by David Brin
In any event, there was nothing they could do about it. Search parties were sent out. They caught up with a party of Athaclena’s chims returning on horseback to the gorilla refuge. But by that time Prathachulthorn was no longer with them. He was high in the trees, being passed from one forest giant to another, by now conscious and fuming, but helpless and trussed up like a mummy.
It was a case of humans paying the penalty for their “liberalism.” They had brought up their clients to be individualists and citizens, so it was possible for chims to rationalize imprisoning one man for the good of all. In his own way Prathachulthorn had helped to bring this about, with his patronizing, deprecating attitudes. Nevertheless, Athaclena was certain the Marine would be delicately, carefully treated.
That evening, Robert chaired a new council of war. Athaclena’s vague status of house arrest was modified so she could attend. Fiben and the chim brevet lieutenants were present, as well as the Marine noncommissioned officers.
Neither Lydia nor Robert brought up going ahead with Prathachulthorn’s plan. It was tacitly assumed that the major wouldn’t want it put under way without him.
“Maybe he went off on a personal scouting trip, or a snap inspection of some outpost. He might return tonight or tomorrow,” Elayne Soo suggested in complete innocence.
“Maybe. We’d best assume the worst, though,” Robert said. He avoided looking at Athaclena. “Just in case, we’d better send word to the refuge. I suppose it’ll take ten days or so to get new orders from the Council, and for them to send a replacement.”
He obviously assumed that Megan Oneagle would never leave him in charge.
“Well, I want to go back to Port Helenia,” Fiben said simply. “I’m in a position to get close to the center of things. And anyway, Gailet needs me.”
“What makes you think the Gubru will take you back, after running away?” Lydia McCue asked. “Why won’t they simply shoot you?”
Fiben shrugged. “If I meet up with the wrong Gubru, that’s what they’ll probably do.”
There was a long silence. When Robert asked for other suggestions, the humans and remaining chims remained silent. At least when Prathachulthorn had been here, dominating the discourse and the mood, there had been his overbearing confidence to override their doubts. Now their situation came home to them again. They were a tiny army with only limited options. And the enemy was about to set into motion things and events they could not even understand, let alone prevent.
Athaclena waited until the atmosphere was thick with gloom. Then she said four words. “We need my father.”
To her surprise, both Robert and Lydia nodded. Even when orders finally arrived from the Council-in-Exile, those instructions would likely be as confused and contradictory as ever. It was obvious that they could use good advice, especially with matters of Galactic diplomacy at stake.
At least the McCue woman does not share Prathachulthorn’s xenophobia, Athaclena thought. She found herself forced to admit that she approved of what she kenned of the Earthling female’s aura.
“Robert told me you were sure your father was alive.” Lydia said. “That’s fine. But where is he? How can we find him?”
Athaclena leaned forward. She kept her corona still. “I know where he is.”
“You do?” Robert blinked. “But …” His voice trailed off as he reached out to touch her with his inner sense, for the first time since yesterday. Athaclena recalled how she felt then, seeing him holding Lydia’s hand. She momentarily resisted his efforts. Then, feeling foolish, she let go.
Robert sat back heavily and exhaled. He blinked several times. “Oh.” That was all he said.
Now Lydia looked back and forth, from Robert to Athaclena and back again. Briefly, she shone with something faintly like envy.
I, too, have him in a way that you cannot, Athaclena mused. But mostly, she shared the moment with Robert.
“ … N’tah’hoo, Uthacalthing,” he said in GalSeven. “We had better do something, and fast.”
77
Fiben and Sylvie
She awaited him as he led Tycho up the trail emerging out of the Valley of Caves. She sat patiently next to an overhanging fip pine, just beyond a switchback, and only spoke when he drew even. “Thought you’d just sneak out without saying goodbye, did you?” Sylvie asked. She wore a long skirt and kept her arms wrapped around her knees.
He tied the horse’s tether to a tree limb and sat down next to her. “Nah,” Fiben said. “I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky.”
She glanced at him sidelong and saw that he was grinning. Sylvie sniffed and looked back into the canyon, where the early mists were slowly evaporating into a morning that promised to be clear and cloudless. “I figured you’d be heading back.”
“I have to, Sylvie. It’s—”
She cut him off. “I know. Responsibility. You have to get back to Gailet. She needs you, Fiben.”
He nodded. Fiben didn’t have to be reminded that he still had a duty to Sylvie as well. “Um. Dr. Soo came by, while I was packing. I …”
“You filled the bottle she gave you. I know.” Sylvie bowed her head. “Thank you. I consider myself well paid.”
Fiben looked down. He felt awkward, talking around the edges of the topic like this. “When will you—”
“Tonight, I guess. I’m ready. Can’t you tell?”
Sylvie’s parka and long skirt certainly hid any outward signs. Still, she was right. Her scent was undisguised. “I sincerely hope you get what you want, Sylvie.”
She nodded again. They sat there awkwardly. Fiben tried to think of something to say. But he felt thick headed, stupid. Whatever he tried, he knew, would surely turn out all wrong.
Suddenly there was a small rustle of motion down below, where the switchbacks diverged into paths leading in several directions. A tall human form emerged around a rocky bend, jogging tirelessly. Robert Oneagle ran toward a junction in the narrow trails, carrying only his bow and a light backpack.
He glanced upward, and on spotting the two chims he slowed. Robert grinned in response as Fiben waved, but on reaching the fork he turned southward, along a little-used track. Soon he had disappeared into the wild forest.
“What’s he doing?” Sylvie asked.
“Looked like he was running.”
She slapped his shoulder. “I could see that. Where is he going?”
“He’s gonna try to make it through the passes before it snows.”
“Through the passes? But—”
“Since Major Prathachulthorn disappeared, and since time is so short, Lieutenant McCue and th’ other Marines agreed they’d go along with the alternative plan Robert and Athaclena have cooked up.”
“But he’s running south,” Sylvie said. Robert had taken the little-used trail that led deeper into the Mulun range.
Fiben nodded. “He’s going looking for somebody. He’s the only one who can do the job.” It was obvious to Sylvie from his tone that that was all he would say about the matter.
They sat there for a little while longer in silence. At least Robert’s brief passage had brought a welcome break in the tension. This is silly, Fiben thought. He liked Sylvie, a lot. They had never had much chance to talk, and this might be their last opportunity.
“You never … you never did tell me about your first baby,” he said in a rush, wondering, as the words came out, if it was any of his business to ask.
Of course it was obvious that Sylvie had given birth before, and nursed. Stretch marks were signs of attractiveness in a race a quarter of whose females never bred at all. But there is pain there as well, he knew.
“It was five years ago. I was very young.” Her voice was level, controlled. “His name was—we called him Sichi. He was tested by the Board, as usual, but he was found … ‘anomalous.’ ”
“Anomalous?”
“Yes, that was the word they used. They classified him superior in some respects … ‘odd’ in others. There were no obvious defects, but some ‘strange’
qualities, they said. A couple of the officials were concerned. The Uplift Board decided they’d have to send him to Earth for further evaluation.
“They were very nice about it.” She sniffed. “They offered me the choice of coming along.”
Fiben blinked. “You didn’t go, though.”
She glanced at him. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m terrible. That’s why I never told you before. You’d have refused our deal. You think I’m an unfit mother.”
“No, I—”
“At the time it seemed different, though. My mother was ill. We didn’t have a clan-family, and I didn’t feel I could just leave her in the care of strangers, an’ probably never see her again.
“I was only a yellow card at the time. I knew my child would get a good home on Earth or … Either he’d find favored treatment and be raised in a high-caste neo-chimp home or he’d meet a fate I didn’t want to know. I was so worried we would go all that way and they would only take him away anyway. I guess I also dreaded the shame if he was declared a Probationer.”
She stared down at her hands. “I couldn’t decide, so I tried to get advice. There was this counselor in Port Helenia, a human with the local Uplift Board. He told me what he thought th” odds were. He said he was sure I’d given birth to a Probie.
“I stayed behind when they took Sichi away. Six … six months later my mother died.”
She looked up at Fiben. “And then, three years after that, word came back from Earth. The news was that my baby was now a happy, well-adjusted little blue card, growing up in a loving blue-card family. And oh, yeah, I was to be promoted to green.”
Her hands clenched. “Oh, how I hated that damned card! They took me off compulsory yearly contracept injections, so I didn’t have to ask permission anymore if I wanted to conceive again. Trusted me to control my own fertility, like an adult.” She snorted. “Like an adult? A chimmie who abandons her own child? They ignore that, and promote me because he passes some damn tests!”
So, Fiben thought. This was the reason for her bitterness, and for her early collaboration with the Gubru. Much was explained.
“You joined Irongrip’s band out of resentment against the system? Because you hoped things might be different under the Galactics?”
“Something like that, maybe. Or maybe I was just angry.” Sylvie shrugged. “Anyway, after a while I realized something.”
“What was it?”
“I realized that, however bad the system was under humans, it could only be far worse under the Galactics. The humans are arrogant all right. But at least a lot of them feel guilty over their arrogance. They try to temper it. Their horrible history taught them to be wary of hub … hub …”
“Hubris.”
“Yeah. They know what a trap it can be, acting like gods and coming to believe it’s true.
“But the Galactics are used to this meddlesome business! It never occurs to them to have any doubts. They’re so damned smug … I hate them.”
Fiben thought about it. He had learned much during the last few months, and he figured Sylvie might be stating her case a little too strongly. Right now she sounded a lot like Major Prathachulthorn. But Fiben knew there were quite a few Galactic patron races who had reputations for kindness and decency.
Still, it was not his place to judge her bitterness.
Now he understood her nearly single-minded determination to have a child who would be at least a green card from the very start. There had to be no question. She wanted to keep her next baby, and to be sure of grandchildren.
Sitting there next to her, Fiben was uncomfortably certain of Sylvie’s present condition. Unlike human females, chimmies had set cycles of receptivity, and it took some effort to hide them. It was one reason for some of the social and family differences between the two cousin species.
He felt guilty to be aroused by her condition. A soft, poignant feeling lay over the moment, and he was determined not to spoil it by being insensitive. Fiben wished he could console her somehow. And yet, he did not know what to offer her.
He moistened his lips. “Uh. Look, Sylvie.”
She turned. “Yes, Fiben?”
“Um, I really do hope you get … I mean I hope I left enough …” His face felt warm.
She smiled. “Dr. Soo says there probably was. If not, there’s more where that came from.”
He shook his head. “Your confidence is appreciated. But I wouldn’t bet I’ll ever be back again.” He looked away, toward the west.
She took his hand. “Well, I’m not too proud to take extra insurance if it’s offered. Another donation will be accepted, if you feel up to it.”
He blinked, feeling the tempo of his pulse rise. “Uh, you mean right now?”
She nodded. “When else?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He grinned and reached for her. But she held up a hand to stop him.
“Just a minute,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think I am? Candlelight and champagne may be in short supply up here, but a fem generally appreciates at least a little foreplay.”
“Fine by me,” Fiben said. He turned around to present his back for grooming. “Do me, then I’ll do you.”
But she shook her head. “Not that kind of foreplay, Fiben. I had in mind something much more stimulating.”
She reached behind the tree and brought forth a cylindrical object made of carved wood, one end covered by a tautly stretched skin. Fiben’s eyes widened. “A drum?”
She sat with the little handmade instrument between her knees. “It’s your own damn fault, Fiben Bolger. You showed me something special, and from now on I’ll never be satisfied with anything less.”
Her deft fingers rattled off a quick rhythm.
“Dance,” she said. “Please.”
Fiben sighed. Obviously she wasn’t kidding. This choreo-maniac chimmie was crazy, of course, whatever the Uplift Board said. It seemed to be the type he fell for.
There are some ways we’ll never be like humans, he thought as he picked up a branch and shook it tentatively. He dropped it and tried another. Already he felt flushed and full of energy.
Sylvie tapped the drum, starting with a rapid, exhilarating tempo that made his breath sharpen. The shine in her eyes seemed to warm his blood.
That is as it should be. We are our own selves, he knew.
Fiben took the branch in a two-handed grip and brought it down on a nearby log, sending leaves and brush exploding in all directions. “Ook …” he said.
His second blow was harder though, and as the beat picked up his next cry came with more enthusiasm.
The morning fog had evaporated. No thunder rolled. The uncooperative universe had not even provided a single cloud in the sky. Still, Fiben figured he could probably manage this time without the lightning.
78
Galactics
In Gubru Military Enacampment Sixteen, the chaos at the top had begun affecting those lower down in the ranks. There were squabbles over allotments and supplies, and over the behavior of common soldiers, whose contempt for the support staff reached new and dangerous levels.
At afternoon prayer time, many of the Talon Soldiers put on the traditional ribbons of mourning for the Lost Progenitors and joined the priestly chaplain to croon in low unison. The less devout majority, who generally kept a respectful silence during such services, now seemed to make it a special occasion for gambling and loud commotion. Sentries preened and purposely sent loose feathers drifting in strong breezes so they would pass distractingly among the faithful.
Discordant noises could be heard during work, during maintenance, during training exercises.
The stoop-colonel in charge of the eastern encampments happened to be on an inspection tour and witnessed this disharmony in person. It wasted no time on indecision. At once the stoop-colonel ordered all personnel of Encampment Sixteen assembled. Then the officer gathered the camp’s chief administrator and the chaplain by its side upon a platform and addressed those gathere
d below.
“Let it not be said, bandied, rumored,
That Gubru soldiers have lost their vision!
Are we orphans? Lost? Abandoned?
Or members of a great clan!
What were we, are we, shall we be?
Warriors, builders, but most of all—
Proper carriers of tradition!”
For some time the stoop-colonel spoke to them so—joined in persuasive song by the camp’s administrator and its spiritual advisor—until, at last, the shamed soldiers and staff began to coo together in a rising chorus of harmony.
They made the effort, invested the time, one small united regiment of military, bureaucrats, and priests, and struggled as one to overcome their doubts.
For a brief while then, there did indeed take shape a consensus.
79
Gailet
… Even among those rare and tragic cases, wolfling species, there have existed crude versions of these techniques. While primitive, their methods also involved rituals of “combat-of-honor,” and by such means kept aggressiveness and warfare under some degree of restraint.
Take, for example, the most recent clan of wolflings—the “humans” of Sol III. Before their discovery by Galactic culture, their primitive “tribes” often used ritual to hold in check the cycles of ever-increasing violence normally to be expected from such an unguided species. (No doubt these traditions derived from warped memories of their long lost patron race.)
Among the simple but effective methods used by pre-Contact humans (see citations) were the method of counting coup for honor among the “american indians,” trial by champion among the “medieval europeans,” and deterrence by mutual assured destruction, among the “continental tribal states.”
Of course, these techniques lacked the subtlety, the delicate balance and homeostasis, of the modern rules of behavior laid out by the Institute for Civilized Warfare …
