by Steve White
(Agreement, impatience) “Yes, I understand that. (Reluctance.) But why must I be included among those subject to suspicion? I am of the Ixturshaz caste and, six years ago, spared the humans who most threatened us—even when I was ready, with one squeeze of the trigger, to defeat their revolt on this world. If anyone had reason to hate them, it was me. But instead, I listened to Ankaht’s appeals and laid down my weapon.”
Mretlak felt the dull, aching misery behind Lentsul’s send, so strong that the small, dark Ixturshaz could not suppress it, no matter how hard he tried. Lentsul had lost the object of his dreams and desire—one of the tall, slender, golden Destoshaz—in the early days of the war against the humans. Recalling that painful past brought those feelings of loss and bitterness back up from the depths into which they had subsided. Subsided, but not disappeared.
Mretlak’s clusters rippled. (Sympathy, resignation.) “I made this same point to my human counterpart—Ossian Wethermere—but he and Ankaht asserted that only the two of them and myself could be held beyond suspicion—and only because someone must run the investigation.” And because if one of us were a double agent, it would be impossible to uncover. We each have too much authority, too many covert contacts, to be caught. Unless we were very, very stupid—and none of us are.
But Lentsul was neither mollified nor diverted by Mretlak’s explanation. “I appreciate that you wish to spare my feelings by reminding me that no one is exempt from investigation. (Suspicion.) But I wonder if it is also because I have never been as quick—or, in some cases, eager—to trust the humans as some of our fellow Arduans have been.” “Fellow Arduans” like Ankaht, no doubt—and possibly me, as well. Mretlak was careful to increase the opacity of his selnarm very gradually before responding. “Lentsul, including you among the persons to be investigated in no way reflects specific suspicion of you. You have not been singled out in any way,” was what Mretlak sent. But what he thought was: On the other hand, by what reason would you, of all of us, expect to be excluded from this requirement? We have worked for almost five years now with the humans, monitoring activities from either race that might have threatened the accord between us. And you have always been markedly partial to your own side, and so reluctant to trust the humans in any way.
For a moment, Mretlak feared that Lentsul had managed to perceive these thoughts through the neutral screen he had erected to keep his innermost ruminations from entering the flow of his selnarm. Then the little Ixturshaz settled himself more stolidly in his chair and pronounced: “That I make no secret of my unwillingness to trust humans too quickly should mark me as the Arduan who is least likely to be a double-agent. If I intended treachery, I would logically feign a congenial attitude toward humans, and thereby deflect any suspicions that I might harbor them ill-will.”
As if you had sufficient selnarmic skill to carry off such duplicity, Mretlak added to himself. But instead, he projected (affinity, fellowship). “It may be as you say, but once the entirety of the investigatory team has been screened, we will not only be assured of operational security, but will possess a baseline against which we may compare any future checks. In actuality, Lentsul, such a procedure is long overdue.”
Lentsul seemed to be sitting less rigidly than before. “I thought the humans already had run security checks on all their personnel. They were all drawn from standing intelligence services, were they not?”
Mretlak nodded. “Most of them. But their checks date back to the war. In the time since then, their situations—and attitudes—may have changed.”
Lentsul sent (perplexity). “Changed in what way?”
Mretlak lifted a single tendril. “Changed in ways that would make them easier for our people to suborn. Some of the human intelligence personnel might have undertaken actions which compromised their integrity and which they must pay to conceal. Or they may have ailing family members whose care requires more funds than they possess. Or they may simply have become so disgruntled with their recompense that they were willing to entertain bribes.”
Lentsul expelled a hoarse wheeze: an Arduan expression of sharp, baffled disdain. He sent (dismay, repugnance): “Since we have landed here, I have repeatedly witnessed the humans’ perverse obsession with money, with material wealth. I still do not understand it.”
Mretlak replied with (affirmation, concurrence). “It is not easy for us to understand, but ultimately, I believe it is rooted in their limited existence. They have but one life to live and so wish to fill it with all the things and experiences that we may accrue at our leisure over many reincarnations. In those of them that are morally weaker, they consider their honor and integrity a small price to pay for greater opulence.”
Lentsul brooded in a cloud of (aversion, pity). “They are cursed beings, living beneath the certainty of final doom from their first hour of true awareness. It is a wonder that they are not all mad.”
Mretlak suspected that Lentsul had long concealed a lingering suspicion that all humans were, in fact, just that mad. “I doubt a race of lunatics could have rebuilt their cities so quickly, or have reached an accord with us, or conferred autonomy and planetary systems upon us.”
“Well, it is not as though we failed to perform deeds that commended us to their trust. Admiral Narrok liberated many of the humans’ worlds from the Tangri, and Ankaht was ever their champion in the Council of Twenty’s debates.”
Mretlak (concurred), adding, “And she was, in part, fighting for the humans when she entered the maatkah ring with holodah’kri Urkhot, dueling our own high priest to the death because she would not recant her accusations, would not relent in unveiling his genocidal intentions toward the humans.”
Lentsul physically squirmed in his seat. “That was perhaps a more, er, profound display of support for the humans than was seemly, Senior Cluster Commander. For one counselor to kill another…it disturbs me to this day.”
“Ankaht simply responded to Urkhot’s challenge, Lentsul. It was he who was willing to kill a fellow counselor—and it was he who died upon the skeerba of that dishonorable mania. That seems to be justice, in the end.”
Lentsul radiated (grudging agreement, unease). “Yes, but even so, it remains…unsettling.”
Mretlak let a companionable silence pass between them, gave no hint of how different his opinion was. Urkhot had started out a xenophobe and zealot and ultimately devolved into a megalomaniacal genocidalist who could not distinguish his own views from the will of Illudor. It had probably been a mercy—to both the community and to Urkhot himself—that he had been discarnated. Mretlak hoped the priest’s soul would spend a long time in Illudor’s care before it returned to the physical plane.
Lentsul broke the almost velvet waves of their shared selnarm. “Is there more for us to discuss, Cluster Commander?”
“There are a few final updates I should provide to you, Lentsul, and you may ask any questions you had hoped to bring up at the next coordinators’ meeting. After that, you are to continue your current operations, but will not be included in the highest level of the operational strategy sessions until your own security review is complete.”
Lentsul rippled a tendril. “I expected as much. I have a question that has been troubling me since this human ‘Ishmael’ was apprehended. Would it not be most prudent to simply shut down the selnarmic courier system?”
“If we were to interrupt local service, our opponents would certainly deduce that we had become aware of their operations and shift their methods of effecting the data theft.”
Lentsul leaned forward. “Cluster-Commander, you misunderstand me. I do not mean a regional interruption of service. I mean the entire selnarmic courier service should be discontinued.”
Despite his best attempts to suppress it, Mretlak’s shock sent distempered ripples shivering across his selnarm. “Discontinue the entire service? Why?”
“It is the only way to establish absolute security, Senior Cluster-Commander. At this point, we have very few facts but they are decisive. Firstly,
we know that Arduans, with human assistance, have compromised the security of, and tapped data carried by, the selnarmic courier system. Secondly, we know they are willing to go to great costs and risks to keep this operation completely secret. From these two facts, we may safely deduce that the information they are accessing is sensitive, critical to our opponents’ objectives, and not readily accessible via other means. By process of deduction, therefore, it is quite likely that their acquisition of it represents a strategic disaster for us. It stands to reason, then, that cutting off their access to that information is a top priority—so much so that we cannot wait to further delineate the nature of the information, its sources, or its recipients.”
Mretlak reflected that Lentsul, like many of the quantitative-and logic-oriented individuals of the Ixturshaz caste, occasionally failed to adequately account for social and political nuances in his operational calculations. “There is merit in your suggestion, Lentsul, but it is not possible for us to take that path.”
“And why not?”
“Because the humans and their allies have already become too dependent upon the selnarmic courier system. Before we arrived, they barely bothered with courier drones. The delay imposed by waiting for radio signals to cross a stellar system was not much greater than the inconvenience of waiting for the next crewed courier or other craft.”
“So the humans and other aliens are unwilling to do without it.”
“And our own leaders are unwilling to lose the leverage and profits we accrue from it. It is, by far, our single largest trade item with our neighboring races, Lentsul. Without it, we are just a cluster-full of small, scattered communities, insignificant within the scope and life of the PSU and its constituent polities. But the automated selnarmic courier system makes us a pivotal power—a status that the Council of Twenty has quite explicitly indicated it is not willing to jeopardize.”
Lentsul detected the implication in Mretlak’s phrasing. “You have already asked them if the system could be shut down, then.”
“Not in its entirety, but rather, if certain segments of its service could be interrupted, ostensibly for purely tactical reasons. The change in courier availability might have forced our opponents to reveal themselves.”
“And the Council rejected your request.”
“Along with the human and Orion representatives that were briefed on it. And as I understand it, Admiral Trevayne is one of the most vocal opponents of shutting it down.”
Lentsul’s central eye blinked. “Trevayne is opposed to shutting it down? I would have thought his would be the first voice calling for it! It is a matter of grave security, and I cannot imagine, in the wake of the last war, that he supports the interests of the Arduan people.”
Mretlak kept the air from hissing out his vestigial gills. “In the first place, Admiral Trevayne is motivated by other concerns. Namely, if the selnarmic courier drone routes were to shut down, that would play into the hands of his bitterest current opponents: those persons who wish to construct new, artificial warp points.”
Now Lentsul saw the connection. “Of course. As long as information is moving just as quickly along our automated courier route, the pressure to create more warp points is modest. But if ready communication were lost indefinitely, then the combined popular outcry for a new relay option would be added to the current mercantile pressures for more direct cargo routes. And so more warp points would be created.” Lentsul added (appreciation, acceptance), along with, “Trevayne is a practical human. Sane, at the very least.”
“Lentsul, I think Admiral Trevayne’s motives may start with practicality, but I doubt they end there. He understands that, in the times to come, more of our Dispersates shall arrive. And if there is to be peaceful integration rather than war, we must be a vital and willing part of this community of races, of polities. Our courier system has fostered ongoing cooperation between us Arduans and the PSU, has become the keystone to evolving a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“Perhaps,” Lentsul sent,” “but the races of the PSU hardly seem to be our eager friends. Particularly the humans.”
“And why should they be…yet? Who entered whose space, Lentsul? They did not come to our system: we came to theirs. Unthinkable amounts of blood were spilled on both sides. It is enough that, for most humans, their attitude toward Arduans is no longer one of hatred or even distrust. It is merely very guarded. Which is not so very different from their attitudes toward each other. Only since our arrival has the Terran Republic resumed truly amicable relations with the PSU and the Rim Federation. Lacking the selnarm to facilitate rapid accord and fellow-feeling, human social change does not come as quickly as we might like, but with patience and nurture, it does come. And that is good enough. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Lentsul hesitated. “You make convincing arguments, Senior Cluster-Commander, and I find my mood improved and even hopeful. But perhaps I am like the humans in this one way: I, too, am slow to change.”
Mretlak let (amity, wry accord) flow out with a warm selnarmic current. “You would not be who you are if you were to change quickly, Lentsul. And we would then not have the benefit of your discernment, because eager optimism is ever the enemy of sage, critical judgment.”
Lentsul’s own warm selnarm flowed back. “It is good to be appreciated for what one does best, Senior Cluster-Commander. Now, allow me to ask about one or two routine particulars before I must enter my security sequestration…”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Inzrep’fel, the ha’selnarshazi Intendant who was in direct thrall to Destoshaz’at Zum’ref of the Fourth Dispersate, clenched her lesser tentacles. “As always, the First Dispersate sends.”
Zum’ref sent (equanimity, forbearance) at the announcement of this monthly occurrence. “And is it the same message?”
“No, Destoshaz’at: this time, the shaxzhutok depicted by the shaxzhu of the First Dispersate is the Peace-Feast at the end of the Kinstrife of Nunmarken. They seem to place particular emphasis upon Kef’trel’s shock when he learns that he almost slew his masked sibling, Ya’fef’ah, in the final battle.”
“And you are sure it is being sent by the First Dispersate?”
“Yes, ’at.”
“You are certain that the point of origin matches the last five years of monthly sendings?”
“Yes, ’at. The sending began with the same shaxzhutok as always: the announcement of the First Dispersate’s destination, including a sustained image of the target star, in Ardu’s main planetarium.”
Zum’ref stood. “So. The Kinstrife of Nunmarken. The First Dispersate must be growing worried.”
“Worried that we may have been destroyed by a mishap on our journey, ’at?”
“No, of course not. You are selnarshaz; you should know the significance of the Kinstrife of Nunmarken.”
Inzrep’fel lowered her eyes. “Alas, I do not. My mentor was a Sleeper, one who had walked upon the soil of homeworld, of Ardu. He had many such recollections of our collective past, of the deeper shaxzhutok that is our legacy. But he—”
Zum’ref felt his Intendant’s selnarm tremor uncertainly, reeling itself in before it released a thought that she clearly feared was (impolitic, risky). And he understood. “There is no shame in uttering the truth, Inzrep’fel. Yes, your mentor had insufficient time to pass all his knowledge to you because, like the other First Sleepers, I returned him to his cryogenic slumbers. And judging from this latest shaxzhutok from the First Dispersate, it is well that I did so.”
“Why do you say so, Admiral?”
(Surprise, disappointment.) “It is truly not evident? Then attend: the Kinstrife of Nunmarken is a warning against sins of pride, of intemperance, of arrogance. In this case, its sender evidently presumes we are still alive, out here in the most empty gulfs of interstellar space. Any other conclusion would, after all, be quite illogical. We know from the other Dispersates that the same sender has also sent them the same messages for five years, now. And none have answered. From the
perspective of the sender, then, how likely is it that the collective, uniform silence of all the other Dispersates is because we all—all—met with fatal disasters during the course of our journeys?”
Inzrep’fel looked up, her eyes brightening with imminent comprehension. “It is most unlikely, Admiral. Indeed, it would be almost impossible.”
“Exactly. So, since we know that such a powerful selnarmic pulse could not be sent by anything less than a Group of senior shaxzhu working in concert, it is clear that the postwar leadership of the First Dispersate not only presumes that we remain alive, but has recently come to fear that we shall not accept whatever new society they have founded.”
“Then why not simply send us that message, as Admiral Amunsit has done with her updates from Zarzuela?”
“An excellent question, Intendant. I hypothesize that the leadership of the First Dispersate is now dominated by shaxzhu, possibly Sleepers. If so, they will follow the accustomed methods of their caste and their training: to communicate messages in the form of culturally iconic scenes from the vast repository of past-life events, of shaxzhutok, at their disposal. It is, of course, a most elegant means of communication—presuming that both sender and receiver have the same frame of reference, the same compendium of past-life memories at their disposal.” He smoothed his selnarm as a fastidious predator might preen. “We are no longer in that situation, of course, having rid ourselves of such superstition-riddled inanities.”
“And Admiral Amunsit?” asked Inzrep’fel.
