Phylogenesis

by Alan Dean Foster

  He fought to suppress his initial reaction. While his face was inflexible, his limbs were not. He felt he largely succeeded in hiding from this female what he was feeling. “A change of scenery, however transitory, is always a welcome diversion.”

  She indicated disagreement and clicked her mandibles sharply for emphasis. “Not if it means going outside. Personally, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to go to the trouble of visiting Geswixt. Everything I’ve heard about the place suggests that it’s a grim, spare little mining station, with nothing in the way of amenities.” She gestured with a truhand. “Less so even than Honydrop.”

  “What do they mine there?” he asked absently. “What kind of ore?”

  She gestured uncertainty. “I do not know. I think I remember hearing something about an ongoing dig for nonferrous materials, but I don’t believe they’ve actually hit an ore body yet. They’re still searching.”

  “And tunneling a lot, I imagine. A mine would mean many tunnels. A great deal of earth and rock would have to be moved.”

  She eyed him curiously. “Why, yes, I suppose so.” Light flashed off the multifarious golden mirrors that were her eyes. “Anyway, if you really want to go there and have a look around, I’ve found someone who might take you.”

  His hearts pounded a little faster. “That is interesting. Would I know this person?”

  “Perhaps. Her name is Melnibicon. She’s a driver.” When Des indicated his ignorance, Heulmilsuwir elaborated. “We’ve met a number of times, in the course of checking her manifests. It seems that there is a need for a certain medicine in Geswixt. A small quantity of a little-used enzymatic catalyst. Rather than wait to have it shipped from Ciccikalk, our department is sending some over the mountains to Geswixt. A quick courtesy run. Melnibicon is taking it. Since her transport will be pretty much empty except for a single package of medication, I thought she might have room for a passenger.”

  “You asked her on my behalf?” Had he not made a conscious effort to suppress it, Desvendapur might have been moved to affection.

  “I knew you were interested, and I have enjoyed your recitals so much—and your company.”

  “I thought travel was prohibited between Honydrop and Geswixt.” He watched closely for any reaction.

  “Restricted. Not prohibited. Otherwise, clearing the requisite bureaucratic strictures would prevent Melnibicon from making the trip. Officially, casual travel is not supposed to take place. But now and again, people do make the journey.” Leaning forward, she reached into a beautifully embroidered, hand-woven abdominal pouch and handed him an embossed plastic rectangle.

  “This is where you will find her. She’s leaving mid-midday so she can make it back before dark. It is better to do these things on the cusp of the moment. Too much planning can lead to exposure. Are you going to meet with her and try to do this?”

  Gathering all four trulegs beneath him, he slid off the bench. “I don’t know,” he lied. “I’ll have to think about it. If I am found out, it could mean trouble for me.”

  “I won’t tell.” The logistics officer flexed her ovipositors coquettishly. “You will get there, have your little look around and visit, and be back before anyone in a position to object realizes that you’ve gone. Where is the harm in that?”

  No harm indeed. Eventualities cascaded through his mind like logs swept before a spring monsoon. “I will be back tonight,” he declared flatly.

  “Of course you will.” She abandoned her own bench to stand alongside him. “And I will be waiting to greet you, to hear all about your furtive visit to exotic Geswixt.” She gestured amusement.

  He started to leave, composing the necessary preparations in his mind. Then he hesitated and looked over at her. “Heul, why this interest in me? Why the persistence on my behalf?”

  “You’re a poet, Des. You conform so differently.” With that she was gone, scampering off in the direction of one of the south tunnels. He watched her depart, then headed for his modest quarters. There were several small items he wanted to be sure and take along with him—just in case.

  If he was lucky, the opportunity might arise not to come back.

  Melnibicon was an older, taciturn thranx whose ovipositors had long since lost their resilience and collapsed against her wing cases. After assuring herself that Desvendapur had come alone and had not been followed, she directed him into the back of the cargo lifter’s cramped cockpit. No one saw him board, the rest of the warehouse facility’s crew being fully occupied with tasks of their own.

  Granted clearance, the lifter trundled out through the weather-tight double doors onto a small, spotless landing area. Des was jolted when the craft took off straight up, rising to a height of several hundred feet before leveling off and accelerating eastward.

  “Sorry about that.” Melnibicon grunted a terse apology as she kept a careful watch on her instrumentation, occasionally glancing up to take in the daunting view forward. “I’m used to hauling cargo and produce, not sightseers.”

  “It’s all right.” Settling himself onto the narrow, empty bench alongside her, he studied the view outside. Rugged peaks and jagged ridges saddled with rilth separated the fertile but cold valley beneath which Honydrop lay from the higher vale that was home to Geswixt. Once again, he saw that attempting to cross between the two on foot in anything less than full environmental gear would have brought a quick death to the hardiest thranx. In contrast, the lifter would make the trip in less than an hour.

  He felt some sort of thanks was in order. “This is very good of you.”

  A reply that was more grunt than whistle assailed his ears. “This job is boring enough. A little risk is worth it for a little company. Talk to me, poet. Tell me about yourself, and the world beyond this cold hell. How goes life in Ciccikalk?”

  “Why ask me? You have pictures, images.”

  “That’s not the same as hearing it from someone who’s recently been places. Use flowery language, poet. I like being soothed in High Thranx.”

  He complied as best he was able, resorting to improvisation when knowledge and experience failed, and all the while doing his best not to look outside. Doing so reminded him of the cold death that awaited below.

  In spite of his nervousness he found that the time passed quickly. When Melnibicon indicated that they had crossed the ridge and were descending into Geswixt, he forced aside his unease and pressed his face and antennae to the port.

  The view was less than instructive. Not having any idea what to expect, he was still disappointed. The panorama was less than inspiring. Certainly it dispensed no revelations.

  Below them, a long, narrow valley stretched from the impossibly inhospitable high mountains that lay to the north off in the direction of the distant sea. A fast-flowing river ran down the center of the valley. Unlike the country above and around Honydrop, the land showed no signs of cultivation. Only the rubble-free disc of the landing platform indicated the presence in the valley of intelligent inhabitants. They were flying over one of the most remote regions on Willow-Wane. Geswixt, like Honydrop and every other thranx hive built in a less than ideal climatic zone, would of course be located entirely underground.

  What did you expect? he admonished himself as the lifter hummed through a pass between two rilth-clad crags. Hordes of humans dashing about in all directions, or genuflecting at the approach of every craft making an arrival? The absence of any visible indication that the bipedal mammals were present was hardly conclusive proof of their absence.

  Neither, however, was it encouraging.

  After an uneventful descent, Melnibicon set the lifter down gently on the landing disc and taxied forward until they were once more within a sheltering enclosure and surrounded by other vehicles. The assortment of battered, weather-scoured craft parked in the Geswixt terminal betrayed no hidden uses. The terminal looked exactly like the one in Honydrop, only larger. Cargo was being unloaded from one aircar while a small lifter was being filled with an assortment of crates and barre
ls from a pair of container transports. There was no evidence of unusual activity or exceptional security.

  If it was after all nothing but rumor, he thought disappointedly, then he had wasted not just an afternoon but the past several seasons of his life on a quixotic, futile quest.

  The muted hum of the lifter’s engine died. Slipping free of the pilot’s bench and gear, Melnibicon turned to look back at him. “Welcome to Geswixt. Is it what you expected?”

  He gestured noncommittally. “I haven’t seen anything yet.”

  She generated the high-pitched whistle that was thranx laughter. “Have a look around. I need to make delivery of that medication. They’re waiting for it, so it shouldn’t take long. Then I am going to take a little break for myself, chat with some fliers I know here.” She spoke to the lifter and it replied with the correct time. “Be back in four time-parts. I’d rather not fly through these mountains after dark, even if the lifter does most of the flying itself. Just because the route is preprogrammed doesn’t mean I don’t want to be able to see where we are going.”

  Disembarking, he found himself alone in the spacious terminal. With no specific destination in mind, he wandered from craft to craft, observing handlers at work and asking what he hoped were innocuously phrased questions that would give the impression he knew about something that might or might not actually exist. The replies he received varied from the bemused to the straightforwardly indeterminate. In this manner he passed most of the remainder of the afternoon, at the end of which period he was no more enlightened than he had been prior to leaving Honydrop.

  One young male in particular was having a difficult time shifting a stack of six-sided containers from an off-loading platform onto the back of a small transport vehicle. The machinery he was using to perform the work was balky and uncooperative. It was a rare example of thranx patience wearing thin. Having nothing else to do and already resigned to returning to Honydrop devoid of the edification he sought, Des wandered over and offered his help. If there was nothing here to stimulate his mind, at least he could exercise his body.

  The youth accepted the stranger’s offer gratefully. With the two of them working in tandem the process of shifting the containers accelerated noticeably. The open back of the little vehicle began to fill.

  “What is in these?” Only mildly interested, Desvendapur glanced down at the container cradled in his four arms. The information embossed on the side of the gray repository was less than descriptive.

  “Food,” the other male informed him. “Ingredients. I am a food-preparation assistant, third level.” There was no false pride in his voice. “Graduated at the top of my classification several years ago. That is how I secured this position.”

  “You make it sound like it’s something special.” Never known for his tact, Desvendapur was not about to open a new wing case now. He passed another container to the waiting male. “This is Geswixt, not Ciccikalk.” In what had become a rote comment, he fished automatically. “Of course, if the humans were here, it would be different.”

  “Here?” The hardworking preparator whistled amusedly. “Why would there be any humans here, in Geswixt?”

  “Why indeed? An absurd notion.” A practiced Des displayed neither discouragement nor excitement.

  His new acquaintance barely paused to catch his breath. “It really is. They are all up-valley, in their own quarters.” He indicated the rapidly growing stack of containers. “This is food for them. I’m learning how to prepare sustenance not for our kind, but for humans.”

  5

  Having by now more or less come to the depressing conclusion that the presence of humans in Geswixt was a myth, Desvendapur made the fastest mental adjustment of his life. With admirable lack of hesitation, he responded, “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?” The preparator hesitated uncertainly. “How do you know that?”

  “By the markings on the containers,” the poet replied without hesitation, supple prevarication being close kin to the white heat of creation. The only difference was that he was creating for the sake of convenience and not for posterity.

  His new acquaintance clicked dubiously. “Every shipment is coded. How do you come to know the codes?”

  Self-immersed in semantic mud and unable to see a way clear to extricating himself, Des blithely burrowed in deeper. “Because I’m here to cross-check you. I am also in food preparation, just assigned here as a general kitchen assistant.” He tapped the repository he was cradling with all four digits of one truhand. “How are your skills? Current? Up-to-date? Tell me what this contains.”

  Distracted, the preparator glanced at the embossing. “Powdered milk. A natural mammalian bodily extract that is used as an ingredient in many meals.”

  “Very good!” Des complimented him slavishly even as he wondered what ‘powdered milk’ might be. “This one’s trickier.” He singled out a cylinder with a larger embossed identification area than its predecessor. “How about this?”

  The younger male hesitated only briefly. “Soya patties, various nut extracts, dehydrated fish, assorted fruits and vegetables. I don’t know all the individual names yet.”

  “Go on, try,” Des urged him. “I’m going to catch you out yet before we’re finished here.”

  “Nothing was said to me about another assistant being assigned to my section,” the preparator murmured, still uncertain.

  “That’s what I thought.” Des moved to stack the container without letting the other have a look at its index. “This one is too alien for you.”

  “No content listing is too alien for me. At least, I don’t think it is.” Antennae gyrated pridefully. “I complete all my assignments and receive notable ratings.”

  They continued in this fashion until the last of the containers had been transferred and its contents elucidated. “Where are your quarters?”

  “They have not been designated yet.” Des continued to improvise, a skill at which poet-soothers excelled. “I came up early. I’m not supposed to present myself until next day next.”

  The preparator considered. “There is not much to see here in Geswixt proper. Why don’t you come with me? You can share my room until you have been assigned.”

  “Many thanks, Ulunegjeprok.”

  His new friend glanced around. “Where is your personal gear?”

  “It missed the transport because I decided to come up early,” Des explained. “Don’t worry about me. It will work its way through the system in a couple of days.”

  “You can borrow some of mine if you need anything. I see you’ve already got cold-climate gear.” He indicated the special protective attire that covered most of Desvendapur’s body. “I need to see if there is any other cargo here for the kitchen. If not, we can leave in half a time-part.”

  “I will meet you right here,” Des assured him.

  Leaving the preparator, the poet rushed from one part of the terminal to the next in search of Melnibicon. When he found her, she was conversing amiably with a pair of older thranx. Fighting to conceal his excitement, he drew her aside.

  “What’s going on?” She eyed him warily. “Your spicules are dilated.”

  “I have…met someone,” he hastened to explain. “An old friend. He has invited me to stay with him for a while.”

  “What’s that? You can’t do that.” The senior flier looked around uncomfortably. “I took a chance just in bringing you over here for the afternoon. I can’t leave you here. Your absence will be questioned.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I will not involve you in any way, Melnibicon.”

  She took a step back from him, fending him off with both foothands. “Blood parasites, you won’t! I am already involved. You came with me, soother, and you are coming back with me.”

  “It is only for a day or two,” he pleaded with her. “I won’t be missed.”

  “What about your regular daily recitals, your rounds?”

  “Tell anyone who asks that I’m not feeling well, that I am suffering f
rom an internal upset and am self-medicating myself. Have Heul activate the privacy lock on my quarters.”

  “So you would involve her in your subterfuge as well. I will not be a party to this, Desvendapur. If you want to spend time here, place an application through the proper channels.”

  “It will not be approved,” he argued. “You know it won’t. Geswixt is a restricted destination.”

  “Exactly why you’re coming back with me.” She started to turn away. “Now if you will excuse me, soother, I am not finished talking with my friends.”

  He stood motionless, thoughts churning and anger rising as she persisted in ignoring him. It was impolite of him to remain standing there, but she remained adamant. Since she did not acknowledge his presence, her friends did not feel compelled to, either. Hiding his mounting frustration and his fury, he turned and started back across the broad, flat surface of the terminal. He would meet his new friend Ulu at the designated pickup point and at the appointed time, but first he had to make a stop at the lifter that had brought him here from Honydrop.

  Walking gave him time to ponder what he was about to do. Though his mind was clear, his intentions firm, a part of him remained hesitant. What he contemplated was unlike him, unlike anything he had ever done before. But wasn’t that the source of true artistic inspiration: the naked plunge, the embarkation into regions never before visited, the effort to break free of convention and restraint? He argued with himself all the way back to the lifter, while he was on it, and after he left it behind. But having set his mind, he solidified his decision as he approached the meeting place. He took considerable pride in not looking back over his shoulder, not even when he boarded the small truck and drove off in the company of chattering Ulunegjeprok.

  Melnibicon would look for him, he knew. She would ask who had seen him. He doubted she would receive much in the way of response. Everyone in the terminal was busy, intent on his or her own business. No one would have noticed one more thranx striding purposefully through their field of vision. Eventually she would give up, cursing all the while, and reboard the lifter for the return flight to Honydrop. It was not her fault if he missed the departure. Upon her return she would report him as absent, accept whatever chiding was due for taking an unauthorized passenger to Geswixt, and go on about her business.