by David Brin
It’s a mixed blessing, Fiben thought. For while it no doubt hampered Gubru scanners, the rain also made it hard to get a good grip on the slippery fence material. The mud was a curse.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Sure, if you can manage to keep that thing of yours out of my face,” Sylvie said, looking up at him. “It’s distracting, you know.”
“It’s what you told Gailet you wanted to share, honey. Besides, you’ve seen it all before, back at the Thunder Mound.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “But it didn’t look quite the same.”
“Oh, shut up and push,” Fiben growled. Together they heaved again, putting all their strength into the effort.
Give! Give way! He heard Sylvie gasp, and his own muscles threatened to cramp as the fence material creaked, budged ever so slightly, and creaked again.
This time it was Fiben who slipped, letting the springy material bounce back. Once more they collapsed together in the mud, panting.
The rain was steady now, Fiben wiped a rivulet out of his eyes and looked at the gap again. Maybe twelve centimeters. Ifni! That’s not anywhere near enough.
He could feel the captivating power of the psi globes broadcasting their gloom into his skull. The message was sapping his strength, he knew, pushing him and Sylvie toward resignation. He felt terribly heavy as he slowly stood up and leaned against the obdurate fence.
Hell, we tried. We’ll get credit for that much. Almost made it, too. If only …
“No!” he shouted suddenly. “No! I won’t let you!” He hurled himself at the gap, tried to pry his body through, wriggled and writhed against the recalcitrant opening. Lightning struck, somewhere in the dark realm just beyond, illuminating an open countryside of fields and forests and, beyond them, the beckoning foothills of the Mulun range.
Thunder pealed, setting the fence rocking. The slats squeezed Fiben between them, and he howled in agony. When they let go he fell, half-numbed with pain, to the ground near Sylvie. But he was on his feet again in an instant. Another electric ladder lit the glowering clouds. He screamed back at the sky. He beat the ground. Mud and pebbles flew up as he threw handful into the air. More thunder drove the stones back, pelting them into his face.
There was no longer any such thing as speech. No words. The part of him that knew such things reeled in shock, and in reaction other older, sturdier portions took control.
Now there was only the storm. The wind and rain. The lightning and thunder. He beat his breast, lips curled back, baring his teeth to the stinging rain. The storm sang to Fiben, reverberating in the ground and the throbbing air. He answered with a howl.
This music was no prissy, human thing. It was not poetical, like the whale dream phantoms of the dolphins. No, this was music he could feel clear down to his bones. It rocked him. It rolled him. It lifted Fiben like a rag doll and tossed him down into the mud. He came back up, spitting and hooting.
He could feel Sylvie’s gaze upon him. She was slapping the ground, watching him, wide-eyed, excited. That only made him beat his breast harder and shriek louder. He knew he was not drooping now! Throwing pebbles into the air he cried defiance to the storm, calling out for the lightning to come and get him!
Obligingly, it came. Brilliance filled space, charging it, sending his hair bristling outward, sparking. The soundless bellow blew him backward, like a giant’s hand come down to slap him straight against the wall.
Fiben screamed as he struck the slats. Before he blacked out, he distinctly smelled the aroma of burning fur.
66
Gailet
In the darkness, with the sound of rain pelting against the roof tiles, she suddenly opened her eyes. Alone, she stood up with the blanket wrapped around her and went to the window.
Outside, a storm blew across Port Helenia, announcing the full arrival of autumn. The caliginous clouds rumbled angrily, threateningly.
There was no view to the east, but Gailet let her cheek rest against the cool glass and faced that way anyway.
The room was comfortably warm. Nevertheless, she closed her eyes and shivered against a sudden chill.
67
Fiben
Eyes … eyes … eyes were everywhere. They whirled and danced, glowing in the darkness, taunting him.
An elephant appeared—crashing through the jungle, trumpeting with red irises aflame. He tried to flee but it caught him, picked him up in its trunk, and carried him off bouncing, jouncing him, cracking his ribs.
He wanted to tell the beast to go ahead and eat him already, or trample him … only to get it over with! After a while, though, he grew used to it. The pain dulled to a throbbing ache, and the journey settled into a steady rhythm.…
The first thing he realized, on awakening, was that the rain was somehow missing his face.
He lay on his back, on what felt like grass. All around him the sounds of the storm rolled on, scarcely diminished. He could feel the wet showers on his legs and torso. And yet, none of the raindrops fell onto his nose or mouth.
Fiben opened his eyes to look and see why … and, incidentally, to find out how he happened to be alive.
A silhouette blocked out the dim underglow of the clouds. A lightning stroke, not far away, briefly illuminated a face above his own. Sylvie looked down in concern, holding his head in her lap.
Fiben tried to speak. “Where …” but the word came out as a croak. Most of his voice seemed to be gone. Fiben dimly recalled an episode of screaming, howling at the sky.… That had to be why his throat hurt so.
“We’re outside,” Sylvie said, just loud enough to be heard over the rain. Fiben blinked. Outside?
Wincing, he lifted his head just enough to look around.
Against the stormy backdrop it was hard to see anything at all. But he was able to make out the dim shapes of trees and low, rolling hills. He turned to his left. The outline of Port Helenia was unmistakable, especially the curving trail of tiny lights that followed the course of the Gubru fence.
“But … but how did we get here?”
“I carried you,” she said matter-of-factly. “You weren’t in much shape for walking after you torc down that wall.”
“Tore down …?”
She nodded. There appeared to be a shining light in Sylvie’s eyes. “I thought I’d seen thunder dances before, Fiben Bolger. But that was one to beat all others on record. I swear it. If I live to ninety, and have a hundred respectful grandchildren, I don’t imagine I’ll ever be able to tell it so I’ll be believed.”
Dimly, it sort of came back to him now. He recalled the anger, the outrage over having come so close, and yet so far from freedom. It shamed him to remember giving in that way to frustration, to the animal within him.
Some white card. Fiben snorted, knowing how stupid the Suzerain of Propriety had to be to have chosen a chim like him for such a role.
“I must’ve lost my grip for a while.”
Sylvie touched his left shoulder. He winced and looked down to see a nasty burn there. Oddly, it did not seem to hurt as badly as a score of lesser aches and bruises.
“You taunted the storm, Fiben,” she said in a hushed voice. “You dared it to come down after you. And when it came … you made it do your bidding.”
Fiben closed his eyes. Oh, Goodall. Of all the silly, superstitious nonsense.
And yet, there was a part of him, deep down, that felt warmly satisfied. It was as if that portion actually believed that there had been cause and effect, that he had done exactly what Sylvie described!
Fiben shuddered. “Help me sit up, okay?”
There was a disorienting moment or two as the horizon tilted and vision swam. At last, though, when she had him seated so the world no longer wavered all around him, he gestured for her to help him stand.
“You should rest, Fiben.”
“When we reach the Mulun,” he told her. “Dawn can’t be far off. And the storm won’t last forever. Come on, I’ll lean on you.”
She took his good
arm over her shoulder, bracing him. Somehow, they managed to get him onto his feet.
“Y’know,” he said. “You’re a strong lil’ chimmie. Hmph. Carried me all the way up here, did you?”
She nodded, looking up at him with that same light. Fiben smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Pretty damn okay.”
Together they started out, limping toward the glowering dark hummocks to the east.
PART FIVE
Avengers
In ancient days, when Poseidon still reigned and the ships of man were as weak as tinder, bad luck struck a certain Thracian freighter, who foundered and broke apart under an early winter storm. All hands were lost under those savage waves, save one—the boat’s mascot—a monkey.
As the fates would have it, a dolphin appeared just as the monkey was gasping its last breath. Knowing of the great love between man and dolphin, the monkey cried out, “Save me! For the sake of my poor children in Athens!”
Quick as a streak, the dolphin offered its broad back. “Thou art very strange, small, and ugly for a man,” the dolphin said as the monkey took a desperate grip.
“As men go, I might be quite handsome,” replied the monkey, who coughed, holding on tightly as the dolphin turned towards land. “You say you are a man of Athens?” the wary sea creature asked.
“Indeed, who would claim it were he not?” the monkey proclaimed.
“Then you know Piraeus?” the suspicious dolphin inquired further.
The monkey thought quickly. “Oh, yes!” he cried. “Piraeus is my dear friend. I only spoke with him last week!”
With that the dolphin bucked angrily and flung the monkey into the sea to drown. The moral of the story, one might suppose, is that one should always get one’s story straight, when pretending to be what one is not.
M. N. PLANO
68
Galactics
The image in the holographic display flickered. That was not surprising, since it came from many parsecs away, refracted through the folded space of the Pourmin transfer point. The muddy picture wavered and occasionally lost definition.
Still, to the Suzerain of Propriety the message was coming in all too clearly.
A diverse collection of beings stood depicted before the Suzerain’s pedestal. It recognized most of the races by sight. There was a Pila, for instance—short, furry, and stubby-armed. And there was a tall, gangling Z’Tang who stood beside a spiderlike Serentin. A Bi-Gle glowered lazily, coiled next to a being the Suzerain did not immediately recognize, and which might have been a client or a decorative pet.
Also, to the Suzerain’s dismay, the delegation included a Synthian and a human.
A human!
And there was no way to complain. It was only appropriate to include a Terran among the official observers—if a qualified human were available—since this world was registered to the wolflings. But the Suzerain had felt certain that there were none employed by the Uplift Institute in this sector!
Perhaps this was one more sign that the political situation in the Five Galaxies had worsened. Word had come from the homeworld Roost Masters telling of serious setbacks out between the spiral arms. Battles had gone badly. Allies had proven unreliable. Tandu and Soro fleets dominated once profitable trade routes and now monopolized the siege of Earth.
These were trying times for the great and powerful clan of the Gooksyu-Gubru. All now depended on certain important neutralist patron-lines. Should something happen to draw one or two of them into an alliance, triumph might yet be attained for the righteous.
On the other side of the wing, it would be disastrous to see any of the neutrals turn against the Great Clan!
To influence such matters had been a major reason, back when the Suzerain of Propriety originated the idea of invading Garth in the first place. Superficially this expedition had been intended to seize hostages for use in prying secrets out of the High Command of Earth. But psychological profiles had always made success in that seem unlikely. Wolflings were obstinate creatures.
No, what had won the Roost Masters over to the priest’s proposal was the possibility that this would bring honor to the cause of the clan—to score a coup and win new alliances from wavering parties. And at first all seemed to go so well! The first Suzerain of Cost and Caution—
The priest chirped a deep note of mourning. It had not before realized what wisdom they had lost, how the old bureaucrat had tempered the rash brilliance of the younger two with deep and reliable sense.
What a consensus, unity, policy we might have had.
Now, though, in addition to the constant struggles among the still disunited Triumvirate, there was this latest bad news. A Terran would be among the official observers from the Uplift Institute. The implications were unpleasant to consider.
And that was not to be the worst of it! As the Suzerain watched in dismay, the Earthling stepped forward as spokesman! Its statement was in clear Galactic Seven.
“Greetings to the Triumvirate of the Forces of Gooksyu-Gubru, now in contested occupation of the limited-leasehold world known as Garth. I greet you in the name of Cough’Quinn*3, Grand High Examiner of the Uplift Institute. This message is being sent ahead of our vessel by the quickest available means, so that you may prepare for our arrival. Conditions in hyperspace and at transfer points indicate that causality will almost certainly allow us to attend the proposed ceremonies, and administer appropriate sapiency tests at the time and place requested by you.
“You are further informed that Galactic Uplift Institute has gone to great lengths to accommodate your unusual request—first in exercising such haste and second in acting on the basis of so little information.
“Ceremonies of Uplift are joyous occasions, especially in times of turmoil such as these. They celebrate the continuity and perpetual renewal of Galactic culture, in the name of the most revered Progenitors. Client species are the hope, the future of our civilization, and on such occasions as this we demonstrate our responsibility, our honor, and our love.
“We approach this event, then, filled with curiosity as to what wonder the clan of Gooksyu-Gubru plans to unveil before the Five Galaxies.”
The scene vanished, leaving the Suzerain to contemplate this news.
It was too late, of course, to recall the invitations and cancel the ceremony. Even the other Suzerains recognized this. The shunt must be completed, and they must prepare to receive honored guests. To do otherwise might damage the Gubru cause irrevocably.
The Suzerain danced a dance of anger and frustration. It muttered short, sharp imprecations.
Curse the devil-trickster Tymbrimi! In retrospect, the very idea of “Garthlings”—native pre-sentients that survived the Holocaust of the Bururalli—was absurd. And yet the trail of false evidence had been so startlingly plausible, so striking in its implied opportunity!
The Suzerain of Propriety had begun this expedition in a lead position. Its place in the eventual Molt had seemed assured after the untimely demise of the first Suzerain of Cost and Caution.
But all that changed when no Garthlings were found—when it became clear just how thoroughly Propriety had been tricked. Failure to find evidence of human misuse of Garth or their clients meant that the Suzerain still had not yet set foot upon the soil of this planet. That, in turn, had retarded the development of completion hormones. All of these factors were setbacks, throwing the Molt into serious doubt.
Then, insurrection among the neo-chimpanzees helped bring the military to the fore. Now the Suzerain of Beam and Talon was rapidly growing preeminent, unstoppable.
The coming Molt filled the Suzerain of Propriety with foreboding. Such events were supposed to be triumphant, transcendent, even for the losers. Moltings were times of renewal and sexual fulfillment for the race. They were also supposed to represent crystallization of policy—consensus on correct action.
This time, however, there was little or no consensus. Something was very wrong, indeed, about this molting.
The only thing all three
Suzerains were in agreement about was that the hyperspace shunt must be used for some sort of Uplift ceremony. To do otherwise would be suicidal at this point. But beyond that they parted company. Their incessant arguing had begun affecting the entire expedition. The more religious Talon Soldiers had taken to bickering with their comrades. Bureaucrats who were retired soldiers sided with their former comrades over logistical expenditures, or turned sullen when their chief overruled them. Even among the priesthood there were frequent arguments where there should already be unanimity.
The priest had just recently discovered what factionalism could do. The divisiveness had gone all the way to the point of betrayal! Why else had one of its two race-leader chimpanzees been stolen?
Now the Suzerain of Cost and Caution was insisting on a role in choosing the new male. No doubt the bureaucrat was responsible for the “escape” of the Fiben Bolger chimp in the first place! Such a promising creature it had been! By now it no doubt had been converted to vapor and ashes.
There would be no way to pin this on either of the rival Suzerains, of course.
A Kwackoo servitor approached and knelt, proffering a data cube in its beak. Given assent, it popped the record into a player unit.
The room dimmed and the Suzerain of Propriety watched a camera’s-eye view of driving rain and darkness. It shivered involuntarily, disliking the ugly, dank dinginess of a wolfling town.
The view panned over a muddy patch in a dark alley … a broken shack made of wire and wood, where Terran birds had been kept as pets … a pile of soggy clothing beside a padlocked factory … footprints leading to a churned up field of mud beside a bent and battered fence … more footprints leading off into the dim wilderness.…
The implications were apparent to the Suzerain before the investigators’ report reached its conclusion.
The male neo-chimpanzee had perceived the trap set for it! It appeared to have made good its escape!
