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The Flowery War

Page 19

by Tim Andersen


  “Entrance?” I said. I couldn't see anything ahead.

  “My father's house is just ahead---or I guess I mean above.” She pointed up.

  I looked up and was astonished to see that, about 400 meters above my head was a set of structures attached to the trunks of several of the giant trees, all connected by tubes. They looked like treehouses.

  “Your father lives in a treehouse?” I said.

  “He's eccentric,” she said, shrugging. “It's also practical on a world with so many trees. The original settlers cleared a lot of land for cultivation. Most people here still live out in the open spots, but a few have adapted to the trees. Building this was his dream.”

  “Mine too,” I whispered, marveling at it.

  She smiled, a little sadly.

  Our talk was interrupted. Smith was well ahead of us talking to somebody over what looked like a crude intercom attached to a post near the base of one of the trees. “Yes,” he was saying, “she's here.” He turned to Lika. “Lika, he wants to talk to you.”

  “Dad's a little paranoid about visitors. Probably more than usual if there's a rebellion going on,” she said. Then raising her voice to talk into the microphone. “Dad?” she yelled.

  “Lika? Is that you?” The voice sounded confused.

  “Yes, it's me. I'm here with Tolan Smith and Goshan Fenn. Can we come up?”

  There was a pause. “Wait, Lika is on Earth. She wouldn't come all the way here without telling me. Who are you?”

  “It's a long story, ok, but it's really me, Dad. Don't you have video on this thing?”

  He ignored the question. “If you're really Lika, what was the name of the restaurant where we last ate?”

  Lika frowned and looked worried. For a moment I thought she didn't know the answer but then she said, “Um, it was the Iris Cafe.”

  We didn't hear anything after that. “Dad?” she said. She turned to me. “It was the Iris Cafe. I remember because he bought me my favorite caramels. They only sell them there.” I was about to reach out to touch her shoulder in sympathy when I heard a whirring sound from above.

  We all looked up and saw small, cylindrical capsule the color of bronze and silver descending on cables. It descended slowly. As it neared the ground, we all backed away. It stopped centimeters above the forest floor.

  It looked like a 19th century diving apparatus complete with a bluish tinted porthole set in a metal door and an ornate ivy pattern done in bronze over its surface.

  Smith grabbed the latch, swung the door open, and stepped inside. Lika and I followed him.

  I closed the door behind us. There was hardly room for three people inside. It had clearly been designed with a single occupant in mind. If any of us had been overweight, it would have been impossible. As it was, my face was centimeters from Smith's. Lika's nose was buried in my chest. I kept my palms against my sides lest I accidentally grope one of them. As claustrophobic as it was, I was excited to see the inside of this rich man’s treehouse.

  Smith pulled down on a handle that was set in the back of the capsule. With a click and a whir, it started to rise. It swung gently as it did. If there had been any wind, the trip would have been rather dangerous considering it could easily smash itself against one of the great trunks, but I assumed that the wind almost never blew down here, blocked by the trees.

  As we rose I saw through the porthole the ground disappear beneath us. It also appeared to get brighter the closer we got to the top of the canopy. I glanced at Smith, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts.

  I still wondered why he had let Lika talk him into coming here. The file had to be on Earth, and I couldn't see how Lika's father could help with that.

  I was startled out of my thoughts by a jolt in the capsule. We had stopped. I now saw out the porthole a bridge was swinging out towards us.

  “The door, Fenn,” said Smith.

  I looked back at him. “Oh right,” I said, realizing that I was the only one who could reach the handle. I pulled down on the latch and the three of us sprung out of the confined space onto the bridge with relief. That relief was replaced with a sudden attack of vertigo, however, as I saw that I was standing on an open platform some 400 meters off the ground. Quickly, I grabbed hold of the rail and forced myself to focus on the trunk directly ahead of me. I allowed myself to look up and could see that the canopy, and the only branches, was still a hundred meters above my head.

  The bridge we were on led to a platform attached to one of the great tree trunks. The platform connected to the end one of the tubes we had seen from the ground. The tube had a doorway in its end and in the doorway stood a man with mousy brown hair sprinkled with gray.

  “Lika?” he said.

  “Hey Dad,” said Lika, looking embarrassed.

  I watched him closely. He was a tall man with thinning salt and pepper gray hair and a scruffy short beard. He was wearing loose fitting black short-sleeved shirt and pants---fitting for a warm, humid climate like this. He was also barefoot. He wore glasses with narrow, rectangular lenses---an affectation in a world where vision correction was the norm. I wondered if they had some other purpose than seeing.

  The look on his face was curious and friendly, but there was also a confidence there as if he were learning more about us just by looking than we were about him. As I would notice later, unlike Smith, who was more like a chessmaster (a constant opponent), Townsend was inviting. Retiring as he was, his enthusiasm---a childlike, bubbling excitement---for his various projects made you want to join in.

  Pontius Townsend was famous as a sim producer and inventor. A native of California, he had founded several companies in a row, each earning him more than the previous one. He was also generous. There were research labs, hospital wings, and university schools named after him. Yet, he was famously reclusive. We were three of a very select group to meet with him.

  I wasn't sure what we were waiting for. Lika and her father seemed to be unsure. Eventually, she decided to introduce us. He greeted me and then set his eyes on Smith.

  “Ah, Mr. Smith. My daughter has told me a lot about you.” At this, Lika turned red with embarrassment. Taking a look at his daughter he added, “all good, of course.”

  Smith eyed the man but was polite and shook his hand. I remembered that Smith was able to be polite when it suited him. “Of course,” he said, pausing for, what for Smith, must have been a long time before getting down to business. “If it's not too much trouble we have something urgent to discuss with you.”

  “I guessed that you didn't run the blockade just so Lika could visit me.” He turned and led us into the tube. The door shut behind us automatically, and the warm humidity of the outside was replaced by a cool dryness.

  “Blockade?” I said.

  He spoke as he walked in front of us. “Surely you had to get past them. They're preventing any ships from landing. I've had no end of trouble since the rebellion started. They took down the superluminal arrays. I lost contact with my associates on Earth, right before we were supposed to roll out. I was supposed to do the announcement via projection.” He sighed. “My company will be in ruins before this is over.”

  I was about to ask more about the rebellion when Smith interrupted. “We arrived before the rebellion started. We have been doing survival training in the wilderness up until now and have been out of touch.”

  Lika looked back at Smith is surprise as if to say, why lie?

  “Ah,” said Townsend, showing no sign of recognizing Smith's deceit. There was a note of sadness in his voice too. “It was kind of you to come visit me then. If I had known you were coming, I would have made arrangements to take a tree skimmer out and show you around.”

  “Dad---” said Lika.

  “No,” he said, “it's alright. He glanced back at Smith and me. “We didn't part on the best of terms.”

  “Dad!”

  “Well, I'm sure they probably already know. Anyway, I'm glad you're here.” He smiled with genuine warmth at Lika.


  I had lost track as we walked along the winding tube which not only twisted and turned but also went up and down at steep angles. It was dim inside, gray and blue, and the windows were tinted the same bluish color as the porthole in the elevator. Outside I could see nothing but trees and dappled leafy branches fading into the distance.

  After a long walk, we arrived in a circular chamber. Indeed, everything in the treetop mansion was round. Oval windows circled the entire room giving a 360 degree view of the forest. Set over a red circular carpet in the middle was a low, black table (round of course) and around it, also in a circle, were white cushioned benches.

  Arrayed throughout the room were glass and wood tables and shelves containing odd contraptions, artwork, and other things that he had collected. Some of them seemed to be alien. I had always wondered what rich people did with the alien artifacts they spent billions on whenever they (rarely) came up for auction. I always figured that they must put them in a safe somewhere because they were so valuable, but Townsend at least displayed his purchases---for whom I couldn’t say.

  Smith, coming into the room, started examining some of the curiosities. Spying one, he appeared intrigued and walked straight over to a shelf in a corner. “You have a Shader vanishing mask,” he said. He pointed to a mask that was clearly not made for a human face. It had holes for four eyes and was shaped as if to cover a snout. “Does it work?”

  Townsend looked at Smith nervously. “Yes, I had the power source converted to standard when I bought it. I had to pay a team of researchers for a year to figure out how to do it.”

  Smith looked at Townsend and, holding his hands out, said, “may I?”

  Townsend appeared to consider. He looked at Lika and I saw her look a little pleadingly at him. He turned back to Smith and said, “go ahead but watch out for the refraction. It's not made for human eyesight.”

  Smith put the mask over his face. It clearly didn't fit at all but he lined up one hole with one eye and squeezed a bulge on the side of it. Suddenly, Smith vanished.

  I looked at the spot where Smith had been. There wasn’t even a vague shimmer.

  I heard Smith’s voice coming from where he had put on the mask. “I saw them use these,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the mask, “on a visit before the one Lika accompanied me on. They did so,” he said, his voice still floating in air, sounding as if it were coming toward me, “whenever they were, as they put it, 'becoming too familiar' with my presence. It is a device that provides almost perfect invisibility without the need for a full body covering.”

  Smith spoke from behind me, and I jumped. “It provides them with an easy escape from unwanted people,” he finished. I glanced back and saw him holding the mask. “The Shaders will do anything to avoid trusting people, even if it means disappearing.” He stared pointedly at Townsend.

  He walked back over to the shelf and put it back, commenting, “it does have a strong refraction. I imagine it would make you quite nauseous with extended use.”

  “It does,” said Townsend, seemingly relieved to have his possession back where it belongs.

  “Now,” said Smith, “there is something we must discuss with you.” We all sat down around the table except for Smith while Townsend ordered some tea from a hidden console. A small apparatus rose from the table and began serving us. I recognized it as an automated bartender---usually used for wetbars at weddings. I had never seen anybody have one in their home.

  Smith turned to Townsend who was sitting next to Lika and asked, rather casually, “are you aware that the Earth has recently been attacked by the Trolls?”

  Townsend looked genuinely shocked. “No, we've heard nothing from Earth, at least the rebel leaders haven't mentioned anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I've been keeping tabs on local communications to see if they were going to send soldiers out here to occupy the ranch. So far they've been concentrating on keeping order in the cities. Nothing about Earth at all. I assumed that Earth was gathering its forces. I had no idea.”

  “Ah,” said Smith. “Then you are doubtless unaware that somebody---some human---is responsible for the attack. That somebody had a treaty for a ritual war drawn up and transmitted to the Trolls on behalf of Earth, which they greedily accepted.”

  Townsend turned white. Clearly, Smith had said something that touched a nerve. “A ritual war? Transmitted?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Smith. “A war designed to fool Earth's government into thinking that they were truly under attack. A war that conveniently cut off the New Sol system from Earth as well, just before the rebellion started.” The way Smith said it made it sound accusatory.

  Townsend looked at Lika who looked at Smith.

  “W-wait,” said Townsend. “You don't think I had something to do with this?”

  “Didn't you?” said Smith.

  Townsend gasped. “No! Of course not. I don't know how that could have happened.”

  “How what could have happened?” said Smith. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Townsend seemed to rally. “Now look here. I-I think you should go. Just get out of here. Lika can stay but you two can see yourself out now.”

  “Dad, no,” said Lika. “Just tell them.”

  “Tell him what?” I said. “What's going on?”

  Lika looked at her father and then at me, then at Smith. “It wasn't for real,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” said Smith.

  “That's right,” said Townsend, seeming calmer. “I told her not to tell you. She said you were very territorial over your employees, and I needed her help. Nobody else could do what I needed done.”

  “To start a war?”

  “No,” he said, “to make a sim.”

  “A sim?” said Smith.

  “We call it Troll Wars,” said Townsend. “It’s an immersive sim where the main character is a special forces operative battling the Trolls. It has immersion technology and brain activated AI that is unlike anything ever developed before. It literally responds to the players’ thoughts and personality.” It sounded like he was reading from a press release. “It’s a game changer in sim design. That is what I was planning to roll out this week.”

  He thought for a moment and seemed to forget we were in the room. “God, we can’t roll it out now if Earth’s been attacked---we’d have to change the script. It’ll take months to fix it.”

  “Dad,” said Lika.

  He looked up at her, dazed as if he had been somewhere else, then at Smith, who was waiting impatiently for him to continue. “Oh, right,” he said, “as I was saying, the sim revolves around a war with the Trolls.”

  “A ritual war?” said Smith.

  He shook his head. “No, not at first. That was one of the endings. There were several endings actually.” He ticked off his fingers. “Some were considered wins: One is that a peaceful resolution is reached and the war ends. We figured that some people might go for that goal,” he said, almost as if people found peace with the Trolls distasteful, which was probably true in principle if not in practice. “One is that the Trolls are annihilated. That’s probably the most difficult ending to achieve. There are losing endings: Either Earth is enslaved or annihilated. In the enslavement part, there was going to be an extension where the main character is part of a rebellion.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Smith, “but what about the ritual war ending?”

  Townsend seemed to be enjoying talking about the game and had again forgotten that Smith wasn’t interested. He said, “we also have an ambiguous ending where a ritual war is negotiated to stop the real war.”

  “And this game contained real Troll language?”

  “I wanted it to be authentic!” he said. “We tried commercial translators, but they were no good. It didn’t sound right. The Trolls are simul-linguistic, you know.”

  Smith nodded. “Humans are minorly simul-linguistic as well considering body language as a separate language from spoken, but the Trolls a
re one of the few races we have encountered that speak more than two languages simultaneously.”

  I had heard Troll speech before---most recently when Smith had shown me the recording of my grandfather's first encounter with them. It sounded like a full orchestra playing. The orchestral sound was a compilation of several different languages being spoken at different frequencies. The Trolls had a much more finely tuned resolver of narrowband frequencies than humans and could distinguish and process languages on several “channels” at once. Their language was efficient but incredibly nuanced with interplay between the different frequencies changing the meanings. Deciphering it was one of the first and greatest challenges my grandfather had ever faced and his success (amid the failure of others) set him up for his later career.

  Townsend continued: “We looked for an expert. We even considered asking you, but Lika said you would never do it.”

  “She was right,” said Smith.

  Townsend grimaced. “So I asked her to do it. She was a natural choice. She was already well-versed in translation. She wouldn’t use your personal software, but she could use the commercial software just as well as yours.”

  Smith looked at Lika. “At least you had the foresight not to use government software. A pity you did not consult with me first. I would have given you good reason not to do it.”

  Townsend looked angry. “Look, if you have a problem with somebody, it ought to be me not her.”

  “My problem right now,” he said, “is what happened to the translation.”

  Townsend frowned and pulled a small device out of his pocket. He thumbed a few buttons on its touch surface, and we began to hear the Troll language. Smith, for all his knowledge, couldn’t really follow it---no human could---although I got the impression that he was following the gist of the recording. “That’s the agreement,” said Townsend. “We only used snippets in the sim, but we wanted all of it. Which parts we used were decided in post-production.”

  Smith listened intently at the somewhat melodious but also dissonant sounds---reminding me of Indonesian gamelan. “It sounds like a contractual arrangement. You did this Lika?”

 

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