All Fall Down

by Don Sakers

  “Teacher?” He asks.

  “I am here, Saburo.” My voice ... my Human voice ... sounds hollow in Human ears.

  “We'll be shifting into tachyon phase in a moment,” he says. “We've been under way for just under two hours; it's almost ten hours since we left your grove."

  I shake my head. The animal attitude toward time is very hard for Hlutr to grasp. Everything is impatience, everything is motion. We who count time by the movement of stars and the seasons of slow Hlutr life, we have difficulty binding ourselves to rigid Human concepts of interval. “I have the Human body under control now,” I assure him. “I long to experience your tachyon drive. It is a thing that Hlutr seldom endure: to travel nearly as fast as the waves of the Inner Voice can move."

  “Will you be able to maintain communication with ... your host?"

  “I feel confident that I can do so. Our minds are much more flexible than you believe.” Indeed, the change comes even as we talk; the Human ship twists in a direction totally unknown to Hlutr, but I do not lose contact with my operative. My awareness has taken root in the alien animal brain cells, and it will not be dislodged easily.

  “What is our destination?"

  Saburo sighs. “First, to Taglierre, to stop in at the Credixian Medical Association convention. I don't expect them to have any more leads than they did when I was there last week.” He spreads his hands. “After that, I guess it's on to Eironea to consult with the Grand Library."

  “I do not know these places."

  “We're flying to Galactic West; from Amny, roughly in the direction of the constellation called Aurick's Tower.” He touches a few keys on a panel, and the wall shows Amny's night sky. He points toward a particular grouping of stars. “Here."

  Nodding comes almost as easily to me as the azure hue by which the Hlutr signal assent. We move in the direction of sad, bright Dorasc. Even now I hear the song of my brothers and sisters on Dorasc's starbright plains, and I sing with them. The song is distorted: in part because of the tremendous speed at which the vehicle moves, but in part also because of the wails of a billion Human voices. And somewhere, between here and distant Dorasc, the cry of a single Human child cuts across the harmony of the Inner Voice like thunder across a peaceful Summer afternoon.

  Ere I have begun to probe the nature of that dreadful cry, the ship twists again, returning to normal space. Before my Human eyes is the cool, white globe of Taglierre.

  Scarce two sevens of Galactic Revolutions have passed since Hlutr seeds first came to Taglierre. In that time, the planet has grown steadily more inhospitable, slowly getting colder as it leaks its atmosphere to space. Human terraformers have arrested the process, and for now Taglierre has an air blanket two-thirds as dense as Amny's and temperatures no worse than the deepest winter of my home. Yet Humans will not stay forever. Seventy times seventy Hlutr remain, proud and lonely in the tropics; within their lifetimes Taglierre will become a frozen ghost of a world.

  As we jockey for an approach pattern, I greet these lofty brothers and sisters, who have the honor of presiding over the death of a world. They work their works well, as the generations progress ... urging the Little Ones along, nudging them now and again when their normal evolution does not keep pace with Taglierre's dissipation. When their efforts are successful, life will survive on this globe; yet the struggle is a hard one. They sing me ritual greeting, but pay me little attention otherwise; the doings of Humans are their least concern.

  Still, from their song and the eddies of the Inner Voice that lap the shores of this planet's waterless seas, I glimpse loneliness and despair in the once-teeming Human cities, and I know that the Hlutr are not the only ones waiting for a world to die.

  “Many of your people have left Taglierre,” I say to Saburo.

  Discarded memories in my host's brain tell me that Saburo's wrinkled face is sad. “The Death will be here soon within weeks, probably. Everyone who can leave, has. Only military ships can land safely; the poor fools will stampede themselves trying to steal anything else."

  “Why do they not prohibit travel, thus containing the disease?"

  “On Taglierre? They depend on trade for food and repair parts. That world can't support a half-billion people on its own.” He runs a hand through his white hair. “We've done what we can. The Imperator ordered the boundaries closed a year ago—so the Imperium escaped for a while.” The ship cuts through air, leaving a brief flash like the trail of a meteorite visible to Hlutr below. “But we can't stop interstellar trade. The Death has entered the Imperium now, it's only a matter of weeks until.... “He does not finish.

  We settle to a desolate landing field, while cold sand blows across the empty plain.

  * * * *

  These are Human Elders and wise ones? I came to Taglierre, my brothers and sisters, convinced that I would witness something like a council of Hlutr, all joined in the swaying and the song as they contemplate mysteries and seek for answers. Instead, I have fallen into a madhouse!

  Listen to them, my fellows:

  “The Death is a prion-based disease; my simulations make an analogy with the treatment of Gerstman-Straussler syndrome,” says one of them, a tall and slender woman with hair the color of the Springtime sky. “Thus, your attempt to modify DNA-based antiviritics shall fail no matter what starting point you use."

  “My computers,” says another from a communications screen, “assure me that there are no effective prophylactic measures. We can only treat the disease after it is manifest and that treatment relies on massive doses of general-series antiviritics."

  “You are wrong,” shouts a third, ludicrously holding up his computer display for all to see. “The analogy must be to classic toxic reactions. The only way to stop this scourge is to spread organisms capable of breaking down the toxin. I suggest that we allow our linked medicomps to write a simulation involving a gengineered variant of current antidote-antibodies."

  The meeting hall, although large, is mostly empty. The doctors—the Human Elders—sit or stand near the center, each of them without exception behind a computer terminal. Saburo and I sit with a few quiet visitors on one side of the chamber. On the other are the members of the press: frightened or confident, they do not understand what the doctors say, yet they feel that these idiots will find an answer. Billions of Humans watch the proceedings through their eyes and their instruments, billions who see the doctors as wise seekers of knowledge. Am I the only one who recognizes them as fools?

  No. For Saburo rises to speak.

  “My God, you've been here for two months and you're still having the same arguments. Still linking your medicomps to your diagnostitrons and running simulation after simulation. I don't believe it."

  The tall woman looks down her nose. “If it isn't Doctor Saburo. Or should I say, Lieutenant Saburo?"

  “Brevet Colonel for the duration, Doctor Melus. I've never tried to hide my connection with the Navy."

  “No.” She smiles. “You just couldn't find any school or reputable hospital that would put up with you. So you think we're wasting our time?"

  “I do. Simulations and computer analyses aren't going to stop the Death"

  “Oh, and I suppose you will? How? Your habit of playing about with corpses hasn't yielded any results, nor have your excursions into vivisection...."

  “Legitimate experimentation, if you please."

  “Have it your own way. I don't see any cure from your latest brainstorm of appealing to aliens, Lieutenant."

  Saburo clenches his fists, but says nothing.

  The woman dismisses him with a wave. “Here we have gathered in one room, the greatest expert databases in the Imperium and beyond. The Universities of Skapton, Prakis and Credix itself are tied into our network. We have the wisdom of the ancients, in the form of the programs they left us. This convention has brought together the greatest resources of medicine in recorded history—"

  “And you'll still be running your simulations and consulting the ancients when the
last of you drops dead from the Plague!” Saburo takes the arm of my operative, draws her toward the door. “Come on, I should have known better than to stop here."

  As the door slams shut behind us, the Human doctors begin again their comparison of the results of mindless computer programs.

  No wonder they are dying.

  * * * *

  On the way to Eironea, we pass warships Saburo tries to explain to me why Humans have been killing one another, but I cannot comprehend. We Hlutr are all one tribe, since the time of the Great Schism more than a billion years ago ... we do not fight among ourselves for territory, nor do we seek vain power. The Hlutr are united in the songs we sing and the Universal Song of which all are part; even when we disagree (as some of you, my brothers and sisters, disagree with me about helping the Humans), we do so without rancor, malice or violence.

  And what need have the Hlutr to fight with the other orders? When they menace us, they are dealt with; otherwise, the Hlutr conquer as they have always conquered, in the slow yet inexorable fashion of the plant kingdom. Why should we fight?

  “Your warships sit idle, Saburo. Why do they not fight?” For though ships from both sides challenge us as we pass, there is no hostility along a border that stretches for a kiloparsec in every direction.

  He manipulates his keyboard, stares into a small screen, then shrugs. “The Death. They've declared a truce for the duration."

  “Yours are a strange folk, Saburo."

  Now he does a thing which convinces me that none of the Wise will ever understand Humans, a thing that makes me withdraw for a time to my quiet grove and the fresh dew of a misty Amny dawn.

  He laughs.

  In due time we come to Eironea, and reluctantly I return from Amny. Your attention is on me now, brothers and sisters, and on this strange journey which has become my mission. Some of you sing of our obligation to save the Humans; others sing that we must maintain the precious Hlutr detachment that has served us since the far-off days of the Pylistroph, when Life was but a dream in the Scattered Worlds.

  And others ... others breathe a different opinion, born of smothering hatred and cold revenge. These Hlutr rejoice at the Death, and would have us hurry it along so that Humans can be wiped out once and for all.

  Have you forgotten, brethren, that once the Hlutr swore to aid Mankind in his quest for maturity, his fulfillment of his potential? Saburo may succeed, despite us—Humanity may survive the Death without Hlutr aid. Will you then have us slay the survivors, cast this people out from the Universal Song? Would you have the Hlutr forsworn before the stars and the sacred melodies?

  What the Hlutr do, we shall do in full agreement. Nay, my brothers and sisters: for now, Man will make his own destiny, and the Hlutr ... the Hlutr will watch.

  Our ship enters normal space, and we drop toward verdant Eironea. The Hlutr of this world, who live mainly in rich, wet tropical forests, sing me welcome and concern in the Inner Voice. Theirs is a song tinged with despair; the Death has come to Eironea, and Humans have died: seventy times itself four times and more of them. Ten times that many are near death, and their despondency shakes the planet. These Hlutr are fond of their Humans; they cry sadness to the unfeeling stars at the passing of their Little Ones.

  We land on an untenanted field near one of their great cities, as the sun climbs slowly toward zenith and shadows pool beneath buildings. A drawn Human face appears on the wall: the commander of our ship.

  “We're down, sir. If it's all the same to you ... er ... the crew has voted to remain shipboard. Your cabin connects directly to the main airlock; we'd appreciate it if you'd...."

  Saburo raises a quivering hand. “I understand, Commander. Rest assured that we'll remain in our sealed area of the ship."

  “Very good, sir.” The face disappears.

  With a heavy sigh, Saburo stands. “Come with me,” he says.

  “What is our destination?"

  “The Library.” His tread is heavy, his body stooped like a tree that has seen too many harsh winters.

  I can do nothing but follow.

  There in the empty streets of the city Shiau Shi on the planet Eironea, Saburo tells me what the Humans have done. Let me share this with you, brethren, for it is a marvelous thing.

  Like the Daamin, the Kreen and the happy children of grand Avethell, Humans gathered together in one place all their knowledge of the Universal Song. This was in the days of their great Empire, fifteen hundred years ago. Once, every Human world, settlement or starship in the Galaxy could access this knowledge; today, only a few outposts remain in contact with the central Library. Eironea is one of them. Here, in the care of a devoted priesthood, the machinery is available to all who need it. Through the political upheavals of nearly seventy Human generations, Eironea has remained free, unconquered and neutral, guarding its precious treasure.

  The network of transit capsules is not working, and no autotaxis answer Saburo's summons, so our ship gives birth to a small vehicle and we travel in this metal shell. Humans watch us as we pass, hidden in their buildings or behind directional signs and structural members; the few whom we catch in the open scurry for cover as soon as they see us.

  The Temple of Knowledge soars above us as we disembark; Saburo secures the small vehicle and leads me into the large structure. Works of Human art line the walls and fill display cases, but our footsteps echo in empty halls; and when Saburo makes his way to a row of waiting computer terminals, their screens remain dark.

  I sense another Human presence behind us, and turn to see a pale, emaciated woman dressed in a tattered frock. Her long hair is the black of space, and her eyes hold Springtime green.

  “If you're here to consult the Grand Library,” she says in a thin voice, “I'm sorry, but you won't have any success."

  “The machinery doesn't work?” Saburo asks.

  “It works fine. There's no one at the other end to answer.” She spreads her arms, a sapling opening to the sun. “The Library staff was hit hard by the Death; we last heard from them months ago.” Her lips form a weak smile. “Come to my quarters, I'll give you some tea. We might as well be comfortable.” She introduces herself as we follow. “I am Yee Bair. And you?"

  “Doctor Alex Saburo. My companion is the Teacher. Do ... did you work here?"

  “At the Temple? Goodness, no. I was a frequent customer.” She pauses to cough. “After the Death hit and the priests either died or moved away, I figured, why not move in? It's a lot nicer than my two-room flat, and I have plenty of time for my work."

  Something sings in her, just the briefest flash of an incomplete melody in the Inner Voice. “Your work?” I ask.

  “I'm an artist.” She pauses before a closed door, presses her palm against it and it slides open. “Here, look."

  Yee Bair makes pictures with light—raw, vibrant pictures that distort reality as seen through Human eyes. Some of her works are tame, gentle scenes of towers, spaceports and lounging Human beings. Others feature scenes of the Death, and they breathe with the fear, anguish and defiance that radiate from Human worlds in these terrible times.

  “You're a genius,” Saburo says.

  In spite of myself, I nod. “You give form and definition to a bit of the Universal Song. Your work ranks with the greatest of your people."

  “These were early attempts,” she says, pointing out the tame visions. “Before.... “she does not finish, but busies herself with the tea.

  This is the mystery, brothers and sisters, that we have faced before and will face again in a thousand different races. We, whose only artform is the substance of the Universal Song itself—we cannot capture its essence in the way that these Little Ones, these animals, can. We who are masters of creation are also its prisoners; we cannot step beyond it to create things that cannot be, to see things that cannot exist. We who never know the fullness of despair that these creatures feel, will also never know the urge that pushes them beyond despair's limits. The ecstasy and the pain of a Hlut in the final de
ath-blast, imposing the will of our folk on the malleable genetics of reality—this is the closest we poor Hlutr can approach the emotion that Yee Bair feels whenever she picks up her light-wand.

  Should the Hlutr cry then for Humans, as they face the terror of the Death—or should Humans cry for us?

  Human pain rips across the Universal Song, and for a moment my Human brain aches with that plaintive cry. Somewhere, nearer than ever, a Human child is crying as none has ever cried before. Soon, no Hlut will be able to ignore that cry.

  Saburo gives a noiseless whistle of awe, and my attention is drawn to Yee Bair's current work.

  She has given form to this child's cry that echoes from star to star.

  It is a scene almost as the Hlutr might see it, a million colors overlaid one atop the other, a jagged slice of vision that oozes with raw pain. Human eyes and brain must study the picture to see what it represents, but I know even as I glance at it. A Human boy-child wails, surrounded by the dead bodies of seven times seventy Human adults. Behind him, dimly seen, are the figures of other races who watch the Human tragedy: the wise Daamin, the sad sons of Metrin, the compassionate Iaranori who even now struggle to bring relief where they can ... and the Hlutr, proud and tall in our distant sympathy. And beyond us, even the cold unfeeling stars rain tears of light on the child. The picture brings tears to my borrowed Human eyes, as the cry it represents could not.

  The stars....

  I touch Yee Bair's arm. “These are the stars of Eironea's sky, no?"

  “Yes.” Of course they are. How could one so attuned to the waves of the Inner Voice avoid hearing that call of agonized loneliness? And hearing it, how could she not know from whence it came?

  “Show me ... show Saburo ... where those star-groupings lie."