by David Brin
Goodbye, he thought, and closed his eyes.
Then something tore loose. He flew away, still holding wires in his right hand. When crunching impact came, it was almost anticlimactic. He cried out and rolled up just short of one of the smoldering fires.
Oh, there was pain, all right. Fiben’s ribs felt as if one of the big female gorillas at the Howletts Center had been affectionate with him all night. He had been shot at least twice. Still, he had expected to die. No matter what came after this, it was good just to be alive.
He blinked away dust and soot. Five meters away the wreckage of the alien probe hissed and sputtered inside a ring of blackened, smoking grass. So much for the vaunted quality of Galactic hardware.
What Eatee shyster sold the Gubru that piece of shit? Fiben wondered. I don’t care, even if it was a Jophur made often smelly sap rings, I’d kiss him right now, I really would.
Excited voices. Running feet. Fiben felt a sudden hope. He had expected Gubru to come after their downed probe. But these were chims! He winced and held his side as he managed to stand. He smiled.
The expression froze on his face when he saw who was approaching.
“Well, well, what do we have here? Mr. Bluecard himself! Looks like you’ve been running more obstacle courses, college boy. You just don’t seem to know when you’re beat.”
It was a tall chen with carefully shaved facial hair and a mustache, elegantly waxed and curled. Fiben recognized the leader of the Probationer gang at the Ape’s Grape. The one calling himself Irongrip.
Of all the chims in all the world, why did it have to be him?
Others arrived. The bright zipsuits bore an added feature, a sash and arm patch, each bearing the same sigil … a claw outstretched, three sharp talons glistening in holographic threat.
They gathered around him carrying modified saber rifles, obviously members of the new collaborators’ militia he and Gailet had heard rumors of.
“Remember me, college boy?” Irongrip asked, grinning. “Yes, I thought you would. I sure do remember you.”
Fiben sighed as he saw Gailet Jones brought forward, held firmly by two other Probationers. “Are you all right?” she asked softly. He could not read the expression in her eyes. Fiben nodded. There seemed to be little to say.
“Come on, my young genetic beauties.” Irongrip laughed as he took Fiben hard just above his wounded right wrist. “We’ve got some people we want you to meet. And this time, there won’t be any distractions.”
Fiben’s gaze was torn away from Gailet’s as a jerk on his arm sent him stumbling. He lacked the strength to put up a useless struggle.
As his captors dragged him ahead of Gailet, he had his first chance to look around and saw that they were only a few hundred meters from the edge of Port Helenia! A pair of wide-eyed chims in work dungarees watched from the running boards of a nearby cultivator.
Fiben and Gailet were being taken toward a small gate in the alien wall, the barrier that undulated complacently over the countryside like a net settled firmly over their lives.
49
Galactics
The Suzerain of Propriety displayed its agitation by huffing and dancing a brief series of hops on its Perch of Declamation. The half-formed squirms had actually delayed appearing before its judgment, withholding the news for more than a planetary rotation!
True, the survivors of the mountain ambush were still in shock. Their first thought had been to report to military command. And the military, busy cleaning up the last of the abortive insurrections in the nearby flatlands, had made them wait. What, after all, was a minor scuffle in the hills compared with a nearly effective assault on the deep-space defense battery?
The Suzerain could well understand how such mistakes were made. And yet it was frustrating. The affair in the mountains was actually far more significant than any of the other outbreaks of wild guerrilla warfare.
“You should have extinguished — caused an end — eliminated yourselves!”
The Suzerain chirped and danced out its chastisement before the Gubru scientists. The specialists still looked ruffled and unpreened from their long trek out of the hills. Now they slumped further in dejection.
“In accepting parole you have injured — caused harm — reduced our propriety and honor,” the Suzerain finished chiding.
If they had been military the high priest might have demanded reparations from these and their families. But most of their escorts had been killed, and scientists were often less concerned or knowledgeable in matters of propriety than soldiers.
The Suzerain decided to forgive them.
“Nevertheless, your decision is understood — is given sanction. We shall abide by your parole.”
The technicians danced in relief. They would not suffer humiliation or worse upon returning to their homes. Their solemn word would not be repudiated.
The parole would be costly however. These scientists had to depart from the Garth system at once and not be replaced for at least a year. Furthermore, an equal number of human beings had to be released from detention!
The Suzerain suddenly had an idea. This brought on a rare flutter of that strange emotion, amusement. It would order sixteen humans freed, all right, but the mountain chimpanzees would not be reunited with their dangerous masters. The released humans would be sent to Earth!
That would certainly satisfy the propriety of the parole. The solution would be expensive, true, but not nearly as much as letting such creatures loose again on the main continent of Garth!
It was stunning to contemplate that neo-chimpanzees might have achieved what these reported they had done in the mountains. How could it be? The proto-clients they had observed in town and in the valley hardly seemed capable of such finesse.
Might there, indeed, be humans out there still?
The thought was daunting, and the Suzerain did not see how it would be possible. According to census figures the number unaccounted for was too small to be significant anyway. Statistically, all of those should simply be dead.
Of course the gas bombings would have to be stepped up. The new Suzerain of Cost and Caution would complain, for the program had proved very expensive. But now the Suzerain of Propriety would side with the military completely.
There was a faint stirring. The Suzerain of Propriety felt a twinge inside. Was it an early sign of a change of sexual state? It should not begin yet, when things were still so unsettled, and dominance not yet decided among the three peers. The molting must wait until propriety had been served, until consensus had been reached, so that it would be clear who was strongest!
The Suzerain chirped a prayer to the lost Progenitors, and the others immediately crooned in response.
If only there was some way to be sure which way the battles were going, out in the Galactic swirl! Had the dolphin ship been found yet? Were the fleets of some alliance even now approaching the returned Ancient Ones to call up the end of all things?
Had the time of Change already begun?
If the priest were certain that Galactic Law had indeed broken down irreparably, it would feel free to ignore this unpalatable parole and its implied recognition of neo-chimpanzee sapiency.
There were consolations, of course. Even with humans to guide them, the near-animals would never know the right ways to take advantage of that recognition. That was the way of wolfling-type species. Ignoring the subtleties of the ancient Galactic culture, they barged ahead using the direct approach, and nearly always died.
Consolation, it chirped. Yes, consolation and victory.
There was one more matter to take care of — potentially, the most important of all. The priest addressed the leader of the expedition again.
“Your final parole agreement was to avoid — to abjure — to forswear ever visiting that site again.”
The scientists danced agreement. One small place on the surface of Garth was forbidden the Gubru until the stars fell, or until the rules were changed.
“And yet, before the
attack you found — did discover — did uncover traces of mysterious activity — of gene meddling — of secret Uplift?”
That too had been in their report. The Suzerain questioned them carefully about details. There had only been time for a cursory examination, but the hints were compelling. The implications staggering.
Up in those mountains the chimpanzees were hiding a pre-sentient race! Prior to the invasion, they and their human patrons had been engaging in Uplift of a new client species!
So! The Suzerain danced. The data recovered from the Tymbrimi cairn was no lie! Somehow, by some miracle, this catastrophe world has given birth to a treasure! And now, in spite of Gubru mastery of the surface and the sky, the Earth-lings continued to hoard their discovery to themselves!
No wonder the planetary Branch Library had been ransacked of its Uplift files! They had tried to hide the evidence.
But now, the Suzerain rejoiced, we know of this wonder.
“You are dismissed — released — set upon your ships for home,” it told the bedraggled scientists. Then the Suzerain turned to its Kwackoo aides, gathered below its perch.
“Contact the Suzerain of Beam and Talon,” it said with unaccustomed brevity. “Tell my peer that I wish a colloquy at once.” One of the fluffy quadrupeds bowed at once, then scurried off to call the commander of the armed forces.
The Suzerain of Propriety stood still upon its perch, disallowed by custom from setting foot upon the surface until the ceremonies of protection had been completed.
Its weight shifted from time to time, and it rested its beak on its chest while standing deep in thought.
PART FOUR
Traitors
Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part;
Do thou but thine.
JOHN MILTON, Paradise Lost
50
Government in Hiding
The messenger sat on a couch in the corner of the Council Room, holding a blanket around his shoulders while he sipped from a steaming cup of soup. Now and then the young chen shivered, but mostly he looked exhausted. His damp hair still lay in tangled mats from the icy swim that had brought him on the last leg of his dangerous journey.
It’s a wonder he made it here at all, Megan Oneagle thought, watching him. All the spies and recon teams we sent ashore, carrying the finest equipment — none ever returned. But this little chim makes it to us, sailing a tiny raft made of cut trees, with homespun canvas sails.
Carrying a message from my son.’
Megan wiped her eyes again, remembering the courier’s first words to her after swimming the last stretch of underground caves to their deep island redoubt.
“Captain Oneagle sends his felic — his felicitations, ma’am.”
He had drawn forth a packet — waterproofed in oli tree sap — and offered it to her, then collapsed into the arms of the medical techs.
A message from Robert, she thought in wonder. He is alive. He is free. He helps lead an army. She didn’t know whether to exult or shudder at the thought.
It was a thing to be proud of, for sure. Robert might be the sole adult human loose on the surface of Garth, right now. And if his “army” was little more than a ragged band of simian guerrillas, well, at least they had accomplished more than her own carefully hoarded remnants of the official planetary militia had.
If he had made her proud, Robert had also astonished her. Might there be more substance to the boy than she had thought before? Something brought out by adversity, perhaps?
There may be more of his father in him than I’d wanted to see.
Sam Tennace was a starship pilot who stopped at Garth every five years or so, one of Megan’s three spacer husbands. Each was home for only a few months at a stretch — almost never at the same time — then off again. Other ferns might not have been able to deal with such an arrangement, but what suited spacers also met her needs as a politician and career woman. Of the three, only Sam Tennace had given her a child.
And I never wanted my son to be a hero, she realized. As critical as I have been of him, I guess I never really wanted him to be like Sam at all.
For one thing, if Robert had not been so resourceful he might be safe now — interned on the islands with the rest of the human population, pursuing his playboy hobbies among his friends — instead of engaged in a desperate, useless struggle against an omnipotent enemy.
Well, she reassured herself. His letter probably exaggerates .
To her left, mutterings of amazement grew ever more pronounced as the government in exile pored over the message, printed on tree bark in homemade ink. “Son of a bitch!” she heard Colonel Millchamp curse. “So that’s how they always knew where we were, what we were up to, before we even got started!”
Megan moved closer to the table. “Please summarize, colonel.”
Millchamp looked up at her. The portly, red-faced militia officer shook several sheets until someone grabbed his arm and pried them out of his hand.
“Optical fibers!” he cried.
Megan shook her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“They doped them. Every string, telephone cable, communications pipe… almost every piece of electronics on the planet! They’re all tuned to resonate back on a probability band the damn birds can broadcast…” Colonel Millchamp’s voice choked on his anger. He swiveled and walked away.
Megan’s puzzlement must have shown.
“Perhaps I can explain, madam coordinator,” said John Kylie, a tall man with the sallow complexion of a lifetime spacer. Kylie’s peacetime profession was captain of an in-system civilian freighter. His merchant vessel had taken part in the mockery of a space battle, one of the few survivors — if that was the right term. Overpowered, battered, finally reduced to peppering Gubru fighting planetoids with its comm laser, the wreck of the Esperanza only made it back to Port Helenia because the enemy was leisurely in consolidating the Gimelhai system. Its skipper now served as Megan’s naval advisor.
Kylie’s expression was stricken. “Madam coordinator, do you remember that excellent deal we made, oh, twenty years ago, for a turnkey electronics and photonics factory? It was a state-of-the-art, midget-scale auto-fac — perfect for a small colony world such as ours.”
Megan nodded. “Your uncle was coordinator then. I believe your first merchant command was to finalize negotiations and bring the factory home to Garth.”
Kylie nodded. He looked crestfallen. “One of its main products is optical fibers. A few said the bargain we got from the Kwackoo was just too good to be true. But who could have imagined they might have something like this in mind? So far in the future? Just on the off chance that they might someday want to—”
Megan gasped. “The Kwackoo! They’re clients of—”
“Of the Gubru.” Kylie nodded. “The damn birds must have thought, even then, that something like this might someday happen.”
Megan recalled what Uthacalthing had tried to teach her, that the ways of the Galactics are long ways, and patient as the planets in their orbits.
Someone else cleared his throat. It was Major Pratha-chulthorn, the short, powerfully built Terragens Marines officer. He and his small detachment were the only professional soldiers left after the space battle and the hopeless gesture of defiance at the Port Helenia space-field. Millchamp and Kylie held reserve commissions.
“This is most grave, madam coordinator,” Prathachulthorn said. “Optical fibers made at that factory have been incorporated into almost every piece of military and civilian equipment manufactured on the planet. They are integrated into nearly every building. Can we have confidence in your son’sfindings?”
Megan nearly shrugged, but her politician’s instincts stopped her in time. How the hell would I know? she thought. The boy is a stranger to me. She glanced at the small chen who had nearly died bringing Robert’s message to her. She had never imagined Robert could inspire such dedication.
Megan wondered if she was jealous.
A woman Marine spoke next. “The repor
t is co-signed by the Tymbrimi Athaclena,” Lieutenant Lydia McCue pointed out. The young officer pursed her lips. “That’s a second source of verification,” she suggested.
“With all respect, Lydia,” Major Prathachulthorn replied. “The tym is barely more than a child.”
“She’s Ambassador Uthacalthing’s daughter!” Kylie snapped. “And chim technicians helped perform the experiments as well.”
Prathachulthorn shook his head. “Then we have no truly qualified witnesses.”
Several councillors gasped. The sole neo-chimpanzee member, Dr. Suzinn Benirshke, blushed and looked down at the table. But Prathachulthorn didn’t even seem to realize he’d said anything insulting. The major wasn’t known to be strong on tact. Also, he’s a Marine, Megan reminded herself. The corps was the elite Terragens fighting service with the smallest number of dolphin and chim members. For that matter, the Marines recruited mostly males, a last bastion of oldtime sexism.
Commander Kylie sifted through the rough-cut pages of Robert Oneagle’s report. “Still you must agree, major, the scenario is plausible. It would explain our setbacks, and total failure to establish contact, either with the islands or the mainland.”
Major Prathachulthorn nodded after a moment. “Plausible, yes. Nevertheless, we should perform our own investigations before we commit ourselves to acting as if it is true.”
“What’s the matter, major?” Kylie asked. “You don’t like the idea of putting down your phase-burner rifle and picking up bows and arrows?”
Prathachulthorn’s reply was surprisingly mild. “Not at all, ser, so long as the enemy is similarly equipped. The problem lies in the fact that he is not.”
Silence reigned for long moments. No one seemed to have anything to say. The pause ended when Colonel Millchamp returned to the table. He slammed the flat of his hand down. “Either way, what’s the point in waiting?”
Megan frowned. “What do you mean, colonel?”