“Hush,” said Tamiko Inoue. She gestured toward the four approaching coons, and Gatling and Catrone fell quiet too. No one wanted the natives to overhear any hint of what might be in store.
This time, only one coon wore the yellow cloak of a priest. The rest were civilians, clad only in straps and pouches. One had a tail whose markings suggested chevrons or barbs. Another was the color of sunlight on ripe grain; she had no tail. They were accompanied by the scents of spice and musk, exotic and animal.
The priest scratched vigorously at the side of his nose. “You are ready,” he said. “Come.”
“Not quite,” said Ali Catrone. She stepped forward and named herself. Then she introduced the other three humans.
The priest sighed, and his tail twitched. “I am Dreaming Tree.” He pointed at his companions each in turn. “Dotson Barbtail.”
That was the one with the chevroned tail, his posture what a human would call stiff, suspicious, wary. He does not trust us, thought Hrecker. And that name. Had his father been polka-dotted?
“His mate Sunglow. And Scholar Starsight.” The last was a drab grayish brown except for a streak of white that slashed across the muscle of his right arm and part of his chest. Perhaps it marked the scar of some youthful misadventure.
All three Racs scratched their muzzles just as had the priest. When Hrecker imitated the gesture, they showed their teeth in what could only be the local equivalent of a human grin. A moment later, the other humans followed his lead.
When they were airborne, the priest directed the pilot to swing over the city atop the bluffs. Gatling patted the wall and said, “Nice soundproofing. I didn’t have a bit of trouble understanding you. Why do you call it Worldtree City?”
The priest seemed slightly puzzled as he pointed toward the center of the valley. “That is the Worldtree, which you grew before you left. Our ancestors thought it held up the sky. And Worldtree Center, where we study the lessons you left.”
“Wh … ?” But the priest let Gatling ask no more questions. Instead he directed their attention through the copter’s windows to the city below, its streets and hotels and factories and warehouses. The pilot swung wider of the valley, and there were fields and orchards and herds.
They think, Hrecker reminded himself, that we are the Gypsies. We made them from nothing, and not that long ago. Guilt washed through him at the thought of the lie they were telling by not admitting that they were not Gypsies but rather the Gypsies’ deadly enemies, but he knew better than to say aloud any more than, “You’ve come a long way.”
The priest seemed quite righteously satisfied at that praise from one of his gods.
“How did you do it?” asked Ali Catrone.
“We will show you when we get to Worldtree Center.”
The copter swung back toward the valley, rose high, higher than any human starship could stand, and hovered beside the bulbous tip of the tower. Hrecker noted the arched openings and the chamber within, and he caught a glimpse of walls covered with shelves. The shelves were packed with oblong bundles.
“What … ?”
“This is where we put our most honored dead.”
They sank through the valley’s air and settled beside a high-roofed hall. The copter’s door slid open, and they faced more of the purple-leafed vegetation they had scorched from the landing field. To the left, a bank of green and viny growth presented huge blossoms shaped like erect wine-glasses.
“The honeysuckle,” said Gatling. He sounded suspicious, but Hrecker was not surprised. Obsessive paranoia was the man’s job.
“Do you drink the nectar?” asked Tamiko.
Dotson Barbtail made a face and shuddered. The blonde coon beside him, Sunglow, said, “We don’t care for it.”
“Then why grow it?”
“You planted it before you left.” The priest seemed to think that was all the answer needed, and perhaps it was.
* * * *
Inside the Great Hall, they were met by the same High Priest who had led the welcoming party the day before. He gestured, spotlights bloomed, and he said, “Here we have recorded all our history.”
Hrecker was staring at the small version of the tower, the Worldtree, that dominated one end of the Hall. With difficulty, he jerked his eyes to the walls. Then, like all the other humans there, he could not keep his jaw from dropping. None of them had ever seen a mural so vast and sweeping, though perhaps they knew such things did exist on Earth.
There was the valley, carpeted only by the purple-leafed plant they had seen already. Scattered quadrupeds stuffed themselves round on white berries. “Our ancestors,” said the High Priest.
There was no trace of honeysuckle, no sign of Gypsies, but there was a single tree growing tall and taller, spreading vast branches. It became a limbless, barkless spear, polished smooth, hollow-tipped, rising above seas of opposing armies. There was the great box kite that had lifted Kitewing to the Worldtree’s tip, the hanging of the first ladder, the building of Worldtree Center. There were the first ships, trains, and cars, powerplants and rockets and communication satellites.
It was a tale of progress, of discovery and invention, of the rapid spread of science and technology. Its spirit was as proud as that of any arch of triumph.
“Romans of the Round Table,” said Ali Catrone. Hrecker followed her gaze to the armor mounted below the mural, and he saw her point. The helms were medieval. The breastplates and metal-strip skirts might have come from an earlier millennium.
“You coons’ve had wars.” Johnny Gatling was leaning forward on his toes as if he wished to dive into the mural, into the midst of a swirl of flesh and blood so vivid Hrecker wondered for a moment why he could not hear the dying scream.
“Of course,” said Starsight, the scholar who had so far said nothing at all. He pointed here and here and here on the muraled wall. From the very beginning, the Worldtree had been a prize, and the battles had repeated every time the technology of war advanced. The first had relied on swords and spears and bows. Kitewing had flown above cannon. Then there had been tanks and rifles and bombs. In addition to the armor on display, here were hand weapons, miniature catapults and tanks, the first small rocket, battered from a landing ungentled by a parachute.
“We call ourselves Racs,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “That’s what you named us before.”
“The tails always won,” said Tamiko.
“Same difference,” said Gatling dismissively. He had settled back on his heels. “Racs or coons.”
The High Priest said nothing, though his eyes were sharply watchful. Hrecker looked again, and yes, Tamiko was right. Every battle pitted coons with tails against coons without, and the former always won. Yet surely there had been setbacks. Surely the tailed coons had sometimes lost a battle, even if they had won the wars and gained the right to record their version of local history. Suddenly he felt these alien beings might prove quite human if only there were time to get to know them.
“How can you be sure?” asked Ali Catrone. “Especially the early days. That would just be myths.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” said Sunglow. Hrecker noticed at last that she was the only one without a tail.
“We could write from the start,” said the High Priest. “And some of those who painted what you see worked from memory.”
Hrecker scanned the mural once more. So much history, so much progress, so few years. “Wildfire,” he murmured to Tamiko. “A wildfire civilization.”
“It didn’t take us long,” said Dotson Barbtail. “You insisted that the holiest of activities was the pursuit of knowledge. Many of us took that seriously.”
Hrecker grinned. He agreed, and he could see how such an attitude would lead to rapid progress even for a small population.
But … Catrone looked uncomfortable. Gatling
had a hand on his pocket.
Hrecker tried to change the subject: “Why did you give us that basket full of books?”
“To show you that we still remember our destiny. To give you a token in return for what you gave us.” The High Priest faced the miniature Worldtree, and Hrecker suddenly realized that the basket containing the books had repeated the shape of the pillar’s tip. The folks on the Bonami were still examining the books; not all were basic school texts.
“The plaques,” said the tailless blonde.
“In the next room,” said the High Priest. When they reached it, they found two rows of glass display cases full of ceramic plates, each one engraved with text and pictures.
Catrone leaned over one case and positioned a hand to block the light that reflected from the glass. A moment later, she said, “Epitaxial beam deposition. Integrated circuits. Doping.” She moved to a second display case. “Quantum physics.”
“Not my field,” said Dotson Barbtail.
“Your lessons,” said the High Priest. “You told us they were waiting for us, as soon as we learned enough by ourselves to reach the Worldtree’s top. Kitewing found the way, and ever since—”
“My God,” said Catrone.
Johnny Gatling’s hand was already in his pocket.
Hrecker sucked in his breath. If Gatling … They could not possibly kill every coon that stood between them and the landing field.
“Then that’s what Worldtree Center is for,” he said. At the same time, he let his elbow prod the security chief in the back. “Hundreds of you. Thousands of you. All working to make sense of your heritage.”
“And add to it,” said Dotson Barbtail.
“It’s no wonder that you’ve come so far so fast.” Hrecker’s voice bore more than a hint of awe. His own species, he knew, had never done so well, never done so much so fast. Perhaps it never could.
“Is this all of them?” asked Gatling. His hand was still in his pocket.
“Oh, no,” said the High Priest. Was his tone the least bit smoother, higher pitched? “We have many more in storage, or in our scholars’ workrooms, or on loan to other universities and libraries. There are copies, too.”
Gatling’s shoulders slumped. His hand withdrew slowly, empty, from his pocket.
* * * *
“Treason!” said Johnny Gatling later, after they had returned to the Bonami.
“Not really,” said Hrecker. “Or only if the Gypsies were Engineers like us.”
“They were human!”
Hrecker shook his head again. “Even so.”
“Then heresy!”
“How so?” Captain Quigg had just entered the conference room. Tamiko described the plaques the Gypsies had left for the natives. When she was done, he grunted. “That’s not the way we would do it, is it?”
“We wouldn’t make the buggers in the first place!” said Ali Catrone.
“Was there any sign … ?”
“Not really,” said Hrecker.
“But they did,” said Gatling, while Tamiko nodded in agreement. “We know they did. They liked to play god.”
“We have to be sure,” said the Captain. “Any sign of … ?
“We didn’t see a thing to do with biology,” Tamiko admitted in a voice that said she thought that was hardly necessary. They knew enough. Now they should get on with their mission.
“Q tech?”
“I saw the basics on a plaque,” said Catrone. “Quantum theory, at least.”
“Destroy them all,” said Gatling.
“No,” said Hrecker. “Even if the Gypsies made them, their tech is clean. They’re just victims.”
“But if they ever get loose!”
“At least,” said Captain Quigg. His downturned mouth became a straight line, and his cheeks bulged even more than usual. “We’ll have to destroy the plaques. And that tower. Whatever else we find the Gypsies left behind.”
“It’s up to the General,” said Tamiko. “But I think you’re right.”
Chapter Ten
“It’s an honor,” insisted Sunglow.
“It’s a nuisance,” said Dotson Barbtail just as insistently. The pitch of his voice was well above the rumble of contentment. All his world was staring open-mouthed and panting at the alien humans, calling them the Gypsies, the Remakers, the gods themselves. Yet even if that was what they were, he was not happy. They interrupted his routine, distracted him from his worries. “I have work to do.” But he had to look aside even as he said the words. How could anyone think of work when … ?
“I can water Gypsy Blossom.”
“Oh, no!” He shook his head furiously. “You think you’re getting out of this? You’re coming with me.”
“Just set a bucket beside my pot,” said the bot. “I can water myself.”
“I wish the priests weren’t in charge.”
“What do you expect?” asked Sunglow. “They’ve been talking about Gypsies and Remakers for ages. Now here they are.”
“I’m not sure that’s who they are.”
Sunglow stiffened slightly, but Gypsy Blossom said very quietly, “Nor am I.”
“What do you mean?”
“I watched on the VC when you and everyone went to see them land. And there was something about them that made me wish to hide.”
“But who else could they be?” asked Sunglow.
Dotson shook his head. “They weren’t supposed to come back. We were supposed to go to them.”
“Maybe they got tired of waiting?” said the bot. “Or …”
Dotson snorted. “Then they don’t have much patience. One of them, the one called Mark, even said we were making fast progress.”
“But the priests said they would return,” said Sunglow.
“Some priests did,” said the bot.
“Ours did.”
“That’s not what the Founder told us.” Dotson stopped at that, for it suddenly struck him strange that those priests who preached the return of the Remakers were not in charge now that the gods had indeed come back. Instead, it was still the traditionalists, those who ran Worldtree Center and expected the Remakers to be waiting somewhere beyond the sky for the Racs to attain their stature. Yet at very least the arrival of the aliens reinforced the belief that the Remakers were real, just as had, many years ago, the discovery of the plaques atop the Worldtree.
“So what are you going to do?”
“We,” he said. “The same thing we did when they called us this morning. Show up and show them around. Maybe that’s why they called us then. To see how we handled it, if we went all trembly and fell down and started praying or kept our mind on pointing out the sights like good tour guides.”
“Dreaming Tree did that.”
“And now it’s our turn.” He sighed, a world of resignation in a puff of air. “Scholar Starsight too, I suppose.”
* * * *
The path Dotson and Sunglow were following toward the Worldtree wound among banks of honeysuckle and beds of moss. Other Racs were on the path as well, most of them moving in the same direction, talking as they moved toward their offices and labs in the buildings ahead.
“They were in the Great Hall yesterday.”
“They passed me so close I could smell them. Strange!”
“What will they do to us?”
“Do? Nothing! How could they?”
“But they’re here. That’s enough to change the world.”
“Maybe cool it off a bit.” The day was already warm for spring, and many of the Racs were panting, their tongues lolling to let their saliva evaporate and cool their blood.
“I hear the Farshorns think they’ll put the tailless in charge.”
“Last-made and best,” said Sunglow. Sh
e was panting too.
“But dumb enough not to listen to your own Founder,” said Dotson. So was he.
Someone laughed.
No one suggested that the aliens were not the Gypsies, the Remakers, the gods themselves returned from heaven to see how their makings were getting along.
The path ahead bent to pass around a pile of tumbled, lichen-covered stones that was all that remained of the Watching Place the Founder had built when he first realized the Gypsies were gods. Three Racs vanished around the corner and immediately reappeared. “They’re just ahead!”
By the time Dotson and Sunglow reached the corner, the path was completely blocked.
“Let us through?”
“Wait your turn! We want to see them too.”
“We’re their guides.”
That drew attention. In a moment, it even opened up a narrow path through the pack.
“One of each!”
“Fair enough.”
As soon as he saw the humans standing not far from the main entrance to the Great Hall, Dotson recognized them. Marcus Hrecker and Tamiko Inoue, as bonded to each other, he thought, as he and Sunglow, though they were much more alike. Neither had a tail, both had black hair on the tops of their heads, and their skins were much the same in shade, she a little yellower than he. There had been more variety in the larger group that had emerged from the Bonami the day before, but nothing like the array of patterns displayed by Racs.
Beside them the priest, Dreaming Tree, stared nervously at clumps of curious Racs and along the paths as if he knew how many more hovered just out of sight. Scholar Starsight watched the humans with a look of distaste. He had not seemed to recognize Dotson the day before; nor did he now.
“I feel like I’m in a zoo,” the human male was saying as Dotson and Sunglow came into hearing. He was about the same size as Dotson, but his tongue stayed within his mouth as if the warmth of the day did not affect him. His face, however, glistened with moisture, and when Dotson grew closer, there was an odor that nearly made him curl his upper lip even more blatantly than the scholar.
Thomas A. Easton’s GMO Future MEGAPACK® Page 134