The Gentle Seduction

by Marc Stiegler

  No offworlder, Sorrel knew, had ever attended a Rosan election. "Thank you," Sorrel said. "We'd be honored as well."

  Two two-story platforms rose out of the sea of Rosan faces there in the Hall—an awesome cavern, with as much space as the largest of human spacedomes. On the lower level of each platform the most important advisors of each candidate stood, answering detailed questions for the media, and on the high level stood each candidate himself, describing his plans, hopes, and dreams, pulling his audience into those dreams and making those dreams their own. The room was filled with talking, listening, reading, and watching, all of which had an intensity that Sorrel had never imagined. Wandra leaned over to him. "You know, you can almost see the information in this room; you can see the knowledge being transmitted in wave after wave."

  Sorrel nodded.

  Suddenly a hush fell; the voting began at counting booths scattered throughout the Hall.

  Then it was over; the loudspeakers announced Sor Hi's victory. An awesome cheer began and ended; Sor Hi gave his inauguration address. It lasted a full minute and a half. A second cheer began—but the noise of a violent explosion shattered the joy. The vibration threw Sorrel to the floor, but he leaped up again even as he realized he was falling. He ran to catch the tumbling body of the new Bloodbond, Sor Hi.

  Muscles tore and his back wrenched as Sorrel caught Sor Hi in his arms. Together they fell back to the platform, with Sorrel twisting to protect Sor Hi as much as possible.

  Sorrel groaned and rolled over. A Rosan with the medics medallion leaned over Sor Hi. "He's alive," the medic announced, Sorrel sighed, rolled over again, winced at the new pain in his back, and fell into unconsciousness.

  When he rolled over again, he found himself in a comfortable bed, his own bed on the ship. He heard the high-pitched, hummingbird sound of a Rosan chuckling, and opened his eyes to look toward the sound.

  Sor Hi lay propped in a cot, looking back at him. "Thank you, Parent. And congratulations. We have won."

  "What happened?"

  "Another assassination attempt. This one succeeded, but not well enough. I have lived long enough. The Supremi bloodlines have been ordered diluted. And they have no immortal beings to protect their dreams from my orders, as I have you to protect mine."

  Sorrel looked at the wounds and bandages covering Sor Hi's body. Yes, the assassins had succeeded all too truly. A wounded Rosan had little time left—his body would burn its layers of stored nutrient in a furious attempt to repair the damage, leading to swift death by starvation.

  Sorrel rose slowly and painfully from the bed. "Can I get you anything?"

  Sor Hi's eyes drifted absently around the room. "No. I am happy here."

  Sorrel searched Sor Hi's face with growing acuteness; the thickness was lifting from Sorrel's mind. Sor Hi's skin was drawn tight against his cheeks; death approached.

  " 'May you die by a rising star,' " Sor Hi muttered. "Isn't it funny? Ever since we went into the caves, no one has ever died by a rising star. I wonder what it would be like."

  With a horrified sense of awe and wonder, Sorrel looked at his watch. He found what he had somehow already known: the sunrise was coming. "Follow me," he told Sor Hi, "I have something to show you."

  The top of the ship peeked out from the cavern works; there Sorrel and Sor Hi found a view of Khayyam in the morning. Now the sun too peeked out from the horizon, and touched the shallow pools of water dotting Khayyam's surface. In that fiery touch the warm water quivered, and bubbled, and broke into boiling. Clouds of steam rose into the purplish sky, condensing into rain as it rose, falling, and boiling again into steam as it neared the surface. Frenzied rainbows danced across those spinning almost-rainstorms, only to disappear as the rains evaporated until the next sunrise.

  Sor Hi exhaled sharply. "It is incomparable," he whispered in awe. "My children must remember this beauty for me." He looked at Sorrel. "And they must remember you, too." He drew a last hard breath. "I . . ." The surprise of sudden insight entered his eyes. "It's even harder for you," he said. "You . . . must keep on living."

  Sorrel sobbed. "Yes, my son." The honeysuckle overtook them, each in its own way.

  They found Sorrel there in the nose of the ship, and moved him gently to his own room. For three days he lay there, not speaking, not eating, not moving. He was aware of people when they came to him, he heard them when they spoke, he felt them as they hooked the feeder to him, but he did not care. Deep in its own quiet his mind waited, waited for something to trigger it back to life. Sorrel didn't know what he waited for, and about that, too, he did not care.

  On the fourth day they told him the FTLcom was ready. Now they could project a three-dimensional image to Lazara and get one back in return. They told him they were about to make contact with Balcyrak.

  It was the trigger his mind awaited. He looked up at them, then rose and followed them to the FTL lab.

  Balcyrak studied him quietly, smiling gently. "Do you still hate us, Man Everwood?"

  Sorrel looked down, shook his head, "No. I have walked in your shoes."

  "Yes. It is not easy, to be a Lazarine."

  Sorrel started to speak, choked, shook his head.

  Balcyrak continued. "I want to thank you for all you have done for us. My whole race thanks you, and our civilization shall sing of you, our savior."

  Sorrel stared at Balcyrak for a moment, then realized what he meant. Balcyrak had lied earlier. There had been no question of who would win the next Lazaran/Man war, had one occurred. Sorrel had saved the beings who had killed his wife; he did not mind. "I'm glad." He felt weary. "By the way, Balcyrak, there's something I'm curious about—how old are you?"

  Balcyrak relaxed in his chair. "Nearly fourteen millennia, I would reckon, by your measure."

  Sorrel pondered that. "Just about entering middle age, for someone who lives 25,000 years."

  "Yes."

  Sorrel sighed. "It would be wonderful, to be almost immortal like you."

  Balcyrak sat up, looked sharply at him and through him, as Sorrel started to smile. Balcyrak saw the smile and chuckled. "Yes, almost immortal."

  Together they started to laugh, a rich powerful laughter that even the dark universe could not deny.

  The Bully and the Crazy Boy

  "The Bully and the Crazy Boy'' was the first story I ever sold. Before Stan Schmidt at Analog accepted this one, I had written and submitted about 50 stories, over a six year period, to a variety of editors and magazines. For anyone who has tried to sell a story and failed, I think the story of the writing of this story has an important lesson.

  In the days before "Bully," I treasured each of my story ideas as a priceless gem. Each gem, I thought, deserved its own setting, its own story. I acted as the original Scrooge, dribbling out ideas one at a time.

  Finally I noticed that, in the time it took me to write one or two stories, I easily came up with a dozen new ideas. There was no good reason to parcel out my best thoughts in such a parsimonius manner. The perspiration, not the inspiration, was the sticky point in my writing efforts.

  So with "The Bully and the Crazy Boy* I combined two of my ideas: an idea for a one-time-only military maneuver, and an idea for an alien species (indeed, an entire galaxy of alien species) who are both smarter and more technologically advanced than we are. 1 put them together in one clashing whole. Earlier, I had written long stories based around each of these ideas; "Bully" is roughly half as long as either of the originals, giving "Bully' an "idea density' about four times as great as either of the earlier pieces.

  What is science fiction about if not ideas? Give the reader what he wants. Give him lots of what he wants. And don't worry—the fount of ideas shall not run dry.

  The Bully And The Crazy Boy

  Weightless, Fleet Admiral Encrai launched himself off the wall of the C-Cubed room, arched, snapped against the far wall on his front paws, twisted, and sprang back across the room. Ordinarily the lithe power of his body would have pleased him; but n
ow he paced in fury, trying to regain his feline poise.

  Damn! Damn! How could he have expected the stupid primates to be insane? Why hadn't the psychologists warned him? Granted, they'd told him the species hadn't completed its evolution to a communal hunting animal. Granted, they'd warned him to expect strange behavior. But this! How could he predict that, after crushing the puny defenses around Uranus, the primates' orbital city would accept his ships, then blow itself up? Unbelievable! Not rational! What kind of creatures were these?

  Again Encrai questioned the wisdom of taking this solar system now; certainly it'd be more sensible to let this species ripen a bit, let them gain a measure of non-primitiveness (he hated to call it sophistication— certainly no primate could achieve that) so they'd be useful slaves.

  His pacing slowed; at last he shrugged. The High Command's decision was made, their orders given. Encrai's full F class fleet would knock off the primates quickly, before the retrenchment wars began.

  "Admiral—an enemy fleet just broke towards us from a planetoid fragment." Captain Taress spoke crisply from across the room.

  Touching the controls on his magnetic harness, Encrai curved through the air to his command station. Floating between his webcradle and his console, he looked up at the holoscreen, which covered the whole front wall of the room. Part of that wall teemed with statistics and gauges, changing endlessly as the Flagship staff and the Command/Control/Communication staff requested new data.

  But Encrai barely noticed these. His attention centered on the 3-D display of fleet dispositions. Part of that display now detached itself, to expand for detailed analysis in the tactical viewer. A dense handful of numbered ellipses, the primate fleet, approached the dispersed center of Encrai's fleet—approached Encrai's flagship itself! Unbelievable!

  Chief Assistant Mrech, a bright young strategist, glanced back at him. "Looks to me like Jirbri's in position to pick them off fastest. Shall I punch it out?"

  Encrai hissed. "No, it could be another pack of suicidal idiots. I'd better take care of them myself." Besides, he needed something fun to do; the disaster at the primate Outbase still rankled.

  As he punched out commands on his console, a handful of ships on the tactical screen broke from the Kalixi formation to swirl around the opposing clay pigeons. But the swirling was careful—no Kalixi ship approached the pigeons closely enough to be destroyed by the explosion of a primate's main thrust chamber.

  The battle was over at its beginning. A final blasting pass cooked the two biggest enemy ships; a handful of life boats scattered from them. Kalixi ships turned to mop up the lifeboats, but Encrai forbade it.

  The Chief Assistant cocked his head. "You're going to pick them up?"

  Encrai swished his tail in acknowledgment. "Only if they agree to leave the lifeboats and get picked up in spacesuits. I don't think a primate can be very dangerous with just the weapons he carries in his spacesuit, do you? And I need the information." In particular, he needed to know why the stupid creatures were so eager to blow themselves up.

  The Admiral yawned. "Have Jirbri question them. When he's done, buzz." The assistant mrowed understanding; Encrai stretched forward from his console, and floated out of the room.

  A burrstinger buzzed close to him, spinning around him, waiting for him to stop trying to track it, so it could land. His nose, his nose was the stinger s target.

  But his eyes were closed, and when he opened them he saw it was the intercom buzzing at him, and he himself was doing the spinning, tethered in the center of his room. Encrai touched his harness. "Yes?" he yawned.

  "We found something interesting when we took the prisoners, Admiral." The assistant s voice almost purred.

  "Something interesting with the primates?"

  "One of the prisoners is special." Encrai could almost see Mrech sniffing the high air.

  "Very funny, Colonel. A special primate, indeed."

  "It's true—apparently one of our guests is the creature that developed the primate defense strategy. He's an Admiral, of sorts. He seems quite eager to help us defeat him, since we pointed out how unpleasant his alternatives are."

  Encrai opened his mouth, then closed it. With a furious swish of his tail he bounded into the hall.

  Soaring gracefully back into the Command/Control/ Communications room, Encrai watched Marine guards manacle a primate to the prison chair, next to the Admiral's control station. Encrai frowned for a moment; the chair had been designed to immobilize all kinds of intelligent beings—but all kinds of intelligent beings generally meant felines, canines, and low-gravity arachnoids. The chair didn't fit on the primate very well.

  But then, these primates were weak little creatures, according to the precampaign analyses. The chair wouldn't have to fit to hold him. Encrai smiled. Besides, what could a primate do, even if he got free, amidst full-grown, full-clawed Kalixi? The Admiral turned to the psychmed accompanying the Marines. "Is this the primate," he curled his lips, "who calls himself an Admiral?"

  The psychmed swished his tail. "Yes, sir. He seems to be the originator of the primate battle plans. The other prisoners support his statements under all forms of extraction." The psychmed ruffled his fur. "Naturally, when we found out that this," he tapped the primate with his tail, "was supposed to be an Admiral, we examined his mind, such as it is, a bit more carefully. He has a number of implanted psychoblocks, presumably protecting important information."

  Encrai smiled. "No doubt he's protecting top secret technological details."

  The psychmed laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, his blocks are sophisticated enough so that he might be damaged if I try to penetrate them hastily. Whatever is inside those blocks will stay there 'til after the campaign. Unless he tells us willingly."

  Encrai raised an eyebrow. "Willingly?"

  "Yes, we gave him a drug that stimulates verbosity. He'll probably be telling you a lot more than you ask for. I'm not sure it was necessary—all these creatures like to talk, it seems—but if you don't ask a question just the right way, you'll probably get the information you want anyway. Remember, though, it still won't register on the lie-sniffer if he just answers the poorly worded question truthfully."

  "As if he had any secrets that could hurt us."

  "Indeed."

  Encrai's lips pulled back in a ferocious grin, exposing a vast collection of murderous teeth. "This is great! I've never planned a battle with the enemy Admiral giving me advice before. Such a shame it couldn't have happened in the battle with Valesh and his damned Crusairs."

  The psychmed saluted. "Maybe next time, sir." He turned to leave, then turned back again. "Oh, one last thing. Two of the primate's teeth are filled with a chemical—a stimulant of some kind, leaking slowly into his mouth. The primate said the chemical keeps him alive, so we left it. It seems harmless enough."

  "Fine. Let's hope he lives long enough to be useful."

  The psychmed pushed toward the doorway.

  Floating in his webcradle, Encrai examined the prisoner. He seemed small, even for a primate; Black hair and ashen skin seemed his dominate features. Frail was the best one-word descriptor. But the jaw was set in determination, even though the eyes stayed downcast. For a moment the primate reminded Encrai of a pouting kitten.

  The Kalixi Admiral tapped his webcradle and drifted towards the prisoner, into the gentle breeze from behind the prison chair that made it possible for the great cat to be downwind of the primate. He closed his eyes to focus on the primate's scents: the bitter organic staleness of its soft body wrapping, the sweet saltiness of its perspiration, the flavor of its most recent meal—an almost fruity flavor it was, mixed with acidic digestive juices. How strange that fruitiness was! Encrai had never met an intelligent omnivore before. Not even a semi-intelligent one.

  He tapped the pad on the translator. "I understand you're the Admiral of the primate fleet," Encrai said. The translator repeated the words in the local barbarism of a language.

  The creature just nodded its h
ead up and down.

  Encrai swished his tail. "Well, are you or are you not the Admiral of the primate fleet?"

  The primate looked at him with big eyes, then broke into laughter. "When I nod my head that means 'yes' in our language. Yes, my name is Craig Thearsporn, and I'm the Campaign Admiral for the Fleet of Interplanetary Alliance." He looked Admiral Encrai over. "Are you the Admiral for the Kalixi fleet?"

  "Who do you think is doing the questioning here?"

  The prisoner shrugged his shoulders. Gestures and expressions seemed to be important methods of communication with the creatures; Encrai decided to watch more closely. It wouldn't be difficult to infer the meanings; Encrai had a knack for such empathic intuitions.

  The Admiral touched the lock button on his harness, to prevent any drifting while he questioned the primate. "What were you doing out here?"

  The prisoner shrugged again. "The Kalixi we captured from your exploratory fleet told us that an Admiral always hangs far back, if possible. So we came to get you."

  "Did you really expect to destroy me and my flagship?"

  The primate turned his eyes down again, heaved a sob. "No, not really."

  Encrai swished his tail. "And why'd you let us take you alive?"

  The primate smiled. "For one thing, I wanted to live."

  Encrai mrowed understanding.

  The liesniffer's requirements were fulfilled, but the primate went on. "Besides, I wanted to meet you." He shook his head back and forth. "Ever since that first exploratory hunting party slaughtered every person on the first space city it found, I've known something's terribly wrong with the universe. So wrong. Why are you so vicious, so cruel, so determined to destroy and conquer? Why not come as traders, benefiting us both?"

  Encrai snorted, then laughed. He shouldn't have bothered to answer, but he was vain about his species, and proud of his vanity. "Why don't we trade? Because, primate, the Kalixi are conquerors, not traders." His claws extended, retracted, extended. "For a thousand years we were slaves, as you'll be. We were declawed. We, the Kalixi!" The claws extended one last time. "But we were patient, learning in secret, as our masters weakened and waned and were replaced by other masters." His paw raked through the air, tearing the throat from an ephemeral opponent. "And under the terrible oppression, those of us who were weak died, and those of us who were strong gained strength. Now our enemies know us in our power and glory."