The images on the walls flowed rapidly. Scenes of Niandians fighting and dying amid the alien beauty or stark landscapes of a dozen colony planets. The holograms had their impact, yet carried with them a faintly artificial quality. The premiers and their aides made appropriate noises of wrath as they watched. Bubble-domed habitats on a planet rich with yellow soil — blown apart, the domes crushed, the occupants killed. Explosions, tearing at a city on a rocky plain beneath a fiery sky. The view from space, with mighty ships blasting away at the enemy, sending coruscating energies hurtling across the vacuum — energies that were still mere fiction back on Earth, or at least no more than speculation in scientific textbooks.
More conflict. Long views and close-ups. Civilians and soldiers being attacked or counterattacking. The “slimy abominations” from the Green Union either rushing to overwhelm a Niandian outpost or falling back as Niand’s “brave troops” struck hard against the foe.
Something was missing: any tinge of a balanced presentation. This was blatant propaganda to point to the righteousness of the war. This is what the Green Union and the treacherous collaborators have done to us! We must have revenge! Make them pay! This is a cause worth dying for!
A cause the ordinary people could die for. There were no premiers or generals being mowed down in those scenes of carnage. Just thousands of everyday Niandian citizens.
The ones who did the paying, with their blood and tears. While the political top dogs stayed safe at home and made rabble-rousing speeches, propaganda holograms, and prated about the sacred honor of their race — which demanded yet more sacrifices from the little people.
“Where are the other worlds?” Renee whispered under the babble of the assembly, as the delegates reacted to the powerful scenes. Martil leaned toward her as she went on, “there ought to be twenty-five planets shown, if the mother world is included.”
Chayo had overheard and supplied the answer. “The conflict does not strike at all our worlds equally. And some colonies are, quite understandably, weary of this senseless war. They declined to send holographic records for the committee which prepared this display. What you are seeing is the belligerent posturing of those premiers still willing to fight on. Victory or death, they proclaim. No matter what the price may be to Niand’s people.”
Renee nodded, agreeing with his bitter summation of this three-dimensional war poster. Her Ka-Een throbbed. She sensed its disgust, or a Ka-Een version of that emotion. Plainly, those nearly omnipotent little entities didn’t think any more of this propaganda than their humanoid partners and Chayo did.
As the holograms faded, the matriarch resumed speaking. Though she couched things in political terms at first, as she continued there was a promising tilt in the direction of a truce. “We have seen the horrors wrought upon our colonies of Ther, Fiwa, and their sister worlds. And yet, we must confess that the desire of certain of our premiers puzzles us. Why do we go on? Why do we insist on further infliction of suffering? Can the cries of our people, our children, sound unheeded? Do we offer them only greater pain and greater slaughter? More privation? More criminal waste of their precious resources? Shall more thousands of our finest daughters and sons be thrown into this bottomless pit of death? Is it not time to consider …”
Renee almost expected to hear “de-escalation.” Instead, the matriarch said, as translated by the Ka-Een, “abatement.”
“The cost factor alone is increasing exponentially, Most High,” volunteered a handsome, thirtyish woman. She reeled off a long string of statistics to prove her point. Even if it had been framed in dollars and cents, it definitely wasn’t a low-side report. And the assemblywoman was no amateur. Far from it. The rest listened attentively, visibly awed by her expertise and reputation.
When the number cruncher concluded her argument, the others jumped in, carrying the ball forward loudly and with some heat. This time, there seemed to be plenty of solid, no-nonsense stuff mixed in with the propaganda.
The debate fascinated Renee, from an Earthwoman’s, outsider’s viewpoint. How Evy would have loved this! Women, wielding power freely. Not bound by any of those careful little rituals most upscale human women had to observe. No need for the Niandian females to worry about accusations that go-get — ’em aggressiveness dented their femininity. No societal judgments of “Yes, she gets the job done, but she’s abandoned her nurturing side and even her sexuality to reach the top of the ladder.” Not here! Niandian women were totally confident, and firmly in control. They’d never had to resort to tricks or cater to male colleagues’ egos. No eyelash batting or simpering in evidence at this assembly. The premiers used their brains and skills openly and didn’t hesitate to stomp each other’s toes if they had to. On Niand, there weren’t likely to be complaints that they were “trashing” or “not sticking together for the sake of the movement.” A women’s movement wasn’t necessary, thanks to Niandian evolution.
The male assembly delegates were another story, one that increasingly made Renee squirm inwardly as she observed the scene. The gathering was holding a warped mirror up to the human race. The men participating in the debate were definitely male; they raised their baritone and tenor voices and pounded fists on the chair arms and tables and generally carried on as Earthmen would have during such a discussion. But they behaved in that way only when dealing with other men. Their no-holds-barred, typically masculine aggressiveness took a sharp turn whenever the women entered the conversations — usually by cutting in without asking so much as a by your leave. And when that happened, Renee saw a painfully familiar, yet somehow skewed pattern emerge. The men clenched their fists subtly, stiffened, traded resentful, resigned glances with other men. A few of them resorted to the male equivalent of eyelash batting: flattering their women bosses shamelessly, becoming yes-men in a vividly demeaning way. They sidestepped the power-wielder’s position, trying to outflank her with sweet talk and wheedling.
To Renee, the result was repellent. As repellent as what she, Evy, and millions of other Earthwomen had often endured while participating at conferences dominated by men.
Wasn’t there any humanoid culture where people could just be people? Without all of these biologically ordered games. No devious tactics applied by either sex. No dominance or groveling subordination. Simply … balance.
A sad, knowing smile curved Martil’s mouth. He was studying her, sharing her reaction. As she met his gaze, he nodded, empathizing. Tae glanced at the two of them and shook his head, in complete agreement with their dismay. Renee’s Ka-Een throbbed, communicating the opinions of the entities. Unanimity. The six of them were outside. Not playing the game.
Umpiring.
That reminder made Renee push aside her musing on Niandian — and Earthly-cultural and sexual quirks. The Arbiters had a job to do here. These one-upmanship internal maneuverings by the premiers and their aides were mere window dressing. She couldn’t allow them to throw her off course. It was crucial for her to keep her focus on the main problem: the War.
The arguments went on and on — point, counterpoint, statistics answered with refuting statistics, and appeals to matriotism and to the Great Nurturer’s agony at her people’s suffering.
And again and again, debates about the money it took to maintain an enormous, interstellar battle fleet and thousands and thousands of troops at top, fully-supplied fettle.
“When do they get around to reciting the latest figures on their gross Federation product?” Renee grumbled softly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Martil grinning nastily, amused by her sarcasm. Then she reflected that money, after all, might be the key. Some premiers flinched when they heard the economic facts of life and death involved. The peace supporters seized on that, hammering the money element, underlining it constantly.
On and on and on. An hour slipped by, then two, perhaps three.
The “victory or death” adherents weren’t the most numerous, but they were the loudest and the toughest to sell on compromise. Their arguments sometimes threatened t
o overwhelm the Niandian leaders sitting on the fence and pull them across to the war party’s side. Now and then, Renee feared that eventually the firebrands would even exhaust the war-weary premiers and the matriarch’s hopes for peace. Would this entire effort be wasted because a handful of stubborn Niandian women refused to see reason?
“Still!” Matriarch Onedu was on her feet, her hands held out in supplication. “You speak in abstracts. I speak of our people. And our Federation is dying as a result of this slow, deadly sickness we call ‘war.’ We must put aside our petty concerns with trade, with military pride. Most especially pride! The children cry out to the Mother. They do not care anymore about territorial disputes with the Green Union. What do a scattering of barren planets along our stellar frontiers matter? Think of the children! Pity them!”
Renee’s throat thickened. Visions of those innocent victims crowding the spaceport nursery battered at her. Wounded and dying babies and kids — and wounded and dying adults.
The matriarch was right. The hell with abstracts! The premiers had to be made to feel what their lofty debate really meant. What it translated to in humanoid — and Haukiet — anguish.
Then she, too, was on her feet and speaking. Her. Not Renee-Tae. Her own words. “Honored premiers, Most High, Eminence: I, Renamos of the Sisterhood of the Nine Worlds, ask you to hear me. My companions, Martil of the Bright Suns and Tae of the Green Union, and I have come here to aid you. We have traveled a very great distance to do so. And we have been patient. But the matriarch advises you well. She holds the soul of Niand in her gentle hands, as the nurturer should. She cares for her people as a mother for her children. Creators of life, premiers, can’t you see that life itself is at stake in this discussion? And life must not be thrown away in the pursuit of chauvinistic pride. Niandian life hangs in the balance. And the lives of your enemies — and their children. In your pride, will you destroy life? See what you have done, what is even now being done, in the name of your pride.”
She reached out, and Martil and Tae were on either side of her, their fingers gripping hers. Renee tried to put her entire being into those fleshy extensions of herself. One hand clasped Martil’s bony, beringed one. The other was in Tae’s huge paw. She gathered her strength for the ordeal she knew was coming. Martil’s eyes were brighter than she could ever remember them.
Tae’s mind touched hers, skimming the surface. She had no trouble at all hearing his thoughts: “Our Ka-Eens make it possible. And they are now three. It will be much easier for Martil and me this time, since you have joined us.”
Her vision blurred. And then she was seeing as the Ka-Eens did, leaping the light-years, to Arbiter Central, once more watching those holograms that were so agonizingly, stunningly real.
All about her, in the palace assembly room, Renee heard sounds. Her gaze came back into focus for a fraction of a second, showing her the source of those noises: the premiers and their associates gasping, choking on tears of horror, writhing in their chairs. Under an emotional and intellectual assault past any Niandian’s imaginings. Missiles of fact, scoring direct hits.
A re-creation of the Arbiters’ very specialized holograms had formed in the middle of the room. They formed an irregular circle, weaving between the floating daises, everywhere at once, ensuring that not a single assembly participant could avoid seeing the three-dimensional figures and scenes.
Real. Death. War. Here in this room. Blotting out the illusionary scenery on the walls. Gripping the watchers by their brains, hearts, and guts.
Death and suffering almost beyond bearing — here in their midst. It engulfed the assembly people riding their platforms.
Niandians — dying.
The Green Union — dying.
Life, being destroyed.
And the premiers and their subordinates felt every individual death. Every wound. The torment of bereaved survivors. Of the helpless, enslaved captives. Of the soldiers, trapped in a “glorious conflict” with no way to escape.
Like that endless discussion preceding this exhibition, the extraordinary holograms seemed to go on and on. In actuality, Renee knew, time was being compressed, millions of incidents consolidated into an incredibly small glimpse of an interstellar, interspecies disaster, but the effect was interminable. The minutes necessary to accomplish that effect were rather brief.
She was in a limbo, borne on the shock wave of the holograms the Ka-Eens were feeding into the conference room. Renee had no control over the scenes. Nor did Martil or Tae. That wasn’t how the system worked. She and they had cooperated with the Ka-Eens to “summon” the realistic images. They might have dialed Arbiter Central to do so — using the Ka-Eens as living switchboards.
It was finished.
The truth, the reality had been forced home to every Niandian here, even the guards posted at the doors. Sight and sound and emotions had roared over long-existing barricades of racial hatred and obstinate pride.
The holograms vanished. Abruptly, Renee was once again back inside herself. She had ceased to be part of an unseen projector ten thousand light-years in length. Trembling and sobbing, she collapsed into Martil’s arms, felt him shuddering with the same devastating reaction. Tae embraced them both, his big arms a haven.
She had deluded herself, thinking this would be a kind of high-tech trick. It wasn’t the Arbiters’ version of futuristic magic. No simple, casual flicking of a switch to create those images, those overpowering holograms with their stunning super-whammy.
The demonstration had taken a terrible toll on the three of them. Tae was as shaken as she and Martil were, though his strength helped him bear up better during the aftermath. Renee longed to crawl away somewhere and hide, have a good long bawl, let down all the remaining reserves and cleanse her bleeding soul.
“No,” Martil said, his voice hoarse. She raised her head, snuffled, and peered at him as he went on, “Not yet. We can do that in a while, but not yet. We will have to conclude the demonstration. You will have to conclude the demonstration. With words.”
Of course. That was her job. The female member of the team had to score the clincher — sewing up these opening truce negotiations with the Niandian matriarchy.
“O-okay.” Tae caressed her hair, sending a bit of spine-stiffener her way. Renee took a deep breath and repeated, “Okay. Sorry I fell apart. It’s just that … that it’s an awfully lot stronger when those holograms aren’t a rerun.”
Chapter 13
THE Niandians were in shocked disarray. Some of them were sprawled in the throne-like chairs atop the platforms. Others, agitated and unable to stay still, had jumped down from their daises and were pacing or even running about the room. They were trying to escape from the wrenching experience the Arbiters had put them through.
Renamos wiped away her tears and examined the assembly. Onedu, Zia, the premiers and their aides, the cabinet ministers — everyone had been deeply affected. Only a very few looked as though they’d resisted the worst trauma of that storm of emotional and thought-grabbing holograms. She couldn’t understand how they’d done that; any holdouts must have hearts that were diamond hard and cold as glaciers. And even they were badly shaken, just not so severely as the rest.
She counted, assessing. A parliamentary matriarchy. Renamos had learned, by now, as much as she needed to about the way the Niandians’ political system worked. Onedu had the deciding vote, but the matriarch had to go with majority opinion if she expected to continue her rule at its most effective level. The important thing was — did the peace party have enough numbers to swing the assembly’s conclusions solidly into truce negotiations?
That was difficult to tell. The male Niandians, in particular, were tough to read. They’d learned to smother their true feelings under stress. Not all of their feelings, however, not in circumstances like these. The men plainly were stunned by what they’d just witnessed. The women were easier to assess. At least most of them were. A few struggled frantically to hide their reactions and put on a facade. Probably
they didn’t want their political opponents to seize on this opening and hit them when they were vulnerable. The assembly’s war-party members were digging in their heels, yet on a downhill slide, thanks to the impact of the holograms.
But would it be enough to produce a lasting truce? Would it convert the warmongers and push the fence sitters over to the matriarch’s side? Renamos worried about that — and about that nagging sensation lurking somewhere in her memories, too deep to grasp. Annoying. And potentially dangerous. They didn’t need any surprises at this stage of the arbitration process.
The matriarch leaned on her chair arm and wept brokenheartedly. Chayo sat with his shoulders hunched and his head down. He was racked by violent shudders. Apparently viewing the holograms hadn’t gone easy for him, either, the second time around. He hadn’t participated in their projection, as Renamos had. But he was among his own people, swept along by their collective shock and emotional feedback. Zia was rigid, standing at the edge of the dais. Her beautiful face was streaked with tears, her eyes wide with panic. She seemed to be searching the room. For what? A place where she could crawl off and hide and weep unseen? Renamos empathized with that urge, and it must be worse for someone of Zia’s status, someone rarely out of the public spotlight.
“Hon-honored col-colleagues and …” the matriarch began, then broke down, sobbing. Once more, she attempted to call the conference back to order, and failed again. “R-Renamos, you must g-give us time … we … we cannot …”
The Sisterhood Page 20
