by Greg Bear
“Those are complimentary names,” Giacomo said, smiling.
“Dry Skin has even chosen a human name. He wants to be called Norman. Sometimes Eye on Sky helps.”
“So what do we have?” Martin asked. “Are their libraries better than ours?”
“It’s certainly different,” Giacomo said. “We’ve barely begun to translate the really technical stuff, but the snake mothers seem more open with their facts, more trusting. There’s less fear of influencing the Brothers, I think—that is, taking away their freedom to choose by overawing them. The Brothers are pretty solid, psychologically.”
“Can we learn anything more from their libraries?”
Jennifer looked at Giacomo. “Possibly, if they help us translate.”
“Shouldn’t you know one way or the other by now?”
“If their libraries stored key concepts in words, yes,” Jennifer said. “I’m sure we’d know. But the reason we had to call on Many Smells and Dry Skin/Norman, is because we were having such a tough time dealing with the synesthesia—with translating smells and music into human language. Their math is disintegrated, literally—no integers. They deal with everything in probabilistic terms. Numbers are smears of probability. They don’t see things separated from each other, only in relations. No arithmetic, only algebras. How many planets around Leviathan? It’s expressed in terms of Leviathan’s history, the shape of its planet-forming cloud ages past…Only after you, that is, a Brother, understands everything there is to know, will he have an idea how many planets there are. Even their most simple calculations are mind-wrecking, to us—parallel processing of cords in each braid. It’s math for much more powerful minds than ours.”
“We talked about that already,” Giacomo said. “But the definite article is also missing from their languages. They have three languages, auditory, olfactory, and written—but writing is supplementary to the rest. All we’ve gotten access to is the written, so far. Norman is trying to convert olfactory into written, but he says it’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done.”
“What do the annotations tell us?” Martin asked.
“They’re intriguing,” Jennifer said, leaning forward in her seat, eyes narrowing with enthusiasm. “The snake mothers trust the Brothers—“
“Like we said,” Giacomo interrupted.
“The snake mothers seem to think there’s no chance the Brothers could ever turn into planet killers.”
“But they’re not so certain about us,” Giacomo said.
“The Brothers were littoral, beach grazers—at least, in their earliest forms,” Jennifer said. “Almost all their cities were located along coastlines. They made artificial beaches inland to feed the growing populations—that was the beginning of civilization for them. They seem embarrassed by their past, as if hunters and gatherers—us—might think beachcombers are inferior.”
“I think their world had little or no axial tilt,” Giacomo said. “No seasons, but with two moons—“
“We haven’t heard any of this!” Martin said, astonished. “Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?”
“We were waiting to be absolutely sure,” Jennifer said.
“Couldn’t you just ask Norman or Many Smells?”
“Not nearly so simple,” Jennifer said, looking away, fiddling with the overalls at her knees. “The snake mothers may have told them to be careful about telling us too much.”
Martin let his breath out with a low moan. “Why?”
“Because while we’ve been exploring their libraries, they’ve been going through ours, and they’re a lot better equipped to understand it.”
“They’re awed by our capacity for violence,” Giacomo said ruefully. “They became really interested after Rex attacked Sand Piler.”
“Our history is so different,” Jennifer said. “Many Smells watched some of our movies. We tried to interpret for him.”
“The Longest Day” Giacomo said. “Ben-Hur. Patton. He was particularly confused by The Godfather and Star Wars. Jennifer tried to explain The Forever War. He was pretty quiet afterward, and he didn’t smell like much of anything.”
Martin shook his head, puzzled.
“They don’t release scents when they feel threatened and want to hide,” Jennifer explained. “Sand Piler stunk things up because he was injured. That was his distress call.”
Martin shook his head. “Why weren’t you a little more…selective about what he watched?”
Jennifer blinked owlishly. “I don’t see how we can expect them to be open with their libraries, if we aren’t open with our own. We tried to find some movies we thought they might appreciate more,” she added. “Domestic comedies. Family films. He watched Arsenic and Old Lace. We couldn’t erase first impressions, and after Rex’s attack, who would blame them?”
Martin let out his breath and closed his eyes. “All right.”
“I think they’re having a hard time accepting anything made-up,” Giacomo said. “We had to explain the movies were not about real events. Except the history films—and even those were re-enactments, fictionalized.”
“What about literature?”
“They’re just getting into some now. No reaction yet.”
Martin felt a sudden rush of shame: collective, human shame. He rubbed his nose and shook his head. “We may be allies, but not trusted companions.”
“Exactly,” Giacomo said.
“We didn’t want to tell Hans until we were sure. We thought he might take it badly.”
“With him in charge, I don’t wonder the Brothers are worried about us,” Jennifer said.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” Martin said.
“Hans has gotten us through some tough times,” Giacomo said. “But he’s fragile. Who knows what will happen when things get tough again?”
“Don’t blinker yourself,” Jennifer said.
Martin looked down at the floor, hands clasped. “Tell me more about the annotations, about whatever you think you’ve learned.”
“Their information on other worlds is extensive. The snake mothers have told them more about types of civilizations, levels of technology, past encounters with different civilizations that went Killer. We’re still trying to work out the implications.”
“Is it possible,” Martin began, face brightening, “that the Benefactors simply built the snake mothers and the Brothers’ ship after they built ours? Maybe things loosened up. Maybe the Benefactors became less concerned about the Killers getting strategic information.”
Giacomo shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Maybe we’re being a little too self-critical,” Martin suggested. “Letting our guilt complexes lead us by the nose.”
“Let’s not worry about it for now,” Jennifer said. “What we need to worry about is how much in their libraries is new and useful to us. I think in a couple of tendays, we’ll know enough to make a strong report to Hans.”
“You should talk with the snake mothers,” Giacomo suggested. “Not Hans. You.”
“Bring Paola with you,” Jennifer said. “They may think we’re more stable in male-female pairs.”
“Too bad Theresa couldn’t be here,” Giacomo said wistfully. “You and she, together, would have been just what they’re looking for.”
“They like working with dyads,” Jennifer said. “They really like Giacomo and me.”
“If we could all be in love and connected to each other—“Giacomo began.
“They’d feel more affinity for us,” Jennifer concluded.
Martin grinned ruefully. “We’ll try to make do.”
PART THREE
Martin found Twice Grown in the schoolroom, coiled in deep discussion with Erin Eire and Carl Phoenix. Paola squatted on a cushion to one side and knitted a blanket, clarifying when necessary.
“But you don’t have fiction in your literature,” Carl was saying. “And you don’t have poetry. You have these symphonies of odors…I suppose they’d be like music to us. But nothing comparable t
o literature.”
“It has made things difficult for learning,” Twice Grown said. “I we have adjusted to thoughts that things described in your literature, in fiction, did not actually happen. Even your recorded history is indefinite. Is it not better to know something is truth before communicating?”
“We like experiencing things that didn’t happen,” Erin Eire said. “There’s a difference between writing fiction and lying.”
“Though I’ll be damned if I can pin it down,” Carl said, smiling.
“Carl means,” Paola said, lifting her chin but keeping her eyes on her knitting, “he can’t easily describe what the difference is between writing stories and lying. But there is a difference.”
Erin turned to Martin. “We’re having difficulty explaining this to him,” she said.
“We we do not create situations for our stories,” Twice Grown said. “It seems possible to confuse, especially the young.”
“I we—“Erin cleared her throat. “I think we know the difference. Fiction is relaxing, like dreaming. Lying, not telling the truth, is to gain social advantage.”
“We we do not dream,” Twice Grown said. “We our method of sleep is unlike yours. We we sleep rarely, and are not braided when sleeping, but we our cords are inactive for a time every few days.”
“Do cords dream?” Paola asked, looking up from her knitting.
“Cords have mental activity not accessible to braided individuals,” Twice Grown said. “They are not smart, but behave on programmed paths.”
“Instinct,” Carl Phoenix suggested.
“Does this make fiction a kind of waking dream, something two or more people do together?” Twice Grown asked, smelling of peppers and salt sea. He was intensely interested; but Martin also detected a whiff of turpentine, and that might have been nervousness.
“I suppose,” Erin said. “One or more people make up a story—“
“But it is known to resemble the real?” Twice Grown interrupted, coils rustling.
“Fiction is based on real settings, sometimes,” Carl said.
“We’re getting into pretty abstract territory,” Martin warned.
“Based on real behaviors, such that it is not unlikely for humans to behave in such a fashion?”
“Well…” Martin said.
“Characters in fiction sometimes do things real people would like to do, but don’t dare,” Erin said, pleased that she had scored a point of clarification.
Twice Grown did not understand. “I we have a question about this. I we have read short stories, and are now reading novels, which take long to eat.”
“Finish,” Paola suggested.
“To finish a novel. In some pages, I we see closeness with human behavior in a story, and in reality. But in other pages, other texts, behavior surpasses what I we have experienced. Are these behaviors not available to the humans we we know?”
“Which behaviors?” Erin asked.
Martin wished he could end the conversation now. The smell of turpentine had intensified. Twice Grown was either nervous, feeling threatened, or wanted to flee.
“Harming and other violences,” Twice Grown replied. “The wishing to kill, to inactivate. I we have read Beowulf, and I we have read Macbeth. I we have also read The Pit and the Pendulum.”
“Physical conflict is important in fiction,” Martin said. “It plays a much smaller role in our everyday life.”
Erin gave him a look that as much as said, Always the politician. “Some humans are capable of violence,” she said. “Sometimes, when we’re frightened…”
“This fear emotion, when you wish to flee or hide,” Twice Grown interrupted, “it is different from we our fear. You not only wish to flee and hide, but to destroy the thing which causes fear.”
“That makes sense, doesn’t it?” Carl asked.
“But I we do not know this fear emotion. Is it akin to wishing to flee, or is it akin to a wish to do violence?”
“It’s part of getting ready to run or fight back,” Carl said. “An urge to protect oneself, or one’s family and friends.”
“But is it also awareness of the unknown? We we find the unknown powerful, like a stimulant. We we willingly sacrifice to the danger of unknown for experience in knowing, understanding. You do not?”
“We’ve had people willing to do that,” Martin said.
“But they’ve been rare,” Erin said. “Mostly, we try to conquer or protect ourselves against danger.”
“That is difficult,” Twice Grown said. “Are new friends not unknown? Do you wish to conquer new friends?”
“I think maybe we should put together a discussion group later,” Martin said. “We need to think through our answers and not give wrong impressions.”
“Need for more thinking, yes,” Twice Grown said. “For looking at humans, there is a mystery not like looking at we ourselves; a wondering if perhaps there is death here, without cause, like a sharkness in the waves.”
Erin’s eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she said. “Fiction is a way of letting off steam.”
“What?” Twice Grown asked.
“She means, releasing personal and cultural tensions,” Paola said. “I think Martin’s right. We should think this over and let humans and Brothers debate and ask questions. We’re just making things muddier.”
Twice Grown grew still and tightened his coils. His odors had dissipated; Martin could smell nothing now. “I we would enjoy such a debate,” he said. “To rid of the mud.”
A snake mother and a mom awaited Martin, Erin, and Ariel, and two Brothers—Stonemaker and Eye on Sky—in empty quarters along the boundary between human and Brother territory.
Paola Birdsong seemed surprised that Martin had chosen her for this meeting, but Martin had grown more and more impressed with her skills in dealing with the Brothers.
Ariel was quiet, alert, and slightly nervous. Neither asked why they were chosen; he did not volunteer to tell them.
Martin had conferred with Hans about the meeting; he had been a little surprised when Hans had decided not to attend.
“I’m sure I’m a little tainted right now, having worked with Rex too closely,” Hans had said. “You go. Ask some pointed questions.” He had seemed subdued, even sad.
Martin put that from his mind as the snake mother and the mom settled themselves before them. Stonemaker and Eye on Sky sat in formal coils, rustling faintly. They emitted no scents Martin could detect.
“We may begin,” the mom said.
“We have important decisions to make,” Martin began. “But first we have to agree on overall strategies. And I think we have to…clear the air a little.”
He hadn’t meant to bring up the problem of trust; but now there was no way to avoid it.
Stonemaker said, “It is good we all we meet now. But for we us, clear air is ominous. Can you explain?”
“The more we learn about Leviathan, the more confused we become,” Martin said. “It looks like a thriving stellar system.”
“Like a shoreline marketplace,” Paola said by way of enhancement for the Brothers.
“Yes,” Eye on Sky said.
“We haven’t seen visitors come from outside, so perhaps it’s an isolated market,” Martin continued. “But there’s evidence many different races live there. If this isn’t another illusion, or if we can’t penetrate the illusion from this distance, what are we going to do next?”
“Do you ask us?” the mom inquired.
“Not really. I’m just throwing the question open.”
“We we are opposed to passing judgment without conclusive evidence,” Stonemaker said.
“So are we,” Martin said. “But we’re also fairly convinced this is another blind the Killers are hiding behind.”
“We all we must be more than fairly certain to condemn these worlds,” Eye on Sky said.
“I think we’re in agreement,” Martin said. They still have no scent; what’s going on? “So we have to design the mission accordingly. How m
any ships can we make out of Dawn Treader and the Journey House?”
The mom said, “As many as are required. How many do you contemplate?”
“At least three. Humans have talked about entering the Leviathan system in disguise, as visitors. Could we create a different kind of ship, something that doesn’t look at all like a Ship of the Law?”
“Yes,” the mom said.
“Would it be within the Law for the ships’ minds to help us create such a disguise?”
“An interesting question, I we agree,” Stonemaker said.
“It would be no more inappropriate than providing you with the original Ships of the Law,” the mom said.
“I think we should assume Leviathan is not what it seems,” Martin said.
“A reasonable beginning,” Stonemaker said.
“Just to be cautious,” Martin added.
“Agreed.”
“Acting under such an assumption, we also should assume that the beings behind the disguise are Killers…”
“Agreed,” Stonemaker repeated.
“And the Killers probably have some knowledge, perhaps extensive knowledge, of the civilizations in this vicinity, and what they’re capable of,” Martin said.
“You wish to design a ship that might come from such a civilization,” the mom said.
“Yes. A ship that couldn’t be destroyed without interstellar repercussions,” Martin said.
“You are assuming,” Eye on Sky began, “that this disguise is meant for senses other than we all our own. That the Killers of worlds assume they are under scrutiny from others besides we all ourselves.”
Martin nodded.
“He means yes,” Paola said.
“It is remarkable insight,” Stonemaker said. A faint smell of peppers and baking bread: interest, perhaps pleasure for one or more of the Brothers. “I we see this is related to your literature, as a fiction or strategic lie. Would all this joined Ship of the Law be part of play-act?”
“Hans and I believe the ship should divide into several parts,” Martin said. “One part will enter the system, disguised but essentially unarmed, to investigate; the other two will orbit far outside. If a guilty verdict is reached, weapons can be released by the ships outside. We can try to finish the Job. If the Killers no longer live here—“