Diuturnity's Dawn

by Alan Dean Foster

  Skettle would take charge of one, Martine the other, in the unlikely event either of them should be stopped and questioned. The volatile contents of one tank should be more than sufficient to blow the bulk of the fair’s central communications facility halfway across City Lake. As a further security precaution, they would take separate routes to the complex. Meeting there, they would then make their way into the facility by a prearranged, rehearsed route. Any security or communications personnel unlucky enough to encounter and query them would be dealt with as necessary.

  Once the explosives had been placed and set, the two would join their companions in creating general havoc. Skettle was a tower of tranquility among his associates, some of whom for the first time since they had arrived on Dawn were beginning to exhibit the first understandable symptoms of agitation. Even the righteous, he reflected calmly, could grow nervous on the eve of retribution.

  He had boundless confidence in all of them. All of them, men and women alike, had dedicated themselves to the cause of the Preservers. They were here to buy time, to allow humankind to reflect upon the mad course of action a few species traitors were hell-bent on pursuing. By tomorrow evening, the festering pace of human-thranx relations would have come to a crashing halt. By the day after, he and his companions would be safely on their way home, on separate KK-drive ships, able to relax and reflect on the good work they had done.

  Yes, some innocent humans would have to die. It was quite possible some of his own people would also perish, although every precaution had been taken to ensure their quiet and successful escape from the zone of carnage they intended to enkindle. These unwitting tourists and visitors would go down as martyrs to the cause of species purity. It would take time, but when humankind finally came to its senses and realized the absurdity as well as the danger of trying to merge with another species, the names of the dead would be remembered gratefully by many millions more than the few relatives who would grieve over their loss next week and next month.

  When he raised his hands for quiet, the low buzz of conversation ceased. All eyes—some anxious, some expectant, others alive with the anticipation of the work to come—were on him.

  “My friends, my good companions: We stand at the threshold of the greatest calamity mankind has ever experienced. The uneducated and ill-informed gather in mindless herds, ready to be pushed into oblivion by the traitorous politicians and philosophers among them. Shall we who have taken the name Preservers allow this to happen?”

  The multitude of murmured “no”s that rose in response to his query were no less bone-chilling for the restraint with which they were ululated.

  Skettle’s jaws tightened. “Then let us go forth, comrades mine, and once and for all put a stop to this murderous collision course on which the betrayers of our own kind have set us.” He smiled at them, and though he was quite unaware of it, it was a smile that would have set young children to running. “And while we are doing so, let us be sure to kill as many worthy people as possible while taking care to spare the visiting bugs.”

  This last bit of carefully concocted perfidy would serve to further heighten the suspicions of those humans who would rush to investigate the tragedy. There was delicious irony in the knowledge that the ones the Preservers most wanted to kill would, by surviving, serve to impair the cause of their own conciliators. Beskodnebwyl’s coworkers would not be so lucky. Skettle had given his colleagues free rein to shoot down as many of them as they could as they made their way clear of the pandemonium. It was the ordinary, bewildered thranx they planned to spare—to suffer the suspicions and outrage of the surviving humans.

  As his people began to file out of the room, individually and in pairs so as not to draw the attention of the hotel staff or anyone else to their departure, Skettle paused to glance out the window. Across the great lake, shimmering like a sheet of blue metal in the pellucid morning sunshine, the swooping, soaring structure of the fairgrounds could just be seen in the distance. By this evening, all of it would be in flames, cleansed and deserted, its name become tragedy spread by space-minus communications throughout the civilized portions of the Arm. Walking to the window, he picked up one of the two inauspicious-looking tanks of liquid explosive. Martine had already left with hers.

  As the last one out of the conference room, he was careful to close the door behind him. He would make his own separate way to the fair. There he would pause for coffee and a quick meal, his attention on his own synchronized chronometer.

  At exactly half past one, it would be time to start killing.

  Nordelmatcen, one of the most able among the Bwyl, sidled up next to his clan leader and touched the latter’s right antenna with one of his own. Beskodnebwyl turned immediately.

  “I don’t trust my own chronometer. How long until we induce permanent collapse into this vile burrow?”

  Around them, blissfully ignorant humans and thranx alike promenaded to and fro throughout the fairgrounds. They had no reason to glance in the direction of the three thranx who were quietly scrutinizing an exhibition of art especially prepared for the fair by creative talents of both species working in tandem. Nordelmatcen had taken one look at the prancing abominations and dismissed them as obscene. Beskodnebwyl was too indifferent to be similarly enticed.

  Had any curious passersby paused to stare in their direction, they might have wondered at the extra layers of external sheathing that enclosed the trio of insectoid males. Given the subtropical climate of the region in which Aurora had been founded, these wrappings might have struck even another thranx as excessive. Closer inspection, had it been allowed, would have revealed that the innermost layer of covering consisted not of finely machined fabric from Drax IV or special lightweight abdominal insulation from the sythmills of Amropolus, but of self-propelled explosives and kindred virulent mechanisms.

  “Patience,” Beskodnebwyl lectured his companions. “The time for dispensing annihilation will come soon enough.”

  Deimovjenbir whistled his displeasure. “I would have preferred that we proceed with our intended business on our own, without having to rely on, of all things, a group of contemptible if like-minded humans.”

  Beskodnebwyl gestured to emphasize lofty thoughts. “But it is the fact that they are like-minded that compels us to restrain ourselves. If we can make use of some of the soft ones to triple the amount of chaos we can create, should we not do so?”

  “I did not say that.” With a series of deep clicks, Deimovjenbir mimicked a disapproving human grumble.

  “The humans of Skettle—I have still not been able to decide if that is properly a family or clan designation—are convinced they are making use of us. We feel the opposite is true. None of which matters. What is important is the result. It doesn’t matter if the humans blame the thranx or the thranx blame the humans. What is meaningful is that blame is ascribed.” He gestured with a truhand. “Are you ready to kill some artists?”

  “I am ready to kill anything that thinks it controls the destiny of my hive. Artist, worker, prognosticator, musician, scientist—occupation is unimportant. What matters is that we stop this unclean mixing before it has a chance to fuse.” Reaching back with a foothand, he caressed a brace of the self-propelled explosives that were bound to his abdomen. “I am anxious to spread the flowers of destruction.”

  “Soon.” Beskodnebwyl checked his own chronometer. “Within the current major time-part.” Slipping a foothand into a thorax pouch, he removed a communicator. Holding it in all four fingers, he used a truhand to activate the compact device. “Time to make certain everyone else is in position.” Addressing the pickup softly, he called to the team of Vedburankex and Hynwupletmer.

  There was no answer.

  He tried again, with the same result. Nordelmatcen’s attention was still concentrated on the swirling, cheerful crowd. “Trouble with their units. Perhaps they are in a location that restricts short-range, closed-beam communications. Try Yiwespembor and Cuwenarfot.”

  Beskodnebwyl did so,
to another nonresponse. “Possibly there is something wrong with my unit.” He extended a truhand. “Let me have yours.”

  Nordelmatcen obediently passed over his own communicator. Beskodnebwyl first tried Vedburankex and Hynwupletmur again, only to be rewarded with the same pensive electronic silence. It was the same for Yiwespembor and Cuwenarfot, who were supposed to be milling about among the largest of the eating pavilions that had been built out into the shallows of the lake. If they were in position, as they ought to already have been for several time-parts, there should be nothing around to interfere with the receptiveness of their communicators.

  Growing increasingly concerned, Beskodnebwyl proceeded to try to contact every one of the widely scattered armed teams. It quickly became apparent that the rest of the Bwyl either could not or would not respond. As for the possibility that Nordelmatcen’s as well as his own communicator was defective, that was a likelihood so unreasonable as to be beneath consideration. Designed to take a lot of mistreatment, field communicators simply did not fail. The thought that two could falter in such close proximity to one another was not to be believed. Beskodnebwyl did not even bother to try Deimovjenbir’s unit.

  They were standing on a raised platform that wound its way through the interspecies exhibition of art. While it was conceivable that some of the larger sculptures might block communication to and from the east, there was nothing to divert beams being broadcast in the other three directions. Searching for an explanation, Beskodnebwyl could conceive of none.

  Then Nordelmatcen was striving to suppress an instinctive stridulation as he tapped his mentor on the thorax and pointed sharply.

  Beskodnebwyl recognized the strike team that was walking rapidly toward the art exhibit. They had just appeared inside one of the entrances on the far side of the pavilion. Sujbirwencex and Waspulnatun were looking around more than was necessary, and their antennae were positively dancing. There appeared to be nothing wrong with them, either physically or mentally. For the first time since he had started scanning, Beskodnebwyl received an acknowledgment in response to his query signal.

  He was about to ask if the recently arrived team members were having similar difficulties contacting other members of the group when Sujbirwencex and Waspulnatun were abruptly swarmed by a collapsing ring of humans and thranx. Shocked by the swiftness of the maneuver, Beskodnebwyl could only stare, one finger still on the send contact of his communicator. It was as if a portion of the milling crowd had collapsed on top of the stunned pair. Neither had a chance to fire a shot in their own defense, or even unlimber one of the many weapons they carried. One time-part fraction they had been making straight for Beskodnebwyl and Nordelmatcen; the next, both were in custody and in the process of being disarmed.

  Deimovjenbir benefited from a slightly different perspective on the calamity. “Sujbirwencex and Waspulnatun have both been immobilized. Whether by fume, shock, or other means I cannot say, but both are now lying on their sides and offering no resistance.”

  Beskodnebwyl’s colleague was not quite right. As the three dismayed thranx looked on, Sujbirwencex managed to wrest free a small hand weapon not yet confiscated by her attackers. She was immediately swarmed, but not before she succeeded in getting off at least one shot. A few nearby wanderers looked on in shock as the explosive shell blew one human patroller in half. In response, the downed Sujbirwencex received half a dozen blasts of varying intensity from at least three different kinds of weapons. The ferocious counterattack left little behind suitable for future identification.

  From the brief but lethal confrontation nary a sound was heard.

  “Silencing sphere,” Nordelmatcen clicked unnecessarily. Whoever had ambushed the two Bwyl carried equipment to ensure that whatever else resulted from any confrontations and challenges, crowd panic would not be among them. The throng of sightseers had been effectively and efficiently shielded from the unsettling sounds of violent verbal and physical combat. One human and one Bwyl lay dead on the pavilion floor, but only those visitors who had been close enough to observe the challenge directly had any inkling that anything untoward had taken place in their midst. It was all very slick and masterful. The actions of the ambushers smacked of extensive training and ample rehearsal.

  They suggested, inescapably, the participation of skilled professionals.

  Deimovjenbir moved to discard his unnecessary outer garb, the better to access his firepower. “We have been betrayed! The burrow where we have stored our secrets has been breached!”

  “No.” Though he disagreed with his clan mate’s appraisal of the situation, Beskodnebwyl was also scrambling to unlimber his weapons. “The Skettle folk would not do that. Revealing us would gain them nothing, since the first Bwyl to be captured would immediately expose them in turn.”

  Deimovjenbir almost had the streamlined launcher free and ready to lock in position on Nordelmatcen’s back, where it could be clipped firmly to the other thranx’s wing cases to provide an excellent mobile firing platform.

  “But someone has delivered us up to the Dawn authorities. I cannot envision who. Somehow, somewhere, there must have been a fault in our planning. We will locate it, however.”

  “Srrillp! Yes we will!” Nordelmatcen avowed. He was fully alert now, alive with anticipation as he prepared to join his honored mentor in blowing the adulterated physical arts pavilion to splinters. “There is no reason to wait any longer to begin what we came for.”

  “No, crr!!t!” Deimovjenbir slipped a compressed charge into the launcher now resting securely on his colleague’s back.

  He was preparing to activate the firing sequence when a pair of very small shells composed almost entirely of radioactively neutral depleted uranium passed through his head, entering via the left compound eye and exiting at the back of the skull. Barely slowed by the organic contact, they continued onward to pierce the wall of the pavilion and eventually fall harmlessly into the lake. Slowly, the four trulegs of the Bwyl gave way in response to an absence of instructions from their controlling cerebrum, and the gleaming blue-green body slumped to the floor. The extended truhand never came closer than half a meter to the firing mechanism of the launcher fixed to Nordelmatcen’s back.

  Emitting the sharpest, most piercing whistle of which he was capable, Nordelmatcen sprang forward on all four trulegs, firing a pair of hand weapons as he leaped. Undeadened by a silencing sphere, the racket his firearms made was as loud as the death of his friend and colleague had been comparatively silent. Humans scattered and let out satisfying screams. Less prone to panic, adult and adolescent thranx nonetheless broke out in alarmed clicks and stridulations, adding to the general confusion. Meanwhile, Beskodnebwyl used the diversion to force his way in the opposite direction, finding a path through the forest of sculptures. Human, thranx, and jointly conceived alike, the towering works of art seemed to be leering down at him. Or worse, laughing.

  The ensuing uproar lasted less than a couple of minutes. Firing madly, Nordelmatcen brought down one human and one thranx patroller before he was obliterated in a hail of gunfire as lethal as it was diverse. Alert for any surprises, such as booby-trapped internal organs, plainclothes police surrounded the shattered remnants of the insectoid terrorist. One kicked at the badly burned head, which had been separated from the rest of the body.

  “Stupid bug—pardon, thranx—bastard. What are they trying to accomplish with all this?”

  His female companion made a disgusted sound in her throat, behind her face shield. “We’ll know when the psychs get to the live ones and their human cronies who’ve already been taken into custody.” Raising her gaze, she stared hard at the raised walkway from which the dead thranx had leaped. “There’s another dead one up there. I thought I saw three.”

  Her comrade pushed at the back of his slightly too-tight helmet. “Dunno. Must’ve just been the two. We’ve been mostly picking ‘em up in twos.”

  “I guess you’re right.” It was her turn to nudge the black-streaked insectoid head with a
booted foot. “Funny how the color drains out of the eyes when they die. Their equivalent of a human closing her lids, I guess.”

  Her fellow officer shrugged. “Dead is dead. Me, I leave the dirty details to the biologists.” He brightened slightly. “Hey, you ought to join me and Vermenyarkex one night.”

  “Why? Is there such a thing as a thranx strip club?” she replied dryly.

  “I wouldn’t know.” Her partner looked hurt. “He said something about sharing some special hi-ups that work equally well on both our metabolisms.”

  “Oh, that’s different, then.” Holstering her pistol in its hidden compartment inside her casual tropical blouse, she turned to rejoin the rest of the covert patrol. “Let’s make sure we’ve got the rest of this mess cleaned up, first.”

  Lawlor and Rabukanu were getting nervous. Everything had gone according to plan: their arrival at the fair, the gradual dispersal of the group, the casual stroll to their assigned position. No one had contested their entrance or challenged their presence. Uniformed security personnel had ignored them, treating them like any other visitors. They had followed a memorized, circuitous route to the Pavilion of Cooperative Science and remained there, wandering through and about the exhibits until they were as sick of each and every one as they were of the unrestrained fraternizing of thranx and human tourists. Still, they waited. And waited.

  They continued to wait, but with a growing sense of unease long months of training could no longer dispel. Around them, the crowds thickened. There was no indication anything was amiss at the fair.

  Then Rabukanu frowned and pointed. “Isn’t that Botha and Marion?”

  Lawlor strained to see past a drifting tactile holo that was entertaining a clutch of delighted, laughing children. A pair of adolescent thranx, their blue-green exoskeletons jewel-like with the freshness of recent emergence from pupahood, looked on in silence, striving to puzzle out the attraction the yellow-and-pink electronic apparition held for their human counterparts.