The Damned Trilogy

by Alan Dean Foster

  “And with good reason.” She shifted dialects effortlessly, from one of admonition to one indicative of deep concern. “Your very health and future are at stake. Even the males in the family are concerned.”

  “Everyone is worrying themselves needlessly.” Lalelelang’s reply was strong, but she could not meet her mother’s gaze. She focused instead on the other midday diners, careful not to stare at any one group or individual for too long.

  Her mother’s neck contracted. “I do not understand you. I do not understand how you can cope.” She reached for one of the half-dozen lightly broiled Hapuli grubs on her second plate, hesitated, and withdrew her wingtips. Distress had ruined her appetite.

  “I have trained myself,” Lalelelang explained. “When dealing with extremes I use the special medication that has been devised for such purposes.”

  Her mother whistled soft derision. “Who ever heard of embarking on a career that requires periodic ingestion of strong medication merely to enable one to maintain one’s normal equilibrium? What sane Wais would voluntarily subject themselves to such a prospect?”

  “There have been one or two,” Lalelelang protested. “Not here on Mahmahar, but off-world. Careerists of the diplomatic service.”

  “They had no choice. You do. Yet even they did not opt for this peculiar … specialization … that so perversely attracts you.” She adjusted her posture significantly. “I concede you the honors you have won, but surely you must have noticed with what distaste they have been granted?”

  “Someone must do the distasteful work,” Lalelelang countered.

  Her mother’s beak clicked regretfully. “Yes, but why you? Why the brightest of my offspring?”

  “Because I am the best suited, and additionally the only one so inclined.”

  “So you continue to insist.” She straightened formally in her chair. “It is clear you are obsessed by this and intend to pursue it, no matter the dangers.”

  “It is not an obsession. It is simply what I have chosen. Or as certain poets say, for reasons unfathomable it has chosen me. I am already regarded as one of the top three in the field.”

  “Easy enough to excel at something everyone else avoids.” An uncomfortable pause followed this observation, which neither mother nor daughter knew how to gracefully break. As the younger, Lalelelang finally felt it incumbent on her to speak out.

  “Then you won’t come to the presentation tomorrow?”

  “Do you really think I could cope with it?”

  “I do not know, but I would like you to see some of my work instead of condemning it solely on the basis of second-and third-hand knowledge.”

  The senior ’lang’s feathers quivered. “I am sorry. The mere thought unsettles my insides. It is difficult enough just to sit here and discuss the subject with you. But to actually observe your work … no, I cannot. Of course, your father will not be present, either.”

  “Because you refuse him permission?”

  “Don’t speak ill of your father. As males go he is exceptional. Your genes speak to that. It is simply that he has no more stomach for your choice of subject matter than do I. The same is true of your brother and sisters.”

  Lalelelang considered the remnants of what had been a less than serene meal. “I expected no more. I’m sorry you will not be present. It is fascinating material, when you consider that in the first instance—”

  “Please, daughter.” Both wings rose at just the precise angle to emphasize unease. “I have heard quite enough already. Remember that though as a good parent I tolerate your fixation, that does not mean I am required to share in it. It astonishes me that any in your department can do so. Tell me: Prior to such presentations, do they also take medication?”

  “I am sure there are some who do, as a precautionary measure if for no other reason. You may not believe it, but there are others besides myself who can examine everything without special preparation. It’s like working with any toxin; the more you are exposed to it, the greater the immunity you build up. Though there are always surprises.”

  “And this is the life you have chosen.” Her mother steadied herself. “To scholar the war is one thing. But to focus on the Human quotient?” Her eyelids flicked eloquently. “If you had not graded out so remarkably on all the standard tests, I would have recommended you for advanced adolescent therapy.”

  Rising from the table, they commenced the ritual of parting suitable for female parents and second daughters. “I know that you love me, Mother.” Wingtips, eyelashes, feathers, and beaks all bobbed and swayed in eloquent, intricate rhythm as she spoke.

  “I do indeed, despite the repulsive avocation you have selected.” Wingtips danced and lightly caressed.

  The following day Lalelelang strove to put her mother’s words and deep concern out of her mind as she checked the equipment in the tiny auditorium. Given the light attendance expected, there was no reason to request a larger facility. Besides, it was convenient to her office and relatively isolated from the main body of the university. No one should be offended.

  Attendance was restricted to those qualified either by membership in the department or dual recommendation from a senior scholar. This was as much for the protection of unwary students as anything else. Should an unprepared innocent expecting a normal lecture happen to wander into one of Lalelelang’s presentations, the resultant emotional and mental damage could be serious.

  She wasn’t worried about that. Security was the responsibility of others, and she gave herself over wholly to the upcoming presentation.

  The audience consisted of a dozen expectant observers, each occupying a cradling individual rest pad. Like everything else on Mahmahar, or any Wais world, the presentation chamber had been constructed with an eye for beauty as well as function. Each pad had its own lighting and reproductive screen, as well as remote terminals for recording and observing.

  The holo projector stood quiescent off to one side, and a simple flat screen had been secured to the depth wall. Lalelelang had learned early on in Human Studies that the usual life-simulating three-dimensional projections were too unsettling for even experienced researchers to handle. Displaying Humans in flat, obviously artificial two dimensions, particularly when combat was involved, made it much easier for novitiates to take and was about all most Wais could handle.

  She lit the slightly curved flat screen and checked the projector, adjusting the speech amplifier clipped to her lower beak. Most of those in attendance were known to her, though her heart jumped slightly when she noticed Fasacicing among them. He was accompanied by the two other males of his bonding trio, probably for moral support.

  All three worked in the sociohistory department, though only Fasacicing had shown any interest in Human Studies. For the most part they preferred to specialize in the easy prewar Golden Period of Waisisill itself. It was a mildly rewarding and decidedly unchallenging field of endeavor. Fasacicing was taking her lectures as a subspecialty. He was a handsome and extremely colorful specimen, gratifyingly flamboyant in his plumage and manner of dress. They had exchanged more than pleasantries on several occasions, advancing as far as fifth-stage verbal-physical interaction. Try as she had, she’d been unable to stimulate him to further action. He remained interested, however.

  She had to concentrate on her presentation, though that didn’t mean she couldn’t spare him an occasional glance. She’d acknowledged his arrival with a semiformal wave of one wing, and his triumvirate had responded synchronously, acknowledging as three the greeting intended for one. She admired his stride, almost a prance, as the trio entered and settled into adjoining pads.

  After allowing a decent amount of time for late arrivals, she launched into her presentation, beginning with a verbal overview of her most recent work, reading from her next report, and finally dimming the lights and initiating visuals. Immediately those peripheral attendees began to squirm and fidget uncontrollably. She made no concessions for them. The subject of her presentation was clearly described in
the university overprogram and it was incumbent upon everyone present to know what to expect.

  Though life-size and sharply defined, the images displayed on screen were reassuringly flat, rendering them considerably less intimidating than they would have been in three dimensions. Even so, a few distressed murmurs were audible from the back row, close by the entry portal. This was normal. Lalelelang ignored them and continued with her erudite explication.

  “As I mentioned earlier, today we will be examining social interaction between Human fighting forces and various noncombative representatives of the Weave. In this particular case study, the Hivistahm.”

  Lalelelang culled her visuals and related information from multiple sources, distilling those items of interest to her from numerous nonmilitary as well as military venues. Given the length of time Humans had been in the alliance, there were a fair number of sources to choose from. Such had not been the case hundreds of years ago, when contact with the Weave’s erstwhile Human allies had been restricted for safety’s sake.

  Still, it was difficult to find usable recordings that illustrated specific instances of social interaction between Human soldiers and representatives of other Weave species, since the latter did their best to avoid the former even in noncombat situations. When such contact did occur, it was usually accidental. Lalelelang spent a good deal of her time scouring otherwise uninformative media reportage in search of the occasional useful nugget.

  Sometimes representatives of logistical support teams, be they Hivistahm, O’o’yan, or S’van, would find themselves accidentally caught up in a flurry of fighting. More rarely a media or military reporter would be present. Out of this exotic combination of circumstances came what little material she could use.

  She began with updated diagrams, giving the preoccupied a final opportunity to ingest any personal medication. As for herself, she’d been able to dispense with most of it two years ago, scientific detachment and experience having combined to inure her to even the most shocking sights. As she delved more deeply into the presentation and Massood, Humans, and others began to appear on screen in abnormal proximity to one another and to actual fighting, the usual outbreak of involuntary chirpings and whistlings began in the audience. Personal recorders took down everything that was shown, everything she said.

  When the first detailed combat footage appeared, the shuffling sounds from the rear of the auditorium grew more pronounced. Even several of her regular students looked a little queasy. But no one left.

  As she elucidated, the projector flashed a particularly graphic sequence showing Human soldiers taking apart a slightly larger number of attacking Crigolit. An isolated incidence of unsuppressible regurgitation from somewhere in the auditorium failed to interrupt the flow of either words or images. Courteous or not, she didn’t have time to coddle the unprepared.

  It was normal for several visitors to throw up during the course of her presentations, and so she was anything but shocked when it happened.

  There was the usual palpable whistle of relief when she concluded the visual exhibition and resumed unsupported speaking. Her gestures, she knew, were not as refined as those of more experienced scholars, her movements not as polished by the winds of academic discourse. In her presentations information took precedence over skill of delivery. No doubt this would slow her professional advancement, but it in no way abrogated the efficacy of the material she was imparting, and she was content with that.

  As she shut down the equipment and pocketed the storage bead in her shoulder pouch, she took a moment to study the faces of her departing audience. It was smaller than when she’d begun, several visitors having left—or fled—prior to completion. This was not unprecedented. She might have smiled had her inflexible upper beak permitted such an expression. Not being so endowed, the Wais instead made do with a bewildering variety of gestures, eye movements, and vocal inflections. It was not a deficiency they felt keenly.

  Crossing the auditorium, she intercepted Fis and his companions. He seemed to have handled the presentation all right, his expression being only slightly queasy. Though his companions looked less well, they still ritually interposed themselves between the oncoming mature female and her obvious quarry. Either of them would readily have mated with her to cover for a less adventurous member of their triumvirate.

  While there was nothing wrong with either young male, it was Fis who attracted her. As usual he did not respond to her elegantly convoluted request for a private meeting—a date, the Humans would have called it, though for a Wais the social implications were far more subtle—with the result that the rest of the four-way conversation was politely formal if somewhat stilted.

  As they departed, however, one of his companions returned with the message that Fis would be pleased to meet with her in two weeks, if only to mute her persistence. Naturally she professed indifference even as she acknowledged the acquiescence. Colleagues had worried and even quietly criticized her lack of a normal social life. Perhaps evidence of this ritually scheduled assignation would mollify them for a while. Societal politics were the lifeblood of Wais culture, but sacrificing valuable research time to meet one’s minimum expected social obligations could sometimes be a pain.

  It was a blunt observation for a Wais to make, but one couldn’t spend months studying Humans without being influenced, however slightly, by the subject of one’s studies. She knew that among the university hierarchy her unusual straightforwardness was not always appreciated.

  Two weeks, then. If they could finalize a casual assignation, it would go a long way toward silencing her critics. Nor was she totally averse to such a liaison. Fis was mature enough and his companions respectable. There was also that streak of iridescent lavender that ran from his neck down onto his chest …

  She made a last check of the auditorium equipment. Sometimes it was hard to be a female, she thought. You were always expected to make the first moves. That derived from ancient days when male body chemistry was governed by hormones that fired only several times in a year. Science had since homogenized that biocurve, but social conventions had proven far harder to change.

  What must it be like for Humans, she wondered, where the male was usually expected to be the aggressive one? Or for the Massood, whose minimal biological and social differentiations allowed sexual courtship to proceed in an atmosphere of genteel ease? She could envision both from an academic standpoint, but not a personal one.

  By now the auditorium was deserted except for herself and one remaining visitor. She blinked in surprise, wondering what Kicucachen wanted. She hadn’t noticed the presence of her departmental superior earlier and decided that he must have entered while her presentation was still in progress.

  While it wasn’t like him to drop in on scheduled lectures, neither was it unprecedented. She observed that despite the loss of color in his crest and chest feathers he was still handsome. Not in Fis’s class, but still a viable mate. It was a compliment for someone of his advanced years. She did not voice it, of course. Given the difference in their respective scholarly positions that would have been a serious breach of academic etiquette.

  There was nothing wrong with her speaking first, however.

  “Are you all right, Senior?”

  “I believe so.” His reply was strong despite undisguised overtones of discomfort. “I hadn’t been to one of your infamous Human Studies presentations in some time and had forgotten how graphic they can be.” He glanced involuntarily in the direction of the now blank screen, as if something alien and lethal might still be lurking there just waiting to pounce on the next unwary passerby and tear him beak from limb.

  “You certainly haven’t moderated your subject matter.”

  “I study Human activities in war and how they relate to the rest of Weave culture, particularly our own.” She made a show of adjusting the projector. “The actions of Human beings do not easily lend themselves to moderation. It is not something that can be adequately studied through indirection.”


  Seeing that the brusqueness of her response had taken him aback, she hastened to soften it with appropriate follow-up gestures. It was an awkward attempt and she made a bad job of it, but he showed no offense.

  “You are a very unusual individual, Lalelelang. It is a continual surprise to many in the administration that someone of your background and ability should have settled on so gruesome a specialty.”

  She chose not to comment. There was no specific reason to do so, as she’d been hearing the same thing for many years.

  “Might I inquire if you have found time in your busy schedule to make arrangements to mate?”

  For a change, a comfortable coincidence. She relaxed. “There is someone I am interested in, but it is difficult. My work keeps me so occupied.”

  “Yes, your dedication is frequently remarked upon.” The senior strove, not entirely successfully, to conceal his impatience. “May I accompany you back to your office?”

  “I delight in your company,” she said, knowing she was hardly in a position to refuse. Her crest erected proportionately.

  As they walked, scholars and students, visitors and researchers swirled around them, a brilliantly chromatic academic conflagration of dialects and whistles, chirps and dips and bobs, that wonderfully poised social interaction of gregarious Wais on a mass scale which would have appeared to some outsider as a carefully and exquisitely choreographed dance. Among the sweeping gestures and strides, the arch of feathery crests and flashes of male iridescence, the luster of clothing and jewelry, the occasional exchange student or scholar representing some other species stood out like a chunk of weathered debris drifting across the surface of an otherwise mirror-still lake.

  Here a bright green Hivistahm, all scales and polish. Alongside a coiffured stream, a clannish pair of even smaller O’o’yan murmuring to one another.

  “Don’t tell me administration is complaining again?”

  “No.” The senior’s eyelids barely flickered. “They recognize the significance of your work and know that someone has to do it. Since they do not dare appoint anyone, they are silently grateful for your enthusiasm. In the final analysis it affords them more relief than distress.”