by David Brin
Robert agreed, seriously. “I won’t, Athaclena.”
They lay in silence for a while, until Robert reached over with his good hand and touched hers. “Clennie, I … I want you to know I’m grateful. You saved my life—”
“Robert,” she sighed tiredly.
“—but it goes beyond that. When you came into my mind you showed me things about myself … things I’d never known before. That’s an important favor. You can read all about it in textbooks, if you want. Self-deception and neuroses are two particularly insidious human plagues.”
“They are not unique to humans, Robert.”
“No, I guess not. What you saw in my mind was probably nothing by pre-Contact standards. But given our history, well, even the sanest of us needs reminding from time to time.”
Athaclena had no idea what to say, so she remained silent. To have lived in Humanity’s awful dark ages must have been frightening indeed.
Robert cleared his throat. “What I’m trying to say is that I know how far you’ve gone to adapt yourself—learning human expressions, making little changes in your physiology …”
“An experiment.” She shrugged, another human mannerism. She suddenly realized that her face felt warm. Capillaries were opening in that human reaction she had thought so quaint. She was blushing!
“Yeah, an experiment. But by rights it ought to go both ways, Clennie. Tymbrimi are renowned around the Five Galaxies for their adaptability. But we humans are capable of learning a thing or two, also.”
She looked up. “What do you mean, Robert?”
“I mean that I’d like you to show me some more about Tymbrimi ways. Your customs. I want to know what your landsmen do that’s equivalent to an amazed stare, or a nod, or a grin.”
Again, there was a flicker. Athaclena’s corona reached, but the delicate, simple, ghostly glyph he had formed vanished like smoke. Perhaps he was not even aware he had crafted it.
“Um,” she said, blinking and shaking her head. “I cannot be sure, Robert. But I think perhaps you have already begun.”
Robert was stiff and feverish when they struck camp the next morning. He could only take so much anesthetic for his fractured arm and remain able to walk.
Athaclena stashed most of his gear in the notch of a gum beech tree and cut slashes in the bark to mark the site. Actually, she doubted anyone would ever be back to reclaim it. “We must get you to a physician,” she said, feeling his brow. His raised temperature clearly was not a good sign.
Robert indicated a narrow slot between the mountains to the south. “Over that way, two days march, there’s the Mendoza Freehold. Mrs. Mendoza was a nurse practitioner before she married Juan and took up farming.”
Athaclena looked uncertainly at the pass. They would have to climb nearly a thousand meters to get over it.
“Robert, are you sure this is the best route? I’m certain I have intermittently sensed sophonts emoting from much nearer, over that line of hills to the east.”
Robert leaned on his makeshift staff and began moving up the southward trail. “Come on, Clennie,” he said over his shoulder. “I know you want to meet a Garthling, but now’s hardly the time. We can go hunting for native pre-sentients after I’ve been patched up.”
Athaclena stared after him, astonished by the illogic of his remark. She caught up with him. “Robert, that was a strange thing to say! How could I think of seeking out native creatures, no matter how mysterious, until you were tended! The sophonts I have felt to the east were clearly humans and chimps, although I admit there was a strange, added element, almost like …”
“Aha!” Robert smiled, as if she had made a confession. He walked on.
Amazed, Athaclena tried to probe his feelings, but the human’s discipline and determination was incredible for a member of a wolfling race. All she could tell was that he was disturbed—and that it had something to do with her mention of sapient thoughts east of here.
Oh, to be a true telepath! Once more she wondered why the Tymbrimi Grand Council had not defied the rules of the Uplift Institute and gone ahead to develop the capability. She had sometimes envied humans the privacy they could build around their lives and resented the gossipy invasiveness of her own culture. But right now she wanted only to break in there and find out what he was hiding!
Her corona waved, and if there had been any Tymbrimi within half a mile they would have winced at her angry, pungent opinion of the way of things.
* * *
Robert was showing difficulty before they reached the crest of the first ridge, little more than an hour later. Athaclena knew by now that the glistening perspiration on his brow meant the same thing as a reddening and fluffing of a Tymbrimi’s corona—overheating.
When she overheard him counting under his breath, she knew that they would have to rest. “No.” He shook his head. His voice was ragged. “Let’s just get past this ridge and into the next valley. From there on it’s shaded all the way to the pass.” Robert kept trudging.
“There is shade enough here,” she insisted, and pulled him over to a rock jumble covered by creepers with umbrella-like leaves, all linked by the ubiquitous transfer-vines to the forest in the valley floor.
Robert sighed as she helped him sit back against a boulder in the shade. She wiped his forehead, then began unwrapping his splinted right arm. He hissed through his teeth.
A faint purpling discolored the skin near where the bone had broken. “Those are bad signs, aren’t they, Robert?”
For a moment she felt him begin to dissemble. Then he reconsidered, shaking his head. “N-no. I think there’s an infection. I’d better take some more Universal …”
He started to reach for her pack, where his aid kit was being carried, but his equilibrium failed and Athaclena had to catch him.
“Enough, Robert. You cannot walk to the Mendoza Freehold. I certainly cannot carry you, and I’ll not leave you alone for two or three days!
“You seem to have some reason to wish to avoid the people who I sensed to the east of here. But whatever it is, it cannot match the importance of saving your life!”
Robert let her pop a pair of blue pills into his mouth and sipped from the canteen she held for him. “All right, Clennie,” he sighed. “We’ll turn eastward. Only promise you’ll corona-sing for me, will you? It’s lovely, like you are, and it helps me understand you better … and now I think we’d better get started because I’m babbling. That’s one sign that a human being is deteriorating. You should know that by now.”
Athaclena’s eyes spread apart and she smiled. “I was already aware of that, Robert. Now tell me, what is the name of this place where we are going?”
“It’s called the Howletts Center. It’s just past that second set of hills, over that way.” He pointed east by southeast.
“They don’t like surprise guests,” he went on, “so we’ll want to talk loudly as we approach.”
Taking it by stages, they made it over the first ridge shortly before noon and rested in the shade by a small spring. There Robert fell into a troubled slumber.
Athaclena watched the human youth with a feeling of miserable helplessness. She found herself humming Thlufall-threela’s famous “Dirge of Inevitability.” The poignant piece for aura and voice was over four thousand years old, written during the time of sorrow when the Tymbrimi patron race, the Caltmour, were destroyed in a bloody interstellar war.
Inevitability was not a comfortable concept for her people, even less than for humans. But long ago the Tymbrimi had decided to try all things—to learn all philosophies. Resignation, too, had its place.
Not this time! she swore. Athaclena coaxed Robert into his sleeping bag and got him to swallow two more pills. She secured his arm as best she could and piled rocks alongside to keep him from rolling about.
A low palisade of brush around him would, she hoped, keep out any dangerous animals. Of course the Bururalli had cleared Garth’s forests of any large creatures, but that did not keep her from worrying.
Would an unconscious human be safe then, if she left him alone for a little while?
She placed her jack-laser within reach of his left hand and a canteen next to it. Bending down she touched his forehead with her sensitized, refashioned lips. Her corona unwound and fell about his face, caressing it with delicate strands so she could give him a parting benediction in the manner of her own folk, as well.
A deer might have run faster. A cougar might have slipped through the forest stillness more silently. But Athaclena had never heard of those creatures. And even if she had, a Tymbrimi did not fear comparisons. Their very race-name was adaptability.
Within the first kilometer automatic changes had already been set in motion. Glands rushed strength to her legs, and changes in her blood made better use of the air she breathed. Loosened connective tissue opened her nostrils wide to pass still more, while elsewhere her skin tautened to prevent her breasts from bouncing jarringly as she ran.
The slope steepened as she passed out of the second narrow valley and up a game path toward the last ridge before her goal. Her rapid footfalls on the thick loam were light and soft. Only an occasional snapping twig announced her coming, sending the forest creatures scurrying into the shadows. A chittering of little jeers followed her, both in sound and unsubtle emanations she picked up with her corona.
Their hostile calls made Athaclena want to smile, Tymbrimi style. Animals were so serious. Only a few, those nearly ready for Uplift, ever had anything resembling a sense of humor. And then, after they were adopted and began Uplift, all too often their patrons edited whimsy out of them as an “unstable trait.”
After the next kilometer Athaclena eased back a bit. She would have to pace herself, if for no other reason than she was overheating. That was dangerous for a Tymbrimi.
She reached the crest of the ridge, with its chain of ubiquitous spine-stones, and slowed in order to negotiate the maze of jutting monoliths. There, she rested briefly. Leaning against one of the tall rocky outcrops, breathing heavily, she reached out with her corona. The tendrils waved, searching.
Yes! There were humans close by! And neo-chimpanzees, too. By now she knew both patterns well.
And … she concentrated. There was something else, also. Something tantalizing.
It had to be that enigmatic being she had sensed twice before! There was that queer quality that at one moment seemed Earthly and then seemed to partake strongly of this world. And it was pre-sentient, with a dark, serious nature of its own.
If only empathy were more of a directional sense! She moved forward, tracing a way toward the source through the maze of stones.
A shadow fell upon her. Instinctively, she leaped back and crouched—hormones rushing combat strength into her hands and arms. Athaclena sucked air, fighting down the gheer reaction. She had been expecting to encounter some small, feral survivor of the Bururalli Holocaust, not anything so large!
Calm down, she told herself. The silhouette standing on the stone overhead was a large biped, clearly a cousin to Man and no native of Garth. A chimpanzee could never pose a threat to her, of course.
“H-hello!” She managed Anglic over the trembling left by the receding gheer. Silently she cursed the instinctive reactions which made Tymbrimi dangerous beings to cross but which shortened their lives and often embarrassed them in polite company.
The figure overhead stared down at her. Standing on two legs, with a belt of tools around its waist, it was hard to discern against the glare. The bright, bluish light of Garth’s sun was disconcerting. Even so, Athaclena could tell that this one was very large for a chimpanzee.
It did not react. In fact, the creature just stared down at her.
A client race as young as neo-chimpanzees could not be expected to be too bright. She made allowances, squinting up at the dark, furry figure, and enunciated slowly in Anglic.
“I have an emergency to report. There is a human being,” she emphasized, “who is injured not far from here. He needs immediate attention. You must please take me to some humans, right now.” She expected an immediate response, but the creature merely shifted its weight and continued to stare.
Athaclena was beginning to feel foolish. Could she have encountered a particularly stupid chim? Or perhaps a deviant or a sport? New client races produced a lot of variability, sometimes including dangerous throwbacks—witness what had happened to the Bururalli so recently here on Garth.
Athaclena extended her senses. Her corona reached out and then curled in surprise!
It was the pre-sentient! The superficial resemblance—the fur and long arms—had fooled her. This wasn’t a chim at all! It was the alien creature she had sensed only minutes ago!
No wonder the beast hadn’t responded. It had had no patron yet to teach it to talk! Potential quivered and throbbed. She could sense it just under the surface.
Athaclena wondered just what one said to a native pre-sophont. She looked more carefully. The creature’s dark, furry coat was fringed by the sun’s glare. Atop short, bowed legs it carried a massive body culminating in a great head with a narrow peak. In silhouette, its huge shoulders merged without any apparent neck.
Athaclena recalled Ma’chutallil’s famed story about a spacegleaner who encountered, in forests far from a colony settlement, a child who had been brought up by wild limb-runners. After catching the fierce, snarling little thing in his nets, the hunter had aura-cast a simple version of sh’cha’kuon, the mirror of the soul.
Athaclena formed the empathy glyph as well as she could remember it.
SEE IN ME—AN IMAGE OF THE VERY YOU
The creature stood up. It reared back, snorting and sniffing at the air.
She thought, at first, it was reacting to her glyph. Then a noise, not far away, broke the fleeting connection. The pre-sentient chuffed—a deep, grunting sound—then spun about and leaped away, hopping from spine-stone to spine-stone until it was gone from sight.
Athaclena hurried after, but uselessly. In moments she had lost the trail. She sighed finally and turned back to the east, where Robert had said the Earthling “Howletts Center” lay. After all, finding help had to come first.
She started picking her way through the maze of spine-stones. They tapered off as the slope descended into the next valley. That was when she passed around a tall boulder and nearly collided with the search party.
“We’re sorry we frightened you, ma’am,” the leader of the group said gruffly. His voice was somewhere between a growl and the croaking of a pond full of bug-hoppers. He bowed again. “A seisin picker came in and told us of some sort of ship crash out this way, so we sent out a couple of search parties. You haven’t seen anythin’ like a spacecraft comin’ down, have you?”
Athaclena still shivered from the Ifni-damned overreaction. She must have looked terrifying in those first few seconds, when surprise set off another furious change response. The poor creatures had been startled. Behind the leader, four more chims stared at her nervously.
“No, I haven’t,” Athaclena spoke slowly and carefully, in order not to tax the little clients. “But I do have a different sort of emergency to report. My comrade—a human being—was injured yesterday afternoon. He has a broken arm and a possible infection. I must speak to someone in authority about having him evacuated.”
The leader of the chims stood a bit above average in height, nearly a hundred and fifty centimeters tall. Like the others he wore a pair of shorts, a tool-bandoleer, and a light backpack. His grin featured an impressive array of uneven, somewhat yellowed teeth.
“I’m sufficiently in authority. My name is Benjamin, Mizz … Mizz …” His gruff voice ended in a questioning tone.
“Athaclena. My companion’s name is Robert Oneagle. He is the son of the Planetary Coordinator.”
Benjamin’s eyes widened. “I see. Well, Mizz Athac- … well ma’am … you must have heard by now that Garth’s been interdicted by a fleet of Eatee cruisers. Under th’ emergency we aren’t supposed to use aircars if we can avoid it.
Still, my crew here is equipped to handle a human with th’ sort of injuries you described. If you’ll lead us to Mr. Oneagle, we’ll see he’s taken care of.”
Athaclena’s relief was mixed with a pang as she was reminded of larger matters. She had to ask. “Have they determined who the invaders are yet? Has there been a landing?”
The chimp Benjamin was behaving professionally and his diction was good, but he could not disguise his perplexity as he looked at her, tilting his head as if trying to see her from a new angle. The others frankly stared. Clearly they had never seen a person like her before.
“Uh, I’m sorry, ma’am, but the news hasn’t been too specific. The Eatees … uh.” The chim peered at her. “Uh, pardon me, ma’am, but you aren’t human, are you?”
“Great Caltmour, no!” Athaclena bristled. “What ever gave you the …” Then she remembered all the little external alterations she had made as part of her experiment. She must look very close to human by now, especially with the sun behind her. No wonder the poor clients had been confused!
“No,” she said again, more softly. “I am no human. I am Tymbrimi.”
The chims sighed and looked quickly at one another. Benjamin bowed, arms crossed in front of him, for the first time offering the gesture of a client greeting a member of a patron-class race.
Athaclena’s people, like humans, did not believe in flaunting their dominance over their clients. Still, the gesture helped mollify her hurt feelings. When he spoke again, Benjamin’s diction was much better.
“Forgive me, ma’am. What I meant to say was that I’m not really sure who the invaders are. I wasn’t near a receiver when their manifesto was broadcast, a couple of hours ago. Somebody told me it was the Gubru, but there’s another rumor they’re Thennanin.”
Athaclena sighed. Thennanin or Gubru. Well, it could have been worse. The former were sanctimonious and narrow-minded. The latter were often vile, rigid, and cruel. But neither were as bad as the manipulative Soro, or the eerie, deadly Tandu.
