What? “We have no say. The human and S’sinn governments chose—”
“Perhaps they chose badly.”
He clamped down on his outrage and turmoil, blocking her completely, as he had blocked so successfully most of his young life, until Ukkaddikk discovered his talent. She flew them straight into a hurricane with such a statement!
But she rushed on. “We serve the Guild. The Guild serves the Commonwealth. War will destroy the Commonwealth and the Guild. Our loyalty to the Guild demands we prevent that.”
All the warnings he had heard about Translators who did not Translate honestly, who somehow worked for one side or another, came rushing back—but no, that didn’t fit; Kathryn challenged the Oath to preserve the Guild and Commonwealth, not to shatter it.
He wondered if such a challenge might not be the most insidious of all.
She waited, staring up at him with those odd, white-rimmed blue eyes. “We can do nothing,” he said emphatically. “Nothing!”
“We can,” she insisted. But then she hesitated. He could still read her clearly, and he felt her determination suddenly run headlong into some final, almost insurmountable barrier. Almost as though she were in pain, she grated out, “We can fake the Link.”
Jarrikk’s blocks crashed down, and he stumbled back from her, his denial and outrage flowing out of him full-force. “No! No, no, no!” This was worse, far worse, then, than just Translating for illicit negotiations. This was heresy!
“We must!” Her determination roared up in response to his denial. “We must negotiate for them! We must find the compromise they will not! We must—”
“Lie! Break our Oaths! Dishonor the Guild! Dishonor ourselves! Ruin everything!”
“War will destroy the Guild, destroy honor, destroy everything!” Kathryn moved after him, and he backed away until he found himself trapped in the corner by the windows, wings half-spread against the walls. “War killed my parents!” She pointed at his scars. “War made you walk!”
Jarrikk turned his head away, looked out the window, frightened not by Kathryn but by the echo of support her words found in himself. He thought of his dead flightmates, and of that day in the gorge. How many other young S’sinn would face terror and pain if war came? What good was honor to the dead?
He could almost see a priest rearing back, wings extended, clawing the sky, howling, “Heresy! Heresy!” at such a thought. Those who died with honor received more honor yet as a flightmate of the Hunter of Worlds in the next life, and the most honorable death of all was death in war.
But the honor the priests touted sprang from the tales of the ancient Hunters after whom the stars were named, Hunters who knew only one world and one race and who fought their battles with spears and clubs and claws and teeth, not firelances and neutron bombs and planet-cracking asteroids and city-slagging satellites and brain-rotting viruses and all the other terrible weapons invented by the military minds of the Seven Races. Death came from such weapons to both the brave fighter and the helpless youngling, to both the Huntership and the broodhall. Surely the greatest honor of all would be to prevent such horrors. Surely even the priests would agree: weren’t the most honored of all the ancient Hunters those who fought to protect the innocent?
A fight of S’sinn soared overhead in perfect diamond formation, and Jarrikk’s wings twitched. Even if it were heresy, this new definition of honor, it could be no more heretical than his very existence: a living, breathing Flightless One. He looked back at Kathryn and said, very slowly, “It’s dangerous. You cannot know what will happen. Without Programming . . .” He could not imagine what it might be like, but the thought terrified him: the Link would open their minds to each other without the interface of the symbiote, flood their brains with alien neural impulses. It could kill them—or drive them mad.
“I know what will happen if war comes,” Kathryn said. “And so do you.”
Jarrikk looked at his crippled left wing. “Yes.” He met her eyes. “Yes.”
But with his capitulation, he felt her determination dissolve into renewed uncertainty and fear that she tried unsuccessfully to hide from him. It didn’t matter; he knew she felt his own.
“I’ll prepare a proposal and send it to you before the morning session,” Kathryn said hastily, and hurried out.
Jarrikk watched her leave, and despite his recent thoughts of heresy, said a prayer to the Hunter of Worlds.
Chapter 11
The crowd in the Great Hall of the Flock had lessened somewhat; the hostility had not. Kathryn hurried to her own quarters, relieved to find Matthews and his aides in conference, sequestered in Matthews’ room. She didn’t particularly fancy trying to explain to Matthews just what she had been doing in the S’sinn Translator’s private apartment . . .
She sat at her computer terminal, trying to compose her thoughts, to recall all she had learned of Commonwealth Law, former treaties, and the current dispute. They would need a truly workable compromise to pull this off, and she only had a few hours . . .
. . . only a few hours to come up with the solution that had escaped every diplomatic mind in the Commonwealth until now? Who was she kidding?
She wrenched her mind away from that train of thought. She would not give in to defeatism; she couldn’t afford it. A solution had not been found because no one really wanted a solution: no one, at least, who had been in a position to implement one. The politicians and generals had their own reasons for wanting war, which had nothing to do with the reasons people like her and Jarrikk and the millions of others who would suffer had for not wanting one.
But despite the importance of beginning work, or maybe because of it, her mind kept going back to that moment with Jim, before she left on the assignment that had been aborted to bring her here, when she’d been so shocked to hear him talk about “species ties.” She’d been so determined to uphold her Oath—yet now that same determination to treat aliens as her kin was leading her to break that Oath.
She wondered what Jim would have said, and was glad he wasn’t there to read her confusion.
She turned to the computer. At least she was doing something to try to stop a war, she thought fiercely. Even if she’d failed, at least she would have tried. That was more than Jim would be able to say. Or Matthews.
The key to a compromise, she felt sure, lay in Commonwealth history. There must have been similar disputes between other races. What had they done?
An hour later, the beep of her terminal brought her out of the depths of research. She had an incoming message; she punched “receive.”
Words scrolled by in Guildtalk. “Researched matter. Found following: ‘Attempts to Link without Programming produce severe pain; one Orrisian volunteer suffered respiratory and circulatory arrest and narrowly escaped death. In all cases, the Translator symbiote died, and volunteers required long periods of convalescence due to immune-system rejection of the symbiote’s dead tissue. All recovered, but were no longer able to function as Translators; their bodies rejected all attempts to introduce a new symbiote. Native empathic abilities survived, but augmentation became impossible.’ Jarrikk.”
Kathryn read the message, read it again, read it a third time, then blanked the screen and stared blindly at the gray, windowless wall. Pain she could face—had faced, over and over—but the rest . . . “No longer able to function as Translators . . .”
It would be like bondcut all over again. A part of her would die.
But millions of others would die—fully—if she didn’t take the risk. And Jarrikk didn’t say where he’d gotten the information. Maybe he was having second thoughts, and was just trying to frighten her out of her scheme.
Well, he’d frightened her, all right—but not enough to make her quit. To prove to herself she meant that, she got up, took an empty Programming vial, filled it with water, then colored the liquid pale pink with a drop of blood from her finger, drawn with the point of a syringe. She placed the vial in her Translator’s case, but stared at it a long time befor
e slowly closing and latching the case and returning to her terminal.
Near dawn, when sleep could no longer be denied, she felt she had barely begun—but she could do no better. She sucked her sore finger and studied the proposal on the screen before her. Drawing on two previous cases from a century before, one a dispute between the Hasshingu-Issk and the Orrisians and the other between the Ithkarites and the Aza, she had cobbled together a compromise that would see the colonization rights to Fairholm/Kisradikk awarded on the basis of a competition adjudicated by an impartial panel chosen from the remaining five races, all individuals to be acceptable to both humans and S’sinn. The planet would be awarded to whichever race could demonstrate both the most need and the best plan for its colonization. The loser in that competition would receive special trading privileges on the planet for a period of fifty planetary years and other rights to be negotiated separately. The arrangement had the twofold benefit of at least giving the loser something, so he didn’t go away empty-handed, and fostering more negotiations and cooperation between the competing factions. Kathryn knew, from Translating with Jarrikk, that humans and S’sinn were very much alike, with more in common than either had with many of the other Commonwealth Races; once they began to develop normal relations, especially trade, the hostility would ease, cooperation would blossom, peace would be ensured, the Commonwealth would survive . . .
“And everyone will live happily ever after,” Kathryn muttered, and rubbed her eyes hard with the heels of her hands. Maybe all she had written was an elaborate fantasy, a fairy tale with a happy ending. Maybe she was throwing away her career, her life, on nothing more than wish-fulfillment.
Maybe. But then again, maybe there were worse things to risk your life for than the chance for a happy ending.
She keyed up Jarrikk’s address and punched SEND, then fell fully clothed into bed and instant sleep.
The high-pitched squeal of his computer brought Jarrikk instantly awake and to his feet, wings half-spread and claws ready. An instant later he recognized the sound for what it was and went to the computer stand. “Display,” he said.
The holographic tank clouded, then displayed Kathryn’s proposed compromise, written in Guildscript, fully annotated with notes and references to previous Commonwealth treaties of similar form. Jarrikk ignored the peripherals, concentrating on the main proposal. When he’d finished reading it, he felt slightly more confident—slightly. Deciding he might as well start the day, he went to the censer, placed a fresh rod of incense in the burner, and pushed the button to light it. As the fragrant blue smoke rose to his nostrils, he breathed deep, clearing the last fog of sleep from his mind.
Certainly Kathryn’s proposal was a good one, one that should be acceptable to both sides, one they might have come up with themselves if they were negotiating in good faith. But they weren’t. To date, they had only been posturing for their respective populations. Would that change, even if they suddenly heard a reasonable proposal apparently offered by the other side?
Jarrikk considered that very carefully as he turned from the computer to the printout he had made of what he had discovered about attempts to Link without Programming. There had been strange hesitation on the dimspace link to the Guildhall when he had asked for that information, the kind that often preceded a message that access to the requested data was restricted. But just when he’d decided that must be the case, the data had appeared.
Could the warnings of danger be false information, planted to preclude any attempt by the Translators to take matters into their own hands?
No way to tell. If so, it hadn’t worked; Kathryn remained committed, or she wouldn’t have sent him the proposal.
He turned back to it. His questions had no answers; certainty eluded him in every direction except one: Kathryn. In the face of her commitment, he could not renege on their agreement.
He pored over her proposal more closely, made a few minor suggestions, and sent it just as Akkanndikk’s Left Wing appeared at his entrance. “Her Altitude invites you to eat with her before this final session,” said the Left Wing. “I will escort you.”
“My thanks,” said Jarrikk. He blanked the screen and followed.
It seemed to Kathryn she had barely closed her eyes when someone knocked. “Duty calls, Translator Bircher,” Matthews said through the door. “One hour. We’re all anxious to conclude this.”
I’ll bet you are, Kathryn thought. She splashed cold water on her face, surveyed herself in the mirror, shuddered, then returned to the computer to review her creation. Jarrikk had sent it back with a few eminently sensible changes. We make a good team, she thought as she read them—but if the information Jarrikk had sent her were true, she’d never Link with him, or anyone else, again.
She cleared the computer and picked up her case. If Matthews had done the work she had just attempted, she would have been able to hold to her Oath. But if her darker suspicions were correct, and war had been intended from the moment Earth colonized Fairholm/Kisradikk, how would Matthews react when this proposal surfaced?
She paused at the door. Earth depends on its allies, she told herself. They’ll pressure it to accept anything reasonable that preserves the peace. Even Matthews is enough of a diplomat to understand that.
She hoped.
The anger of the S’sinn who packed every recess of the Great Hall beat down on Kathryn like a desert sun as she followed Matthews to the dais. The air felt colder than ever, but the distinctive musky scent of the assembled S’sinn was hot and troubling. She saw Jarrikk, trailing the Supreme Flight Leader, approaching from the other side. Keeping a tight rein on her own emotions, she could feel nothing from him. Ritualisti cally they made their preparations, but when Kathryn pressed the injector to her arm, she felt nothing but the sting of the needle. The Beast inside her slumbered on. She took up her end of the Link—and froze.
She could feel the ravenous attention of S’sinn and humans, could almost hear them saying, “Do it! Link! Give us war!”
She could. She could make some excuse, return to her quarters, inject the real Programming, and Translate perfectly, as her Oath demanded. War would come, but she would still be a Translator, still have that wonderful union with other races, the only thing that could fill the void left by her parents’ deaths.
Her parents . . .
They’d left Earth for Luckystrike, dreaming of building a new and better world. War had snuffed out those dreams. What she was about to do would destroy her dreams just as surely—but maybe, just maybe, it would ensure that millions of others could keep theirs.
She pictured her father standing in her place, and her hesitation vanished. She touched the cord to the patch behind her ear.
Agony ripped her open, screamed through every nerve, as The Beast woke to alien, untranslatable signals. Her vision grayed and the world spun around her, roaring, but she clung grimly to consciousness, fighting for control, fighting to hide her suffering from Matthews and all the gathered S’sinn watching her like vultures, and gradually, oh-so-gradually, the pain subsided, leaving her nauseated but functioning—and, abruptly, terrified. She’d gone empathy-blind! She could sense nothing, not the hostility of the assembled S’sinn, not Jarrikk’s worry, not Matthews’ impatience.
She had killed the Beast, and in so doing, she had killed her own abilities.
Feeling blind, deaf, and desperate, she nodded tersely to Jarrikk, and the S’sinn delegation began.
Kathryn heard only the same growling gibberish as Matthews, but she began talking, reciting the speech she had written the night before. “Upon consideration, the First Flight of S’sinndikk has realized that our mutual recriminations have been of little benefit to ourselves or to our allies. In the hope that these negotiations may yet produce a fruitful and lasting accommodation between us concerning the planet Fairholm/ Kisradikk, we propose the following compromise . . .”
Matthews’ aides exchanged surprised glances, but Matthews’ expression never changed. Kathryn’s inability
to perceive his emotions unnerved her. How did non-empaths communicate? She might as well be talking to herself.
The S’sinn stopped. She hastily summarized what remained of her proposal, and concluded, “Do you have a response at this time?”
One of Matthews’ aides whispered something into his ear. He whispered something back, then said, “We will study your remarks and make a counterproposal at our next session. Tomorrow morning?”
Jarrikk began speaking, and Kathryn held her breath. If he now Translated truly, as his Oath demanded, there would only be confusion on the part of the S’sinn—confusion and, very shortly, suspicion; suspicion that the human Translator had, unthinkably, lied. And the mere fact a Translator had lied could destroy the Guild and Commonwealth as thoroughly as any war . . .
Matthews frowned as the translation of his simple remark went on for an inordinate length of time, but there had been similar differences before. Besides, Kathryn thought, what could he possibly suspect? Translators don’t lie. Everyone knows that.
Another thought struck her, and she groaned inwardly. What would happen at the “next session” if she couldn’t Translate?
One thing at a time. There might not even be another session. And if the S’sinn did agree to it, how was she to know, empathically maimed as she was?
Jarrikk found a way around that. As the S’sinn ‘n-ished speaking, he nodded—a human gesture meaningless to his own people. “Agreed,” she told Matthews.
The delegates departed, and the galleries buzzed as the news spread among the S’sinn that negotiations would continue. Kathryn’s knees buckled unexpectedly and she would have fallen if Jarrikk hadn’t caught her. He gently tugged the Link free and she leaned against his broad, furry chest for a moment. “Thanks,” she murmured, then, wary of how the crowd might react, straightened hurriedly and stepped back. She knew Jarrikk wouldn’t take it amiss; after two full sessions of Translation, they knew each other as well as anyone could ever know another person, better than she had ever known another human—certainly better than she had known Jim, whose image came to her unbidden, standing in her room, suggesting she break her Oath . . .
Lost In Translation Page 14