“Perhaps,” Atvar answered, knowing the renegade shiplord was right. “Tosev 3 changes everyone and everything it touches.”
Straha made the affirmative gesture. “We discovered that even before we made planetfall,” he said. “Now, if this were up to me, what I would do is—”
Atvar let out an angry hiss. Before he could turn that hiss into coherent speech, Kirel said, “I see there is one way in which Tosev 3 has not changed you at all, Straha: you still want to give orders, even when you are not entitled to do so.”
“Truth,” Pshing put in.
Straha ignored Pshing. He did not ignore Kirel. “You have not changed, either: you hatched out of Atvar’s eggshell right behind him.”
“And something else has not changed,” Atvar said: “We are taking up the quarrels that preoccupied us before your defection as if you had never left. It is, if you like, a tribute to the power of your personality.”
“For which I thank you.” Yes, Straha sounded smug. Atvar had been sure he would.
The fleetlord went on, “But Shiplord Kirel is correct. You do continue to seek to take command where you have no authority. It is possible”—the words tasted bad on Atvar’s tongue—“it is possible, I say, that by providing these documents to the Race you have made it unnecessary for us to punish you for defecting.”
Straha’s hissing sigh held nothing but relief. “You are stodgy, Atvar, even yet. But you do have integrity. I thought you would. I counted on it, in fact.”
“Do not waste praise too soon,” Atvar warned. “You may perhaps be allowed to live once more in lands the Race rules, to rejoin the society of your kind. But, Straha, I am going to tell you something that is not only possible but certain: you will live here as an ordinary citizen, as a civilian. If you think for an instant that your past rank will be restored to you, you are completely and utterly addled. Do you understand me?”
He watched the male who had come so close to overthrowing him, watched with the greatest and closest attention. Ever so slowly, ever so reluctantly, Straha made the affirmative gesture. But then, still full of self-importance, the ex-shiplord said, “A civilian, yes, but not, I hope, an ordinary one. When I went over to the Americans, they interrogated me most thoroughly on matters pertaining to the Race. Now that I have lived so long in the United States, do you not believe I will know things about these Big Uglies you could not learn elsewhere?”
“Well, that is undoubtedly a truth,” Atvar agreed. “We will indeed debrief you, and no doubt you will provide us with some valuable insights. Perhaps we will even use you as a consultant, should the need arise.” He gave his old rival such salve for his pride as he could before going on, “But I repeat: under no circumstances will you ever return to the chain of command.”
“Count yourself lucky that you enjoy the fleetlord’s mercy,” Kirel added. “Were his body paint on my torso, you would not be so fortunate.”
“Were the fleetlord’s body paint on your torso, Kirel, the Big Uglies would be ruling all of Tosev 3,” Straha said.
Unadulterated fury filled Kirel’s hiss. “Enough!” Atvar said loudly, and tucked on an emphatic cough. “Too much, in fact. Straha, you would do well to remember that your continued wellbeing depends on our goodwill. For example, you are known to be a ginger addict. Perhaps, in gratitude for the services you have performed, a supply of the herb will quietly be granted you. On the other fork of the tongue, perhaps it will not.”
Straha shot him a baleful glare. “Maybe I spoke too soon when I praised your integrity.”
“Maybe you did.” Atvar gestured to the guards who had accompanied the returned renegade into his office. “Take him to Security. Let his interrogation begin now. Tell the staff there that I will want him questioned by particular experts in Tosevite affairs. I do not wish to lose any possible information we might gain from him.”
“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” the more senior of the two guards said. He and his comrades led Straha away.
The door had hardly closed behind them before Kirel said, “As far as I am concerned, the Americans were welcome to him.”
“I agree,” Atvar said. “But he is here, and he has given us valuable information.” He paused for a moment. “And oh, by the Emperor and by the spirits of Emperors past, how I wish he had not!”
“Exalted Fleetlord, we have sought this information for years,” Pshing said.
“Yes, and now, having obtained it, we are going to have to act upon it, one way or another,” Atvar said. “I was not lying when I told Straha this war would be harder than the one we fought against the Reich. The American Big Uglies have a larger land mass, more industrial capacity, a larger presence in space, and, if reports are correct, more missile-carrying submarines full of explosive-metal bombs. I do not relish the prospect of fighting them.”
“Given all this, how can we possibly avoid fighting them?” Kirel asked.
“I do not know the answer to that, either,” Atvar said unhappily. “And I blame Straha for putting me in this predicament.” As long as the renegade had returned, Atvar intended to blame him for everything he could.
Ttomalss had not wanted to go down to the surface of Tosev 3 again. His visit to China had found him a prisoner of the Big Uglies. His visit to the Greater German Reich hadn’t involved him in any physical danger, but had been acutely frustrating, leaving him wondering whether the Deutsche truly were rational beings. The hopeless war they’d launched against the Race had shown him he’d had good reason to wonder, too.
But, when the fleetlord of the conquest fleet personally commanded him to report to the Race’s administrative center in Cairo, what choice had he? None whatever, and he knew it. And, he had to admit, the prospect of talking about the Big Uglies with a returned expatriate was intriguing.
Traveling from the shuttlecraft port to Shepheard’s Hotel—for some reason, the Tosevite name had stuck—was almost enough to give him a panic attack. Cairo reminded him too much of Peking, where he’d been kidnapped, in its astonishing crowding and equally astonishing medley of stinks. Oh, the Big Uglies here wore different kinds of wrappings and spoke a different language—the bits of Chinese he remembered did him no good at all—but those, he thought, were incidentals. The essences of the two places struck him as being all too similar.
When he got his first look at the administrative center, he exclaimed, “This was once a place where Big Uglies came for pleasure? I know Tosevites are addled, but the notion strikes me as improbable even so.”
With a laugh, the male who was driving him replied, “We have somewhat improved the defensive perimeter, superior sir.”
“Somewhat, yes,” Ttomalss replied with what he thought of as commendable understatement. “I note a double wall, machine-gun emplacements, and rocket emplacements. I am sure there are also many other things I do not note.”
“That would be an accurate assumption, yes, superior sir,” the driver said as the first armored gate opened for his vehicle.
When the second gate closed behind it, Ttomalss said, “I must admit, I feel a good deal more secure now. This may be an illusion—I know such things often are on Tosev 3—but the feeling is not to be despised anyhow.”
The chamber to which he was assigned had plainly been built with Big Uglies in mind. Its proportions—especially the high ceiling—and the plumbing fixtures proclaimed as much. But the sleeping mat, the furniture, the computer in its little alcove, and the heating system that made sure Tosevite chill did not creep into the room made it tolerable, perhaps even better than tolerable.
As soon as Ttomalss had stowed his effects (which didn’t take long; he wasn’t a Tosevite, to have to worry about endless suitcases full of wrappings), he telephoned Straha. The computer in the ex-shiplord’s chamber said he was out and could not be immediately reached, which annoyed Ttomalss till he realized he couldn’t be the only member of the Race questioning Straha. He recorded a message and settled down at the computer to find out what had happened in space and around To
sev 3 while he was traveling down from the starship and making his way through Cairo.
None of the news channels mentioned Straha’s return to the eggshell of the Race or the inflammatory information that had made the return possible. That struck Ttomalss as wise; things would only be worse if a public clamor made coming to a wise decision more difficult. The lead story was consolidation of the Race’s informal control over the subregion called France. Ttomalss heartily approved of that. Informal control did not seem to raise the Big Uglies’ ire, and had a good chance of leading to formal control some time in the future.
Ttomalss was still getting the details of the story about France when the computer’s telephone attachment hissed. “I greet you,” he said.
“And I greet you, Senior Researcher.” The male a screen window showed was wearing the body paint of a shuttlecraft pilot, not a shiplord.
That presented Ttomalss with a problem. After giving his own name, he asked, “How shall I address you?”
“Superior Nuisance seems to fit,” Straha answered, and Ttomalss’ mouth fell open in startled laughter. The renegade went on, “The Big Ugly named Sam Yeager respects your work, Senior Researcher, for whatever that may be worth to you.”
“Praise from one who does good work himself is praise indeed,” Ttomalss said. “I have met Sam Yeager only briefly, but I know his hatchling, Jonathan Yeager, a good deal better. He shows considerable promise. And I am familiar with the older Tosevite’s work. He is perceptive.”
“He is more than perceptive. There are times when I wonder if he somehow had the spirit of a male of the Race hatched by mistake into a Big Ugly’s body,” Straha said. “When I was in exile, he was the best friend I had, regardless of species.”
“I see.” Ttomalss wondered what that said about Straha and about the expatriates from the Race in the United States.
“Do you?” Straha said. “I doubt it. Did anyone tell you that I did what I did not for the sake of the Race but for the sake of Sam Yeager, to try to save him from the difficulties into which he seems to have fallen with officials of the government of his own not-empire?”
“Yes, I was informed of that,” Ttomalss said. “It does not particularly surprise me. Ties of kinship are stronger among the Big Uglies than they are among us. Ties of friendship are stronger among us than among them. This bespeaks our higher degree of civilization: an individual chooses his friends, but has no control over who his kinsfolk are. Still, a friendship across species lines is somewhat out of the ordinary.”
“Sam Yeager is no ordinary Big Ugly, as you have already admitted,” Straha said. “I hope he is safe and unharmed; the Tosevites play political games more violently than we do.” The renegade paused. “The other thing I will note, Senior Researcher, is that I am no ordinary male of the Race.”
“You could not have made yourself so difficult if you were,” Ttomalss replied.
“Truth.” Straha used an emphatic cough. Fortunately, he took the comment as praise rather than the reverse. “And I am proud to note that I have proved as difficult for the Tosevites as I have for the Race.” He waggled one eye turret at Ttomalss. “And now, I have no doubt, you will want to put me under the microscope, the way all these other snoops have done.”
“It is my duty.” But Ttomalss wondered how much Straha cared about duty. He had abandoned first the Race and then the American Big Uglies when expedience seemed to dictate such a course. That sort of untrammeled individualism was more typical of Tosevites than of his kind.
“Well, go ahead, then.” Straha suddenly sounded amiable—so amiable, it made Ttomalss suspicious.
But he had the invitation, and would do his best to make the most of it. “Very well. How is it that you put the Tosevite Yeager’s welfare above that of any male of the Race?”
“Why should I not?” When Straha returned a question for a question, Ttomalss’ certainty that he was in for a difficult time hardened. But then the ex-shiplord condescended to explain: “I have become more intimately acquainted with him than with any male of the Race on Tosev 3. I like him better, too. He is both intelligent and reliable. And he obtained the information I sent on to Atvar at considerable risk to himself. I do not even know if he is presently living. If he is not, I am more certain the spirits of Emperors past will cherish his spirit than those of a good many males of the Race I could name.”
That was a more detailed answer than Ttomalss had expected. Straha showed a good deal of hostility toward the Race, but a defector could hardly be expected to show anything else. Ttomalss tried a related question: “Do you believe Yeager’s virtues, as you describe them, reflect him as an individual or the not-empire from which he comes?”
“Now that is an interesting question,” Straha said. “One can tell you are a true psychological researcher and not one of those males from Security, whose vision is so narrowly focused, they might as well have no eye turrets at all.”
“I thank you,” Ttomalss said, his voice dry. “Now, instead of praising the question, would you be so kind as to answer it?”
Straha laughed. “If I happen to feel like it,” he said. “Do you enjoy this chance to be rude to a male whose proper rank is so much higher than your own?”
That was a well-aimed claw. Ttomalss had to look inside himself before replying, “Yes, perhaps I do.” After a heartbeat’s pause, he added, “And you still have not answered the question.”
“Since you show a certain basic honesty, perhaps I will.” Straha still sounded amused. “I fear the answer will be more ambiguous than you might prefer, however.”
“Life is full of ambiguities,” Ttomalss said.
“Well, well. My congratulations,” Straha told him. “You are not a hatch-ling any more. You have become an adult.”
More than half mockingly, Ttomalss bent into the posture of respect. “Once more, I thank you,” he said. “And, once more, you have not answered.”
He wondered if Straha would keep on playing word games with him, but the ex-shiplord just said, “Oh, very well. Part of it is Yeager as Yeager, and part is Yeager as an American. That not-empire stresses individualism to a degree the Race finds incomprehensible. Good Big Uglies can be very fine indeed under that system, and Yeager is. Bad Big Uglies have full scope for their evil, inept ones for their incompetence. There are many great successes in the United States, and as many dreadful failures.”
“Yes, I have heard something of this,” Ttomalss said. “In my view, it is freedom turned to license.”
“I think the same thing,” Straha said. “Do you know that, not long after the ships of the colonization fleet were attacked, I told an American reporter I believed his not-empire had made the assault? He was fully prepared to print the story in a leading periodical until I explained I was merely yanking his tailstump.”
“The government of the United States would never have permitted such a story to appear,” Ttomalss said.
“So I thought as well, Senior Researcher, but he assured me I was wrong. Other American Big Uglies have told me the same thing,” Straha said. “The Americans insist that an altogether untrammeled flow of information produces the most rapid progress—their preferred word for change. If progress is seen as desirable, one would be hard pressed to disagree with them.”
“Amazing,” Ttomalss said. Even he was unsure whether he meant the American Tosevites’ preposterous lack of concern for security or their astonishing pace of technological change.
“There is, I trust you will agree, a certain irony to my present situation,” Straha said.
“Oh, indeed,” Ttomalss replied. “But then, your situation in the United States was full of irony almost from the beginning, was it not? Most of what has changed lately is the scope of things.”
“I like the way you put that: the scope of things,” Straha said. “Before, the Big Uglies used me without much trusting me because I had betrayed the Race. Now the Race will use me without much trusting me because I am betraying the Americans. This leaves me no
where to go, no one to turn to.”
Ttomalss had wondered if Straha fully understood his own situation. Hearing that, the psychological researcher decided he had one less thing to worry about.
Because of whom she knew, Kassquit found herself sitting on several secrets that, when they hatched from their eggs, might go up like explosive-metal bombs. The first electronic message from Jonathan Yeager asking for the Race’s help in locating his father had come some days before.
I shall do what I can, she’d written back. I do not know how much that will be.
She had liked Sam Yeager well enough in their couple of meetings, and rather better than well enough in their electronic correspondence. But her feelings for Jonathan Yeager were the main factor in her seeking to help his father.
She had telephoned Reffet’s office first of all. Because she’d discovered that Sam Yeager, wild Tosevite, was roaming the Race’s electronic network, she thought she might get prompt attention from the fleetlord. And, in fact, she did; he returned her call quite quickly. When she explained what she wanted and why, he said, “As a matter of fact, that matter is already under investigation. No decision has yet been made as to whether to raise it with the relevant Tosevite authorities.”
“I . . . see,” Kassquit said, not seeing at all. “There is some concern for this Big Ugly’s safety.”
“I understand that,” Reffet said. “There is concern for more than the safety of this one Big Ugly, I assure you.”
That was all he would say. Kassquit tried calling Fleetlord Atvar, but his adjutant would not forward her call. She reported the curious and not altogether satisfactory conversations to Jonathan Yeager.
And then, almost without warning, Ttomalss departed for the surface of Tosev 3. “I must aid in the interrogation of a returned defector, a shiplord who has spent almost all of his time on Tosev 3 in the not-empire of the United States,” he said.
“The infamous Straha?” Kassquit asked, and Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. Kassquit’s mind leaped. “Does his arrival have anything to do with the disappearance of the Big Ugly called Sam Yeager?”
Aftershocks Page 27
