He was in luck. The clerk who answered nodded, gestured follow me, and led him directly to the Archivist’s office. Not only was she in; she was delighted. “Delighted!” she said, pumping his long, graceful hand with both of her tiny ones, “What an honor! Never did I think to meet so august a colleague in our remote little corner!”
“You’ve heard of the Imperial Library, then?”
“Heard of! How could I claim to be a professional, and not dream of going there one day!”
She was grateful he’d come.
She was grateful for this tacit recognition of her archive as a library of merit.
She was grateful for his offer of the Imperial Pre-accession Package.
She was grateful for any assistance in re-establishing the trunk connection to the Zion University Library.
She expressed no interest whatsoever in eventual live LM linkage to the Imperial Newscast Networks. “Oh no,” she said, “I don’t think the Bishop would approve that. We’re not backward, you know. It’s not that.”
He remained impassive.
“It’s just that we take seriously our responsibility to avoid confusion among our flock.”
Colchis briefly nodded.
“So we prefer to preview recorded cubes before distribution.”
Colchis patiently explained Imperial policies regarding non-interference with local science and technology. Explained that the feed would be filtered in any event, depending upon how New Utah was classified.
She marveled at this.
Suspecting that her personal technological expertise might not be up to this discussion, he asked if he might speak with her technical operations manager. They spent a pleasant few minutes chatting about Temple collections while they waited.
“My guide at Zion said that you back up many of their collections?”
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “To our great pride, this makes relevant work accessible to our flock directly from the main reading room.”
“Relevant work?”
“Research results and technical innovations that further the True Church’s Mission on New Utah.”
“So you do not duplicate everything.”
“Oh no.” She looked appalled. “We wouldn’t back up work that was confusing.”
Barthes paused a moment, sipping his tea. She seemed clear on her views, but open enough to discussion. It was worth a try.
“I toured the Zion Library,” he said evenly, “what was left of it.”
Her brow furrowed. Her lips pursed. “Terrible thing, that. Terrible.” She set down her cup with a little clink; looked at him earnestly; clasped her hands to her chest, leaned forward. “I mean, of course, there was much there that was confusing. Which is why we create a safe collection here. But to burn a Library!”
“Is that what happened? I didn’t know.” Nor did I ask, he thought, not at the time.
“Oh yes!” Here eyes went wide. “Some of our youth—they are very sincere. But misguided. Some boys firebombed the Zion Library.” She made a weak imitation of throwing. “It was unfortunate. And completely wrong. Of course, they will be punished. If they find them.” Her hands collapsed to her lap. She picked up the teacup.
“It that what the fighting was? Last night? Something like that?”
Her face widened, an open book, as she sipped her tea. “Fighting? What fighting?”
“Perhaps I was mistaken.”
There was a longer pause. The technician still had not arrived. Barthes grasped for a subject.
“Would you be so kind?” he asked, fishing the burned paper from a burnished portfolio. “It is just a matter of curiosity. I found this in the rubble. It’s of no importance, really, but it seems to be all that survived. It makes reference to earlier research, done during “Foundation” times. Is this something you’d have copies of?”
He passed it over. She merely glanced at the title, then smiled broadly and jumped to her feet, handing it back. “Come!” she gestured, “Please, come! Where were my manners! I can’t take you inside the Sanctuary, of course, but please, let me show you the reading rooms! Those are public!”
She scooted through the maze of corridors so quickly, black skirts swishing about her, that Colchis nearly had to jog to keep stride. They made a final turning to a nondescript door with a cipher lock. She punched in a code, and waved him inside.
Colchis gasped. The vaulted hall rose before him, suffused with perfect, even, milky light. The dome seemed to have been carved apiece, filtering the sun’s natural rays through silky, translucent stone. Reader’s desks with nano jacks ringed the room, the tabletops and benches forming staggered, concentric rings with a librarian’s desk at the center.
“We call this our Temple of Light!” she beamed. “You can see why!”
“It’s beautiful.” His answer was simple, honest. He was awed.
“But come!” she said, towing him by one hand through the maze. “Lily, can we borrow the glass?”
The librarian nodded, fished below the counter, and handed over a small monocular even as they arrived at her station.
The archivist handed it to Colchis, pointing across the room and upward. “Look at the frieze.” He raised the implement to one eye; fumbled. “Twist it to focus,” she bubbled, “and look at the rim along the bottom of the dome. It’s a carved frieze. Carved in Founder times.”
He did as directed, while she chattered on. “You see, that’s what I mean. About not being backward. About avoiding confusion. The early settlers, they were really very superstitious. They called it being devout, but it was really just ignorance. They thought those were angels. Imagine! They really believed that those were angels. And that’s why they were carved.”
Fumbling, twisting, finally changing eyes, Colchis struggled with the monocular, finally walking it slowly up the wall until he found the frieze itself. He gave a final twist and nearly dropped the thing as an alien, smiling face suddenly filled his eye. He literally choked. Then ran the glass to and fro along the frieze in panicked disbelief.
Misunderstanding his reaction, the archivist laughed, and chattered on. “Ugly, aren’t they?”
His patrician composure shattered, Barthes stammered his reply. “What—what—are—they!”
“Why, Swenson’s Apes, of course. The earliest settlers found them here when they arrived. And being superstitious, thought they were Angels. That’s why they called it Heaven—Heaven and all His Angels. But they aren’t of course. They’re just animals.”
But Barthes barely heard this. His mind was racing. Because, from his perspective, it was an unchanging, enigmatic, lopsided Motie smile that greeted his terrified eye. Heart pounding, he slowly lowered the glass. Spoke carefully. “Madam Archivist, you have seen Imperial news cubes from the past three decades, have you not? I realize officially no, but I presume—”
She laughed. “Of course!”
“So, have you not remarked the amazing resemblance of these—Swenson’s Apes—to Moties?
She laughed again. “Of course! That’s how we knew it was all a lie!”
Barthes was confused. “A lie? What lie is that, Madam?’
She was clearly delighted. “All of it—the blockade expenses, the so-called First Contact, all of it!” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “They think we’re backward. But they all swallow that tripe. It’s just made up. It’s just made up to justify whatever the Empire is doing with all that money. It’s just the modern version of thinking they’re Angels. We’ve known they’re just animals all along. It’s one of our teaching points now, on the good use of science. To avoid confusion.”
Barthes breathed deeply. “Ah. Well then. How very—interesting. Might I see the Swenson collection, then? While we wait?”
But she was already handing the glass back to the librarian, shaking her head. “Oh, no. I am sorry. That collection is classified now. You see—” she switched to stage whisper—”we think that’s how they made all those fake newsreels. We think someone pirate
d an unauthorized copy of the Swenson archives and—manipulated—it. Not from here of course.” She returned to full voice. “From the Zion U. archives. Their security is terrible over there.”
Throughout the technical meeting, Colchis Barthes was numb. He remained numb as he left the security zone. He was numb as he looked in at his office, and left instructions on how to carry on. He was numb as he arrived at his hotel; numb as he climbed the stairs; numb as he entered his room. He slumped onto the edge of the bed without even bothering to close the door. He pulled the report from the portfolio again. The portfolio dropped to the floor. He rifled through the many pages, until he arrived at the second, unread section. The Planet of the Apes, it began.
He became more agitated as he read, eyes darting across the page:
Lesser Ape species…bilaterally symmetrical…Greater Apes…only three arms…Colors included white, brown, black, and occasionally striped…colors were separate species…multi-species colonies…division of labor by species…watchdog species with sharp, chitonous, cutting spines…largest species usually white.
That was Moties. That was Moties, plain and simple. Masters—that was the white ones—Farmers—Mediators, even—that would be the striped ones. And the “watchdogs”—those were clearly Warriors. All described. Something else too—one that excavated the colony dens, or mounds, or whatever it was they lived in. Was that a primitive Engineer? He read on. It became biologically technical, but from what he could make of it, that matched too:
Colonies were few and far between… hermaphrodites…chimeras…mechanism for apparent sex-change during reproductive cycle.
But none of this made sense. This paper referred to a time centuries before First Contact. These—apes, only Swenson was clear that they absolutely were not apes—were already here when New Utah was first colonized. But they lived like—animals. Where was the advanced technology? Was this a fallen civilization? If so, where were the ruined cities? He read on:
Swenson’s Apes cultivated marsh “grasses” that concentrated selenium and prevented it leaching from soils…Interfered with agricultural expansion…Most Swenson’s apes exterminated; locally extinct…some Swenson’s Apes fled…Founder era plowing destroyed root mats so that commercial irrigation resulted in rapid selenium depletion…
We should investigate methods for re-establishing selenium-concentrating algal fields for livestock forage and local nutritional supplementation. Doing so would eliminate New Utah’s dependency on imported fertilizers and vitamins.
Barthes felt ill. Tales of extinction were common enough. That was merely sad, but nothing that could be undone in the present. Actually, he momentarily forgot even the Motie issue, under the weight of that final sentence. He was ill, because Librarian or no, he did not actually live in an ivory tower. Well, he did, but that was beside the point. The point was, nobody was ever going to catch the boys who had firebombed the University Library. They were long since safely back on Maxroy’s Purchase.
And suddenly, it all made sense. The Jackson delegation came and went nearly twenty years ago—and New Utah had nearly plunged into civil war immediately thereafter. Or hadn’t. They’d arrived—himself, HG, Asach, as the advance team for the Accession Delegation—and the city had hotted up, putting everyone on edge. Teetering on the brink. Never quite going over, but teetering on the brink.
And who benefited from that? Colchis sighed. Entrepreneurs, of a certain ilk. Colonizers. Maxroy’s Purchase. Anybody who themselves gained from New Utah’s not gaining Classified status. He hated this. He was a scholar, not a warrior, but that did not mean he was naive. It would get uglier before it got better. Color slowly drained from his hands as he added to this a potential Motie connection. Had they broken the blockade?
He reminded himself that they hadn’t. They were here all along. Or had been. Surely, they were gone by now. If no, with their phenomenal reproductive rates, they’d have long since swamped the planet. So, sad it was, the extinction was for the best. Absent that, the likes of a Kutuzov would have vitrified New Utah. Kutuzov himself, even.
He rose, packed the paper away again, moved like a wooden nutcracker. Out of his room. Down the corridor. Up the back stairs. Climbed and climbed. Up to the roof. Only in dire emergency. Asach had said. I can’t tell you how, but in dire emergency, I can get a message off-planet. It will pass into—Imperial hands. I cannot tell you more than that. Barthes, I am trusting your discretion.
So Colchis Barthes, data recovery expert, who had spent his entire life in Imperial service and understood exactly what Asach had meant by that, if not exactly who, nicked some cable housing, clipped a connector, attached his locator, typed in a direction. The small dish wobbled a bit, like a flower seeking the sun, then settled. He detached the locator, attached a nano, spoke to it.
Many kilometers across the ground, and several miles above his head, unheard by Colchis, a tiny, silent voice began a long sequence of electronic chatter.
And much, much farther away from that, spake an electronic voice on Sinbad.
“Kevin?”
Renner floundered awake. Joyce groaned, rolled over, pulled the covers over her head.
“What, goddamn it!”
“To your office, Kevin, All Due Haste.”
Muttering, he marched down the corridor, barefoot and shirtless, pulling on a bathrobe as he went.
“Kevin, are you ready?”
“Goddamn it, yes. On desk.”
And then he truly awoke as he read:
Priority: Flash
From: Colchis Barthes, on Behalf of Asach Quinn.
He raced through Colchis’ summary, muttering again. The usual pre-accession jitters didn’t bother him much. The usual crap. They’d get it together, or not. It was part of the test. But the Motie connection gave him gooseflesh. Unlike Barthes, he read the Swenson’s Ape report immediately, and extremely carefully. So, unlike Barthes, he did not miss the crucial paragraph:
…in the case of Swenson’s Apes, ... selenium deficiency resulting from collapse of access to the algae fields was especially dramatic in its effects on reproductive hormonal regulation. Absent selenium, reproductive drive increased, as did copulation rates. … the immediate effect was a local population explosion. However, the second consequence … became manifest in isolated individuals: spontaneous, habitual abortion and miscarriage. Outwardly, apparently “female” Swenson’s Apes gradually sickened and died, as internal egg and sperm stocks were repeatedly fertilized, aborted, and reabsorbed…
“Damnation!” he blurted, slapping the desk. “I am sick of this crap!” Then, because his fingers were faster than his voice, he punched: Redirect. Flash. Directors’ Eyes Only, Blaine Institute, New Caledonia.”
And then he went back to bed. They’d wake him soon enough.
The Librarian did not nurse Shadenfreude. He was not pleased when his sour predictions came to pass. It began with the Christian High Churches. The Armenian and Syrian Catholic churches a few blocks from his office, the Russian Orthodox church across the river, and the Chaldean church on the south side of the city were bombed during high mass the following afternoon. Several of his colleagues’ family members suffered minor cuts from flying debris, and bruising from being trampled in the ensuing confusion. After the bombings, the red lights and sirens went on for hours.
The first two explosions rattled the office building. He could also hear the second two in the far distance. Several people arrived at the office a few minutes later, shaken, bloodied, battered, but otherwise all right. Colchis showed a kindly, tender side. He cleaned them up, dressed their wounds, and offered what support he could. They reported that at least three were killed at the Armenian Church, and perhaps a dozen injured. Later that day, the death toll rose to twenty.
The community took the immediate precaution of closing the Christian clubs and offices, so communications were effectively shut down. Colchis himself was fine, and other colleagues even joined him at his hotel for coffee late in the evening. In
the night, he was awakened once by gunshots in the street outside, but nothing seemed to come of it.
There seemed to be several local news outlets. One, which provided especially graphic coverage, was subsequently shut down by the True Church Bishop himself. Barthes presumed that it had become confusing. A competing piece, commenting on the muzzling of its competitor’s reporters, ran a hyperbolic headline: “No Bad News Allowed!” It railed against suppression of the free press.
Colchis questioned this. No bad news? From Saint George? His impression was that there had been very little except bad news reported—despite concerted, obvious, and often successful efforts by a great many citizens to calm things down and move life onto a—if not normal, than at least hopeful—footing. The utter failure to report any of the good news was clearly demoralizing for a lot of people who had not had a day’s respite in quite some time. They just wanted a little credit for what they had accomplished.
The next evening, after the office closed, Colchis went grocery shopping. The experience was utterly mundane. No-one harassed him. No-one closed the door. No-one nervously thanked him for his custom, then requested quietly that he not come back. He made selections from well-stocked shelves, paid predictably high-ish prices for imported items, and predictably dirt-cheap prices for local commodities, then went on his way.
Next stop was a roadside fruit stand. Much haggling ensued over a melon the size of New Scotland. He insisted that it not be cut for a sample. The melon was cut nonetheless, with a knife worthy of a bad horror flick. Once it was cut, Colchis didn’t want it. Now that it was cut, he had to take it. A price was named worthy of a Spartan grocer. For an unwanted, uncut melon? Never! Colchis bought elsewhere. Despite much brandishing of melon knives, only fruit was threatened, and in the end he bought two monstrous fruits for half a crown.
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