The Uplift War

by David Brin

  No wonder the planetary Branch Library had been ransacked of its Uplift files! They had tried to hide the evidence.

  But now, the Suzerain rejoiced, we know of this wonder.

  “You are dismissed—released—set upon your ships for home,” it told the bedraggled scientists. Then the Suzerain turned to its Kwackoo aides, gathered below its perch.

  “Contact the Suzerain of Beam and Talon,” it said with unaccustomed brevity. “Tell my peer that I wish a colloquy at once.” One of the fluffy quadrupeds bowed at once, then scurried off to call the commander of the armed forces.

  The Suzerain of Propriety stood still upon its perch, disallowed by custom from setting foot upon the surface until the ceremonies of protection had been completed.

  Its weight shifted from time to time, and it rested its beak on its chest while standing deep in thought.

  PART FOUR

  Traitors

  Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part;

  Do thou but thine.

  JOHN MILTON, Paradise Lost

  50

  Government in Hiding

  The messenger sat on a couch in the corner of the Council Room, holding a blanket around his shoulders while he sipped from a steaming cup of soup. Now and then the young chen shivered, but mostly he looked exhausted. His damp hair still lay in tangled mats from the icy swim that had brought him on the last leg of his dangerous journey.

  It’s a wonder he made it here at all, Megan Oneagle thought, watching him. All the spies and recon teams we sent ashore, carrying the finest equipment—none ever returned. But this little chim makes it to us, sailing a tiny raft made of cut trees, with homespun canvas sails.

  Carrying a message from my son.

  Megan wiped her eyes again, remembering the courier’s first words to her after swimming the last stretch of underground caves to their deep island redoubt.

  “Captain Oneagle sends his felic— his felicitations, ma’am.”

  He had drawn forth a packet—waterproofed in oli tree sap—and offered it to her, then collapsed into the arms of the medical techs.

  A message from Robert, she thought in wonder. He is alive. He is free. He helps lead an army. She didn’t know whether to exult or shudder at the thought.

  It was a thing to be proud of, for sure. Robert might be the sole adult human loose on the surface of Garth, right now. And if his “army” was little more than a ragged band of simian guerrillas, well, at least they had accomplished more than her own carefully hoarded remnants of the official planetary militia had.

  If he had made her proud, Robert had also astonished her. Might there be more substance to the boy than she had thought before? Something brought out by adversity, perhaps?

  There may be more of his father in him than I’d wanted to see.

  Sam Tennace was a starship pilot who stopped at Garth every five years or so, one of Megan’s three spacer husbands. Each was home for only a few months at a stretch—almost never at the same time—then off again. Other fems might not have been able to deal with such an arrangement, but what suited spacers also met her needs as a politician and career woman. Of the three, only Sam Tennace had given her a child.

  And I never wanted my son to be a hero, she realized. As critical as I have been of him, I guess I never really wanted him to be like Sam at all.

  For one thing, if Robert had not been so resourceful he might be safe now—interned on the islands with the rest of the human population, pursuing his playboy hobbies among his friends—instead of engaged in a desperate, useless struggle against an omnipotent enemy.

  Well, she reassured herself. His letter probably exaggerates.

  To her left, mutterings of amazement grew ever more pronounced as the government in exile pored over the message, printed on tree bark in homemade ink. “Son of a bitch!” she heard Colonel Millchamp curse. “So that’s how they always knew where we were, what we were up to, before we even got started!”

  Megan moved closer to the table. “Please summarize, colonel.”

  Millchamp looked up at her. The portly, red-faced militia officer shook several sheets until someone grabbed his arm and pried them out of his hand.

  “Optical fibers!” he cried.

  Megan shook her head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “They doped them. Every string, telephone cable, communications pipe … almost every piece of electronics on the planet! They’re all tuned to resonate back on a probability band the damn birds can broadcast …” Colonel Millchamp’s voice choked on his anger. He swiveled and walked away.

  Megan’s puzzlement must have shown.

  “Perhaps I can explain, madam coordinator,” said John Kylie, a tall man with the sallow complexion of a lifetime spacer. Kylie’s peacetime profession was captain of an insystem civilian freighter. His merchant vessel had taken part in the mockery of a space battle, one of the few survivors—if that was the right term. Overpowered, battered, finally reduced to peppering Gubru fighting planetoids with its comm laser, the wreck of the Esperanza only made it back to Port Helenia because the enemy was leisurely in consolidating the Gimelhai system. Its skipper now served as Megan’s naval advisor.

  Kylie’s expression was stricken. “Madam coordinator, do you remember that excellent deal we made, oh, twenty years ago, for a turnkey electronics and photonics factory? It was a state-of-the-art, midget-scale auto-fac—perfect for a small colony world such as ours.”

  Megan nodded. “Your uncle was coordinator then. I believe your first merchant command was to finalize negotiations and bring the factory home to Garth.”

  Kylie nodded. He looked crestfallen. “One of its main products is optical fibers. A few said the bargain we got from the Kwackoo was just too good to be true. But who could have imagined they might have something like this in mind? So far in the future? Just on the off chance that they might someday want to—”

  Megan gasped. “The Kwackoo! They’re clients of—”

  “Of the Gubru.” Kylie nodded. “The damn birds must have thought, even then, that something like this might someday happen.”

  Megan recalled what Uthacalthing had tried to teach her, that the ways of the Galactics are long ways, and patient as the planets in their orbits.

  Someone else cleared his throat. It was Major Prathachulthorn, the short, powerfully built Terragens Marines officer. He and his small detachment were the only professional soldiers left after the space battle and the hopeless gesture of defiance at the Port Helenia space-field. Millchamp and Kylie held reserve commissions.

  “This is most grave, madam coordinator,” Prathachulthorn said. “Optical fibers made at that factory have been incorporated into almost every piece of military and civilian equipment manufactured on the planet. They are integrated into nearly every building. Can we have confidence in your son’s findings?”

  Megan nearly shrugged, but her politician’s instincts stopped her in time. How the hell would I know? she thought. The boy is a stranger to me. She glanced at the small chen who had nearly died bringing Robert’s message to her. She had never imagined Robert could inspire such dedication.

  Megan wondered if she was jealous.

  A woman Marine spoke next. “The report is co-signed by the Tymbrimi Athaclena,” Lieutenant Lydia McCue pointed out. The young officer pursed her lips. “That’s a second source of verification,” she suggested.

  “With all respect, Lydia,” Major Prathachulthorn replied. “The tym is barely more than a child.”

  “She’s Ambassador Uthacalthing’s daughter!” Kylie snapped. “And chim technicians helped perform the experiments as well.”

  Prathachulthorn shook his head. “Then we have no truly qualified witnesses.”

  Several councillors gasped. The sole neo-chimpanzee member, Dr. Suzinn Benirshke, blushed and looked down at the table. But Prathachulthorn didn’t even seem to realize he’d said anything insulting. The major wasn’t known to be strong on tact. Also, he’s a Marine, Megan reminded herself. The c
orps was the elite Terragens fighting service with the smallest number of dolphin and chim members. For that matter, the Marines recruited mostly males, a last bastion of oldtime sexism.

  Commander Kylie sifted through the rough-cut pages of Robert Oneagle’s report. “Still you must agree, major, the scenario is plausible. It would explain our setbacks, and total failure to establish contact, either with the islands or the mainland.”

  Major Prathachulthorn nodded after a moment. “Plausible, yes. Nevertheless, we should perform our own investigations before we commit ourselves to acting as if it is true.”

  “What’s the matter, major?” Kylie asked. “You don’t like the idea of putting down your phase-burner rifle and picking up bows and arrows?”

  Prathachulthorn’s reply was surprisingly mild. “Not at all, ser, so long as the enemy is similarly equipped. The problem lies in the fact that he is not.”

  Silence reigned for long moments. No one seemed to have anything to say. The pause ended when Colonel Millchamp returned to the table. He slammed the flat of his hand down. “Either way, what’s the point in waiting?”

  Megan frowned. “What do you mean, colonel?”

  Millchamp growled. “I mean what good do our forces do down here?” he demanded. “We’re all going slowly stir-crazy. Meanwhile, at this very moment, Earth herself may be fighting for her life!”

  “There’s no such thing as this very moment across interstellar space,” Commander Kylie commented. “Simultaneity is a myth. The concept is imbedded in Anglic and other Earth tongues, but—”

  “Oh, revert the metaphysics!” Millchamp snapped. “What matters is that we can hurt Earth’s enemies!” He picked up the tree-bark leaves. “Thanks to the guerrillas, we know where the Gubru have placed many of their major planet-based yards. No matter what damned Library-spawned tricks the birds have got up their feathers, they can’t prevent us from launching our flicker-swivvers at them!”

  “But—”

  “We have three hidden away—there weren’t any used in the space battle, and the Gubru can’t know we have any of ’em. If those missiles are supposed to be good against the Tandu, damn their seven-chambered hearts, they’ll surely suffice for Gubru ground targets!”

  “And what good will that do?” Lieutenant McCue asked mildly.

  “We can bend a few Gubru beaks! Ambassador Uthacalthing told us that symbols are important in Galactic warfare. Right now they can pretend that we hardly put up a fight at all. But a symbolic strike, one that hurt them, would tell the whole Five Galaxies that we won’t be pushed around!”

  Megan Oneagle pinched the bridge of her nose. She spoke with eyes closed. “I have always found it odd that my Amerindian ancestors’ concept of ‘counting coup’ should have a place in a hypertechnological galaxy.” She looked up. “It may, indeed, come to that, if we can find no other way to be effective.

  “But you’ll recall that Uthacalthing also advised patience.” She shook her head. “Please sit down, Colonel Millchamp. Everybody. I’m determined not to throw our strength away in a gesture, not until I know it’s the only thing left to do against the enemy.

  “Remember, nearly every human on the planet is hostage on the islands, their lives dependent on doses of Gubru antidote. And on the mainland there are the poor chims, for all intents abandoned, alone.”

  Along the conference the officers sat downcast. They’re frustrated, Megan thought. And I can’t blame them.

  When war had loomed, when they had begun planning ways to resist an invasion, nobody had ever suggested a contingency like this. Perhaps a people more experienced in the sophistications of the Great Library—in the arcane art of war that the aeons-old Galactics knew—might have been better prepared. But the Gubru’s tactics had made a shambles of their modest defense plans.

  She had not added her final reason for refusing to sanction a gesture. Humans were notoriously unsophisticated at the game of Galactic punctilio. A blow struck for honor might be bungled, instead giving the enemy excuse for even greater horrors.

  Oh, the irony. If Uthacalthing was right, it was a little Earthship, halfway across the Five Galaxies from here, that had precipitated the crisis!

  Earthlings certainly did have a knack for making trouble for themselves. They’d always had that talent.

  Megan looked up as the small chen from the mainland, Robert’s messenger, approached the table, still wearing his blanket. His dark brown eyes were troubled.

  “Yes, Petri?” she asked.

  The chim bowed.

  “Ma’am, th’ doctor wants me to go to bed now.”

  She nodded. “That’s fine, Petri. I’m sure we’ll want to debrief you some more, later … ask you some more questions. But right now you should rest.”

  Petri nodded. “Yes’m. Thank you, ma’am. But there was somethin’ else. Somethin’ I’d better tell you while I remember.”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  The chen looked uncomfortable. He glanced at the watching humans and back at Megan. “It’s personal, ma’am. Somethin’ Captain Oneagle asked me to memorize an’ tell you.”

  Megan smiled. “Oh, very well. Will you all excuse me for a moment, please?”

  She walked with Petri over to the far end of the room. There she sat down to bring her eyes level with the little chim. “Tell me what Robert said.”

  Petri nodded. His eyes went unfocused. “Captain Oneagle said to tell you that th’ Tymbrimi Athaclena is actually doin’ most of the organizing for th’ army.”

  Megan nodded. She had suspected as much. Robert might have found new resources, new depths, but he was not and never would be a born leader.

  Petri went on. “Cap’n Oneagle told me to tell you that it was important that th’ Tymbrimi Athaclena have honorary patron status to our chims, legally.”

  Again, Megan nodded. “Smart. We can vote it and send word back.”

  But the little chim shook his head. “Uh, ma’am. We couldn’t wait for that. So, uh, I’m supposed to tell you that Captain Oneagle an’ th’ Tymbrimi Athaclena have sealed a … a consort bond … I think that’s what it’s called. I …”

  His voice trailed off, for Megan had stood up.

  Slowly, she turned to the wall and rested her forehead against the cool stone. That damn fool of a boy! part of her cursed.

  It was the only thing they could do, another part answered.

  So, now I’m a mother-in-law, the most ironic voice added.

  There would certainly be no grandchildren from this union. That was not what interspecies consort marriages were for. But there were other implications.

  Behind her, the council debated. Again and again they turned over the options, coming up dry as they had for months now.

  Oh, if only Uthacalthing had made it here, Megan thought. We need his experience, his wry wisdom and humor. We could talk, like we used to. And maybe, he could explain to me these things that make a mother feel so lost.

  She confessed to herself that she missed the Tymbrimi Ambassador. She missed him more than any of her three husbands and more even, God help her, than she missed her own strange son.

  51

  Uthacalthing

  It was fascinating to watch Kault play with a ne’ squirrel, one of the native animals of these southern plains. He coaxed the small creature closer by holding out ripe nuts in his great Thennanin hands. He had been at it for over an hour while they waited out the hot noonday sun under the cover of a thick cluster of thorny bramble.

  Uthacalthing wondered at the sight. The universe never seemed about to cease surprising him. Even bluff, oblivious, obvious Kault was a perpetual source of amazement.

  Quivering nervously, the ne’ squirrel gathered its courage. It took two more hops toward the huge Thennanin and stretched out its paws. It plucked up one of the nuts.

  Astonishing. How did Kault do it?

  Uthacalthing rested in the muggy shade. He did not recognize the vegetation here in the uplands overlooking the estuary where his
pinnace had come down, but he felt he was growing familiar with the scents, the rhythms, the gently throbbing pain of daily life that surged and flowed through and all around the deceptively quiet glade.

  His corona brought him touches from tiny predators, now waiting out the hot part of the day, but soon to resume stalking even smaller prey. There were no large animals, of course, but Uthacalthing kenned a swarm of ground-hugging insectoids grubbing through the detritus nearby, seeking tidbits for their queen.

  The tense little ne’ squirrel hovered between caution and gluttony as it approached once more to feed from Kault’s outstretched hand.

  He should not be able to do that. Uthacalthing wondered why the squirrel trusted the Thennanin, so huge, so intimidating and powerful. Life here on Garth was nervous, paranoid in the wake of the Bururalli catastrophe—whose deathly pall still hung over these steppes far east and south of the Mountains of Mulun.

  Kault could not be soothing the creature as a Tymbrimi might—by glyph-singing to it in gentle tones of empathy. A Thennanin had all the psi sense of a stone.

  But Kault spoke to the creature in his own highly inflected dialect of Galactic. Uthacalthing listened.

  “Know you—sight-sound-image—an essence of destiny, yours? Little one? Carry you—genes-essence-destiny—the fate of star-treaders, your descendants?”

  The ne’ squirrel quivered, cheeks full. The native animal seemed mesmerized as Kault’s crest puffed up and deflated, as his breathing slits sighed with every moist exhalation. The Thennanin could not commune with the creature, not as Uthacalthing might. And yet, the squirrel somehow appeared to sense Kault’s love.

  How ironic, Uthacalthing thought. Tymbrimi lived their lives awash in the everflowing music of life, and yet he did not personally identify with this small animal. It was one of hundreds of millions, after all. Why should he care about this particular individual?