Caine leaned back. “I confess I never associated these issues with ‘love.’”
“Indeed? No other word or concept in your species is so powerful, so universal, and yet so variform. Its ends and objects are neither simple nor consistent. Yet your dogged embrace of what you love is ultimately the source of the greatest power, the greatest virtue, of your species.”
“And what is this virtue?”
“It is compounded of two traits. Because your evolution emphasized the importance and survival of the individual, you make new decisions and take new actions with extraordinary rapidity and autonomy. But because your reflex to love transcends self-interest, so do your suvival instincts and imperatives. Were this not so, how could you have saved your legation? You and your group, far away from the counsel of the rest of your species, innately employed a mix of individual and collective actions to respond quickly and innovatively to great dangers and obstacles.”
“The Ktor did the same.”
“True. But if both history and current implications are reliable, their sole motivation was self-interest. They are like viruses; they are self-interested and self-perpetuating engines unencumbered by extraneous concerns, least of all love. You are perpetually active engines as well, but it is in your nature to turn that power to many purposes. And in the record we have of your recent centuries, of the wars you have fought and the social changes you have wrought, we see the unremitting influence of the dynamic equilibrium—and struggle—between self-interest and altruism.” Yiithrii’ah’aash leaned forward. “You are not the Ktor. We know this. Possibly better than you do.”
Riordan inclined his head. “You are very generous in your opinion of us.”
“It is not generosity to understand the characteristics of a species. Perhaps, in the future, if you wish to alter your own innate proclivities to further distance yourself from the possibility of becoming similar to the Ktor, we may be able to help. We would certainly be able to reduce the possibility that you might inadvertently propagate the expression of negative traits within your genecode. Conversely, we could probably assist you in any attempt to amplify the positive traits.”
Caine kept himself from shuddering. Social conditioning on the genetic level, courtesy of the Slaasriithi? No thank you.
Yiithrii’ah’aash had not noticed Riordan’s reaction, but kept speaking. “And insofar as an apology is concerned, if either of us owes one to the other, it is we, the Slaasriithi, who must apologize to your legation.”
Riordan waved away Yiithrii’ah’aash’s concern. “We did not accept your invitation on the presumption that there would be no hazards on the journey. You protected us as well as you could—”
“That is not what prompts my apology, although our failure to ensure your safety also warrants one.”
Caine’s hand stopped in mid-wave. “Go on.”
“We told you that the only way to know us was to visit our worlds, that in experiencing how we spread biota, and with what results, you would come to understand us.”
Riordan frowned. “And you have done just that. What you have shown us has imparted far more insight than anything we could have received from reading files and data packets.”
“Yes. But there was another reason for our insistence upon that method of acculturation, one we could not initially reveal.”
Caine felt a cool chill on his back, a sensation he’d come to associate with those moments in first contact when, invariably, a crucial and often dangerous new wrinkle insinuates itself into the budding relationship. “And what is this reason?”
“We wanted to watch you.”
“Well, that only stands to reason. You wouldn’t want to allow just any bunch of—”
“You misperceive, Caine Riordan. We wanted to watch you. I mean the singular pronoun.”
Caine stopped. “Oh.” Then: “Why?”
“Because our contact with your people is not just motivated by our desire to open normal diplomatic relations. We have another crucial objective, and we needed to be certain—beyond any doubt—that when the time came to reveal it, that we could do so to an individual who had demonstrated powerful affinity with our species, without the benefit of any of our pheromones or spores. When we learned of your travels on Delta Pavonis Three, it raised our interest and hopes. When I met you briefly at Sigma Draconis, it confirmed much, not only because of the easy amity of our discourse, but because of the mark you bear. It meant that you had been touched by, and Affined to, a lost branch of our family tree, a fallen branch. But now, also a crucial branch. This was the other reason we were eager to mount this mission so quickly; not only did we fear the machinations of the Ktor—”
Well, you certainly called that correctly.
“—we also realized that, with you, we had a fleeting opportunity to reveal our needs to the liaison we sought. And we were aware that it might be years, or longer, before so promising a candidate as yourself arose again.” Yiithrii’ah’aash seemed to become distracted. “Besides, time is short. Which is quite ironic: our current urgency arises not from the events of this moment, but from those of past, and largely forgotten, epochs.”
Riordan held up a pausing hand. “Forgotten by you, perhaps. But for us, that past is a blank. So if you want my help, you’ll have to explain how events from those lost epochs are creating urgent problems now.”
“I took the liberty of disturbing your rest, Caine Riordan, so that I might unfold that paradox,” Yiithrii’ah’aash answered. “Because until you know its origins, you cannot fully comprehend why we wish you to be our primary liaison. Nor can you fully understand why we exhorted your legation come to meet us.” He paused. “Or rather, to save us.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Third Silver Tower; BD +02 4076 Two (“Disparity”)
Wait: to save them? Damn, what’s that about? “You have my full attention, Yiithrii’ah’aash.”
The Slaasriithi ambassador sat very straight. Riordan had the impression that he was preparing to strive for absolute precision and clarity in what he said, that he was possessed by a terrible need to impart this information correctly. “Long ago, my species lost something: the ability to defend itself against aggressors who were too large or fast or bold for us to ameliorate, and then constrain, with our various strategies of inducement.
“However, as your own people have begun to conjecture given the age of the ruins you found on Delta Pavonis Three, our people were in the stars before we lost that ability. Our races—yours and mine, certainly—were transplanted, much as we transplant biota to different worlds to achieve different ends. We have no concrete knowledge of that earlier epoch, or of what those ends were, but we conjecture that we were, in your vernacular, the preferred terraformers of that time.”
Caine discovered he was squinting. “And what was humanity’s function?”
“We can make even fewer conjectures about that, and those we have must wait for a later conversation. But be assured that it was not simply to be blood-drenched warriors such as the Ktor. What evidence we do have suggests that the Ktor were a later aberration. You might call them the flawed result of a weapons development program.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck seemed to sag. “Sadly, what you uncovered on Delta Pavonis Three suggests that the Ktor were used to eliminate the enemies of one side in the great conflagration which ended that distant arc of history. Specifically, we believe that the human ruins you discovered belonged to the Ktor, who had been sent to exterminate us. And almost did so. Indeed, given the devolved subtaxon you encountered, the Ktor so damaged our population that it was unable to remain fully polytaxic; it regressed to a much earlier, simpler state. That is why you observed no discrete taxae there.
“I see you are eager to ask questions about this war, what caused it, what followed. It is in the nature of the way you narrativize the past to ask such questions. I must disappoint you. I have no such information. I doubt any of my species do. But this much is manifestly evident: the Kto
r did not exterminate all Slaasriithi, everywhere.” He gestured around him at the high ceilings of the Third Silver Tower. “I do not know when we devised the defense spores that almost killed you, Caine Riordan. It might have been during that war. It might have been later, as a means of making our remaining planets too difficult and costly to invade. But the spores do date from those days.
“Our historical record, such as it is, commences well after that war ended. We found ourselves alone in a silent universe. Never overly concerned with machinery, we did not find our loss of technological acumen terribly distressing. Rather, we pursued our efforts to build harmony between our polytaxon and the biota with which we shared the biosphere of what we call our homeworld. In time, of course, we re-expanded to other systems—by slower-than-light craft, at first—and often discovered worlds which still had vestiges of our earlier bioforming. There was much work, and much purpose, and we throve, although the pace of our ‘thriving’ is very different from humanity’s.
“Well before the Dornaani recontacted us, we had progressed to the point where our synergistic balances had become so refined, so stable, that there were no longer any new regions to explore quickly, no crises that needed swift address, no species that required prompt suppression. In short, we had achieved the harmony we had sought. All the notes in the symphony of our many biospheres were in tune and consonant with the leitmotif we had heard and now, had created.”
Riordan rested his chin in his hand. “Why do I suspect that there is a problem in this paradise?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice was rueful but also gently agreeable. “Because you are the liaison, Caine Riordan; because you see the stories of other beings not from the outside, but from the inside. We have many words for this trait and its subtle shadings and variations. In your language, the closest term is ‘empathy,’ but that only touches the surface of a far more complicated matrix of phenomena. But to return to the problem in this paradise:
“Because conflicts, crises, and exploration had become uncommon, my species found itself confronted with a problem it had never faced: the existence of a taxon which had outlived its function. We called the members of this taxon the indagatorae, which comes closest to your term ‘explorers.’ That taxon had descended from our earliest days; they were our scouts, guards, trail-blazers. They were unique among us in that they sought challenge and uncertainty, conditions that the other taxae wished to avoid. They preferred rootless solitude or small groups over fixed communities. Furthermore, for the indagatorae to have optimal chances of survival and success, they required a trait that was also unique to their taxae: a pronounced self-preservation instinct that prompted them to be more innovative and more decisive than any other taxon when faced with a crisis.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck waggled slightly; his limbs drooped somewhat: was it the onset of melancholy? “So here is the problem you foresaw in our paradise. In essence, the indagatorae had done their job too well. All Slaasriithi now dwelt in biospheres which held no threats, in which there were no undiscovered countries, and in which the only crises were natural disasters for which we had developed excellent contingency plans. The indagatorae’s innovation and boldness was no longer needful or pertinent, except in rare rescue operations.”
Riordan nodded. “But you still had a taxon with an accute self-preservation instinct and whose focus was as much, or more, upon the individual as upon the community.”
“Perceiving this problem, and what it portends, is why we hope you shall consent to be our liaison. As you no doubt conjecture, we reduced the indagatorae over time. It was not difficult. The demographic balance of our breeding is driven by chemistries more than cognitive determination, and the almost vanished need for the abilities of this taxon had already made it the smallest of our taxae. And, having had no contact with any other intelligent races for many millennia, we believed that the past wars had very possibly wiped out all the others. Meanwhile, the indagatorae were constantly disrupting our polytaxic harmonies, always pushing for faster solutions, deviations from protocols and norms, seeking challenges where the community sought tranquility.”
“And so they dwindled and were gone.”
“Just so. But recent events have swelled the number of voices which, as a few always had, caution that no species should willingly divest itself of any skills, that no state of existence is so permanent that once-useful traits may be said to have outlived their usefulness.”
“A point that no doubt became more pertinent at the last Convocation.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash emitted a weary hum. “We had noted the increasing Ktor aggressiveness for some time, but the events of the past two years exceeded our worst projections. Now, the wisdom of the most senior ratiocinatorae is that although the indagator did become a disruptive element of our polytaxon, it still had a purpose. And this purpose did not reside solely, or even primarily, in the utilitarian skills it possessed. Rather, the nature of the indagator itself was a reminder of what we are in toto: a harmony among all things, because all things do have their place. In the case of the indagatorae, the variables it introduced into our existence were, ultimately, more beneficial to the long-term health of our polytaxon than they were disruptive to its smaller, short-lived particularities. The indagatorae may problematize the overarching strategies whereby we hope to achieve a universal synergy among all biota, but they are also a reminder that surprise, serendipity, and chance are powers that ineluctably shape us—and require special management—over time.”
Riordan nodded. “So you are going to reintroduce the indagatorae.”
“That is our intent. But we need you in order to do it.”
Caine leaned back. “I don’t understand.”
“It has been at least ten millennia since the indagatorae walked amongst us. The genome for that taxae has been heavily compromised. It was repressed whenever it attempted to naturally re-express in our communities. What is left of its coding is inconsistent, incomplete: insufficient.”
“So you can’t reintroduce the indagator?”
“Not by ourselves, no.”
Caine shook his head. “I don’t understand. How can I help? What do you need?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash spoke slowly, carefully. “We must have access to the original genome, to a genecode which was not altered by our repeated and forceful suppression of the indagator.”
Caine frowned—and then understood. “The beings I met on Delta Pavonis Three, the devolved versions of your species: although they are regressed, they still carry that genome.”
“Precisely. Indeed, I suspect that their population is heavily shaped by the genecodes particular to the indagator taxon. It is unlikely any other taxon could survive in isolation for so long.”
Caine nodded. “And you need me to get permission to acquire a sample and—”
Yiithrii’ah’aash was buzzing softly but steadily. When Caine grew silent, Yiithrii’ah’aash said, “No. That would not be sufficient. We cannot know if every cell, or any cell, in one Pavonian’s body or blood would carry the entirety of the code we require. It may only reside in what you would call stem cells, or in the nuclei of other specialized cell types. And only our experts will be able to make that determination.”
Finally Caine understood what Yiithrii’ah’aash was asking of him. “You need me to take you to Delta Pavonis Three to meet, and abscond with, one or more Pavonians.”
“Not abscond,” Yiithrii’ah’aash insisted. “We would not compel compliance. But we will not need to. The mark they placed upon you tells me that. They will still recognize rapport spores; they will understand.”
“Okay,” Caine allowed, “but what if they don’t understand? As you said, Ambassador, the Pavonians may be ‘of’ you, but they are not Slaasriithi anymore. So the way I look at it, that makes them free agents. Even if it’s best that they cooperate with you, they’re under no obligation to do so. And I won’t support any attempts to coerce or compel their compliance.”
; “And I will never ask you to, Caine Riordan, because we are in absolute accord on this point: the Pavonians must be free to choose their own path. However, the mark on you tells me that they will hear our call and will come with us.”
“All of them?”
“Only if they so wish. But eventually, I believe they all shall. However, I suspect that we will not be able to tarry to determine this during our first visit.”
Caine mentally checked how this scenario would impact the clockwork gears of humanity’s own political machinery. Yiithrii’ah’aash was right about not tarrying: Earth needed Slaasriithi technical assistance as quickly and as profoundly as the Slaasriithi needed the return of their indagatorae. But doing so promptly was going to involve a territorial violation, no way around it.
Trying to process a formal request for access was a non-starter. It would take months, maybe years, to be cleared by the fledgling Terran Republic’s inchoate and still-decentralized bureaucratic and diplomatic services. The up-side of the violation was that, once the deed was done, the resulting agreement might provide an easy way to send most or all of the Pavonians to a good home, leaving DeePeeThree wide open for unrestricted human settlement. That would make everyone happy—eventually. But in the meantime…
“Yiithrii’ah’aash, you are aware that if we do this, it will be without any official permission or knowledge. In short, I will be violating the laws of my own government.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash bobbed slowly. “I have examined the ramifications of what I ask. That is why I only ask it now, after you have seen us in our worlds: peaceful, productive, and woefully incapable of protecting ourselves. Or of being truly useful allies to you. To change that, we must reintroduce the indagator. And to accomplish that, we must act in stealth and in violation of your laws.” He rose slowly, stiffly; was it a formal gesture of some sort, perhaps a supplication? “I would not ask this of you if there was any other way for our need to be met, or if the consequences were not so great. For both our peoples. And so I ask: would you do us the honor of consenting to be our Liaison to humanity?”
Raising Caine - eARC Page 56