Ancestor's World

by T. Jackson King

  "They are doing something illegal?"

  Bill hesitated. "I've been doing a little quiet investigating, Khuharkk', and I found something that may mean trouble. Big trouble. When I get back from Spirit this evening, I'll tell you all about it, because I'd like your opinion on what, if anything, I should do."

  Khuharkk' nodded. "Very well, Bill. I will be pleased to help. I met Project Engineer Mohapatra once ... and he struck me as somewhat lacking in honor."

  "He's a sleazy devil, but a smart one," Bill admitted.

  17

  "He never misses a trick, and he knows everything that's going on. I wonder how he manages?"

  "His pilots are in and out of camp almost every day with the jumpjet,"

  Khuharkk' pointed out. "Since they offered to loan us one of theirs, and the dig could not afford one, we could not say no."

  "Yeah. 'Beggars can't be choosers' is the human expression," Bill said.

  Khuharkk' mentally translated the colloquialism into his own tongue, then filed it away in his mind.

  Waterston smiled suddenly. Khuharkk', who'd had years of experience at reading human expressions, knew that smile had little to do with good feelings and a great deal to do with pure malicious joy. "Hey, I just thought...

  Mohapatra and his goons are going to shit when they find out about Gordon's find. This is bound to interfere with their dam-building schedule ...

  and it couldn't happen to a nicer bunch."

  "Doctor Mitchell and I already thought of that," Khuharkk' agreed. "That is another reason to keep the news from Nordlund as long as possible."

  Bill squinted into the sun, shading his eyes. "Is the jumpjet there now? I want to get away from here before I run into Beloran. If he tells me not to send out any FTL announcement of this discovery, then I have to abide by his wishes." He frowned. "It's like a balancing act on a high wire, trying to act as an Interrelator on a world with two parties so diametrically opposed to each other as the Traditionalists and the Modernists."

  "There's the jumpjet. It's just landing," Khuharkk' replied, shading his own eyes, then pointing at the landing field that lay on the far side of Base Camp.

  The long tube and wide wings of the jumpjet gleamed brightly in the late afternoon sunlight as it returned from the city carrying a load of artifacts and some very tired Na-Dina laborers. "It's bringing in the City of White Stone diggers," the Simiu added, identifying the figures coming down the ramp.

  "Then I'd better get a move on," Bill said. Breaking

  18

  into a jog, he flapped a hand back at his friend. "See you later, Khuharkk'!"

  The Simiu waved good-bye. Although his people had never invented the concept of formal or informal farewells, Khuharkk', like any good StarBridge student, had learned to adapt to alien customs.

  Pausing to sniff thirstily at the creek's water scent, Khuharkk' wished their communications weren't so poor. The government of Ancestor's World hadn't allowed the newcomers to install communications satellites in orbit.

  Nordlund had one FTL relay, and Bill's office in Spirit had another. Other than that, Ancestor's World was isolated from contact with the CLS.

  The Simiu went down to the stream, a tiny tributary of the massive River of Life. Lowering his six-fingered hands into the cool water, he brought them up to his muzzle, sipped, and enjoyed the sheer pleasure of feeling the liquid sliding down his throat. Hurrreeah, the Simiu homeworld, was also a hot planet, but there, it was humid. Since coming to Ancestor's World, Khuharkk'

  had learned the real meaning of thirst.

  He'd learned much in the past six weeks. This was an old, old world, with an ancient culture that did not adjust well to sudden disruptions. To avoid social turmoil, the Council of Elders had issued their decree: only the Nordlund construction crews would be allowed in, along with a small team of archaeologists and--this last grudgingly--a CLS Interrelator to assist with Na-Dina/alien interactions.

  Swallowing one last cool mouthful, Khuharkk' turned back toward the camp.

  Honor demanded that he hurry, now that his mission to contact Bill was completed. Mentally listing the items he needed, he dropped to all fours and trotted up the bank.

  Of course he was looking forward to helping Doctor Mitchell excavate the tomb--it was the chance of a lifetime. But, in another way, the whole idea made Khuharkk' uneasy. The Simiu had no concept of an afterlife, and the Na-Dina obsession with their dead ancestors and their ancient God-Kings and Queens was ... unsettling.

  19

  Could the dead live on?

  The Na-Dina certainly thought so. Many humans also believed in an afterlife.

  Who was right?

  Khuharkk' didn't know. Here on Ancestor's World, belief in the afterlife, in the continuing existence of the Revered Ancestors, was the pivot on which the entire Na-Dina culture balanced.

  In order to stay here and interact with the Na-Dina, he had to learn to respect and understand their beliefs. Could he? The Simiu did not adjust easily to other customs, other beliefs....

  Khuharkk' resolutely put disquieting philosophical questions out of his mind, and broke into a lope.

  The ground quivered beneath his flying feet.

  Bill Waterston slid into the pilot's seat of the jumpjet, checked the control panel instruments, and keyed on the external speaker.

  "Clear away, everyone!" he announced to the nearby Na-Dina laborers.

  "Blast off in three minutes."

  The outside pickups relayed grumbling as the laborers began moving out of range. They carried sacks of artifacts, environmental samples, survey and digging tools, and other archaeological arcana. Bil could see them moving past the viewport, carrying their sacks in talon-tipped, four-fingered hands.

  On the control panel, the auto-timer blinked its silent countdown.

  Wonder how long ago Beloran left? Bill thought. The Na-Dina Liaison had his own private land skimmer, which had been furnished to him by the Nordlund Combine.

  Bill patted his breast pocket, where Khuharkk's message resided. In a way, he felt a little guilty for agreeing to transmit it, when Beloran and some of the Modernists probably would object--on the other hand, the Traditionalist faction would applaud him for helping Mitchell to save their ancient heritage.

  What would Mahree do? he wondered, thinking of the woman who was called "the first Interrelator." He'd been lucky enough to work with her as a mentor on his first

  20

  assignment, and he was proud that she'd recommended him for this posting.

  Mahree Burroughs was a legend in the field of interstellar relations.

  Even Mahree might find the Na-Dina a challenge, he decided, eyes on his gauges. They hold out one hand in friendship, while despising those they meet as "infidels. "They're rattled to discover they're not alone in the universe, and they wish they could be left alone, yet now they're rushing to embrace an alien technology far in advance of their own. A bundle of contradictions, that's the Na-Dina.

  The royal politics of Na-Dina society would have been a match for those of Imperial China during the Ming Dynasty, Bill thought grimly.

  The jets blasted.

  The jumpjet lifted straight up into the air, rising above the high walls of the canyon that sheltered Base Camp. It rose higher still, then angled the jet nozzles rearward and sped off to the northeast. Bill flew across the open desert, rather than along the twisting course of the River of Life. Its waters would eventually roll by the ancient metropolis of Spirit, capital city of the Na-Dina, in about fifteen hundred kilometers. This shortcut was indeed shorter--but boring. Below him the backcountry of Ancestor's World was a desolate vista of dry washes, sandstone mesas, and a few isolated settlements.

  Well, there was a solution to his boredom problem. Bill turned on the jet's tail camera and aimed it southward, then watched the screen.

  The Mountains of Faith stretched like a gray wall across the entire southern horizon. They were a white-capped rampart of raw granite rock, flaming v
olcanoes, and black thunderstorms that swept down over the Scablands of the backcountry. With the storms came lightning--incredible lightning. Bright yellow streaks of flame shot from heaven to earth, booming in one's ears like the kettle drum of doom. When he'd first come to Spirit, the lightning storms had scared him.

  Then he'd felt his first earthquake.

  21

  Ancestor's World pursued an elliptical orbit around its older yellow star, an orbit that brought with it major climate shifts, dangerous electrical storms, and terrible earthquakes whenever the single moon pulled just right on the planet's tectonic plates. It got even worse when the sun and moon lined up.

  Then the entire planet vibrated. But the ancient Na-Dina people had persevered through their cycles of earthquakes, floods, death, and rebirth.

  Century after century, they rebuilt their cities of stone. They raised up monolithic temples dedicated to their Revered Ancestors. And they pursued a life of religious devotion mixed with fatalistic acceptance of their dangerous environment. Bill had to respect them.

  The Interrelator swung the camera to the east, where a silver ribbon flowed along like an overfed snake. At least the seasonal flooding by the River of Life came just once a year, in the spring. But when it didn't flood, suffocating ash spewed out from volcanoes in the Mountains of Faith. And at camp, each night was stone cold once the sun went down. Not what you'd call paradise.

  Bill shut off the camera and concentrated on his flying. He did hope the Na-Dina wouldn't sacrifice all their ancient heritage in the rush to modernize a society already well into its own Industrial Revolution. Hindsight, as they said, was twenty-twenty, and nothing could change the past. Ten months ago a Sorrow Sector privateer had landed, made an unauthorized First Contact, and traded for native arts, jewels, and gold nuggets. They'd left behind an FTL communicator, which the Na-Dina used to put out a call to anyone listening, inviting them to come and trade. The call had been answered by a geological survey team from the Nordlund Combine, a construction consortium with ties to Sorrow Sector.

  The Na-Dina were within their rights to invite Nordlund to land and set up trade agreements--which Bill suspected had been the Combine's objective all along. The CLS had been left holding the bag of a botched First Contact, trying to help an alien people still in shock over learning that other peoples existed, while the Modernist faction pushed for

  22

  rapid industrial development as the means of gaining independence from the CLS aliens.

  Behind him, something scraped.

  Bill turned in his pilot's seat and looked back at the interior of the jumpjet.

  What was that? The jet had been empty when he'd entered. The long tube of the jet had a simple layout: the pilot's cabin up front, the passenger cabin in the middle, and the sanitary unit at the far end. Below the central aisleway lay the cargo holds, but they had no access to the pressurized part of the jet.

  Frowning, he touched on the autopilot, then released his seat straps and stood up. It was probably a sandrat that had sneaked aboard when the jet landed near the City of White Stone to pick up the laborers. Sandrats posed no threat to people, but they loved to gnaw on cables and wires.

  The skittering scrape sounded again.

  Bill stepped up to the bulkhead doorway and peered into the passenger area. A row of benches lined each side of the metal tube. At the far end, the sanitary unit door stood open, swinging drunkenly on its hinges. Unlatched.

  Maybe the rat was inside there? He started down the passage.

  In the comer of his left eye, something moved. Something big that moved with blurring speed. Something that had been hiding behind the bulkhead wall separating the pilot's cabin from the passenger section.

  Before he could duck, something hard struck his head. Even before the blinding pain hit, Bill heard the crunch of bone. Red agony billowed through him, engulfing him.

  Bill Waterston tried to scream, but managed only a groan. Dimly, he was aware that he'd dropped to his knees, swaying.

  "Nooo," he moaned despairingly. Then blackness replaced the blinding redness and he fell, smashing face first into the floor. His lips split open, blood flowed out to meet that coming from his head, and dull nothingness hovered close by.

  Dad! he thought, then remembered his father had died years ago. Pain flared again as his broken nose filled with blood. Struggling weakly to breathe, he tried to turn over,

  23

  to see who it was that was killing him. He had never hurt anyone. Who wanted him dead? But his strength faded away like the colors of sunset.

  Grief filled him ... grief and regret.

  His last thought was that he'd failed Mahree.

  24

  CHAPTER 2 Salvage Archaeology

  Deep in the bowels of the airless asteroid that was home to StarBridge Academy, Rob Gable sat alone in his office, head bowed, the backs of his hands pressed tightly to his closed eyes as he struggled to fight back tears.

  He didn't have time to cry. Later, perhaps, when the day's work was over, he could indulge himself and let his sadness overwhelm him, allow the emotional cleansing that weeping could bring. He was a psychologist and a medical doctor-- he knew all about the damage repressed emotions could cause the human psyche.

  But now was not the time to let his grief overwhelm him. He had things to do.

  Life went on....

  But not for Bill, his mind reminded him, bringing a fresh lump to his throat.

  Bill's life is over. Why? Who could do such a thing?

  Waterston had been one of Rob's prize students, a young man who'd gone on beyond the role of student to assume that of a friend. Exceptionally able and mature for someone still in his early twenties, Bill had been part of the new wave of StarBridge-trained diplomats ... one of the first to graduate and fulfill his destiny as an Interrelator. But now ... years of study, all that work, all that dedication to the

  25

  vision that StarBridge Academy existed to nurture ... gone. Just... gone.

  It's not fair. How could something like this happen? Rob wondered, aware that he'd asked this question many times over the years. The psychologist swallowed hard and ran a hand through his wavy hair--dark hair that was showing more than a hint of gray these days.

  Clenching his jaw, Rob punched the FTL access code into the holo-tank, followed by Mahree's ID and the "override" code. Time to get things rolling.

  And it would help to talk with Mahree ... though he hated to be the bearer of bad news. But if anyone could gain them the help they needed, the help Khuharkk's message had requested, it would be Mahree Burroughs, the CLS Ambassador-at- Large.

  The holo-tank shimmered and then an image flickered into being. A woman sitting behind a desk in a room many light-years away looked up and smiled brightly, then stretched out a hand toward the screen. "Rob! How wonderful to see you! I'm glad you caught me, Half an hour from now, I'll be leaving to attend a trade conference."

  Rob recognized Mahree's private office on Shassiszss Station, the enormous space station that orbited Shassiszss, the Mizari homeworld.

  Mahree, he was pleased to see, looked well. Becoming a mother had barely changed her slight figure, and, although she'd been a rather ordinary-looking girl, she'd matured into an attractive, even, at times, lovely woman.

  She wore no makeup, as usual, and was dressed in a businesslike navy outfit. Her long hair was braided and pinned up into a thick bun.

  He smiled back. "Hi, honey. You're a sight for sore eyes."

  They exchanged pleasantries for a minute or so; then Mahree's eyes sharpened. "Rob ... you didn't just call to ask how Claire and I were doing, not at FTL rates, on an official channel. What's up?"

  He checked the holo-tank's privacy light to be sure it was on, then began telling her about Khuharkk's call to Professor Greyshine, who had in turn called Rob. He de

  26

  scribed the magnitude of the discovery of the unplundered tomb of A-Um Rakt and the discovery of the Mizari re
lics the archaeologists had found inside it. Then, taking a deep breath, he added, "Honey, brace yourself. This last part is really bad news."

  Her eyes widened. "What's happened?"

  "Mahree, Bill Waterston has been murdered."

  She put a hand to her mouth. "No! Oh, Rob! What? How?"

  "I don't know. Khuharkk' didn't know. Bill left for the capital city of Spirit just after the discovery, planning to use the FTL transmitter there to report the news to the CLS Council. He never made it to his embassy. When three days passed and Bill still hadn't returned to camp, Mitchell dispatched a ground skimmer along his likely route." Rob paused a moment to steady himself. "They found... the body."

  Mahree's face might have been carved from stone. Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, but her voice was steady. "How did he die?"

  "His skull was crushed from a blow by some kind of blunt object. They found his body inside the jumpjet. There was no one around. No sign of another jet landing on the mesa top. No footsteps ... nothing."

  Mahree shook her head. "This is terrible. Who could have done such a thing?"

  "I know how you feel," Rob said. His heart ached for her, as he sensed his own anguish mirrored in her voice, the taut lines of her body.

  Slowly she settled back into her chair, her slim hands gripping the chair arms until he could see the bone-white of her knuckles beneath the skin. "He was a good one, Rob. The best Interrelator yet. I..." She paused, brushed at her eyes, then continued, her voice husky. "I don't envy you the call to his parents. I'll call later, on behalf of the CLS. Okay?"

  Rob nodded. "His mother is a widow. I know Mrs. Waterston will appreciate hearing from you. She's a nice woman. Bill was ... her only son."

  27

  Mahree winced. "Any idea who killed him, and why?" Rob shook his head.

  "None. And the Na-Dina won't accept Irenic investigators for the case.

  They've appointed one of their own people to track down Bill's killer. I'll datafax you a copy of Khuharkk's message."

  "Thanks," she said dully.

  "Mahree ..." Rob hesitated, but, knowing how limited her time was, plunged on. "Is it possible you can help Mitchell get some more people, better supplies, things like that? He's apparently made the find of the century out there."