by David Brin
He fixed his collar though, and tried to straighten his posture. Form was nearly everything to these Galactics, and Fiben knew that even a lowly neo-chimp had to play his part, or the clan of Earth might lose face.
On either side of Coordinator Oneagle stood the other dignitaries who had come to see Swoio Shochuhun off. To Megan’s left was Kault, the hulking Thennanin envoy, leathery and resplendent in his brilliant cape and towering ridge crest. The breathing slits in his throat opened and closed like louvered blinds each time the big-jawed creature inhaled.
To Megan’s right stood a much more humanoid figure, slender and long-limbed, who slouched slightly, almost in-souciantly in the afternoon sunshine.
Uthacalthing’s amused by something. Fiben could tell. So what else is new?
Of course Ambassador Uthacalthing thought everything was funny. In his posture, in the gently waving silvery tendrils that floated above his small ears, and in the glint in his golden, wide-cast eyes, the pale Tymbrimi envoy seemed to say what could not be spoken aloud — something just short of insulting to the departing Synthian diplomat.
Swoio Shochuhun sleeked back her whiskers before stepping forward to say farewell to each of her colleagues in turn. Watching her make ornate formal paw motions in front of Kault, Fiben was struck by how much she resembled a large, rotund raccoon, dressed up like some ancient, oriental courtier.
Kault, the huge Thennanin, puffed up his crest as he bowed in response. The two uneven-sized Galactics exchanged pleasantries in fluting, highly inflected Galactic Six. Fiben knew that there was little love to be lost between them.
“Well, you can’t choose your friends, can you?” Simon whispered.
“Damn right,” Fiben agreed.
It was ironic. The furry, canny Synthians were among Earth’s few “allies” in the political and military’quagmire of the Five Galaxies. But they were also fantastically self-centered and famous cowards. Swoio’s departure as much as guaranteed there would be no armadas of fat, furry warriors coming to Garth’s aid in her hour of need.
Just like there won’t be any help from Earth, nor Tymbrim, them having enough problems of their own right now.
Fiben understood GalSix well enough to follow some of what the big Thennanin said to Swoio. Kault apparently did not think much of ambassadors who skip out on their posts.
Give the Thennanin that much, Fiben thought. Kault’s folk might be fanatics. Certainly they were listed among Earth’s present official enemies. Nevertheless, they were known everywhere for their courage and severe sense of honor.
No, you can’t always choose your friends, or your enemies.
Swoio stepped over to face Megan Oneagle. The Synthian’s bow was marginally shallower than the one she had given Kault. After all, humans ranked pretty low among the patron races of the galaxy.
And you know what that makes you, Fiben reminded himself.
Megan bowed in return. “I am sorry to see you go,” she told Swoio in thickly accented GalSix. “Please pass on to your people our gratitude for their good wishes.”
“Right,” Fiben muttered. “Tell all th’ other raccoons thanks a whole bunch.” He wore a blank expression, though, when Colonel Maiven, the human commander of the Honor Guard, looked sharply his way.
Swoio’s reply was filled with platitudes.
Be patient, she urged. The Five Galaxies are in turmoil right now. The fanatics among the great powers are causing so much trouble because they think the Millennium, the end of a great era, is at hand. They are the first to act.
Meanwhile, the moderates and the Galactic Institutes must move slower, more judiciously. But act they would, she assured. In due time. Little Garth would not be forgotten.
Sure, Fiben thought sarcastically. Why, help might be no more’n a century or two away!
The other chims in the Honor Guard glanced at one other and rolled their eyes in disgust. The human officers were more reserved, but Fiben saw that one was rotating his tongue firmly in his cheek.
Swoio stopped at last before the senior member of the diplomatic corps, Uthacalthing Man-Friend, the consul-ambassador from the Tymbrimi.
The tall E.T. wore a loose black robe that offset his pale skin. Uthacalthing’s mouth was small, and the unearthly separation between his shadowed eyes seemed very wide. Nevertheless, the humanoid impression was quite strong. It always seemed to Fiben as if the representative of Earth’s greatest ally was always on the verge of laughing at some joke, great or small. Uthacalthing — with his narrow scalp-ruff of soft, brown fur bordered by waving, delicate tendrils — with his long, delicate hands and ready humor — was the solitary being on this mesa who seemed untouched by the tension of the day. The Tymbrimi’s ironic smile affected Fiben, momentarily lifting his spirits.
Finally! Fiben sighed in relief. Swoio appeared to be finished at last. She turned and strode up the ramp toward her waiting launch. With a sharp command Colonel Maiven brought the Guard to attention. Fiben started mentally counting the number of steps to shade and a cool drink.
But it was too soon to relax. Fiben wasn’t the only one to groan low as the Synthian turned at the top of the ramp to address the onlookers one more time.
Just what occurred then — and in exactly what order — would perplex Fiben for a long time afterward. But it appeared that, just as the first fluting tones of GalSix left Swoio’s mouth, something bizarre happened across the landing field. Fiben felt a scratchiness at the back of his eyeballs and glanced to the left, just in time to see a lambency shimmer around one of the scoutboats. Then the tiny craft seemed to explode.
He’did not recall diving to the tarmac, but that’s where he found himself next, trying to burrow into the tough, rubbery surface. What is it? An enemy attack so soon?
He heard Simon snort violently. Then a chorus of sneezes followed. Blinking away dust, Fiben peered and saw that the little scoutcraft still existed. It hadn’t blown up, after all!
But its fields were out of control. They coruscated in a deafening, blinding display of light and sound. Shield-suited engineers scurried to shut down the boat’s malfunctioning probability generator, but not before the noisome display had run everyone nearby through all the senses they had, from touch and taste all the way to smell and psi.
“Whooee!” the chimmie to Fiben’s left whistled, holding her nose uselessly. “Who set off a stinkbomb!”
In a flash Fiben knew, with uncanny certainty, that she had called it right. He rolled over quickly, in time to see the Synthian Ambassador, her nose wrinkled in disgust and whiskers curled in shame, scamper into her ship, abandoning all dignity. The hatch clanged shut.
Someone found the right switch at last and cut off the horrible overload, leaving only a fierce aftertaste and a ringing in his ears. The members of the Honor Guard stood up, dusting themselves and muttering irritably. Some humans and chims still quivered, blinking and yawning vigorously. Only the stolid, oblivious Thennanin Ambassador seemed unaffected. In fact, Kault appeared perplexed over this unusual Earthling behavior.
A stinkbomb. Fiben nodded. I was somebody’s idea of a practical joke.
And I think I know whose.
Fiben looked closely at Uthacalthing. He stared at the being who had been named Man-Friend and recalled how the slender Tymbrimi had smiled as Swoio, the pompous little Synthian, launched into her final speech. Yes, Fiben would be willing to swear on a copy of Darwin that at that very moment, just before the scoutboat malfunctioned, Uthacalthing’s crown of silvery tendrils had lifted and the ambassador had smiled as if in delicious anticipation.
Fiben shook his head. For all of their renowned psychic senses, no Tymbrimi could have caused such an accident by sheer force of will.
Not unless it had been arranged in advance, that is.
The Synthian launch rose upward on a blast of air and skimmed out across the field to a safe distance. Then, in a high whine of gravities, the glittering craft swept upward to meet the clouds.
At Colonel Maiven’
s command, the Honor Guard snapped to attention one last time. The Planetary Coordinator and her two remaining envoys passed in review.
It might have been his imagination, but Fiben felt sure that for an instant Uthacalthing slowed right in front of him. Fiben was certain one of those wide, silver-rimmed eyes looked directly at him.
And the other one winked.
Fiben sighed. Very funny, he thought, hoping the Tymbrimi emissary would pick up the sarcasm in his mind. We all may be smokin dead meat in a week’s time, and you’re making with practical jokes.
Very funny,. Uthacalthing.
2
Athaclena
Tendrils wafted alongside her head, ungentle in their agitation. Athaclena let her frustration and anger fizz like static electricity at the tips of the silvery strands. Their ends waved as if of their own accord, like slender fingers, shaping her almost palpable resentment into something…
Nearby, one of the humans awaiting an audience with the Planetary Coordinator sniffed the air and looked around, puzzled. He moved away from Athaclena, without quite knowing why he felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. He was probably a natural, if primitive, empath. Some men and women were able vaguely to kenn Tymbrimi empathy-glyphs, though few ever had the training to interpret anything more than vague emotions.
Someone else also noticed what Athaclena was doing. Across the pubh’c room, standing amid a small crowd of humans, her father lifted his head suddenly. His own corona of tendrils remained smooth and undisturbed, but Uthacalthing cocked his head and turned slightly to regard her, his expression both quizzical and slightly amused.
It might have been similar if a human parent had caught his daughter in the act of kicking the sofa, or muttering to herself sullenly. The frustration at the core was very nearly the same, except that Athaclena expressed it through her Tymbrimi aura rather than an outward tantrum. At her lather’s glance she hurriedly drew back her waving tendrils and wiped away the ugly sense-glyph she had been Grafting overhead.
That did not erase her resentment, however. In this crowd of Earthlings it was hard to forget. Caricatures, was Athaclena’s contemptuous thought, knowing full well it was both unkind and unfair. Of course Earthlings couldn’t help being what they were — one of the strangest tribes to come upon the Galactic scene in aeons. But that did not mean she had to like them!
It might have helped if they were more alien… less like hulking, narrow-eyed, awkward versions of Tymbrimi. Wildly varied in color and hairiness, eerily off in their body proportions, and so often dour and moody, they frequently left Athaclena feeling depressed after too long a time spent in their company.
Another thought unbecoming the daughter of a diplomat. She chided herself and tried to redirect her mind. i After all, the humans could not be blamed for radiating their fear right now, with a war they hadn’t chosen about to fall crushingly upon them.
She watched her father laugh at something said by one of the Earthling officers and wondered how he did it. How he bore it so well.
I’ll never learn that easy, confident manner.
I’ll never be able to make him proud of me.
Athaclena wished Uthacalthing would finish up with these Terrans so she could speak to him alone. In a few minutes Robert Oneagle would arrive to pick her up, and she wanted to have one more try at persuading her father not to send her away with the young human.
I can be useful. I know I can! I don’t have to be coddled off into the mountains for safety, like some child!
Quickly she clamped down before another glyph-of-resentment could form above her head. She needed distraction, something to keep her mind occupied while she waited. Restraining her emotions, Athaclena stepped quietly toward two human officers standing nearby, heads lowered in earnest conversation. They were speaking Anglic, the most commonly used Earth-tongue.
“Look,” the first one said. “All we really know is that one of Earth’s survey ships stumbled onto something weird and totally unexpected, out in one of those ancient star clusters on the galactic fringe.”
“But what was it?” the other militiaman asked. “What did they find? You’re in alien studies, Alice. Don’t you have any idea what those poor dolphins uncovered that could stir up such a ruckus?”
The female Earthman shrugged. “Search me. But it didn’t take anything more than the hints in the Streaker’s first beamed report to set the most fanatic clans in the Five Galaxies fighting each other at a level that hasn’t been seen in megayears. The latest dispatches say some of the skirmishes have gotten pretty damn rough. You saw how scared that Synthian looked a week ago, before she decided to pull out.”
The other man nodded gloomily. Neither human spoke for a long moment. Their tension was a thing which arched the space between them. Athaclena kenned it as a simple but dark glyph of uncertain dread.
“It’s something big,” the first officer said at last, in a low voice. “This may really be it.”
Athaclena moved away when she sensed the humans begin to take notice of her. Since arriving here in Garth she had been altering her normal body form, changing her figure and features to resemble more closely those of a human girl. Nevertheless, there were limits to what such manipulations could accomplish, even using Tymbrimi body-imagery methods. There was no way really to disguise who she was. If she had stayed, inevitably, the humans would have asked her a Tymbrimi’s opinion of the current crisis, and she was loathe to tell Earthlings that she really knew no more than they did.
Athaclena found the situation bitterly ironic. Once again, the races of Earth were in the spotlight, as they had been ever since the notorious “Sundiver” affair, two centuries ago. This time an interstellar crisis had been sparked by the first starship ever put under command of neo-dolphins.
Mankind’s second client race was no more than two centuries old — younger even than the neo-chimpanzees. How the cetacean spacers would ever find a way out of the mess they had inadvertently created was anyone’s guess. But the repercussions were already spreading halfway across the Central Galaxy, all the way to isolated colony worlds such as Garth.
“Athaclena—”
She whirled. Uthacalthing stood at her elbow, looking down at her with an air of benign concern. “Are you all right, daughter?”
She felt so small in Uthacalthing’s presence. Athaclena couldn’t help being intimidated, however gentle he always was. His art and discipline were so great that she hadn’t even sensed his approach until he touched the sleeve of her robe! Even now, all that could be kenned from his complex aura was the whirling empathy-glyph called caridouo … a father’s love.
“Yes, Father. I … I am fine.”
“Good. Are you all packed and ready for your expedition then?”
His words were in Anglic. She answered in Tymbrim-dialect Galactic Seven.
“Father, I do not wish to go into the mountains with Robert Oneagle.”
Uthacalthing frowned. “I had thought that you and Robert were friends.”
Athaclena’s nostrils flared in frustration. Why was Uthacalthing purposely misunderstanding her? He had to know that the son of the Planetary Coordinator was unobjectionable as a companion. Robert was as close to a friend as she had among the young humans of Port Helenia.
“It is partly for Robert’s sake that I urge you to reconsider,” she told her father. “He is shamed at being ordered to ‘nursemaid’ me, as they say, while his comrades and classmates are all in the militia preparing for war. And I certainly cannot blame him for his resentment.”
When Uthacalthing started to speak she hurried on. “Also, I do not wish to leave you, Father. I reiterate my earlier arguments-of-logic, when I explained how I might be useful to you in the weeks ahead. And now I add to them this offering, as well.”
With great care she concentrated on Grafting the glyph she had composed earlier in the day. She had named it ke’ipathye … a plea, out of love, to be allowed to face danger at love’s side. Her tendrils trembled above her ears, and
the construct quavered slightly over her head as it began to rotate. Finally though, it stabilized. She sent it drifting over toward her father’s aura. At that moment, Athaclena did not even care that they were in a room crowded with hulking, smooth-browed humans and their furry little chim clients. All that mattered in the world was the two of them, and the bridge she so longed to build across this void.
Ke’ipathye fell into Uthacalthing’s waiting tendrils and spun there, brightening in his appreciation. Briefly, Athaclena gasped at its sudden beauty, which she knew had now grown far beyond her own simple art.
Then the glyph fell, like a gentle fog of morning dew, to coat and shine along her father’s corona.
“Such a fine gift.” His voice was soft, and she knew he had been moved.
But… She knew, all at once, that his resolve was unshifted.
“I offer you a kenning of my own,” he said to her. And from his sleeve he withdrew a small gilt box with a silver clasp. “Your mother, Mathicluanna, wished for you to have this when you were ready to declare yourself of age. Although we had not yet spoken of a date, I judge that now is the time for you to have it.”
Athaclena blinked, suddenly lost in a whirl of confused emotions. How often had she longed to know what her dead mother had left in her legacy? And yet, right now the small locket might have been a poison-beetle for all the will she had to pick it up.
Uthacalthing would not be doing this if he thought it likely they would meet again.
She hissed in realization. “You’re planning to fight!”
Uthacalthing actually shrugged… that human gesture of momentary indifference. “The enemies of the humans are mine as well, daughter. The Earthlings are bold, but they are only wolflings after all. They will need my help.”