Next, he would secure the approaches to the ship the Forlani had borrowed, to make sure everything seemed safe with them. Later, he would poke around near the human ship. Finally, he would wander near several Phiddian residential areas. Then he would change his appearance slightly and start all over again. I-35 was very good at disguises. It was the only way he could get off-planet after his own crime. The fact that he had exacted revenge on his enemy, assumed his identity, rendered the corpse unrecognizable by any quick means, and shipped out with the victim’s own documents, all this gave him much more pleasure than the straightforward elimination of a piece of scum.
He craved a nice spot to rest and a bite to eat, but shrugged off his fatigue and hunger. The Song Pai had detected no lack of zeal on his part, but he feared the prospect of a reprimand from them, which would involve extreme humiliation, if not outright mauling. And the squids never warned twice. After he had taken refuge on Song Pa, he had seen what happened to aliens who were twice derelict in their duty. They were turned over to the young ones for kill training. Worse than just target practice. The Song Pai insisted their young be able not only to tolerate, but to produce enormous bodily violence. It was essential for their warrior way. Never flinch. No matter how weary or worn-down, I-35 had to continue his routine to the absolute maximum. Oh, they would make it worth his while if he foiled a plot. Song Pai would never stint from providing reward for efficiency. Never mind – even with the prospect of riches, the negatives outweighed the positives in I-35’s motivation. Unlike his bosses, he hoped to die old and peacefully, and with all his limbs intact.
Macdougal poured himself a shot of Epsilonian bourbon, added a half teaspoon of sugar, a little soda, and a lemon section, and stirred the drink. Satisfied, he looked over at Wilson and cocked an eyebrow.
“Double,” said Wilson. “Straight. Keep the fruit.”
“Purist,” mumbled Macdougal, as he walked over and handed the bourbon to the other man. Anthony Wilson did not make eye contact or thank the ambassador. He seized the glass without looking and downed half of it without comment. Macdougal settled into a leather chair and savored a long sip. “Ahhh,” he sighed. “Gotta treat this stuff with respect. With no more grain from Earth or Domremy, the price of the top Epsilonian booze has skyrocketed.”
“As long as it’s at least 90 proof, it’s all the same to me.”
Wilson must have slugged down a lot of 90 proof in his day. Macdougal knew that under his transplanted hair and bureaucratic clothes there were scars. Wilson was rumored to have had a lot to do with that nasty war in Baluchistan. One rumor said he had assassinated political leaders on every continent but Antarctica. Another rumor said some family members had been included. Macdougal was not afraid of him. He had made his own bones in other ways on some of the outer worlds. He could not deny, though, that he was curious about the “advisor” that had been assigned to him by the Big Three corporations of Dahlgren or exactly what he was supposed to be doing. Wilson was certainly not interested in speech-writing and shrank away from any personal publicity. Macdougal tried to pry out a reaction. “So, you heard?”
“Everybody on the freakin’ station and a parsec around has heard. So what? Suits me fine if that tin can disappears. One less contingency to consider.”
Macdougal jokingly suggested, “Aren’t you worried you might have a little heart problem while you’re out here? Could be bothersome without medicos.”
“Do I look like I need a doctor now? Besides, I got my own little pharmacy with me. I got myself covered and good.”
“As I see it, this shouldn’t change our strategy much,” Macdougal opined. “Maybe make it easier. The Song Pai are just as likely to continue insisting on war. If they do, they’ll appeal to their allies the Forlani and the Rokol, who will be forced to mobilize, at least for defensive purposes. If they do, the Rokol will not be able to continue serving as one of the co-governors of the Tau Ceti Anchorage. We obligingly volunteer, slip back in, find a way to get rid of the other two partners, and whammo! We’re back in charge at Tau Ceti. If so many damned crews hadn’t abandoned ship or turned tail when the plague broke out on Earth, we’d still be in charge there.”
“A major Fubar situation that was,” commented Wilson. He slugged down the rest of his double bourbon and added, “Things will definitely be easier now. You’ll see. Get ready for it. I’m just wondering if we’re focused on the right target.”
“How can you ask that? I’m surprised at you, Ton… Anthony.” Macdougal remembered just in time that Wilson took great umbrage at being addressed as Tony. “Anyway, now that all the plague refugees are cleared out of the Anchorage, Tau Ceti will prosper as one of the main transfer points of the Zone. More importantly, almost everything going into the so-called reconstruction on Earth has to pass through there. We can gum it up at first and really clamp down once we’re in sole control. Then we can make sure the Newts give up those delta concessions they’ve been given and get rid of the Robotic Guild bases, too.”
“You may be right about the Newts, based on their past history. But I wouldn’t underestimate the Guild. I sniff a connection between them and the Blynthians.”
“Oh, come on. They’ve barely spoken together since the conference began. The Guild only has those three concessions in Tibet, Bolivia, and the Balkans. They’re nowhere near the Intermountain Exclusion Zone where we have troop buildups planned. With the cork in the bottle at Tau Ceti, we’re a cinch to get them off the Earth in no time. Without the Guild and the Newts, those half-assed reconstructors will knuckle under to the Corporations and we’ll be as strong as ever.”
“I’ve handled a lot more boots on the ground than you have, Macdougal, and I say we’ll need every trump card we can get in our hand if we want to get Earth back. Your Tau Ceti plans may be no more than pie in the sky. I think there may be juicier alternatives.”
“You’re not thinking of Forlan?” Macdougal stifled a gasp.
“Why not? If the squids are busy elsewhere, those furries have got nothing to defend themselves but a dozen interceptors that they don’t even build themselves. They’re scared shitless about the young they breed and will make any sacrifice to protect them. The profits from their pleasure houses alone would be worth a fortune if they’re exploited properly. Operation FastTrack would have done great if Klein hadn’t poked his nose into it. Those bitches Entara and Ayan’we had a lot to do with that fiasco, too, if memory serves me right. I’d handcuff them up for the first few thousand clients if I had my way.”
“It’s an awfully big risk to run.”
“Bet big, win big. If not, zip up your fly and leave the game.”
“Look, our diplomatic plan is to do everything to facilitate the outbreak of war between the Song Pai and the Blynthians. That’s all that was approved in council with the Corporations. Also, commitments have been made to … other parties. I can’t make any changes without a major sit-down with the powers back on Dahlgren.”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” chuckled Wilson. “You just continue to do what you’re supposed to do and leave any fringe matters to me. Don’t tell our partners any more than they absolutely need to know. After all, they may not stay partners for long. I promise not to get in your way,” Wilson promised, with a wry grin that Macdougal didn’t like at all.
It seemed that everyone else on Transfer Varess was scouring each crack and crevice to look for evidence of what happened to Doctor Torghh, but Isshel made it a point to avoid any such activity. Ever since the incident in the disappearance corridor, when he had come close to provoking a violent reaction from the Song Pai, the artist had wished to make himself scarce. It was not out of fear for his own hide so much as out of fear of making an embarrassing diplomatic faux pas. Forlani artists were capable of placing their physical being in all sorts of jeopardy, but were ultra-sensitive about marring their reputations, and in this one respect Isshel was close to the norm for the Brotherhood. He was quite relieved when Ayan’we had sent a message fro
m her mother suggesting that he avoid public encounters with the cephalopods. The order gave him a good excuse to immerse himself in his project of sounding out the psychology of the Phiddians. Song Pai didn’t like them at all and avoided their club rooms where pleasure was the watchword of the day.
On stepping into the Sapphire Club, Isshel was interested to find Fianni, the leader of the confrontation at the Love Court, in the company of two of the Gropers Four. It occurred to him that he had never seen that meddlesome quartet separated before and he wondered where the other two might be lurking. When they had tried to grope him, he had flashed his dagger-like nail sharpener and they had fled like frightened rodents. His own nails were faultlessly sharpened like those of most of the Brotherhood, since the artists liked to use them to carve wood, as well as wax and clay. Why use senseless tools when one can get the feel of the medium right through one’s body? Forlani females never carried the wicked-looking sharpeners, for they preferred to keep their nails in the right practical shape for tree-climbing – well-curved but slightly blunted to hold the bark but not snap off the nail. Fortunately, males had no need to climb fruit trees when their wives and children could do so.
Isshel approached the trio of Phiddians and made a slight bow, introducing himself.
“This is the sharp fellow we told you about,” said one of the gropers. “We have to watch ourselves in his company.”
“I’m sure he means us no harm, dear,” said their social leader. “He can’t help it if he’s all horns and … prickles.”
“I apologize if I frightened you,” Isshel responded. “I would certainly like to learn more of your ways so that I do not give any false impressions. Are you not used to any form of aggressive behavior?”
“Depends what you call aggressive,” Fianni said in a suggestive tone. “We pride ourselves on getting our way. Do you think we could get our way with you?”
Isshel frowned a bit. “I’ve been told I’m a bit of a stick in the mud. My wives often tease me by telling me I’m an oblivious intellectual and a cold fish.”
“You didn’t seem so oblivious when you turned up that clue in the hallway where the robot disappeared.”
“Just an accident.”
“Really! I’m sure you’re too modest. Strange for an artist – our jewelers are always gassing off about their achievements. So what do you think happened to the metal eunuch?”
“Well, Fianni, all signs point to involuntary entrapment.”
“Oh! What fun!” clapped the shorter of the Gropers. “It’s just like a fantasy. I love to get trapped and tied up, don’t you? But what good are such delights on an insensitive metal being with no feelings? If somebody took him he probably isn’t even aware of being turned off, or whatever happens to robots.”
“Torghh almost certainly does not have emotions resembling yours and mine, but I would hardly call him insensitive. Though mechanical, his censors are quite capable of reacting to a vast array of stimuli. And his intelligence can respond to those stimuli in ways that we may not be able to imagine.”
“Hmm, interesting you should mention responding,” murmured Fianni. “How can one separate provoking and responding? We Phiddians are acutely aware of both by our hermaphroditic nature.”
“Doesn’t your pursuit of pleasure lean more to the responsive side?”
“Granted, pleasure is sublime,” explained the taller Groper. “But someone must be willing to give if another wants to take. And if the giving is on a grand scale, then the taking can be virtually without constraint, can’t it?” The Groper gave a wink of the eye to Fianni and Isshel perceived that he must be a third party to some private joke.
“It seems to me that could lead to excessive passivity,” he remarked.
“Passivity has its limits,” answered Fianni with a sudden chill of seriousness. “If the taking, and perhaps the giving too, are in danger of curtailment, determined action must be in order.” The moderator of the Love Court looked up, aware that Isshel was staring with particular interest. “Anyway, our wonderful comedies show us that the character of the Passive Clown is an object of supreme ridicule and no Phiddian wants to play that role.”
Isshel felt he had learned something valuable but did not want to tip his hand, so he decided to change the subject. “Speaking of comedies, have you heard that the Kael have a new one that is attracting rave reviews, The Flyer Without Wings? Can you tell me anything about it?”
The question did the trick and both Gropers chimed in with a babble of critical information and Fianni soon joined in, forgetting the moment of seriousness. Isshel felt he had made a breakthrough in understanding the balance of Phiddian emotions and longed to share it with Ayan’we. Wait a second, why Ayan’we? Shouldn’t I report directly to Entara? There’s more to be gained in praise from an ambassador, but I can’t help thinking I’d enjoy Ayan’we’s response even more. Response?
It was the night watch on Varess station and Ayan’we and Lila were on duty guarding the entrance ramp to the Forlani habitation vessel. Night was really just a word on the station, for inside the lights were always on in the corridors and business continued as usual. Dumpy Kholods shuffled by carrying dishes up from the kitchens for the Phiddians or cleaning utensils for their chores. Powls scuttered along with meters or tools to adjust the mechanisms. Once in a while a restless Garanian would stride by, getting some exercise. Ayan’we mused that it would be hard to get along with a creature that only rested for minutes at a time during the day. After their busy hours, Forlani cherished their rest, the comfort of the sleeping cluster, the warmth of the sisters’ bodies huddled together.
She was roused from her musings by a signal from Entara, not an emergency – just a simple request for presence. She quickly tapped out an order for two more guards to take over and entered Entara’s quarters with Lila at her side. Entara was seated next to her sleeping nest with her face in her hands, while little Quatilla, the youngest of their line, dozed peacefully.
“Mother, you’re trembling! What’s wrong?”
“Can’t seem to get to sleep. Would you two spend some time with me? I need a bit of comfort, sisters.”
Lila saw that Ayan’we seemed concerned about her mother’s condition but did not offer an answer right away, so she took it on herself. “Please relax, sister Delegate. We will stay with you.”
Ayan’we stretched out facing her mother as Lila got in the nest behind Entara. Mother and daughter cradled the infant between their bodies and they pulled a little coverlet over their legs. Lila could feel that soon Entara stopped trembling. “I think I was worried because of a dream I had last night. Very strange. I can’t seem to let it rest or to understand it. Would you mind if I shared it with you?”
“Certainly not mother. Tell us.”
“Klein was in this dream. He seemed so real, so alive! He spoke to me in his normal voice as though we were back on Domremy. His hands reached out and touched me. At first I felt comforted, but also excited. He spoke about how much he missed me and he asked if I missed him. I reached out to kiss him and caress him, but his body seemed to almost dissolve at contact. It only worked in one direction. I was so disappointed I started to scream. I don’t know for how long. I was worried he might have left. I opened my eyes again and he was still there. He told me to stop or I might wake you. And there you were as a baby again, sleeping in my lap. He said, ‘She’s as much mine as the other one.’ It took me a while to realize he was talking about the human, Amanda. Then,” she paused with a catch in her voice, “He told me he had to leave me and he walked away.”
“Didn’t he tell you if he planned to return?” whispered Lila from over Entara’s shoulder.
“Yes. Sort of. He said he would. But I didn’t know if I could believe him. That’s all.”
“I can see why you were troubled, mother. I could never rest easy after a dream like that. Not to know if you could ever feel love and affection again, even if it was from a male…” Ayan’we’s voice drifted off as she g
rew pensive.
“Would it help you if I sang something?” offered Lila. She was speaking as much to her cluster leader as to her delegate. She felt it was up to her to comfort both of her sisters, since the daughter seemed as preoccupied as the mother now.
“Please,” answered Entara. “You have such a fine voice.”
Lila began to sing softly, so as not to wake the infant, but with perfect pitch. The song was one of Entara’s own, about her early times with Klein, called “Your face in the glowing sunrise.” She was gratified to see that Entara was soon smiling, soothed no doubt by the memories of her own intimacy with the man from Earth. Ayan’we continued to be lost in some unknown thoughts. When Lila finished the sixteenth verse, she added a little final trill of her own, a personal touch so typical of Forlani song.
“Lovely,” said Entara, patting Lila softly on her naked head.
“It makes me feel so…” Ayan’we never finished the sentence.
“I am honored, sister Delegate,” nodded Lila. “You have beautiful hearts. With your permission, I would like to sing of this time in the future, if I can find the words.”
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