by David Brin
Holding onto a nearby vine, he swung lightly onto the leaf-strewn loam and stepped over to where her experiment case lay open beside the dark pool. Robert slipped off his bow and quiver and sat down, cross-legged.
“I’ve been looking around for some way to be useful.” He shrugged. “Prathachulthorn’s finished pumping me for information. Now he wants me to serve as sort of a glorified chim morale officer.” His voice rose a quarter octave as he mimicked the Terragens Marine’s South Asian accent. “We must keep the little fellows’ chins up, Oneagle. Make them feel they’re important to the Resistance!”
Athaclena nodded, understanding Robert’s unspoken meaning. In spite of the partisans’ past successes, Pratha-chulthorn obviously considered the chims superfluous — at best useful in diversions or as grunt soldiery. Liaison to childlike clients would seem an appropriate cubbyhole to assign the undertrained, presumably spoiled young son of the Planetary Coordinator.
“I thought Prathachulthorn liked your idea of using digestion bacteria against the Gubru,” Athaclena said.
Robert sniffed. He picked up a twig and twirled it deftly from finger to finger. “Oh, he admitted it was intriguing (hat the gorillas’ gut critters dissolved Gubru armor. He agreed to assign Benjamin and some of the chim techs to my project.”
Athaclena tried to trace the murky pattern of his feelings. “Did not Lieutenant McCue help you persuade him?”
Robert looked away at the mention of the young Earth-ling woman. His shield went up at the same time, confirming some of Athaclena’s suspicions.
“Lydia helped, yeah. But Prathachulthorn says it’d be next to impossible to deliver enough bacteria to important Gubru installations before they detect it and neutralize it. I still get the impression Prathachulthorn thinks it a side issue, maybe slightly useful to his main plan.”
“Do you have any idea what he has in mind?”
“He smiles and says he’s going to bloody the birds’ beaks. There’s been intelligence of some major facility the Gubru are building, south of Port Helenia, and that may make a good target. But he won’t go into any more detail than that. After all, strategy and tactics are for professionals, don’t y’know.”
“Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about Prathachulthorn. I brought something to show you.” Robert shrugged out of his pack and reached inside to pull out an object wrapped in cloth. He unfolded the coverings. “Look familiar at all?”
At first sight it appeared to be a pile of wrinkled rags with knotted strings hanging off the edges. On closer examination, the thing on Robert’s lap reminded Athaclena of a shriveled fungus of some sort. Robert grabbed the largest knot, where most of the thin fibers came together in a clump, and extended the strings until the filmy fabric unfolded entirely in the gentle breeze.
“It … it looks familiar, Robert. I would say it was a small parachute, but it is obviously natural … as if it came from some sort of plant.” She shook her head.
“Pretty close. Try to think back a few months, Clennie, to a certain rather traumatic day… one I don’t think either of us will ever forget.”
His words were opaque, but flickerings of empathy drew her memories forth. “This?” Athaclena fingered the soft, almost translucent material. “This is from the plate ivy?”
“That’s right.” Robert nodded. “In springtime the upper layers are glossy, rubbery, and so stiff you can flip them and ride them as sleds—”
“If you are coordinated,” Athaclena teased.
“Um, yeah. But by the time autumn rolls around, the upper plates have withered back until they’re like this.” He waved the floppy, parachute-like plate by its fibrous shrouds, catching the wind. “In a few more weeks they’ll be even lighter.”
Athaclena shook her head. “I recall you explained the reason. It is for propagation, is it not?”
“Correct. This little spore pod here” — he opened his hand to show a small capsule where the lines met — “gets carried aloft by the parachute into the late autumn winds. The sky fills with the things, making air travel hazardous for some time. They cause a real mess down in the city.
“Fortunately, I guess, the ancient creatures that used to pollinate the plate ivy went extinct during the Bururalli fiasco, and nearly all of the pods are sterile. If they weren’t, I guess half the Sind would be covered with plate ivy by now. Whatever used to eat it is long dead as well.”
“Fascinating.” Athaclena followed a tremor in Robert’s aura. “You have plans for these things, do you not?”
He folded the spore carrier away again. “Yeah. An idea at least. Though I don’t imagine Prathachulthorn will listen to me. He’s got me too well categorized, thanks to my mother.”
Of course Megan Oneagle was partly responsible for the Earthling officer’s assessment and dismissal of her son. How can a mother so misunderstand her own child? Athaclena wondered. Humans might have come a long way since their dark centuries, but she still pitied the k’chu-non, the poor wolflings. They still had much to learn about themselves.
“Prathachulthorn might not listen to you directly, Robert. But Lieutenant McCue has his respect. She will certainly hear you out and convey your idea to the major.”
Robert shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Athaclena asked. “This young Earthwoman likes you, I can tell. In fact, I was quite certain I detected in her aura—”
“You shouldn’t do that, Clennie,” Robert snapped. “You shouldn’t nose around in people’s feelings that way. “It’s… it’s none of your business.”
She looked down. “Perhaps you are right. But you are my friend and consort, Robert. When you are tense and frustrated, it is bad for both of us, no?”
“I guess so.” He did not meet her gaze.
“Are you sexually attracted to this Lydia McCue, then?” Athaclena asked. “Do you feel affection for her?”
“I don’t see why you have to ask—”
“Because I cannot kenn you, Robert!” Athaclena interrupted, partly out of irritation. “You are no longer open to me. If you are having such feelings you should share them with me! Perhaps I can help you.”
Now he looked at her, his face flushed. “Help me?”
“Of course. You are my consort and friend. If you desire this woman of your own species, should I not be your collaborator? Should I not help you achieve happiness?”
Robert only blinked. But in his tight shield Athaclena now found cracks. She felt her tendrils wafting over her ears, tracing the edges of those loose places, forming a delicate new glyph. “Were you feeling guilty over these feelings, Robert? Did you think they were somehow being disloyal to me?” Athaclena laughed. “But interspecies consorts may have lovers and spouses of their own race. You knew that!
“So what would you have of me, Robert? I certainly cannot give you children! If I could, can you imagine what mongrels they would be?”
This time Robert smiled. He looked away. In the space between them her glyph took stronger form.
“And as for recreational sex, you know that I am not equipped to leave you anything but frustrated, you overen-dowed/underendowed, wrong-shaped ape-man! Why should I not take joy in it, if you find one with whom you might share such things?”
“It’s… it’s not as easy as that, Clennie. I…”
She held up a hand and smiled, at once beseeching him to be quiet and to let go. “I am here, Robert,” she said, softly.
The young man’s confusion was like an uncertain quantum potential, hesitating between two states. His eyes darted as he glanced upward and tried to focus on the nonthing she had made. Then he remembered what he had learned and looked away again, allowing kenning to open him to the glyph, her gift.
La’thsthoon hovered and danced, beckoning to him. Robert exhaled. His eyes opened in surprise as his own aura unlocked without his conscious will. Uncurling like a flower. Something — a twin to la’thsthoon — emerged, resonating, amplifying against Athaclena’s corona.
Two wisps of
nothing, one human, one Tymbrimi, touched, darted apart playfully, and came together again.
“Do not fear that you will lose what you have with me, Robert,” Athaclena whispered. “After all, will any human lover be able to do this with you?”
At that, he smiled. They shared laughter. Overhead, mirrored la’thsthoon manifested intimacy performed in pairs.
Only later, after Robert had departed again, did Athaclena loosen the deep shield she had locked around her own innermost feelings. Only when he was gone did she let herself acknowledge her envy.
He goes to her now.
What Athaclena had done was right, by any standard she knew. She had done the proper thing.
And yet, it was so unfair!
I am a freak. I was one before I ever came to this planet. Now I am not even anything recognizable any longer.
Robert might have an Earthly lover, but in that area Athaclena was all alone. She could seek no such solace with one of her own kind.
To touch me, to hold me, to mingle his tendrils and his body with mine, to make me feel aflame…
With some surprise, Athaclena noticed that this was the first time she had ever felt this thing… this longing to be with a man of her own race — not a friend, or classmate, but a lover — perhaps a mate.
Mathicluanna and Uthacalthing had told her it would happen someday — that every girl has her own pace. Now, however, the feeling was only bitter. It enhanced her loneliness. A part of her blamed Robert for the limitations of his species. If only he could have changed his body, as well. If only he could have met her halfway!
But she was the Tymbrimi, one of the “masters of adaptability. ” How far that malleability had gone was made evident when Athaclena felt wetness on her cheeks. Miserably, she wiped away salty tears, the first in her life.
That was how her assistants found her hours later, when they returned from the errands she had sent them on — sitting by the edge of a small, muddy pool, while autumn winds blew through the treetops and sent gravid clouds hurrying eastward toward the gray mountains.
62
Galactics
The Suzerain of Cost and Caution was worried. All signs pointed to a molting, and the direction things appeared to be going was not to its liking.
Across the pavilion, the Suzerain of Beam and Talon paced in front of its aides, looking more erect and stately than ever. Beneath the shaggy outer feathers there was a faint reddish sheen to the military commander’s underplumage. Not a single Gubru present could help but notice even a trace of that color. Soon, perhaps within only a twelve-day, the process would have progressed beyond the point of no return.
The occupation force would have a new queen.
The Suzerain of Cost and Caution contemplated the unfairness of it all as it preened its own feathers. They, too, were starting to dry out, but there were still no discernible signs of a final color.
First it had been elevated to the status of candidate and chief bureaucrat after the death of its predecessor. It had dreamed of such a destiny, but not to be plunged into the midst of an already mature Triumvirate! Its peers were already well on the way toward sexuality by that time. It had been forced to try to catch up.
At first that had seemed to matter little. To the surprise of all, it had won many points from the start. Discovering the foolishness the other two had been up to during the interregnum had enabled the Suzerain of Cost and Caution to make great leaps forward.
Then a new equilibrium was reached. The admiral and the priest had proven brilliant and imaginative in the defense of their political positions.
But the molting was supposed to be decided by correctness of policy! The prize was supposed to go to the leader whose wisdom had proven most sage. It was the way!
And yet, the bureaucrat knew that these matters were as often decided by happenstance, or by quirks of metabolism.
Or by alliance of two against the third, it reminded itself. The Suzerain of Cost and Caution wondered if it had been wise to support the military against Propriety, these last few weeks, giving the admiral by now an almost unassailable advantage.
But there had been no choice! The priest had to be opposed, for the Suzerain of Propriety appeared to have lost all control!
First had come that nonsense about “Garthlings.” If the bureaucrat’s predecessor had lived, perhaps the extravagance might have been kept down. As it was, however, vast amounts had been squandered… bringing in a new Planetary Branch Library, sending expeditions into the dangerous mountains, building a hyperspace shunt for a Ceremony of Adoption — before there was any confirmation that anything existed to adopt!
Then there was the matter of ecological management. The Suzerain of Propriety insisted that it was essential to restore the Earthlings’ program on Garth to at least a minimal level. But the Suzerain of Beam and Talon had adamantly refused to allow any humans to leave the islands. So, at great cost, help was sent for off-planet. A shipload of Linten gardeners, neutrals in the present crisis, were on the way. And the Great Egg only knew how they were to pay for them!
Now that the hyperspace shunt was nearing completion, both the Suzerain of Propriety and the Suzerain of Beam and Talon were ready to admit that the rumors of “Garthlings” were just a Tymbrimi trick. But would they allow construction to be stopped?
No. Each, it seemed, had its reasons for wanting completion. If the bureaucrat had agreed it would have made a consensus, a step toward the policy so much desired by the Roost Masters. But how could it agree with such nonsense!
The Suzerain of Cost and Caution chirped in frustration. The Suzerain of Propriety was late for yet another colloquy.
Its passion for rectitude did not extend, it seemed, to courtesy to its peers.
By this point, theoretically, the initial competitiveness among the candidates should have begun transforming into respect, and then affection, and finally true mating. But here they were, on the verge of a Molt, still dancing a dance of mutual loathing.
The Suzerain of Cost and Caution was not happy about how things were turning out, but at least there would be one satisfaction if things went on in the direction they seemed headed — when Propriety was brought down from its haughty perch at last.
One of the chief bureaucrats’ aides approached, and the Suzerain took its proffered message slab. After picting its contents, it stood in thought.
Outside there was a commotion … no doubt the third peer arriving at last. But for a moment the Suzerain of Cost and Caution still considered the message it had received from its spies.
Soon, yes soon. Very soon we will penetrate secret plans, plans which may not be good policy. Then perhaps we shall see a change, a change in sexuality… soon.
63
Fiben
His head ached.
Back when he had been a student at the University he had also been forced to study hour after hour, days at a stretch, cramming for tests. Fiben had never thought of himself as a scholar, and sometimes examinations used to make him sick in anticipation.
But at least back then there were also extracurricular activities, trips home, breathing spells, when a chen could cut loose and have some fun!
And back at the University Fiben had liked some of his professors. Right at this moment, though, he had had just about as much as he could take of Gailet Jones.
“So you think Galactic Sociology’s stuffy and tedious?” Gailet accused him after he threw down the books in disgust and stalked off to pace in the farthest corner of the room. “Well, I’m sorry Planetary Ecology isn’t the subject, instead,” she said. “Then, maybe, you’d be the teacher and I’d be the student.”
Fiben snorted. “Thanks for allowing for the possibility. I was beginning to think you already knew everything.”
“That’s not fair!” Gailet put aside the heavy book on her lap. “You know the ceremony’s only weeks away. At that point you and I may be called upon to act as spokesmen for our entire race! Shouldn’t we try to be as prepared as possi
ble beforehand?”
“And you’re so certain you know what knowledge will be relevant? What’s to say that Planetary Ecology won’t be crucial then, hm?”
Gailet shrugged. “It might very well be.”
“Or mechanics, or space piloting, or … or beer-swilling, or sexual aptitude, for Goodall’s sake!”
“In that case, our race will be fortunate you were selected as one of its representatives, won’t it?” Gailet snapped back. There was a long, tense silence as they glared at each other. Finally, Gailet lifted a hand. “Fiben. I’m sorry. I know this is frustrating for you. But I didn’t ask to be put in this position either, you know.”
No. But that doesn’t matter, he thought. You were designed for it. Neo-chimpdom couldn’t hope for a chimmie better suited to be rational, collected, and oh, so cool when the time comes.
“As for Galactic Sociology, Fiben, you know there are several reasons why it’s the essential topic.”
There it was again, that look in Gailet’s eyes. Fiben knew it meant that there were levels and levels in her words.
Superficially, she meant that the two chim representatives would have to know the right protocols, and pass certain stringent tests, during the Rituals of Acceptance, or the qfficials of the Institute of Uplift would declare the ceremonies null and void.
The Suzerain of Propriety had made it abundantly clear that the outcome would be most unpleasant if that happened.
But there was another reason Gailet wanted him to know as much as possible. Sometime soon we pass the point of no return… when we can no longer change our minds about cooperating with the Suzerain. Gailet and I cannot discuss it openly, not with the Gubru probably listening in all the time. We’ll have to act in consensus, and to her that means I’ve got to be educated.
Or was it simply that Gailet did not want to bear the burden of their decision all by herself, when the time came?
Certainly Fiben knew a lot more about Galactic civilization than before his capture. Perhaps more than he had ever wanted to know. The intricacies of a three-billion-year-old culture made up of a thousand diverse, bickering patron-client clan lines, held together loosely by a network of ancient institutes and traditions, made Fiben’s head swim. Half the time he would come away cynically disgusted — convinced that the Galactics were little more than powerful spoiled brats, combining the worst qualities of the old nation-states of Earth before Mankind’s maturity.