“So you had your snoopers staring at us even then?” he rasped.
“Not snoopers. We are the snoopers. This is now.”
“It can’t be! That was almost forty years ago!”
“Keep your voice down, or she’ll hear you.”
“How can she hear me? She’s been dead for . . .”
“This is now, I tell you! Fanny Mae?”
“In person of Furuneo, concept of now contains relative connectives,” the Caleban said. “Nowness of scene true.”
Furuneo shook his head from side to side.
“We can pluck her from that yacht and take both of you to a place the Bureau will never find,” Abnethe said. “What do you think of that, Furuneo?”
Furuneo wiped tears from his cheeks. He was aware of the sea’s ozone smell, the pungency of the flambok blossom. It had to be a recording, though. Had to be.
“If it’s now, why hasn’t she seen us?” he asked.
“At my direction Fanny Mae masks us from her sight. Sound, however, will carry. Keep your voice down.”
“You’re lying!” he hissed.
As though at a signal, the young woman rolled over, stood up, and admired the flambok. She began humming a song familiar to Furuneo.
“I think you know I’m not lying,” Abnethe said. “This is our secret, Furuneo. This is our discovery about the Calebans.”
“But . . . how can . . .”
“Given the proper connectives, whatever they are, even the past is open to us. Only Fanny Mae of all the Calebans remains to link us with this past. No Taprisiot, no Bureau, nothing can reach us there. We can go there and free ourselves forever.”
“This is a trick!” he said.
“You can see it isn’t. Smell that flower, the sea.”
“But why . . . what do you want?”
“Your assistance in a small matter, Furuneo.”
“How?”
“We fear someone will stumble on our secret before we’re ready. If, however, someone the Bureau trusts is here to watch and report—giving a false report . . .”
“What false report?”
“That there’ve been no more floggings, that Fanny Mae is happy, that . . .”
“Why should I do that?”
“When Fanny Mae reaches her . . . ultimate discontinuity, we can be far away and safe—you with your beloved. Correct, Fanny Mae?”
“Truthful essence in statement,” the Caleban said.
Furuneo stared through the jumpdoor. Mada! She was right there. She had stopped humming and was coating her body with a skin-protective. If the Caleban moved the door a little closer, he knew he’d be able to reach out and touch his beloved.
Pain in Furuneo’s chest made him aware of a constriction there. The past!
“Am . . . I down there somewhere?” he asked.
“Yes,” Abnethe said.
“And I’ll come back to the yacht?”
“If that’s what you did originally.”
“What would I find, though?”
“Your bride gone, disappeared.”
“But . . .”
“It would be thought that some creature of the sea or the jungle killed her. Perhaps she went swimming and . . .”
“She lived thirty-one years after that,” he whispered.
“And you can have those thirty-one years all over again,” Abnethe said.
“I . . . I wouldn’t be the same. She’d . . .”
“She’d know you.”
Would she really? he wondered. Perhaps—yes. Yes, she’d know him. She might even come to understand the need behind such a decision. But he saw quite clearly that she’d never forgive him. Not Mada.
“With proper care she might not have to die in thirty-one years,” Abnethe said.
Furuneo nodded, but it was a gesture only for himself.
She wouldn’t forgive him any more than the young man returning to an empty yacht could forgive him. And that young man had not died.
I couldn’t forgive myself, he thought. The young man I was would never forgive me all those lovely lost years.
“If you’re worried,” Abnethe said, “about changing the universe or the course of history or any such nonsense, forget it. That’s not how it works, Fanny Mae tells me. You change a single, isolated situation, no more. The new situation goes off about its business, and everything else remains pretty much the same.”
“I see.”
“Do you agree to our bargain?” Abnethe asked.
“What?”
“Shall I have Fanny Mae pick her up for you?”
“Why bother?” he asked. “I can’t agree to such a thing.”
“You’re joking!”
He turned, stared up at her, saw that she had a small jumpdoor open almost directly over his head. Only her eyes, nose, and mouth could be seen through the opening.
“I am not joking.”
Part of her hand became visible as she lifted it, pointed toward the other door. “Look down there at what you’re rejecting. Look, I say! Can you honestly tell me you don’t want that back?”
He turned.
Mada had gone back to the hammock, snuggled facedown against a pillow. Furuneo recalled that he’d found her like that when he’d returned from the seadome.
“You’re not offering me anything,” he said.
“But I am! It’s true, everything I’ve told you!”
“You’re a fool,” he said, “if you can’t see the difference between what Mada and I had and what you offer. I pity . . .”
Something fiercely compressive gripped his throat, choked off his words. Furuneo’s hands groped in empty air as he was lifted up . . . up . . . He felt his head go through jumpdoor resistance. His neck was precisely within the boundary juncture when the door was closed. His body fell back into the Beachball.
Body jargon and hormone squirts, these begin to get at communication.
—Culture Lag, an unpublished work
by Jorj X. McKie
“You fool, Mliss!” Cheo raged. “You utter, complete, senseless fool! If I hadn’t come back when I . . .”
“You killed him!” she rasped, backing away from the bloody head on the floor of her sitting room. “You . . . you killed him! And just when I’d almost . . .”
“When you’d almost ruined everything,” Cheo snarled, thrusting his scarred face close to her. “What do you humans use for brains?”
“But he’d . . .”
“He was ready to call his helpers and tell them everything you’d blurted to him!”
“I won’t have you talking to me this way!”
“When it’s my neck you’re putting on the block, I’ll talk to you any way I want.”
“You made him suffer!” she accused.
“He didn’t feel a thing from what I did. You’re the one who made him suffer.”
“How can you say that?” She backed away from the Pan Spechi face with its frighteningly oversized humanoid features.
“You bleat about being unable to stand suffering,” he growled, “but you love it. You cause it all around you! You knew Furuneo wouldn’t accept your stupid offer, but you taunted him with it, with what he’d lost. You don’t call that suffering?”
“See here, Cheo, if you . . .”
“He suffered right up to the instant I put a stop to it,” the Pan Spechi said. “And you know it!”
“Stop it!” she screamed. “I didn’t! He wasn’t!”
“He was and you knew it, every instant of it, you knew it.”
She rushed at him, beat her fists against his chest. “You’re lying! You’re lying! You’re lying!”
He grabbed her wrists, forced her to her knees. She lowered her head. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Lies, lies, lies,” she muttered.
In a softer, more reasonable tone, he said: “Mliss, hear me. We’ve no way to know how much longer the Caleban can last. Be sensible. We’ve a limited number of fixed periods when we can use the S’eye, and we have to make the most
of them. You’ve wasted one of those periods. We can’t afford such blunders, Mliss.”
She kept her gaze down, refused to look at him.
“You know I don’t like to be severe with you, Mliss,” he said, “but my way is best—as you’ve said yourself many times. We’ve our own ego-integrity to preserve.”
She nodded without looking at him.
“Let’s join the others now,” he said. “Plouty has devised an amusing new game.”
“One thing,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Let’s save McKie. He’d be an interesting addition to . . .”
“No.”
“What harm could it do? He might even be useful. It isn’t as though he’d have his precious Bureau or anything to enforce his . . .”
“No! Besides, it’s probably too late. I’ve already sent the Palenki with . . . well, you understand.”
He released her wrists.
Abnethe got to her feet, nostrils flaring. She looked up at him then, eyes peering through her lashes, her head tilted forward. Suddenly her right foot lashed out, caught Cheo with a hard heel in the left shin.
He danced back, nursed the bruise with one hand. Despite the pain, he was amused. “You see?” he said. “You do like suffering.”
She was all over him then, kissing him, apologizing. They never did get down to Plouty’s new game.
You can say things which cannot be done. This is elementary. The trick is to keep attention focused on what is said and not on what can be done.
—BuSab Manual
As Furuneo’s life monitor ignited at his death, Taprisiots scanned the Beachball area. They found only the Caleban and four enforcers in hovering guard ships. Reasoning about actions, motives, or guilt did not come within the Taprisiot scope. They merely reported the death, its location, and the sentients available to their scanners.
The four enforcers came in for several days of rough questioning as a result. The Caleban was a different matter. A full BuSab management conference was required before they could decide what action to take about the Caleban. Furuneo’s death had come under extremely mysterious circumstances—no head, unintelligible responses from the Caleban.
As Tuluk entered the conference room on a summons that had roused him from sleep, Siker was flailing the table. He was using his middle fighting tendril for the gesture, quite un-Laclac in emotional intensity.
“We don’t act without calling McKie!” Siker said. “This is too delicate!”
Tuluk took his position at the table, leaned into the Wreave support provided for his species, spoke mildly: “Haven’t you contacted McKie yet? Furuneo was supposed to have ordered the Caleban . . .”
That was as far as he got. Explanations and data came at him from several of the others.
Presently Tuluk said, “Where’s Furuneo’s body?”
“Enforcers are bringing it to the lab now.”
“Have the police been brought in?”
“Of course.”
“Anything on the missing head?”
“No sign of it.”
“Has to be the result of a jumpdoor,” Tuluk said. “Will the police take over?”
“We’re not going to allow that. One of our own.”
Tuluk nodded. “I’m with Siker, then. We don’t move without consulting McKie. This case was handed to him when we didn’t know its extent. He’s still in charge.”
“Should we reconsider that decision?” someone down the table asked.
Tuluk shook his head. “Bad form,” he said. “First things first. Furuneo’s dead, and he was supposed to have ordered McKie’s return some time ago.”
Bildoon, the Pan Spechi chief of the Bureau, had watched this exchange with attentive silence. He had been ego holder of his pentarchal life group for seventeen years—a reasonably average time in his species. Although the thought revolted him in a way other species could never really understand, he knew he’d have to give up the ego to the youngest member of his crèche circle soon. The ego exchange would come sooner than it might have without the strains of command. Terrible price to pay in the service of sentience, he thought.
The humanoid appearance which his kind had genetically shaped and adopted had a tendency to beguile other humanoids into forgetting the essentially alien character of the Pan Spechi. The time would come, though, when they would be unable to avoid that awareness in Bildoon’s case. His friends in the ConSentiency would see the crèche-change at its beginning—the glazing of the eyes, the rictus of the mouth. . . .
Best not think about that, he warned himself. He needed all his abilities right now.
He felt he no longer lived in his ego-self, and this was a sensation of exquisite torture for a Pan Spechi. But the black negation of all sentient life that threatened his universe demanded the sacrifice of personal fears. The Caleban must not be allowed to die. Until he had assured himself of the Caleban’s survival, he must cling to any rope which life offered him, endure any terror, refuse to mourn for the almost-death-of-self that lurked in Pan Spechi nightmares. A greater death pressed upon them all.
Siker, he saw, was staring at him with an unspoken question.
Bildoon spoke three words: “Get a Taprisiot.”
Someone near the door hurried to obey.
“Who was most recently in contact with McKie?” Bildoon asked.
“I believe I was,” Tuluk said.
“It’ll be easier for you, then,” Bildoon said. “Make it short.”
Tuluk wrinkled his facial slit in agreement.
A Taprisiot was led in, was helped up onto the table. It complained that they were being much too rough with its speech needles, that the embedment was imperfect, that they hadn’t given it sufficient time to prepare its energies.
Only after Bildoon invoked the emergency clause of the Bureau’s special contract would it agree to act. It positioned itself in front of Tuluk then, said, “Date, time, and place.”
Tuluk gave the local coordinates.
“Close face,” the Taprisiot ordered.
Tuluk obeyed.
“Think of contact,” the Taprisiot squeaked.
Tuluk thought of McKie.
Time passed without contact. Tuluk opened his face, stared out.
“Close face!” the Taprisiot ordered.
Tuluk obeyed.
Bildoon said, “Is something wrong?”
“Hold silence,” the Taprisiot said. “Disturb embedment.” Its speech needles rustled. “Putcha, putcha,” it said. “Call go when Caleban permit.”
“Contact through a Caleban?” Bildoon ventured.
“Otherwise not available,” the Taprisiot said. “McKie isolated in connectives of another being.”
“I don’t care how you get him, just get him!” Bildoon ordered.
Abruptly, Tuluk jerked as the sniggertrance marked pineal ignition.
“McKie?” he said. “Tuluk here.”
The words, uttered through the mumbling of the sniggertrance, were barely audible to the others around the table.
Speaking as calmly as he could, McKie said, “McKie will not be here in about thirty seconds unless you call Furuneo and have him order that Caleban to get me out of here.”
“What’s wrong?” Tuluk asked.
“I’m staked out, and a Palenki is on its way to kill me. I can see it against the firelight. It’s carrying what appears to be an ax. It’s going to chop me up. You know how they . . .”
“I can’t call Furuneo. He’s . . .”
“Then call the Caleban!”
“You know you can’t call a Caleban!”
“Do it, you oaf!”
Because McKie had ordered it, suspecting that he might know such a call would be made, Tuluk broke the contact, sent a demand at the Taprisiot. It was against reason: All the data said Taprisiots couldn’t link sentients and Calebans.
To the observers in the conference room, the more obvious mumbling and chuckling of the sniggertrance faded, made a brief return,
disappeared. Bildoon almost barked a question at Tuluk, hesitated. The Wreave’s tubular body remained so . . . still.
“I wonder why the Tappy said he had to call through a Caleban,” Siker whispered.
Bildoon shook his head.
A Chither near Tuluk said, “You know, I could swear he ordered the Taprisiot to call the Caleban.”
“Nonsense,” Siker said.
“I don’t understand it,” the Chither said. “How could McKie go somewhere and not know where he is?”
“Is Tuluk out of the sniggertrance or isn’t he?” Siker asked, his voice fearful. “He acts like nobody’s there.”
Every sentient around the table froze into silence. They all knew what Siker meant. Had the Wreave been trapped in the call? Was Tuluk gone, taken into that strange limbo from which the personality never returned?
“NOW!” someone roared.
The assembled sentients jerked back from the conference table as McKie came tumbling out of nowhere in a shower of dust and dirt. He landed flat on his back on the table directly in front of Bildoon, who lifted half out of his chair. McKie’s wrists were bloody, his eyes glazed, red hair tangled in a wild mop.
“Now,” McKie whispered. He turned onto his side, saw Bildoon, and as though it explained everything, added, “The ax was descending.”
“What ax?” Bildoon demanded, sliding back into his chair.
“The one the Palenki was aiming at my head.”
“The . . . WHAT?”
McKie sat up, massaged his torn wrists where the bindings had held him. Presently he shifted his ministrations to his ankles. He looked like a Gowachin frog deity.
“McKie, explain what’s going on here,” Bildoon ordered.
“I . . . ahh, well, the nick of time was almost a fatal nick too late,” McKie said. “What made Furuneo wait so long? He was told six hours, no more. Wasn’t he?” McKie looked at Tuluk, who remained silent, stiff as a length of gray pipe against the Wreave support.
“Furuneo’s dead,” Bildoon said.
“Ahhh, damn,” McKie said softly. “How?”
Bildoon made the explanation brief, then asked, “Where’ve you been? What’s this about a Palenki with an ax?”
McKie, still sitting on the table, gave a neatly abbreviated chronological report. It sounded as though he were talking about a third person. He wound it up with a flat statement; “I have no idea at all where I was.”
Whipping Star Page 9
