And the traits that marked intelligence—self-awareness, speech, the ability to make and use tools, the capacity to develop and transmit culture—floated freely throughout the vast natural population of Chamal.
In the course of history, intelligent chamalians had come together, in their own fashion, and created all the apparatus of history: political states, military organizations, commercial systems, philosophical regimes, sciences and technologies.
When the human survey ship Cousteau had arrived, they were behaving as intelligent creatures were prone to behave—locked in a doomed cycle of international conflict, a war of all against all, where life was “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,” as Hobbes had said.
That had come to an end. The humans had insisted. Organized political violence was a thing of the chamalian past. But the disorganized violence was not.
Four times since the arrival of the first survey ship at Chamal, the residents of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh had poured out of their houses, their lofts, their caves, and their burrows and rioted in the streets for several days. The survey team called them “economic disturbances” and did not consider them to be serious threats to world order.
Winston thought they were full of crap—but then, he'd lived here during the last economic disturbance. The smell of burning rubble still clung to some of the fabrics in his rooms, bringing unprompted memories of nights without sleep worrying if a survey lander could get there in time if they called right now.
But no. The survey had banned organized group violence, the Space Corps was on hand to enforce the ban, and anything that happened that they didn't feel inclined to notice was not going to be considered organized group violence. Else there would be all those questions back home.
Personal violence was another story entirely.
For a moment, Winston wondered if enduring another night of rioting might be easier than enduring the survey's inquest into David Wu's death. He'd already received a complete set of instructions from the survey team up in the Cousteau.
Neerat managed to find his way to Commodore Keln's Lane. The neighborhood watch examined his medallions and opened the gate to let them pass. They rolled down the lane to a villa marked by bright electric lights being hastily placed on the pavement by a squad of heavyset bruins working out of an open-backed truck.
Winston climbed out of the car and walked unsteadily to the villa's gate. No one stopped him from passing through it, though he expected to be challenged at some point.
Instead, he was greeted by a tall chamalian just inside the gate, a blue-furred canine with a long, square snout, long floppy ears, a low forehead—and a trench coat.
The chamalian spoke and the AI's voice in Winston's ear translated: “I've been waiting for you, Angel Winston. I am Inspector Mag'Rrrruff of the Public Vendetta. Your loss is our loss, and your vengeance is ours."
* * * *
The blue glare of the vendetta's lights gave the room an unreal glow that took away some of the shock. But there was no way to avoid a sudden chill. A comfortable den where Winston had enjoyed stimulating conversation had been transformed into a shattered manger of death. Splintered wood, spalled plaster, shredded upholstery, shattered glass and crockery. One wall was grated by gunfire.
And beyond it lay Wu's body.
Winston picked his way carefully through the debris. He recognized a small jade elephant that had once sat on a shelf nearby. The vendetta had rigged a light in this room, too, and Wu was sprawled across the divan in incandescent glory.
He had seen Wu like that before. It usually meant it was time to go home.
"Well, David, we seem to have gotten into the local culture a little too deeply, haven't we?” Winston said.
He took his phone out of his pocket and recorded the crime scene with a slow wave of his arm. He walked around the divan at a meter's distance. The recording would help the forensics team, but this was the only chance any human would have to examine things. If only he knew what he should be looking for.
Only the most obvious details captured his attention. The far wall was covered with bullet holes. A carafe of wine on a table had been hit, shearing off the top and leaving the wine. And David Wu had taken one in the chest.
He looked around once again. The table was tall. The bullet holes were high, about 150 centimeters up. There were a lot of them. But there was only one hole in Wu.
"That was a bit of bad luck, wasn't it, David?” he said. “All those bullets managed to miss you but one. Of course, one is all that's necessary. ‘'Tis not so deep as a well ... but ‘twill serve.’”
Winston completed his circuit.
"Not much blood for a man of appetite like you,” he said. Just a trickle on the side of his chest.
Did that mean something? What did detectives look for when they were detecting? What was the chamalian doing?
"It is difficult living in a world where every creature is an alien, a stranger,” the chamalian, Inspector Mag'Rrrruff, said. “But for us, for chamalians, it is the same, you know."
"I imagine it is,” Winston replied. Then he laughed at an errant memory. “David once asked me what I thought of chamalians. I told him I thought of them as if they were Chinese. A completely foreign civilization—with its own history and character—that I really knew nothing about."
Mag'Rrrruff made no response, but barked at one of his agents, who was panting at the doorway.
"A moment,” the inspector said. “We have company."
A second agent escorted three chamalians to the doorway, then stopped them at the threshold. Lined up were a desert cat wearing a small knapsack, a rockhound with gold crowns on his teeth, and a mountain kit with a short braided queue. They introduced themselves quickly—the desert cat was Boyd, the rockhound called himself Klavin, and the kit smiled and said: “I'm Norm."
Mag'Rrrruff sniffed, then spoke a few words to Norm. “They are detectives,” he said to Winston. “That is what they call themselves, at least. They say they are from the Society for the Detection of Horse Thieves and Robbers. They want to look around."
"Is that customary?” Winston asked.
"No,” Mag'Rrrruff said. “But it is not forbidden. They are asking your permission."
"Detectives?” Winston said. “Why not? The more, the better."
Mag'Rrrruff barked and his agent waved a paw. But rather than enter the house, the three detectives rushed off to examine the yard.
"Will you be taking the body?” Mag'Rrrruff asked.
"Yes,” Winston said. “And some other things as well. Some of his personal possessions.” The instructions from the survey team were emphatic on that point. No transfer of technology.
Winston knew the rules well, even without the reminder. He had arrived on Chamal after the incident with Jerome Murphy, the poor devil. Kidnapped by the Red Monkeys, he'd given them cloning techniques. It was only to save his own skin, but the survey team was strict about technology transfer.
So he gathered up everything on the list, and Neerat carried them out to the car. The control module of his autochef. His readers and players. His AI.
The AI was special, of course. It had shut itself down. When Winston tried to get it to talk to him, it just burped: “Protection fault.” Back at the university, he would plug it into the commlink and the team could find out why it had “gone mad."
After half an hour, he had everything on the list—except for one item: the mindpad.
At first, he was unconcerned. He was sure it was around here somewhere. But it wasn't on the desk, where Winston had seen him use it in the past. And it wasn't in the desk drawers. Or next to David's bed. Or on the floor covered with shards of glass. Or next to the divan. Or anywhere else. Not even under David's body (he had Neerat help him shift the corpse to do the inspection).
Mag'Rrrruff set his agents to looking for it, and they even called in the three detectives from the Society for the Detection etcetera. But there was no sign of the mindpad anywhere.
The surv
ey team wasn't going to be happy about that.
They might have searched until dawn, but the truck arrived from the university to collect Wu's body. Mag'Rrrruff had completed his meager investigations, and he offered a brief report to Winston.
"It was a black steamwagon job,” he said. “Professional assassins. Always the same procedure. They come in the front and shoot everything and everyone. Then they leave."
"That's what I gathered,” Winston said.
"There's one odd thing, however. Dr. Wu's aide, a possum by the name of Pogopurkaptic, is missing. No body. No sign of violence against him."
"I guess that leaves two possibilities: He escaped or the assassins took him with them."
"Indeed,” Mag'Rrrruff said, “And now we have to ask: Who would hire professional assassins to kill an angel? That would be a matter of grand speculation. Personally, I'd put my bets down on the Scarlet Starflower."
"The Scarlet Starflower?"
"Yes, sir. He is agent of anarchy. A blackguard. He leads a band of pirates who prey on our pirates. He is a master of disguise and a dealer in intrigue. If there is mischief and misery about, he is most surely behind it."
"And do you have any idea where to find this villain?” Winston asked, anticipating the inevitable answer.
"Not at present,” Mag'Rrrruff said. “But we will round up the usual suspects and interrogate them."
"Good luck on that,” Winston said. He made one more sweep of the room as Mag'Rrrruff rounded up his crew, but there was still no sign of the mindpad, and that left a dreadful sense of foreboding gnawing at his conscience.
He was on his way across the yard when the trio from the Society for the Detection of Horse Thieves and Robbers rushed up to him.
"See what we have found,” said Boyd, the desert cat.
Klavin, the rockhound, flashed a smile full of gold and produced a small white cloth that held a few large lumps of dark, odiferous organic matter.
"Is that what I think it is?” Winston asked, waving at the air with his hand to dispel the scent.
"Mist-ape scat,” Klavin said. “One of the steamwagon gang took a dump before leaving."
"Very interesting,” Winston replied indulgently.
"And look—there are little bits of tazelnut shell in it. Like he ate them whole, cracked them with his teeth, and swallowed the pieces along with the meat of the nut."
"And that's useful because?” Winston asked.
"We can look for a mist-ape with a fondness for tazelnuts,” Norm, the mountain kit, said, flipping his long braided queue significantly.
"Well, if you find one,” Winston said, “be sure to let me know. I'm at the university. My name is Jonas Winston, and if I'm not in, my AI will be happy to take a message."
And with that, he stepped out into the night, ready to meet whatever fate held for him.
* * * *
Barkinflas, the old boar who ran the Committee of Dockworkers and Loadmasters, sipped his tea, rubbed a brown-stained tusk with his thumb, then looked straight across the table at Pog and asked: “The question isn't why anyone would want you dead. It's which one of you would they want dead."
"I suppose that is one of the questions that comes to mind,” Pog said. “It's not any harder to answer than the other obvious question."
"And that would be?"
"Who wanted Dr. Wu dead?"
"Someone who could hire a black steamwagon,” Barkinflas said. “And someone who would profit from the death of an angel."
"Which of the black-hearted buffoons who flies an admiral's flag would that most likely be?” Pog asked.
"Not necessarily an admiral,” the boar said. “These days, plenty of people carry enough gold to meet the price of a steamwagon."
"Dr. Wu was working on a new text. One that involved the admiralty and the exchange. ‘The Secret Understandings of Bankers.’ I never got a chance to read any of it and now it's beyond reach. I can only wonder if it contains the key to his death."
"Perhaps,” Barkinflas said. “Would you like some more tea?"
Pog pushed his chair away from the table, took the teapot, and carried it to the pump. He filled it with water, stuffed black leaves into the sieve, dropped the sieve into the pot, and set the pot onto the iron firebox in the corner. The box gave off enough heat to dispel the clammy night fog that had crept into the waterfront and filled the great warehouse where Barkinflas made his home.
From up here in the loft, Pog could see the warehouse floor, covered in part by crates and barrels, amphorae and trunks, loose nets and full ones, gaffs, spikes, and hooks, and dark shadows mixed with pools of yellow light from harsh electric bulbs. And he could see the kits and steplings scampering and skulking in and out of the shadows—some with more serious purpose and clear design than others. The clever ones were most likely from litters sired by Barkinflas—or his sister. And that made them cousins or closer to Pog, since Barkinflas was his father.
As the tea came to a boil, a dark shape in one corner of the loft drew itself up off the floor, circled once, then flopped down again. It was the Old Sow—Barkinflas’ sister and Pog's natural aunt—large and meaty, with a shaggy coat of yellow and brown fur that thickened at the shoulders and spilled over her ears.
"How is the Sow?” he asked.
"She's getting on in years,” Barkinflas said. “No more litters from her, but she still mothers the kits."
The Old Sow had no name of her own and no words ever spilled from her tongue. She lacked true wisdom, but she had a protective nature and a sharp eye, and Pog had grown up with her maternal attentions.
"While we wait for answers to our questions, we still must act,” Pog said.
"I'm with you on that,” Barkinflas said.
"If this is indeed an admiralty plot—or the plot of a single flag officer—then there will be more intrigue to follow. Whatever it is, we must be in a position to block it. And to see it before it unfolds."
Barkinflas gestured his agreement by clenching a large fleshy fist.
"And that means we must be in the streets by morning muster,” Pog said.
"A general strike?"
"A general strike. Or as much of one as we can put together tonight."
Barkinflas rose from his chair. “We must move quickly. There are many souls to wake from good sleep. Will you rouse the other committees and leagues? I'm not sure they'll come out for only me. The machinists had a bloody brawl with us only three days ago over matters of doctrine and resentments are still strong."
"Matters of doctrine?” Pog asked as he poured tea into his mug.
"They were presenting a new line,” Barkinflas said. “They said that an exchange-based economy demands wars of conquest to open new exchanges."
"Did they now?” Pog said. “And how did your stevedores respond?"
"They resisted a new idea from a rival clan,” Barkinflas said. “How else would chamalians respond?"
Pog felt a rush of pride mixed with guilt. He hadn't told the machinists about Rosa Luxemburg or her ideas—they'd derived that theory on their own from what he'd taught them. But he felt guilt over the same fact—that what he had taught them had turned into a physical struggle over theory.
"Well, the machinists were right,” Pog said. “If the admiralty doesn't find someone else to buy their goods—if all the admirals of Meshkar don't find someone else to buy their goods—then the exchange doesn't expand. They'd just be trading their own products. And that would lead to a crisis of overproduction, falling profits, and another turn of the Great Wheel."
"That would mean that the peace imposed by the angels is bad for the exchange, wouldn't it?” Barkinflas said.
"Yes, it would,” Pog replied. “And thereby hangs a motive for murder most foul."
"It would be nice if you'd give us a lesson for the day that would trump the machinists,” Barkinflas said.
"It would be nice for you,” Pog said. “Not so much for the machinists. We need them, too, you know. We need all the commi
ttees, all the leagues, all the bands and clans and gangs. We need them all if we're going to change Meshkar. There was an angel once who spent many years in prison for trying to change things. In his confinement he saw that you couldn't sweep away old institutions without new ones ready to take their place. I fear we are not yet ready."
"Then make it a good enough lesson to please everyone,” Barkinflas said.
Pog paused for a moment and reflected. There were so many lessons he could offer, so much of the wisdom of the angels that Dr. Wu had taught him, so much he had learned on his own. And then a thought struck him.
He reached into his purse and pulled out a coin.
"You know the lesson of the thing-in-itself,” he said.
"Yes,” Barkinflas replied. “Wisdom can only know what wisdom apprehends—concepts, not the thing-in-itself. That the thing-in-itself is forever beyond the grasp of wisdom. But you said that was a flawed lesson—and left the rest of the lesson for another time."
"This is the time,” Pog said.
"In trying to pin down the thing-in-itself, wisdom chases its own tail—as the concept keeps changing. The thing-in-itself keeps shifting from one aspect to another, never giving wisdom a chance to grasp it."
He flipped the coin into the air, watched as it caught the light and flashed it over and over as it fell.
"Here is the thing-in-itself of the exchange,” he said. “Cold hard cash. Forever beyond the grasp of wisdom. The driver of war and empire."
"Indeed,” said Barkinflas.
"Well, here is the secret of the angels,” Pog said, snatching the coin out of the air and flipping it up again. “The thing-in-itself is a social relationship."
"A social relationship?"
"Like a kinship bond or an admiralty commission or a workers committee. We create it. We bring it to life in history. It exists because we maintain it. And we can transform it from a thing-in-itself to a thing-for-us."
He flipped the coin again, and this time Barkinflas reached out and grabbed it as it fell flashing through the air.
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