by David Brin
“Creativity. If I’m right, it calls for a different kind of grammar. A completely different way of looking at error.”
“One that welcomes error. Embraces it.” Dedinger nodded. “This part of your paper I had trouble following. You say Anglic is better because it lacks redundancy coding. Because errors and ambiguity creep into every phrase or paragraph. But how can chaos engender inventiveness?”
“By shattering preconceptions. By allowing illogical, preposterous, even obviously wrong statements to parse in reasonable-sounding expressions. Like the paradox — ‘This sentence is a lie’ — which can’t be spoken grammatically in any formal Galactic tongue. By putting manifest contradictions on an equal footing with the most time-honored and widely held assumptions, we are tantalized, confused. Our thoughts stumble out of step.”
“This is good?”
“It’s how creativity works, especially in humans. For every good idea, ten thousand idiotic ones must first be posed, sifted, tried out, and discarded. A mind that’s afraid to toy with the ridiculous will never come up with the brilliantly original — some absurd concept that future generations will assume to have been ‘obvious’ all along.
“One result has been a profusion of new words — a vocabulary vastly greater than ancient languages. Words for new things, new ideas, new ways of comparing and reasoning.”
Dedinger muttered, “And new disasters. New misunderstandings.”
Sara nodded, conceding the point.
“It’s a dangerous process. Earth’s bloody past shows how imagination and belief turn into curses unless they’re accompanied by critical judgment. Writing, logic, and experimentation help replace some of the error-correction that used to come embedded in grammar. Above all, mature people must consider that most unpleasant of all possibilities — that their own favorite doctrines might prove wrong.”
She watched Dedinger. Would the man catch on that she had aimed that barb at him?
The exiled pedagogue gave Sara a wry smile.
“Has it occurred to you, Miss Sara, that your last statement could apply to you and your own beloved hypothesis?”
Now it was Sara’s turn to wince, then laugh aloud.
“Human nature. Each of us thinks we know what we’re talking about and those disagreeing are fools. Creative people see Prometheus in a mirror, never Pandora.”
Dedinger spoke with an ironic edge. “Sometimes the torch I carry scorches my fingers.”
Sara could not tell how much he meant the remark in jest. Often she found it easier to read the feelings of a boon, or g’Kek, than some members of her own enigmatic race. Still, she found herself enjoying the conversation, the first of its kind in quite some time.
“As for trends here on Jijo, just look at the new rhythmic novels being published by some of the northern urrish tribes. Or the recent burst of hoonish romantic poetry. Or the GalTwo haiku imagery coming out of the Vale—”
A sharp whistle cut her short — a guttural, stop-command piped by UrKachu’s upstretched throat. The queue of tired animals jostled to a halt, as the Urunthai leader pointed north of a stone spire, decreeing that a camouflaged shelter be raised in its long, tapered shadow.
In its shadow…
Blinking, Sara looked around to see that the night was over. Dawn-light filtered over the peaks, sifting through an early-morning haze. They had climbed among the mountains, or at least the rocky foothills, leaving behind the parched Warril Plain. Alas, they were by now far south of the well-worn trail leading to the Glade of Gathering.
Dedinger’s courtliness clashed with his rough appearance, as he excused himself to organize his men. “I’ve enjoyed matching wits,” he told her with a bow. “Perhaps we can resume later.”
“Perhaps.”
Although the discussion had been a pleasant diversion, she had no doubt the man would sacrifice her, along with all of her ideas, on the altar of his faith. Sara vowed to be ready for any occasion to sneak her friends away from these fanatics.
Right. An old man, a boy, a chimpanzee, a wounded alien, and an out-of-shape intellectual — even if we got a huge head start, these urs and desert-men would catch us faster than you can transform a sine wave.
Still, she gazed north toward high peaks where momentous events were taking place in hidden valleys, and thought — We’d better move fast, or else Ifni, God, and the universe will surely move on without us.
Asx
Now comes our turn to threatens. Proctors fight to hold back a furious throng, hemming our erstwhile guests inside a circle of rage. The remaining alien-lovers, mostly humans, form a protective ring around the star-beings, while the twin robots swoop and dive, enforcing a buffer zone with bolts of stinging lightning.
Lester Cambel steps forward, raising both hands for calm. The raucous noise ebbs, as members of the mob ease their pressure on the harried proctors. Soon silence reigns. No one wants to miss the next move in this game, wherein all of us on Jijo are tokens being gambled, to be won or lost, counting on our skill and luck.
Lester bows to the Rothen emissary. In one hand he bears a stack of metal plates.
“Now let’s drop all pretense,” he tells the star-god. “We know you for what you are. Nor can you trick us into genocidal suicide, doing your dirty work.
“Furthermore, should you try to do the job yourselves, annihilating all witnesses to your illegal visit, you will fail. All you’ll accomplish is to increase your list of crimes.
“We recommend that you be satisfied. Take what you will from this world, and go.”
The male star-human bursts forth, outraged. “How dare you speak so to a patron of your race!” Rann chastises, red-faced. “Apologize for your insolence!”
But Lester ignores Rann, whose status has diminished in the eyes of the Six. A toady/servant does not dictate to a sage, no matter what godlike powers he wields.
Instead, our human envoy offers one of the metal plates to Ro-kenn.
“We are not proud of this art form. It uses materials that won’t age or degrade back into Mother Jijo’s soil. Rather, it is adamant. Resistant to time. Properly stored, its images will last until this world again teems with legal sapient life.
“Normally, we would send such dross to where Jijo can recycle it in fire. But in this case, we’ll make an exception.”
The Rothen emissary turns the plate in the morning light. Unlike a paper photograph, this kind of image is best viewed from certain angles, we/i know what it depicts, do we not, my rings? The plate shows Ro-kenn and his comrades just before that ill-starred pilgrimage — a journey whose horrors still drip vexingly down our waxy core. Bloor the Portraitist developed the picture to serve as an instrument of blackmail.
“Other images depict your party in various poses, performing surveys, testing candidate species, often with backgrounds that clearly portray this place, this world. The shape of glaciers and eroding cliffs will set the date within a hundred years. Perhaps less.”
The rewq covering our/my torus-of-vision reveals ripples crisscrossing Ro-kenn’s face, again a dissonance of clashing emotions — but which ones? Are we getting better at reading this alien life-form? The second of our cognition rings seems deeply curious about the clashing colors.
The Rothen holds out an elegant hand.
“May I see the others?”
Lester hands them over. “This is but a sampling. Naturally, a detailed record of our encounter with your ship and crew has also been etched on durable metal, to accompany these pictures into hiding.”
“Naturally,” Ro-kenn answers smoothly, perusing one plate after another, turning them in the sunshine. “You have retained unusual arts, for self-accursed sooners. Indeed, I have never seen the like, even in civilized space.”
This flattery draws some murmurs from the crowd. Ro-kenn is once more being charming.
Lester continues, “Any acts of vengeance or genocide against the Six will also be chronicled this way. It is doubtful you can wipe us out before hidden scribes
complete such a record.”
“Doubtful indeed.” Ro-kenn pauses, as if considering his options. Given his earlier arrogance, we had expected outrage over being blackmailed in this way, plus indignation over the implied disrespect. It would not surprise us to see open contempt for an effort by half-beasts to threaten a deity.
Instead, do we now perceive something like cautious calculation cross his features? Does he realize we have him cornered? Ro-kenn shrugs in a manner not unlike a human. “What shall be done, then? If we agree to your demands, how can we be certain these will not reappear anyway, to plague our descendants someday? Will you sell these records to us now, in return for our promise to go in peace?”
Now it is Lester who laughs. Turning half toward the crowd, he gestures with one hand. “Had you come after the Commons experienced another century or two of peace, we might have trustingly accepted. But who among us has not heard stories told by old-timers who were there when Broken-Tooth deceived Ur-xouna near False Bridge, at the end of the old wars? What human has not read moving accounts of some great-grandfather who escaped the slaughter at Truce Gorge, during the Year of Lies?”
He turned back to Ro-kenn. “Our knowledge of deceit comes self-taught. Peace was hard-won — its lessons not forgotten.
“No, mighty Rothen. With apologies, we decline simply to take you at your word.”
This time a mere flick of one slender hand holds back the outraged Rann, checking another outburst. Ro-kenn himself seems amused, although the strange dissonance once more cuts his visage.
“Then what guarantee have we that you will destroy these items, and not leave them in a place where they may be found by future tenants of this world? Or worse, by Galactic Institutes, as little as a thousand years from now?”
Lester is prepared with an answer.
“There is irony here, Oh mighty Rothen. If we, as a people, remember you, then we are still witnesses who can testify against your crime. Thus, if we retain memory, you have reason to act against us.
“If, on the other hand, we successfully follow the path of redemption and forgetfulness, in a thousand years we may already be like glavers, innocuous to you. No longer credible to testify. If so, you will have no cause to harm us. To do so would be senseless, even risky.”
“True, but if you have by that time forgotten our visit, would you not also forget the hiding places where you cached these images?” Ro-kenn holds up a plate. “They will lie in ambush, like lurker missiles, patiently awaiting some future time to home in on our race.”
Lester nodded. “That is the irony. Perhaps it can be solved by making a vow of our own — to teach our descendants a song — a riddle, as it were — something simple, that will resonate even when our descendants have much simpler minds.”
“And what function will this puzzle serve?”
“We will tell our children that if ever beings come from the sky who know the riddle’s answer, they must retrieve these items from sacred sites, handing them over to the star-lords — your own successors, Oh mighty Rothen. Naturally, if we Six retain detailed memory of your crime, we sages will prevent the hand-over, for it will be too soon. But that memory will not be taught to children, nor passed on with the same care as we teach the riddle. For to remember your crime is to hold on to a poison, one that can kill.
“We would rather forget how and why you ever came. Only then will we be safe from your wrath.”
It is an ornately elaborate bargain that Lester offers. In council he had been forced to explain its logic three times. Now the crowd mutters, parsing the idea element by element, sharing bits of understanding until a murmur of admiration flows like molten clarity around the circle of close-pressed beings. Indeed, the bargain contains inherent elegance.
“How shall we know that all the items will be accounted for in this way?” Ro-kenn asks.
“To some extent, you must trust to luck. You were gamblers coming on this mission in the first place, were you not, mighty Rothen? I can tell you this. We have no grand desire to have these images arrive across the ages for Institute lawyers to pore over, looking for reasons to punish our own species-cousins, still roaming the stars. In their hardness and durability, these plates are an insult to our own goal on this world, to be shriven down to innocence. To earn a second chance.”
Ro-kenn ponders this.
“It seems we may have come to Jijo a few thousand years too soon. If you succeed in following your Path, this world will be a treasure trove.”
His meaning is not clear at first, then a mutter passes through the crowd, from urrish snorts to qheuenish hisses and finally booming hoonish laughter. Some are impressed by Ro-kenn’s wit, others by the implied compliment — that the Rothen would wish to adopt any presentient races that we Six might become. But that reaction is not universal. Some of those assembled seethe angrily, rejecting any notion of adoption by Ro-kenn’s folk.
Don’t we/i find this anger silly, my rings? Have client races any control over who becomes their patron? Not according to lore we’ve read.
But those books will be dust long before any of this comes to pass.
“Shall we swear oaths?” Ro-kenn asks. “This time based on the most pragmatic assurance of all — mutual deterrence?
“By this new arrangement, we shall depart in our ship, waiting only till our scout craft returns from its final mission, choking back whatever bitterness we feel over the foul murder of our comrades. In return, you all vow to forget our intrusion and our foolish effort to speak through the voice of your Holy Egg.”
“It is agreed,” replies Knife-Bright Insight, clicking two claws. “Tonight we’ll confer and choose a riddle whose secret key will be told to you. When next your kind comes to Jijo, may it be to find a world of innocents. That key will guide you to the hiding place. You may then remove the dross images. Our deal will be done.”
Hope washes over the crowd, striking our rewq as a wave of soft green tremors.
Can we credit the possibility, my rings? That the Six might live to see a happy ending? To the zealots this seems all that they desired. Their young leader dances jubilation. Now there will be no punishment for their violent acts. Rather, they will be known as heroes of the Commons.
What do you say, my ring?
Our second cognition-torus reminds us that some heretics might prefer that angry fire and plagues rid Jijo of this infestation called the Six. And yes, there is yet another, even smaller heretical fringe. Eccentrics who foresee our destiny lying in a different direction-scarcely hinted by sacred scrolls. Why do you bring this up, my ring? What possible relevance can such nonsense have, at this time and place?
Scribes write down details of the pact. Soon High Sages will be called to witness and assent. (Prepare, my lower rings!) Meanwhile, we ponder again the anomaly brought to our waxy notice by the rewq, which still conveys vexing colors from Ro-kenn. Could they be shades of deceit! Deceit and amusement! Eager gladness to accept our offer, but only in appearance, buying time until—
Stop it, we command our second ring, which gets carried away all too easily. It has read too many novels. We do not know the Rothen well enough to read subtle, complex meanings in his alien visage.
Besides, don’t we have Ro-kenn trapped? Has he not reason to fear the images on those plates of hard metal? Logically, he dare not risk them being passed on to incriminate his race, his line.
Or does he know something we do not?
Ah — what a silly question to ask, when pondering a star-god!
While hope courses the crowd, i/we grow more nervous by the dura. What if they care nothing about the photographs? Then Ro-kenn might agree to anything, for it would not matter what vows were signed, once his almighty ship arrives. From that point on, with his personal safety assured…
…
we never get a chance to complete that dripping contemplation. For suddenly, something new happens! Far too quickly for wax to ooze.
…
It begins with a shrill human cry
—
One of the sycophants, a devoted Rothen-follower, points behind the star-beings, toward the raised bier where their two dead comrades lie—
Silky cloths had been draped across the two who were slain in the explosion. But now we see those coverings are pulled back, exposing the late Rothen and the late sky-human —
Do we now perceive Bloor the Portraitist, poised with his recording device, attempting to photograph the faces of the dead!
Bloor ignores growls of anger rising from those-who-follow-the-Rothen-as-patrons. Calmly, he-slides out one exposed plate and inserts another. He appears entranced, focused on his art, even as attention turns his way from Rann, then an outraged Ro-kenn, who screams in terse Galactic Six—
Bloor glimpses the swooping robot and has time to perform one last act of professionalism. With his fragile body, the portraitist shields his precious camera and dies.
Have patience, you lesser rings that lie farthest from the senses. You must wait to caress these memories with our inner breath. For those who squat higher up our tapered cone, events come as a flurry of muddled images.
Behold — the livid anger of the star-gods, apoplectic with affronted rage!
Observe — the futile cries of Lester, Vubben, and Phwhoon-dau, beseeching restraint!
Witness — Bloor’s crumpled ruin, a smoldering heap!
Note — how the crowd backs away from the violence, even as other dark-clad figures rush inward from the forest rim!
Quail — from the roaring robots, charging up to strike, ready to slay at command!
Above all, stare — at the scene right before us, the one Bloor was photographing when he died…
An image to preserve as long as this tower of rings stands.
Two beings lie side by side.
One, a human female, seems composed in death, her newly washed face serene, apparently at peace.
The other figure had seemed equally tranquil when we saw it last, before dawn. Ro-poPs visage was like an idealized human, impressive in height and breadth of brow, in strong cheekbones and the set of her womanlike chin, which in life had sustained a winning smile.