The Uplift War u-3

by David Brin

  Is that the basic reason why I am attracted to Athaclena? Symbolically she is the elder, the more knowledgeable one. It gives me an opportunity to be awkward and stumble, and enjoy the role.

  It was all so confusing, and Robert wasn’t even certain of his own feelings. He was having fun up here in the mountains with Athaclena, and that made him ashamed. He resented his mother bitterly for sending him, and felt guilty about that as well.

  Oh, if only I’d been allowed to fight! Combat, at least, was straightforward and easy to understand. It was ancient, honorable, simple.

  Robert looked up quickly. The’re, among the stars, a pinpoint had flared up to momentary brilliance. As he watched, two more sudden brightnesses burst forth, then another. The sharp, glowing sparks lasted long enough for him to note their positions.

  The pattern was too regular to be an accident. . . twenty degree intervals above the equator, from the Sphinx all the way across to the’Batman, where the red planet Tloona shone in the middle of the ancient hero’s belt.

  So, it has come. The destruction of the synchronous satellite network had been expected, but it was startling actually to witness it. Of course this meant actual landings would not be long delayed.

  Robert felt a heaviness and hoped that not too many of his human and chim friends had died.

  I never found out if I had what it takes when things really counted. Now maybe I never will.

  He was resolved about one thing. He would do the job he had been assigned — escorting a noncombatant alien into the mountains and supposed safety. There was one duty he had to perform tonight, while Athaclena slept. As silently as he could, Robert returned to their backpacks. He pulled the radio set from his lower left pouch and began disassembling it in the dark.

  He was halfway finished when another sudden brightening made him look up at the eastern sky. A bolide streaked flame across the glittering starfield, leaving glowing embers in its wake. Something was entering fast, burning as it penetrated the atmosphere.

  The debris of war.

  Robert stood up and watched the manmade meteor lay a fiery trail across the sky. It disappeared behind a range of hills not more than twenty kilometers away. Perhaps much closer.

  “God keep you,” he whispered to the warriors whose ship it must have been.

  He had no fear of blessing his enemies, for it was clear which side needed help tonight, and would for a long time to come.

  11

  Galactics

  The Suzerain of Propriety moved about the bridge of the flagship in short skips and hops, enjoying the pleasure of pacing while Gubru and Kwackoo soldiery ducked out of the way.

  It might be a long time before the Gubru high priest would enjoy such freedom of movement again. After the occupation force landed, the Suzerain would not be able to set foot on the “ground” for many miktaars. Not until propriety was assured and consolidation complete could it touch the soil of the planet that lay just ahead of the advancing armada.

  The other two leaders of the invasion force — the Suzerain of Beam and Talon and the Suzerain of Cost and Caution — did not have to operate under such restrictions. That was all right. The military and the bureaucracy had their own functions. But to the Suzerain of Propriety was given the task of overseeing Appropriateness of Behavior for the Gubru expedition. And to do that the priest would have to remain perched.

  Far across the command bridge, the Suzerain of Cost and Caution could be heard complaining. There had been unexpected losses in the furious little fight the humans had put up. Every ship put out of commission hurt the Gubru cause in these dangerous times.

  Foolish, short-sighted carping, the Suzerain of Propriety thought. The physical damage done by the humans’ resistance had been far less significant than the ethical and legal harm. Because the brief fight had been so sharp and effective, it could not simply be ignored. It would have to be credited.

  The Earth wolflings had recorded, in action, their opposition to the arrival of Gubru might. Unexpectedly, they had done it with meticulous attention to the Protocols of War.

  They may be more than mere clever beasts —

  More than beasts —

  Perhaps they and their clients should be studied —

  Studied — zzooon

  That gesture of resistance by the tiny Earthling flotilla meant that the Suzerain would have to remain perched for at least the initial part of the occupation. It would have to find an excuse, now, the sort of casus belli that would let the Gubru proclaim to the Five Galaxies that the Earthlings’ lease on Garth was null and void.

  Until that happened, the Rules of War applied, and in enforcing them, the Suzerain of Propriety knew there would be conflicts with the other two commanders. Its future lovers and competitors. Correct policy demanded tension among them, even if some of the laws the priest had to enforce struck it, deep down, as stupid.

  Oh for the time, may it be soon —

  Soon, when we are released from rules — zzooon

  Soon, when Change rewards the virtuous —

  When the Progenitors return — zzooon

  The Suzerain fluttered its downy coat. It commanded one of its servitors, a fluffy, imperturbable Kwackoo, to bring a feather-blower and groomer.

  The Earthlings will stumble —

  They will give us justification — zzooon

  12

  Athaclena

  That morning Athaclena could tell that something had happened the night before. But Robert said little in answer to her questions. His crude but effective empathy shield blocked her attempts at kenning.

  Athaclena tried not to feel insulted. After all, her human friend had only just begun learning to use his modest talents. He could not know the many subtle ways an empath could use to show a desire for privacy. Robert only knew how to close the door completely.

  Breakfast was quiet. When Robert spoke she answered in monosyllables. Logically, Athaclena could understand his guardedness, but then there was no rule that said she had to be outgoing, either.

  Low clouds crested the ridgelines that morning, to be sliced by rows of serrated spine-stones. It made for an eerie, foreboding scene. They hiked through the tattered wisps of brumous fog in silence, gradually climbing higher in the foothills leading toward the Mountains of Mulun. The air was still and seemed to carry a vague tension Athaclena could not identify. It tugged at her mind, drawing forth unbeckoned memories.

  She recalled a time when she had accompanied her mother into the northern mountains on Tymbrim — riding gurval-back up a trail only slightly wider than this one — to attend a Ceremony of Uplift for the Tytlal.

  Uthacalthing had been away on a diplomatic mission, and nobody knew yet what type of transport her father would be able to use for his return trip. It was an all-important question, for if he was able to come all the way via A-level hyperspace and transfer points, he could return home in a hundred days or less. If forced to travel by D-level — or worse, normal space — Uthacalthing might be away for the rest of their natural lives.

  The Diplomatic Service tried to inform its officers’ families as soon as these matters were clear, but on this occasion they had taken far too long. Athaclena and her mother had started to become public nuisances, throwing irksome anxiety shimmers all over their neighborhood. At that point it had been politely hinted that they ought to get out of the city for a while. The Service offered them tickets to go watch the representatives of the Tytlal undergo another rite of passage on the long path of Uplift.

  Robert’s slick mind shield reminded her of Mathicluanna’s closely guarded pain during that slow ride into purple-frosted hills. Mother and daughter hardly spoke to each other at all as they passed through broad fallow parklands and at last arrived at the grassy plain of an ancient volcano caldera. There, near a solitary symmetrical hilltop, thousands of Tymbrimi had gathered near a swarm of brightly colored canopies to witness the Acceptance and Choice of the Tytlal.

  Observers had come from many distinguishe
d starfaring clans — Synthians, Kanten, Mrgh’4luargi — and of course a gaggle of cachinnatous humans. The Earthlings mixed with their Tymbrimi allies down near the refreshment tables, making a boisterous high time of it. She remembered her attitude then, upon seeing so many of the atrichic, bromopnean creatures. Was I really Such a snob? Athaclena wondered.

  She had sniffed disdainfully at the noise the humans made with their loud, low laughter. Their strange, applanate stares were everywhere as they strutted about displaying their bulging muscles. Even their females looked like caricatures of Tymbrimi weightlifters.

  Of course, Athaclena had barely embarked on adolescence back on that day. Now, on reflection, she recalled that her own people were just as enthusiastic and flamboyant as the humans, waving their hands intricately and sparking the air with brief, flashing glyphs. This was, after all, a great day. For the Tytlal were to “choose” their patrons, and their new Uplift Sponsors.

  Various dignitaries rested under the bright canopies. Of course the immediate patrons of the Tymbrimi, the Caltmour, could not attend, being tragically extinct. But their colors and sigil were in view, in honor of those who had given the Tymbrimi the gift of sapience.

  Those present were honored, however^ by a delegation of the chattering, stalk-legged Brma, who had uplifted the Caltmour long, long ago.

  Athaclena remembered gasping, her corona crackling in surprise, when she saw that another shape curled under a dark brown covering, high upon the ceremonial mount. It was a Krallnith! The seniormost race in their patron-line had sent a representative! The Krallnith were nearly torpid by now, having given over most of their waning enthusiasm to strange forms of meditation. It was commonly assumed they would not be around many more epochs. It was an honor to have one of them attend, and offer its blessing to the latest members of their clan.

  Of course, it was the Tytlal themselves who were the center of attention. Wearing short silvery robes, they nonetheless looked much like those Earth creatures known as otters. The Tytlal legatees fairly radiated pride as they prepared for their latest rite of Uplift.

  “Look,” Athaclena’s mother had pointed. “The Tytlal have elected their muse-poet, Sustruk, to represent them. Do you recall meeting him, Athaclena?”

  Naturally she remembered. It had been only the year before, when Sustruk visited their home back in the city. Uthacalthing had brought the Tytlal genius by to meet his wife and daughter, shortly before he was to leave on his latest mission.

  “Sustruk’s poetry is simpleminded doggerel,” Athaclena muttered.

  Mathicluanna looked at her sharply. Then her corona waved. The glyph she crafted was sh’cha’kuon, the dark mirror only your own mother knew how to hold up before you. Athaclena’s resentment reflected back at her, easily seen for what it was. She looked away, shamed.

  It was, after all, unfair to blame the poor Tytlal for reminding her of her absent father.

  The ceremony was indeed beautiful. A glyph-choir of Tymbrimi from the colony-world Juthtath performed “The Apotheosis of Lerensini,” and even the bare-pated humans stared in slack-jawed awe, obviously kenning some of the intricate, floating harmonies. Only the bluff, impenetrable Thennanin ambassadors seemed untouched, and they did not seem to mind at all being left out.

  After that the Brma singer Kuff-KufFt crooned an ancient, atonal paean to the Progenitors.

  One bad moment for Athaclena came when the hushed audience listened to a composition specially created for the occasion by one of the twelve Great Dreamers of Earth, the whale named Five Bubble Spirals. While whales were not officially sentient beings, that fact did not keep them from being honored treasures. That they dwelled on Earth, under the care of “wolfling” humans, was one more cause for resentment by some of the more conservative Galactic clans.

  Athaclena recalled sitting down and covering her ears while everyone else swayed happily to the eerie cetacean music. To her it was worse than the sound of houses falling. Mathicluanna’s glance conveyed her worry. My strange daughter, what are we to do with you? At least Athaclena’s mother did not chide aloud or in glyph, embarrassing her in public.

  At last, to Athaclena’s great relief, the entertainment ended. It was the turn of the Tytlal delegation, the time of Acceptance and Choice.

  Led by Sustruk, their great poet, the delegation approached the supine Krallnith dignitary and bowed low. Then they made their allegiance to the Brma representatives, and afterward expressed polite submissiveness to the humans and other patron-class alien visitors.

  The Tymbrimi Master of Uplift received obeisance last. Sustruk and his consort, a Tytlal scientist named Kihimik, stepped ahead of the rest of their delegation as the mated pair chosen above all others to be “race representatives.” Alternately, they replied as the Master of Uplift read a list of formal questions and solemnly noted their answers.

  Then the pair came under the scrutiny of the Critics from the Galactic Uplift Institute.

  Thus far it had been a perfunctory version of the Fourth Stage Test of Sentience. But now there was one more chance for the Tytlal to fail. One of the Galactics focusing sophisticated instruments on Sustruk and Kihimik, was a Soro… no friend of Athaclena’s clan. Possibly the Soro was looking for an excuse, any excuse, to embarrass the Tymbrimi by rejecting their clients.

  Discreetly buried under the caldera was equipment that had cost Athaclena’s race plenty. Right now the scrutiny of the Tytlal was being cast all through the Five Galaxies. There was much to be proud of today, but also some potential for humiliation.

  Of course Sustruk and Kihimik passed efasily. They bowed low to each of the alien examiners. If the Soro examiner was disappointed, she did not show it.

  The delegation of furry, short-legged Tytlal ambled up to a cleared circle at the top of the hill. They began to sing, swaying together in that queer, loose-limbed manner so common among the creatures of their native planet, the fallow world where they had evolved into pre-sentience, where the Tymbrimi had found and adopted them for the long process of Uplift.

  Technicians focused the amplifier which would display for all those assembled, and billions on other worlds, the choice the Tytlal had made. Underfoot, a deep rumbling told of powerful engines at work.

  Theoretically, the creatures could even decide to reject their patrons and abandon Uplift altogether, though there were so many rules and qualifications that in practice it was almost never allowed. Anyway, nothing like that was expected on that day. The Tymbrimi had excellent relations with their clients.

  Still, a dry, anxious rustling swept the crowd as the Rite of Acceptance approached completion. The swaying Tytlal moaned, and a low hum rose from the amplifier. Overhead a holographic image took shape, and the crowd roared with laughter and approval. It was the face of a Tymbrimi, of course, and one everyone recognized at once. Oshoyoythuna, Trickster of the City of Foyon, who had included several Tytlal as helpers in some of his most celebrated jests.

  Of course the Tytlal had reaffirmed the Tymbrimi as their patrons, but choosing Oshoyoythuna as their symbol went far beyond that! It exclaimed the Tytlal’s pride in what it really meant to be part of their clan.

  After the cheering and laughter died down, there remained only one part of the ceremony to finish, the selection of the Stage Consort, the species who would speak for the Tytlal during the next phase of their Uplift. The humans, in their strange tongue, called it the Uplift Midwife.

  The Stage Consort had to be of a race outside of the Tymbrimi’s own clan. And while the position was mostly ceremonial, a Consort could legally intervene on the new client species’ behalf, if the Uplift process appeared to be in trouble. Wrong choices in the past had created terrible problems.

  No one had any idea what race the Tytlal had chosen. It was one of those rare decisions that even the most meddlesome patrons, such as the Soro, had to leave to their charges.

  Sustruk and Kihimik crooned once more, and even from her position at the back of the crowd Athaclena could sense a growin
g feeling of anticipation rising from the furry little clients. The little devils had cooked up something, that was certain!

  Again, the ground shuddered, the amplifier murmured once more, and holographic projectors formed a blue cloudiness over the crest of the hill. In it there seemed to float murky shapes, flicking back and forth as if through backlit water.

  Her corona offered no clue, for the image was strictly visual. She resented the humans their sharper eyesight as a shout of surprise rose from the area where most of the Earthlings had congregated. All around her, Tymbrimi were standing up and staring. She blinked. Then Athaclena and her mother joined the rest in amazed disbelief.

  One of the murky figures flicked up to the foreground and stopped, grinning out at the audience, displaying a long, narrow grin of white, needle-sharp teeth. There was a glittering eye, and bubbles rose from its glistening gray brow.

  The stunned silence lengthened. For in all of Ifhi’s starfield, nobody had expected the Tytlal to choose dolphins!

  The visiting Galactics were stricken dumb. Neo-dolphins… why the seeond client race of Earth were the youngest acknowledged sapients in all five galaxies — much younger than the Tytlal themselves! This was unprecedented. It was astonishing.

  It was…

  It was hilarious! The Tymbrimi cheered. Their laughter rose, high and clear. As one, their coronae sparkled upward a single, coruscating glyph of approval so vivid that even the Thennanin Ambassador seemed to blink and take notice. Seeing that their allies weren’t offended, the humans joined in, hooting and slapping their hands together with intimidating energy.

  Kihimik and most of the other assembled Tytlal bowed, accepting their patrons’ accolade. Good clients, it seemed they had worked hard to come up with a fine jest for this important day. Only Sustruk himself stood rigid at the rear, still quivering from the strain.