The Uplift War

by David Brin

  His friend grinned at him. “I guess it’s grownup time again, here,” Fiben said, sotto voce, glancing in Prathachulthorn’s direction.

  “It’s worse even than that, old chim. I just got you tapped as an honorary adult.”

  If looks could maim, Robert mused on seeing Fiben’s sour expression. And you thought it was Miller time, didn’t you? They had argued before about the possible historical origins of that expression.

  Fiben squeezed Sylvie’s shoulder and hobbled back into the room. She watched him for a moment, then turned and followed Elsie down the hall.

  Benjamin, however, lingered for a moment. He had caught Robert’s gesture bidding him to stay. Robert slipped a small disk into the chim’s palm. He dared not say anything aloud, but with his left hand he made a simple sign.

  “Auntie,” he said in hand talk.

  Benjamin nodded quickly and walked away.

  Prathachulthorn and Lydia were already deep into the arcana of battle planning as Robert returned to the table. The major turned to Robert, “I’m afraid there just won’t be time to use enhanced bacteriological effects, as ingenious as your idea was on its own merits.…”

  The words washed past unnoted. Robert sat down, thinking only that he had just committed his first felony. By secretly recording the meeting—including Fiben’s lengthy report—he had violated procedure. By giving the pellet to Benjamin he had broken protocol.

  And by ordering the chim to deliver the recording to an alien he had, by some lights, just committed treason.

  71

  Max

  A large neo-chimpanzee shambled into the vast underground chamber, hands cuffed together, drawn along at the end of a stout chain. He remained aloof from his guards, chims wearing the invader’s livery, who pulled at the other end of his leash, but occasionally he did glare defiantly at the alien technicians watching from catwalks overhead.

  His face had not been unblemished to start with, but now fresh patterns of pink scar tissue lay livid and open, exposed by patches of missing fur. The wounds were healing, but they would never be pretty.

  “C’mon, Reb,” one of the chim guards said as he pushed the prisoner forward. “Bird wants to ask you some questions.”

  Max ignored the Probie as best he could as he was led over to a raised area near the center of the huge chamber. There several Kwackoo waited, standing upon an elevated instrument platform.

  Max kept his eyes level on the apparent leader, and his bow was shallow—just low enough to force the avian to give one in return.

  Next to the Kwackoo stood three more of the quislings. Two were well-dressed chims who had made tidy profits providing construction equipment and workers to the Gubru—it was rumored that some of the deals had been at the expense of their missing human business partners. Other stories implied approval and direct connivance by men interned on Cilmar and the other islands. Max didn’t know which version he wanted to believe. The third chim on the platform was the commander of the Probie auxiliary force, the tall, haughty chen called Irongrip.

  Max also knew the proper protocol for greeting traitors. He grinned, exposing his large canines to view, and spat at their feet. With a shout the Probies yanked at his chain, sending him stumbling. They lifted their truncheons. But a quick chirp from the lead Kwackoo stopped them in mid-blow. They stepped back, bowing.

  “You are sure—certain that this one—this individual is the one we have been looking for?” the feathered officer asked Irongrip. The chim nodded.

  “This one was found wounded near the site where Gailet Jones and Fiben Bolger were captured. He was seen in their company before the uprising, and was known to be one of her family’s retainers for many years before that. I have prepared an analysis showing how his contact with these individuals makes him appropriate for close attention.”

  The Kwackoo nodded. “You have been most resourceful,” he told Irongrip. “You shall be rewarded—compensated with high status. Although one of the candidates of the Suzerain of Propriety has escaped our net somehow. We are now in a good position to choose—select his replacement. You will be informed.”

  Max had lived under Gubru rule long enough to recognize that these were bureaucrats, followers of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution. Though what they wanted from him, what use he could be to them in their internal struggles, he had no idea.

  Why had he been brought here? Deep in the bowels of the handmade mountain, across the bay from Port Helenia, there sat an intimidating honeycomb of machinery and humming power supplies. During the long ride down the autolift, Max had felt his hair stand out with static electricity as the Gubru and their clients tested titanic devices.

  The Kwackoo functionary turned to regard him with one eye. “You will serve two functions,” it told Max. “Two purposes now. You will give us information—data about your former employer, information of use to us. And you will help—assist us in an experiment.”

  Again, Max grinned. “I won’t do neither, an’ I don’t even care if it is disrespectful. You can go put on a clown suit an’ ride a tricycle, for all I’ll tell you.”

  The Kwackoo blinked once, twice, as it listened to a computer translation for verification. It chirped an exchange with its associates, then turned back to face him.

  “You misunderstand—mistake our meaning. There will be no questions. You need not speak. Your cooperation is not necessary.”

  The complacent assuredness of the statement sounded dire. Max shivered under a sudden premonition.

  Back when he had first been captured, the enemy had tried to get information out of him. He had steeled himself to resist with all his might, but it really rocked him when all they seemed to be interested in were “Garthlings.” That’s what they asked him about again and again. “Where are the pre-sentients?” they had inquired.

  Garthlings?

  It had been easy to mislead them, to lie in spite of all the drugs and psi machines, because the enemy’s basic assumptions had been so cockeyed dumb. Imagine Galactics falling for a bunch of children’s tales! He had had a field day, and learned many tricks to fool the questioners.

  For instance, he struggled hard not to “admit” that Garthlings existed. For a while that seemed to convince them all the more that the trail was hot.

  At last, they gave up and left him alone. Perhaps they finally figured out how they’d been duped. Anyway, after that he was assigned to a work detail at one of the construction sites, and Max thought they’d forgotten about him.

  Apparently not, he now knew. Anyway, the Kwackoo’s words disturbed him.

  “What do you mean, you won’t be asking questions?”

  This time it was the Probationer leader who replied. Irongrip stroked his mustache with relish. “It means you’re, going to have everything you know squeezed out of you. All this machinery”—he waved around him—“will be focused on just little ol’ you. Your answers will come out. But you won’t.”

  Max inhaled sharply and felt his heart beat faster. What kept him steady was one firm resolve; he wasn’t going to give these traitors the satisfaction of finding him tongue-tied! He concentrated to form words.

  “That … that’s against th’ … the Rules of War.”

  Irongrip shrugged. He left it to the Kwackoo bureaucrat to explain.

  “The Rules protect—provide for species and worlds far more than individuals. And anyway, none of those you see here are followers of priests!”

  So, Max realized. I’m in the hold of fanatics. Mentally he said farewell to the chens and chimmies and kids of his group family, especially his senior group wife, whom he now knew he would never see again. Also mentally, he bent over and kissed his own posterior goodbye.

  “Y’made two mistakes,” he told his captors. “Th’ first was lettin’ it slip that Gailet is alive, an’ that Fiben’s made a fool of you again. Knowin’ that makes up for anythin’ you can do to me.”

  Irongrip growled. “Enjoy your brief pleasure. You’re still going to be a big he
lp in bringing your ex-employer down a few pegs.”

  “Maybe.” Max nodded. “But your second mistake was leaving me attached to this—”

  He had been letting his arms go slack. Now he brought them back with a savage jerk and pulled the chain with all his might. It yanked two of the Probie guards off their feet before the links flew out of their hands.

  Max planted his feet and snapped the heavy chain like a whip. His escorts dove for cover, but not all of them made it in time. One of the chim contractors had his skull laid open by a glancing blow. Another stumbled in his desperation to get away and knocked down all three Kwackoo like bowling pins.

  Max shouted with joy. He whirled his makeshift weapon until everyone was either toppled or out of reach, then he worked the arc sideways, changing the axis of rotation. When he let go, the chain flew upwards at an angle and wrapped itself around the guardrail of the catwalk overhead.

  Shimmying up the heavy links was the easy part. They were too stunned to react in time to stop him. But at the top he had to waste precious seconds unwrapping the chain. Since it was attached to his handcuffs, he’d have to take it along.

  Along where? he wondered as he got the links gathered. Max spun about when he glimpsed white feathers over to his right. So he ran the other way and scurried up a flight of stairs to reach the next level.

  Of course escape was an absurd notion. He had only two short-term objectives: doing as much harm as possible, and then ending his own life before he could be forced against his will to betray Gailet.

  The former goal he accomplished as he ran, flailing the tip of the chain against every knob, tube, or delicate-looking instrument within reach. Some bits of equipment were tougher than they looked, but others smashed and tinkled nicely. Trays of tools went over the edge, toppling onto those below.

  He kept a watch out, though, for other options. If no ready implement or weapon presented itself before the time came, he ought to try to get high enough for a good leap over the railing to do the trick.

  A Gubru technician and two Kwackoo aides appeared around a corner, immersed in technical discussions in their own chirping dialect. When they looked up Max hollered and swung his chain. One Kwackoo gained a new apterium as feathers flew. During the backstroke Max yelled, “Boo!” at the staring. Gubru, who erupted in a squawk of dismay, leaving a cloud of down in its wake.

  “With respect,” Max added, addressing the departing avian’s backside. One never knew if cameras were recording an event. Gailet had told him it was okay to kill birds, just so long as he was polite about it.

  Alarms and sirens were going off on all sides. Max pushed a Kwackoo over, vaulted another, and swept up a new flight of steps. One level up he found a target just too tempting to pass by. A large cart carrying about a ton of delicate photonics parts lay abandoned very near the edge of a loading platform. There was no guardrail to the lifter shaft. Max ignored all the shouts and noise that approached from every side and put his shoulder to the back end. Move! he grunted, and the wheeled wagon started forward.

  “Hey! He’s over this way!” he heard some chim cry out. Max strained harder, wishing his wounds had not weakened him so. The cart started rolling.

  “You! Reb! Stop that!”

  There were footsteps, too late, he knew, to prevent inertia from doing its work. The wagon and its load toppled over the edge. Now to follow it, Max thought.

  But as the command went to his legs they spasmed suddenly. He recognized the agonizing effects of a neural stunning. Recoil spun him about in time to see the gun held by the chim called Irongrip.

  Max’s hands clenched spastically, as if the Probie’s throat were within reach. Desperately, he willed himself to fall backward, into the shaft.

  Success! Max felt victory as he plummeted past the landing. The tingling numbness would not last long. Now we’re even, Fiben, he thought.

  But it wasn’t the end after all. Max distantly felt his nerve-numbed arms half yanked out of their sockets as he came up suddenly short. The cuffs around his wrists had torn bleeding rents, and the taut chain led upward past the end of the landing. Through the metal mesh of the platform, Max could see Irongrip straining, holding on with all his might. Slowly, the Probie looked down at him, and smiled.

  Max sighed in resignation and closed his eyes.

  When he came to his senses Max snorted and pulled away involuntarily from an odious smell. He blinked and blearily made out a mustachioed neo-chimp holding a broken snap-capsule in his hand. From it still emitted noxious fumes.

  “Ah, awake again, I see.”

  Max felt miserable. Of course he ached all over from the stunning and could barely move. But also his arms and wrists seemed to be burning. They were tied behind him, but he could guess they were probably broken.

  “Wh … where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re at the focus of a hyperspace shunt,” Irongrip told him matter-of-factly.

  Max spat. “You’re a Goodall-damned liar.”

  “Have it your way.” Irongrip shrugged. “I just figured you deserved an explanation. You see, this machine is a special kind of shunt, what’s called an amplifier. It’s s’pozed to take images out of a brain and make ’em clear for all to see. During the ceremony it’ll be under Institute control, but their representatives haven’t arrived yet. So today we’re going to overload it just a bit as a test.

  “Normally the subject’s supposed to be cooperative, and the process is benign. Today though, well, it just isn’t going to matter that much.”

  A sharp, chirping complaint came from behind Irongrip. Through a narrow hatch could be seen the technicians of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution. “Time!” the lead Kwackoo snapped. “Quickly! Make haste!”

  “What’s your hurry?” Max asked. “Afraid some of the other Gubru factions may have heard the commotion and be on their way?”

  Irongrip looked up from closing the hatch. He shrugged. “All that means is we’ve got time to ask just one question. But it’ll serve. Just tell us all about Gailet.”

  “Never!”

  “You won’t be able to help it.” Irongrip laughed. “Ever tried not to think about something? You won’t be able to avoid thoughts about her. And once it’s got somethin’ to get a grip on, the machine will rip the rest out of you.”

  “You … you …” Max strugggled for words, but this time they were gone. He writhed, trying to move out of the focus of the massive coiled tubes aimed at him from all sides. But his strength was gone. There was nothing he could do.

  Except not think of Gailet Jones. But by trying not to, of course, he was thinking about her! Max moaned, even as the machines began giving out a low hum in superficial accompaniment. All at once he felt as if the gravitic fields of a hundred starships were playing up and down his skin.

  And in his mind a thousand images whirled. More and more of them pictured his former employer and friend.

  “No!” Max struggled for an idea. He mustn’t try not to think of something. What he had to do was find something else to contemplate. He had to find something new to focus his attention on during the remaining seconds before he was torn apart.

  Of course! He let the enemy be his guide. For weeks they had questioned him, asking only about Garthlings, Garthlings, nothing but Garthlings. It had become something of a chant. For him it now became a mantra.

  “Where are the pre-sentients?” they had insisted. Max concentrated, and in spite of the pain it just had to make him laugh. “Of … all th’ stupid … dumb … idiotic …”

  Contempt for the Galactics filled him. They wanted a projection out of him? Well let them amplify this!

  Outside, in the mountains and forests, he knew it would be about dawn. He pictured those forests, and the closest thing he could imagine to “Garthlings,” and laughed at the image he had made.

  His last moments were spent guffawing over the idiocy of life.

  72

  Athaclena

  The autumn storms had returned again, o
nly this time as a great cyclonic front, rolling down the Valley of the Sind. In the mountains the accelerated winds surged to savage gusts that sloughed the outer leaves from trees and sent them flying in tight eddies. The debris gave shape and substance to whirling devil outlines in the gray sky.

  As if in counterpoint, the volcano had begun to grumble as well. Its rumbling complaint was lower, slower in building than the wind, but its tremors made the forest creatures even more nervous as they huddled in their dens or tightly grasped the swaying tree trunks.

  Sentience was no certain protection against the gloom. Within their tents, under the mountain’s shrouded flanks, the chims clung to each other and listened to the moaning zephyrs. Now and then one would give in to the tension and disappear screaming into the forest, only to return an hour or so later, disheveled and embarrassed, dragging a trail of torn foliage behind him.

  The gorillas also were susceptible, but they showed it in other ways. At night they stared up at the billowing clouds with a quiet, focused concentration, sniffling, as if searching for something expectantly. Athaclena could not quite decide what it reminded her of, that evening, but later, in her own tent under the dense forest canopy, she could easily hear their low, atonal singing as they answered the storm.

  It was a lullaby that eased her into sleep, but not without a price.

  Expectancy … such a song would, of course, beckon back that which had never completely gone away.

  Athaclena’s head tossed back and forth on her pillow. Her tendrils waved—seeking, repelled, probing, compelled. Gradually, as if in no particular hurry, the familiar essence gathered.

  “Tutsunucann …” she breathed, unable to awaken or avoid the inevitable. It formed overhead, fashioned out of that which was not.

  “Tutsunucann, s’ah brannitsun. A’twillith’t …”

  A Tymbrimi knew better than to ask for mercy, especially from Ifni’s universe. But Athaclena had changed into something that was both more and less than mere Tymbrimi. Tutsunucann had allies now. It was joined by visual images, metaphors. Its aura of threat was amplified, made almost palpable, filled out by the added substance of human-style nightmare. “… s’ah brannitsun, …” she sighed, pleading antephialticly in her sleep.