by David Brin
“Anomalous?”
“Yes, that was the word they used. They classified him superior in some respects… ‘odd’ in others. There were no obvious defects, but some ‘strange’ qualities, they said. A couple of the officials were concerned. The Uplift Board decided they’d have to send him to Earth for further evaluation.
“They were very nice about it.” She sniffed. “They offered me the choice of coming along.”
Fiben blinked. “You didn’t go, though.”
She glanced at him. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m terrible. That’s why I never told you before. You’d have refused our deal. You think I’m an unfit mother.”
“No, I—”
“At the time it seemed different, though. My mother was ill. We didn’t have a clan-family, and I didn’t feel I could just leave her in the care of strangers, an’ probably never see her again.
“I was only a yellow card at the time. I knew my child would get a good home on Earth or … Either he’d find favored treatment and be raised in a high-caste neo-chimp home or he’d meet a fate I didn’t want to know. I was so worried we would go all that way and they would only take him away anyway. I guess I also dreaded the shame if he was declared a Probationer.”
She stared down at her hands. “I couldn’t decide, so I tried to get advice. There was this counselor in Port Helenia, a human with the local Uplift Board. He told me what he thought th’ odds were. He said he was sure I’d given birth to a Probie.
“I stayed behind when they took Sichi away. Six … six months later my mother died.”
She looked up at Fiben. “And then, three years after that, word came back from Earth. The news was that my baby was now a happy,’well-adjusted little blue card, growing up in a loving blue-card family. And oh, yeah, I was to be promoted to green.”
Her hands clenched. “Oh, how I hated that damned card! They took me off compulsory yearly contracept injections, so I didn’t have to ask permission anymore if I wanted to conceive again. Trusted me to control my own fertility, like an adult.” She snorted. “Like an adult? A chimmie who abandons her own child? They ignore that, and promote me because he passes some damn tests!”
So, Fiben thought. This was the reason for her bitterness, and for her early collaboration with the Gubru. Much was explained.
“You joined Irongrip’s band out of resentment against the system? Because you hoped things might be different under the Galactics?”
“Something like that, maybe. Or maybe I was just angry.” Sylvie shrugged. “Anyway, after a while I realized something.”
“What was it?”
“I realized that, however bad the system was under humans, it could only be far worse under the Galactics. The humans are arrogant all right. But at least a lot of them feel guilty over their arrogance. They try to temper it. Their horrible history taught them to be wary of hub… hub …”
“Hubris.”
“Yeah. They know what a trap it can be, acting like gods and coming to believe it’s true.
“But the Galactics are used to this meddlesome business! It never occurs to them to have any doubts. They’re so damned smug … I hate them.”
Fiben thought about it. He had learned much during the last few months, and he figured Sylvie might be stating her case a little too strongly. Right now she sounded a lot like Major Prathachulthorn. But Fiben knew there were quite a few Galactic patron races who had reputations for kindness and decency.
Still, it was not his place to judge her bitterness.
Now he understood her nearly single-minded determination to have a child who would be at least a green card from the very start. There had to be no question. She wanted to keep her next baby, and to be sure of grandchildren.
Sitting there next to her, Fiben was uncomfortably certain of Sylvie’s present condition. Unlike human females, chimmies had set cycles of receptivity, and it took some effort to hide them. It was one reason for some of the social and family differences between the two cousin species.
He felt guilty to be aroused by her condition. A soft, poignant feeling lay over the moment, and he was determined not to spoil it by being insensitive. Fiben wished he could console her somehow. And yet, he did not know what to offer her.
He moistened his lips. “Uh. Look, Sylvie.”
She turned. “Yes, Fiben?”
“Um, I really do hope you get … I mean I hope I left enough …” His face felt warm.
She smiled. “Dr. Soo says there probably was. If not, there’s more where that came from.”
He shook his head. “Your confidence is appreciated. But I wouldn’t bet I’ll ever be back again.” He looked away, toward the west.
She took his hand. “Well, I’m not too proud to take extra insurance if it’s offered. Another donation will be accepted, if you feel up to it.”
He blinked, feeling the tempo of his pulse rise. “Uh, you mean right now?”
She nodded: “When else?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He grinned and reached for her. But she held up a hand to stop him.
“Just a minute,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think I am? Candlelight and champagne may be in short supply up here, but a fern generally appreciates at least a little foreplay.”
“Fine by me,” Fiben said. He turned around to present his back for grooming. “Do me, then I’ll do you.”
But she shook her head. “Not that kind of foreplay, Fiben. I had in mind something much more stimulating.”
She reached behind the tree and brought forth a cylindrical object made of carved wood, one end covered by a tautly stretched skin. Fiben’s eyes widened. “A drum?”
She sat with the little handmade instrument between her knees. “It’s your own damn fault, Fiben Bolger. You showed me something special, and from now on I’ll never be satisfied with anything less.”
Her deft fingers rattled off a quick rhythm.
“Dance,” she said. “Please.”
Fiben sighed. Obviously she wasn’t kidding. This choreo-maniac chimmie was crazy, of course, whatever the Uplift Board said. It seemed to be the type he fell for.
There are some ways we’ll never be like humans, he thought as he picked up a branch and shook it tentatively. He dropped it and tried another. Already he felt flushed and full of energy.
Sylvie tapped the drum, starting with a rapid, exhilarating tempo that made his breath sharpen. The shine in her eyes seemed to warm his blood.
That is as it should be. We are our own selves, he knew.
Fiben took the branch in a two-handed grip and brought it down on a nearby log, sending leaves and brush exploding in all directions. “Ook…” he said.
His second blow was harder though, and as the beat picked up his next cry came with more enthusiasm.
The morning fog had evaporated. No thunder rolled. The uncooperative universe had not even provided a single cloud in the sky. Still, Fiben figured he could probably manage this time without the lightning.
78
Galactics
In Gubru Military Enacampment Sixteen, the chaos at the top had begun affecting those lower down in the ranks. There were squabbles over allotments and supplies, and over the behavior of common soldiers, whose contempt for the support staff reached new and dangerous levels.
At afternoon prayer time, many of the Talon Soldiers put on the traditional ribbons of mourning for the Lost Progenitors and joined the priestly chaplain to croon in low unison. The less devout majority, who generally kept a respectful silence during such services, now seemed to make it a special occasion for gambling and loud commotion. Sentries preened and purposely sent loose feathers drifting in strong breezes so they would pass distractingly among the faithful.
Discordant noises could be heard during work, during maintenance, during training exercises.
The stoop-colonel in charge of the eastern encampments happened to be on an inspection tour and witnessed this disharmony in person. It wasted no time on indecis
ion. At once the stoop-colonel ordered all personnel of Encampment Sixteen assembled. Then the officer gathered the camp’s chief administrator and the chaplain by its side upon a platform and addressed those gathered below.
“Let it not be said, bandied, rumored,
That Gubru soldiers have lost their vision!
Are we orphans? Lost? Abandoned?
Or members of a great clan!
What were we, are we, shall we be?
Warriors, builders, but most of all -
Proper carriers of tradition!”
For some time the stoop-colonel spoke to them so — joined in persuasive song by the camp’s administrator and its spiritual advisor — until, at last, the shamed soldiers and staff began to coo together in a rising chorus of harmony.
They made the effort, invested the time, one small united regiment of military, bureaucrats, and priests, and struggled as one to overcome their doubts.
For a brief while then, there did indeed take shape a consensus.
79
Gailet
…Even among those rare and tragic cases, wolfling species, there have existed crude versions of these techniques. While primitive, their methods also involved rituals of “combat-of-honor,” and by such means kept aggressiveness and warfare under some degree of restraint.
Take, for example, the.most recent clan ofwolflings — the “humans” of Sol HI. Before their discovery by Galactic culture, their primitive “tribes” often used ritual to hold in check the cycles of ever-increasing violence normally to be expected from such an unguided species. (No doubt these traditions derived from warped memories of their long lost patron race.)
Among the simple but effective methods used by pre-Contact humans (see citations) were the method of counting coup for honor among the “american indians,” trial by champion among the “medieval europeans,” and deterrence by mutual assured destruction, among the “continental tribal states.”
Of course, these techniques lacked the subtlety, the delicate balance and homeostasis, of the modern rules of behavior laid out by the Institute for Civilized Warfare…
“That’s it. Break time. I’m puttin’ a T on it. Enough.”
Gailet blinked, her eyes unfocusing as the rude voice drew her back out of her reading trance. The library unit sensed this and froze the text in front of her.
She looked to her left. Sprawled in the beanbag, her new “partner” threw his datawell aside and yawned, stretching his lanky, powerful frame. “Time for a drink,” he said lazily.
“You haven’t even made it through the first edited summary,” Gailet said.
He grinned. “Aw, I don’t know why we’ve got to study this shit. The Eatees will be surprised if we remember to bow and recite our own species-name. They don’t expect neo-chimps to be geniuses, y’know.”
“Apparently not. And your comprehension scores will certainly reinforce the impression.”
That made him frown momentarily. He forced a grin again. “You, on the other hand, are tryin’ so hard — I’m sure the Eatees will find it terribly cute.”
louche, Gailet thought. It hadn’t taken the two of them very long to learn how to cut each other where it hurt.
Maybe this is yet another test. They are seeing how far my patience can be stretched before it snaps.
Maybe… but not very likely. She had not seen the Suzerain of Propriety for more than a week. Instead, she had been dealing with a committee of three pastel-tinged Gubru, one from each faction. And it was the blue-tinted Talon Soldier who strutted foremost at these meetings.
Yesterday they had all gone down to the ceremonial site for a “rehearsal.” Although she was still undecided whether to cooperate in the final event, Gailet had come to realize that it might already be too late to change her mind.
The seaside hill had been sculpted and landscaped so that the giant power plants were no longer visible. The terraced slopes led elegantly upward, one after another, marred only by bits of debris brought in by the steady autumnal winds. Already, bright banners flapped in the easterlies, marking the stations where the neo-chimp representatives would be asked to recite, or answer questions, or submit to intense scrutiny.
There at the site, with the Gubru standing close by, Irongrip had been to all outward appearances a model student. And perhaps it had been more than a wish to curry favor that had made him so uncharacteristically studious. After all, these were facts that had direct bearing upon his ambitions. That afternoon, his quick intelligence had shone.
Now though, with them alone together under the vast vault of the New Library, other aspects of his nature came to the fore. “So how ’bout it?” Irongrip said, as he leaned over her chair and gave her a cyprian leer. “Want to step outside for some air? We could slip into the eucalyptus grove and—”
“There are two chances of that,” she snapped. “Fat and slim.”
He laughed. “Put it off until the ceremony, then, if you like it public. Then it’ll be you an’ me, babe, with the whole Five Galaxies watchin’.” He grinned and flexed his powerful hands. His knuckles cracked.
Gailet turned away and closed her eyes. She had to concentrate to keep her lower lip from trembling. Rescue me, she wished against all hope or reason.
Logic chided her for even thinking it. After all, her white knight was only an ape, and almost certainly dead.
Still, she couldn’t help crying inside. Fiben, I need you. Fiben, come back.
80
Robert
His blood sang.
After months in the mountains — living as his ancestors had, on wits and his own sweat, his toughened skin growing used to the sun and the scratchy rub of native fibers — Robert still had not yet realized the changes in himself, not until he puffed up the last few meters of the narrow, rocky trail and crossed in ten long strides from one watershed to another.
The top of Rwanda Pass… I’ve climbed a thousand meters in two hours, and my heart is scarcely beating fast.
He did not really feel any need to rest, however Robert made himself stow down to a walk. Anyway, the view was worth lingering over.
He stood atop the very spine of the Mulun range. Behind him, to the north, the mountains stretched eastward in a thickening band, and westward toward the sea, where they continued in an archipelago of fat, towering islands.
It had taken him a day and a half of running to get here from the caves, and now he saw ahead of him the panorama he would have yet to cross to reach his destination.
I’m not even sure how to find what I’m looking for! Athaclena’s instructions had been as vague as her own impressions of where to send him.
More mountains stretched ahead of him, dropping away sharply toward a dun-colored steppe partially obscured by haze. Before he reached those plains there would be still more rise and fall over narrow trails that had only felt a few score feet even during peacetime. Robert was probably the first to- come this way since the outbreak of war.
The hardest part was over, though. He didn’t enjoy downhill running, but Robert knew how to take the jolting, fall-stepping so as to avoid damaging his knees. And there would be water lower down.
He shook his leather canteen and took a sparing swallow. Only a few deciliters remained, but he was sure they’d do.
He shaded his eyes and looked beyond the nearest purple peaks to the high slopes where he would have to make his camp tonight. There would be streams all right, but no lush rain forests like on the wet northern side of the Mulun. And he would have to think about hunting for food soon, before’ he sallied forth onto the dry savannah.
Apache braves could run from TQOS to the Pacific in a few days and not eat anything but a handful of parched corn along the way.
He wasn’t an Apache brave, of course. He did have a few grams of vitamin concentrate with him, but for the sake of speed he had chosen to travel light. For now, quickness counted more than his grumbling stomach.
He skirted aside where a recent landslide had broken the p
ath. Then he set a slightly faster pace as the trail dropped into a set of tight switchbacks.
That night Robert slept in a moss-filled notch just above a trickling spring, wrapped in a thin silk blanket. His dreams were slow and as quiet as he imagined space might be, if one ever got away from the constant humming of machines.
Mostly, it was the stillness in the empathy net, after months living in the riot of the rain forest, that lent a soft loneliness to his slumber. One might kenn far in an empty land such as this — even with senses as crude as his.
And for the first time there was not the harsh — metaphorically almost metallic — hint of alien minds to be felt off in the northwest. He was shielded from the Gubru, and from the humans and chims for that matter. Solitude was a strange sensation.
The strangeness did not evaporate by the dawn’s light. He filled his canteen from the spring and drank deeply to take the edge off his hunger. Then the run began anew.
On this steeper slope the descent was wearing, but the miles did go by quickly. Before the sun was more than halfway toward the zenith the high steppe had opened up around him. He ran across rolling foothills now — kilometers falling behind him like thoughts barely contemplated and then forgotten. And as he ran, Robert probed the countryside. Soon he felt certain that the expanse held odd entities, somewhere out there beyond or among the tall grasses.
If only kenning were more of a localizing sense! Perhaps it was this very imprecision that had kept humans from ever developing their own crude abilities.
Instead, we concentrated on other things.
There was a game that was often played both on Earth and among interested Galactics. It consisted of trying to reconstruct the fabled “lost patrons of humanity,” the half-mythical starfarers who supposedly began the Uplift of human beings perhaps fifty thousand years ago and then departed in mystery, leaving the job “only half done.”