A Call to Arms

by Alan Dean Foster

  “This is not for my people, nor I think for any others within the Weave.”

  “Do you not see,” said a tired Amplitur, “that the very discussion we are now having has occurred many times in the past, and that the end is always the same?”

  “Perhaps this time it will be different.”

  “No, it will not be different.” One-who-Decides moved forward on short, stumpy legs. “It may happen quickly or it may take much time, but no other outcome is possible. The Purpose is the Purpose. So it has been for thousands of years. This will not change.”

  “And in spite of everything I have said, you are still going to help fix my ship and let me go?”

  “Have I not said that we speak always the truth? The message must be conveyed. It is horrid that many had to die to allow that. Fortunately many of your ships escaped to safety.”

  “Yes, I imagine that surprised you.” The alien did not try to conceal his satisfaction.

  “It did not surprise us, and it pleases us. We regret the loss of any individual intelligence in a universe of millions of worlds inhabited by perhaps thousands of intelligences. The death of even one diminishes the Purpose.”

  “You really are a strange bunch,” Prinac commented, scratching his long upper lip. “If you were not fanatics you might even be likable.”

  “Fanaticism and dedication are terms whose parameters could be argued endlessly. We believe we are dedicated. We already like you; for your forthrightness, your honesty, and your bravery.”

  “Don’t like me. I prefer it that way.”

  “On this thing we must insist.” One-who-Decides gestured with a tentacle, the manipulative digits lining up to point. “Go back to your vessel, to your own people and to your allies. Tell them of what you have seen. You will be supplied with all the information your storage facilities can accept. What you do with it is your concern.”

  “We ask only that you do not censor. Let others judge as freely as we let you judge. Reveal or destroy, but do not modify.”

  “We will not be able to monitor your actions or affect them in any way. The range of our ability to project is short.”

  “How can I be sure of that? How do I know you are not telling me that when you could actually influence me or my crew over a considerable distance?”

  “If we meant you harm, intended to try and ‘control’ you,” Fast-blue-Breeder pointed out, “why would we tell you otherwise? Why not simply do it?”

  “I do not know.” Prinac let out a short, whistling breath. “I am not a philosopher; only an officer on a small ship.”

  “Then do not take decisions of great import upon yourself. Let others observe, analyze, decide. Think for yourself. In this be,” and there was something akin to mild amusement in the Amplitur’s projection, “independent.”

  “I admit I do not understand you people.” Prinac started to back away from the twelve, in the direction of the single doorway. No one moved to stop him. “All I can say is that we will never be a cog in your Purpose.”

  One-who-Decides directed the Molitar to move aside. “ ‘Never’ is a term we understand, I think, far better than you.”

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Chichuntu was a sublimely beautiful world, elegant and refined as its inhabitants. The Wais were ornithorps: tall, quiet, manicured of manner and appearance, rarely flustered, and always comfortable no matter what their surroundings.

  They possessed the kind of self-control, Caldaq thought, that had always eluded the Massood. Their uniforms were never dirty and they walked as if dancing. Polite they were in conversation, and formally correct without being unctuously so. Wais society was perhaps the most complex in the entire Weave. Every movement, every gesture and inflection contained multiple levels of meaning and implication, usually comprehensible only to another Wais. Compared to their own language and culture, those of the other races were simple, almost childlike. They were also natural mimics. The combination made them unsurpassed linguists.

  Because of this, Wais worlds were often chosen to serve as regional command bases despite the formalized protests of the inhabitants. It was pointed out that because the Wais were so polite and correct, their presence and indeed their society itself had a meliorating effect on the more contentious members of the Weave, where everyone lived in fear of giving casual offense to his neighbor.

  It was hard, however, to become upset during a discussion moderated by a Wais, to shout imprecations and insults to a Wais translator knowing that it would automatically moderate both accusation and response. Oftentimes shame and embarrassment prevented trouble before it could happen.

  A regional command center seemed out of place on a world like Chichuntu. On Massoodai, for example, it would have been sited far away from any metropolitan area, or buried deep within granite mountains. The Wais had insisted on placing it within the boundaries of a major city park, and had proceeded to beautify it with fountains and landscaping.

  Indeed, this whole world was one vast park, Caldaq mused. It was not to his liking. Too many hedges, too many closely planted trees. He would have preferred open plains, where trees clustered in small, defined places or grew respectable distances from one another. Where a Massood could move traditionally, as his ancestors had traveled, fully utilizing his long legs, covering distances with great strides. Not in pursuit of trade or quarry, but something more honorable.

  To run long, leap far, jump high: that was what the Massood did best. It was because of that tradition, because sport held importance within Massood culture, that they had turned out to be one of the few Weave races suited to combat. It was a task they had assumed reluctantly, as would any intelligent species.

  But someone had to do the actual fighting. The S’van and the Hivistahm and the Lepar and even the Wais contributed much in the way of support, but when it came to combat they were not of much use.

  Besides the Massood, only the Chirinaldo made decent soldiers, and those dizzy heliox-breathers were poor companions on a blasted battlefield.

  He adjusted his dress vest and shorts, smoothing out the short gray fur that peered from beneath the hems. The irises of his eyes were a lighter gray, the vertical pupils almost black. At the same time he tried to relax. That was something of a contradiction in terms. A Massood could not really relax. Immaterial on the battlefield, it often kept them from promotion to command positions, where the presence of a calmer S’van was more reassuring.

  Therefore it was doubly significant that Caldaq, being not only Massood but young, had been given captaincy of a ship.

  The honor was not unprecedented, but it was uncommon. Awareness of this only contributed to his nervousness. The trimmed whiskers at the end of his muzzle twitched maniacally.

  Curling one upper lip, he dug with a neatly trimmed claw at a bit of food that had lodged between two molars. Extracting the fragment, he examined it idly, glanced around to make sure no one was watching him. Ancestors forbid a Wais should catch him spitting on their groomed grounds. He derived a perverse pleasure from doing so.

  What did Command want with him? His thoughts were a jumble of hopes and suspicions.

  He made a last check of his person, which would have seemed immaculate to any but a Wais, ran a claw tip over his teeth one more time, and paused briefly to sniff the air ahead. It smelled of green growing things and flowers. There were flowers everywhere on this world. It confused his sense of smell.

  Regional Command was located in an unprepossessing structure surrounded by a decorative lake. Once long ago he had accompanied his parents to such a place. They had been soldiers as well, though none had risen so high. He was acutely mindful of his responsibilities.

  His parents hadn’t wished to be fighters any more than he had, but since the Massood were just about the only Weave species which did not go into shock on the battlefield they had little choice. At least there was no lack of backup and support from those many races they helped to defend. The Massood did not have to manufacture an
y tools, grow their own food. Everything was done for them by those Weave peoples incapable of participating in combat.

  The black tuft normally present at the tip of each ear was missing from his left one. He flicked it repeatedly with a finger, a nervous habit. It was a genetic shortcoming often remarked upon by females. It marked him as distinctive, though not necessarily attractive.

  Inside, he followed the readout display which floated in front of his eyes, guiding him.

  What do they want with me? he wondered. On the whole, I’d rather be running.

  He was a fine runner, too. Not as good a jumper, which was surprising considering his height. His most pronounced talents, however, were not visible, such as his ability to pause and consider before leaping into battle.

  The Amplitur, now, could simply bioengineer such desirable characteristics into their client races. Since the Weave could not, it was forced to make use of existing biological diversity among its citizens, diversity which sometimes threatened to tear the fragile coalition apart. Internal dissension was commonplace. Only the threat posed by the hated Amplitur held it together.

  Massood edginess could contribute to this dissension when concentrated in the confined compartments of a ship. A nervous captain wasn’t considered the most suitable to command a warship crewed by members of very different, highly argumentative races. Only Caldaq’s ability to control his natural instincts had enabled him to achieve that exalted position at such a youthful age.

  Other Massood frequently asked how he’d managed it. He tried to explain that it was a matter of thinking differently, of controlling one’s feelings as much as one’s metabolism. Easier to speak of it than put it into practice, they replied.

  He was several floors above the lake when the automatic door admitted him to his destination, after first running a thorough check on his identity. The Amplitur were not above reengineering similar physical types within their dominion to resemble members of Weave species and then sending them forth to instigate trouble on specific worlds.

  For example, one of the Amplitur client peoples closely resembled the Hivistahm, and they caused considerable trouble every time their agents were slipped onto a Hivistahm-populated world. It was left to the locals to root out the infiltrators, which they did with varying degrees of success.

  He didn’t much care for the Hivistahm. They were scaly green complainers, always dreaming of home, their fine-boned fingers capable of engineering and tech work beyond the ability of the most skilled Massood. Somber, homesick, and serious, they were not the best of company on a long voyage. But their dedication and talents made them invaluable to the war effort.

  Caldaq was grateful that there were no client races of the Amplitur who resembled the Massood.

  Brun was waiting for him. Like many S’van, he occupied an executive position, having risen far faster in the command hierarchy than was possible for any Massood. Caldaq was not jealous of this. It was the way things were.

  Like the Massood the S’van were mammalian. There the similarities ended. The S’van were short vegetarians, not as sophisticated as the Wais but more so than the Massood. Their squat, hirsute bodies were clad in practical clothing devoid of adornment. They were given to boisterous love songs and highly emotional renditions of complex poetry.

  Though not the linguists that the Wais were, they were comfortable among strangers, from the fighting Massood to the simple and often incomprehensible Lepar. Their nonthreatening appearance was a major reason why they were able to get along so well with representatives of many different species.

  Mentally they were lightning-quick, invariably making the right decisions at difficult moments. Not just for themselves, but for everyone else. It was only natural that they should rise to positions of importance.

  If someone was smarter than you, it was a fact to be accepted, not an opinion to be argued. You could object, take command yourself, and die nobly, or let a S’van make the right battlefield decision and live. War was not a sport. Caldaq was content to take orders from hairy, good-natured S’van, as were the rest of the Massood.

  It was different with other races. Because of its very nature a Wais giving orders could be insufferable. That inbred attitude of superiority rapidly grew tiring. But the S’van entertained no such illusions, cultural or otherwise. They were regular people. Just smarter than everyone else. If one irritated you, you could pick it up and toss it out the nearest window. Metaphorically speaking, of course. In many ways it was the S’van and not the Wais who held the Weave together.

  Brun was typical of his kind. Much older on the relational scale than Caldaq and half his height. Stocky, tailless, with a blunt flat face displaying rounded grinding teeth. Tightly curled black hair spilled over his head like oil from a fountain, trimmed to expose the eyes, nostrils and mouth. The impenetrable beard, like a creeping jungle, had to be cut back every three days.

  Though his salutation was cheery as ever, Caldaq thought he detected an uncharacteristic undercurrent of concern. Save for him and his host the office was empty. This was flattering but it also made Caldaq wary. He was being singled out for something. Whether good or bad he did not yet know.

  For all that Brun was so much shorter he didn’t seem so. Perhaps it was the air of confidence which accrued to many S’van. Perhaps it was the fact that he was a regional commander.

  “Problems?” Caldaq spoke fairly good S’van. Like its originators it was deceptively simple. The language was capable of vast elaboration.

  “What do you think?”

  Caldaq considered. “It is rumored that the Amplitur and Crigolit are massing with the T’returi for a major assault in the vicinity of the Judge worlds.”

  “Then you know as much as anyone else.” Bran’s voice was liquid and perfect. He paced away from the Massood—not out of fear or dislike but so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck as much to see the captain’s gaze.

  The commander led him through a door and into a refulgent starfield. Stepping into a projection room was exactly like emerging from the hull of a ship into deep space. Except the stars were not real but rather exquisite simulations which could be expanded or contracted like the field itself at an operator’s whim.

  As they walked through the projection the room automatically sensed where their feet would fall and provided the necessary transitory support. It would supply steps or downramps as required.

  Each point of light could be enlarged to show an entire system. Caldaq recognized many of them. After all, the display encompassed only a small part of the galaxy. It was difficult enough to try and memorize the relative positions of the worlds of the Weave, the Amplitur, and those in the immediate vicinity without trying to deal with the incomprehensible vastness beyond.

  Other dots when expanded would reveal themselves to be ships, or whole fleets. Within the projection a complete corner of the galaxy was represented, with its inhabited worlds, suns, nebulae, and baffling instruments of warfare. He noted combat activity in the Protan Sector. With Bran’s permission he voiced a request to the machine. That portion of the projection obediently expanded to show individual vessels orbiting a world. Everything he was witnessing in miniature was happening in real time, parsecs distant. It gave one pause.

  Not the projection itself. That was simply a superb example of Hivistahm-O’o’yan workmanship based on S’van design and a probable Turlog overview.

  No, what was truly awesome was the idea of trying to conduct war on a galactic scale, moving ships and personnel through hundreds of parsecs of real space. To keep the conflict lumbering along required every iota of scientific and technological skill both the Weave and the Amplitur could muster.

  What wore you down, Caldaq mused, was not the Amplitur’s skill in combat or their ability to make the best use of their allies. It was their patience, the sense of inevitability they strove to project. No matter how many defeats you inflicted on them, no matter the extent of their losses, they never entertained thoughts of surrender.

/>   Hundreds of years ago it had been accepted that they would have to be utterly destroyed in order to end the war. A daunting project when one considered the fact that the location of the Amplitur homeworld was unknown. The Weave hadn’t the slightest idea how far back in the starfield it lay, or even in what direction. There were times when the task seemed hopeless.

  The alternative was terrifyingly simple. You didn’t have to fight the Amplitur. All you had to do was join them in their Purpose, become one more component of whatever structure it was they were dedicated to building.

  Trouble was, they held all the controls. If you gave in, as one or two species had, there was no going back. No chance to reconsider. In all the hundreds of years it had been fighting, the Weave had yet to encounter a single race that had been allowed the privilege of changing its mind. The Amplitur were careful. There could be recalcitrant people, but not recalcitrant genes. Give in to the Amplitur, give in to their Purpose, and you acknowledged their right to mess with your DNA.

  Now that was truly frightening.

  Caldaq ordered the expanded scene to return to scale. World and orbiting vessels vanished, subsumed once more by the immensity of their surroundings.

  Brun led him on. There was no up or down inside the projection, no back or forward save as it related to your own perception. Many became uneasy inside the projection and had to be led out. It made the Wais uncomfortable. A huge, powerful Chirinaldo with its love of bright illumination would have found it intolerable. Caldaq thought the darkness and simulated stars relaxing.

  “You are anxious to fight.” Brun had climbed a couple of invisible steps and turned, now eye to eye with his companion.

  Caldaq could have matched his ascent, but that would have been impolite.