by David Brin
Soon after Contact, two centuries ago, human philosophers had asked the first Galactics they met what they thought of this and many other ideas. Quite often the alien sages had responded patronizingly. “These are questions that can only be posed in an illogical wolfling language,” had been a typical response. “There are no paradoxes,” they had assured.
And no mysteries left to be solved … or at least none that could ever be approached by the likes of Earthlings.
“ Predestination was not all that hard for the Galactics to understand actually. Most thought the wolfling clan predestined for a sad, brief story.
And yet, Gailet found herself suddenly recalling a time, back when she was living on Earth, when she had met a certain neo-dolphin — an elderly, retired poet — who told her stories about occasions when he had swum in the slipstreams of great whales, listening for hours on end to their moaning songs of ancient cetacean gods. She had been flattered and fascinated when the aged ’fin composed a poem especially for her.
Where does a ball alight,
Falling through the bright midair?
Hit it with your snout!
Gailet figured the haiku had to be even more pungent in Trinary, the hybrid language neo-dolphins generally used for their poetry. She did not know Trinary, of course, but even in Anglic the little allegory had stuck with her.
Thinking about it, Gailet gradually came to realize that she was smiling.
Hit it with your snout, indeed!
The sleeping form next to her snored softly. Gailet tapped her tongue against her front teeth and pretended to be listening to the rhythm of drums.
She was still sitting there, thinking, some hours later when the door slid open with a loud bang and light spilled in from the hall. Several four-legged avian forms marched in. Kwackoo. At the head of the procession Gailet recognized the pastel-tinted down of the Servitor of the Suzerain of Propriety. She stood up, but her shallow bow received no answer.
The Kwackoo stared at her. Then it motioned down at the form under the blankets. “Your companion does not rise. This is unseemly.”
Obviously, with no Gubru around, the Servitor did not feel obligated to be courteous. Gailet looked up at the ceiling. “Perhaps he is indisposed.”
“Does he require medical assistance?”
“I imagine he’ll recover without it.”
The Kwackoo’s three-toed feet shuffled in irritation. “I shall be frank. We wish to inspect your companion, to ascertain his identity.”
She raised an eyebrow, even though she knew the gesture was wasted on this creature. “And who do you think he might be? Grandpa Bonzo? Don’t you Kwackoo keep track of your prisoners?”
The avian’s agitation increased. “This confinement area was placed under the authority of neo-chimpanzee auxiliaries. If there was a failure, it is due to their animal incompetence. Their unsapient negligence.”
Gailet laughed. “Bullshit.”
The Kwackoo stopped its dance of irritation and listened to its portable translator. When it only stared at her, Gailef shook her head. “You can’t palm this off on us, Kwackoo. You and I both know putting chim Probationers in charge here was just a sham. If there’s been a security breach, it was inside your own camp.”
The Servitor’s beak opened a few degrees. Its tongue flicked, a gesture Gailet by now knew signified pure hatred. The alien gestured, and two globuform robots whined forward. Gently but firmly they used gravitic fields to pick up the sleeping neo-chimp without even disturbing the blankets, and backed away with him toward the door. Since the Kwackoo had not bothered to look under the covers, obviously it already knew what it would find there.
“There will be an investigation,” it promised. Then it swiveled to depart. In minutes, Gailet knew, they would be reading Fiben’s “goodbye note,” which had been left attached to the snoring guard. Gailet tried to help Fiben with one more delay.
“Fine,” she said. “In the meantime, I have a request… No, make that a demand, that I wish to make.”
The Servitor had been stepping toward the door, ahead of its entourage of fluttering Kwackoo. At Gailet’s words, however, it stopped, causing a mini traffic jam. There was a babble of angry cooing as its followers brushed against each other and flicked their tongues at Gailet. The pink-crested leader turned back and faced her.
“You are not able to make demands.”
“I make this one in the name of Galactic tradition,” Gailet insisted. “Do not force me to send my petition directly to its eminence, the Suzerain of Propriety.”
There was a long pause, during which the Kwackoo seemed to contemplate the risks involved. At last it asked. “What is your foolish demand?”
Now though, Gailet remained silent, waiting.
Finally, with obvious ill grace, the Servitor bowed, a bending so minuscule as to be barely detectable. Gailet returned the gesture, to the same degree.
“I want to go to the Library,” she said in perfect GalSeven. “In fact, under my rights as a Galactic citizen, I insist on it.”
65
Fiben
Exiting in the drugged guard’s clothes had turned out to be almost absurdly simple, once Sylvie taught him a simple code phrase to speak to the robots hovering over the gate. The sole chim on duty had been mumbling around a sandwich and waved the two of them through with barely a glance.
“Where are you taking me?” Fiben asked once the dark, vine-covered wall of the prison was behind them.
“To the docks,” Sylvie answered over her shoulder. She maintained a quick pace down the damp, leaf-blown sidewalks, leading him past blocks of dark, empty, human-style dwellings. Then, further on, they passed through a chim neighborhood, consisting mostly of large, rambling, group-marriage houses, brightly painted, with doorlike windows and sturdy trellises for kids to climb. Now and then, as they hurried by, Fiben caught glimpses of silhouettes cast against tightly drawn curtains.
“Why the docks?”
“Because that’s where the boats are!” Sylvie replied tersely. Her eyes darted to and fro. She twisted the chronometer ring on her left hand and kept looking back over her shoulder, as if worried they might be followed.
That she seemed nervous was natural. Still, Fiben had reached his limit. He grabbed her arm and made her stop.
“Listen, Sylvie. I appreciate everything you’ve done so far. But now don’t you think it’s time for you to let me in on the plan?”
She sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Her anxious grin reminded him of that night at the Ape’s Grape. What he had imagined then to be animal lust that evening must have been something like this instead, fear suppressed under a well-laid veneer of bravado.
“Except for the gates in the fence, the only way out of the city is by boat. My plan is for us to sneak aboard one of the fishing vessels. The night fishers generally put to sea at” — she glanced at her finger watch — “oh, in about an hour.”
Fiben nodded. “Then what?”
“Then we slip overboard as the boat passes out of Aspinal Bay. We’ll swim to North Point Park. From there it’ll be a hard march north, along the beach, but we should be able to make hilly country by daybreak.”
Fiben nodded. It sounded like a good plan. He liked the fact that there were several points along the way where they could change their minds if problems or opportunities presented themselves. For instance, they might try for the south point of the bay, instead. Certainly the enemy would not expect two fugitives to head straight toward their new hypershunt installation! There would be a lot of construction equipment parked there. The idea of stealing one of the Gubru’s own ships appealed to Fiben. If he ever pulled something like that off, maybe he’d actually merit a white card after all!
He shook aside that thought quickly, for it made him think of Gailet. Damn it, he missed her already.
“Sounds pretty well thought out, Sylvie.”
She smiled guardedly. “Thanks, Fiben. Uh, can we go now?”
He gestured for
her to lead on. Soon they were winding their way past shuttered shops and food stands. The clouds overhead were low and ominous, and the night smelled of the coming storm. A southwesterly wind blew in stiff but erratic gusts, pushing leaves and bits of paper around their ankles as they walked.
When it started to drizzle, Sylvie raised the hood of her parka, but Fiben left his own down. He did not mind wet hair half as much as having his sight and hearing obstructed now.
Off toward the sea he saw a flickering in the sky, accompanied by distant, gray growling. Hell, Fiben thought. What am I thinking! He grabbed his companion’s arm again. “Nobody’s going to go to sea in this kind of weather, Sylvie.”
“The captain of this boat will, Fiben.” She shook her head. “I really shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s… he’s a smuggler. Was even before the war. His craft has foul weather integrity and can partially submerge.”
Fiben blinked. “What’s he smuggling, nowadays?” Sylvie looked left and right. “Chims, some of the times. To and from Cilmar Island.”
“Cilmar! Would he take us there?” Sylvie frowned. “I promised Gailet I’d get you to the mountains, Fiben. And anyway, I’m not sure I’d trust this captain that far.”
But Fiben’s head was awhirl. Half the humans on the planet were interned on Cilmar Island! Why settle for Robert and Athaclena, who were, after all, barely more than children, when he might be able to bring Gailet’s questions before the experts at the University!
“Let’s play it by ear,” he said noncommittally. But he was already determined to evaluate this smuggler captain for himself. Perhaps under the cover of this storm it might turn out to be possible! Fiben thought about it as they resumed their journey.
Soon they were near the docks — in fact, not far from the spot where Fiben had spent part of the afternoon watching the gulls. The rain now fell in sudden, unpredictable sheets. Each time it blew away again the air was left startlingly clear, enhancing every odor — from decaying fish to the beery stink of a fisherman’s tavern across the way, where a few lights still shone and low, sad music leaked into the night.
Fiben’s nostrils flared. He sniffed, trying to trace something that seemed to fade in and out with the fickle rain. Likewise, Fiben’s senses fed his imagination, laying out possibilities for his consideration.
His companion led him around a corner and Fiben saw three piers. Several dark, bulky shadows lay moored next to each. One of those, no doubt, was the smugglers’ boat. Fiben stopped Sylvie, again with a hand on her arm. “We’d better hurry,” she urged.
“Wouldn’t do to be too early,” he replied. “It’s going to be cramped and smelly in that boat. Come on back here. There’s something we may not have a chance to do for some time.”
She gave him a puzzled expression as he drew her back around the corner, into the shadows. When he put his arms around her, she stiffened, then relaxed and tilted her face up.
Fiben kissed her. Sylvie answered in kind.
When he started using his lips to nibble from her left ear across the line of her jaw and down her neck, Sylvie sighed. “Oh, Fiben. If only we had time. If only you knew how much …”
“Shh,” he told her as he let go. With a flourish he took off his parka and laid it on the ground. “What… ?” she began. But he drew her down to sit on the jacket. He settled down behind her.
Her tension eased a bit when he began combing his fingers through her hair, grooming her.
“Whoosh,” Sylvie said. “For a moment I thought—”
“Who me? You should know me better than that, darlin’. I’m the kind who likes to build up slowly. None of this rush-rush stuff. We can take our time.”
She turned her head to smile up at him. “I’m glad. I won’t be pink for a week, anyway. Though, I mean, we don’t really have to wait that long. It’s just—”
Her words cut short suddenly as Fiben’s left arm tightened hard around her throat. In a flash he reached into her parka and clicked open her pocket knife. Sylvie’s eyes bulged as he pressed the sharp blade close against her carotid artery.
“One word,” he whispered directly into her left ear. “One sound and you feed the gulls tonight. Do you understand?”
She nodded, jerkily. He could feel her pulse pound, the vibration carrying up the knife blade. Fiben’s own heart was not beating much slower. “Mouth your words,” he told her hoarsely. “I’ll lip read. Now tell me, where are tracers planted?”
Sylvie blinked. Aloud, she said, “What — ” That was all. Her voice stopped as he instantly increased pressure.
“Try again,” he whispered.
This time she formed the words silently.
“What… are… you talking about, Fiben?”
His own voice was a barely audible murmur in her ear. “They’re waiting for us out there, aren’t they, darlin’? And I don’t mean fairy tale chim smugglers. I’m talking Gubru, sweets. You’re leading me right into their fine feathered clutches.”
Sylvie stiffened. “Fiben … I … no! No, Fiben.”
“I smell bird!” he hissed. “They’re out there, all right. And as soon as I picked up that scent it all suddenly made perfect sense!”
Sylvie remained silent. Her eyes were eloquent enough by themselves.
“Oh, Gailet must think I’m a prize sap. Now that I think on it, of course the escape must’ve been arranged! In fact, the date must’ve been set for some time. You all probably didn’t count on this storm tying up the fishing fleet. That tale about a smuggler captain was a resourceful ad lib to push back my suspicions. Did you think of it yourself, Sylvie?”
“Fiben—”
“Shut up. Oh, it was appealing, all right, to imagine some chims were smart enough to be pulling runs to Cilmar and back, right under the enemy’s beak! Vanity almost won, Sylvie. But I was once a scout pilot, remember? I started thinking about how hard that’d be to pull off, even in weather like this!”
He sniffed the air, and there it was again, that distinct musty odor.
Now that he thought about it, he realized that none of the tests he and Gailet had been put through, during the last several weeks, had dealt with the sense of smell. Of course not. Galactics think it’s mostly a relic for animals.
Moisture fell onto his hand, even though it was not raining just then. Sylvie’s tears dripped. She shook her head.
“You… won’t … be harmed, Fiben. The Suz — Suzerain just wants to ask you some questions. Then you’ll be let go! It … It promised!”
So this was just another test, after all. Fiben felt like laughing at himself for ever believing escape was possible. I guess I’ll see Gailet again sooner than I thought.
He was beginning to feel ashamed of the way he had terrorized Sylvie. After all, this had all been just a “game” anyway. Simply one more examination. It wouldn’t do to take anything too seriously under such conditions. She was only doing her job.
He started to relax, easing his grip on her throat, when suddenly part of what Sylvie had said struck Fiben.
“The Suzerain said it’d let me go?” he whispered. “You mean it’ll send me back to jail, don’t you?”
She shook her head vigorously. “N-no!” she mouthed.
“It’ll drop us off in the mountains. I meant that part of my deal with you and Gailet! The Suzerain promised, if you answer its questions—”
“Wait a minute,” Fiben snapped. “You aren’t talking about the Suzerain of Propriety, are you?”
She shook her head.
Fiben felt suddenly lightheaded. “Which… Which Suzerain is waiting for us out there?”
Sylvie sniffed. “The Suzerain of Cost and … of Cost and Caution,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes in the dreadful realization of what this meant. This was no “game” or test, after all. Oh, Goodall, he thought. Now he had to think to save his own neck!
If it had been the Suzerain of Beam and Talon, Fiben would have been ready to throw in the towel right then and there. For the
n all of the resources of the Gubru military machine would have been arrayed against him. As it was, the chances were slim enough. But Fiben was starting to get ideas.
Accountants. Insurance agents. Bureaucrats. Those made up the army of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution. Maybe, Fiben thought. Just maybe.
Before doing anything, though, he had to deal with Sylvie. He couldn’t just tie her up and leave her. And he simply wasn’t a bloody-minded killer. That led to only one option. He had to win her cooperation, and quickly.
He might tell her of his certainty that the Suzerain of Cost and Caution wasn’t quite the stickler for truth the Suzerain of Propriety was. When it was its word against hers, why should the bird keep any promise to release them?
In fact, tonight’s raid on its peer might even be illegal, by the invaders’ standards, in which case it would be stupid to let two chims who knew about it run around free. Knowing the Gubru, Fiben figured the Suzerain of Cost and Caution would probably let them go, all right — straight out an airlock into deep space.
Would she believe me, though, if I told her?
He couldn’t chance that. Fiben thought he knew another way to get Sylvie’s undivided attention. “I want you to listen to me carefully,” he told her. “I am not going out to meet your Suzerain. I am not going out there for one simple reason. If I walk out there, knowing what I now know, you and I can kiss my white card goodbye.”
Her eyes locked onto his. A tremor ran down her spine.
“You see, darlin’. I have to behave like a superlative example to chimpdom in order to qualify for that encomium. And what kind of superchimp goes and walks right into somethin’ he already knows is a trap? Hmm?
“No, Sylvie. We’ll probably still get caught anyway. But we’ve gotta be caught tryin’ our very best to escape or it just won’t count! Do you see what I mean?”
She blinked a few times, and finally nodded.