest chirped a deep note of mourning. It had not before realized what wisdom they had lost, how the old bureaucrat had tempered the rash brilliance of the younger two with deep and reliable sense.
What a consensus, unity, policy we might have had.
Now, though, in addition to the constant struggles among the still disunited Triumvirate, there was this latest bad news. A Terran would be among the official observers from the Uplift Institute. The implications were unpleasant to consider.
And that was not to be the worst of it! As the Suzerain watched in dismay, the Earthling stepped forward as spokesman! Its statement was in clear Galactic Seven.
“Greetings to the Triumvirate of the Forces of Gooksyu-Gubru, now in contested occupation of the limited-leasehold world known as Garth. I greet you in the name of Cough’Quinn*3, Grand High Examiner of the Uplift Institute. This message is being sent ahead of our vessel by the quickest available means, so that you may prepare for our arrival. Conditions in hyperspace and at transfer points indicate that causality will almost certainly allow us to attend the proposed ceremonies, and administer appropriate sapiency tests at the time and place requested by you.
“You are further informed that Galactic Uplift Institute has gone to great lengths to accommodate your unusual request—first in exercising such haste and second in acting on the basis of so little information.
“Ceremonies of Uplift are joyous occasions, especially in times of turmoil such as these. They celebrate the continuity and perpetual renewal of Galactic culture, in the name of the most revered Progenitors. Client species are the hope, the future of our civilization, and on such occasions as this we demonstrate our responsibility, our honor, and our love.
“We approach this event, then, filled with curiosity as to what wonder the clan of Gooksyu-Gubru plans to unveil before the Five Galaxies.”
The scene vanished, leaving the Suzerain to contemplate this news.
It was too late, of course, to recall the invitations and cancel the ceremony. Even the other Suzerains recognized this. The shunt must be completed, and they must prepare to receive honored guests. To do otherwise might damage the Gubru cause irrevocably.
The Suzerain danced a dance of anger and frustration. It muttered short, sharp imprecations.
Curse the devil-trickster Tymbrimi! In retrospect, the very idea of “Garthlings”—native pre-sentients that survived the Holocaust of the Bururalli—was absurd. And yet the trail of false evidence had been so startlingly plausible, so striking in its implied opportunity!
The Suzerain of Propriety had begun this expedition in a lead position. Its place in the eventual Molt had seemed assured after the untimely demise of the first Suzerain of Cost and Caution.
But all that changed when no Garthlings were found -- when it became clear just how thoroughly Propriety had been tricked. Failure to find evidence of human misuse of Garth or their clients meant that the Suzerain still had not yet set foot upon the soil of this planet. That, in turn, had retarded the development of completion hormones. All of these factors were setbacks, throwing the Molt into serious doubt.
Then, insurrection among the neo-chimpanzees helped bring the military to the fore. Now the Suzerain of Beam and Talon was rapidly growing preeminent, unstoppable.
The coming Molt filled the Suzerain of Propriety with foreboding. Such events were supposed to be triumphant, transcendent, even for the losers. Moltings were times of renewal and sexual fulfillment for the race. They were also supposed to represent crystallization of policy—consensus on correct action.
This time, however, there was little or no consensus. Something was very wrong, indeed, about this molting.
The only thing all three Suzerains were in agreement about was that the hyperspace shunt must be used for some sort of Uplift ceremony. To do otherwise would be suicidal at this point. But beyond that they parted company. Their incessant arguing had begun affecting the entire expedition. The more religious Talon Soldiers had taken to bickering with their comrades. Bureaucrats who were retired soldiers sided with their former comrades over logistical expenditures, or turned sullen when their chief overruled them. Even among the priesthood there were frequent arguments where there should already be unanimity.
The priest had just recently discovered what factionalism could do. The divisiveness had gone all the way to the point of betrayal! Why else had one of its two race-leader chimpanzees been stolen?
Now the Suzerain of Cost and Caution was insisting on a role in choosing the new male. No doubt the bureaucrat was responsible for the “escape” of the Fiben Bolger chimp in the first place! Such a promising creature it had been! By now it no doubt had been converted to vapor and ashes.
There would be no way to pin this on either of the rival Suzerains, of course.
A Kwackoo servitor approached and knelt, proffering a data cube in its beak. Given assent, it popped the record into a player unit.
The room dimmed and the Suzerain of Propriety watched a camera’s-eye view of driving rain and darkness. It shivered involuntarily, disliking the ugly, dank dinginess of a wolfling town.
The view panned over a muddy patch in a dark alley . . . a broken shack made of wire and wood, where Terran birds had been kept as pets ... a pile of soggy clothing beside a padlocked factory . . . footprints leading to a churned up field of mud beside a bent and battered fence . . . more footprints leading off into the dim wilderness. . . .
The implications were apparent to the Suzerain before the investigators’ report reached its conclusion.
The male neo-chimpanzee had perceived the trap set for it! It appeared to have made good its escape!
The Suzerain danced upon its perch, a series of mincing steps of ancient lineage.
“The harm, damage, setback
to our program is severe.
But it is not, may not be
irreparable!”
At a gesture its Kwackoo followers hurried forward. The Suzerain’s first command was straightforward. -
“We must increase, improve, enhance
our commitment, our incentives.
Inform the female that we agree,
accept, acquiesce to her request.
“She may go to the Library.”
The servitor bowed, and the other Kwackoo crooned. “Zoooon!”
The holo-tank cleared as the interstellar message ran to its end. When the lights came on, the Council members looked at each other in puzzlement. “What. . . what does it mean?” Colonel Maiven asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Commander Kylie. “But it’s clear the Gubru are up to something.”
Refuge Administrator Mu Chen drummed her fingers on the table. “They appeared to be officials from the Uplift Institute. It seems to mean the invaders are planning some sort of Uplift ceremony, and have invited witnesses.”
That much is obvious, Megan thought. “Do you think this has anything to do with that mysterious construction south of Port Helenia?” she asked. The site had been a topic of much discussion lately.
Colonel Maiven nodded. “I had been reluctant to admit the possibility before, but now I’d have to say so.”
The chim member spoke. “Why would they want to hold an Uplift ceremony for the Kwackoo here on Garth? It doesn’t make sense. Would that improve their claim on our leasehold?”
“I doubt it,” Megan said. “Maybe . . . maybe it isn’t for the Kwackoo at all.”
“But then for who?”
Megan shrugged. Kylie commented. “The Uplift Institute officials appear to be in the dark as well.”
There was a long silence. Then Kylie broke it again.
“How significant do you think it is that the spokesman was human?”
Megan smiled. “Obviously it was meant as a dig at the Gubru. That man might have been no more than a junior clerk trainee at the local Uplift Institute branch. Putting him out in front of Pila and Z’Tang and Serentini means Earth isn’t finished yet. And certain powers want to point that out to the Gubru.”
“Hm. Pila. They’re tough customers, and members of the Soro clan. Having a human spokesman might be an insult to the Gubru, but it’s no guarantee Earth is okay.”
Megan understood what Kylie meant. If the Soro now dominated Earthspace, there were rough times ahead.
Again, another long silence. Then Colonel Maiven spoke.
“They mentioned a hyperspace shunt. Those are expensive. The Gubru must set great store by this ceremony thing.”
Indeed, Megan thought, knowing that a motion had been put before the Council. And this time she realized that it would be hard to justify holding to Uthacalthing’s advice.
“You are suggesting a target, colonel?”
“I sure am, madam coordinator.” Maiven sat up and met her eyes. “I think this is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”
There were nods of agreement up and down the table. They are voting out of boredom, and frustration, and sheer cabin fever, Megan knew. And yet, is this not a golden chance, to be seized or lost forever?
“We cannot attack once the emissaries from the Uplift Institute have arrived,” she emphasized, and saw that everybody understood how important that was. “However, I agree that there may be a window of opportunity during which a strike could be made.”
Consensus was obvious. In a corner of her mind, Megan felt there really ought to be more discussion. But she, too, was near filled to bursting with impatience.
“We shall cut new orders to Major Prathachulthorn then. He shall receive carte blanche, subject only to, the condition that any attack be completed by November first. Is it agreed?”
A simple raising of hands. Commander Kylie hesitated, then joined in to make it unanimous.
We are committed, Megan thought. And she wondered if Hell reserved a special place for mothers who send their own sons into battle.
She didn’t have to go away, did she? I mean she herself said it was all right.
Robert rubbed his stubbled chin. He thought about taking a shower and shaving. Major Prathachulthorn would be calling a meeting sometime after it reached full light, and the commander liked to see his officers well groomed.
What I really should be doing is sleeping, Robert knew. They had just finished a whole series of night exercises. It would be wise to catch up on his rest.
And yet, after a couple of hours of fitful slumber he had found himself too nervous, too full of restless energy to stay in bed any longer. He had risen and gone to his small desk, setting up the datawell so its light would not disturb the chamber’s other occupant. For some time he read through Major Prathachulthorn’s detailed order of battle.
It was ingenious, professional. The various options appeared to offer a number of efficient” ways to use limited forces to strike the enemy, and strike Rim hard. All that remained was choosing the right target. There were several choices available, any of which ought to do.
Still, something about the entire edifice struck Robert as wrong. The document did not increase his confidence, as he had hoped it would. In the space over his head Robert almost imagined something taking form—something faintly akin to the dark clouds that had shrouded the mountains in storms so recently—a symbolic manifestation of his unease.
Across the little chamber a form moved under the blankets. One slender arm lay exposed, and a smooth length of calf and thigh.
Robert concentrated and erased the nonthing that he had been forming with his simple aura-power. It had begun affecting Lydia’s dreams, and it wouldn’t be fair to inflict his own turmoil upon her. For all of their recent physical intimacy, they were still in many ways strangers.
Robert reminded himself that there were some positive aspects to the last few days. The battle plan, for instance, showed that Prathachulthorn was at last taking some of his ideas seriously. And spending time with Lydia had brought more than physical pleasure. Robert had not realized how much he missed the simple touch of his own kind. Humans might be able to withstand isolation better than chims—who could fall into deep depression if they lacked a grooming partner for very long. But mel and fern humans, too, had their apelike needs.
Still, Robert’s thoughts kept drifting. Even during his most passionate moments with Lydia, he kept thinking of somebody else.
Did she really have to leave? Logically there was no reason to have to go to Mount Fossey. The gorillas were already well cared for.
Of course, the gorillas might have been just an excuse. An excuse to escape the disapproving aura of Major Prathachulthorn. An excuse to avoid the sparking discharges from human passion.
Athaclena might be correct that there was nothing wrong with Robert seeking his own kind. But logic was not everything. She had feelings, too. Young and alone, she could be hurt even by what she knew to be right.
“Damn!” Robert muttered. Prathachulthorn’s words and graphs were a blur. “Damn, I miss her.”
There was a commotion outside, beyond the flap of cloth that sectioned off this chamber from the rest of the caves. Robert looked at his watch. It was still only four a.m. He stood up and gathered his trousers. Any unplanned excitement at this hour was likely to be bad news. Just because the enemy had been quiet for a month did not mean it had to stay that way. Perhaps the Gubru had gotten wind of their plans and were striking preemptively!
There was the slap of unshod feet upon stone. “Capt’n Oneagle?” a voice said from just beyond the cloth. Robert strode over and pulled it aside. A winded chim messenger breathed heavily. “What’s happening?” Robert asked.
“Urn, sir, you’d better come quick.”
“All right. Let me get my weapons.”
The chim shook her head. “It’s not fighting, sir. It’s . . . it’s some chims just arrivin’ from Port Helenia.”
Robert frowned. New recruits from town had been arriving in small groups all along. What was all the excitement about this time? He heard Lydia stir as the talking disturbed her sleep. “Fine,” he told the chimmie. “We’ll interview them a little later—“
She interrupted. “Sir! It’s Fiben! Fiben Bolger, sir. He’s come back.”
Robert blinked. “What?”
There was movement behind him. “Rob?” a feminine voice spoke. “What is—“
Robert whooped. His shout reverberated in the closed spaces. He hugged and kissed the surprised chimmie, then caught up Lydia and tossed her lightly into the air.
“What . . . ?” she started to ask, then stopped, for she found herself addressing only the empty space where he had been.
Actually, there was little need to hurry. Fiben and his escorts were still some distance away. By the time their horses could be seen, puffing up the trail from the north, Lydia had dressed and joined Robert up on the escarpment. There dawn’s gray light was just driving out the last wan stars.
“Everybody’s up,” Lydia commented. “They even roused the major. Chims are dashing all over the place, jabbering in excitement. This must be some chen we’re waiting for.”
“Fiben?” Robert laughed. He blew into his hands. “Yeah, you might say old Fiben’s unusual.”
“I gathered as much.” She shaded her eyes against the glow to the east and watched the mounted party pass a switchback climbing the narrow trail. “Is he the one in the bandages?”
“Hm?” Robert squinted. Lydia’s eyesight had been bio-organically enhanced during her Marine training. He was envious. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Fiben’s always getting banged up, one way or another. Claims he hates it. Says it’s all due to’innate clumsiness and a universe that has it in for him, but I’ve always suspected it was an affinity for trouble. Never known a chim who went to such lengths just to get a story to tell.”
In a minute he could make out the features of his friend. He shouted and raised his hand. Fiben grinned and waved back, although his left arm was immobilized in a sling. Next to him, on a pale mare, rode a chimmie Robert did not recognize.
A messenger arrived from the cave entrance and saluted. “Sers, the major requests that you an’ Lieutenant Bolger come down just as soon’s he’s here.”
Robert nodded. “Please tell Major Prathachulthorn we’ll be right there.”
As the horses climbed the last switchback, Lydia slipped her hand into his, and Robert felt a sudden wave of both gladness and guilt. He squeezed back and tried not to let his ambivalence show.
Fiben’s alive! he thought. I must get word to Athaclena. I’m’sure she’ll be thrilled.
Major Prathachulthorn had a nervous habit of tugging at one ear or the other. While listening to reports from his subordinates, he would shift in his chair, occasionally leaning over to mumble into his datawell, retrieving some quick dollop of information. At such times he might seem distracted, but if the speaker stopped talking, or even slowed down, the major would snap his fingers, impatiently. Apparently, Prathachulthorn had a quick mind and was able to juggle several tasks at once. However, these behaviors were very hard on some of the chims, often making them nervous and tongue-tied. That, in turn, did not improve the major’s opinion of the irregulars that had only recently been under Robert’s and Athaclena’s command.
In Fiben’s case, though, this was no problem. As long as he was kept supplied with orange juice, he kept on with his story. Even Prathachulthorn, who usually interrupted reports with frequent questions, probing mercilessly for details, sat silently through the tale of the disastrous valley insurrection, Fiben’s subsequent capture, the interviews and tests by the followers of the Suzerain of Propriety, and the theories of Dr. Gailet Jones.
. Now and then Robert glanced at the chimmie Fiben had brought with him from Port Helenia. Sylvie sat to one side, between the chims Benjamin and Elsie, her posture erect and her expression composed. Occasionally, when asked to verify or elaborate on something, she answered in a quiet voice. Otherwise, her gaze remained on Fiben constantly.
Fiben carefully described the political situation among the Gubru, as he understood it. When he came to the evening of the escape, he told of the trap that had been laid by the “Suzerain of Cost and Caution,” and concluded simply by saying, “So we decided, Sylvie and I, that we’d better exit Port Helenia by a different route than by sea.” He shrugged. “We got out through a gap in the fence and finally made it to a rebel outpost. So here we are.”
Right! Robert thought sardonically. Of course Fiben had left out any mention of his injuries and exactly how he escaped. He would no doubt fill in the details in his written report to the major, but anyone else would have to bribe them out of him.
Robert saw Fiben glance his way and wink. I’d bet this is at least a five-beer tale, Robert thought.
Prathachulthorn leaned forward. “You say that you actually saw this hyperspace shunt? You know exactly where it is located?”
“I was trained as a scout, major. I know where it is. I’ll include a map, and a sketch of the facility, in my written report.”
Prathachulthorn nodded. “If I had not already had other reports of this thing I’d never have credited this story. As it is though, I am forced to believe you. You say this facility is expensive, even by Gubru standards?”
“Yessir. That’s what Gailet and I came to believe. Think about it. Humans have only been able to throw one Uplift ceremony for each of their clients in all the years since Contact, and both had to be held on Tymbrim. That’s why other clients Me the Kwackoo can get away with snubbing us.
“Part of the reason has been political obstruction by antagonistic clans like the Gubru and the Soro, who’ve been able to drag out Terran applications for status. But another reason is because we’re so frightfully poor, by Galactic standards.”
Fiben had been learning things, obviously. Robert realized part of it must have been picked up from this Gailet Jones person. With his heightened empathy sense, he picked up faint tremors from his friend whenever her name came up.
Robert glanced at Sylvie. Hmm. Life seems to have grown complicated for Fiben.
That reminded Robert of his own situation, of course. Fiben isn’t the only one, he thought. All his life he had wanted to learn to be more sensitive, to better understand others and his own feelings. Now he had his wish, and he hated it.
“By Darwin, Goodall, and Greenpeace!” Prathachulthorn pounded the table. “Mr. Bolger, you bring your news at a most opportune time!” He turned to address Lydia and Robert. “Do you know what this means, gentlemen?”
“Um,” Robert began.
“A target, sir,” Lydia answered succinctly.
“A target is right! This fits perfectly with that message we just received from the Council. If we can smash this shunt—preferably before the dignitaries from the Uplift Institute arrive—then we could rap the Gubru right where it pains them most, in their wallets!”
“But—“ Robert started to object.
“You heard what our spy just told us.” Prathachulthorn said. “The Gubru are hurting out there in space! They’re overextended, their leaders here on Garth are at each others’ throats, and this could be the last straw! Why, we might even be able to time it so their entire Triumvirate is at the same
place at the same time!”
Robert shook his head. “Don’t you think we ought to give it some thought, sir? I mean, what about the offer that the Suzerain of Probity—“
“Propriety,” Fiben corrected.
“Propriety. Yes. What about the offer it made to Fiben and Dr. Jones?”
Prathachulthorn shook his head. “An obvious trap, Oneagle. Be serious now.”
“I am being serious, sir. I’m no more an expert on these matters than Fiben, and certainly less of one than Dr. Jones. And certainly I concede it may be a trap. But on the surface, at least, it sounds like a terrific deal for Earth! A deal I don’t think we can pass up without at least reporting this back to the Council.”
“There isn’t time.” Prathachulthorn said, shaking his head. “My orders are to operate at my own discretion and, if appropriate, to act before the Galactic dignitaries arrive.”
Robert felt a growing desperation. “Then at least let’s consult with Athaclena. She’s the daughter of a diplomat. She might be able to see some ramifications we don’t.”
Prathachulthorn’s frown spoke volumes. “If there’s time, of course I’ll be happy to solicit the young Tymbrimi’s opinion.” But it was clear that even mentioning the idea had brought Robert down a peg in the man’s eyes.
Prathachulthorn slapped the table. “Right now I think we had better have a staff meeting of commissioned officers and discuss potential tactics against this hypershunt installation.” He turned and nodded to the chims. “That will be all for now, Fiben. Thank you very much for your courageous and timely action. That goes the same to you too, miss.” He nodded at Sylvie. “I look forward to seeing your written reports.”
Elsie and Benjamin stood up and held the door. As mere brevet officers they were excluded from Prathachulthorn’s inner staff. Fiben rose and moved more slowly, aided by Sylvie.
Robert hurriedly spoke in a low voice to Prathachulthorn. “Sir, I’m sure it only slipped your mind, but Fiben holds a full commission in the colonial defense forces. If he’s excluded it might not go down well, urn, politically.”
Prathachulthorn blinked. His expression barely flickered, though Robert knew he had once again failed to score points. “Yes, of course,” the major said evenly. “Please tell Lieutenant Bolger he is welcome to stay, if he’s not too tired.”
With that he turned back to his datawell and started calling up files. Robert could feel Lydia’s eyes on him. She may despair of my ever learning tact, he thought as he hurried to the door and caught Fiben’s arm just as he was leaving.
His friend grinned at him. “I guess it’s grownup time again, here,” Fiben said, sotto voce, glancing in Pratha-chulthorn’s direction.
“It’s worse even than that, old chim. I just got you tapped as an honorary adult.”
If looks could maim, Robert mused on seeing Fiben’s sour expression. And you thought it was Miller time, didn’t you? They had argued before about the possible historical origins of that expression.
Fiben squeezed Sylvie’s shoulder and hobbled back into the room. She watched him for a moment, then turned and followed Elsie down the hall.
Benjamin, however, lingered for a moment. He had caught Robert’s gesture bidding him to stay. Robert slipped a small disk into the chim’s palm. He dared not say anything aloud, but with his left hand he made a simple sign.
“Auntie,” he said in hand talk.
Benjamin nodded quickly and walked away.
Prathachulthorn and Lydia were already deep into the arcana of battle planning as Robert returned to the table. The major turned to Robert, “I’m afraid there just won’t be time to use enhanced bacteriological eifects, as ingenious as your idea was on its own merits. ...”
The words washed past unnoted. Robert sat down, thinking only that he had just committed his first felony. By secretly recording the meeting—including Fiben’s lengthy report—he had violated procedure. By giving the pellet to Benjamin he had broken protocol.
And by ordering the chim to deliver the recording to an alien he had, by some lights, just committed treason.
A large neo-chimpanzee shambled into the vast underground chamber, hands cuffed together, drawn along at the end of a stout chain. He remained aloof from his guards, chims wearing the invader’s livery, who pulled at the other end of his leash, but occasionally he did glare defiantly at the alien technicians watching from catwalks overhead.
His face had not been unblemished to start with, but now fresh patterns of pink scar tissue lay livid and open, exposed by patches of missing fur. The wounds were healing, but they would never be pretty.
“C’mon, Reb,” one of the chim guards said as he pushed the prisoner forward. “Bird wants to ask you some questions.”
Max ignored the Probie as best he could as he was led over to a raised area near the center of the huge chamber. There several Kwackoo waited, standing upon an elevated instrument platform.
Max kept his eyes level on the apparent leader, and his bow was shallow—just low enough to force the avian to give one in return.
Next to the Kwackoo stood three more of the quislings. Two were well-dressed chims who had made tidy profits providing construction equipment and workers to the Gubru—it was rumored that some of the deals had been at the expense of their missing human business partners. Other stories implied approval and direct connivance by men interned on Cilmar and the other islands. Max didn’t know which version he wanted to believe. The third chim on the platform was the commander of the Probie auxiliary force, the tall, haughty chen called Irongrip.
Max also knew the proper protocol for greeting traitors. He grinned, exposing his large canines to view, and spat at their feet. With a shout the Probies yanked at his chain, sending him stumbling. They lifted their truncheons. But a quick chirp from the lead Kwackoo stopped them in mid-blow. They stepped back, bowing.
“You are sure—certain that this one—this individual is the one we have been looking for?” the feathered officer asked Irongrip. The chim nodded.
“This one was found wounded near the site where Gailet Jones and Fiben Bolger were captured. He was seen in their company before the uprising, and was known to be one of her family’s retainers for many years before that. I have prepared an analysis showing how his contact with these individuals makes him appropriate for close attention.”
The Kwackoo nodded. “You have been most resourceful,” he told Irongrip. “You shall be rewarded—compensated with high status. Although one of the candidates of the Suzerain of Propriety has escaped our net somehow. We are now in a good position to choose—select his replacement. You will be informed.”
Max had lived under Gubru rule long enough to recognize that these were bureaucrats, followers of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution. Though what they wanted from him, what use he could be to them in their internal struggles, he had no idea.
Why had he been brought here? Deep in the bowels of the handmade mountain, across the bay from Port Helenia, there sat an intimidating honeycomb of machinery and humming power supplies. During the long ride down the autolift, Max had felt his hair stand out with static electricity as the Gubru and their clients tested titanic devices.
The Kwackoo functionary turned to regard him with one eye. “You will serve two functions,” it told Max. “Two purposes now. You will give us information—data about your former employer, information of use to us. And you will help—assist us in an experiment.”
Again, Max grinned. “I won’t do neither, an’ I don’t even care if it is disrespectful. You can go put on a clown suit an’ ride a tricycle, for all I’ll tell you.”
The Kwackoo blinked once, twice, as it listened to a computer translation for verification. It chirped an exchange with its associates, then turned back to face him.
“You misunderstand- -- mistake our meaning. There will be no questions. You need not speak. Your cooperation is not necessary.”
The complacent assuredness of the statement sounded dire. Max shivered under a sudden premonition.
Back when he had first been captured, the enemy had tried to get information out of him. He had steeled himself to resist with all his might, but it really rocked him when all they seemed to be interested in were “Garthlings.” That’s what they asked him about again and again. “Where are the pre-sentients?” they had inquired.
Garthlings?
It had been easy to mislead them, to lie in spite of all the drugs and psi machines, because the enemy’s basic assumptions had been so cockeyed dumb. Imagine Galactics falling for a bunch of children’s tales! He had had a field day, and learned many tricks to fool the questioners.
For instance, he struggled hard not to “admit” that Garthlings existed. For a while that seemed to convince them all the more that the trail was hot.
At last, they gave up and left him alone. Perhaps they finally figured out how they’d been duped. Anyway, after that he was assigned to a work detail at one of the construction sites, and Max thought they’d forgotten about him.
Apparently not, he now knew. Anyway, the Kwackoo’s words disturbed him.
“What do you mean, you won’t be asking questions?”
This time it was the Probationer leader who replied. Irongrip stroked his mustache with relish. “It means you’re going to have everything you know squeezed out of you. All this machinery”—he waved around him—“will be focused on just little ol’ you. Your answers will come out. But you won’t.”
Max inhaled sharply and felt his heart beat faster. What kept him steady was one firm resolve; he wasn’t going to give these traitors the satisfaction of finding him tongue-tied! He concentrated to form words.
“That . . . that’s against th’ . . . the Rules of War.”
Irongrip shrugged. He left it to the Kwackoo bureaucrat to explain.
“The Rules protect—provide for species and worlds far more than individuals. And anyway, none of those you see here are followers of priests!”
So, Max realized. I’m in the hold of fanatics. Mentally he said farewell to the chens and chimmies and kids of his group family, especially his senior group wife, whom he now knew he would never see again. Also mentally, he bent over and kissed his own posterior goodbye.
“Y’made two mistakes,” he told his captors. “Th” first was lettin’ it slip that Gailet is alive, an’ that Fiben’s made a fool of you again. Knowin’ that makes up for anythin’ you can do to me.”
Irongrip growled. “Enjoy your brief pleasure. You’re still going to be a big help in bringing your ex-employer down a few pegs.”
“Maybe.” Max nodded. “But your second mistake was leaving me, attached to this—“
He had been letting his arms go slack. Now he brought them back with a savage jerk and pulled the chain with all his might. It yanked two of the Probie guards off their feet before the links flew out of their hands.
Max planted his feet and snapped the heavy chain like a whip. His escorts dove for cover, but not all of them made it in time, One of the chim contractors had his skull laid open by a glancing blow. Another stumbled in his desperation to get away and knocked down all three Kwackoo like bowling pins.
Max shouted with joy. He whirled his makeshift weapon until everyone was either toppled or out of reach, then he worked the arc sideways, changing the axis of rotation. When he let go, the chain flew upwards at an angle and wrapped itself around the guardrail of the catwalk overhead.
Shimmying up the heavy links was the easy part. They were too stunned to react in time to stop him. But at the top he had to waste precious seconds unwrapping the chain. Since it was attached to his handcuffs, he’d have to take it along.
Along where? he wondered as he got the links gathered. Max spun about when he glimpsed white feathers over to his right. So he ran the other way and scurried up a flight of stairs to reach the next level.
Of course escape was an absurd notion. He had only two short-term objectives: doing as much harm as possible, and then ending his own life before he could be forced against his will to betray Gailet.
The former goal he accomplished as he ran, flailing the tip of the chain against every knob, tube, or delicate-looking instrument within reach. Some bits of equipment were tougher than they looked, but others smashed and tinkled nicely. Trays of tools went over the edge, toppling onto those below.
He kept a watch out, though, for other options. If no ready implement or weapon presented itself before the time came, he ought to try to get high enough for a good leap over the railing to do the trick.
A Gubru technician and two Kwackoo aides appeared around a corner, immersed in technical discussions in their own chirping dialect. When they looked up Max hollered and swung his chain. One Kwackoo gained a new apterium as feathers flew. During the backstroke Max yelled, “Boo!” at the staring Gubru, who erupted in a squawk of dismay, leaving a cloud of down in its wake.
“With respect,” Max added, addressing the departing avian’s backside. One never knew if cameras were recording an event. Gailet had told him it was okay to kill birds, just so long as he was polite about it.
Alarms and sirens were going off on all sides. Max pushed a Kwackoo over, vaulted another, and swept up a new flight of steps. One level up he found a target just too tempting to pass by. A large cart carrying about a ton of delicate photonics parts lay abandoned very near the edge of a loading platform. There was no guardrail to the lifter shaft. Max ignored all the shouts and noise that approached from every side and put his shoulder to the back end. Move! he grunted, and the wheeled wagon started forward.
“Hey! He’s over this way!” he heard some chim cry out. Max strained harder, wishing his wounds had not weakened him so. The cart started rolling.
“You! Reb! Stop that!”
There were footsteps, too late, he knew, to prevent inertia from doing its work. The wagon and its load toppled over the edge. Now to follow it, Max thought.
But as the command went to his legs they spasmed suddenly. He recognized the agonizing effects of a neural stunning. Recoil spun him about in time to see the gun held by the chim called Irongrip.
Max’s hands clenched spastically, as if the Probie’s throat were within reach. Desperately, he willed himself to fall backward, into the shaft.
Success! Max felt victory as he plummeted past the landing. The tingling numbness would not last long. Now we’re even, Fiben, he thought.
But it wasn’t the end after all. Max distantly felt his nerve-numbed arms half yanked out of their sockets as he came up suddenly short. The cuffs around his wrists had torn bleeding rents, and the taut chain led upward past the end of the landing. Through the metal mesh of the platform, Max could see Irongrip straining, holding on with all his might. Slowly, the Probie looked down at him, and smiled.
Max sighed in resignation and closed his eyes.
When he came to his senses Max snorted and pulled away involuntarily from an odious smell. He blinked and blearily made out a mustachioed neo-chimp holding a broken snap-capsule in his hand. From it still emitted noxious fumes.
“Ah, awake again, I see.”
Max felt miserable. Of course he ached all over from the stunning and could barely move. But also his arms and wrists seemed to be burning. They were tied behind him, but he could guess they were probably broken.
“Wh . . . where am I?” he asked.
“You’re at the focus of a hyperspace shunt,” Irongrip told him matter-of-factly.
Max spat. “You’re a Goodall-damned liar,”
“Have it your way.” Irongrip shrugged. “I just figured you deserved an explanation. You see, this machine is a special kind of shunt, what’s called an amplifier. It’s s’pozed to take images out of a brain and make em clear for all to see. During the ceremony it’ll be under Institute control, but their representatives haven’t arrived yet. So today we’re going to overload it just a bit as a test.
“Normally the subject’s supposed to be cooperative, and the process is benign. Today though, well, it just isn’t going to matter that much.”
A sharp, chirping complaint came from behind Irongrip. Through a narrow hatch could be seen the technicians of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution. “Time!” the lead Kwackoo snapped. “Quickly! Make haste!”
“What’s your hurry?” Max asked. “Afraid some of the other Gubru factions may have heard the commotion and be on their way?”
Irongrip looked up from closing the hatch. He shrugged.
“All that means is we’ve got time to ask just one question- But it’ll serve. Just tell us all about Gailet.”
“Never!”
“You won’t be able to help it.” Irongrip laughed. “Ever tried not to think about something? You won’t be able to avoid thoughts about her. And once it’s got somethin’ to get a grip on, the machine will rip the rest out of you.”
“You . . . you . . .” Max strugggled for words, but this time they were gone. He writhed, trying to move out of the focus of the massive coiled tubes aimed at him from all sides. But his strength was gone. There was nothing he could do.
Except not think of Gailet Jones. But by trying not to, of course, he was thinking about her! Max moaned, even as the machines began giving out a low hum in superficial accompaniment. All at once he felt as if the gravitic fields of a hundred starships were playing up and down his skin.
And in his mind a thousand images whirled. More and more of them pictured his former employer and friend.
“No!” Max struggled for an idea. He mustn’t try not to think of something. What he had to do was find something else to contemplate. He had to find something new to focus his attention on during the remaining seconds before he was torn apart.
Of course! He let the enemy be his guide. For weeks they had questioned him, asking only about Garthlings, Garthlings, nothing but Garthlings. It had become something of a chant. For him it now became a mantra.
“Where are the pre-sentients?” they had insisted. Max concentrated, and in spite of the pain it just had to make him laugh. “Of... all th’ stupid . . . dumb . . . idiotic ...”
Contempt for the Galactics filled him. They wanted a projection out of him? Well let them amplify thisl
Outside, in the mountains and forests, he knew it would be about dawn. He pictured those forests, and the closest thing he could imagine to “Garthlings,” and laughed at the image he had made.
His last moments were spent guffawing over the idiocy of life.
The autumn storms had returned again, only this time as a great cyclonic front, rolling down the Valley of the Sind. In the mountains the accelerated winds surged to savage gusts that sloughed the outer leaves from trees and sent them flying in tight eddies. The debris gave shape and substance to whirling devil outlines in the gray sky.
As if in counterpoint, the volcano had begun to grumble as well. Its rumbling complaint was lower, slower in building than the wind, but its tremors made the forest creatures even more nervous as they huddled in their dens or tightly grasped the swaying tree trunks.
Sentience was no certain protection against the gloom. Within their tents, under the mountain’s shrouded flanks, the chims clung to each other and listened to the moaning zephyrs. Now and then one would give in to the tension and disappear screaming into the forest, only to return an hour or so later, disheveled and embarrassed, dragging a trail of torn foliage behind him.
The gorillas also were susceptible, but they showed it in other ways. At night they stared up at the billowing clouds with a quiet, focused concentration, sniffling, as if searching for something expectantly. Athaclena could not quite decide what it reminded her of, that evening, but later, in her own tent under the dense forest canopy, she could easily hear their low, atonal singing as they answered the storm.
It was a lullaby that eased her into sleep, but not without a price.
Expectancy . . . such a song would, of course, beckon back that which had never completely gone away.
Athaclena’s head tossed back and forth on her pillow. Her tendrils waved—seeking, repelled, probing, compelled. Gradually, as if in no particular hurry, the familiar essence gathered.
“Tutsunucann . . .” she breathed, unable to awaken or avoid the inevitable. It formed overhead, fashioned out of that which was not.
“Tutsunucann, s’ah brannitsun. A’twillith’t . . .”
A Tymbrimi knew better than to ask for mercy, especially from Ifni’s universe. But Athaclena had changed into something that was both more and less than mere Tymbrimi. Tutsunucann had allies now. It was joined by visual images, metaphors. Its aura of threat was amplified, made almost palpable, filled out by the added substance of human-style nightmare. “... s’ah brannitsun, . . .” she sighed, pleading antephialticly in her sleep.
Night winds blew the flaps of her tent, and her dreaming mind fashioned the wings of huge birds. Malevolent, they flew just over the tree tops, their gleaming eyes searching, searching. . . .
A faint volcanic trembling shook the ground beneath her bedroll, and Athaclena shivered in syncopation, imagining burrowing creatures—the dead—the unavenged, wasted Potential of this world—ruined and destroyed by the Bururalli so long ago. They squirmed just underneath the disturbed ground, seeking. ...
“S’ah brannitsun, tutsunucann!”
The brush of her own waving tendrils felt like the webs and feet of tiny spiders. Gheer flux sent tiny gnomes wriggling under her skin, busy fashioning unwilled changes.
Athaclena moaned as the glyph of terrible expectant laughter hovered nearer and regarded her, bent over her, reached down—
“General? Mizz Athaclena. Excuse me, ma’am, are you awake? I’m sorry to disturb you, ser, but—“
The chim stopped. He had pulled aside the tent flap to enter, but now he rocked back in dismay as Athaclena sat up suddenly, eyes wide apart, catlike irises dilated, her lips curled back in a rictus of somnolent fear.
She did not appear to be aware of him. He blinked, staring at the pulsations that coursed slowly, like soliton waves, down her throat and shoulders. Above her agitated tendrils he briefly glimpsed something terrible.
He almost fled right then. It took a powerful effort of courage to swallow instead, to bear down, and to choke forth words.
“M-Ma’am, p-please. It’s me . . . S-Sammy ...”
Slowly, as if drawn back by the sheerest force of will, the light of awareness returned to those gold-flecked eyes. They closed, reopened. With a tremulous sigh, Athaclena shuddered. Then she collapsed forward.
Sammy stood there, holding her while she sobbed. At that moment, stunned and frightened and astonished, all he could think of was how light and frail she felt in his arms.
“... That was when Gailet became convinced that any trick, if th’ Ceremony was a trick at all, had to be a subtle one.
“You see, the Suzerain of Propriety seems to have done a complete about-face regarding chim Uplift. It had started out convinced it would find evidence of mismanagement, and perhaps even cause to take neo-chimps away from humans. But now the Suzerain seemed to be earnest in searchin’ out ... in searchin out appropriate race representatives . . .”
The voice of Fiben Bolger came from a small playback unit resting on the rough-hewn logs of Athaclena’s table. She listened to the recording Robert had sent. The chim’s report back at the caves had had its amusing moments. Fiben’s irrepressible good nature and dry wit had helped lift Athaclena’s limp spirits. Now, though, while relating Dr. Gailet Jones’s ideas about Gubru intentions, his voice had dropped, and he sounded reticent, almost embarrassed.
Athaclena could feel Fiben’s discomfort through the vibrations in the air. Sometimes one did not need another’s presence in order to sense their essence.
She smiled at the irony. He is starting to know who and what he is, and it frightens him. Athaclena sympathized. A sane being wished for peace and serenity, not to be the mortar in which the ingredients of destiny are finely ground.
In her hand she held the locket containing her mother’s legacy thread, and her father’s. For the moment, at least, tutsunucann was held at bay. But Athaclena knew somehow that the glyph had returned for good. There would be no sleep now, no rest until tutsunucann changed into something else. Such a glyph was one of the largest known manifestations of quantum mechanics—a probability amplitude that hummed and throbbed in a cloud of uncertainty, pregnant with a thousand million possibilities. Once the wave function collapsed, all that remained would be fate.
“... delicate political maneuverings on so many levels -- among the local leaders of th’ invasion force, among factions back on the Gubru homeworld, between the Gubru and their enemies and possible allies, between the Gubru and Earth, and among th’ various Galactic Institutes . . .
She stroked the locket. Sometimes one does -not need another’s presence in order to sense their essence.
There was too much complexity here. What did Robert think he would accomplish by sending her this taping? Was she supposed to delve into some vast storehouse of sage Galactic wisdom—or perform some incantation—and somehow come up with a policy to guide them through this? Through this?
She sighed. Oh father, how I must be a disappointment to you.
The locket seemed to vibrate under her trembling fingers. For some time it seemed that another trance was settling in, drawing her downward into despair.
“. . .By Darwin, Goodall, and Greenpeace!”
It was the voice of Major Prathachulthorn that jarred her out of it. She listened for a while longer.
“. . . a target! ...”
Athaclena shuddered. So. Things were, indeed, quite dire. All was explained now. Particularly the sudden, gravid insistence of an impatient glyph. Wheivthe pellet ran out she turned to her aides, Elayne Soo, Sammy, and Dr. de Shriver. The chims watched her patiently.
“I will seek altitude now,” she told them.
“But—but the storm, ma’am. We aren’t sure it’s passed. And then there’s the volcano. We’ve been talking about an evacuation.”
Athaclena stood up. “I do not expect to be long. Please send nobody along to guard or look out for me, they will only disturb me and make more difficult what I must do.”
She stopped at the flap of the tent then, feeling the wind push at the fabric as if searching for some gap at which to pry. Be patient. I am coming. When she spoke to the chims again, it was in a low voice. “Please have horses ready for when I return.”
The flap dropped after her. The chims looked at each other, then silently went about preparing for the day.
Mount Fossey steamed in places where the vapor could not be entirely attributed to rising dew.»Moist droplets still fell from leaves that shivered in the wind—now waning but still returning now and then in sudden, violent gusts.
Athaclena climbed doggedly up a narrow game trail. She could tett that her wishes were being respected. The chims remained behind, leaving her undisturbed.
The day was beginning with low clouds cutting through the peaks like the vanguards of some aerial invasion. Between them she could see patches of dark blue sky. A human’s eyesight might even have picked out a few stubborn stars.
Athaclena climbed for height, but even more for solitude. In the upper reaches the animal life of the forest was even sparser. She sought emptiness.
At one point the trail was clogged with debris from the storm, sheets of some clothlike material that she soon recognized. Plate ivy parachutes.
They reminded her. Down in the camp the chim techs had been striving to meet a strict timetable, developing variations on gorilla gut bacteria in time to meet nature’s deadline. Now, though, it looked as if Major Prathachulthorn’s schedule would not allow Robert’s plan to be used.
Such foolishness, Athaclena thought. How did humans last even this long, I wonder?
Perhaps they had to be lucky. She had read of their twentieth century, when it seemed more than Ifni’s chance that helped them squeeze past near certain doom . . . doom not only for themselves but for all future sapient races that might be born of their rich, fecund world. The tale of that narrow escape was perhaps one reason why so many races feared or hated the k’chu’non, the wolflings. It was uncanny, and unexplained to this day.
The Earthlings had a saying, “There, but for the love of God, go I.” The sick, raped paucity of Garth was mild compared to what they might easily have done to Terra.
How many of us would have done better under such circumstances? That was the question that underlay all the smug, superior posturings, and all of the contempt pouring from the great clans. For they had never been tested by the ages of ignorance Mankind suffered. What might it have felt like, to have no patrons, no Library, no ancient wisdom, only the bright flame of mind, unchanneled and undirected, free to challenge the Universe or to consume the world? The question was one few clans dared ask themselves.
She brushed aside the little parachutes. Athaclena edged past the snagged cluster of early spore carriers and continued her ascent, pondering the vagaries of destiny.
At last she came to a stony slope where the southern outlook gave a view of more mountains and, in the far distance, just the faintest possible colored trace of a sloping steppe. She breathed deeply and took out the locket her father had given her.
Growing daylight did not keep away the thing that had begun to form amid her waving tendrils. This time Athaclena did not even try to stop it. She ignored it—always the best thing to do when an observer does not yet want to collapse probability into reality.
Her fingers worked the clasp, the locket opened, and she flipped back the lid.
Your marriage was true, she thought of her parents. For where two threads had formerly lain, now there was only one larger one, shimmering upon the velvety lining.
An end curled around one of her fingers. The locket tumbled to the rocky ground and lay there forgotten as she plucked the other end out of the air. Stretched out, the tendril hummed, at first quietly. But she held it tautly in front of her, allowing the wind to stroke it, and she began to hear harmonics.
Perhaps she should have eaten, should have built her strength for this thing she was about to attempt. It was something few of her race did even once in their lifetimes. On occasions Tymbrimi had died. . . .
“A t’ith’tuanoo, Uthacalthing,” she breathed. And she added her mother’s name. “A t’ith’tuanine, Mathicluanna!”
The throbbing increased. It seemed to carry up her arms, to resonate against her heartbeat. Her own tendrils responded to the notes and Athaclena began to sway. “A t’ith’tuanoo, Uthacalthing ...”
“It’s a beauty, all right. Maybe a few more weeks’ work would make it more potent, but this batch will do, an’ it’ll be ready in time for when the ivy sheds.”
Dr. de Shriver put the culture back into its incubator. Their makeshift laboratory on the flanks of the mountain had been sheltered from the winds. The storm had not interfered with the experiments. Now, the fruit of their labors seemed nearly ripe.
Her assistant grumbled, though. “What’s th’ use? The Gubru’d just come up with countermeasures. And anyway, the major says the attack is gonna take place before the stuffs ready to be used.”
De Shriver took off her glasses. “The point is that we keep working until Miss Athaclena tells us otherwise. I’m a civilian. So’re you. Fiben and Robert may have to obey the chain of command when they don’t like it, but you and I can choose . . .”
Her voice trailed off when she saw that Sammy wasn’t listening any longer. He stared over her shoulder. She whirled to see what he was looking at.
If Athaclena had appeared strange, eerie this morning, after her terrifying nightmare, now her features made Dr. de Shriver gasp. The disheveled alien girl blinked with eyes narrow and close together in fatigue. She clutched the tent pole as they hurried forward, but when the chims tried to move her to a cot she shook her head.
“No,” she said simply. “Take me to Robert. Take me to Robert now.”
The gorillas were singing again, their low music without melody. Sammy ran out to fetch Benjamin while de Shriver settled Athaclena into a chair. Not knowing what to do, she spent a few moments brushing leaves and dirt from the young Tymbrimi’s ruff. The tendrils of her corona seemed to give off a heavy, fragrant heat that she could feel with her fingers.
And above them, the thing that tutsunucann had become made the air seem to ripple even before the eyes of the befuddled chim.
Athaclena sat there, listening to the gorillas’ song, and feeling for the first time as if she understood it.
All, all would play their role, she now knew. The chims would not be very happy about what was to come. But that was their problem. Everybody had problems.
“Take me to Robert,” she breathed again.
He trembled, standing there with his back to the rising sun, feeling as if he had been sucked as dry as a husk.
Never before had a metaphor felt more appropriate. Uthacalthing blinked, slowly returning to the world ... to the dry steppe facing the looming Mountains of Mulun. All at once it seemed that he was old, and the years lay heavier than ever before.
Deep down, on the nahakieri level, he felt a numbness. After all of this, there was no way to tell if Athaclena had even survived the experience of drawing so much into herself.
She must have felt great need, he thought. For the first time his daughter had attempted something neither of her parents could ever have prepared her for. Nor was this something one picked up in school.
“You have returned,” Kault said, matter-of-factly. The Thennanin, Uthacalthing’s companion for so many months, leaned on a stout staff and watched him from a few meters away. They stood in the midst of a sea of brown savannah grass, their long shadows gradually shortening with the rising sun.
“Did you receive a message of some sort?” Kault asked. He had the curiosity shared by many total nonpsychics about matters that must seem, to him, quite unnatural.
“I—“ Uthacalthing moistened his lips. But how could he explain that he had not really received anything at all? No, what happened was that his daughter had taken him up on an offer he had made, in leaving both his own thread and his dead wife’s in her hands. She had called in the debt that parents owe a child for bringing her, unasked, into a strange world.
One should never make an offer without knowing full well what will happen if it is accepted.
Indeed, she drained me dry. He felt as if there was nothing left. And after all that, there was still no guarantee she had even survived the experience. Or that it had left her still sane.
Shall I lie down and die, then? Uthacalthing shivered.
No, I think. Not quite yet.
“I did experience a communion, of sorts,” he told Kault.
“Will the Gubru be able to detect this thing you have done?”
Uthacalthing could not even craft a palanq shrug. “I do not think so. Maybe.” His tendrils lay flat, like human hair. “I don’t know.”
The Thennanin sighed, his breathing slits flapping. “I wish you would be honest with me, colleague. It pains me to be forced to believe that you are hiding things from me.”
How Uthacalthing had tried and tried to get Kault to utter those words! And now he could not really bring himself to care. “What do you mean?” he asked.
The Thennanin blew in exasperation. “I mean that I have begun to suspect that you know more than you are telling me about this fascinating creature I have seen traces of. I warn you, Uthacalthing, I am building a device that will solve this riddle for me. You would be well served to be direct with me before I discover the truth all by myself!”
Uthacalthing nodded. “I understand your warning. Now, though, perhaps we had better be walking again. If the Gubru did detect what just happened, and come to investigate, we should try to be far from here before they arrive.””
He owed Athaclena that much, still. Not to be captured before she could make use of what she had taken.
“Very well, then,” Kault said. “We shall speak of this later.”
Without any great interest, more out of habit than for any other reason, Uthacalthing led his companion toward the mountains—in a direction selected—again by habit—by a faint blue twinkling only his eyes could see.
The new Planetary Branch Library was a beauty. Its beige highlights glistened on a site recently cleared atop Sea Bluff Park, a kilometer south of the Tymbrimi Embassy.
The architecture did not blend as well as the old branch had, into the neo-Fullerite motif of Port Helenia. But it was quite stunning nevertheless—a windowless cube whose pastel shades contrasted well with the nearby chalky, cretaceous outcrops.
Gailet stepped out into a cloud of dry dust as the aircar settled onto the landing apron. She followed her Kwackoo escort up a paved walkway toward the entrance of the towering edifice.
Most of Port Helenia had turned out to watch, a few weeks ago, as a huge freighter the size of a Gubru battleship cruised lazily out of a chalybeous sky and lowered the structure into place. For a large part of the afternoon the sun had been eclipsed while technicians from the Library Institute set the sanctuary of knowledge firmly into place in its new home.
Gailet wondered if the new Library would ever really benefit the citizens of Port Helenia. There were landing pads on all sides, but no provision had been made for groundcar or bicycle or foot access to these bluffs from the town nearby. As she passed through the ornate columned portal, Gailet realized that she was probably the first chim ever to enter the building.
Inside, the vaulted ceiling cast a soft light that seemed to come from everywhere at once. A great ruddy cube dominated the center of the hall, and Gailet knew at once that this was, indeed, an expensive setup. The main data store was many times larger than the old one, a few miles from here. It might even be bigger than Earth’s Main Library, where she had done research at La Paz.
But the vastness was mostly empty compared to the constant, round-the-clock bustle she was used to. There were Gubru, of course, and Kwackoo. They stood at study stations scattered about the broad hall. Here and there avians clustered in small groups. Gailet could see their beaks move in sharp jerks, and their feet were constantly in motion as they argued. But no sound at all escaped the mufflsd privacy zones.
In ribbons and hoods and feather dyes she saw the colors of Propriety, of Accountancy, and of Soldiery. For the most part, each faction kept apart in its own area. There was bristling and some ruffling of down when the follower of one Suzerain passed too close to another.
In one place, however, a multi-hued gaggle of fluttering Gubru displayed that some communication remained among the factions. There was much head ducking and preening and gesturing toward floating holographic displays, all apparently as much ritualistic as based on fact and reason.
As Gailet hurried by, several of the hopping, chattering birds turned to stare at her. Pointing talons and beak gestures made Gailet guess that they knew exactly who she was, and what she was supposed to represent.
She did not hesitate or linger. Gailet’s cheeks felt warm.
“Is there any way I can be of service to you, miss?”
At first Gailet thought that what stood at the dais, directly beneath the rayed spiral of the Five Galaxies, was a decorative plant of some sort. When it addressed her, she jumped slightly.
The “plant” spoke perfect Anglic! Gailet took in the rounded, bulbous foliage, lined with silvery bits which tinkled gently as it moved. The brown trunk led down to knobby rootlets that were mobile, allowing the creature to move in a slow, awkward shuffle.
A Kanten, she realized. Of course, the Institutes provided a Librarian.
The vege-sentient Kanten were old friends of Earth. Individual Kanten had advised the Terragens Council since the early days after Contact, helping the wolfling humans weave their way through the complex, tricky jungle of Galactic politics and win their original status as patrons of an independent clan. Nevertheless, Gailet restrained her initial surge of hope. She reminded herself that those who entered the service of the great Galactic Institutes were supposed to forsake all prior loyalties, even to their own lines, in favor of a holier mission. Impartiality was the best she could hope for, here.
“Urn, yes,” she said, remembering to bow. “I want to look up information on Uplift Ceremonies.”
The little bell-like things—probably the being’s sensory apparatus—made a chiming that almost sounded amused.
“That is a very broad topic, miss.”
She had expected that response and was ready with an answer. Still, it was unnerving talking with an intelligent being without anything even faintly resembling a face. “I’ll start with a simple overview then, if you please.”
“Very well, miss. Station twenty-two is formatted for use by humans and neo-chimpanzees. Please go there and make yourself comfortable. Just follow the blue line.”
She turned and saw a shimmering hologram take form next to her. The blue trail seemed to hang in space, leading around the dais and on toward a far corner of the chamber. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
As she followed the guide trail she imagined she heard sleigh bells behind her.
Station twenty-two was like a friendly, familiar song. A chair and desk and beanbag sat next to a standard holo-console. There were even well-known versions of datawells and styluses, all neatly arranged on a rack. She sat at the desk gratefully. Gailet had been afraid she would have to stand stiltwise, craning her neck to use a Gubru study station.
As it was, she felt nervous. Gailet hopped slightly as the display came alight with a slight “pop.” Anglic text filled the central space. PLEASE ASK FOR ADJUSTMENTS ORALLY. REQUESTED REMEDIAL SURVEY WILL BEGIN AT YOUR SIGNAL.
“Remedial survey ...” Gailet muttered. But yet, it would be best to begin at the simplest level. Not only would it guarantee that she had not forgotten some vital fundamental, but it-would tell her what the Galactics themselves considered most basic.
“Proceed,” she said.
The side displays came alight with pictures, displaying images of faces, the faces of other beings on worlds far away in both space and time.
“When nature brings forth a new pre-sentient race, all Galactic society rejoices. For it is then that the adventure of Uplift is about to begin. ...”
Soon the old patterns reasserted themselves. Gailet swam easily into the flow of information, drinking from the font of knowledge. Her datawell filled with notes and cross-references. Soon she lost all sense of the passage of time.
Food appeared on the desktop without Gailet ever becoming aware of how it arrived. A nearby enclosure took care of her other needs, when nature’s call grew too insistent to ignore.
During some periods of Galactic history, Uplift Ceremonies have been almost purely ceremonial. Patron species have been responsible for declaring their clients suitable, and their word was simply accepted that their charges were ready. There have been other epochs, however, in which the role of the Uplift Institute has been much stronger, such as during the Sumubulum Meritocracy, when the entire process was under direct Institution supervision in all cases.
The present era falls somewhere in between these extremes, featuring patron responsibility but with medium to extensive Institute involvement. The latter participation has increased since a rash of Uplift failures forty to sixty thousand GYU’s ago* resulted in several severe and embarrassing ecological holocausts (Ref: Gl’kahesh, Bururalli, Sstienn, MuhurnS.) Today the patron of a client cannot vouch alone for its client’s development. It must allow close observation by the client’s Stage Consort, and by the Uplift Institute.
*GYU = Galactic year unit (approximately fourteen Earth months)
Uplift Ceremonies are now more than perfunctory celebrations. They serve two other major purposes. First, they allow representatives from the client race to be tested—under rigorous and stressful circumstances—to satisfy the Institute that the race is ready to assume the rights and duties appropriate to the next Stage. Also, the ceremony allows the client race an opportunity to choose a new consort for the subsequent Stage, to watch over it and, if necessary, to intercede on its behalf.
The criteria used in testing depend upon the level of development the client race has reached. Among other important factors are phagocity type (e.g., carnivore, herbivore, autophagic, or ergogenic), modality of movement (e.g., bipedal or quadrupedal walker, amphibious, roller, or sessile), mental technique (e.g., associative, extrapolative, intuitive, holographic, or nulutative) . . .
Slowly she worked her way through the “remedial” stuff. It was fairly heavy plodding. This Library branch would need some new translation routines if the chim-on-the-street in Port Helenia was going to be able to use the vast storehouse of knowledge. Assuming Joe and Jane Chim ever got the opportunity.
Nevertheless, it was a wonderful edifice—far, far greater than the miserable little branch they’d had before. And unlike back at La Paz, there was not the perpetual hustle and bustle of hundreds, thousands of frantic users, waving priority slips and arguing over access timeslots. Gailet felt as if she could just sink into this place for months, years, drinking and drinking knowledge until it leaked out through her very pores.
For instance, here was a reference to how special arrangements were made to allow Uplift among machine cultures. And there was one brief, tantalizing paragraph about a race of hydrogen breathers which had seceded from that mysterious parallel civilization and actually applied for membership in Galactic society. She ached to follow that and many other fascinating leads, but Gailet knew she simply did not have the time. She had to concentrate on the rules regarding bipedal, warm-blooded, omnivorous Stage Two clients with mixed mental faculties, and even that made for a daunting reading list.
Narrow it down, she thought. So she tried to focus on ceremonies which take place under contention or in time of war. Even under those constraints she found it hard slogging. Everything was all so complicated! It made her despair over the shared ignorance of her people and clan.
. .’. whether an agreement of co-participation is or is not made in advance, it can and shall be verified by the Institutes in a manner taking into account methods of adjudication considered traditional by the two or more parties involved . . .
Gailet did not recall falling asleep on the beanbag. But for some time it was a raft, floating upon a dim sea which rocked to the rhythm of her breathing. After a while, mists seemed to close in, coalescing into a black and white dream-scape of vaguely threatening shapes. She saw contorted images of the dead, her parents, and poor Max.
“Mm-mm, no,” she muttered. At one point she jerked sharply. “No!”
She started to rise, began to emerge from slumber. Her eyes fluttered, fragments of dreams clinging in shreds to the lids. A Gubru seemed to hover overhead, holding a mysterious device, like those which had probed and peered at her and Fiben. But the image wavered and fell apart as the avian pressed a button on the machine. She slumped back, the Gubru image rejoining the many others in her disturbed sleep.
The dream state passed and her breathing settled into the slow cycle of deep somnolence.
She only awoke sometime later, when she dimly sensed a hand stroke her leg. Then it seized her ankle and pulled hard.
Gailet’s breath caught as she sat up quickly, before she could even bring her eyes to focus. Her heart raced. Then vision cleared and she saw that a rather large chim squatted beside her. His hand still rested on her leg, and his grin was instantly recognizable. The waxed handlebar mustache was only the most superficial of many attributes she had come to detest.
So suddenly drawn out of sleep, she had to take a mo—ment to find speech again. “Wh . . . what are you doing here?” she asked acerbically, yanking her leg away from his grasp.
Irongrip looked amused. “Now, is that the way to say hello to someone as important as I am to you?”
“You do serve your purpose well,” she admitted. ‘”As a bad example!” Gailet rubbed her eyes and sat up. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you bothering me? Your incompetent Probies aren’t in charge of guarding anybody anymore.”
The chen’s expression soured only slightly. Obviously he was relishing something. “Oh, I just figured I ought to come on down to th’ Library and do some studying, just like you.”
“You, studying? Here?” She laughed. “I had to get special permission from the Suzerain. You’re not even supposed^ -- “
“Now those were the exact words I was about to use,” he interrupted.
Gailet blinked. “What?”
“I mean, I was gonna tell you that the Suzerain told me to come down here and study with you. After all, partners ought to get to know each other well, especially before they step forward together as race-representatives.”
Gailet’s breath drew in audibly. “You . . . ?” Her head whirled. “I don’t believe you!”
Irongrip shrugged. “You needn’t sound so surprised. My genetic scores are in the high nineties almost across the board . . . except in two or three little categories that shouldn’t ever have counted in the first place.”
That Gailet could believe easily enough. Irongrip was obviously clever and resourceful, and his aberrant strength could only be considered an asset by the Uplift Board. But sometimes the price was just too great to pay. “All that means is that your loathsome qualities must be even worse than I had imagined.”
The chen rocked back and laughed. “Oh, by human standards, I suppose you’re right,” he agreed. “By those criteria, most Probationers shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near chimmies and children! Still standards change. And now I have the opportunity to set a new style.”
Gailet felt a chill. It was just sinking in what Irongrip was driving at.
“You’re a liar!”
“Admitted, mea culpa.” He pretended to beat his breast. “But I’m not lying about being in the testing party, along with a few of my fellow donner boys. There’ve been some changes, you see, since your little mama’s boy and teacher’s pet ran off into the jungle with our Sylvie.”
Gailet wanted to spit. “Fiben’s ten times the chen you are, you, you atavistic mistake! The Suzerain of Propriety would never choose you as his replacement!”
Irongrip grinned and raised a finger. “Aha. There’s where we misunderstand each other. You see we’ve been talking about different birds, you and I.”
“Different ...” Gailet gasped. Her hand covered the open collar of her shirt. “Oh Goodall!”
“You get it,” he said, nodding. “Smart, aristophrenic little monkey you are.”
Gailet slumped. What surprised her most was the depth of her mourning. At that moment she felt as if her heart had been torn out.
We were pawns all along, she thought. Oh, poor Fiben!
This explained why Fiben had not been brought back the evening he took off with Sylvie. Or the next day, or the next. Gailet had been so sure that the “escape” would turn out to have been just another propriety and intelligence test.
But clearly it wasn’t. It had to have been arranged by one or both of the other Gubru commanders, perhaps as a way to weaken the Suzerain of Propriety. And what better way to do that than by robbing it of one of its most carefully chosen chim “race-representatives.” The theft couldn’t even be pinned on anybody, for no body would ever be found.
Of course the Gubru would have to go ahead with the ceremony. It was too late to recall the invitations. But each of the three Suzerains might prefer to see different outcomes.
Fiben ...
“So, professor? Where do we start? You can start teaching me how to act like a proper white card now.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Go away,” she said. “Just please go away.”
There were more words, more sarcastic comments. But she blocked them out behind a numbing curtain of pain. Tears, at least, she managed to withhold until she sensed that he was gone. Then she burrowed into the soft bag as if it was her mother’s arms, and wept.
The other two danced around the pedestal, puffing and
cooing. Together they chanted in perfect harmony.
“Come down, come down,
down, come down!
Come down off your perch.
“Join us, join us,
us, join us!
Join us in consensus!”
The Suzerain of Propriety shivered, fighting the changes. They were completely united in opposition now. The Suzerain of Cost and Caution had given up hope of achieving the prized position—and was supporting the Suzerain of Beam and Talon in its bid for dominance. Caution’s objective was now second place—the male Molt-status.
Two out of three had agreed then. But in order to achieve their objectives, both sexual and in policy, they had to bring the Suzerain of Propriety down off its perch. They had to force it to step onto the soil of Garth.
The Suzerain of Propriety fought them, squawking well-timed counterpoint to disrupt their rhythm and inserting pronouncements of logic to foil their arguments.
A proper Molt was not supposed to go this way. This was coercion, not true consensus. This was rape.
For this the Roost Masters had not invested so much hope in the.Triumvirate. They needed policy. Wisdom. The other two seemed to have forgotten this. They wanted to take the easy way out with the Uplift Ceremony. They wanted to make a terrible gamble in defiance of the Codes.
If only the first Suzerain of Cost and Caution had lived! The priest mourned. Sometimes one only knew the value of another after that one was gone, gone.
“Come, down come down,
Down off your perch.”
Against their united voice it was only a matter of time, of course. Their unison pierced through the wall of honor and resolve the priest had built around itself and penetrated down to the realm of hormone and instinct. The Molt hung suspended, held back by the recalcitrance of one member, but it would not be forestalled forever.
“Come down and join us.
Join us in consensus!”
The Suzerain of Propriety shuddered and held on. How much longer it could do so, it did not know.
“Clennie!” Robert shouted joyfully. When he saw the mounted figures come around a bend in the trail he nearly dropped his end of the missile he and a chim were carrying out of the caves.
“Hey! Watchit with that thing, you . . . captain.” One of Prathachulthorn’s Marine corporals corrected himself at the last second. In recent weeks they had begun treating Robert with more respect—he’d been earning it—but on occasion the noncoms still showed their fundamental contempt for anyone non-Corps.
Another chim worker hurried up and easily lifted the nose cone out of Robert’s grasp, looking disgusted that a human should even try lifting things.
Robert ignored both insults. He ran to the trailhead just as the band of travelers arrived and caught the halter of Athaclena’s horse. His other hand reached out for her.
“Clennie, I’m glad you ...” His voice faltered for an instant. Even as she squeezed his hand he blinked and tried to cover up his discomfiture. “. . . urn, I’m glad you could come.”
Athaclena’s smile was unlike any he remembered her ever wearing before, and there was sadness in her aura that he had never kenned.
“Of course I came, Robert.” She smiled. “Could you ever doubt I would?”
He helped her dismount. Underneath her superficial air of control he could feel her tremble. Love, you have gone through changes. As if she sensed his thought, she reached up and touched the side of his face. “There are a few ideas shared by both Galactic society and yours, Robert. In both, sages have spoken of life as being something like a wheel.”
“A wheel?”
“Yes.” Her eyes glittered. “It turns. It moves forward. And yet it remains the same.”
With a sense of relief he felt her again. Underneath the changes she was still Athaclena. “I missed you,” he said.
“And I, you.” She smiled. “Now tell me about this major and his plans.”
Robert paced the floor of the tiny storage chamber, stacked to the overhead stalactites with supplies. “I can argue with him. I can try persuasion. Hell, he doesn’t even mind if I yell at him, so long as it’s in private, and so long as after all the debate is over I still leap two meters when he says ‘Jump.’ “ Robert shook his head. “But I can’t actively obstruct him, Clennie. Don’t ask me to break my oath.”
Robert obviously felt caught between conflicting loyalties. Athaclena could sense his tension.
His arm still in a sling, Fiben Bolger watched them argue, but he kept his silence for the time being.
Athaclena shook her head. “Robert, I explained to you that what Major Prathachulthorn has planned is likely to prove disastrous.”
“Then tell himl”
Of course she had tried, over dinner that very evening. Prathachulthorn had listened courteously to her careful explanation of the possible consequences of attacking the Gubru ceremonial site. His expression had been indulgent. But when she had finished, he only asked one question. Would the assault be considered one against the Earthlings’ legitimate enemy, or against the Uplift Institute itself.
“After the delegation from the Institute arrives, the site becomes their property,” she had said. “An attack then would be catastrophic for humanity.”
“But before then?” he had asked archly.
Athaclena had shaken her head irritably. “Until then the Gubru still own the site. But it’s not a military site! It was built for what might be called holy purposes. The propriety of the act, without handling it just right ...”
It had gone on for some time, until it became clear that all argument would be useless. Prathachulthorn promised to take her opinions into account, ending the matter. They all knew what the Marine officer thought of taking advice from “E.T. children.”
“We’ll send a message to Megan,” Robert suggested.
“I believe you have already done that,” Athaclena answered.
He scowled, confirming her guess. Of course it violated all protocol to go over Prathachulthorn’s head. At minimum it would seem like a spoiled boy crying to mama. It might even be a court-martial offense.
That he had done so proved that it wasn’t out of fear for himself that Robert was reticent about directly opposing his commander, but out of loyalty to his sworn oath.
Indeed, he was right. Athaclena respected his honor.
But I am not ruled by the same duty, she thought. Fiben, who had been silent so far, met her gaze. He rolled his eyes expressively. About Robert they were in complete agreement.
“I already suggested to th’ major that knocking out the ceremonial site might actually be doin’ the enemy a favor. After all, they built it to use it on Garthlings. Whatever their scheme with us chims, it’s probably a last ditch effort to make up some of their losses. But what if th’ site is insured? We blow it up, they blame us and collect?”
“Major Prathachulthorn mentioned your idea about that.” Athaclena said to Fiben. “I find it acute, but I’m afraid he did not credit it as very likely.”
“Y’mean he thought it was a cuckoo pile of apeshi—“
He stopped as they heard footsteps on the cool stone outside. “Knock knock!” A feminine voice said from beyond the curtain. “May I come in?”
“Please do, Lieutenant McCue,” Athaclena said. “We were nearly finished anyway.” The dusky-skinned human woman entered and sat on one of the crates next to Robert. He gave her a faint smile but soon was staring down at his hands again. The muscles in his arms rippled and tensed as his fists clenched and unclenched.
Athaclena felt a twinge when McCue placed her hand on Robert’s knee and spoke to him. “His nibs wants another battle-planning conference before we all turn in.” She turned to look at Athaclena and smiled. Her head inclined. “You’re welcome to attend should you wish. You’re our respected guest, Athaclena.”
Athaclena recalled when she had been the mistress of these caverns and had commanded an army. I must not let that influence me, she reminded herself. All that mattered now was to see that these creatures harmed themselves as little as possible in the coming days.
And, if at all possible, she was dedicated to furthering a certain jest. One that she, herself, still barely understood, but had recently come to appreciate.
“No, thank you, lieutenant. I think that I shall go say hello to a few of my chim friends and then retire. It was a long several days’ ride.”
Robert glanced back at her as he left with his human lover. Over his head a metaphorical cloud seemed to hover, flickering with lightning strokes. I did not know you could do that with glyphs, Athaclena wondered. Every day, it seemed, one learned something new.
Fiben’s loose, unhinged grin was a boost as he followed the humans. Did she catch a sense of something from him? A conspiratorial wink?
When they were gone, Athaclena started rummaging through her kit. I am not bound by their duty, she reminded herself. Or by their laws.
The caves could get quite dark, especially when one extinguished the solitary glow bulb that illuminated an entire stretch of the hallway. Down here eyesight was not an advantage, but a Tymbrimi corona gave quite an edge.
Athaclena Grafted a small squadron of simple but special glyphs. The first one had the sole purpose of darting ahead of her and to the sides, scouting out a path through the blackness. Since cold, hard matter was searing to that which was not, it was easy to tell where the walls and obstacles lay. The little wisp of nothing avoided them adroitly.
Another glyph spun overhead, reaching forth to make certain that no one was aware of an intruder in these lower levels. There were no chims sleeping in this stretch of hallway, which had been set aside for human officers.
Lydia and Robert were out on patrol. That left only one aura beside hers in this part of the cave. Athaclena stepped toward it carefully.
The third glyph silently gathered strength, awaiting its turn.
Slowly, silently, she padded over the packed dung of a thousand generations of flying insectivore creatures who had dwelt here until being ousted by Earthlings and their noise. She breathed evenly, counting in the silent human fashion to help maintain the discipline of her thoughts.
Keeping three watchful glyphs up at once was something she’d not have attempted only a few days ago. Now it seemed easy, natural, as if she had done it hundreds of times.
She had ripped this and so many other skills away from Uthacalthing, using a technique seldom spoken of among the Tymbrimi, and even less often tried.
Turning jungle fighter, trysting with a human, and now this. Oh, my classmates would be amazed.
She wondered if her father retained any of the craft she had so rudely taken from him.
Father, you and mother arranged this long ago. Yo« prepared me without my even knowing it. Did you already know, even then, that it would be necessary someday?
Sadly, she suspected she had taken away more than Uthacalthing could afford to spare. And yet, it is not enough. There were huge gaps. In her heart she felt certain that this thing encompassing worlds and species could not reach its conclusion without her father himself.
The scout glyph hovered before a hanging strip of cloth. Athaclena approached, unable to see the covering, even after she touched .it with her fingertips. The scout unraveled and melted back into the waving tendrils of her corona.
She brushed the cloth aside with deliberate slowness and crept into the small side chamber. The watch glyph sensed no sign that anyone was aware within. She only kenned the steady rhythms of human slumber.
Major Prathachulthorn did not snore, of course. And his sleep was light, vigilant. She stroked the edges of his ever-present psi-shield, which guarded his thoughts, dreams, and military knowledge.
Their soldiers are good, and getting better, she thought. Over the years Tymbrimi advisors had worked hard to teach their wolfling allies to be fierce Galactic warriors. And the Tymbrimi, in truth, often came away having learned some fascinating bits of trickery themselves, ideas that could never have been imagined by a race brought up under Galactic culture.
But of all Earth’s services, the Terragens Marines used no alien advisors. They were anachronisms, the true wolflings.
The glyph z’schutan cautiously approached the slumbering human. It settled down, and Athaclena saw it metaphorically as a globe of liquid metal. It touched Prathachulthorn’s psi-shield and slid in golden rivulets over it, swiftly coating it under a fine sheen.
Athaclena breathed a little easier. Her hand slipped into her pocket and withdrew a glassy ampule. She stepped closer and carefully knelt next to the cot. As she brought the vial of anesthetic gas near the sleeping man’s face, her fingers tensed.
“I wouldn’t,” he said, casually.
Athaclena gasped. Before she could move his hands darted out, catching her wrists! In the dim light all she could see were the whites of his eyes. Although he was awake his psi-shield remained undisturbed, still radiating waves of slumber. She realized that it had been a phantasm all along, a carefully fabricated trap!
“You Eatees just have to keep on underrating us, don’t you? Even you smarty-pants Tymbrimi never seem to get it.”
Gheer hormones surged. Athaclena heaved and pulled to get free, but it was like trying to escape a metal vice. Her clawed nails scratched, but he nimbly kept her fingers out of reach of his callused hands. When she tried to roll aside and kick he deftly applied slight pressure to her arms, using them as levers to keep her on her knees. The force made her groan aloud. The gas pellet tumbled from her limp hand.
“You see,” Prathachulthorn said in an amiable voice, “there are some of us who think it’s a mistake to compromise at all. What can we accomplish by trying to turn ourselves into good Galactic citizens?” he sneered. “Even if it worked, we’d only become horrors, awful things totally divorced from what it means to be human. Anyway, that option isn’t even open. They won’t let us become citizens. The deck is stacked. The dice are loaded. We both know that, don’t we?”
Athaclena’s breath came in ragged gasps. Long after it was clearly useless, the gheer flux kept her jerking and fighting againt the human’s incredible strength. Agility and quickness were to no avail against his reflexes and training.
“We have our secrets, you know,” Prathachulthorn confided. “Things we do not tell our Tymbrimi friends, or even most of our own people. Would you like to know what they are? Would you?”
Athaclena could not find the breath to answer. Prathachulthorn’s eyes held something feral, almost animally fierce.
“Well, if I told you some of them it would be your death sentence,” he said..”And I’m not ready to decide that quite yet. So I’ll tell you one fact some of your people already know.”
In an instant he had transferred both of her wrists to one hand. The other sought and found her throat.
“You see, we Marines are also taught how to disable, and even kill, members of an allied Eatee race. Would you like to know how long it will take me to render you unconscious, miss? Tell you what. Why don’t you start counting?”
Athaclena heaved and bucked, but it was useless. A painful pressure closed in around her throat. Air started getting thick. Distantly, she heard Prathachulthorn mutter to himself.
“This universe is a goddam awful place.”
She would never have imagined it could get blacker, but an even deeper darkness started closing in. Athaclena wondered if she would ever awaken again. I’m sorry, father. She expected those to be her last thoughts.
Continued consciousness came as something of a surprise then. The pressure on her throat, still painful, eased ever so slightly. She sucked a narrow stream of air and tried to figure out what was happening. Prathachulthorn’s arms were quivering. She could tell he was bearing down hard, but somehow the force wasn’t arriving!
Her overheated corona was no help. It was in total ignorance and amazement—when Prathachulthorn’s grip loosened—that she dropped limply to the floor.
The human was breathing hard, now. There were grunts of exertion, and then a crash as the cot toppled over. A water pitcher shattered and there was a sound like that a datawell would make, getting smashed.
Athaclena felt something under her hand. The ampule, she realized. But what had happened to Prathachulthorn?
Fighting enzyme exhaustion, she crawled in a random direction until her hand came down upon the broken datawell. By accident her fingers brushed the power switch, and the rugged machine’s screen spilled forth a dim luminescence.
In that glow, Athaclena saw a stark tableau . . . the human mel straining—his powerful muscles bulged and sinewy—against two long brown arms that held him from behind.
Prathachulthorn bucked and hissed. He threw his weight left and right. But every effort to get free was to no avail. Athaclena saw a pair of brown eyes over the man’s shoulder. She hesitated for only a moment, then hurried forward with the ampule.
Now Prathachulthorn had no psi-shield. His hatred was open for all to kenn if they had the power. He heaved desperately as she brought forward the little cylinder and broke it under his nose.
“He’s holdin’ his breath,” the neo-chimpanzee muttered as the cloud of blue vapor hovered around the man’s nostrils, then slowly fell groundward.
“That is all right,” Athaclena answered. From her pocket she drew forth ten more.
When he saw them, Prathachulthorn let out a faint sigh. He redoubled his efforts to get away, but all it served was to bring closer the moment when he would finally have to breathe. The man was stubborn. It took five minutes, and even then Athaclena suspected he had fainted of anoxia before he ever felt the drug.
“Some guy,” Fiben said when he finally let go. “Goodall, they make them Marines strong.” He shuddered and collapsed next to the unconscious man.
Athaclena sat limply across from him.
“Thank you, Fiben,” she said quietly.
He shrugged. “Hell, what’s treason an’ assault on a patron? All in a day’s work.”
She indicated his sling, where his left arm had rested ever since the evening of his escape from Port Helenia. “Oh, this?” Fiben grinned. “Well, I guess I have been milking the sympathy a bit. Please don’t tell anybody, okay?”
Then, in a more serious mood, he looked down at Prathachulthorn. “I may not be any expert. But I’ll bet I didn’t win any points with th’ old Uplift Board, tonight.”
He glanced up at Athaclena, then smiled faintly. In spite of everything she had been through, she found she could not help but find everything suddenly hilarious.
She found herself laughing—quietly, but with her father’s rich tones. Somehow, that did not surprise her at all.
The job wasn’t over. Wearily, Athaclena had to follow as Fiben carried the unconscious human through the dim tunnels. As they tiptoed past Prathachulthorn’s dozing corporal, Athaclena reached out with her tender, almost limp tendrils and soothed the Marine’s slumber. He mumbled and rolled over on his cot. Especially wary now, Athaclena made doubly sure the man’s psi-shield was no ruse, that he actually slept soundly.
Fiben puffed, his lips curled back in a grimace as she led him over a tumbled slope of debris from an ancient landslide and into a side passage that was almost certainly unknown to the Marines. At least it wasn’t on the. cave map she had accessed earlier today from the rebel database.
Fiben’s aura was pungent each time he stubbed his toes in the dim, twisting climb. No doubt he wanted to mutter imprecations over Prathachulthorn’s dense weight. But he kept his comments within until they emerged at last into the humid, silent night.
“Sports an’ mutations!” he sighed as he laid his burden down. “At least Prathachulthorn isn’t one of th’ tall ones. I couldn’t’ve managed with his hands and feet dragging in the dust all the way.”
He sniffed the air. There was no moon, but a fog spilled over the nearby cliffs like a vaporous flood, and it gave off a faint lambience. Fiben glanced back at Athaclena. “So? Now what, chief? There’s gonna be a liornet’s nest here in a few hours, especially after Robert and that Lieutenant McCue get back. Do you want I should go get Tycho and haul away this bad example to Earthling clients for you? It’ll mean deserting, but what the hell, I guess I was never a very good soldier.”
Athaclena shook her head. She sought with her corona and found the traces she was looking for. “No, Fiben. I could not ask that of you. Besides, you have another task. You escaped from Port Helenia in order to warn us of the Gubru offer. Now you must return there and face your destiny.”
Fiben frowned. “Are you sure? You don’t need me?”
Athaclena brought her hands over her mouth. She trilled the soft call of a night bird. From the darkness downslope there came a faint reply. She turned back to Fiben. “Of course I do. We all need you. But where you can do the most good is down there, near the sea. I also sense that you want to go back.”
Fiben pulled at his thumbs. “Gotta be crazy, I guess.”
She smiled. “No. It is only one more indicator that the Suzerain of Propriety knew its business in choosing you . . . even though it might prefer that you showed a little more respect to your patrons.”
Fiben tensed. Then he seemed to sense some of her irony. He smiled. There was the soft clattering of horses’ hooves on the trail below. “All right,” he said as he bent over to pick up the limp form of Major Prathachulthorn. “Come on, papa. This time I’ll be as gentle as I would with my own maiden aunt.” He smacked his lips against the Marine’s shadowed cheek and looked up at Athaclena.
“Better, ma’am?”
Something she had borrowed from her father made her tired tendrils fizz. “Yes, Fiben.” She laughed. “That’s much better.”
Lydia and Robert had their suspicions when they returned by the dawn’s light to find their legal commander missing. The remaining Terragens Marines glared at Athaclena in open distrust. A small band of chims had gone through Prathachulthorn’s room, cleaning away all signs of struggle before any humans got there, but they couldn’t hide the fact that Prathachulthorn had gone without a note or any trace.
Robert even ordered Athaclena restricted to her chamber, with a Marine at the door, while they investigated. His relief over a likely delay in the planned attack was momentarily suppressed under an outraged sense of duty. In comparison, Lieutenant McCue was an eddy of calm. Outwardly, she seemed unconcerned, as if the major had merely stepped out. Only Athaclena could sense the Earth woman’s underlying confusion and conflict.
In any event, there was nothing they could do about it. Search parties were sent out. They caught up with a party of Athaclena’s chims returning on horseback to the gorilla refuge. But by that time Prathachulthorn was no longer with them. He was high in the trees, being passed from one forest giant to another, by now conscious and fuming, but helpless and trussed up like a mummy.
It was a case of humans paying the penalty for their “liberalism.” They had brought up their clients to be individualists and citizens, so it was possible for chims to rationalize imprisoning one man for the good of all. In his own way Prathachulthorn had helped to bring this about, with his patronizing, deprecating attitudes. Nevertheless, Athaclena was certain the Marine would be delicately, carefully treated.
That evening, Robert chaired a new council of war. Athaclena’s vague status of house arrest was modified so she could attend. Fiben and the chim brevet lieutenants were present, as well as the Marine noncommissioned officers.
Neither Lydia nor Robert brought up going ahead with Prathachulthorn’s plan. It was tacitly assumed that the major wouldn’t want it put under way without him.
“Maybe he went off on a personal scouting trip, or a snap inspection of some outpost. He might return tonight or tomorrow,” Elayne Soo suggested in complete innocence.
“Maybe. We’d best assume the worst, though,” Robert said. He avoided looking at Athaclena. “Just in case, we’d better send word to the refuge. I suppose it’ll take ten days or so to get new orders from the Council, and for them to send a replacement.”
He obviously assumed that Megan Oneagle would never leave him in charge.
“Well, I want to go back to Port Helenia,” Fiben said simply. “I’m in a position to get close to the center of things. And anyway, Gailet needs me.”
“What makes you think the Gubru will take you back, after running away?” Lydia McCue asked. “Why won’t they simply shoot you?”
Fiben shrugged. “If I meet up with the wrong Gubru, that’s what they’ll probably do.”
There was a long silence. When Robert asked for other suggestions, the humans and remaining chims remained silent. At least when Prathachulthorn had been here, dominating the discourse and the mood, there had been his overbearing confidence to override their doubts. Now their situation came home to them again. They were a tiny army with only limited options. And the enemy was about to set into motion things and events they could not even understand, let alone prevent.
Athaclena waited until the atmosphere was thick with gloom. Then she said four words. “We need my father.”
To her surprise, both Robert and Lydia nodded. Even when orders finally arrived from the Council-in-Exile, those instructions would likely be as confused and contradictory as ever. It was obvious that they could use good advice, especially with matters of Galactic diplomacy at stake.
At least the McCue woman does not share Prathachulthorn’s xenophobia, Athaclena thought. She found herself forced to admit that she approved of what she kenned of the Earthling female’s aura.
“Robert told me you were sure your father was alive.” Lydia said. “That’s fine. But where is he? How can we find him?”
Athaclena leaned forward. She kept her corona still. “I know where he is.”
“You do?” Robert blinked. “But ...” His voice trailed off as he reached out to touch her with his inner sense, for the first time since yesterday. Athaclena recalled how she felt then, seeing him holding Lydia’s hand. She momentarily resisted his efforts. Then, feeling foolish, she let go.
Robert sat back heavily and exhaled. He blinked several times. “Oh.” That was all he said.
Now Lydia looked back and forth, from Robert to Athaclena and back again. Briefly, she shone with something faintly like envy.
I, too, have him in a way that you cannot, Athaclena mused. But mostly, she shared the moment with Robert.
“. . . N’tah’hoo, Uthacalthing,” he said in GalSeven. “We had better do something, and fast.”
She awaited him as he led Tycho up the trad emerging out of the Valley of Caves. She sat patiently next to an overhanging fip pine, just beyond a switchback, and only spoke when he drew even. “Thought you’d just sneak out without saying goodbye, did you?” Sylvie asked. She wore a long skirt and kept her arms wrapped around her knees.
He tied the horse’s tether to a tree limb and sat down next to her. “Nah,” Fiben said. “I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky.”
She glanced at him sidelong and saw that he was grinning. Sylvie sniffed and looked back into the canyon, where the early mists were slowly evaporating into a morning that promised to be clear and cloudless. “I figured you’d be heading back.”
“I have to, Sylvie. It’s—“
She cut him off. “I know. Responsibility. You have to get back to Gailet. She needs you, Fiben.”
He nodded. Fiben didn’t have to be reminded that he still had a duty to Sylvie as well. “Um. Dr. Soo came by, while I was packing. I . . .”
“You filled the bottle she gave you. I know.” Sylvie bowed her head. “Thank you. I consider myself well paid.”
Fiben looked down. He felt awkward, talking around the edges of the topic like this. “When will you—“
“Tonight, I guess. I’m ready. Can’t you tell?”
Sylvie’s parka and long skirt certainly hid any outward signs. Still, she was right. Her scent was undisguised. “I sincerely hope you get what you want, Sylvie.”
She nodded again. They sat there awkwardly. Fiben tried to think of something to say. But he felt thick headed, stupid. .Whatever he tried, he knew, would surely turn out all wrong.
Suddenly there was a small rustle of motion down below, where the switchbacks diverged into paths leading in several directions. A tall human form emerged around a rocky bend, jogging tirelessly. Robert Oneagle ran toward a junction in the narrow trails, carrying only his bow and a light backpack.
He glanced upward, and on spotting the two chims he slowed. Robert grinned in response as Fiben waved, but on reaching the fork he turned southward, along a little-used track. Soon he had disappeared into the wild forest.
“What’s he doing?” Sylvie asked.
“Looked like he was running.”
She slapped his shoulder. “I could see that. Where is he going?”
“He’s gonna try to make it through the passes before it snows.
“Through the passes? But—“
“Since Major Prathachulthorn disappeared, and since time is so short, Lieutenant McCue and th’ other Marines agreed they’d go along with the alternative plan Robert and Athaclena have cooked up.”
“But he’s running south,” Sylvie said. Robert had taken the little-used trail that led deeper into^the Mulun range.
Fiben nodded. “He’s going looking for somebody. He’s the only one who can do the job.” It was obvious to Sylvie from his tone that that was all he would say about the matter.
They sat there for a little while longer in silence. At least Robert’s brief passage had brought a welcome break in the tension. This is silly, Fiben thought. He liked Sylvie, a lot. They had never had much chance to talk, and this might be their last opportunity!
“You never . . . you never did tell me about your first baby,” he said in a rush, wondering, as the words came out, if it was any of his business to ask.
Of course it was obvious that Sylvie had given birth before, and nursed. Stretch marks were signs of attractiveness in a race a quarter of whose females never bred at all. But there is pain there as well, he knew.
“It was five years ago. I was very young.” Her voice was level, controlled. “His name was—we called him Sichi. He was tested by the Board, as usual, but he was found . . . ‘anomalous.’ “
“Anomalous?”
“Yes, that was the word they used. They classified him superior in some respects . . . ‘odd’ in others. There were no obvious defects, but some ‘strange’ qualities, they said. A couple of the officials were concerned. The Uplift Board decided they’d have to send him to Earth for further evaluation.
“They were very nice about it.” She sniffed. “They offered me the choice of coming along.”
Fiben blinked. “You didn’t go, though.”
She glanced at him. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m terrible. That’s why I never told you before. You’d have refused our deal. You think I’m an unfit mother.”
“No, I—“
“At the time it seemed different, though. My mother was ill. We didn’t have a clan-family, and I didn’t feel I could just leave her in the care of strangers, an’ probably never see her again.
“I was only a yellow card at the time. I knew my child would get a good home on Earth or ... Either he’d find favored treatment and be raised in a high-caste neo-chimp home or he’d meet a fate I didn’t want to know. I was so worried we would go all that way and they would only take him away anyway. I guess I also dreaded the shame if he was declared a Probationer.”
She stared down at her hands. “I couldn’t decide, so I tried to get advice. There was this counselor in Port Helenia, a human with the local Uplift Board. He told me what he thought th’ odds were. He said he was sure I’d given birth to a Probie.
“I stayed behind when they took Sichi away. Six ... six months later my mother died.”
She looked up at Fiben. “And then, three years after that, word came back from Earth. The news was that my baby was now a happy,’well-adjusted little blue card, growing up in a loving blue-card family. And oh, yeah, I was to be promoted to green.”
Her hands clenched. .”Oh, how I hated that damned card! They took me off compulsory yearly contracept injections, so I didn’t have to ask permission anymore if I wanted to conceive again. Trusted me to control my own fertility, like an adult.” She snorted. “Like an adult? A chimmie who abandons her own child? They ignore that, and promote me because he passes some damn tests!”
So, Fiben thought. This was the reason for her bitterness, and for her early collaboration with the Gubru. Much was explained.
“You joined Irongrip’s band out of resentment against the system? Because you hoped things might be different under the Galactics?”
“Something like that, maybe. Or maybe I was just angry.” Sylvie shrugged. “Anyway, after a while I realized something.”
“What was it?”
“I realized that, however bad the system was under humans, it could only be far worse under the Galactics. The humans are arrogant all right. But at least a lot of them feel guilty over their arrogance. They try to temper it. Their horrible history taught them to be wary of hub . . . hub ...”
“Hubris.”
“Yeah. They know what a trap it can be, acting like gods and coming to believe it’s true.
“But the Galactics are used to this meddlesome business! It never occurs to them to have any doubts. They’re so damned smug ... I hate them.”
Fiben thought about it. He had learned much during the last few months, and he figured Sylvie might be stating her case a little too strongly. ‘Right now she sounded a lot like Major Prathachulthorn. But Fiben knew there were quite a few Galactic patron races who had reputations for kindness and decency.
Still, it was not his place to judge her bitterness.
Now he understood her nearly single-minded determination to have a child who would be at least a green card from the very start. There had to be no question. She wanted to keep her next baby, and to be sure of grandchildren.
Sitting there next to her, Fiben was uncomfortably certain of Sylvie’s present condition. Unlike human females, chimmies had set cycles of receptivity, and it took some effort to hide them. It was one reason for some of the social and family differences between the two cousin species.
He felt guilty to be aroused by her condition. A soft, poignant feeling lay over the moment, and he was determined not to spoil it by being insensitive. Fiben wished he could console her somehow. And yet, he did not know what to offer her.
He moistened his lips. “Uh. Look, Sylvie.”
She turned. “Yes, Fiben?”
“Um, I really do hope you get ... I mean I hope I left enough ...” His face felt warm.
She smiled. “Dr. Soo says there probably was. If not, there’s more where that came from.”
He shook his head. “Your confidence is appreciated. But I wouldn’t bet I’ll ever be back again.” He looked away, toward the west.
She took his hand. “Well, I’m not too proud to take extra insurance if it’s offered. Another donation will be accepted, if you feel up to it.”
He blinked, feeling the tempo of his pulse rise. “Uh, you mean right now?”
She nodded: “When else?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He grinned and reached for her. But she held up a hand to stop him.
“Just a minute,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think I am? Candlelight and champagne may be in short supply up here, but a fern generally appreciates at least a little foreplay.”
“Fine by me,” Fiben said. He turned around to present his back for grooming. “Do me, then I’ll do you.”
But she shook her head. “Not that kind of foreplay, Fiben. I had in mind something much more stimulating.”
She reached behind the tree and brought forth a cylindrical object made of carved wood, one end covered by a tautly stretched skin. Fiben’s eyes widened. “A drum?”
She sat with the little handmade instrument between her knees. “It’s your own damn fault, Fiben Bolger. You showed me something special, and from now on I’ll never be satisfied with anything less.”
Her deft fingers rattled off a quick rhythm.
“Dance,” she said. “Please.”
Fiben sighed. Obviously she wasn’t kidding. This choreo-maniac chimmie was crazy, of course, whatever the Uplift Board said. It seemed to be the type he fell for.
There are some ways we’ll never be like humans, he thought as he picked up a branch and shook it tentatively. He dropped it and tried another. Already he felt flushed and full of energy.
Sylvie tapped the drum, starting with a rapid, exhilarating tempo that made his breath sharpen. The shine in her eyes seemed to warm his blood.
That is as it should be. We are our own selves, he knew.
Fiben took the branch in a two-handed grip and brought it down on a nearby log, sending leaves and brush exploding in all directions. “Ook . . .” he said.
His second blow was harder though, and as the beat picked up his next cry came with more enthusiasm.
The morning fog had evaporated. No thunder rolled. The uncooperative universe had not even provided a single cloud in the sky. Still, Fiben figured he could probably manage this time without the lightning.
In Gubru Military Enacampment Sixteen, the chaos at the top had begun affecting those lower down in the ranks. There were squabbles over allotments and supplies, and over the behavior of common soldiers, whose contempt for the support staff reached new and dangerous levels.
At afternoon prayer time, many of the Talon Soldiers put on the traditional ribbons of mourning for the Lost Progenitors and joined the priestly chaplain to croon in low unison. The less devout majority, who generally kept a respectful silence during such services, now seemed to make it a special occasion for gambling and loud commotion. Sentries preened and purposely sent loose feathers drifting in strong breezes so they would pass distractingly among the faithful.
Discordant noises could be heard during work, during maintenance, during training exercises.
The stoop-colonel in charge of the eastern encampments happened to be on an inspection tour and witnessed this disharmony in person. It wasted no time on indecision. At once the stoop-colonel ordered all personnel of Encampment Sixteen assembled. Then the officer gathered the camp’s chief administrator and the chaplain by its side upon a platform and addressed those gathered below.
“Let it not be said, bandied, rumored, That Gubru soldiers have lost their vision!
Are we orphans? Lost? Abandoned?
Or members of a great clan!
What were we, are we, shall we be?
Warriors, builders, but most of all—
Proper carriers of tradition!”
For some time the stoop-colonel spoke to them so—joined in persuasive song by the camp’s administrator and its spiritual advisor—until, at last, the shamed soldiers and staff began to coo together in a rising chorus of harmony.
They made the effort, invested the time, one small united regiment of military, bureaucrats, and priests, and struggled as one to overcome their doubts.
For a brief while then, there did indeed take shape a consensus.