by Dave Duncan
“The lowly may not have been told the news yet.” Ratty joined her. He fancied a hot drink, but his hands were still shaking too much to take out of his pockets.
“You must try these,” she chirruped. “Gosan pods, a Climatal specialty.” She bit into whatever it was. “A sort of fishy chocolate taste.”
Ratty had heard of Gosan pods. They were insect pupae, with the larva inside. He declined politely.
Brother Andre entered.
Then Athena Fimble, eyes flashing warnings.
And Linn Lazuline wearing an expression of extreme smugness.
Ratty’s nose for a story twitched. Why were those two striking sparks? Had a certain politician been hitting up a certain trillionair for a donation? Or had Lazuline been trying to buy her vote on something? If so, then why had STARS, which knew everything, included them both on this little jaunt?
When everyone had collected a snack and found a seat, he set to work in his demon reporter role. “Dear Friend Linn, if you believe that STARS is spinning us moonbeams, then why are you here at all? Your time is worth several thousand libras a minute. Why waste days chasing rainbows?”
He received the usual stare of intense dislike. Very few people ever dared to cross Linn Lazuline, but Ratty got away with it because his research was faultless. The financier’s empire was so huge that it contained dozens of smelly little corners where good stories could root.
“Because, sonny, those moonbeams are going to scare the bowels out of the stock market. Pock’s is the smallest and least industrialized of the seventeen, so the direct loss of trade would be relatively slight, but the loss of confidence would be huge, and the sectoral economy would not recover for years.”
“How much will it cost you personally?”
“Billions.”
“So you think that if the great Linn Lazuline proclaims that there is nothing to the story, then people will necessarily believe you?”
Linn sneered. “If my word did not carry weight, STARS would not have invited me to be a witness, would it?”
“Your word in favor of sterilization would impress,” Ratty said, “just because the result would hurt you. Your word against it will seem like the sort of special pleading tycoons always spout, equating the public interest with their own profit.” He saw where his own arguments led. “That suggests that STARS must be very sure of its ability to convince you.” Interesting!
Lazuline laughed and hurled his empty cup across the lounge. It veered strangely in the artificial gravity and missed the bucket. “Does it? You think I confuse the public’s interests with my own, and STARS doesn’t? You’re always accusing me of being a robber baron, Turnsole, but STARS set up the entanglement links thousands of years ago, and ever since then it’s been extracting enormous tariffs for doing no more than maintaining its equipment. Yes, I know it claims to be financing a program of exploration and settlement, but if has added one world to Ayne sector since Prakrit, nineteen centuries ago, it hasn’t told any of us peons. It has always defended its monopoly by any means it can find, and bogeymen are its favorite. Sonny, I know for a fact that there never has been an artificial hominin and almost certainly never will be.”
“Your evidence for that sweeping statement?” the friar said coldly.
“It is a matter of scientific limits, Brother.” Lazuline’s tone was barely more respectful than the one he had been using on Ratty. “I own several companies that turn out genetic materials and perform genetic miracles, and I know the billions of libras of research that have to go into changing even one tiny factor in the human genome. To imagine that anyone could redesign us into a new species in less than a hundred thousand years or so is just plain lunacy. The first cuckoos supposedly sprang up less than five thousand years after the start of the Diaspora. We can’t create new species now, and scientists of twenty-five millennia ago certainly could not.”
“But we modify the basic human genome every time we settle a new world,” Backet protested. “I have visited seven worlds, and every time I get doped up with all sorts of horrible chemicals that the natives don’t need.”
Linn nodded with excessive respect, as if amazed that she could make a pertinent comment. “This is true, Director. We cannot terraform the worlds, so we adapt people. Ayne is said to be the most Earth-like world ever found, but if a traditional earthling—say Brother Andre’s St. Francis—had been miraculously transported to Ayne, he would not have survived a month, perhaps not a day.
“We are especially maladapted for Pock’s World. In a sense, we all suffer from genetic diseases so far as Pock’s is concerned. Our bones and muscles do not fit the gravity, our skins cannot resist the damp and the carcinogens. For short stays, we can get by with drugs and vaccines. To survive longer, we should need extensive gene therapy.”
Millie’s brow was crumpled in bewilderment. “Aren’t you just contradicting what you just said?”
“No,” Linn said. “It is a matter of degree.”
He turned away to talk to Athena.
Unusually, from Ratty’s point of view, he had been speaking the truth. While most people thought that the genetic code was a string of beads that could be cut and spliced at will, it was infinitely more complicated. Every one of the terrestrial species humankind had brought with it on its diaspora—dogs, cats, parrots, even mushrooms—was constructed by a virtually identical set of genes. But genes make up only about two percent of human DNA. The other ninety-eight did not code for proteins, but were equally vital.
One of the ninety-eight’s most important functions was to switch genes on and off. It was those ‘enhancers’ that made the genes produce a Linn Lazuline or a cobra, or something completely different. Much more laboratory tinkering was done with enhancers than with genes. The double helix of DNA was wound around a framework of histone proteins, which were even more complex than the DNA itself. The physical position of the gene in the nucleus at a given stage in development was important in determining how it acted. A single change could produce a cascade of unexpected consequences.
“Well, I believe in cuckoos, Friend Millie,” Andre said. “For every world settled we must produce a new subspecies, but they are definitely sub-species. A Pocosin, for example, can mate with a Vakelian and produce viable, if sickly, offspring. Pocosins are very tall; Prakrit people are small; Overgang’s are enormous, but all are still human. The Soldier Ants on Jibba, we were told, were an entirely new species, incapable of cross-breeding with us. This made them an abomination in the eyes of the Church and a threat in STARS’s, even if they had been well-behaved, which they were not. It only takes one cuckoo in a nest to destroy the legitimate brood.”
Millie nodded agreement.
Linn returned to the argument. “But these ‘cuckoo men’ have been around almost since the beginning? Who had the knowledge then that we lack now? Who—government, person, party, or cult—could ever fund such an effort and keep it secret? Why would anyone be so stupid? For what reason? To create something that would steal away their own children’s inheritance and take over the Galaxy? Forget it.”
His speech was answered with glum silence. He was articulate, but he was still arguing in his own interests. As Ratty had foreseen, that fact made him less convincing. Was STARS subtle enough to count on that contrarian effect? Would Lazuline’s telling the truth persuade people of the lies?
Millie said, “I can never understand why a new species would be such a danger anyway. Surely intelligent races could get along? Isn’t the galaxy big enough for all of us?”
No, it wouldn’t be. A synthetic hominin would be utterly deadly, because one of the most basic premises of biology was that two species could not occupy the same ecological niche. One must always drive out the other. A sentient competitor would automatically be a mortal foe to humanity, and vice versa. They could never be us.
“We were created by God in His image,” Brother Andre said. “Real threat or not, a man or woman created by mankind must be an abomination in the sight of
the Lord. It would have no soul.”
“Bully for the Lord,” Ratty said. “What evidence do you expect STARS to offer us? A stuffed hand with two opposable thumbs?”
Lazuline shrugged. “Notice that they did not invite any scientists.”
“Except me,” Backet said.
“No offense intended, Director. You are known as an administrator, not an academic or experimentalist.”
The light dimmed and brightened again. Control informed them that it was time to move on.
* * *
The lounge in Pyrus 1 was decorated in green, but the air was chilly and stank of chlorine. The wall screen showed a nighttime world, with few lights except a flickering electrical storm and some auroras. No host or hostess stood on the podium to welcome the visitors. They huddled down on the benches to wait.
“I feel like a cookie in a digestive tract,” Ratty said, wishing he had brought a warm overcoat. “STARS needs a laxative.”
Ignoring him, Backet said, “Why are there no people?”
“Because,” Athena said, “we will speak more readily without attendants present, and our hosts want to eavesdrop on our talk.”
“Oh.”
“But I don’t care. Friend Linn?”
“Yes, Senator?”
“You tell us that you do not believe in synthetic hominins. I said that I would never vote for sterilization. Let’s put those together and find out where we all stand. You first: Will any evidence convince you that Pock’s World is a real threat to the sector, and will you then vote to sterilize it?”
“And why should I be first in the hot seat?”
“Because you’ve done all the talking so far.”
He chuckled. “All right. I have strong opinions, but I never close my mind. If STARS shows me a nest of living, breathing, obviously non-human people, then I will believe. And you can bet your bellybutton I will vote to sterilize!”
“Thank you. Brother Andre?”
The old friar sighed. “My duty is merely to report my observations to the Holy Father. I do believe the historical evidence, so I can be convinced in this case, yes. If His Holiness then asks my opinion, I may well say I believe the abomination must be cauterized.”
“Director?”
“Well…” Millie seemed to flutter without actually moving. “I suppose I am in the same position as Brother Andre. I will pass on my conclusions to the secretary general, and she can quote it verbatim to the Sector Council or reject it, as she pleases.”
Ratty could imagine her report already—fiercely ambivalent. She was a bureaucrat and made a career out of equivocation. Ratty wasted much of his life trying to prize straight answers out of Millie Backets.
Athena showed no annoyance. “Please try to answer the question. Can you be convinced, and will you then advocate sterilization?”
“Yes. And, er… no. Only the Sector Council can decide to take action against a world that threatens the security of the others.” Backet smiled at having thus weaseled herself out of danger.
Athena gave up and turned her lustrous gaze on Ratty. He squirmed, for he was accustomed to being a spectator, not a player. His only decision, normally, was how to slant the story, and even now his first reaction was to wonder which would play best. Alien Monsters Poised to Attack won easily over STARS Tries to Hoodwink Public. Even without that, though…
“Yes, and… probably. I’d much rather vote for an extended quarantine. Pock’s World has only one orbital station, connected to only one other world. If you’ll pardon some black humor, sterilization is quite literally overkill. It is far more extreme than the situation requires.”
“That remains my position,” Athena said. “You can easily check the DNA of everyone wanting to leave Pock’s World and pick out any that aren’t human.”
“STARS will reject that argument!” Linn said stubbornly. “You cannot vet a whole world for illicit technology. Sooner or later the monsters would emerge into space. They would establish their own entanglement link to the next habitable star.”
“But that would take centuries!” Backet protested. “First they have to capture a couple of nickel-iron asteroids, because nothing else makes a platform stable enough for long-lasted entanglement and sufficiently tough and radiation-proof to survive interstellar travel. They must hollow them, equip them, and maneuver them into a suitable orbit, which alone takes years. Then establish the entanglement link. Then they have to send one of them across twenty or thirty light years.”
Full marks to Millie! Ratty couldn’t have put it better himself, so far as it went. In fact he suspected that Pock’s, although it was reputedly mostly a low-tech world, would have a couple of big advantages if it ever wanted to develop space technology: its initial escape velocity must be low, and Javel’s enormous gravity well would provide powerful slingshot boosts.
Lazuline growled impatiently. “But that is precisely STARS’s argument—that only STARS can act on the necessary timescale and politicians never see past the next election. STARS is immortal. Like your church, Brother Andre?”
“Let’s stay away from controversy,” Athena said, “for the Pocosins’ sake, if not our own. Who do you fancy in the Spaceball Classic, Ratty?”
Of course nothing ignited controversy faster than sports. Linn was soon rooting for the Comets, which one of his cousins owned, Athena for the Shooting Stars, and Millie, surprisingly, turned out to be an avid fan of the Black Holers. The argument waxed furious until suddenly the lights dimmed again.
A hologram of a young woman in a STARS tunic flickered into view at the podium, obviously a recording. “Your attention, please. Entanglement is the safest form of transportation in the galaxy. You may now proceed to Pock’s Station.”
Chapter 7
Musing that technology could whisk her across the light years faster than it could brush her hair, Athena was first into the entangler. It was this very ease of interstellar travel that made the Diallelon threat so potent. She stepped out into muggy heat and dimness, plus an overpowering sulfurous stench. By the time all the others had joined her, she had almost stopped coughing, but her eyes still streamed tears. In the twilight she registered only a large room with some furniture; the brightest thing in sight was the customary wall screen displaying the world below the station.
“Gawdamity!” Ratty exclaimed between splutters. “Who put the skunks in the sauna?”
“Welcome to Pock’s World,” said a singsong voice.
The visitors turned as one.
“I greet you on behalf of the Pocosin STARS. Live and die happy, as we are saying here. My name is Braata, and I will be your host during your stay on Pock’s Station.”
The speaker on the podium had the extra height found in natives of low gravity worlds, exaggerated by the sinewy build of youth. He wore black shorts supported by suspender straps crossed over his chest in an X, black sandals, and a narrow black headband. There were STARS insignia on the straps and the word ‘Steward’ on his headband. His hair hung in dark ringlets almost to his shoulders. Surprisingly for what Athena had heard about Pocosins, a fine gold chain around his neck carried a small gold crucifix.
“This is Pock’s normal atmosphere?” Linn demanded.
The boy laughed. “I regret to inform that this is diluted. Worldside is more so. Some people find it much unpleasant and decide to terminate their journey here, returning home most imminently. Most tour companies rebate part of fare.”
For a moment Athena was tempted to accept that offer—not because of Linn’s insistence that this junket was a STARS hoax, but because of her own suspicion that it was a Lazuline hoax. The timing had been much too convenient! But no, she had never been a quitter. Besides, she had promised Proser that she was giving up politics in favor of motherhood.
“We are not tourists!” Backet said. “We are—”
“Indeed I am aware of your honored status,” the boy proclaimed cheerfully. “No one else is arriving or departing anymore. You will need a further dose o
f tonic before descending, and a fungicidal shower. Most Pocosin flora and fauns will not bother you, but Ayne infections may prosper if not removed. Also it is custom here to offer arriving visitors suitable clothing at obscenely inflated prices, but I am authorized to provide same without charge. Downworld your own will fall apart in a day or two. Translators I am also directed to distribute without fee.”
Athena had met Pocosins a few times and, as her eyes adjusted to the lighting, she recognized his strange red coloration, as if he had taken a scorching sunburn all over. That explanation would hardly accord with his beaming smile. If he was not as young and eager to please as he was implying, he was a very good actor. She postponed judgment, suspecting he was smarter than he was pretending.
“We just get wet and stay wet?” she asked. “Won’t we peel?”
“Not if you take your tonic. Our skins are augmented, you may see. We secrete vernix to repel the water, this being what babies do to keep from wrinkling in the uterus, where high humidity is likewise the norm. Our rad-resistant pigments are modified carotenes, making us this pretty color.” His smile was close to a flirt.
“We should have been greeted by an official delegation!” Backet huffed.
“I agree, honored friend, but I am only one choice left on station. High ranks draw lines at purveying haberdashery. I have no shame to extol to you the excellent toughness of our garments, made of seeming amphibian hide, but actually a fungoid fabric grown in vats and almost indestructible. I have had these since I was just nine—Pocosin years.” That would be about sixteen Ayne years.
“Then lead us to the tailor,” Linn growled.
Ratty muttered, “Take me to your lederhosen.”
The store was better lit and well stocked with bright-colored shorts and sandals, which Braata insisted were standard wear. There were also scanty tops for women—but very few bothered with them, he added encouragingly. He offered visors, needed to keep rain out of eyes.