The Uplift War

by David Brin

  But she was the Tymbrimi, one of the “masters of adaptability.” How far that malleability had gone was made evident when Athaclena felt wetness on her cheeks. Miserably, she wiped away salty tears, the first in her life.

  That was how her assistants found her hours later, when they returned from the errands she had sent them on—sitting by the edge of a small, muddy pool, while autumn winds blew through the treetops and sent gravid clouds hurrying eastward toward the gray mountains.

  62

  Galactics

  The Suzerain of Cost and Caution was worried. All signs pointed to a molting, and the direction things appeared to be going was not to its liking.

  Across the pavilion, the Suzerain of Beam and Talon paced in front of its aides, looking more erect and stately than ever. Beneath the shaggy outer feathers there was a faint reddish sheen to the military commander’s underplumage. Not a single Gubru present could help but notice even a trace of that color. Soon, perhaps within only a twelve-day, the process would have progressed beyond the point of no return.

  The occupation force would have a new queen.

  The Suzerain of Cost and Caution contemplated the unfairness of it all as it preened its own feathers. They, too, were starting to dry out, but there were still no discernible signs of a final color.

  First it had been elevated to the status of candidate and chief bureaucrat after the death of its predecessor. It had dreamed of such a destiny, but not to be plunged into the midst of an already mature Triumvirate! Its peers were already well on the way toward sexuality by that time. It had been forced to try to catch up.

  At first that had seemed to matter little. To the surprise of all, it had won many points from the start. Discovering the foolishness the other two had been up to during the interregnum had enabled the Suzerain of Cost and Caution to make great leaps forward.

  Then a new equilibrium was reached. The admiral and the priest had proven brilliant and imaginative in the defense of their political positions.

  But the molting was supposed to be decided by correctness of policy! The prize was supposed to go to the leader whose wisdom had proven most sage. It was the way!

  And yet, the bureaucrat knew that these matters were as often decided by happenstance, or by quirks of metabolism.

  Or by alliance of two against the third, it reminded itself. The Suzerain of Cost and Caution wondered if it had been wise to support the military against Propriety, these last few weeks, giving the admiral by now an almost unassailable advantage.

  But there had been no choice! The priest had to be opposed, for the Suzerain of Propriety appeared to have lost all control!

  First had come that nonsense about “Garthlings.” If the bureaucrat’s predecessor had lived, perhaps the extravagance might have been kept down. As it was, however, vast amounts had been squandered … bringing in a new Planetary Branch Library, sending expeditions into the dangerous mountains, building a hyperspace shunt for a Ceremony of Adoption—before there was any confirmation that anything existed to adopt!

  Then there was the matter of ecological management. The Suzerain of Propriety insisted that it was essential to restore the Earthlings’ program on Garth to at least a minimal level. But the Suzerain of Beam and Talon had adamantly refused to allow any humans to leave the islands. So, at great cost, help was sent for off-planet. A shipload of Linten gardeners, neutrals in the present crisis, were on the way. And the Great Egg only knew how they were to pay for them!

  Now that the hyperspace shunt was nearing completion, both the Suzerain of Propriety and the Suzerain of Beam and Talon were ready to admit that the rumors of “Garthlings” were just a Tymbrimi trick. But would they allow construction to be stopped?

  No. Each, it seemed, had its reasons for wanting completion. If the bureaucrat had agreed it would have made a consensus, a step toward the policy so much desired by the Roost Masters. But how could it agree with such nonsense!

  The Suzerain of Cost and Caution chirped in frustration. The Suzerain of Propriety was late for yet another colloquy.

  Its passion for rectitude did not extend, it seemed, to courtesy to its peers.

  By this point, theoretically, the initial competitiveness among the candidates should have begun transforming into respect, and then affection, and finally true mating. But here they were, on the verge of a Molt, still dancing a dance of mutual loathing.

  The Suzerain of Cost and Caution was not happy about how things were turning out, but at least there would be one satisfaction if things went on in the direction they seemed headed—when Propriety was brought down from its haughty perch at last.

  One of the chief bureaucrats’ aides approached, and the Suzerain took its proffered message slab. After picting its contents, it stood in thought.

  Outside there was a commotion … no doubt the third peer arriving at last. But for a moment the Suzerain of Cost and Caution still considered the message it had received from its spies.

  Soon, yes soon. Very soon we will penetrate secret plans, plans which may not be good policy. Then perhaps we shall see a change, a change in sexuality … soon.

  63

  Fiben

  His head ached.

  Back when he had been a student at the University he had also been forced to study hour after hour, days at a stretch, cramming for tests. Fiben had never thought of himself as a scholar, and sometimes examinations used to make him sick in anticipation.

  But at least back then there were also extracurricular activities, trips home, breathing spells, when a chen could cut loose and have some fun!

  And back at the University Fiben had liked some of his professors. Right at this moment, though, he had had just about as much as he could take of Gailet Jones.

  “So you think Galactic Sociology’s stuffy and tedious?” Gailet accused him after he threw down the books in disgust and stalked off to pace in the farthest corner of the room. “Well, I’m sorry Planetary Ecology isn’t the subject, instead,” she said. “Then, maybe, you’d be the teacher and I’d be the student.”

  Fiben snorted. “Thanks for allowing for the possibility. I was beginning to think you already knew everything.”

  “That’s not fair!” Gailet put aside the heavy book on her lap. “You know the ceremony’s only weeks away. At that point you and I may be called upon to act as spokesmen for our entire race! Shouldn’t we try to be as prepared as possible beforehand?”

  “And you’re so certain you know what knowledge will be relevant? What’s to say that Planetary Ecology won’t be crucial then, hm?”

  Gailet shrugged. “It might very well be.”

  “Or mechanics, or space piloting, or … or beer-swilling, or sexual aptitude, for Goodall’s sake!”

  “In that case, our race will be fortunate you were selected as one of its representatives, won’t it?” Gailet snapped back. There was a long, tense silence as they glared at each other. Finally, Gailet lifted a hand. “Fiben. I’m sorry. I know this is frustrating for you. But I didn’t ask to be put in this position either, you know.”

  No. But that doesn’t matter, he thought. You were designed for it. Neo-chimpdom couldn’t hope for a chimmie better suited to be rational, collected, and oh, so cool when the time comes.

  “As for Galactic Sociology, Fiben, you know there are several reasons why it’s the essential topic.”

  There it was again, that look in Gailet’s eyes. Fiben knew it meant that there were levels and levels in her words.

  Superficially, she meant that the two chim representatives would have to know the right protocols, and pass certain stringent tests, during the Rituals of Acceptance, or the officials of the Institute of Uplift would declare the ceremonies null and void.

  The Suzerain of Propriety had made it abundantly clear that the outcome would be most unpleasant if that happened.

  But there was another reason Gailet wanted him to know as much as possible. Sometime soon we pass the point of no return … when we can no longer change our
minds about cooperating with the Suzerain. Gailet and I cannot discuss it openly, not with the Gubru probably listening in all the time. We’ll have to act in consensus, and to her that means I’ve got to be educated.

  Or was it simply that Gailet did not want to bear the burden of their decision all by herself, when the time came?

  Certainly Fiben knew a lot more about Galactic civilization than before his capture. Perhaps more than he had ever wanted to know. The intricacies of a three-billion-year-old culture made up of a thousand diverse, bickering patron-client clan lines, held together loosely by a network of ancient institutes and traditions, made Fiben’s head swim. Half the time he would come away cynically disgusted—convinced that the Galactics were little more than powerful spoiled brats, combining the worst qualities of the old nation-states of Earth before Mankind’s maturity.

  But then something would crystallize, and Gailet would make clear to him some tradition or principle that displayed uncanny subtlety and hard-won wisdom, developed over hundreds of millions of years.

  It was getting to the point where he didn’t even know what to think anymore. “I gotta get some air,” he told her. “I’m going for a walk.” He stepped over to the coatrack and grabbed his parka. “See you in an hour or so.”

  He rapped on the door. It slid open. He stepped through and closed it behind him without looking back.

  “Need an escort, Fiben?”

  The chimmie, Sylvie, picked up a datawell and scribbled an entry. She wore a simple, ankle-length dress with long sleeves. To look at her now, it was hard to imagine her up on the dance mound at the Ape’s Grape, driving crowds of chens to the verge of mob violence. Her smile was hesitant, almost timid. And it occurred to Fiben that there was something unaccountably nervous about her tonight.

  “What if I said no?” he asked. Before Sylvie could look alarmed he grinned. “Just kidding. Sure, Sylvie. Give me Rover Twelve. He’s a friendly old globe, and he doesn’t spook the natives too much.”

  “Watch robot RVG-12. Logged as escort to Fiben Bolger for release outside,” she said into the datawell. A door opened down the hallway behind her, and out floated a remote vigilance globe, a simple version of a battle robot, whose sole mission was to accompany a prisoner and see that he did not escape.

  “Have a nice walk, Fiben.”

  He winked at Sylvie and affected an airy burr. “Now, lass, what other kind is there, for a prisoner?”

  The last one, Fiben answered himself. The one leading to the gallows. But he waved gaily. “C’mon, Rover.” The front door hissed as it slid back to let him emerge into a blustery autumn afternoon.

  Much had changed since their capture. The conditions of their imprisonment grew gentler as he and Gailet seemed to become more important to the Suzerain of Propriety’s inscrutable plan. I still hate this place, Fiben thought as he descended concrete steps and made his way through an unkempt garden toward the outer gate. Sophisticated surveillance robots rotated slowly at the corners of the high wall. Near the portal, Fiben came upon the chim guards.

  Irongrip was not present, fortunately, but the other Probationers on duty were hardly friendlier. For although the Gubru still paid their wages, it seemed their masters had recently deserted their cause. There had been no overturning of the Uplift program on Garth, no sudden reversal of the eugenics pyramid. The Suzerain tried to find fault in the way neo-chimps are being uplifted, Fiben knew. But it must’ve failed. Otherwise, why would it be grooming a blue card and a white card, like me and Gailet, for their ceremony?

  In fact, the use of Probationers as auxiliaries had sort of backfired on the invaders. The chim population resented it.

  No words passed between Fiben and the zipsuited guards. The ritual was well understood. He ignored them, and they dawdled just as long as they dared without giving him an excuse to complain. Once, when the claviger delayed too long with the keys, Fiben had simply turned around and marched back inside. He did not even have to say a word to Sylvie. Next watch, those guards were gone. Fiben never saw them again.

  This time, just on impulse, Fiben broke tradition and spoke. “Nice weather, ain’t it?”

  The taller of the two Probationers looked up in surprise. Something about the zipsuited chen suddenly struck Fiben as eerily familiar, although he was certain he had never met him before. “What, are you kidding?” The guard glanced up at rumbling cumulonimbus clouds. A cold front was moving in, and rain could not be far off.

  “Yeah,” Fiben grinned. “I’m kidding. Actually, it’s too sunny for my tastes.”

  The guard gave Fiben a sour look and stepped aside. The gate squeaked open, and Fiben slipped out onto a back street lined by ivy-decked walls. Neither he nor Gailet had ever seen any of their neighbors. Presumably local chims kept a low profile around Irongrip’s crew and the watchful alien robots.

  He whistled as he walked toward the bay, trying to ignore the hovering watch globe following just a meter above and behind him. The first time he had been allowed out this way, Fiben avoided the populated areas of Port Helenia, sticking to back alleys and the now almost abandoned industrial zone. Nowadays he still kept away from the main shopping and business areas, where crowds would gather and stare, but he no longer felt he had to avoid people completely.

  Early on he had seen other chims accompanied by watch globes. At first he thought they were prisoners like himself. Chens and chimmies in work clothes stepped aside and gave the guarded chims wide berth, as they did him.

  Then he noticed the differences. Those other escorted chims wore fine clothes and walked with a haughty bearing. Their watch globes’ eye facets and weaponry faced outward, rather than upon the ones they guarded. Quislings, Fiben realized. He was pleased to see the feces many chim citizens cast at these high-level collaborators when their backs were turned—looks of sullen, ill-concealed disdain.

  After that, in his quarters, he had stenciled the proud letters P-R-I-S-O-N-E-R on the back of his parka. From then on, the stares that followed him were less cold. They were curious, perhaps even respectful.

  The globe was not programmed to let him speak to people. Once, when a chimmie dropped a folded piece of paper in his path, Fiben tested the machine’s tolerance by bending over to pick it up …

  He awoke sometime later in the globe’s grasp, on his way back to prison. It was several days before he was allowed out again.

  No matter. It had been worth it. Word of the episode spread. Now, chens and chimmies nodded as he passed storefronts and long ration lines. Some even signed little messages of encouragement in hand talk.

  They haven’t twisted us, Fiben thought proudly. A few traitors hardly mattered. What counted was the behavior of a people, as a whole. Fiben remembered reading how, during the most horrible of Earth’s old, pre-Contact world wars, the citizens of the little nation of Denmark resisted every effort of the Nazi conquerors to dehumanize them. Instead they behaved with startling unity and decency. It was a story well worth emulating.

  We’ll hold out, he replied in sign language. Terra remembers, and will come for us.

  He clung to the hope, no matter how hard it became. As he learned the subtleties of Galactic law from Gailet, he came to realize that even if peace broke out all across the spiral arms, it might not be enough to eject the invaders. There were tricks a clan as ancient as the Gubru knew, ways to invalidate a weaker clan’s lease on a planet like Garth. It was apparent one faction of the avian enemy wanted to end Earth’s tenancy here and take it over for themselves.

  Fiben knew that the Suzerain of Propriety had searched in vain for evidence the Earthlings were mishandling the ecological recovery on Garth. Now, after the way the occupation forces had bollixed decades of hard work, they dared not raise that issue.

  The Suzerain had also spent months hunting for elusive “Garthlings.” If the mysterious pre-sentients had proven real, a claim on them would have justified every dime spent here. Finally, they saw through Uthacalthing’s practical joke, but that did not end
their efforts.

  All along, ever since the invasion, the Gubru had tried to find fault with the way neo-chimpanzees were being uplifted. And just because they seemed to have accepted the status of advanced chims like Gailet, that did not mean they had given up completely.

  There was this business of the damned Ceremony of Acceptance—whose implications still escaped Fiben no matter how hard Gailet tried to make them clear to him.

  He hardly noticed the chims on the streets as his feet kicked windblown leaves and snatches of Gailet’s explanations came back to him.

  “ … client species pass through phases, each marked by ceremonies sanctioned by the Galactic Uplift Institute.… These ceremonies are expensive, and can be blocked by political maneuvering.… For the Gubru to offer to pay for and support a ceremony for the clients of wolfling humans is more than unprecedented.… And the Suzerain also offers to commit all its folk to a new policy ending hostilities with Earth.…

  “ … Of course, there is a catch.…”

  Oh, Fiben could well imagine there would be a catch!

  He shook his head, as if to drive all the words out of it. There was something unnatural about Gailet. Uplift was all very well and good, and she might be a peerless example of neo-chimpdom, but it just wasn’t natural to think and talk so much without giving the brain some off-time to air out!

  He came at last to a place by the docks where fishing boats lay tied up against the coming storm. Seabirds chirped and dove, trying to catch a last meal in the time remaining before the water became too choppy. One of them ventured too close to Fiben and was rewarded with a warning shock from “Rover,” the watch robot. The bird—no more a biological cousin to the avian invaders than Fiben was—squawked in anger and took off toward the west.

  Fiben took a seat on the end of the pier. From his pocket he removed half a sandwich he had put there earlier in the day. He munched quietly, watching the clouds and the water. For the moment, at least, he was able to stop thinking, stop worrying. And no words echoed in his head.