by Phil Geusz
have stood a good chance of kicking their asses. So, given a choice between rendering us extinct and trying to make use of us, they've swallowed their pride in the name of pragmatism and are treating us the same way they treated the losers in an intraspecies clan war back when they still had such things. That's their historical model and precedent, you see. The idea is to absorb us and become stronger, not destroy a potential source of newfound strength. In theory, we're supposed to be both flattered and deeply honored to be deemed worthy."
"But we're not honored," I observed.
"Hell, no!" Dad pounded the arm of his chair; he was a powerful man and it was if a thunderbolt had struck. "The Artemu are a bunch of amoral, socially-stratified empire-builders whose infantile values we humans—or at least most of we humans—abandoned long ago. They're forcing us to put our own economy on a permanent war footing and slicing our standard of living to the bone." He shook his head. "It's a huge step back for us all, in every possible way. Yet so long as they can drop rocks on us, what else can we do?"
I thought about a big rock falling all the way from the Moon. Why, it might wipe out an entire shopping mall! "Wow," I finally said.
"So," Dad explained, squeezing us extra-tight for a moment. "They're going to take you two away from us—there's nothing anyone, not even a congressman, can do about it. They consider our family to be the nearest thing American society has to a warrior-nobility class, and I guess that's my fault. I swear to you, if I'd known I'd never have run for this seat in the first place."
"It was Grandpa Davis, too," Timothy replied. "He was a governor once."
I nodded. "And Great-Uncle Herman that you named me after. He won the same medal you did in Vietnam."
Dad nodded then turned away. "I guess I should've seen it coming after all, when you put it like that. By Artemu standards, our family is a sort of warrior/noble clan. They did their homework better than I realized." He frowned for a long moment, and then met each of our eyes in turn. "Our ancestors fought for much better reasons than the Artemu do, and certainly in defense of better causes. Their ultimate goal is to raise you, who they consider our best and brightest, as part of the highest level of their society so that you absorb their values and culture. Then they plan to someday return you here to positions of high leadership, so that with a foot in each world you might act as cultural intermediaries and smooth the transition for the rest of us."
"They want us to become traitors," I said softly.
"Not from the Artemesian point of view," he replied. "They'll see you as honorable leaders with an especially difficult task to perform, individuals of the highest courage and honor. Or at least their elite will. I doubt the ground-floor mutts will be so open-minded." He licked his lips and considered further. "From their point of view, you'd be the highest sort of patriots, not traitors. Doing what's clearly best for Artemu and humanity alike. As I said, this is precisely how they unified their own clans. Or so they say. It's not like we can fact-check them on the matter." He sighed. "It all boils down to where you're sitting and what you think is right and what's wrong, I suppose."
"Invading peaceful planets is wrong," Tim declared.
"Not if you believe in the glory of Empire," Dad disagreed. Then he laid his head back again. "I can't speak for the Artemu, but for most people deciding what's right and what's wrong is life's most difficult yet most important task. Some seek guidance in holy books, others in the words of men widely considered to be wise. I'm your father, and one of my most important obligations is to help you find your own truth." He sighed again, his breath catching as if he were on the edge of weeping. "I've done my best so far, but . . ." He hugged us one last time. "Sons, never forget three things. First is that both your mom and I love you more than life itself. Second is that what you're doing really is both honorable and important. I can't know what the future will bring, but whatever it is you're sure to play a central role in it. It's not your fault that you were placed in such an impossible situation, and because you'll be trapped in the middle neither human nor Artemu will ever be in a fair position to judge you. But third . . ." Finally he broke out sobbing, so badly that his words were nearly lost in his sorrow. "Never, ever forget that you're human, dammit! Not of a noble bloodline, but a deeply American one! Which is better. We don't do bloodlines here! Nobility lies at the root of many of mankind's deepest and darkest evils, as I hope and pray you'll never forget no matter how many peaceful planets you're required to invade and whatever fancy titles you're forced to accept."
4
As it happened, Tim and I received our first noble titles just after breakfast the next morning. Rapput, who judging by outward appearances had just discovered one of the major loves of his life in bacon and eggs, formally adopted us into the Clan of Gonther while Mom was still clearing away the crockery. Out of nowhere, three more Artemu appeared. Two carried a blood-red robe apiece, while the third recorded the proceedings with what might as well have been a human-made camera.
Rapput smiled and handed us the robes. "In donning these most-honorable garments," he explained, "you officially become my clan-brothers and nephews." He turned to Dad. "There will of course be a public and more impressive ceremony on the homeworld. But for convenience's sake it's best to formalize the adoption immediately. Now that they're legally Artemu, for example, they can travel freely on our ships and receive full protection under our laws."
As one, Tim and I looked at Dad. But he merely nodded, which was no surprise. Slowly and reluctantly, as if we were swimming in molasses, we slipped the robes on. The garments were made of something silky—soft and so translucent that obviously we were expected to wear our normal clothes underneath. Plus, whoever'd made them got the sleeves wrong; they were much too short, and there was something off about the way they were attached at the shoulder. Perhaps they'd been custom sewn by Artemu tailors?
"Magnificent!" Rapput declared, breaking first into a Posture I didn’t know—there were so many!—and then into applause. Oddly, the two species had developed the habit independently. Perhaps applause too was an inevitable outcome of carbon-based life, it being so natural and obvious for a being to slap its appendages together in order to make a happy noise?
The two other Artemu each dropped to one knee before us for a moment, then stood up and applauded as well. Even Mom and Dad clapped after being prompted by a dirty look from Rapput, followed by a glance at the camera. Mom was crying again, of course, and that was pretty awful. But Dad had made us promise to try not shed tears in public at moments like this, and somehow both Tim and I maintained dry cheeks.
"Robert Herman Byrd," Rapput declared in his native tongue, "and Timothy Scott Byrd have ceased to exist. In their places stand Nobleyouths Robertherman Gonther and Timothyscott Gonther." He cupped a hand on each of our skulls. "You now share our privileges and you share our birthrights. You share our property, our glory, and our most sacred bloodline. Share also our dangers and obligations, and together we shall fear nothing." He turned to Dad as if expecting something.
For a long moment our father sat motionless, his features ice-cold. "May God bless Robert Herman and Timothy Scott wherever they go, and may their lives and accomplishments serve His highest purposes," he finally said.
Tim and I looked at each other. We weren't church-people. In fact, neither of us had ever heard Dad pray about anything before. Rapput didn't seem to take it well either, though he couldn't show offense because of the Atremu hands-off policy regarding local religions.
Perhaps that was why Dad's blessing had taken the form it had?
Rapput covered his emotions by draining the last of his orange juice before standing up from the table. "You are now Gonther," he reminded Tim and I, "and therefore expected to excel in all things. Pack up your personal belongings and weapons at once. You have two human hours, which is plenty long enough for any self-respecting member of the most noble of all clans." He nodded at the robe bearers. "You each will assist one of the hum—one of the children. See to
it that everything is stowed in a shipshape manner." Then he turned back to Dad and smiled. "We are now family as well, you and I. The proper terminology is 'quasi-cousin by adoption.'"
Dad nodded, his eyes still icy.
"Which means the social rules regarding mixing business and pleasure are relaxed between us. Yesterday you spoke of hunting and I was forced to turn you down. Today, however, circumstances are different." He smiled again. "Come! I know how painful this must be for you, and believe it or not I empathize. Perhaps we can ease the tension by shooting a few rabbits together while we wait for my new nephews to pack?"
5
It didn't take us anything like two hours. We found enough alien-made cargo containers waiting for us in the hallway to hold everything we owned. Nor, apparently, were we expected to soil our own hands with domestic work. Our assistants hastened to pack everything we pointed at, growing noticeably agitated whenever we attempted to stash some particularly beloved item personally. One special container was devoted to nothing but guns, boxes and boxes of ammunition, and the trophy-pelts that hung from our walls. "Tim!" I cried out as I was overseeing the casing of our beloved lever-action Marlin. "Look at
