The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  Suddenly the Crutchtan’s head snapped up, as if stirring himself from lethargy; Zatar suddenly remembered that their allies also buried their dead, but continued undaunted.

  “And they and have a rather mystical attachment to the bodies of their loved ones. I’m afraid it will be hard for them to adopt a more practical approach to the needs of science.

  “Now, does anyone else— ”

  The Crutchtan learned forward, toward the rest of the group. The light from the fire illuminated one side of his face, giving a reddish glow to his leathery brown skin. The slits of his pupils, which had contracted to almost nothing while he was deep in thought, now dilated to full circles, and on either side of his neck his gill slits, vestiges of an earlier stage of evolution, flushed with the green of churning Crutchtan blood.

  “You have been curious as children,” he said, in the hissing, image-rich tones of his native language. “You have been wondering why we of the g’Khruushtani so quickly reject the ideas of the longnoses; why we do not jump with child-like glee at the prospect of agreement with the strange ones from the West; why thoughts of peace with these newcomers....”

  Zatar sighed wearily. Crutchtans kept their own counsel longer than he found comfortable, but when they finally did speak they tended to ramble a bit, and often took a while to come to the point.

  “…and why we approach the ten-fingered simians with the caution of songbirds, and not the boldness of raptors.”

  The Veshnans leaned forward, listening intently. Although only Munshi could speak the Crutchtan language—and with difficulty at that—all but G’ela could understand it.

  “Friends of the g’Khruushtani, this is the reason.” Still seated on the floor, the Crutchtan seemed to rise until he towered above the smaller Veshnans nearby. But he had merely straightened his back, as Crutchtans often did before beginning a lecture, or one of their epic ballads. He placed his hands together in his lap. The lights in the room flickered briefly, as the dust storm raging outside toyed with the city’s power system. The Crutchtan continued without a sideward glance, as if the fury of the Terran weather were of trifling significance compared to imparting understanding to his friends, now that he knew his own mind.

  “When the Sheregal roamed only the hills of home, the g’Khruushtani were like the children of Spring. We knew but of hope and gladness, with the ocean of dreams nourishing our spirit as the river of life nourished our fields.

  “But the Sheregal would not remain in the hills, though game was plentiful and flavorful fruits abundant. Their wandering spirit watched birds soar beyond the horizon, and they heard the call of distant hills and fertile valleys. So they left their own river behind them, and trailed a river of death flowing thick with blood, following the setting sun to the land of our fathers.

  “And I tell you, friends of the g’Khruushtani, and I tell you Truth: the Sheregal were not done until the sea itself flowed with the blood of innocents, and the heavens cried with the screams of murdered children.”

  “But surely,” said Munshi, in her finest Crutchtan, “the Terrans are of a different world. And as wise a race as the g’Khruushtani cannot let prejudice cloud their eyes. The resemblance is strong, that I will grant. When the longnose males let the fur pour from their bodies, a Terran mother could not pick the Sheregal from among her own offspring without difficulty. But the enemies of our friends were savages, without the spark of humanity. And the last Sheregal vanished into the jungles of time in the long-ago past. The Terrans are not the same, and the g’Khruushtani cannot treat them the same. They seek peace, not war, and they worry over children of their own.”

  The Crutchtan leaned forward and gazed intently at Munshi, then at each member of the party in turn until his eyes came to rest upon Zatar. His eyes bulged wildly, and his head nodded slowly, in the Crutchtan manner of showing amusement.

  “My friends mistake parable for prejudice,” he said at last, “for we know that the longnoses are not the enemies of legend. But they are simians nonetheless, with the same driving curiosity and burning passions. Perhaps in time we can live as neighbors, sharing friendship as friends share food. But even now the Terrans cannot keep their word—for as we speak, Terran ships continue straying beyond the Great Divide.”

  “Though against the wishes of their government,” Zatar interjected, speaking in his own tongue.

  G’Rishela bowed in the Veshnan manner. “And what does this tell us, Zatar? That any agreement we reach will bind their leaders, but not their people? And where will this lead us? If we accept their proposal, my grandchildren will live to see the Terrans scattering throughout g’Khruushte, pounding at our doors and demanding more, ever more. If they pass the Divide today with our blessing, they will be with us forever. And they will never leave of their own accord.”

  Zatar turned his eyes to the fire. Silently, he watched the flames dance playfully along the heat-resistant plastic that the Terrans had fashioned to look like a piece of a dead tree. He searched his mind for a response to the Crutchtan but the words wouldn’t come. None could tell whether G’Rishela was right or wrong, and Zatar could not bring himself to disagree.

  Chapter 8

  On Lexington Boulevard, across from the Senate Commons, a gracefully-aging two-story building rose on the edge of downtown Covington’s Old Center area. Bright flowers sprouting in large, white boxes beneath the upper windows lent a splash of color to its gray exterior. On the cornerstone, barely legible from the passage of time, the Old English lettering fashionable in the era of its birth was still decipherable: “O.E. 2397,” it read; “Burstein & Cohen Building.” For the past thirty years, the structure had been home to Ricardo’s, the most exclusive and expensive restaurant in the city. It was the eating place of presidents and admirals, businessmen and diplomats, hosting leaders from every corner of Terra. The exquisite menu was prepared by Roberto, the finest chef in all of Central Terra. All came to see and be seen by their peers, and to enjoy the personal attention of Ricardo himself, who took it as a personal duty to make everyone welcome. Welcome, at least, in direct proportion to the guest’s influence in Covington society.

  For his trouble, Ricardo was one of the wealthiest, most influential men in Covington. He knew most of Terra’s moves and shakers by their first name. All of them appreciated the aging restaurateur’s discretion, as well as the many services available to the powerful that were not apparent from the stately exterior or gracefully decorated dining rooms.

  The ubiquitous host and owner was usually the very model of unctuous charm, laughing urbanely at the jokes of the mighty and overseeing the smooth functioning of his staff with a discreetly iron hand. Today, he was near panic. Alarm paled his dark features, and gone was the fierce, patronizing tone with which he disciplined his staff. In its place was the echo of a small, bewildered mind, terrified at the prospect of encountering something it could not control.

  “It can’t be him. He always calls first, to make sure we have everything ready by the time he arrives. You must be mistaken—yes, yes, you must be mistaken.”

  “No mistake, Boss,” said the manager. He led Ricardo to the window overlooking the park, where the poor man almost fainted from disbelief.

  “No,” Ricardo said haltingly, as if altering reality were as simple as denying his senses. He could feel his stomach rising as he spoke. “He wouldn’t just come. He never comes for breakfast—he likes Frederick’s deserts—he likes the—specialties—we prepare when he comes to dine. And he’s never—come without giving us time—to prepare something special. Something truly memorable. Something— ”

  “Well, whether he would or not, he’s here.”

  “But his box is occupied! And he’s coming up the steps!” exclaimed Ricardo. The office quickly erupted in an undirected flurry of activity.

  “Quickly now—hurry! Tell Frederick to drop whatever he’s doing. And tell Pierre to move the couple from Booth Twenty-six.”

  “But— ”

  “Never mind
. Tell them anything—tell them their meal will be on the house. But we need their booth and we need it right away.”

  “But— ”

  “Hurry!”

  “Sally, you light a hundred hearts and spark a thousand smiles just by blinking your eyes.” The rich baritone voice made the young woman blush, as the speaker’s blue eyes twinkled coldly. The woman cast her eyes down toward the plush, velvet carpeting. Her reply was almost drowned by the background murmur of the patrons. Even at eight o’clock in the morning, Ricardo’s was filled to capacity.

  “Oh, Senator,” she giggled, her face flushing until her skin almost matched her blouse. She blushed easily; it was one of the reasons the Senate’s most powerful committee chairman always flirted with her—that and the fact that she was the prettiest of Ricardo’s waitresses.

  Like his father and brothers, E. Emerson Hollenbach was a big man. In most gatherings he towered a full head above the rest of the crowd. He wore his massive bulk like a mantle of command, with the easy assurance of one with no self-doubts. Over the years he’d learned to take full advantage of the psychological edge his physical size gave him. In politics as in life strength prevailed over weakness, and Hollenbach learned early in his career that there were ways of intimidation subtler than brute force. Force was too messy, too easy to trace to be much use in modern politics; even worse, it often gave its victims an incentive to fight back. If Old Earth history taught anything, he often reflected, it was that resentments caused by overt force took forever to fade, and were rarely worth the trouble. And Hollenbach, like most Earthers, was an expert in the field of resentment. It wasn’t so much the overt snobbery that offended him. It was the condescension toward the “unfortunates” that stiffened his back, and gave him such pleasure in displaying every ounce of power at his command. His delight in psychological dominance gave him an edge in the primitive power struggles that Covington’s stately corridors concealed from public view. Ironically, he found among the chief pleasures of being one of the Senate’s most powerful politicians was the chance to watch sycophants like Ricardo squirm whenever he did something unexpected.

  “Senator Hollenbach,” gushed Ricardo, emerging from behind the wooden door to his office and wearing his warmest smile. “How good of you to join us this morning. My, but you look hungry! Might I suggest an appetizer of Eggs Ricardo in white wine sauce while we prepare something more memorable? Or one of Roberto’s omelets, perhaps? Or maybe you would like....”

  Hollenbach smirked as Ricardo fawned over him. In all the years he’d patronized the restaurant, what amused him most was Ricardo’s desperate longing to be noticed. The man hungered for respect, and Hollenbach half-suspected that his host would kill for the chance to be part of something important. Now, the senator himself would be using Ricardo’s to accomplish the most daring coup in Terran history, and its owner—who loved intrigue more than a miser loved money—would never even know.

  “I’d like my usual stall, Ricardo. The one overlooking the river. Have Sally bring me some coffee, and I’ll leave breakfast to your discretion.”

  “Yes, Senator Hollenbach. At once, Senator Hollenbach.”

  Ricardo clapped his hands, sending a half-dozen employees scurrying in a dozen different directions. He tried not to notice the man and woman being escorted from Number Twenty-six by one of the waiters, an uncomfortable-looking man with a thin moustache who smiled sympathetically at the outraged sputterings of the displaced couple.

  “Oh,” Hollenbach added, almost as an afterthought. “I’m expecting some friends to join me. One I expect shortly, the other may be detained. Please show them to my table directly.”

  “Of course, Senator Hollenbach. And may I say....”

  * * *

  North of Covington, near a bend in the Mendenhall River, was a large parabolic dish carved into bare rock. Through a collection of communications satellites in orbit over the planet, the device linked New Babylon to the rest of Terra, and served as Terra’s window into the capital. Through a planet-wide network of relay stations, radio towers and cable links, every bit of news that enterprising journalists from Ishtar to Isis could uncover found its way into the mammoth computers buried deep inside the rock. From there, it was beamed skyward for instant dissemination to the planets and colonies that comprised the Terran League. But with the Senate in Winter recess, the Crutchtan border quiet, and nothing but continuing prosperity on the economic front, there was little news to liven a cold January day in the Earth Year 2551. Aside from routine government announcements about trade balances and space traffic, and the typical human interest filler that dominated the subspace channels from time to time, the only item of note was the monthly brunch hosted by the Greater Terran Media Society in the Old Center area of downtown Covington. There, the banquet room of the Broadcaster’s Club was filled to capacity and buzzing with excitement. Duncan Heathcoate, Demeter’s senior senator, was about to address the gathering.

  Unlike most of his Senate colleagues, Heathcoate enjoyed press banquets. He frequently spoke at these monthly gatherings, though he’d never before accepted an invitation that conflicted with a vacation. Gregarious and good-natured, as handsome at age seventy as he was controversial, the Society found his oratorical skills useful in preserving the importance of their brunch on Covington’s social circuit. Relaxed and calmer than in days past, he was still given to the occasional reprise of his youthful tirades about the threat posed by alien powers to the east. He had, in recent years, also taken upon himself the role of elder statesman for the Tory movement, becoming as committed to promoting the traditional Tory concepts of free trade and planetary sovereignty as he was to venting his customary outrage over the inadequacy of Terran security. And though some saw in him the same fool they’d always seen, others heard his pronouncements as the words of a sage entering the twilight of a distinguished career.

  As the chairman of the Greater Terran Media Society finished his introduction, a smiling Duncan Heathcoate, his silver hair neatly in place, rose and walked to the dais, nodding his head and acknowledging the applause.

  “Mr. McSweeny, members of the Press, fellow guests,” Heathcoate said at last, in the velvet voice that knew no equal. “I remember the first time I addressed this group, as a wet-behind-the-ears freshman Senator some time ago. It was summer—one of those hot days Covington gets from time to time where the sun seems to bake the air itself. Everyone had left for the beach and I had to address a room where the busboys and waiters outnumbered the guests in much the same ratio as the press outnumbers the senators during our all-night debates at the end of each session. It was then I learned that the press values a good vacation almost as much as a good story, and I’ve been putting that lesson into practice myself ever since.”

  The audience laughed and applauded; Heathcoate smiled good-naturedly and continued.

  “If you will excuse the pun, the burning issues back then were fear and security—that is, Terra’s security against possible invasion by forces we could not understand, and whose intentions and capabilities we could not know with any degree of certainty; the fear felt by men and women everywhere for the future of their children in a Universe filled with the unknown; and the fear felt by all of us that contact with alien races and alien cultures would change us in ways we cannot predict, and from which we may never return.

  “Well, aside from the weather, not much has changed in thirty-seven years....”

  * * *

  “That wasn’t the agreement!”

  “Those are the terms.”

  “I’m warning you, Emerson....”

  “Three committee chairmanships, and my personal control over all CosGuard procurements, now and in the future. That is our final word on the subject. Take it or leave it.”

  Nicholas Schiller was furious. He’d come to this meeting in good faith, expecting to resolve a few loose ends. Now he found a whole new list of demands, including a crucial one rejected long ago. Placing anything as sensitive as military p
rocurement in the hands of a cutthroat like Emerson Hollenbach was simply out of the question. Schiller’s people all agreed on that—but that was a long time ago, before the lure of possibilities began to tug at them, and they realized what it would mean to hold the reins of power again. It had, after all, been twenty years since the Tories last occupied the Executive Mansion. They’d forgotten how intoxicating power could be, and how desperate they were to taste it again.

  His eyes darted to Hollenbach’s silent companion, only to see a bland smile and no sympathy at all. Then Schiller stared into Hollenbach’s unforgiving face to find wry amusement. Earth’s senior senator had a reputation for ruthlessness; Schiller had known that from the start. The corridors of power were littered with the ruined careers of those who stood in Hollenbach’s way. And through all of it, Hollenbach kept increasing his influence, rewarding his friends and tormenting his adversaries, accumulating so much power and so many debts that nothing could be done in the Senate without his cooperation—or his passive complicity. When the first feelers went out, and Tory operatives relayed the word that Hollenbach was sympathetic, Schiller hadn’t believed it, not for an instant. He even tried to warn them: Hollenbach would never make common cause with political enemies he’d fought all his life. There had to be something in it for Emerson Hollenbach. Now, he knew what it was; but now, it was too late to do anything about it.

  Still, Schiller thought, Hollenbach was also the Senate’s best head-counter. If Hollenbach said it was possible—and was willing to stake his political life on the outcome—then that was as sure a thing as anyone could ask for in interplanetary politics. They had no choice, he concluded bitterly; they had to go along.