"Yes." "Let me run your Director's response." Whiteside appeared, standing on a podium, surrounded by flags and symbols of the Confederacy. "We will be sending the Alberta , with its escort of destroyers and support vessels to assist in any way they can." "Eleven ships," said Ordahl. "Do humans value the lives of their own so cheaply that they cannot bring themselves to get serious about a rescue effort?" "He doesn't speak for me," I said. "He speaks for the Confederacy. He was elected by you, was he not?" "Not by me. By the voters." "Twice, in fact." "Yes." "Then how can you imply he does not represent you?" "Okay, look: In this, he doesn't represent me, and I suspect he doesn't represent a majority of the people across the Confederacy. I don't really know about that, though. I can't speak for them. But they've already started voting with their resources. They're sending food and supplies. Those who have ships have, in large numbers, begun traveling to Salud Afar to lend what assistance they can. "For God's sake, Ordahl, two billion people live out there. There's a plan to save them. If we can get sufficient ships in place. I'm sure you already know about the shield, but let me go over it anyhow for your viewers." I did. I explained, visualized, agonized over, however you want to describe it, the effort that had every potential to succeed, to save a world. I pictured families in parks, and women with children on beaches, and people reading quietly in libraries, and crowds listening to concerts. "Unless the shield can be made to work, all these people will die. You ask me about Whiteside's decision, and you want to hold me responsible for it. That's silly. We have a leader who, for political purposes, or ideological ones-Who really knows?-will play on old animosities and old fears, and will hold the fleet back. He does not speak for me. But I understand why they don't trust the Ashiyyur. And because of that, they'll stand by while a world dies."
"Because of us?"
"They don't trust you. And you're behaving as if the attacks at Pelioz and Seachange never happened." "Those were provoked." "From our perspective, that is not so. And they came without warning." "Chase-" "Look, let's not drag this out of the closet again. All this animosity has gone on for two centuries, and both sides have a lot to answer for. So we're at a point where neither side trusts the other. And because of that, we're about to do something that we'll be answering for as long as there's a human anywhere. And maybe you will, too. "The truth is that Whiteside's decision to keep the fleet at home is pure politics. He knows that the fleet ultimately cannot protect the Confederate worlds. It can only retaliate in the event of attack. The same is true of your force. Defense is not possible against the kind of armament we mount. So it really wouldn't matter whether the fleet was at home or not. It wouldn't save a single world. It only means that retaliation would take a bit longer. And I'd ask Director Whiteside, and the people of the Confederacy, whether that delay of a few weeks is worth the sacrifice of a world. "We and you are the same. Where it matters, there is no essential difference. Plato ranks with Tulisofala. You stage Hamlet . We love our children, as you do. We enjoy the beach in summer, as you do. I was on a beach the other day and swam out to a raft. I wasn't aware that a vooparoo warning had been issued. What was a vooparoo anyway? I had no idea. "But one of your children came out to warn me. To get me off. Even though he couldn't communicate with me. Even though he put himself at risk. Even though he was repulsed by the way I look, he came for me. "He acted. Despite everything, despite even his instincts, he acted. It's what we need to do." I was looking at Ordahl, but I was talking, finally, to Whiteside. "You have an opportunity now to forge a bond between the two species. And you're blowing it, Mr. Director.
"I'm asking you to do what that young male did the other day. You risk nothing except political advantage. Send the fleet."
THIRTY-NINE
Sometimes life is like the sea. You are alone at the edge, trying to hold back the tide. You anchor your feet and you scream against it, but it does not matter. It surges around you. The sand sinks beneath your feet. It will have its way despite all your efforts. They are as nothing, and you are easily swept aside.
- Love You to Death
When it was over, I was trembling. Ordahl adjusted his robe, got up, and said thanks. "You got angry. That's good. I like those who get angry." The female came in with the technicians. They began disassembling equipment. Then they were gone. Alex gave me a hug and told me I'd been brilliant. It felt good to hear that, but it was more or less what he would have said no matter what. Circe took my hand. "Good," she said. "If you're lucky, they won't try to arrest you when you get home." "They'll do some editing, of course," said Kassel. "But I'd say you came across like an eagle." He savored the word, and he looked at me with open admiration. "Thank you. Nothing embarrassing got picked up, I hope?" "I was surprised to discover," said Alex, "that you think mathematicians are sexy." "My God, Alex. That's not true. I've never-" I turned to Selotta. "He's making it up, right? I mean, he didn't even get the mental part." Selotta looked down at me. "Yes, love. Nothing like that happened." "Thank God. Alex, I'm going to shoot you." "We did see some things, though," she continued. "But nothing, I think, that would have embarrassed you. For example, your regret that your father did not live to see what you've accomplished. He died before you got your pilot's license." "That's so," I said. "You think Alex is an especially bright man." Alex kept his face impassive. "That's also true," I said. "Although males provide a fairly low standard." That brought a smile. "And there's someone from several years ago that you are still in love with." "Jerry Crater!" I was horrified. "That got out?" "Afraid so. But it is nothing to be ashamed of." Alex's smile widened. "Good old Jerry, huh?" "Leave it alone, boss." "In any case," he said, "I think we can call it an unqualified success." "Good. But next time you want to volunteer me for something, I'd like to be consulted first."
We watched the show that evening. Twice. First time through I simply listened to my responses. Then we shut down the sound and Selotta translated the telepathic side. It wasn't as bad as I'd expected. In fact, it tracked the dialogue pretty closely. And yes, there were occasional blips in which I thought how my shoes hurt, and how I'd be glad when it was over, and how the interviewer had all the flexibility of a
block of wood. And maybe most damning, how I wished human beings could learn to behave rationally. "I'm not sure of the correct term here," Selotta explained. "I used human beings , but you were thinking of all of us." I was thinking that it sounded close to treason. I was still trying to get my reaction calmed down when we got word of another confrontation. A Mute cruiser damaged, a Confederate destroyer, the Arbuckle , lost with all hands. "I'm tired of it," I said. "I'm ready to leave."
***
So was Alex. Giambrey and Circe would stay on to try to work the diplomatic side. There was never any real question, I suppose, that we'd go back to Salud Afar. They needed the Belle-Marie . Alex pointed out that if the ship was going to spend the next three years hauling refugees from that world to Sanctum, he'd be of no help, and could probably just go back to Rimway. But something drove him to return. Maybe it was a sense there was still a service he could perform for the Administrator. Or maybe he couldn't bring himself to leave me in the midst of a global disaster. In any event, he declined my offer to drop him off at home. "Let's go back," he said. "Maybe I can help build shelters or something." In the morning, there was news that six had died on the Mute cruiser. By midday, while we were packing, the Confederacy issued a protest over the "unprovoked attack." The star drive on board the Arbuckle , they said, had malfunctioned, and that was why they had unexpectedly arrived in Ashiyyurean space. They demanded an apology. Anybody who knows anything about interstellar travel knows the odds against such an event. "Doesn't matter," Giambrey told us over his link. "You get your story out there, and people will believe it." I was getting requests for more interviews, which I politely declined. I also got word that a couple of commentators in the Confederacy had branded me a traitor. "In the enemy capital," one of them said, "Kolpath talks as if both sides are equally at fault." They were calling for a boycott of R
ainbow Enterprises. And finally, as we were heading out the front door, saying good-bye to our hosts and to a few of their neighbors who'd come over to see us off, there was word of another incident: An Ashiyyurean cruiser hit and disabled near Casumel. Again, there were casualties.
Kassel announced he would go back to the capital with us and would stay until we were safely on board the Belle-Marie . "Wouldn't want you to get lost," he said. Circe also accompanied us on the flight to New Volaria, where we met Giambrey and had lunch. He was discouraged. "Idiots in charge on both sides," he said. "They couldn't even tell you what they're fighting about. It's reflexive." "I'm sorry to hear it," said Alex. "What frustrates me is that if we could pick a few halfway-rational people out of the streets on both sides, and put them in power, they could probably settle it. And it would be over." "You may be underestimating the intensity of the problem," said Alex. But when Giambrey wanted to turn it into a debate, Alex changed the subject. Circe would stay in New Volaria with the ambassador. We said our good-byes and went up to the rooftop pad to get a taxi. And a strange thing happened: A group of Mutes recognized me and came over to signal their support. They applauded . A human gesture. We got into our taxi and made for the spaceport. While we were en route, Kassel took a call from somewhere. Then he twisted around in his seat to look at me. "Bon Selvan wants to meet you, Chase." "Who's Bon Selvan?" "She's one of the proctors." His eyes closed. And opened. "You should go." "Kassel, what's a proctor?" "There are seven of them. They're the advisors to the executive board. It's hard to explain. But she's a very high-level VIP."
"Okay. Is there a point to it?" "Yes, there's a point. She doesn't approve of the way relations with the Confederates have been handled. You want to take a first step toward creating a settlement, give her something to work with."
Bon Selvan was seated in a garden, in the shade of a small tree, surrounded by clusters of bright red and yellow flowers. Birds sang, and I saw a snake slithering over the black iron fence that surrounded the enclosure. The proctor was clothed in an orange robe, with a dark brown hood draped over her shoulders. I entered through a glass door. She rose, my escort bared fangs, used his voice box to inform me who she was, and withdrew, closing the door. Bon Selvan studied me for a long moment. "Chase Kolpath, I take it you are not impressed with our leadership." "I don't wish to be impolite-" "You cannot be impolite around us, child." She showed me to a seat. And, yes: I was thinking that it was hard to understand how, after thousands of years, two species that call themselves intelligent could not manage their affairs without resorting to butchering each other. "You are absolutely right, Chase. There are reasonable individuals, but they have not yet learned how to form groups, governments, that behave in a rational way. I must admit I do not know why that is." While I thought about it, she told me she was pleased to meet me. "And I am glad to meet you," I said. I was about to frame my next question: Could she help find a way to ease the rising tensions? Could she conceive of a way to head off the approaching war? "You think war is coming, Chase?" "Yes, I do." "I'm not so sure. This relatively low level of combat has intensified in recent days, but I think it is an aberration. My real fear is not for a war." "What then?" "It is that we will go on for years as we are now, with the bloodshed and the waste of resources and, yes, the risk of all-out war." I've said elsewhere that Mutes do not do nonverbals. That they do not have faces, in the human sense. Rather the lack of animation suggests a mask. But there was something in Bon Selvan's eyes, and in her mask, that was utterly bleak. "I see," she said, "that you wonder why I asked you to come. I wanted to have you in front of me, to know whether the passion I detected in that interview last evening was real." "It was real." "I have never known a human up close. I've had a lifetime of listening to those who think humans are malevolent, dishonest, savage. That they, you, operate on a lower plane. Even your good friend Selotta thinks you and your friend Benedict are aberrations." "I know." "I see that you are returning to Salud Afar." "Yes." "When you get there, please assure Administrator Kilgore that there is a faction here, not only on Borkarat, but across the Assemblage, that is not happy with our current posture. We will do what we can to create a more flexible policy toward the Confederates. He must understand, though, that we cannot be seen as encouraging the Confederacy to go to the rescue of Salud Afar. Such a tactic on our part would surely be misread by them. But let him know we will do what we can." "I will." "Very good. One more thing you should be aware of: Your comments, which are being distributed throughout the Assemblage will be, for the majority of our citizens, their first opportunity to experience rapport with a human. I don't know how this will play out, but I think we could not have done better." She looked around at the flowers. "Are they not lovely?"
It was good to see the Belle-Marie again. We got in, closed the hatch, and she said, "Hello, Chase." I said hello back, went up onto the bridge, and climbed into my seat. It was a marvelous feeling to sit in a
chair designed for my body size. "Chase," she said. "I have a text message from station ops." I suspected we were going to get an escort out of the system. "Let's see it," I said. She put it on the board: CAPTAIN KOLPATH, THE BELLE-MARIE WILL BE THE THIRD PRIVATE VESSEL TO LEAVE TODAY FOR SALUD AFAR. ONE MORE IS SCHEDULED OUT LATER THIS AFTERNOON, AND THREE TOMORROW. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO KNOW. SIRIAN KOSLO. "Koslo," said Belle, "is the chief of operations." A few minutes later we had a text message granting clearance to depart. I acknowledged, and asked that my regards be passed to Mr. Koslo. Then I alerted Alex and waited for him to get into the harness. When the green lamp came on, I released the clamps and we moved away from the dock. Forty-six minutes later we lined up with Moria and Salud Afar and made our jump.
***
I didn't enjoy the flight back. By the time we arrived, Kilgore would know that the talks had gone nowhere. The Confederacy was sending a few warships to help, and a handful of Mutes were coming. That was it. I made up my mind that I'd upgrade my license when I got to Salud Afar; it was for class-C interstellars. They were the smallest category, usually yachts like the Belle-Marie , and commercial vehicles that hauled a few VIPs around. I'd want to be able to handle some of the larger cargo ships. So, while we charged back through interdimensional space, I spent much of my time studying. Alex, as usual, pored through archeological records and artifact inventories. I've mentioned before that he was not difficult to ride with. And he hadn't changed. When things went badly, he didn't descend into morose self-pity as I think I did. I can recall his reminding me that we didn't yet really know the results of the diplomatic effort, and that it hadn't been my responsibility in any case. Not that it mattered whose responsibility it was. My part of the mission had been to handle transportation. In any case, the ride was interminable. The weeks dragged by, and I felt caught within the narrow confines of the ship. I wandered through its spaces, inspecting the cargo area every other day and checking the supplies in the lander. I spent extra time in the workout room. With Alex, I toured ancient palaces and historic structures. We floated down the Kiev canal, and drifted through Jovian skies, on approach to Che Jolla Base, during the days when it housed Markum Pierce, the poet-physicist whose diaries provided a brilliant record of the early colonies. He took to asking me regularly if I was okay, if there was anything he could do. "Don't give up," he said. "It might still work out." Hard to see how, I thought, barring divine intervention. Finally, on the thirty-third day of the flight, it was over.
We came out of jump about forty hours from Salud Afar. It was actually good to see the nearly empty skies again. Varesnikov and Naramitsu were both visible. And the galactic rim. And, off to port, Callistra. Blue and brilliant and happy as if nothing had happened. Belle's comm lights came on. "We have traffic." "More than one?"
"Still coming in. One from the Administrator. Other than that, no end in sight at the moment."
I called Alex up front. "Put the Administrator on," I told Belle reluctantly. "Let's see what he has to say." A Kilgore avatar, of course. He was in his office, and
I knew as soon as I saw him that something very good had happened. "Congratulations, Chase," he said. "We didn't get anywhere with the Confederacy, but it looks as if every Mute who can beg, buy, or borrow a ship, is on the way. We're in your debt." He looked over at Alex. "You, too, Alex." "What happened?" he asked. Again, of course, there was the inevitable delay as the transmission traveled to Salud Afar, and the reply came back. In the meantime, the avatar simply froze.
"We've also been informed," he said, "that several corporations in the Assemblage have suspended other activities and are now in the process of turning out superluminals specially designed to help us."
"Chase's interview?" asked Alex. He was beaming. "Who knows? It certainly didn't hurt." His features melted into a grin. It was the first time I'd seen him look happy. "So," I asked, "will there be enough? Ships, I mean?"
"We'll be able to move a substantially larger portion of the population than we expected. Maybe as much as five percent. We've gotten some resistance, by the way. A lot of people don't want to ride with Mutes."
"Mr. Administrator, I'm sure that part of the problem will sort itself out. But I was talking about the shield. What's happening with the shield?"
"Ah. The shield. No. Unfortunately, everything we project indicates that we will still come up short. Even if the Confederates were willing to forget about the eleven ships and send their entire fleet instead, which they aren't, it would still be a hit-or-miss proposition. We've had to make a decision. Waste valuable time and resources on a project that is unlikely to come together, or use everything we can get our hands on to move people off-world. Anyhow, I wanted to let you know we appreciate your help."
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