“The planet Dawn, as the humans have named it. A fetching place, by all description. Newly settled and growing rapidly. There is also, in this subversive spirit of specious cooperation that presently exists between our respective species, a sizable burrow located beneath the swamps and savannas of the minor southern continent.”
“What has this to do with us and our avowed purpose?” a female S!k inquired reasonably.
Manipulating the projector, Beskodnebwyl increased the magnification substantially, until they found themselves eying one of the distorted, sprawling aboveground conurbations that had become more and more familiar recently in the information media. Frivolously tall, slim edifices, not only unaesthetic but impractical, thrust absurdly all the way up into the weather. Extensive agricultural facilities bumped up against a surprising amount of undeveloped green space. Free-standing bodies of water were spotted with fishing craft. Clearly visible were all the mysterious accouterments of a characteristic aboveground human hive.
“There is to be a fair held on Dawn, to be situated not far outside the capital city of Aurora.” Beskodnebwyl continued to manipulate the details of the holo as he explained. “A cultural fair, exhibiting the best and newest of human music and arts.”
“Is that not a contradiction in terms?” someone ventured. Amused whistling spilled from the assembled to drift across the river.
“Obviously, not to humans, it isn’t,” Beskodnebwyl observed when the laughter had died down. “This gathering will also present contributions from the local thranx of the southern continent.” He leaned forward, stretching his b-thorax, his antennae quivering with barely concealed passion. “It is to be a wholly cross-cultural, cross-species event—the first of its kind on Dawn. In addition to presentations by the locals, a number of important artists from nearby settled worlds, both human and thranx, are also to participate. For so young a colony, it promises to be a most prestigious and important convocation, a watershed in the settlement’s evolution.” He drew himself back, pausing and gesturing for emphasis.
“We of the Bwyl also intend that it shall be so, and in a manner that will leave a deep and lasting impression on perceptive sentients everywhere. We hope that you of the S!k and the Abra will join us in making our own presentation at this fair.”
“Which will consist of?” The senior Abra present waved an antenna inquiringly.
Beskodnebwyl did not hesitate, nor did his tone change. “We hope to disrupt the fair, and in doing so push the course of human-thranx relations back onto a proper level, by killing as many of the participants as possible. Operating under the guise of the ancient Protectors, we hope to make our case so irresistibly to all citizens of the Greater Hive that they will have no choice but to see the correctness of our doctrine.” He indicated first-degree confidence.
“The humans will respond immediately to our actions, of course. Once word of our involvement and efforts is disseminated, they will enter the fair and kill us as quickly as they can. With luck, some of us will escape to carry on the necessary work. Those of us who do not will be recycled knowing that they gave their essence to preserve the Great Hive, much as our ancestors did in the course of thousands of ancient battles. This cause is nobler than any of those, because it is carried out on behalf of the entire Great Hive itself.” He switched deliberately to the rougher but more straightforward Low Thranx.
“Males and females of the S!k and the Abra: Will you join with your hive mates the Bwyl in this great and noble undertaking?”
Animated discussion followed, lively but by no means uniform. Clearly, there remained among the disputants considerable difference of opinion. Having chosen directness over diplomacy, Beskodnebwyl had no leeway for hesitation. Nor had he intended to leave any.
“How would you intend to do this thing?” Velhurmeabra of the Abra was clearly taken aback by the proposal and not afraid to say so. “Will the humans have in place no precautions against such an eventuality, no guards?”
“Why should they?” Beskodnebwyl replied expansively. “It is a cultural fair, not a military caucus. As to the actual methods to be employed in the carrying out of our intentions, we have already spent much time refining our options.”
“What about introducing into the atmosphere of the gathering a powerful cyanotoxin?” one of the more enthusiastic S!k proposed.
“For the same reason that we cannot spread a lethal hemolument.” This time the images generated by Beskodnebwyl’s hand-held projector were more detailed, full of charts and sketches that floated in midair before the assemblage. “Human blood binds oxygen through the use of iron, not the usual copper. I am assured that given enough time and resources, suitable poisons could be engineered for use against them. We have neither. By the same token, biological agents that would devastate us are just as likely to pass harmlessly through their systems. For example, the gin!gas wasting disease for which no cure has yet been discovered degrades chitin. I am told that malignant as it is, it might at most cause the hair and fingernails of some humans to fall out. That is hardly the bold statement we wish to make.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” Uhlenfirs!k of the S!k asked, then waited quietly.
Beskodnebwyl underlined his response with deliberate movements of antennae and truhands. Behind him, an aquatic hermot splashed in the river, pursuing a school of hard-shelled couvine, predator and prey alike oblivious to the convocation on the nearby bank vigorously contemplating mass murder.
“Explosives have the advantage of not discriminating between species. Volunteers have already been chosen. They will infiltrate this detestable fair and wreak such havoc as cannot be imagined. The fact that individuals will be free to do their work independent of any central control ensures that even if one or more are detected and forced to abort their mission, the others will be able to proceed unimpaired. Additionally, every operative will enter adequately armed for their personal defense.”
The nominal leaders of the S!k and the Abra conferred, supported by their most able aides. When they were through, Velhurmeabra of the Abra faced his expectant counterparts across the semicircle.
“While we of the Abra and the S!k feel much as you do with regard to this too rapid and too intimate mixing of species, we have decided not to participate in your plans to disrupt the cultural fair on the world of Dawn. While we are not entirely opposed to the use of violent means of dissuasion, indiscriminate bombing of so large a gathering will inevitably slay or injure numerous artists as well as ordinary visitors.”
One of the S!k spoke up. “The killing of an artist is an abomination unto itself. The stifling of any fount of creativity, however modest, diminishes us all.”
Beskodnebwyl gestured understanding. He had expected this line of objection. “Humans feel otherwise. They make no such sharp distinctions between, say, composers of music and purifiers of water. It is further proof of their degraded culture.”
“But you cannot guarantee,” Velhurmeabra continued inexorably, “that only human artists will die.”
“Unfortunately,” Beskodnebwyl responded, “explosives are notoriously undiscriminating. It is conceded that thranx will also perish in the making of our statement. It is unavoidable.”
“Then we cannot participate actively,” the Abra concluded.
Beskodnebwyl pounced on an inflection. “ ‘Actively’?”
The leader of the S!k spoke up. “We have no legs to provide you, no antennae to aid you, no eyes to share. But—” He hesitated only for emphasis. “—we wish you well in the enterprise, which seems almost certain to accomplish the goals you have set out for it. While not participating directly, we can perhaps provide some small encouragement.”
“In any event, we will do nothing to discourage you from burrowing in this chosen direction,” the Abra concluded.
It was not all that Beskodnebwyl had hoped for. But logistical support would be useful and would free up the dedicated members of the Bwyl to carry out the more active components of the scheme. T
he Abra and the S!k could not overcome the deep-seated cultural prejudice against the killing of artists. Only the Bwyl had progressed far enough to do that. But the support of the others would be welcomed. They wished to share in the credit for the ultimate disruption of human-thranx integration, but not in the ultimate risk.
It was better than outright dissension, Beskodnebwyl knew. The Abra and the S!k had access to materials and contacts and useful facilities that were denied the Bwyl. When the deed was done, the truth would come out. Credit would be apportioned where due. Beskodnebwyl was not concerned with the refining of such matters. He carried nothing for credit. He wanted only to put a halt to this abhorrent, noisome mixing of species.
If the Burrow Master was with them, they would do precisely that—once and for all time.
Elkannah Skettle stepped off the shuttle and examined the world spread out before him with great interest. Ahead, he saw Lawlor and Martine passing rapidly through Customs. Pierrot, Botha, Nevisrighne, and the others were somewhere in the crowd behind him that was still filing off the transport vehicle. They had grown used to traveling together yet keeping their distance from one another.
The port facilities were efficient, the port’s equipment spotless, the smiles on the faces of the local officials almost painfully welcoming. And why shouldn’t they be? he mused. Dawn was a new world, bursting with opportunity, unclaimed lands, fortunes yet to be made. The climate was salubrious, the terrain inviting, the local flora and fauna reasonably pacific. A fine place to live and an enchanting place to visit.
Provided, he knew as he smiled pleasantly at the young woman who passed him through the body scanner, it could be kept free of bugs.
Not that there was anything inherently wrong with the bugs, he reflected as he presented himself to Customs. Or with the Quillp, or the AAnn, or any of the diverse other intelligent races with whom humankind shared this corner of the Orion Arm. He had reason of his own to be grateful to the bugs. Without the aid they had rendered to humankind in the Pitarian War, a favorite grandniece of his might not have survived the fighting. Military assistance in the midst of conflict was always welcome.
But the idea that relations should proceed beyond that was simply intolerable to one who loved his kind. The thranx might be all twirling antennae and sweet smells on the surface, but they were as alien as any sentient species humanity had yet encountered. The revelation that they had an actual colony in the Amazon Basin had been enough to trigger simmering outrage not only in men like himself, but in many who previously had given little thought to the problem.
And it was a problem. How could humankind ever be certain of its safety, of its very future, if empty-headed authorities allowed aliens to expand beyond the customary, restricted diplomatic and commercial sites where they were allowed? The notion that such growth should not only be permitted but encouraged and codified was sufficient to prod Skettle and those of like mind to move beyond protest to action. Negotiations, he knew, were presently at a delicate stage and could go either forward or back. A well-timed statement might be enough to put a stop to foolishness that bordered on the seditious.
Unlike others who felt similarly, Skettle did not think those humans who blindly advocated intimate ties with the thranx were traitors. They were simply ignorant. The bugs had deceived them. They were very clever, the thranx. Polite to a fault, ever conscious of the feelings of others, they had lulled supposedly astute people into a false sense of security the likes of which humankind had never before experienced.
But not all of us, he thought resolutely as he presented his travel case for inspection.
He waited while it passed beneath the Customs scanner. His corpus had already been cleared. Now it remained only for his luggage to do the same. Lawlor was the only potential weak link in the group, he knew. The man tended to exhibit unease even when no threat was apparent. That was why Skettle had chosen to carry this particular case. Old men were not usually the first to be suspected of smuggling.
With a tip of his cap and a practiced smile, the earnest young inspector passed him through. Picking up his case on the other side of the scanner, Skettle resumed his trek through the terminal, staying in the middle of the stream of disembarking passengers. Compared to those on major worlds like Terra or Amropolus, the terminal was not large. The scanner had detected nothing inside his case beyond the expected: clothing, vacation gear, personal communicator—the usual unremarkable assortment of travel goods.
It had not, however, performed a detailed analysis of the luggage itself. Even had it undergone that thorough an examination, the local authorities would still have been hard pressed to prove anything. Had they noted the composition of Lawlor’s case, and Martine’s, and subjected them to observation by a trained physical chemist, however, they would no doubt have been persuaded to investigate further.
Each of the three cases was composed of a different set of materials. When certain specific sections of the trio were cut up and then layered together in the appropriate proportions, then treated with a commonly available binding fluid, the result was neat little squares of an extraordinarily dynamic explosive. Utilizing this product, Elkannah Skettle and his colleagues intended for the widely advertised Dawn Intercultural Fair to give off even more heat than its organizers intended.
Everything had been carefully prepared in advance. It was meant for the deadly consequences to be blamed on unknown provocateurs working together with renegade thranx elements, but the apportionment of blame was not really crucial. What mattered was the disruption, and preferably the destruction, of the fair itself. If nothing else, it would put an end to what was supposed to be an exchange of “culture” among the races. What nonsense! Skettle chuckled to himself. The idea that humans and bugs should create art in common, that thranx culture should be allowed to contaminate human painting, music, song, or sculpture, would have been laughable if it was not so dangerous. Such aesthetic degradation could not be allowed. Were no one but Skettle and his associates thinking of the children as yet unborn? He thought, as he had so very many times, of the brave forebears of his own organization who had given their lives in the attempt years before to wipe out the foul thranx colony located in the Reserva Amazonia. Their sacrifice would not go unavenged.
The Preservers took separate transport to the small hotel they had booked. Located on the outskirts of Aurora, capital of the semitropical colony, the establishment overlooked a small natural lake and was within easy commuting distance of the fair. Following a suitable pause after checking in, they assembled by ones and twos in a prereserved commons room. There they bantered trivialities while Botha checked for hidden sensors and erected an industrial-strength sound envelope. There was no reason to suspect the presence of the former and no demonstrated need for the latter, but they were taking no chances—especially when the hand weapons they had contracted for were due to arrive with their local contact later in the day.
Feeling secure, they activated the tridee and waited the necessary few seconds for the room unit to warm up. As soon as the menu appeared in the air on the far side of the room, Pierrot directed it to provide them with as much local background on the fair as was available for viewing, commencing with material recorded as recently as ten days prior to their arrival.
The site was expanding impressively. Portable structures had been raised on the far side of the main lake, facilities for transport vehicles had been prepared underground, a high-speed transport link with the city continuing on to the shuttleport had been constructed and tested, and the usual virtually invisible molegel had been suspended in place above the entire site to shield it from any adverse weather, since Dawn did not yet possess the advanced climate-moderating facilities of more technologically mature worlds. Most of the larger exhibits were already in place and undergoing final checkout.
“Show us the thranx pavilions,” Skettle ordered the tridee. Obediently, it supplied perfectly formed floating images on one side with a running printed commentary, in addition to
the accompanying audio, on the other. Cerebral plug-ins were available, as was to be expected in any decent hostelry. Skettle disdained their use in favor of group observation.
“Look at that grotesquerie.” Pierrot called for magnification, and the tridee unit complied. “What can that abomination possibly be?” She was shaking her head disdainfully.
“Some kind of organic sculpture, I would guess.” Botha possessed more imagination than most of them, Skettle included. “It’s not so bad, if you ignore the color scheme.”
“Remember,” Skettle announced, “it’s not the content of the fair that we’re here to terminate. We’re not art critics.” A few laughs rose above the ongoing commentary from the tridee. “It’s the possibility that such content may lead to a freedom for thranx on human worlds that will let them infiltrate and eventually dominate our very lives, from the way we create to the way we live.” This time his words were greeted not with laughter, but with grim muttering.
They watched for more than an hour, until Nevisrighne could take it no more. Rising, he walked over to the room’s food service bay and ordered a chilled alcoholic fruit drink. “I’m sorry, but I can’t watch anymore. Too many bugs for one morning.”
“Time we finalized more than observations, anyway.” Botha looked expectantly to Skettle.
The old man nodded, his fine gray beard bobbing prominently. “All right. I know you’re all anxious to begin the actual work, but we must be careful not to rush matters. Now that the time for action is so near, it is all the more imperative that we exercise restraint and caution. The last thing we need is to attract the attention of local authorities.”
Diuturnity's Dawn Page 3
