The Gentle Seduction

by Marc Stiegler

  He heard Tarn Westfall's hoarse voice—apparently the jammer blocked mental transmissions as well. "Good luck to both of you. Veddin, may your compromise bear new and interesting fruit." Tarn looked at Autumn and almost laughed out loud. "And you, my daughter, may you be successful in ending the compromise to your advantage." Now he did laugh. "I don't know which one of you to bet on. "

  Veddin hugged Autumn. She responded in kind. He whispered, "Do you have anything you want to take with you? We're leaving for Kaylanx, you know, at least for a short time. I can't stay here, not now. The next destination after Kaylanx, I leave to you."

  She shook her head. "I suspect the Shaylohs have already put my things on your ship. That's just the sort of thing they'd do."

  "Very well. We'll go see."

  They turned toward the waiting starship. Hand in hand they went, still alone, but now at least together.

  Petals Of Rose

  Stan Schmidt observes that the best science fiction often arises from attempts to answer really hard questions—questions so hard that most people would not even try to answer them. Petals was one of my first, and deepest, encounters with a problem of seemingly insurmountable difficulty.

  Suppose the mayfly, which only lives 24 hours, were intelligent. Could such a short life have meaning? Could beings in such a straitened circumstance build a civilization? And could humans work with such beings despite the terrible distance in understanding that must necessarily separate us?

  The answers to all these questions is yes. Ahh, but at what cost?

  Petals Of Rose

  Look to the Rose that blows about us—"Lo,

  Laughing," she says, "Into the World I blow,

  At once the Silken Petals of my Being

  Tear, and my Treasure to the Great Winds throw."

  —Rosan translation of the Lazarine translation of the English translation of the Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam

  Sorrel Everwood felt his ears slowly being amputated; he reached up to adjust the damn strap on his infrared goggles a tenth time. While he was there, he adjusted the coloration control as well.

  At last the Rosan he faced looked like the Rosans in xenoanthropological films. Hundreds of delicate cooling fins, the Rosan equivalent of scales or feathers, covered his body. He seemed to be wearing flower petals, petals of deep red laced with a fine network of pink veins. His wide, gentle eyes were violet with flecks of gold. The gold in his eyes matched the gold in his medallion, the medallion of the ruling Bloodbond.

  Some of his petals were curled, and turned green toward the edges. Or Sae Hi Tor must be old for a Rosan, Sorrell decided before concentrating again on the Bloodbond's words.

  "I assure you we'll give you all the help, the highest priorities, available." Or Sae spoke slowly in logitalk for the humans. "Obviously we stand to gain even more from a translight communicator than you do. And I hope that—"

  Or Sae rose suddenly from his chair, heading for the exit passage. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "May you die by a . . . rising . . ." He crumpled to the floor.

  Sorrel was already moving toward Or Sae. Wandra screamed. The screaming made Sorrel turn, and as he turned he realized what was happening. Thus, when he turned back to Or Sae, he was not surprised to see a pool of green brainblood seeping from Or Sae's head, solidifying into jelly. Nor was he surprised when a sweet, gentle scent, disturbingly like honeysuckle, filled the air.

  Sorrel hadn't known he still had it in him to hate; he had been so long so tired and so resigned. But sitting there with the Lazarine, the hate came back to him, along with fear and defiance. "Why me?" he asked harshly, or at least as harshly as he could manage with the fear in his throat.

  Balcyrak Kretkyen Niopay blinked slowly. "Because you are the most qualified being in the universe. Isn't that obvious?"

  Sorrel said nothing; yes, in some ways it was obvious.

  The Lazarine laughed—a resounding sound, which faded slowly. "I'm sorry—I know that for you it's not a laughing matter." A robutler entered; Balcyrak pointed to the serving tray. Refreshment?"

  "Thanks." Sorrel took the warmed liquor glass, containing . . . well, he wasn't sure what it contained, but it was probably costly, certainly good, and hopefully soothing to a dry throat. As he sipped, Balcyrak changed the subject.

  "We know how much you hate us."

  Sorrel coughed, inhaled sharply.

  "And also why. I am sorry about your wife. We are sorry for all who die too soon, regardless of how many Lazarines those sentients may have killed, regardless of how involved we may have been in killing them in return."

  Sorrel's wife had been an officer on board a human flagship when Man chose to fight Lazaran, before Man overcame his brooding jealousy. So long ago . . .

  "But the work is, in our opinion, too important for historical phenomena, however recent, to interfere. You are the galaxy's foremost authority on Rosans, knowing them even better than they know themselves—in fact, you are the only sentient ever to have transformed an alien culture without force of weapons. That is quite an achievement; it may be said that you are the only successful xenopsychologist ever born."

  "Without force of weapons?" Sorrel felt fiery horror. "Millions of Rosans died in the revolution."

  Balcyrak waved it away. "But they were killed by other Rosans, the Rosans who could understand the superior regenerative society you offered them. Have you ever read Darwin?"

  Sorrel snorted. "I don't have time for reading ancient history."

  "Of course; I am sorry to mention it. No matter. The deaths were just a manifestation of the fittest surviving. Because the six-parent religion was superior, it destroyed the four-parent religion. After all, the superiority of six-parenthood inspired you to write your dissertation in the first place. The people of Khayyam are lucky that Prim Sol Mem Brite read it."

  "Yeah. But not so lucky he killed so many of his own people because of it," Sorrel frowned. He wanted to argue, but this was neither the time nor the place. "Look. Why don't you go to Khayyam yourself? Why do you need a human as your local overlord?"

  The Lazarine frilled his mane in distress. "You will not be an overlord; you will be an associate. Humans are the only beings who can be effective as interfaces between the ideas that originate here and the applied engineering that will originate there. We cannot do it ourselves. It is too . . . painful. For them as well as us." He paused, watching Sorrel, speaking softly. "You've never been to Khayyam, have you?"

  Sorrel shook his head. It was an intolerable irony that he should never have visited the planet of the people whose lives he had transformed. He had never met a Rosan in his entire life; he had merely written a dissertation about them, in schooly shortly after his wife's death.

  And with the dissertation he had caused so many new deaths.

  Balcyrak interrupted his thoughts. "Fear not, Man Everwood. You will understand why we can't go ourselves after you've been there a while. After you've become like a Lazarine unto them."

  "What?!" Sorrel wrenched forward in his chair.

  The Lazarine smiled; he seemed languid, almost uncaring, but then all Lazarine activity seemed languid by human standards. "When you are Lazarine-like, you will understand."

  Sorrel realized that Balcyrak was assuming he would take the job, assuming that he would go to Khayyam as Balcyrak's proxy. Even more infuriating, Sorrel realized that Balcyrak was right.

  "You'll see" the Lazarine promised.

  Wandra took a large gulp from the glass Sorrel had given her; she was still shaken from the death of the Bloodbond. The three humans were back on the ship, though they hadn't yet taken off their coolsuits. The coolsuits made them look like pale, ragged Rosans, as far as Sorrel could tell.

  Wandra spoke. "I just don't believe it. I know, I know; everything I had read about the Rosans before coming here warned me about their deaths, and I should've realized that it'd be a casual occurrence." She took another gulp. "But dammit, I still don't believe it. How could somebody be that way?"

/>   "It's simple enough," Cal started with his cool, sarcastic voice. "You'd be that way too if you only had thirty-six hours to live. You don't have time to pay too much attention to somebody else dying."

  Sorrel sighed. Cal was going to be a problem; already he was building a shield of cynicism to insulate himself from the wounds this planet could leave. But then, Wandra's hysteria boded ill as well. "It's not quite that simple, Cal. Though the adult phase of the Rosan life cycle lasts only thirty-six hours, they pack a lot more life into those thirty-six hours than most humans pack into a hundred years. The main reason death isn't a cause for grief is that it's so necessary for the children; a Rosan can't, after all, have children in our sense of the word unless his brainblood is preserved for the larval bloodfeast." Sorrel shrugged. "For that matter, the bloodfeast confers a bit of immortality to every Rosan; the bloodchild starts adult life with many of the memories of the bloodparents, and much of the knowledge of the brainparents."

  Cal snorted. "Yeah. Immortality. The kids remember everything. Only problem is, you're still dead. Hell, you might as well write a book—that's about as immortal as a Rosan can get."

  "And that's probably a lot more immortal than any of us will get," Sorrel said, and immediately regretted its saying; Sorrel, after all, already had that kind of immortality.

  Cal stalked from the cabin.

  Sorrel watched Wandra pace across the deck, watched her wring her hands in agony. "Yes, Wandra, what do you want to tell me about Cal?" he asked at last.

  Wandra paused in mid-stride. "I, uh . . ."

  Sorrel nodded his head. "I'm supposed to say that since I'm a psychologist I analyzed you and already know what you want to say. Unfortunately, it would hardly take a psychologist to see that you're disturbed— more disturbed now than you were before Cal left."

  She sighed, sat back down. "I suppose you're right. Look, Dr. Everwood—"

  "Sorrel," he said, "My name is Sorrel."

  "Right. Sorry. Do you know how Cal happened to become a part of this expedition?"

  "Not really. I confess I've wondered about it. He doesn't seem like the type to volunteer for a job like this."

  "He didn't—not exactly, anyway. He's a flunk. Blew his postdoc thesis at U. of New Terra. Since he couldn't make it as a theoretician, they consigned him to engineering. Apparently that's a big loss of prestige where he comes from."

  Sorrel nodded. "Yes, on Narchia it would be. So he came out here to get as far as possible from the embarrassment."

  "Yeah."

  Sorrel shrugged. "Well, at least he should be successful at getting far enough away. Lord knows, there's nobody here to bother him." Except for Sorrel himself, he realized; his "success" would be a continual insult to Cal. He looked at Wandra; she looked back, knowing his thoughts as he had just known hers. "So who's the psychologist now?" he murmured.

  She laughed, the first time since planetfall.

  Sorrel stood up. "Let's go back and meet the new Bloodbond. He should be settled in by now; we have lots of business to discuss."

  The office had changed little; the Bloodkeepers had taken the remains of Or Sae Hi Tor to the larval gateway, so the next returning larva could take him in bloodfeast. The stacks of papers in the out-slot of the desk seemed larger; those in the in-slot seemed smaller. Tri Bel Heer Te was a member of the current dayspinner ruling bloodline. They directed the MoonBender cavern works during the thirty-six-hour daylight half of Khayyam's cycle, as Or Sae's bloodline ruled during the nightspin half of the planet's revolution.

  Tri Bel rose to greet him with a touching of petals along the forearm. The gold, silver, and green medallion of the Bloodbond glinted with splendor. "My children will remember this meeting forever," she said, giving the traditional greeting. With Sorrel, the greeting might well be true; Tri Bel looked upon Sorrel in raptured awe. Her wide, bright, Rosan eyes were wider than usual, and Sorrel had the uncomfortable feeling that this was how she might look upon a god.

  "We will remember you in our books," Sorrel said, using the closest human counterpart of a racial memory. "And even the Lazarines shall sing our songs, should we of Earth and you of Khayyam succeed in our plans."

  The awe surrendered to the press of business in just a few seconds—still a long time in Rosan terms. "I wouldn't be surprised. Let's talk," Tri Bel said. The Rosan gestured for Sorrel to take the resting incline at the head of the conference table; Sorrel uncomfortably sidled to one of the others. He wasn't a god, dammit! Why did they have to treat him like one?

  Sorrel spoke, as fast as he could, in Ancient Rosan (Ancient Rosan being several years, or hundreds of generations, old); he didn't want to waste any more of Tri Bel's time than necessary. "Do you know what we were discussing with your predecessor?"

  "No, I haven't had time to read his lifescription yet."

  "The significant information we bring is this," Sorrel ticked off. "The Lazarines have developed a universe- gestalt incorporating methods of faster-than-light communication, methods much faster than sending messages on starships. Cal Minov and Wandra Furenz, the other two humans with me, have translated the Lazarine gestalt into a practical theory. Now all we need is a massive engineering effort, to find a workable implementation of the theories. The Rosans, of course, are the fastest, most efficient engineers in the universe, and the project is so large it'd take any other beings decades of effort. Here on Khayyam we hope to cut that time to less than a hundred generations." Sorrel scratched on his goggles. "When we're done, your descendants will be able to talk to beings on other worlds and receive answers within their own lifetimes."

  The Rosan should have been bored with this slow aimless speech—but because this was Sorrel Everwood, the One Parent of the Faith of Six Parents, she was not. Besides, the merits in FTL communication were truly awesome. The merits were especially great for the Rosans, who were isolated on Khayyam by lifespan as well as by distance. Tri Bel's tragic smile seemed a bit human, yet a bit elfin as well. "Man Everwood, again you bring us salvation. How can we repay such a debt?" She shook her head. "Have you spoken with our scientists and engineers? Have they seen the plans?"

  "No, we've been waiting for a Bloodbond's authorization."

  "You've waited hours, just for a Bloodbond?" Tri Bel's eyes filled with puzzlement, then cleared. "We must arrange for the work to begin. Send Man Minov and Man Furenz to the Bel Dom laboratories at once." She shook herself. "I can't believe you waited hours for authorization!" She moved to her desk. "Your project has Priority 1A, the pick of the engineering pool and all material resources, as well as the right of bloodfeast selections, with higher bloodfeast priority only for Executive Bonds. Further, your techs have fully expanded egg-laying rights. The orders shall be ready within the hour."

  Sorrel's head spun; the FTLcom was being backed with resources far beyond his wildest expectations. Bloodfeast selection would permit them to mix and match the brainbloods of the best FTLcom workers in each generation, to selectively shape the chemogenetic skills and blood memories of the next generation even further. And fully expanded egg-laying rights would make positions in the project extremely valuable, since FTLcom workers would be permitted to have more than two replacement eggs, as well as multiple brainchildren and bloodchildren. "Thank you," he said to the Rosan, who was already speaking into the room's transceivers. He listened for a moment, but couldn't understand a word; both because it was modern Rosan, and because Tri Bel spoke impossibly fast. Sorrel left immediately; though Tri Bel never would have dismissed him, Sorrel knew she couldn't work effectively with a god in the room.

  There were almost 200 quiet, expectant Rosans listening there in the stone hall. Sorrel cleared his throat. "I want to apologize for the crowding. It looks like our cavern is a bit small for our task. However, a new cavenet is nearing completion, and we've been assured that it'll be ours once it's ready." Sorrel realized it wouldn't make any difference to these students, who would pass into bloodfeast long before the new accommodations were complete. "Anyway,
this is Calvin Minov, a spacetime physicist, and this is Wandra Furenz, a topocurve mathematician. Since I know absolutely nothing about faster-than-light communication, or space-time, or anything that has to do with engineering, I'll give the floor to them."

  Cal climbed the low step stiffly, followed by a smiling Wandra.

  Sorrel looked at Cal. "Cal, why don't you start off, give them an idea of where we're going, how, and why?"

  "Yeah, sure, uh," he turned to the class and froze. Sorrel pressed a copy of the manuscript explaining the theories into his hand—a manuscript that Cal had written. "Just tell them what you know, Cal," he whispered in Anglic.

  Cal looked down at the book, seemed to remember where he was, and turned to the lightboard, calling up the first diagram. Sorrel stepped down and examined the roomful of FTLcom students.

  They were the best, chosen by Sorrel in consultation with the Chief Geneticist and the Assistant Coordinator of the Bloodkeep; each student had six good parents with backgrounds in science, engineering, or mathematics behind him. The students were young as well, with fat still in their cheeks, not only because young ones would have more time to assimilate more material, but also because only a youth would sit still for the slow ambling ways of humans.

  Sorrel turned his attention back to the teacher. Cal, cool and aloof though he might be, was warming to his subject. He talked faster as he went along, and he talked still faster as he realized that no matter how fast he talked his students would keep up with him. In fact, Sorrel knew, the worst mistake Cal could make would be to talk too slowly, for then his students would lose concentration.

  Ooops—one of them asked him a question, with such swift sentences he couldn't follow . . . there would be a great deal of adjusting to do. Not to mention the problems it would pose if the humans got too attached to any of the Rosans they taught. . . . At least Cal might be immune to that, but Sorrel could see long, terrible times with Wandra. He'd have to take a very close look at her ego chart. For the first time Sorrel felt that he belonged on this trip, not just because he would awe the natives and make things move swiftly, but because he would be useful as well.