“Sounds good,” Abramowitz said. “I’m in the mood for spicy. And we need to take another look at the southern hemisphere’s concept of lunar cycles anyway. I’m thinking there’s a fundamental disconnect between how they timed their lock cycles and the schedule employed in the north.”
Soloman’s head snapped up, his large eyes locked on the cultural specialist.
“That’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“A fundamental disconnect,” the Bynar said.
“I know,” Abramowitz said patiently. “We have to figure out how to resolve it.”
“You misunderstand.” Soloman turned his padd to show his companions, then realized the screen was too small for them to see clearly. He glanced about, but there were no display panels in the tourist area with which to interface. “If I could draw…” he murmured.
Bart offered him his folio, but the Bynar waved off the fine parchment. Stooping low, he snatched up a twig and began sketching in the dust. He drew a circle, remarkably precise, about half a meter in diameter.
“Bundinal.”
The humans nodded.
Soloman drew two parallel lines a hand’s width apart, bisecting the circle.
“Northern aqueduct system,” he said, indicating the hemisphere above the double line. “Southern aqueduct system.”
Then he drew a series of short lines connecting the two parallels.
“Forty-eight aqueducts, evenly spaced around the equator,” he said. “Connecting the two networks.”
“Yes,” Abramowitz said, “one for each week of the Bundinalli calendar. The length, twelve zrht, corresponding to the number of days.”
“They should not be there.”
“But they were always there.”
“They were never there.”
“Wait a minute, Soloman,” Bart spoke up. “The foundations were there. The measurements are Bundinalli tradition to the core and their placement corresponds to Bundinalli records. The reconstruction team simply restored the superstructures destroyed in the bombardment.”
“Where are the locks?” Soloman asked. “Nowhere in the Bundinalli water systems do canals or aqueducts meet without lock gates to control the flow of water. Yet there are no locks at either end of any of these forty-eight spans.”
Bart frowned at the drawing in the dust, then up toward an aqueduct junction in the middle distance. Even at a couple of kilometers, the boxy structure of the lock mechanism was clear. And he knew, from studying hundreds of drawings and verbal accounts, that every single juncture had been constructed to exactly the same specifications.
Except the forty-eight, the calendar aqueducts that had joined north and south. Those had simply connected the two hemisphere-spanning networks with plain right angles.
The houses between where they stood and the arch of the aqueduct caught his eye. Each was laid out in perfect bilateral symmetry, with windows, gingerbread, gables, and gardens all exactly matching. Including a faux front door to balance the real.
“Symbolism,” Abramowitz said, a half second quicker than he on the uptake. “The forty-eight aqueducts weren’t real, they didn’t actually connect. The Bundinalli just needed their symmetry to keep the world in balance.”
“Would the Bundinalli actually forget to tell us something like that?” Stevens asked.
“Most Bundinalli would have assumed it was so obvious they wouldn’t have thought to mention it,” Abramowitz said. “Do you remind everyone you meet not to stick their hand in a fire?”
“But if they knew what we were doing—”
“Fabe, in all your traveling has even a single Bundinalli asked you about what we were doing beyond his or her own village?” Bart asked. “Curiosity about the big picture is not in their nature.”
“If we restore the aqueducts properly,” Soloman said, focusing on the problem at hand, “and close off both ends of the connecting spans, the two systems should attain equilibrium.”
“Immediately?”
“No, they are much too massive for that. The parameters and variables are too complex for me to evaluate without computer models.” He shrugged. “Four local years, maybe six. But once started, the process will be inevitable.”
“Fabe,” Bart said with a grin, “why don’t you give Tev a call?”
Chapter
15
A dozen Smaunif were working on small electric motors, taking them apart and checking each circuit individually. From what Pattie could see, they were finding different things wrong with each one. A broken connection, dirt or moisture inside a sealed casing, a fouled or broken gear. Little things, any one of which could be attributed to normal wear and tear or misadventure.
That all of these minor breakdowns had happened at once indicated something other than chance was responsible. Pattie could not tell from the technician’s body language if they were simply frustrated or they suspected someone was responsible for their difficulties. For her part, she took it as evidence Corsi was somewhere close at hand.
Over the last couple of days she and Solal had talked—or he had talked and she had listened—about the problem of the tree dogs. She had only to explain she was from far away and was eager to learn more about them to trigger an exhaustive and wide-ranging lecture on local fauna, religion, and responsibility.
The tree dogs, who looked very much like her red-haired neighbor but about three times the mass, had appeared shortly after the first landing. They were clever mimics who had amused the first explorers by approximating Smaunif gestures and performing various antics.
Their most annoying trait had sprung from their playfulness. Whenever a Smaunif hunter had been about to gather game, the tree dogs had run about making loud noises, frightening the animals away. They apparently thought the point of hunting was to surprise animals.
The tree dogs had gone from amusing near-pets to threat sometime just before the third wave of gliders had arrived. (From context Pattie deduced the third landing had been a few months ago and that Solal had arrived aboard one of those gliders.) It was then that the tree dogs had started imitating speech.
The imitative speech was a natural outgrowth of their mimicry, of course. There was no intelligence behind it. But it was disconcerting, particularly when they began putting individual words together in new orders. And it raised a possible problem for the colony.
Because, although those who had been around the tree dogs from the beginning understood they were simply animals, a newcomer might mistake their mimicry for intelligent speech. And if they were tricked into believing the tree dogs were intelligent, the question of whether the tree dogs were—and here the universal translator could not decide if the phrase meant self-aware, responsible for their actions, or even possessed of a soul—would arise. That would throw the entire validity of the colonization of New Smau into question. Valuable years would be lost in foolish debate over the behavior of animal mimics.
Fortunately the tree dogs were limited to the forest of huge trees not far from the landing site. There were no others in all of New Smau.
Pattie wondered how he had come by that information, particularly since he’d proudly explained earlier that the colonists here were the only Smaunif to ever visit New Smau. But that was only one inconsistency in a myriad and she had not wanted to interrupt the stream of information, no matter how skewed it was.
Sonandal, leader that he was, had decided how to avoid wasting those years that should be spent establishing the colony and developing the planet. Having heard this sort of logic before in the histories of dozens of worlds that made up the Federation, Pattie was braced for the leader’s solution. Still, it had been a shock to actually hear it.
“Sonandal will lead us to the forest,” Solal had explained, then amended: “Those of us authorized to use weapons. We will eradicate the infestation of mimicking tree dogs. Once the animals contaminated by interacting with people are removed, there will be no cause for confusion. In the future, colonists will be careful to avoi
d tree dogs to prevent similar problems.”
That had been yesterday.
Solal had left before Pattie could rebut any of the horror he’d spewed, apparently unaware of his madness. Pattie had come closer to wanting to commit violence then than she could ever remember. She’d wanted to shake him until his brain rattled, force him to see the stupidity of his racism.
Today from first light she’d been treated to the sight of disgruntled technicians repairing equipment. Evidence, she was sure, of Corsi taking a hand on behalf of the tree dogs, or whatever the indigenous people of Zhatyra II called themselves.
But she knew sabotaging equipment—while it might distract the colonists from their goal for a while—was not going to be enough. She hoped the techs would take their noon meals elsewhere and that Solal would come for their usual lunchtime discussion.
Technically the letter of the Prime Directive dictated that she do nothing. But she could not sit by and not try to help. She could not reveal who or what she was, of course. That would do far more harm than good. But she had to try and reach Solal, loyal follower that he was, and try to make him see the crime that was about to be committed.
She might do nothing more than get herself killed as another tree dog, but she had to try.
At last the technicians left. And Solal, carrying his usual lunch, came in, exchanging greetings with the others in passing.
Pattie remained silent as he retrieved her combadge from its hiding place and dragged his chair over. After three days of her refusing anything but distilled water he had stopped offering food.
“Solal,” she asked when he was comfortable. “What am I?”
Solal smiled with what Pattie recognized from years among humanoids as a condescending smile. She knew his answer before he opened his mouth.
“You are a talking animal,” he answered. “A very clever and charming one.”
“And why are you studying me?”
Gesturing with his cheese, Solal said, “Because if I can learn how and why you imitate people, we can avoid problems like we are having with the tree dogs.”
“Solal,” Pattie repeated firmly, making sure his eyes were on her, “how do I imitate people?”
“You talk,” he began—and stopped, looking down at her combadge.
“Yes, I talk,” she said. “Expressing ideas that did not come from you, speaking a language you do not understand but which is made plain to you by a technology you have never seen before.”
Solal did not look up from the combadge.
“Solal, how do I imitate people?”
The young Smaunif looked up at last and met her gaze. His eyes were full of something too confused and subtle for Pattie to read. She wished the lad had antennae so she could better judge his mood. She couldn’t tell if he was on the verge of a breakthrough or racial violence.
“Your gliders landed in a very primitive region of the world you call New Smau,” she said, making sure he tied the unknown technology in his hand to this world and no other. “The people here do not use tools as we do. They do not believe animals should be hunted for food.” That was a guess based on his description of their reaction to hunters. “But the native people you call tree dogs are not animals. They are people. They have a right to live their lives the way they want to live.”
“Like the Smaunif?” Solal asked.
“If you mean a culture on your world that chooses to live simply,” Pattie said. “Then, yes. Like the Smaunif.”
Solal’s eyes focused elsewhere. Some point of infinity between his chair and Pattie’s cage.
“Solal,” she said, trying to find the right balance between gentle and firm, “Sonandal is about to make a terrible mistake. Many innocent and harmless people will die because he does not have all the information he needs to make a responsible choice.”
At least she hoped that was true. It was quite possible the Smaunif leader knew exactly what he was doing in slaughtering the locals. But she didn’t want to confuse Solal further by raising the possibility his personal hero was evil.
“Solal, please give me my combadge and let me out of this cage. We need to help Sonandal. If we do not, he may become responsible for a tragedy. And we will carry the responsibility of not having done what we could have to prevent it.”
The Smaunif’s face suddenly contorted and Pattie started in sudden fear, fighting the reflex to ball. Solal’s body heaved, shuddering with silent sobs.
“What?” Pattie asked, belatedly recognizing grief, feeling the first stab of dread. “What is it?”
“This morning,” Solal gasped between spasms. “They left to kill the tree dogs this morning.”
Chapter
16
Corsi could not move.
The K’k’tict had not appreciated her act of sabotage the night before. Though conceding she had harmed no one, Copper—his eyes now unbandaged and clear—had condemned the hurtful intent of her actions. And the general consensus concurred. Now, aware of her violent nature and knowing she wanted to help, K’k’tict hemmed her in on every side. Held gently immobile, she could see all that was happening but could do nothing about it.
The Tznauk’t had chopped their way through the last meters of woods and underbrush under the watchful eyes of the K’k’tict. A hundred meters away, concealed among the root columns, it was impossible for Corsi to gauge what they were thinking.
What she could see, above the heads of the assembled K’k’tict, was the woodsmen clearing the last of the underbrush with a curious thoroughness, scraping the ground to create an unobstructed path a dozen meters wide. As they dragged the last of the vegetation away, back toward their base camp, a hundred or more Tznauk’t parted to let them pass.
These were different from the woodsmen. They carried crossbows, with loaded quivers over their shoulders and heavy swords at their belts. When the last of the deforesters were through, the armsmen had closed ranks and advanced, all deadly business as they approached.
Looking in from the bright sunlight, they could not clearly see what awaited them. That changed when they stepped across the shadow line.
They stopped abruptly.
A thousand K’k’tict stood in neat ranks, filling the fern-carpeted boulevard between the giant banyan trees from side to side.
Whatever the invaders had expected, this was not it. They hesitated visibly, unnerved by the sheer number of K’k’tict. Or perhaps by the calm with which the natives stood, not a weapon or closed fist among them.
The Tznauk’t in the center of the first rank, larger than most with a thick helmet of bright red hair, stepped forward into the open space between the two groups. Corsi could not read his expression, but his body language had nothing of bravado or victory about it. He seemed businesslike, weary but resolved, facing a job, not a battle.
He turned his back on the K’k’tict and addressed his own men. Nothing rousing. Flat instructions. The troops decocked their crossbows and slung them.
Corsi’s moment of hope died as they drew their swords.
The leader, sword in hand, turned again to the K’k’tict.
But before he could speak or act, a lone K’k’tict stepped forward to greet him. Even at this distance, Corsi could see the distinctive circle of bright golden hair high between her shoulders. Spot.
Hefting his sword, the Tznauk’t leader raised it over his head, then paused as Spot began to speak. Corsi could not hear her words, but could see her arms spread wide, open palms up as she addressed the invader.
“Blue to Corsi, come in, Commander!” said Corsi’s combadge.
The K’k’tict around her shifted in surprise, but did not move away.
“Go.”
“There’s an extermination force headed for the natives!”
“They’re here, Pattie.”
“I know how to stop them,” Pattie said.
The heavy sword of the Tznauk’t came down. Slashing through bone and flesh, it split the circle of bright gold in two.
Co
rsi was drowned in a sea of nutmeg and musk as loving arms surrounded her, stopping her and pulling her gently, irresistibly, to the ground.
Pattie’s voice, muffled by the earth and press of K’k’tict, barely reached her.
“It’s honor. You can challenge their leader to a duel.”
Corsi stopped struggling.
“Primitive racism,” Pattie was saying, “they think the natives are animals.” Corsi had never imagined the tinkle of Pattie’s bell-like laughter could sound bitter. “They think I’m an animal. But you’re humanoid. They’ll see you as a person.”
Sensing she was no longer trying to get up, the K’k’tict eased away from Corsi. She knew they could understand the words coming from her combadge. She wondered if they understood she was talking to someone far away or thought the golden piece of metal had come to life.
In the distance she could hear a sound, repeated, of wet rags slapping wood. Or melons being split. Around her the K’k’tict moaned as Corsi kept her eyes focused on the ground, keeping her emotions in check as she listened to her friend explain the Smaunif code of responsibility and the challenge to authority.
Corsi’s first thought was to get to Copper. But he wasn’t a leader. The K’k’tict made decisions by consensus; each of them had an equal say. She’d have to reach them all. Or maybe just enough.
She started with her guards, explaining as quickly as she could a plan that involved concepts alien to them and behavior they could not understand. Corsi felt her first hope when her guards turned away from her without comment and began addressing their own knots of K’k’tict. Her plan was helped, perhaps, by the sounds of death reaching them from the front of the crowd. It was clear that what the K’k’tict were doing was not working.
The slaughter, when she steeled herself to look at it, was continuing. A rank of K’k’tict would step forward. Some would have a chance to speak, some would not before the heavy swords of the Tznauk’t, the Smaunif, rose and fell. Then the next rank stepped forward.
Not wanting the Smaunif to see her before her challenge, Corsi crawled from group to group, explaining her plan. Some moved on to tell others. Some stood, looking straight ahead at their brothers and sisters dying beneath the invaders’ swords. Waiting their turn.
Honor Page 8
