“That doesn’t sound very reasonable.”
Souvingnon sighed. “Since we don’t have a reasonable explanation for what’s happening, I’m starting a search for unreasonable ones. The aquifer is broad, but not deep. Realistically, a subterranean collapse on such a scale is unlikely. Theoretically, it’s possible.”
“What can we do?” Hibbing turned back in the direction of the town. “I’ve already activated emergency rationing procedures. I’m responsible for the health and well-being of nearly fifteen thousand people, Souvingnon, every one of whom needs to drink and occasionally to wash. We don’t have a waste problem—the solid-waste decomposing system needs no water—but I’m going to have to start having supplies tanked in from the Broughlach River. That’s three hundred k’s from here. A couple of months of that will bankrupt our municipal operating budget. As you know, initial planetary R and D stopped supplementing that over a year ago.”
And I’ll be replaced, he thought to himself. They’ll send me somewhere quiet and out of the way to decompose, just like the town’s solid waste. Hibbing did not want to be replaced. He liked his job, liked the beauty and solitude that Comagrave could boast in plenty. It was why he had applied for the position of colonial administrator in the first place.
“We can drill elsewhere.” Souvingnon pointed across the valley, to the colorful crimson rampart. “Maybe at the base of the cliffs.”
“Maybe.” Hibbing was dubious. “But the initial hydro surveys chose this spot because there was water in plenty here. And if the shuttle landings are responsible for what has happened, who’s to say the underground water table hasn’t been collapsed everywhere in the vicinity?”
Tyree finally rose from his inspection, brushing dust from his hands. “We could ask the AAnn.”
The AAnn had a very small deeded scientific outpost to the west of the town, near the edge of the salt pan. They had no view of multihued cliffs, no easy access to the valleys of the Fingerlings. As Hibbing understood it, there were no more than forty individuals working at the reptiloids’ outpost at any one time. Insofar as he knew, they had their own water supply. An emergency line could be laid across the pancake-flat edge of the pan from the alien outpost to the town in a fraction of the time and cost it would take to build one to the Broughlach River.
If the AAnn had water to spare, and if they were so inclined.
Hibbing considered. Town storage was at 80 percent of capacity. Within a few days, like it or not, they would be tanking in water from the distant Broughlach.
“Let’s pay our scaly neighbors a visit,” he told his engineers softly.
Coblaath SSCDDG met them outside. Standing at the entrance to the AAnn outpost, it was difficult to tell that there was any kind of installation at the edge of the pan at all. That was because, in keeping with AAnn preference and design, the great majority of it was located underground.
“Very hot insside for humanss,” the outpost commander informed them. “You like it warm. We like it hot.”
That was an understatement, Hibbing knew. Vacationing AAnn would have no compunctions at setting up sand baths and scale scratchers inside a working oven. And they liked even less moisture in the air than did humans.
“I appreciate your concern for our welfare.” Hibbing was new to this. He was an administrator, not a diplomat. But having explained the dire situation to his superiors via deep-space beam, he had been given emergency leave to do whatever he thought necessary and best to alleviate the situation.
“You heard what has happened to our water supply?”
The AAnn executed a gesture of third-degree commiseration coupled with fourth-degree understanding, all of which looked like nothing more than gratuitous hand waving to Hibbing. “A terrible missfortune. Who can explain ssuch a thing? We have never encountered ssuch a phenomenon oursselves, and we have ssettled many worldss very ssimilar to Vussussica.”
Hibbing ignored the use of the AAnn cognomen. He was not here to argue the fine points of diplomatic terminology. He had come for help.
“You heard what my engineers have theorized.”
Coblaath gestured, then nodded. “Thiss head movement iss the correct one, yess?”
Hibbing smiled broadly. “That’s correct, yes.”
The AAnn commander drew himself up proudly. “I have been practissing. My people perussed your hydrology report. Your engineerss appear to have analyzed the ssituation mosst thoroughly. We ssurmise that there iss at leasst one, perhapss sseveral vertical upthrusstss of impermeable rock between here and your sstation. Thiss accident of geology keepss our aquifer sseparate from yourss.”
“And you still have plenty of water?” Hibbing tried not to show too much interest, wondering in the midst of his caution if the vertical-pupiled, lizardlike alien would recognize such concern even if it was manifested.
“Truly ample. The equal of what ussed to lie beneath your own esstablishment, I am told.” As the pointed tongue flicked in Hibbing’s direction, the administrator tried not to flinch. “Enough to sspare whatever you need, perhapss even on a permanent bassiss.” He gestured reassurance. “After all, we have only a tiny outposst here, and require very little water for our own needss. Why sshould you, our friendss, not make good usse of it?”
Hibbing was taken aback. The period of difficult, extended negotiations he had been prepared to embark upon in order to secure the minimal amount necessary to keep the station going had not only not materialized, but here was the AAnn commander offering him all the water he needed—and for an unlimited, or at least unspecified, time into the future. The money alone that would be saved . . .
“I hardly know what to say, Commander Coblaath. I had not expected such a generous offer.”
The AAnn’s tail switched sideways in yet another gesture of significance Hibbing was unable to interpret. “While it ssleepss underground, the water doess no one any good. We can help you with the engineering. If we begin a pumping sstation here while your people lay pipe from your end, it will sshorten the time until you can receive our water.”
“Yes, of course it would.” Hibbing had gone from being apprehensive to feeling positively buoyant. But while he had seemingly achieved all he had come for, and much more, the negotiations were not yet completed. “What would you require in the way of payment? My staff and I don’t expect you to give us access to this water out of the goodness of your hearts.”
“But that iss why we are doing thiss.” Coblaath managed to sound, if not look, surprised. “We would not let our good friendss want for water. We assk only one thing.”
Hibbing waited, trying to hide his unease. “What might that be, Commander?”
“We wissh only to be accorded equal sstatuss in thiss region. To be free to go where we wissh, to do our own sscientific work without having firsst to ssubmit it for approval to your ressearch authority, to move about as we require. A little freedom of action, that iss all. Iss not too much to assk in return for ssaving your largesst community on Vussussica—your pardon, on Comagrave. Iss it?”
Hibbing hesitated. Did he have that kind of authority? The AAnn wasn’t asking for equal colony status, or control over anything. Simply the ability to cut out the red tape that hampered the free movement of his own staff. What harm could there be in acceding? It wasn’t as if Comagrave was home to military secrets that needed to be protected. The money this would save . . .
And he had been given the authority to deal with the emergency as best he saw fit, hadn’t he? If the authorities back on Earth didn’t like it, they could deal with the agreement after the fact. Meanwhile, the station would have all the water it needed, and the AAnn would have a reason to continue to maintain cordial relations with the staff and inhabitants. If anything, Hibbing felt, in agreeing he was doing something to promote better interspecies relations.
“I think I can safely say there will be no problem in getting my people to agree to such a simple and straightforward request. That’s really all you want in return?”
Hibbing took the proffered hand. The three fingers and opposable thumb were tipped with sharp claws that had been painted with colorful whorls. He felt hard scales slide against his own soft flesh. The sensation was not unpleasant. He was charmed by the AAnn’s effort to mimic human ways.
“Indeed it is. I extend my thanks and that of my entire staff, not to mention those of everyone resident in the town.”
“Tell them on behalf of mysself and the Imperial Board of Intersspeciess Relationss that I am mosst delighted we were able to help. Truly.”
Like everyone else on Comagrave, Pilwondepat kept abreast—or more properly, athorax—of weekly happenings through reports that were freely available via the planetary net. Not only did it help him to stay well informed and aid him in his own research, but it was an excellent way to practice his Terranglo. The only information available in Low or High Thranx came via sealed communiqués or direct orders from the tiny thranx complement living on sufferance at Comabraeth community. During the past months he had become used not only to speaking in Terranglo, but to thinking in it. It made him less thranx, but not necessarily more human.
Presently, he was perusing a seemingly minor account about a poisoning that had occurred in the Talathropic Pond ecosystem. The Talathropics lay nearly a thousand miles from Comabraeth. A human resources-analysis team had been following up a stock satellite report, prospecting on the ground for possible ore bodies of certain metals, when one of their number had been bitten by a local arthropod. The man’s circulatory system had reacted severely—so much so that he had not been expected to live. The site was too far from Comabraeth for help to reach the afflicted in time.
Only the presence in the same area of an AAnn troika that was taking mineral samples made the difference, as the AAnn possessed on their craft a small lab for synthesizing regenerative proteins. Ratiocination of the toxin’s molecular structure allowed them to concoct a crude antidote that saved the man’s life. As the report detailed, his friends were effusively grateful for the reptiloids’ swift and efficacious intervention.
By itself, the article was a mere annoyance. While happy that the human who had been bitten had survived, Pilwondepat was irritated that it was the AAnn who had received gratitude for the deed. Then he began to think. Probably, he decided, the only problem was that, isolated in his self-contained chamber on the edge of the escarpment, he had too much time to think. But . . .
Wasn’t it odd that a human should be bitten by a viperous indigene far from any human assistance, only to encounter AAnn working the same vicinity who just happened to have among their mineralogical gear a fully equipped portable lab for doing organic chemical synthesis that included among its research files sufficient data and material for calibrating human as well as AAnn biologenes? Was it more than odd, or did he need to turn the chamber’s humidifier up yet another notch?
Something else pricked at his mind. Resetting the viewer, he began searching for similar articles, or even dissimilar ones that might involve human-AAnn interactions. Anything so long as it smacked of oddness.
Gradually, as the night wore on and everyone else in the camp slowly slipped into deep, relaxing sleep, what he began to find were examples of something more than apparently unrelated oddities, the least of which smelled even stronger than the most odoriferous of his human associates.
And much more ominous.
7
It was a part of Daret she had never seen before, that no human had seen before, and it was spectacular. Accustomed to the crowded warrens of the capital hive, the last thing Anjou had expected to find was open space underground.
She felt as if she were walking in a park lifted from some elegant imperial past on Earth. To be sure, the scattered furnishings and artwork were utterly alien, and the botanical decor was unfamiliar; but the sense of luxury and good taste was apparent everywhere, even to a visiting human. Small waterfalls cascaded down slopes that had been sculpted from the raw rock out of which the high-domed chamber had been hollowed, their flow vanishing into the myriad conduits that were the lifeblood of the hive. The arching ceiling glowed with yellow-and-blue light supplied not by artificial lights but by hundreds of transplanted fungi. Mist swirled gracefully, only to be caught and borne away by concealed fans to be recycled through hidden ducts.
A small myrk peeped out from beneath spatulate, blue-veined leaves. Crouching, Fanielle extended a hand, and the palm-sized creature crept hesitantly over to her, ambulating on four legs nearly hidden by its dense coat of black-and-blue fur. It had the huge eyes and sensitive nostrils of an animal accustomed to living underground. As it sniffed cautiously of her open hand and then moved close so she could scratch it, she reflected that these were the kinds of furred creatures the thranx were used to dealing with: tiny, harmless, mewling things that had shared their hives and tunnels for millennia. It cooed delightedly and pressed up against her caressing fingertips.
In another part of the Arm, the tiny balls of fluff had stood up, shed most of their fur, and achieved a level of technology equal to that of any other space-traversing species. This was difficult for many thranx to accept. One shooed furry creatures out of the way, or paused to observe their strange behavior. One did not converse with or enter into treaties with them. One especially did not sign agreements that could be construed as even a partial surrendering of sovereignty.
Yet that was the ultimate end to which Anjou and those of like mind within the diplomatic corps strove. It was proving an uphill battle on both sides, against superstition, fear, prejudice, uncertainty, and inertia. She thought of Jeremy and imagined him waiting for her back in Azerick. Jeremy, with his quiet, confident smile and the way his face would light up at the news that another new kind of spore had been discovered. Jeremy, with his enveloping, comforting arms, and soft lips. Jeremy, with . . .
Jeremy was no more, and there was to be no more of him. She shuddered violently, uncontrollably, and angrily shoved the back of a hand against her moistening right eye.
“Are you feeling unwell, crr!!kk?”
Whirling, she found herself gazing into the face of the oldest thranx she had ever seen. Even the venerable female’s ovipositors had turned a dark purple. Her chitin was the color of raw amethyst, the glow of her great golden compound eyes was significantly dimmed, and her antennae hung forward in limp arcs. At least two trulegs gleamed more brightly than their counterparts, showing that they had undergone forced regeneration, and one truhand was purple composite, suggestive of injury so severe it could not be regrown and had been replaced with a prosthesis. But the voice, though muted, was strong, and the concern it reflected genuine.
“I’m all right, thanks.” Though she stood straighter, she still found herself at eye level with the sage. Most humans towered over the arthropods: not Fanielle. Whether they appreciated having a diplomat to deal with who came down to their level physically she did not know. Haflunormet had never commented on her height.
“You are the attaché who sought this appointment, are you not?” The valentine-shaped head cocked slightly to one side.
“I am Fanielle Anjou, yes. You are Eint Carwenduved?” A simple gesture on the part of the elderly thranx was confirmation enough. “I very badly want to talk to you about—”
The venerable eint interrupted, pointing with the artificial truhand. “Let us go and sit by the prolerea, and listen to the music of the waters singing. We can talk there.”
The thranx moved slowly and with deliberation, picking her steps as if each one might be her last. She did not appear to be that feeble, Anjou reflected. Ancient, to be sure, but still capable of flexibility and movement. The human hoped her host’s mind had the same capacity.
They paused at a little alcove close by one of the many small waterfalls. This one tumbled and tinkled over a succession of metal leaves, each droplet generating a musical
tone. Looming above was a bush with a thick trunk that threw out great splays of bright pink-and-black flowers. The fragrance from so many blossoms reeking of cinnamon and honey was almost overpowering.
Reaching up, the eint plucked one and pressed it to her face. Anjou could see the multiple mouthparts working as the thranx devoured the center of the bloom. When it was half consumed, she extended the remainder to Anjou.
“I am told that your people can safely ingest this. Would you care to try it?”
Anjou did not, but diplomats are often called upon to extend themselves in peculiar ways on behalf of their profession. Accepting the remnant, she saw several centimeter-long structures protruding from its underside. Plucking one, she showed it to the thranx, who gestured encouragingly. Popping the alien pistil into her mouth, she bit down tentatively.
Flavor and a sugary sensation exploded across her suspicious taste buds. The pulp was so sweet it almost hurt her teeth. As she passed the blossom back, she needed no encouragement to finish what she had been given. It was superb.
“Very nutritious.” Finishing off the remaining pistils, the eint set the bloom casually aside. In a subterranean garden as immaculate and ornate as this, Anjou doubted the debris would remain unattended to for very long.
“About the proposed treaty details,” she began, the lingering sweetness still effervescing throughout the inside of her mouth, “have you had time to scrutinize the details?”
“Sssllcci, I have done little else these past major time-parts.” Reaching out with a longer foothand, the eint put four hard-shelled fingers against the human’s belly. “I cannot imagine what it must feel like to give live birth. I am told it is painful, and can well imagine it.”
“It’s not comfortable.” Anjou was not pleased by the rapid change of subject, but did not try to force the conversation. “In ancient times, I’m told it was often fatal.”
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