The Uplift War

by David Brin

  “By Uthacalthing? But …” And then it hit Fiben. He stared at Gailet, goggle-eyed. Then he doubled over, coughing as he fought not to laugh out loud. Hilarity was like a head of steam in his chest, a force in its own right, barely contained. A sudden, brief spell of speechlock was actually a blessing, as it kept Gailet from having to shush him. He coughed some more and slapped his chest. “Excuse me,” he said in a small voice.

  “The Gubru now believe that the evidence was contrived, a clever ruse,” she went on.

  No kidding, Fiben thought silently.

  “In addition to faked data, Uthacalthing also arranged to have the Planetary Library stripped of its Uplift files, making it seem to the Suzerain as if something was being hidden. It cost the Gubru a lot to find out that Uthacalthing had tricked them. A research-class Planetary Library was shipped in, for instance. And they lost quite a few scientists and soldiers up in the mountains before they figured it out.”

  “Lost them?” Fiben sat forward. “Lost how?”

  “Chim irregulars,” Gailet answered tersely. And again there was that warning look. Come on, Gailet, he thought. I’m not an idiot. Fiben knew better than to refer in any way to Robert or Athaclena. He shied away from even thinking about them.

  Still, he couldn’t quite suppress a smile. So that was why the Kwackoo had been so polite! If chims were waging intelligent war, and by the official rules at that, then all chims had to be treated with some minimal degree of respect.

  “The mountain chims survived that first day! They must’ve stung the invaders, and kept stingin’ ’em!” He knew he was free to vent a bit of exultation. It would only be keeping in character.

  Gailet’s smile was thin. This news must have given rise to mixed feelings. After all, her own part of the insurrection had gone very much worse.

  So, Fiben thought, Uthacalthing’s elaborate ruse persuaded the Gubru that there was something on the planet at least as important as the colony’s value as hostage. Garthlings! Imagine that. They went up into the mountains chasing a myth. And somehow the general found a way to hurt them as soon as they came within reach.

  Oh, I’m sorry for all those things I thought about her old man. What a great jape, Uthacalthing!

  But now the invaders are wise to it. I wonder if …

  Fiben glanced up and saw that Gailet was watching him intently, as if gauging his very thoughts. At last Fiben understood one of the reasons why she could not be completely open and frank with him.

  We have to make a decision, he realized. Should we try to lie to the Gubru?

  He and Gailet might make the attempt, try to prop up Uthacalthing’s practical joke for just a while longer. They might succeed in convincing the Suzerain just one more time to go off hunting mythical Garthlings. It would be worth the effort if it drew even one more party of Gubru within reach of the mountain fighters.

  But did either he or Gailet have anywhere near enough sophistication to pull off such a ruse? What would it take? He could just picture it. Oh yes, massa, there is Garthlin’s after all, yes boss. You can believe brer chim, yassa.

  Or, alternatively, they could try reverse psychology. D-o-o-on’t throw me in dat briar patch …!

  Neither approach at all resembled the way Uthacalthing had done it, of course. The tricky Tymbrimi had played a game of subtle, colubrine misdirection. Fiben did not even toy with the idea of trying to operate on so sophisticated a plane.

  And anyway, if he and Gailet were caught trying to lie to the Gubru, it could very well disqualify the two of them from whatever special status the Suzerain of Propriety seemed to be offering this afternoon. Fiben had no idea what the creature wanted of them, but it just might mean a chance to find out what the invaders were building out there by the Sea of Cilmar. That could be vital information.

  No, it just wasn’t worth the risk, Fiben decided.

  Now he faced another problem, how to communicate these thoughts to Gailet.

  “Even the most sophisticated sophont race can make mistakes,” he said slowly, enunciating carefully. “Especially when they are on a strange world.” Pretending to look for a flea, he shaped the baby talk sign for Game finished now?

  Obviously Gailet agreed. She nodded firmly. “The mistake is over now. They’re sure Garthlings are a myth. The Gubru are convinced it was just a Tymbrimi trap. Anyway, I get an impression the other Suzerains—the ones that share command with the high priest—won’t allow any more pointless forays into the mountains, where they can be potshotted by guerrillas.”

  Fiben’s head jerked up. His heart pounded for a few, quick moments. Then it came to him what Gailet had meant … how the last word she had spoken was intended to be spelled. Homonyms were one of many awkward drawbacks modern Anglic had inherited from old-style English, Chinese, and Japanese. While Galactic languages had been carefully designed to maximize information content and eliminate ambiguity, wolfling tongues had evolved rough and wild, with lots of idiosyncrasies, such as words with identical sounds but different meanings.

  Fiben found his fists had clenched. He forced himself to relax. Guerrillas, not gorillas. She doesn’t know about the clandestine Uplift project in the mountains, Fiben reassured himself. She has no idea how ironic her remark sounded.

  One more reason, though, to end Uthacalthing’s “joke” once and for all. The Tymbrimi could not have been any more aware of the Howletts Center than his daughter. Had he known about the secret work there, Uthacalthing would certainly have chosen a different ruse, not one meant to send the Gubru into those very same mountains.

  The Gubru must not go back into the Mulun, Fiben realized. It’s only luck they haven’t already discovered the ’rillas.

  “Stupid birds,” he muttered, playing to Gailet’s line. “Imagine them falling for a dumb, wolfling folk tale. After Garthlings, what’ll they go after next? Peter Pan?”

  Superficially, Gailet’s expression was reproving. “You must try to be more respectful, Fiben.” Underneath, though, he felt a strong current of approval. They might not have the same reasons, but they were in agreement this far. Uthacalthing’s joke was over.

  “What they’re going after next, Fiben, is us.”

  He blinked. “Us?”

  She nodded. “I’m guessing the war isn’t going very well for the Gubru. Certainly they haven’t found the dolphin ship that everyone’s chasing, over on the other side of the Galaxy. And taking Garth hostage doesn’t seem to have budged Earth or the Tymbrimi. I’d bet it only stiffened the resistance, and gained Terra some sympathy among former neutrals.”

  Fiben frowned. It had been so long since he had thought about the larger scope—about the turmoil raging all across the Five Galaxies—about the Streaker—about the siege of Terra. Just how much did Gailet know, and how much was mere speculation?

  In the nearby weather wall, a big black bird with a huge, gaily colored bill was depicted landing in a rustle very close to the carpet where Fiben and Gailet sat. It stepped forward and seemed to regard Fiben, first with one eye, then the other. The Toucan reminded him of the Suzerain of Propriety. Fiben shivered.

  “Anyway,” Gailet went on, “the enterprise here on Garth seems to be a drain on their resources that the Gubru can’t afford too well, especially if peace does return to Galactic society, and the Institute for Civilized Warfare makes them give the planet back in only a few decades or so. I figure they’re looking real hard for some way to make a profit out of all this.”

  Fiben had an inspiration. “All that construction by South Point is part of that, right? It’s part of the Suzerain’s plan to save his hash.”

  Gailet’s lips pursed. “Colorfully put. Have you figured out what it is they’re building?”

  The multicolored bird on the branch cawed sharply and seemed to be laughing at Fiben. But when he glanced sharply that way it had already returned to the serious business of picking through the imaginary detritus on the forest floor. Fiben looked back at Gailet. “You tell me,” he said.

 
“I’m not sure I can remember well enough to translate what the Suzerain said. I was pretty nervous, you’ll remember.” Her eyes closed for a moment. “Would—would a hyperspace shunt mean anything to you?”

  The bird in the wall took off in an explosion of feathers and leaves as Fiben leaped to his feet, backing more than a meter away. He stared down at Gailet in disbelief.

  “A what? But that’s … that’s crazy! Build a shunt on the surface of a planet? It’s just not—”

  Then he stopped, remembering the great marble bowl, the mammoth power plants. Fiben’s lips quivered and his hands came together, pulling on opposite thumbs. In this way, Fiben reminded himself that he was officially almost the equal of a man—that he should be able to think like one when facing such incredible improbability. “What …” He whispered, licked his lips, and concentrated on the words. “What’s it for?”

  “I’m not so clear on that,” Gailet said. He could barely hear her over the squawking from the make-believe forest. Her finger traced a hand sign on the carpet, one which stood for confusion. “I think it was originally intended for some ceremony, if they were ever able to find and claim Garthlings. Now, the Suzerain needs something to salvage out of their investment, probably another use for the shunt.

  “If I understood the Gubru leader, Fiben, it wants to use the shunt for us.”

  Fiben sat down again. For a long moment they did not look at each other. There were only the amplified jungle sounds, the colors of a luminescent fog flowing in between the leaves of a holographic rain forest, and the inaudible murmur of their own uncertain fear. The facsimile of a bright bird watched them for a little while longer from a replicant branch high overhead. When the ghostly fog turned to insubstantial rain, however, it finally spread fictitious wings and flew away.

  60

  Uthacalthing

  The Thennanin was obdurate. There did not seem to be any way to get through to him.

  Kault seemed almost a stereotype, a caricature of his race—bluff, open, honorable to a fault, and so trusting that it threatened to drive Uthacalthing into fits of frustration. The glyph, teev’nus, was incapable of expressing Uthacalthing’s bafflement. Over the last few days, something stronger had begun taking shape in the tendrils of his corona—something pungent and reminiscent of human metaphor.

  Uthacalthing realized he was starting to get “pissed off.”

  Just what would it take to raise Kault’s suspicions? Uthacalthing wondered if he should pretend to talk in his sleep, muttering dire hints and confessions. Would that raise an inkling under the Thennanin’s thick skull? Or maybe he should abandon all subtlety and write out the entire scenario, leaving the unfolded pages in the open for Kault to find!

  Individuals can vary widely within a species, Uthacalthing knew. And Kault was an anomaly, even for a Thennanin. It would probably never occur to the fellow to spy on his Tymbrimi companion. Uthacalthing found it hard to understand how Kault could have made it this far in the diplomatic corps of any race.

  Fortunately, the darker aspects of the Thennanin nature were not also exaggerated in him. Members of Kault’s faction, it seemed, weren’t quite as smugly sanctimonious or utterly convinced of their own righteousness as those currently in charge of clan policy. More the pity, then, that one side effect of Uthacalthing’s planned jest, if it ever succeeded, would be to weaken that moderate wing even more.

  Regrettable. But it would take a miracle to ever bring Kault’s group into power anyway, Uthacalthing reminded himself.

  Anyway, the way things were heading, he was going to be spared the moral quandary of worrying about the consequences of his practical joke. At the moment it was getting exactly nowhere. So far this had been a most frustrating journey. The only compensation was that this was not, after all, a Gubru detention camp.

  They were in the low, rolling countryside leading inexorably upward toward the southern slopes of the Mountains of Mulun. The variety-starved ecosystem of the plains was giving way gradually to somewhat less monotonous scenery—scrub trees and eroded terraces whose reddish and tan sedimentary layers glittered with the morning light, winking as if in secret knowledge of long departed days.

  As the wanderers’ trek brought them ever closer to the mountains, Uthacalthing kept adjusting their path, guided by a certain blue twinkle on the horizon—a glimmer so faint that his eyes could barely make it out at times. He knew for a fact that Kault’s visual apparatus could not detect the spark at all. It had been planned that way.

  Faithfully following the intermittent glow, Uthacalthing had led the way and kept a careful watch for the telltale clues. Every time he spotted one, Uthacalthing went through the motions, dutifully rubbing out traces in the dirt, surreptitiously throwing away stone tools, making furtive notes and hiding them quickly when his fellow refugee appeared around the bend.

  By now anyone else would be positively seething with curiosity. But not Kault. No, not Kault.

  Just this morning it had been the Thennanin’s turn to lead. Their route took them along the edge of a mud flat, still damp from the recent onset of autumn rains. There, crossing their path in plain sight, had been a trail of footprints no more than a few hours old, obviously laid by something shuffling on two legs and a knuckle. But Kault just strode on past, sniffing the air with those great breathing slits of his, commenting in his booming voice on how fresh the day felt!

  Uthacalthing consoled himself that this part of his scheme had always been a long shot anyway. Maybe his plan just wasn’t meant to come about.

  Perhaps I am simply not clever enough. Perhaps both Kault’s race and my own assigned their dullest types to duty on this back-of-the-arm planet.

  Even among humans, there were those who certainly would have been able to come up with something better. One of those legendary agents of the Terragens Council, for instance.

  Of course there were no agents or other, more imaginative Tymbrimi here on Garth when the crisis hit. He had been forced to come up with the best plan he could.

  Uthacalthing wondered about the other half of his jest. It was clear the Gubru had fallen for his ruse. But how deeply? How much trouble and expense had it cost them? More importantly from the point of view of a Galactic diplomat, how badly had they been embarrassed?

  If the Gubru had proved as dense and slow as Kault …

  But no, the Gubru are reliable, Uthacalthing reassured himself. The Gubru, at least, are quite proficient at deceit and hypocrisy. It made them easier enemies than the Thennanin.

  He shaded his eyes, contemplating how the morning had aged. The air was getting warm. There was a swishing sound, the crackle of breaking foliage. Kault strode into view a few meters back, grumbling a low marching tune and using a long stick to brush shrubs out of his path. Uthacalthing wondered. If our peoples are officially at war, why is it so hard for Kault to notice that I am obviously hiding something from him?

  “Hmmmph,” the big Thennanian grunted as he approached. “Colleague, why have we stopped?”

  The words were in Anglic. Recently they had made a game of using a different language every day, for practice. Uthacalthing gestured skyward. “It is almost midday, Kault. Gimelhai is getting fierce. We had better find a place to get out of the sun.”

  Kault’s leathery ridge crest puffed. “Get out of the sun? But we are not in … oh. Aha. Ha. Ha. A wolfling figure of speech. Very droll. Yes, Uthacalthing. When Gimelhai reaches zenith, it might indeed feel somewhat as if we were roasting in its outer shell. Let us find shelter.”

  A small stand of brushy trees stood atop a hillock, not far away. This time Kault led, swinging his homemade staff to clear a path through the tall, grassy growth.

  By now they were well practiced at the routine. Kault did the heavy work of delving a comfortable niche, down to where the soil was cool. Uthacalthing’s nimble hands tied the Thennanin’s cape into place as a sunshade. They rested against their packs and waited out the hot middle part of the day.

  While Uthacalthing
dozed, Kault spent the time entering data in his lap datawell. He picked up twigs, berries, bits of dirt, rubbed them between his large, powerful fingers, and held the dust up to his scent-slits before examining it with his small collection of instruments salvaged from the crashed yacht.

  The Thennanin’s diligence was all the more frustrating to Uthacalthing, since Kault’s serious investigations of the local ecosystem had somehow missed every single clue Uthacalthing had thrown his way. Perhaps it is because they were thrown at him. Uthacalthing pondered. The Thennanin were a systematic folk. Possibly, Kault’s worldview prevented him from seeing that which did not fit into the pattern that his careful studies revealed.

  An interesting thought. Uthacalthing’s corona fashioned a glyph of appreciated surprise as, all at once, he saw that the Thennanin approach might not be as cumbersome as he had thought. He had assumed that it was stupidity that made Kault impervious to his fabricated clues, but …

  But after all, the clues really are lies. My confederate out in the bush lays out hints for me to “find” and “hide.” When Kault ignores them, could it be because his obstinate worldview is actually superior? In reality, he has proven almost impossible to fool!

  True or not, it was an interesting idea. Syrtunu riffled and tried to lift off, but Uthacalthing’s corona lay limp, too lazy to abet the glyph.

  Instead, his thoughts drifted to Athaclena.

  He knew his daughter still lived. To try to learn more would invite detection by the enemy’s psi devices. Still, there was something in those traces—trembling undertones down in the nahakieri levels of feeling—which told Uthacalthing that he would have much new to learn about Athaclena, should they ever meet again in this world.

  “In the end, there is a limit to the guidance of parents,” a soft voice seemed to say to him as he drifted in half-slumber. “Beyond that, a child’s destiny is her own.”