by David Brin
He lowered his arms, blinking away tears. Through the window he saw an enclosed yard, an unkempt vegetable garden, a couple of climbing trees. It looked like a typical small commune-house, the sort a chim group marriage family might own.
Just visible over the nearby roofs, a line of hilltop eucalyptus trees told him he was still in Port Helenia, not far from Sea Bluff Park.
Perhaps the Gubru were leaving his interrogation to their quislings. Or his captors could be those hostile Probationers. They might have their own plans for him.
Fiben’s mouth felt as if dust weavers had been spinning traps in it. He saw a water pitcher on the room’s only table. One cup was already poured. He stumbled over and grabbed for it, but missed and knocked it crashing to the floor.
Focus! Fiben told himself. If you want to get out of this, try to think like a member of a starfaring race!
It was hard. The subvocalized words were painful just behind his forehead. He could feel his mind try to retreat … to abandon Anglic for a simpler, more natural way of thinking.
Fiben resisted an almost overpowering urge to simply grab up the pitcher and drink from it directly. Instead, in spite of his thirst, he concentrated on each step involved in pouring another cup.
His fingers trembled on the pitcher’s handle.
Focus!
Fiben recalled an ancient Zen adage. “Before enlightenment, chop wood, pour water. After enlightenment, chop wood, pour water.”
Slowing down in spite of his thirst, he turned the simple act of pouring into an exercise. Holding on with two shaking hands, Fiben managed to pour himself about half a cupful, slopping about as much onto the table and floor. No matter. He took up the tumbler and drank in deep, greedy swallows.
The second cup poured easier. His hands were steadier.
That’s it. Focus.… Choose the hard path, the one using thought. At least chims had it easier than neo-dolphins. The other Earthly client race was a hundred years younger and had to use three languages in order to think at all!
He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t notice when the door behind him opened.
“Well, for a boy who’s had such a busy night, you sure are chipper this morning.”
Fiben whirled. Water splattered the wall as he brought up the cup to throw it, but the sudden movement seemed to send his brain spinning in his head. The cup clattered to the floor and Fiben clutched at his temples, groaning under a wave of vertigo.
Blearily, he saw a chimmie in a blue sarong. She approached carrying a tray. Fiben fought to remain standing, but his legs folded and he sank to his knees.
“Bloody fool,” he heard her say. Bile in his mouth was only one reason he couldn’t answer.
She set her tray on the table and took hold of his arm. “Only an idiot would try to get up after taking a full stunner jolt at close range!”
Fiben snarled and tried to shake her hands off. Now he remembered! This was the little “pimp” from the Ape’s Grape. The one who had stood in the balcony not far from the Gubru and who had him stunned just as he was about to make his escape.
“Lemme ’lone,” he said. “I don’ need any help from a damn traitor!”
At least that was what he had intended to say, but it came out more as a slurred mumble. “Right. Anything you say,” the chimmie answered evenly. She hauled him by one arm back to the bed. In spite of her slight size, she was quite strong.
Fiben groaned as he landed on the lumpy mattress. He kept trying to gather himself together, but rational thought seemed to swell and fade like ocean surf.
“I’m going to give you something. You’ll sleep for at least ten hours. Then, maybe, you’ll be ready to answer some questions.”
Fiben couldn’t spare the energy to curse her. All his attention was given over to finding a focus, something to center on. Anglic wasn’t good enough anymore. He tried Galactic Seven.
“Na … Ka … tcha … kresh …” he counted thickly.
“Yes, yes,” he heard her say. “By now we’re all quite aware how well educated you are.”
Fiben opened his eyes as the chimmie leaned over him, a capsule in her hand. With a finger snap she broke it, releasing a cloud of heavy vapor.
He tried to hold his breath against the anesthetic gas, knowing it was useless. At the same time, Fiben couldn’t help noticing that she was actually fairly pretty—with a small, childlike jaw and smooth skin. Only her wry, bitter smile ruined the picture.
“My, you are an obstinate chen, aren’t you? Be a good boy now, breathe in and rest,” she commanded.
Unable to hold out any longer, Fiben had to inhale at last. A sweet odor filled his nostrils, like overripe forest fruit. Awareness began dissipating in a floating glow.
It was only then Fiben realized that she, too, had spoken in perfect, unaccented Galactic Seven.
28
Government in Hiding
Megan Oneagle blinked away tears. She wanted to turn away, not to look, but she forced herself to watch the carnage one more time.
The large holo-tank depicted a night scene, a rain-driven beach that shone dimly in shades of gray under faintly visible brooding cliffs. There were no moons, no stars, in fact hardly any light at all. The enhancement cameras had been at their very limits taking these pictures.
On the beach she could barely make out five black shapes that crawled ashore, dashed across the sand, and began climbing the low, crumbling bluffs.
“You can tell they followed procedures precisely,” Major Prathachulthorn of the Terragens Marines explained. “First the submarine released the advance divers, who went ahead to scout and set up surveillance. Then, when it seemed the coast was clear, the sabots were released.”
Megan watched as little boats bobbed to the surface—black globes rising amid small clouds of bubbles—which then headed quickly for shore. They landed, covers popped off, and more dark figures emerged.
“They carried the finest equipment available. Their training was the best. These were Terragens Marines.”
So? Megan shook her head. Does that mean they did not have mothers?
She understood what Prathachulthorn was saying, however. If calamity could befall these professionals, who could blame Garth’s colonial militia for the disasters of the last few months?
The black shapes moved toward the cliffs, stoop-shouldered under heavy burdens.
For weeks, now, the remnants still under Megan’s command had sat with her, deep in their underwater refuge, pondering the collapse of all their well-laid plans for an organized resistance. The agents and saboteurs had been ready, the arms caches and cells organized. Then came the cursed Gubru coercion gas, and all their careful schemes collapsed under those roiling clouds of deadly smoke.
What few humans remained on the mainland were certainly dead by now, or as good as dead. What was frustrating was that nobody, not even the enemy in their broadcasts, seemed to know who or how many had made it to the islands in time for antidote treatment and internment.
Megan avoided thinking about her son. With any luck he was now on Cilmar Island, brooding with his friends in some pub, or complaining to a crowd of sympathetic girls how his mother had kept him out of the war. She could only hope and pray that was the case, and that Uthacalthing’s daughter was safe as well.
More of a cause for perplexity was the fate of the Tymbrimi Ambassador himself. Uthacalthing had promised to follow the Planetary Council into hiding, but he had never appeared. There were reports that his ship had tried for deepspace instead, and was destroyed.
So many lives. Lost to what purpose?
Megan watched the display as the sabots began edging back into the water. The main force of men was already climbing the bluffs.
Without humans, of course, any hope of resistance was out of the question. A few of the cleverest chims might strike a blow, here or there, but what could really be expected of them without their patrons?
One purpose of this landing had been to start something going again
, to adapt and adjust to new circumstances.
For the third time—even though she knew it was coming—Megan was caught by surprise as lightning suddenly burst upon the beach. In an instant everything was bathed in brilliant colors.
First to explode were the little boats, the sabots.
Next came the men.
“The sub pulled its camera in and dived just in time,” Major Prathachulthorn said.
The display went blank. The woman marine lieutenant who had operated the projector turned on the lights. The other members of the Council blinked, adjusting to the light. Several dabbed their eyes.
Major Prathachulthorn’s South Asian features were darkly serious as he spoke again. “It’s the same thing as during the space battle, and when they somehow knew to gas every secret base we’d set up on land. Somehow they always find out where we are.”
“Do you have any idea how they’re doing it?” one of the council members asked.
Vaguely, Megan recognized that it was the female Marine officer, Lieutenant Lydia McCue, who answered. The young woman shook her head. “We have all of our technicians working on the problem, of course. But until we have some idea how they’re doing it, we don’t want to waste any more men trying to sneak ashore.”
Megan Oneagle closed her eyes. “I think we are in no condition, now, to discuss matters any further. I declare this meeting adjourned.”
When she retired to her tiny room, Megan thought she would cry. Instead, though, she merely sat on the edge of her bed, in complete darkness, allowing her eyes to look in the direction she knew her hands lay.
After a while, she felt she could almost see them, fingers like blobs resting tiredly on her knees. She imagined they were stained—a deep, sanguinary red.
29
Robert
Deep underground there was no way to sense the natural passage of time. Still, when Robert jerked awake in his chair, he knew exactly when it was.
Late. Too damn late. Athaclena was due back hours ago.
If he weren’t still little more than an invalid he would have overcome the objections of Micah and Dr. Soo and gone topside himself, looking for the long overdue raiding party. As it was, the two chim scientists had nearly had to use force to stop him.
Traces of Robert’s fever still returned now and then. He wiped his forehead and suppressed some momentary shivers. No, he thought. I am in control!
He stood up and picked his way carefully toward the sounds of muttered argument, where he found a pair of chims working over the pearly light of a salvaged level-seventeen computer. Robert sat on a packing crate behind them and listened for a while. When he made a suggestion they tried it, and it worked. Soon he had almost managed to push aside his worries as he immersed himself in work, helping the chims sketch out military tactics programming for a machine that had never been designed for anything more hostile than chess.
Somebody came by with a pitcher of juice. He drank. Someone handed him a sandwich. He ate.
An indeterminate time later a shout echoed through the underground chamber. Feet thumped hurriedly over low wooden bridges. Robert’s eyes had grown accustomed to the bright screen, so it was out of a dark gloom that he saw chims hurrying past, seizing assorted, odd-lot weapons as they rushed up the passage leading to the surface.
He stood and grabbed at the nearest running brown form. “What’s happening?”
He might as well have tried to halt a bull. The chim torc free without even glancing his way and vanished up the ragged tunnel. The next one he waved down actually looked at him and halted restlessly. “It’s th’ expedition,” the nervous chen explained. “They’ve come back.… At least I hear some of ’em have.”
Robert let the fellow go. He began casting around the chamber for a weapon of his own. If the raiding party had been followed back here …
There wasn’t anything handy, of course. He realized bitterly that a rifle would hardly do him any good with his right arm immobilized. The chims probably wouldn’t let him fight anyway. They’d more likely carry him bodily out of harm’s way, deeper into the caves.
For a while there was silence. A few elderly chims waited with him for the sound of gunfire.
Instead, there came voices, gradually growing louder. The shouts sounded more excited than fearful.
Something seemed to stroke him, just above the ears. He hadn’t had much practice since the accident, but now Robert’s simple empathy sense felt a familiar trace blow into the chamber. He began to hope.
A babbling crowd of figures turned the bend—ragged, filthy neo-chimpanzees carrying slung weapons, some sporting bandages. The instant he saw Athaclena, a knot seemed to let go inside of Robert.
Just as quickly, though, another worry took its place. The Tymbrimi girl had been using the gheer transformation, clearly. He felt the rough edges of her exhaustion, and her face was gaunt.
Moreover, Robert could tell that she was still hard at work. Her corona stood puffed out, sparkling without light. The chims hardly seemed to notice as stay-at-homes eagerly pumped the jubilant raiders for news. But Robert realized that Athaclena was concentrating hard to craft that mood. It was too tenuous, too tentative to sustain itself without her.
“Robert!” Her eyes widened. “Should you be out of bed? Your fever only broke yesterday.”
“I’m fine. But—”
“Good. I am happy to see you ambulatory, at last.”
Robert watched as two heavily bandaged forms were rushed past on stretchers toward their makeshift hospital. He sensed Athaclena’s effort to divert attention away from the bleeding, perhaps dying, soldiers until they were out of sight. Only the presence of the chims made Robert keep his voice low and even. “I want to talk with you, Athaclena.”
She met his eyes, and for a brief instant Robert thought he kenned a faint form, turning and whirling above the floating tendrils of her corona. It was a harried glyph.
The returning warriors were busy with food and drink, bragging to their eager peers. Only Benjamin, a hand-sewn lieutenant’s patch on his arm, stood soberly beside Athaclena. She nodded. “Very well, Robert. Let us go someplace private.”
“Let me guess,” he said, levelly. “You got your asses kicked.”
Chim Benjamin winced, but he did not disagree. He tapped a spot on an outstretched map.
“We hit them here, in Yenching Gap,” he said. “It was our fourth raid, so we thought we knew what to expect.”
“Your fourth.” Robert turned to Athaclena. “How long has this been going on?”
She had been picking daintily at a pocket pastry filled with something pungently aromatic. She wrinkled her nose. “We have been practicing for about a week, Robert. But this was the first time we tried to do any real harm.”
“And?”
Benjamin seemed immune to Athaclena’s mood-tailoring. Perhaps it was intentional, for she would need at least one aide whose judgment was unaffected. Or maybe he was just too bright. He rolled his eyes. “We’re the ones who got hurt.” He went on to explain. “We split into five groups. Mizz Athaclena insisted. It’s what saved us.”
“What was your target?”
“A small patrol. Two light hover-tanks and a couple of open landcars.”
Robert pondered the site on the map, where one of the few roads entered the first rank of mountains. From what others had told him, the enemy were seldom seen above the Sind. They seemed content to control space, the Archipelago, and the narrow strip of settlement along the coast around Port Helenia.
After all, why should they bother with the back country? They had nearly every human safely locked away. Garth was theirs.
Apparently, the rebels’ first three forays had been exercises—a few former militia noncoms among the chims trying to teach raw recruits how to move and fight under the forest shadows. Fourth time out, though, they had felt ready to contact the enemy.
“From the beginning they seemed to know we were there,” Benjamin continued. “We followed them as the
y patrolled, practiced ducking through the trees and keeping them in sight, like before. Then …”
“Then you actually attacked the patrol.”
Benjamin nodded. “We suspected they knew where we were. But we had to be sure. Th’ General came up with a plan.…”
Robert blinked, then nodded. He still wasn’t used to Athaclena’s new honorary title. His puzzlement grew as he listened to Benjamin describe this morning’s action.
The ambush had been set up so five different parties would each, in turn, get a shot at the patrol with minimum risk.
And without much chance to damage the enemy, either, he noted. The ambuscades were mostly too high or too far away to offer very good shots. With hunting rifles and concussion grenades, what harm could they do?
One small Gubru landcar had been destroyed in the initial fusillade. Another was lightly damaged before withering fire from the tanks forced each squad into retreat. Air cover arrived swiftly from the coast, and the raiders fled barely in time. The aggressive portion of the raid was finished in less than fifteen minutes. The retreat and circuitous covering of tracks took much longer.
“The Gubru weren’t fooled, were they?” Robert asked.
Benjamin shook his head. “They always seemed to be able to pick us out. It’s a miracle we were able to ding them at all, and a bigger one we got away.”
Robert glanced at the “General.” He started to voice his disapproval, but then he looked back at the map one more time, pondering the positions the ambushers had taken up. He traced the lines of fire, the avenues of retreat.
“You suspected as much,” he said at last to Athaclena.
Her eyes came slightly together and separated again, a Tymbrimi shrug. “I did not think we should approach too closely, on our first encounter.”
Robert nodded. Indeed, if closer, “better” ambush sites had been chosen, few if any of the chims would have made it back alive.