Dirge

by Alan Dean Foster

  “It’s not my job to decide what appears on the tridee. I have nothing to do with the media. If it means anything, I’d like to know more about both species.” To prove that he’d been listening, he nodded slightly in the direction of the black inlay. “What does it signify?”

  This time all four hands wove a quick but complex pattern in the air. “It means that we are colleagues.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I am…I do not have an exact translation that would fit a Terranglo term with which I am familiar. You might call me a consulting physicist of the soul. I am also a counselor. It is a traditional calling that was in place even in pretechnological times. When a member of the hive has a question that cannot be answered by anyone else, by a specialist or teacher or artist, they come to such as myself. We attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible, to understand that which has no explanation, and to provide some solace in the absence of cognition. We are the last resort when reason and logic fail, a repository of compassion in the face of a cold and indifferent universe.” He ambled forward on four legs to examine the body of the xenophobe Pyreau had just killed. “Of course, we make a lot of it up as we go along, but in searching there is truth, and sometimes, even to our own astonishment, we manage to get something right.”

  “You—you’re a priest?” Pyreau struggled to recall what was known about the thranx, or at least what he himself had studied. “I didn’t think…didn’t know you people had priests. I didn’t even know you had religion.”

  “That by any other name, as one of your famous writers once avowed.” With its largely fixed, inflexible countenance the thranx could not smile, but Pyreau had the impression of gentle amusement nonetheless. “Semantics are irrelevant in the face of the spirit.”

  “Do you believe in God?” Pyreau asked without thinking.

  “In your sense, no. In ours…This is not a question easily or casually answered. Do you find it so?” The valentine-shaped head cocked sideways.

  “Some of my superiors do. I don’t. I was taught to believe, but I was also taught to question.”

  “Ah, crri!kk, those eternal antagonists. Always making existence more difficult and complicated than we would like it to be. But no one asked us, did they? My name is Shanvordesep.” The soft alien voice grew suddenly alarmed. “Are you going to lose consciousness? You do not look so good.”

  “Just…thirsty. I am Cirey Pyreau.” Pyreau muttered the response as he looked past the thranx and down the corridor, wondering when someone would find him. He had completely lost contact with the rest of his unit.

  “As opposed to ultimate questions of divinity and existence, that much is easily remedied.” Reaching back with a truhand, the thranx drew a cylinder of some shiny spun material from the pouch slung across his thorax and held it out to Pyreau, who eyed it uncertainly. The coiled drinking spout was unfamiliar to him.

  “Like this.” The thranx demonstrated briefly before passing the cylinder back to the padre.

  Pyreau took it shakily. Probably he ought to have first smelled of the contents, but he was too tired and thirsty to care. Besides, there were times when a man had to take the word and judgment of another on faith, even if the individual in question came equipped with one too many pair of limbs.

  The water was cold, fresh, and tasted better than the finest Chardonnay. Despite his desperate thirst he was mindful not to drink all of it, making sure to hand it back to its owner at least half full. With his right forearm he wiped the back of his mouth. The blood on the sleeve had already dried.

  “What do we do now?” he wondered aloud.

  Although the blue-green body remained facing him, the head swiveled an astonishing amount, enabling the thranx to look almost directly back over its shoulder. “I suppose we wait. I could go for help, but in the confusion I’m not sure your comrades would respond readily to my entreaties. If they are proper soldiers they will be following the orders of their superiors. In such a situation they are unlikely to listen to someone such as myself.” Antennae twitched and mandibles clicked. “I am sure someone will find us before long.”

  Without pause or obvious attempt to change the subject, Shanvordesep crouched to examine the body of the nearest thranx. Curled tightly, all eight limbs had been drawn up against the body. Its head was missing, blown to bits by an explosive shell, nerves and longitudinal supportive muscle protruding from the open neck.

  “I am given to understand that you recycle your dead differently from us.”

  Pyreau was appalled, though he was careful to control his expression in the event the thranx might comprehend it. “We don’t recycle our dead. We give them, in most cases, a proper and dignified burial.”

  Still investigating the corpse, Shanvordesep looked back and up at the human. “You bury them in the ground. Then what happens to them?”

  “They rest there.” Pyreau wondered why he was being asked to explain the obvious.

  “And then what happens to them? Later?”

  Pyreau shrugged. “Unless special preservative techniques or coffins have been employed, they remain so until their containers break down. After that, their bodies are—”

  “Recycled,” the thranx finished for him. “There are only small differences in our approach, primarily in the matter of enclosure. We choose to recycle immediately, your kind over time. It has always been thus in the hive. Admittedly, there are details that do demarcate certain specific differences, but taken as a whole our traditions are not so very different.” He straightened, his head coming just up to the priest’s chest.

  “I believe there are other similarities that might usefully be explored.” A truhand gestured toward a section of corridor comparatively free of corpses. “Would you like to discuss them? It seems that for the foreseeable future we have nothing if not time.”

  Debate religion with an alien? One that reminded him more of the large mantids he had seen delicately poised beneath the eaves of the buildings back at the base than a fellow seminarian? Why not? As Shanvordesep sensibly pointed out, the only thing they had to kill now was time.

  The last thing he expected was for a bug-eyed, eight-limbed alien insectoid to reinforce his faltering faith, but that was exactly what happened. For his part, he was able to enlighten the intensely curious thranx on matters of human spirituality. It developed in the course of their conversation that Shanvordesep was less than satisfied with the present organization of the ancient order to which he belonged and from which he drew his calling. It had not kept pace with the culture, he felt, or with such unanticipated revelations as the existence of other intelligent species elsewhere in the cosmos.

  The longer they talked, the more Father Pyreau felt that here, beneath his gleaming exoskeleton, was a fellow spirit. Initial half-serious thoughts of trying to convert the thranx, if such a thing were even acceptable or possible, gave way to an open mutual exchange of beliefs and disbeliefs, of certitudes and unanswered queries, of a desire to understand the great mysteries while carrying out useful and practical work in the only reality they knew.

  They were alone together in the corridor for a long time. When the first patrolling triad of hive gleaners found them, man and thranx were locked in animated conversation. Returned to troops who had thought him lost, Pyreau was accorded a hero’s welcome. He did his best to demur in the face of all the accolades, pointing out that he had done little more than survive and wait for rescue. But his comrades would have none of it. He was recommended for several citations. As a matter of course and though chaplains rarely wore such decorations, he was awarded the same battle ribbon as was the hastily engaged infantry who had fought to save the hive: crossed antennae on a field of blue-green. He found the ornate medal altogether too embarrassing and kept it hidden away in its sealed presentation box.

  When he requested a leave of absence from duty it was readily granted. Given what he had been through, it was understandable to his superiors that he might require some rest and relaxation. Subjected to combat conditions
, even a chaplain could suffer the contemporary high-tech equivalent of shell shock.

  It was an assessment Father Pyreau made no effort to confirm or deny. All that mattered was that he be set free to resume his dialogue with the thranx advisor Shanvordesep. For his part, the thranx readily welcomed his new friend into the hive. Together they plunged into weeks of intense discussion of matters spiritual, studying one another’s beliefs, learning their histories, discovering how representatives of both species perceived the same eternal conundrums.

  Months later, they had done much more than exchange views and acquire wisdom. They had ascertained possibilities and identified solutions. They had determined how best to apply insubstantialties to reality and resolve contradictions. They were ready to act.

  All they needed now was a sponsor.

  “Found a new church? Are you both crazy?” Martine Herzalt Lorengau sat upright and stiff in a chair as she regarded the pair of unlikely visitors. “I’m assuming that blatant insanity manifests itself similarly among the thranx, of course.”

  “I can assure you that we are not mad.” The insectoid gestured casually, in a manner the gangly, pinch-faced human might recognize. “Only hopeful.”

  Beside him, Father Pyreau hastened to support and reaf-firm his friend. “We came to you because we have been turned down everywhere else.”

  A hint of a smile struggled with the corners of Lorengau’s mouth but could not break through. The barriers were too great. “As a businesswoman of some repute, let me tell you that is about as piss-poor an opening for a request for investment as I have ever heard. Nothing like starting out by telling me that everyone else you’ve talked to thinks that you’re fools.”

  “This is to be an investment in people, and the future.” Pyreau met the woman’s unnervingly deep-set, large eyes without flinching and tried not to squirm in his chair. He ought to be used to this by now, he told himself. The milieu as well as the rejection. Nevertheless, he persevered. What else could he do?

  “Even if I wanted to waste money on such a ludicrous enterprise, why would I choose to support one that purports, according to your proposal, to spiritually link humans with thranx? Why not humans with Pitar? In that, at least, I could see some possible return.”

  “The return from such an investment would not be monetary,” Pyreau replied earnestly.

  “With the Pitar involved, it might be.” Her voice falling, she grumbled under her breath. “Missed the boat on that one. But we’re catching up.” Leaning forward slightly, the high, black leather back of the expensive chair rising behind her like a throne, she regarded each of them in turn. “I’m still not sure how you managed to secure an appointment with me. My time is valuable.” Her tone darkened. “If nothing comes of this meeting, and I fail to see how it can, someone else is going to end up paying for it.”

  “There are those who do sympathize with our aspirations.” Shanvordesep concluded his reply with a soft, descending whistle.

  The industrialist’s demeanor remained unencouraging. “If you did any research at all before coming here you should know that I am an atheist.”

  Pyreau nodded. “We know. Our proposed religious venue would be open to all.”

  This time the smile emerged. It was a smile that had on more than one occasion struck terror into the heart of a competitor. “Now you are simply being asinine and worse, wasting my time.” A hand moved toward a row of tactile perceivers.

  “We mean to do this thing. If we can establish a congregation capable of accommodating the beliefs and feelings of two entirely different species, making room for the different beliefs inherent in one species will be simple by comparison.”

  The dismissive fingers that terminated in perfect nails hesitated. “It won’t include me. I don’t believe in anything.”

  “But you do,” Pyreau argued energetically. “Everyone believes in something. If you don’t believe in a supreme deity, then you are convinced of its nonexistence. Conviction is founded on dogma, which is supported by belief.”

  Martine Lorengau blinked. “I am a businesswoman, not a philosopher. I have neither the time nor the inclination to waste on theology or metaphysics.”

  “You have a soul,” Pyreau assured her softly.

  This time she laughed, a sound that contrasted startlingly with her speaking voice. “I could cite you hundreds of people who would disagree.”

  “That which lies within every sapient being and cannot be quantified needs feeding.” Truhands reflexively wove a complex pattern in the air before the intimidating desk. Knowing that the female human comprehended not a single wave of fingers or hands complicated Shanvordesep’s response. Trying to communicate without gestures was akin to speaking with only half the words at one’s command. Nevertheless, he tried.

  “I assure you,” she replied, smiling, “that I am fully fed. All of my psychological needs are well taken care of.”

  “Then you have completely recovered from and are entirely over the unfortunate deaths of your husband and daughter,” Pyreau said.

  Jaws slightly parted, Lorengau turned to stare sharply and unblinkingly at the unrepentant priest. When next she spoke, her tone was icy and dangerous.

  “How dare you. How dare you mention that in my presence.”

  This time Pyreau was not intimidated. “One who stands every day naked before God can dare anything.” Simultaneously relentless and compassionate, he continued. “The accident was eleven years ago. One of your company planes was returning to Gauteng from Harare. To this day no one is sure why it went down into the Zambezi. Everyone on board was killed.”

  “I know what happened.” Slumping slowly back in the great leather chair, Lorengau suddenly seemed in danger of being swallowed by it, of becoming even thinner, until she disappeared into one of the supple ebony tucks. “I wasn’t much of a believer before that. Afterward…” Her gaze rose. “I’m curious. What sort of colossal personal arrogance makes you think your proposed denomination has anything to offer someone like me?”

  “We can’t say for certain that it would,” Pyreau replied without hesitation. “We can be certain that nothing else does. Who knows what revelations may manifest themselves in the commingling of the beliefs of two entirely different species? Different ways of thinking, of looking at the universe, of both approaching and answering abstruse questions.”

  “There will be no restrictions, no constricting internal laws requiring adherence to unprovable dogmas,” Shanvordesep added. “It will be open to all. Not only humans and thranx, but members of any other species who wish to join. It will remain resolutely apolitical, a noted concern of your kind, and as equally accommodating of traditional thranx hierarchical concerns, an interest of my people.”

  There was silence in the room. “What do you hope to achieve with this?” Lorengau finally asked. “Power, wealth? Inner peace? Acclamation within your own vocations?”

  Pyreau looked over at his companion and saw Shanvordesep gesture encouragingly. “We don’t know. That is, we’re not sure. A place where individuals who are in need but who feel unsatisfied by other ideologies can come for succor and assistance. A refuge capable of offering more than words. We know that regardless of the beliefs it propounds, every church is ultimately accountable to a secular bottom line.” He indicated his companion. “Shanvordesep has experience in such matters, far more so than I.”

  Lorengau pursed her lips. “So not only am I being asked to support this dubious, unfocused enterprise, I am also supposed to turn over control of a large sum of credit to an alien. Not even a Pitar, at that.”

  “It is a wonderful thing about mathematics that it responds with equanimity to skilled manipulation regardless of shape.” The thranx calmly ignored the slight.

  If the industrialist was testing him, he evidently passed. “This is a waste of time and money. In that my opinion obviously does not differ from that of everyone else you have contacted in search of support. However…”

  If a divine blessing coul
d be accounted in one word, Father Pyreau thought, the woman seated grandly before them had just intoned it.

  “I have no time to waste—but I do have a lot of money. As you are aware, after the accident I never remarried. Mwithi was the finest man I ever met, and the only one who never expressed the slightest interest in my money. I’ve been looking for someone like him ever since. So far I have been grievously disappointed. As for my daughter…” She did not choke, Pyreau noted, but she did pause ever so briefly to gather herself. “You have your angels; I have mine. So, you want my money? To underwrite this numinous folly of yours?”

  “We do, crri!kk,” Shanvordesep acknowledged.

  “I suppose you’ll want to lease or build a headquarters, or temple, or whatever kind of specialized structure you end up conceptualizing.”

  “We intend to keep our facilities as modest as our goals,” Pyreau assured her. “I have always been doubtful of vast cathedrals and temples and mosques and the like. If God, or some great spirit, or whatever it is that we cannot yet give a name to is truly within us, then I don’t see why it matters that what lies without be constructed on such a grand scale. All my life I have wondered about preachers who shout, as if God were deaf.”

  “All I know is that when that plane went down he didn’t listen to me,” she snapped. “But that’s in the past.”

  “Then you will support us?” Unable to sit in a human chair, Shanvordesep had been forced to stand the entire time on all six legs. Now he rose, sitting back on four, the better to see eye to eye with the industrialist.

  “I will underwrite your foolishness, yes. For as long as it continues to amuse me.” Adopting a mocking tone, one slim hand fluttered diffidently in the air. “Who knows? I might even pay you a visit now and again, just to see how you are wasting my money.”

  Shanvordesep fumbled with his thorax pouch. “We intend to become self-supporting within the first year.”

  “Indeed?” She waved off his efforts to find whatever it was that he was searching for. “No, no. Don’t show me any projections, any figures. I’ll just spot the holes in them and discourage you. Madness needs to remain insular or it becomes hostage to reality and loses its charm. I’m not doing this because I think you’re going to make money, or even repay me. I’m doing it for a diversion. As an amusement.”