by David Brin
How could the commander ignore this? How could he refuse to accept the rich, blue shades spreading now at the roots of his own down? “The Molt can reverse again,” the Suzerain of Beam and Talon cried out. “It can happen if we win victory at arms!”
Only now what he proposed would not be victory, it would be slaughter.
“The Earthlings are gathering, clustering, coming together upon a single hillmount,” one of the aides reported. “They offer, display, present us with a single, simple target!”
The stoop-colonel sighed. It did not take a priest to tell what this meant. The Earthlings, realizing that there would be no fair fight, had come together to make their demise simple. Since their lives were already forfeit, there was only one possible reason.
They do it in order to protect the frail ecosystem of this world. The purpose of their lease-grant was, after all, to save Garth. In their very helplessness the stoop-colonel saw and tasted bitter defeat. They had forced the Gubru to choose flatly between power and honor.
The crimson feather had the stoop-colonel captivated, its colors doing things to its very blood. “I shall prepare my Talon Soldiers to go down and meet the Terrans,” the stoop-colonel suggested, hopefully. “We shall drop down, advance, attack in equal numbers, lightly armed, without robots.”
“No! You must not, will not, shall not! I have carefully assigned roles for all my forces. I need, require them all when we deal with the Thennanin! There shall be no wasteful squandering.
“Now, heed me! At this moment, this instant, the Earthlings below shall feel, bear, sustain my righteous vengeance!” the Suzerain of Beam and Talon cried out. “I command that the locks be removed from the weapons of mass destruction. We shall sear this valley, and the next, and the next, until all life in these mountains—”
The order was never finished. The stoop-colonel of Talon Soldiers blinked once, then dropped its saber pistol to the deck. The clatter was followed by a double thump as first the head and then the body of the former military commander tumbled as well.
The stoop-colonel shuddered. Lying there, the body clearly showed those iridescent shades of royalty. The admiral’s blood mixed with the blue princely plumage and spread across the deck to join, at last, with the single crimson feather of his queen.
The stoop-colonel told its stunned subordinates, “Inform, tell, transmit to the Suzerain of Propriety that I have placed myself under arrest, pending the outcome, result, determination of my fate.
“Refer to Their Majesties what it is that must be done.”
For a long, uncertain time—completely on inertia—the task force continued toward the hilltop where the Earthlings had gathered, waiting. Nobody spoke. On the command dais there was hardly any movement at all.
* * *
When the report arrived it was like confirmation of what they had known for some time. A pall of mourning had already settled over the Gubru administration compound. Now the former Suzerain of Propriety and the former Suzerain of Cost and Caution crooned together a sad dirge of loss.
Such great hopes, such fine prospects they had had on setting out for this place, this planet, this forlorn speck in empty space. The Roost Masters had so carefully planned the right oven, the correct crucible, and just the right ingredients—three of the best, three fine products of genetic manipulation, their very finest.
We were sent to bring home a consensus, the new queen thought. And that consensus has come.
It is ashes. We were wrong to think this was the time to strive for greatness.
Oh, many factors had brought this about. If only the first candidate of Cost and Caution had not died.… If only they had not been fooled twice by the trickster Tymbrimi and his “Garthlings.” … If only the Earthlings had not proven so wolfishly clever at capitalizing on every weakness—this last maneuver for instance, forcing Gubru soldiery to choose between dishonor and regicide.…
But there are no accidents, she knew. They could not have taken advantage if we had not shown flaws.
That was the consensus they would report to the Roost Masters. That there were weaknesses, failures, mistakes which this doomed expedition had tested and brought to light.
It would be valuable information.
Let that console me for my sterile, infertile eggs, she thought, as she comforted her sole remaining partner and lover.
To the messengers she gave one brief command.
“Convey to the stoop-colonel our pardon, our amnesty, our forgiveness. And have the task force recalled to base.”
Soon the deadly cruisers had turned about and were headed homeward, leaving the mountains and the valley to those who seemed to want them so badly.
110
Athaclena
The chims stared in amazement as Death seemed to change its mind. Lydia McCue blinked up at the retreating cruisers and shook her head. “You knew,” she said as she turned to look at Athaclena. Again she accused. “You knew!”
Athaclena smiled. Her tendrils traced faint, sad imprints in the air.
“Let us just say that I thought there was a possibility,” she said at last. “Had I been wrong, this would still have been the honorable thing to do.
“I am very glad, however, to find out that I was right.”
PART SEVEN
Wolflings
Not a whit, we defy augury; there’s a special providence
in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come;
if it be not to come, it will be now;
if it be not now, yet it will come;
the readiness is all.
Hamlet, Act V, scene ii
111
Fiben
“Goodall, how I hate ceremonies!”
The remark brought a jab in his ribs. “Quit fidgeting, Fiben. The whole world is watching!”
He sighed and made an effort to sit up straight. Fiben could not help remembering Simon Levin and the last time they had stood parade together, just a short distance from here. Some things never change, he thought. Now it was Gailet nagging him to try to look dignified.
Why did everyone who loved him also incessantly try to correct his posture? He muttered. “If they wanted clients who looked elegant, they’d have uplif—”
The words cut short in an “oof!” of exhaled breath. Gailet’s elbows were sure a lot sharper than Simon’s had been. Fiben’s nostrils flared and he chuffed irritably, but he kept quiet. So prim in her well-cut new uniform, she might be glad to be here, but had anyone asked him if he wanted a damn medal? No, of course not. Nobody ever asked him.
At last the triple-cursed Thennanin admiral finished his droning, boring homily on virtue and tradition, garnering scattered applause. Even Gailet seemed relieved as the hulking Galactic returned to his seat. Alas, so many others also seemed to want to make speeches.
The mayor of Port Helenia, back from internment on the islands, praised the doughty urban insurrectionists and proposed that his chim deputy ought to take over City Hall more often. That got him hearty applause … and probably a few more chim votes, come next election, Fiben thought cynically.
Cough*Quinn’3, the Uplift Institute Examiner, summarized the agreement recently signed by Kault on behalf of the Thennanin, and for Earthclan by the legendary Admiral Alvarez, under which the fallow species formerly called gorillas would henceforth enter upon the long adventure of sapiency. The new Galactic citizens—already widely known as “The Client Race That Chose”—would be given leasehold on the Mountains of Mulun for fifty thousand years. Now they were, in truth, “Garthlings.”
In return for technical assistance from Earth, and fallow gorilla genetic stock, the mighty clan of the Thennanin would also undertake to defend the Terran leasehold of Garth, plus five other human and Tymbrimi colony worlds. They would not interfere directly in conflicts now raging with the Soro and Tandu and other fanatic clans, but easing pressure on those fronts would allow desperately needed help to go to the homeworlds.
And the Thennanin them
selves were no longer enemies of the trickster-wolfling alliance. That fact alone was worth the power of great armadas.
We’ve done what we can, and more, Fiben thought. Until this point, it had seemed that the great majority of Galactic “moderates” would simply sit aside and let the fanatics have their way. Now there was some hope that the apparent “inevitable tide of history” that was said to doom all wolfling clans would not be seen as quite so unstoppable. Sympathy for the underdogs had grown as a result of events here on Garth.
Whether there actually were more allies to be won, more magic tricks to be pulled, Fiben couldn’t predict. But he was pretty sure the final outcome would be decided thousands of parsecs away from here. Perhaps on old mother Earth herself.
When Megan Oneagle began speaking Fiben realized it was finally time to get through the morning’s worst unpleasantness.
“… will turn out to be a total loss if we do not learn from months such as those we have just passed through. After all, what is the use of hard times if they do not make us wiser? For what did our honored dead give up their lives?”
The Planetary Coordinator coughed for a brief moment and rustled her old-fashioned paper notes.
“We shall propose modification of the probation system, which causes resentments the enemy were able to exploit. We’ll endeaver to use the new Library facilities for the benefit of all. And we certainly shall service and maintain the equipment on the Ceremonial Mound, against the day when peace returns and it can be used for its proper purpose, the celebration of status the race of Pan argonostes so richly deserves.
“And most important of all, we shall use Gubru reparations to finance resumption of our major job here on Garth, reversing the decline of this planet’s frail ecosphere, using hard-won knowledge to halt the downward spiral and return this, our adopted home, to its proper task—the task of breeding wonderful species diversity, the wellspring of all sentience.
“More of these plans will be presented for public discussion over the coming weeks.” Megan looked up from her notes and smiled. “But today we also have an added chore, the pleasurable chore of honoring those who have made us proud. Those who made it possible for us to stand here in freedom today. It is our chance to show them how grateful we are, and how very much they are loved.”
You love me? Fiben asked silently. Then let me outta here!
“Indeed,” the Coordinator went on. “For some of our chim citizens, recognition of their achievements will not finish with their lives or even with their places in history books, but shall continue in the veneration with which we hold their descendants, the future of their race.”
From his left, Sylvie leaned forward far enough to look across Fiben to Gailet on his right. The two shared a glance and a grin.
Fiben sighed. At least he had persuaded Cordwainer Appelbe to keep that damned upgrade to white card secret! Fat lot of good it would do, of course. Green- and blue-status chimmies from all over Port Helenia were after him already. And Gailet and Sylvie were hardly any help at all. Why the hell had he married them, anyway, if not for protection! Fiben sniffed at the thought. Protection, indeed! He suspected the two of them were interviewing and evaluating candidates.
Whether or not two species came from the same clan, or even the same planet, there would always be some basics that were different between them. Look at how much pre-Contact humans had varied for simply cultural reasons. Of course matters of love and reproduction among chims had to be based on their own sexual heritage, from long before Uplift.
Still, there was enough human conditioning in Fiben to make him blush when he thought of what these two were going to put him through, now that they were close friends.
How did I let myself get into such a situation?
Sylvie caught his eye and smiled sweetly. He felt Gailet’s hand slip into his.
Well, he admitted with a sigh. I guess it wasn’t all that hard.
They were reading names now, calling people up to accept their medals. But for a while Fiben felt just the three of them, sitting there together, as if the rest of the world were only an illusion. Actually, under his outward cynicism, he felt pretty good.
Robert Oneagle rose and stepped to the dais to accept his medal, looking much more comfortable in his uniform than Fiben felt. Fiben watched his human pal. I’ve got to ask him who his tailor is.
Robert had kept his beard, and the hard body won in rugged mountain living. He was no stripling any longer. In fact, he looked every inch a storybook hero.
Such nonsense. Fiben sniffed in disgust. Gotta get that boy pissed drunk real soon. Beat him arm-wrestling. Save him from believing ever thing the press writes.
Robert’s mother, on the other hand, seemed to have aged appreciably during the war. Over the last week Fiben had seen her repeatedly blink up at her tall, bronzed son, walking by with the grace of a jungle cat. She seemed proud but bewildered at the same time, as if the fairies had taken away her own child and left a changeling in its place.
It’s called growing up, Megan.
Robert saluted and turned to head back toward his seat. As he passed in front of Fiben, his left hand made a quick motion, sign talk spelling out a single word.
Beer!
Fiben started laughing but choked it back as both Sylvie and Gailet turned to look at him sharply. No matter. It was good to know Robert felt as he did. Talon Soldiers were almost preferable to this ceremonial nonsense.
Robert returned to his seat next to Lieutenant Lydia McCue, whose own new decoration shone on the breast of her glistening dress tunic. The woman Marine sat erect and attentive to the proceedings, but Fiben could see what was invisible to the dignitaries and the crowd, that the toe of her boot had already lifted the cuff of Robert’s trouser leg.
Poor Robert fought for composure. Peace, it seemed, offered its own travails. In its way, war was simpler.
Out in the crowd Fiben caught sight of a small cluster of humanoids, slender bipedal beings whose foxlike appearance was belied by fringes of gently waving tendrils just above their ears. Among the gathered Tymbrimi he easily picked out Uthacalthing and Athaclena. Both had declined every honor, every award. The people of Garth would have to wait until the two departed before erecting any memorials. That restraint, in a sense, would be their reward.
The ambassador’s daughter had erased many of the facial and bodily modifications which had made her look so nearly human. She chatted in a low voice with a young male Tym who Fiben supposed could be called handsome, in an Eatee sort of way.
One would think the two young people—Robert and his alien consort—had readjusted completely to returning to their own folk. In fact, Fiben suspected each was now far more at ease with the opposite sex than they had been before the war.
And yet …
He had seen them come together once, briefly, during one of the endless series of diplomatic receptions and conferences. Their heads had drawn quite near, and although no words were exchanged, Fiben was certain he saw or sensed something whirl lightly in the narrow space between them.
Whatever mates or lovers they would have in the future, it was clear that there was something Athaclena and Robert would always share, however much distance the Universe put between them.
Sylvie returned to her seat upon receiving her own commendation. Her dress could not quite hide the rounding of her figure. Another change Fiben would have to get used to pretty soon. He figured the Port Helenia Fire Department would probably have to hire more staff when that little kid started taking chemistry in school.
Gailet embraced Sylvie and then approached the podium herself. This time the cheers and applause were so sustained that Megan Oneagle had to motion for order.
But when Gailet spoke, it was not the rousing victory paean the crowd obviously expected. Her message, it seemed, was much more serious.
“Life is not fair,” she said. The murmuring audience went silent as Gailet looked out across the assembly and seemed to meet their eyes as individuals. �
��Anyone who says it is, or even that it ought to be, is a fool or worse. Life can be cruel. Ifni’s tricks can be capricious games of chance and probability. Or cold equations will cut you down if you make one mistake in space, or even step off the sidewalk at the wrong moment and try too quickly to match momentum with a bus.
“This is not the best of all possible worlds. For if it were, would there be illogic? Tyranny? Injustice? Even evolution, the wellspring of diversity and the heart of nature, is so very often a callous process, depending on death to bring about new life.
“No, life is not just. The Universe is not fair.
“And yet”—Gailet shook her head—“and yet, if it is not fair, at least it can be beautiful. Look around you now. There is a sermon greater than anything I can tell you. Look at this lovely, sad world that is our home. Behold Garth!”
The gathering took place upon the heights just south of the new Branch Library, in a meadow with an open view in all directions. To the west, all could see the Sea of Cilmar, its gray-blue surface colored with streaks of floating plant life and dotted with the spumelike trails of underwater creatures. Above lay the blue sky, scrubbed clean by the last storm of winter. Islands gleamed in the morning sunlight, like distant magical kingdoms.
On the north side of the meadow lay the beige tower of the Branch Library, its rayed spiral sigil embossed in sparkling stone. Freshly planted trees from two score worlds swayed gently in the breezes stroking over and around the great monolith, as timeless as its store of ancient knowledge.
To the east and south, beyond the busy waters of Aspinal Bay, lay the Valley of the Sind, already beginning to sprout with early green shoots, filling the air with the aromas of spring. And in the distance the mountains brooded, like sleeping titans ready to shrug off their brumal coats of snow.
“Our own petty lives, our species, even our clan, feel terribly important to us, but what are they next to this? This nursery of creation? This was what was worth fighting for. Protecting this”—she waved at the sea, the sky, the valley, and the mountains—“was our success.
