The Uplift War u-3

by David Brin

  Then, one afternoon, there were suddenly frantic chims running everywhere! Before Robert could speak, before he could even stand they had plucked him up and carried him bodily out of the farmhouse and up into the hills.

  There were sonic booms… terse images of something immense in the sky.

  “But… but I thought the gas was fatal if…” His voice trailed off.

  “If there’s no antidote. Yes. But your dose was so small.” Dr. Soo shrugged. “As it is, we nearly lost you.”

  Robert shivered. “What about the little girl?”

  “She is with the gorillas.” The chim nutritionist smiled. “She’s as safe as anyone can be, these days.”

  He sighed and sat back a little. “That’s good at least.”

  The chims carrying little April Wu must have got up to the heights in plenty of time. Apparently Robert barely made it. The Mendozas had been slower still and were caught in the stinking cloud that spilled from the belly of the alien ship.

  Dr. Soo went on. “The Villas don’t like the caves, so most of them are up in the high valleys, foraging in small groups under loose supervision, away from any buildings. Structures are still being gassed regularly, you know, whether they contain humans or not.”

  Robert nodded. “The Gubru are being thorough.”

  He looked at the wall-board stuck with multicolored pins. The map covered the entire region from the mountains north across the Vale of Sind and west to the sea. There the islands of the Archipelago made a necklace of civilization. Only one city lay onshore, Port Helenia on the northern verge of Aspinal Bay. South and east of the Mulun Mountains lay the wilds of the main continent, but the most important feature was depicted along the top edge of the map. Patient, perhaps unstoppable, the great gray sheets of ice encroached lower every year. The final bane of Garth.

  The map pins, however, dealt with a much closer, nearer-term calamity. It was easy to read the array of pink and redmarkers. “They’ve really got a grip on things, haven’t they?”

  The elderly chim named Micah brought Robert a glass of water. He frowned at the map also. “Yessir. The fighting seems to all be over. The Gubru have been concentrating their energies around the Port and the Archipelago, so far. There’s been little activity here in the mountains, except this perpetual harassment by robots dropping coercion gas. But the enemy has established a firm presence every place that was colonized.”

  “Where do you get your information?”

  “Mostly from invader broadcasts and censored commercial stations in Port Helenia. Th’ General also sent runners and observers off in all directions. Some of them have reported back, already.”

  “Who’s got runners… ?”

  “The Gen—… um.” Micah looked a bit embarrassed. “Ah, some of the chims find it hard to pronounce Miss Athac—… Miss Athaclena’s name, sir. So, well…” His voice trailed off.

  Robert sniffed. I’m going to have to have a talk with that girl, he thought.

  He lifted his water glass and asked, “Who did she send to Port Helenia? That’s going to be a touchy place for a spy to get into.”

  Dr. Soo answered without much enthusiasm. “Athaclena chose a chim named Fiben Bolger.”

  Robert coughed, spraying water over his robe. Dr. Soo hurried on. “He is a militiaman, captain, and Miss Athaclena figured that spying around in town would require an … um… unconventional approach.”

  That only made Robert cough harder. Unconventional. Yes, that described Fiben. If Athaclena had chosen old “Trog” Bolger for that mission, then it spoke well for her judgment. She might not be stumbling in the dark, after all.

  Still, she’s hardly more than a kid. And an alien at that! Does she actually think she’s a general? Commanding what? He looked around the sparsely furnished cavern, the small heaps of scrounged and hand-carried supplies. It was, all told, a pitiful affair.

  “That wall map arrangement is pretty crude,” Robert observed, picking out one thing in particular.

  An elderly chen who hadn’t spoken yet rubbed the sparse hair on his chin. “We could organize much better than this,” he agreed. “We’ve got several mid-size computers. A few chims are working programs on batteries, but we don’t have the power to run them at full capacity.”

  He looked at Robert archly. “Tymbrimi Athaclena insists we drill a geothermal tap first. But I figure if we were to set up a few solar collectors on the surface… very well hidden, of course…”

  He let the thought hang. Robert could tell that one chim, at least, was less than thrilled at being commanded by a mere girl, and one who wasn’t even of Earthclan or Terragens citizenship.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jobert, captain.”

  Robert shook his head. “Well, Jobert, we can discuss that later. Right now, will someone please tell me about this ‘raid’? What is Athaclena up to?”

  Micah and Soo looked at each other. The chimmie spoke first.

  “They left before dawn. It’s already late afternoon outside. We should be getting a runner in any time now.”

  Jobert grimaced again, his wrinkled, age-darkened face dour with pessimism. “They went out armed with pin-rifles and concussion grenades, hoping to ambush a Gubru patrol.

  “Actually,” the elderly chim added dryly. “We were expecting news more than an hour ago. I’m afraid they are already very late getting back.”

  27

  Fiben

  Fiben awoke in darkness, fetal-curled under a dusty blanket.

  Awareness brought back the pain. Just pulling his right arm away from his eyes took a stoic effort of will, and the movement set off a wave of nausea. Unconsciousness beckoned him back seductively.

  What made him resist was the filmy, lingering tracery of his dreams. They had driven him to seek consciousness… those weird, terrifying images and sensations. The last, vivid scene had been a cratered desert landscape. Lightning struck the stark sands all around him, pelting him with charged, sparking shrapnel whichever way he tried to duck or’hide.

  He recalled trying to protest, as if there were words that might somehow placate a storm. But speech had been taken from him.

  By effort of will, Fiben managed to roll over on the creaking cot. He had to knuckle-rub his eyes before they would open, and then all they made out was the dimness of a shabby little room. A thin line of light traced the overlap of heavy black curtains covering a small window.

  His muscles trembled spasmodically. Fiben remembered the last time he had felt anywhere near this lousy, back on Cilmar Island. A band of neo-chimp circus entertainers from Earth had dropped in to do a show. The visiting “strongman” offered to wrestle the college champion, and like an idiot Fiben had accepted.

  It had been weeks before he walked again without a limp.

  Fiben groaned and sat up. His inner thighs burned like fire. “Oh, mama,” he moaned. “I’ll never scissors-hold again!”

  His skin and body hair were moist. Fiben sniffed the pungent odor of Dalsebo, a strong muscle relaxant. So, at least his captors had taken efforts to spare him the worst aftereffects of stunning. Still, his brain felt like a misbehaving gyroscope when he tried to rise. Fiben grabbed the teetering bedside table for support as he stood up, and held his side while he shuffled over to the solitary window.

  He grabbed rough fabric on both sides of the thin line of light and snapped the drapes apart. Immediately Fiben stumbled back, both arms raised to ward off the sudden brightness. Afterimages whirled.

  “Ugh,” he commented succinctly. It was barely a croak.

  What was this place? Some prison of the Gubru? Certainly he wasn’t aboard an invader battleship. He doubted the fastidious Galactics would use native wood furnishings, or decorate in Late Antediluvian Shabby.

  He lowered his arms, blinking away tears. Through the window he saw an enclosed yard, an unkempt vegetable garden, a couple of climbing trees. It looked like a typical small commune-house, the sort a chim group marriage family might own.
/>   Just visible over the nearby roofs, a line of hilltop eucalyptus trees told him he was still in Port Helenia, not far from Sea Bluff Park.

  Perhaps the Gubru were leaving his interrogation to their quislings. Or his captors could be those hostile Probationers. They might have their own plans for him.

  Fiben’s mouth felt as if dust weavers had been spinning traps in it. He saw a water pitcher on the room’s only table. One cup v?as already poured. He stumbled over and grabbed for it, but missed and knocked it crashing to the floor.

  Focus! Fiben told himself. If you want to get out of this, try to think like a member of a starfaring race!

  It was hard. The subvocalized words were painful just behind his forehead. He could feel his mind try to retreat … to abandon Anglic for a simpler, more natural way of thinking.

  Fiben resisted an almost overpowering urge to simply grab up the pitcher and drink from it directly. Instead, in spite of his thirst, he concentrated on each step involved in pouring another cup.

  His fingers trembled on the pitcher’s handle.

  Focus!

  Fiben recalled an ancient Zen adage. “Before enlightenment, chop wood, pour water. After enlightenment, chop wood, pour water.”

  Slowing down in spite of his thirst, he turned the simple act of pouring into an exercise. Holding on with two shaking hands, Fiben managed to pour himself about half a cupful, slopping about as much onto the table and floor. No matter. He took up the tumbler and drank in deep, greedy, swallows.

  The second cup poured easier. His hands were steadier.

  That’s it. Focus… Choose the hard path, the one using thought. At least chims had it easier than neo-dolphins. The other Earthly client race was a hundred years younger and had to use three languages in order to think at all!

  He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t notice when the door behind him opened.

  “Well, for a boy who’s had such a busy night, you sure are chipper this morning.”

  Fiben whirled. Water splattered the wall as he brought up the cup to throw it, but the sudden movement seemed to send his brain spinning in his head. The cup clattered to the floor and Fiben clutched at his temples, groaning under a wave of vertigo.

  Blearily, he saw a chimmie in a blue sarong. She approached carrying a tray. Fiben fought to remain standing, but his legs folded and he sank to his knees.

  “Bloody fool,” he heard her say. Bile in his mouth was only one reason he couldn’t answer.

  She set her tray on the table and took hold of his arm. “Only an idiot would try to get up after taking a full stunner jolt at close range!”

  Fiben snarled and tried to shake her hands off. Now he remembered! This was the little “pimp” from the Ape’s Grape. The one who had stood in the balcony not far from the Gubru and who had him stunned just as he was about to make his escape.

  “Lemme “lone,” he said. “I don’ need any help from a damn traitor!”

  At least that was what he had intended to say, but it came out more as a slurred mumble. “Right. Anything you say,” the chimmie answered evenly. She hauled him by one arm back to the bed. In spite of her slight size, she was quite strong.

  Fiben groaned as he landed on the lumpy mattress. He kept trying to gather himself together, but rational thought seemed to swell and fade like ocean surf.

  “I’m going to give you something. You’ll sleep for at least ten hours. Trjen, maybe, you’ll be ready to answer some questions.”

  Fiben couldn’t spare the energy to curse her. All his attention was given over to finding a focus, something to center on. Anglic wasn’t good enough anymore. He tried Galactic Seven.

  “Na … Ka … tcha… kresh…” he counted thickly.

  “Yes, yes,” he heard her say. “By now we’re all quite aware how well educated you are.”

  Fiben opened his eyes as the chimmie leaned over him, a capsule in her hand. With a finger snap she broke it, releasing a cloud of heavy vapor.

  He tried to hold his breath against the anesthetic gas, knowing it was useless. At the same time, Fiben. couldn’t help noticing that she was actually fairly pretty — with a small, childlike jaw and smooth skin. Only her wry, bitter smile ruined the picture.

  “My, you are an obstinate chen, aren’t you? Be a good boy now, breathe in and rest,” she commanded.

  Unable to hold out any longer, Fiben had to inhale at last. A sweet odor filled his nostrils, like overripe forest fruit. Awareness began dissipating in a floating glow.

  It was only then Fiben realized that she, too, had spoken in perfect, unaccented Galactic Seven.

  28

  Government in Hiding

  Megan Oneagle blinked away tears. She wanted to turn away, not to look, but she forced herself to watch the carnage one more time.

  The large holo-tank depicted a night scene, a rain-driven beach that shone dimly in shades of gray under faintly visible brooding cliffs. There were no moons, no stars, in fact hardly any light at all. The enhancement cameras had been at their very limits taking these pictures.

  On the beach she could barely make out five black shapes that crawled ashore, dashed across the sand, and began climbing the low, crumbling bluffs.

  “You can tell they followed procedures precisely,” Major Prathachulthorn of the Terragens Marines explained. “First the submarine released the advance divers, who went ahead to scout and set up surveillance. Then, when it seemed the coast was clear, the sabots were released.”

  Megan watched as little boats bobbed to the surface — black globes rising amid small clouds of bubbles — which then headed quickly for shore. They landed, covers popped off, and more dark figures emerged.

  “They carried the finest equipment available. Their training was the best. These were Terragens Marines.”

  So? Megan shook her head. Does that mean they did not have mothers?

  She understood what Prathachulthorn was saying, however. If calamity could befall these professionals, who could blame Garth’s colonial militia for the disasters of the last few months?

  The black shapes moved toward the cliffs, stoop-shouldered under heavy burdens.

  For weeks, now, the remnants still under Megan’s command had sat with her, deep in their underwater refuge, pondering the collapse of all their well-laid plans for an organized resistance. The agents and saboteurs had been ready, the arms caches and cells organized. Then came the cursed Gubru coercion gas, and all their careful schemes collapsed under those roiling clouds of deadly smoke.

  What few humans remained on the mainland were certainly dead by now, or as good as dead. What was frustrating was that nobody, not even the enemy in their broadcasts, seemed to know who or how many had made it to the islands in time for antidote treatment and internment.

  Megan avoided thinking about her son. With any luck he was now on Cilmar Island, brooding with his friends in some pub, or complaining to a crowd of sympathetic girls how his mother had kept him out of the war. She could only hope and pray that was the case, and that Uthacalthing’s daughter was safe as well.

  More of a cause for perplexity was the fate of the Tymbrimi Ambassador himself. Uthacalthing had promised to follow the Planetary Council into hiding, but he had never appeared. There were reports that his ship had tried for deepspace instead, and was destroyed.

  So many lives. Lost to what purpose?

  Megan watched the display as the sabots began edging back into the water. The main force of men was already climbing the bluffs.

  Without humans, of course, any hope of resistance was out of the question. A few of the cleverest chims might strike a blow, here or there, but what could really be expected of them without their patrons?

  One purpose of this landing had been to start something going again, to adapt and adjust to new circumstances.

  For the third time — even though she knew it was coming — Megan was caught by surprise as lightning suddenly burst upon the beach. In an instant everything was bathed in brilliant colors.
>
  First to explode were the little boats, the sabots.

  Next came the men.

  “The sub pulled its camera in and dived just in time,” Major Prathachulthorn said.

  The display went blank. The woman marine lieutenant who had operated the projector turned on the lights. The other members of the Council blinked, adjusting to the light. Several dabbed their eyes.

  Major Prathachulthorn’s South Asian features were darkly serious as he spoke again. “It’s the same thing as during the space battle, and when they somehow knew to gas every secret base we’d set up on land. Somehow they always find out where we are.”

  “Do you have any idea how they’re doing it?” one of the council members asked.

  Vaguely, Megan recognized that it was the female Marine officer, Lieutenant Lydia McCue, who answered. The young woman shook her head. “We have all of our technicians working on the problem, of course. But until we have some idea how they’re doing it, we don’t want to waste any more men trying to sneak ashore.”

  Megan Oneagle closed her eyes. “I think we are in no condition, now, to discuss matters any further. I declare this meeting adjourned.”

  When she retired to her tiny room, Megan thought she would cry. Instead, though, she merely sat on the edge of her bed, in complete darkness, allowing her eyes to look in the direction she knew her hands lay.

  After a while, she felt she could almost see them, fingerslike blobs resting tiredly on her knees. She imagined they,were stained — a deep, sanguinary red.

  29

  Robert

  Deep underground there was no way to sense the natural passage of time. Still, when Robert jerked awake in his chair, he knew exactly when it was.

  Late. Too damn late. Athaclena was due back hours ago.