Haflunormet focused every one of his lenses on the series of high-res satellite images. Easy enough to see the AAnn transport crashing at the landing pad, vomiting flames. Then the flare-up of small-arms fire. How ultimately detailed was the imagery? He enhanced, zoomed, and enhanced again. At the maximum augmented magnification possible, a single figure could be observed firing at the incoming AAnn craft. A number of humans could be seen running, a couple cowering together behind a temporary shelter, but none of them shooting at the AAnn. Not yet. Haflunormet’s wing cases quivered.
There had been exactly one thranx working on the site at the time of the tragedy. It was a thranx who had transmitted the very possibly premature report of the AAnn attack. Now, in imagery freshly augmented, it was a thranx who could be seen firing on the AAnn in advance of anyone else. Taken together, the evidence seemed to point to more than mere reaction, more than just coincidence.
It was entirely possible, a stunned Haflunormet realized, that the respected thranx exoarcheologist in question, a certain Pilwondepat, had not been reacting to an AAnn attack, but had been working to provoke one.
The potential ramifications were explosive. Throughout the human sphere of influence, outrage against the AAnn over the atrocity that had occurred on Comagrave was spreading like an unstoppable contagion. If it was disclosed that on this one exceptional occasion the AAnn were actually innocent, and that the massacre had in fact been initiated by a thranx, the shift in human public opinion could be devastating. What had possessed a respected scientist of the hive to do such a thing Haflunormet could not begin to imagine. Certainly the initial consequences were salutary, but the risk . . . !
He lay unmoving at his position, sprawled on his bench, until a neighboring coworker thought to inquire after his health. Responding positively, and as calmly as he could, Haflunormet realized that his long moments of contemplation had led him to a decision. Whatever justification might have been claimed by the perpetrator for provoking such a heinous incident had already been subsumed in matters of far greater import. Though every particle of his being screamed at Haflunormet to reveal the truth, he knew that he could not. To do so would be to set thranx-human relations back to a point where even formal diplomatic relations might be placed in jeopardy. As for any thought of forging stronger, deeper bonds between the two species, they would evaporate like dripping water on a hot rock.
But he could not keep the secret to himself. Others needed to know, deserved to know, so that in the event someone besides himself happened to chance upon the same conclusions, beings of like mind could be ready and prepared to deal with the potentially damaging revelation.
First, he erased every trace of his activity. What he could not erase because it had already been entered into general storage he buried as deeply and innocuously as he could. Satisfied at last that someone would have to be either very determined or very lucky to retrace his work, or to find the paths of inquiry he had taken, he steeled himself to confide his findings in the one other person he felt he could trust with so virulent a discovery.
But first he would have to find out where the human Fanielle Anjou was spending the remainder of her actual vacation.
The thranx liked mountains, but only from the inside. Mountains tended to be cold, or at least cool, dry places. Neither characteristic appealed to the heat- and humidity-loving insectoids. So the resting place where Fanielle had chosen to spend the remainder of her time away from Azerick lay at the upper limit of the thranx comfort zone.
Overlooking the undulating jungle-carpeted plains, beneath which lay the outermost suburbs of the city, the exclusive Retreat of Xer!kex featured individual burrows with spectacular vistas. The contradiction inherent in spending most of one’s leisure time ignoring the view outside in favor of activities occurring deep within the mountainside was not lost on Fanielle. On the contrary, she was delighted by this wholly thranxish choice. It left her free to dawdle in the peculiar low-lying thranx version of a hammock, swinging outside above an exposed slope, sipping chilled fruit juice while gazing sleepily at the vast green panorama spread out before her.
Cool enough in its hillside location so that she felt comfortable in long pants and long-sleeved shirt, her communal refuge received occasional visits from other occupants of the retreat. They would click and whistle and chatter, pointing out this or that distant landmark, before retiring to their assigned burrows and away from the, to them, mountainside chill.
In the distance, the sporadic howl of a shuttle climbing heavenward rolled across the plains. Not even the distant Xer!kex could entirely escape the industrial-strength rumble and roar of the capital’s major shuttleports. Relaxed and at ease, Fanielle viewed these isolated auditory interruptions with tolerant indifference. So content was she with the amenities of the retreat that neither shuttle yowls nor choruses of curious clicking could trouble her.
Among all the auditory distractions, the last thing she expected to hear was a familiar voice.
“Found you at last, shleeck! With only a handful of humans authorized to be in Daret, one would think it would not have taken so long.”
Startled, she started to sit up, forgot where she was, and nearly ended as tightly wrapped up in the exotic hammock as a fly in a spider’s shroud. Clearly ill at ease so close to an exposed cliff face, Haflunormet was nonetheless unabashedly pleased to see her.
“What are you doing here?” Carefully extracting herself from the hammocklike contrivance lest it try to ambush her dignity again, Fanielle sat on the edge of the low retaining wall that separated the scenic overlook from the jungle directly below. “I thought we had concluded all the necessary business between ourselves and our mutual friend.”
Twisting an antenna around to make sure no one was standing behind him and listening, Haflunormet explained. “I came across a recent incident that in the course of further investigation has given birth to some disquieting conclusions.” He indicated their surroundings. “You’ve been out of touch, and I presume you do not watch the local equivalent of your tridee broadcasts.”
“No,” she confessed. “I came up here looking for peace and quiet.”
“I am sorry to intrude, but this matter cannot wait. I must tell someone I can trust, or I feel I will break into a premature molt. You’ve heard of Comagrave?”
She frowned, then brightened slightly. “Distant outpost world. Class X, I think. I remember reading something about a long-extinct but quite advanced native race. It’s close, in galactic terms, to the AAnn Empire. What about it?”
Haflunormet proceeded to enlighten her as to the recent tragic developments on that world. When he had finished, she sat very still, digesting the scope of the disaster—and its diplomatic import.
“This will make the AAnn look bad. Very bad. A terrible thing to have happen—but perversely, it serves our ends.”
Haflunormet gestured second-degree concurrence displaced by distress. “All true—except for my disquieting conclusions. They involve a respected exoarcheologist of the hive Pat, clan De. In the course of my investigation I researched this individual’s background thoroughly. There is nothing in it to suggest a tendency to madness.”
“I don’t follow you, Haflunormet.”
“This Pilwondepat filed a thick report detailing a list of incidents on Comagrave that he felt pointed to a methodical attempt on the part of the AAnn to drive your people off the planet, despite the official recognition of your suzerainty by the Empire. This report was filed the night before the event I have alluded to previously.” He stridulated softly to emphasize his words. “That shocking incident would seem to provide final proof of his thesis, except for certain ambiguities that I have subsequently discovered.” He proceeded to detail them for his friend.
She waited quietly until he was finished. “That’s monstrous!” She hardly knew what to say to the quiet, expectant diplomat standing before her. “You’re telling me that in order to back up his claims, this scientist provoked the AAnn into attacking an
d slaughtering everyone at the archeological site where he had been working?”
“Not sparing himself,” Haflunormet reminded her solemnly.
“If word of this got out to the media . . .” Her voice trailed away, lost in hurried thought. “It would have exactly the opposite effect from what its perpetrator intended.” She stared hard into those golden compound eyes. “You’re certain of your findings?”
He gestured elaborately. “I wish it were otherwise. There are simply too many coincidences that cannot be rationalized away. And there is sufficient visual documentation to back up my conclusions, for any who happen to look in the right places. As far as I know, I am the only one to have done so.” Both antennae had been pointing in her direction for some minutes now. The diplomat did not want to risk missing any critical nuances. “What do you think we should do?”
She started to reply. Before she could do so, they were interrupted by the sudden appearance from the mouth of the access passageway of three thranx: two males, and one female with particularly tightly coiled ovipositors. The younger male and female deferred noticeably to the older male in their midst.
“You don’t have to decide.” Though not especially elderly in thranx terms, the senior favored a noticeably gimpy right front truleg. “We will make the decision on your behalf.”
Taken by surprise, Haflunormet whirled to confront the newcomers. Still seated on the stone retaining wall, Fanielle tensed. “You were listening to us,” the thranx diplomat asserted accusingly.
“Most certainly we were.” From a thorax pouch, the female removed a compact weapon. She held it casually in a truhand, not aiming it in any particular direction. Fanielle looked past the trio. In spreading out, they effectively blocked the way back to the tunnel. She and Haflunormet were alone on the outlook with the confrontational strangers. The female’s tone, insofar as Fanielle could follow the stream of Low Thranx, was laced with contempt. “We have been listening in on you for a long time while following your deviant attempts to force thranx and humans obscenely closer together. To strive so hard to achieve secretiveness and to fail so miserably gains you little merit.”
The elder in the middle spoke up, directing his words to Haflunormet. “The solution to your dilemma is simple, diplomat of the hive. You are going to tell the truth, difficult as that may be for one of your ilk. So . . . the AAnn are not responsible for what happened on Comagrave. It was the work of a brave and resourceful thranx determined to eliminate as many humans as possible. That, at least, will be how our organization will tell it.”
Haflunormet’s valentine-shaped blue-green head swiveled to appraise each of the intruders in turn. A sweeping gesture performed by both truhands underlined his pithy response. “You three are crazier than the suicidal exoarcheologist was.”
“Who are you?” Handicapped by a lack of the requisite number of limbs, Fanielle tried her best to underline her queries with the appropriate hand gestures. “Why have you been following and listening to us?”
“We belong to a noble hiveless clan called the Bwyl,” the oldest one told her. “We call ourselves the Protectors, and we work to preserve the purity of the Great Hive, to keep it free from outside corruption and defilement.”
“Never heard of you.” Haflunormet’s words were cold, the verbal equivalent of blocking off a burrow to visitors.
“You will,” the female assured him, waving her weapon around with blatant disregard for everyone’s safety, including her own. “Very soon. Within a few time-parts.” She whistled a terse tune of ironic humor. “A major element of our group is even as we speak working hard to pull down this false bridge of unwelcome conviviality that has been erected between the Great Hive and the filthy soft-bodied bipeds.” Fanielle tensed, but said nothing.
“You are going to release your findings and all the evidence necessary to support your clever and correct deductions as to the truth of what happened on Comagrave.” The elder spoke with the confidence of one who is convinced of his righteousness. “Both thranx and humans must know what happened on that world, and why. It is knowledge that will serve to drive a most satisfactory wedge between those misguided representatives of both species who seek a deeper and unnatural degree of harmonization.” A soft whistle indicated a different kind of humor.
“Imagine it, diplomat. A chance to tell the truth of a matter instead of having to invent clever lies. Think of it as a novelty.” His younger companions whistled and clicked approvingly.
“You can’t do this,” Haflunormet protested. “It will set back the course of thranx-human relations for an untold number of birth cycles.”
“At the very least, one hopes,” the speaker declared with satisfaction. “We don’t need you to do this, wirri!t. Though we don’t have access to your materials, they can be tracked down and recovered readily enough. We could make the announcement ourselves, but it will carry more weight if it comes from a representative of the diplomatic section.” The confident male performed a hand gesture Fanielle did not recognize, but it was sufficient to cause Haflunormet to draw back slightly.
“If you refuse, you will be caught smothering the truth with the lie of omission. Your career will be ruined, and you will be consigned to simple information gathering and processing. Your family and clan will lose merit, and your disgrace will be substantial. We are offering you the opportunity to avoid all that. Indeed, by allowing you to reveal your discovery we give to you the chance to enhance your reputation.”
“At the expense of seriously damaging thranx-human relations,” Haflunormet responded.
Gesturing indifference, the younger male spoke for the first time. “We waste burrow-time here. Get the apostate to commit, or to decline. I am anxious to know of the success of Beskodnebwyl’s enterprise.”
“As are we all,” the elder agreed, by his gestures counseling patience. “Beskodnebwyl works what he must, and we work what we do. No living chamber of significance is completed in a single birth cycle.” He returned his attention to Haflunormet. “In keeping with the great traditions, we give you this choice. Make it now. By either means, the truth will become known.”
Feeling completely left out, Fanielle sat stiffly on the barrier as she struggled to follow the conversation between the four thranx. The finely worked black schist was warm against her legs and backside. Haflunormet could not agree, of course. At the same time, how could he not? In her entire professional life, she had never felt so helpless, so completely at a loss for options. She was still agonizing over possibilities when Haflunormet stepped forward and extended both foothands.
“Very well, sriippk. I disagree with you completely, but it is better to dig through soft earth in the wrong direction than to break one’s digits against solid rock in another.” Reaching out, he took the senior Bwyl’s foothands in his own. “Let this grasping of work digits serve to emphasize the new bond between us.”
The elder gestured gratification. “I am not surprised by your decision. Most diplomats act in a sensible fashion when presented with clearly defined parameters.” He grasped Haflunormet’s eight digits in his own.
Whereupon the diplomat bent and twisted with unexpected speed. The thranx equivalent of jujitsu, involving as it did a maximum possible eight limbs, was something to behold. The surprised Bwyl flew up and over Haflunormet’s abdomen, past a shocked Fanielle—and over the retaining wall.
The dull thump humans make when they take a hard fall was in startling contrast to the loud crack of the thranx’s exoskeleton shattering as it struck the rocks below.
Before the elder’s stunned companions could react, Haflunormet was on top of and locked in a seemingly inextricable clinch with the younger male. Superior knowledge and experience was matched against greater strength. The former was, tragically, of no use whatsoever against even a very small gun.
Discharged by the female, it replaced the struggling diplomat’s left eye with a large hole. Haflunormet’s limbs went limp, his antennae collapsed atop his head, and the bright
golden sheen of life began to fade almost immediately from his remaining oculus. As the surviving male strove to shove the now slack body away from his own, the female swung the deadly little weapon in Fanielle’s direction.
There is a time for diplomacy, and then there is a time for reverting to the doctrines that have always preceded hopeless confrontations. Bringing her knees up toward her chest, Fanielle spun on her tail end; swung her legs wide, high, and wild to her right; and dropped over the outside of the overlook’s stone wall. Faced with the gun, her reaction had been entirely instinctive. Several thoughts collided for attention as she fell, with one uppermost in her mind.
Dear God, please—not my baby.
She landed in untouched jungle some five meters below, the thick undergrowth helping to cushion her fall. Pain shot up her right leg, lingered for a terrifying moment, and then began to diminish as rapidly as it had arrived. Her hand went immediately to her slightly protruding belly. Everything felt normal, unchanged. Healthy. Immensely relieved that her body had handled the drop so well, she straightened, her mind taking inventory of her condition before she had time to feel fear: She was not crippled; nothing was broken, maybe a slight sprain. She could still walk, but could she run? Could she run for two? She had no choice but to try.
As she started to push herself erect, her hand slipped against something thick and wet. Less than a meter from her eyes, the broken face of the elder Bwyl stared lifelessly back into her own. The stiff-limbed, stiff-bodied thranx had not taken the fall half as well as the more flexible human.
Something burned the foliage to her left, and she immediately stumbled off in the opposite direction, wiping her bloodstained hand against a leg of her pants. Surely the surviving Bwyl could not see her, concealed as she was by the thick rain forest vegetation. They were firing blindly, hoping to hit her. She had no doubt that they would pursue. With her witness to them having killed Haflunormet, they now had no choice. Despite their six legs, the thranx were not good leapers. They would have to find another way down. That would buy her some time.
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