“And the world turned,” chanted Brasn.
“We heard the tale of the poison,” said Parsa, “and we turned to our Searchers. ‘Help us!’ we cried. Give to us an equal poison—one that will destroy the Walkers.’”
“We know of a poison,” said Javar. “A terrible poison. It will destroy the Walkers for it will destroy their herds.”
“There arose from the Sky Searchers a Speaker (head up),” Brasn narrated. “He warned against the poisons. He prophesied the ending of the world of Tson by plague. He cried for an end to the war. He cried to the Seers for help. And there arose among the Seers a Tsadrat (word unknown, said the DT) called Kalkt (proper name, said the DT). He exhorted the people to peace before the poison be used. He performed great wonders but, of the people, only the Searchers of the Sky listened—they and some here, some there from among the Tribes. The greatest of the Tribes rose up against him and he went up to the Holy Mountain to hide himself. And the poison was used.”
Again, a soul-rending, ululating cry was released from Tsong Zee throats.
“Death!” cried Brasn.
“Death!” echoed the other Speakers, one after the other.
There was a moment of silence, then Brasn spoke again. “On the ruins of our world, those left living gathered. At the foot of the Holy Mountain, Kalkt gathered them and showed them the wonder that the Searchers of the Sky had wrought for them.”
“Here are ships,” cried Javar. “Here are five great ships to take this people to another world which we have chosen for you. A ship for each Tribe.”
“Must we leave?” cried Parsa.
“May we never return?” asked Keere.
“Then spoke the Tsadrat, Kalkt,” continued Brasn. “He told the people that before they could return, Tson must be purged of its poisons. And, as Tson was purged, so must its people be purified of their prejudices and hatreds. Only when they could work together as a people would they be allowed to return to Tson. And he gave each Tribe a Key to the Most Sacred Shrine which is in the heart of the Heart of the world. And he told them, ‘Only when these Keys are used together will the Shrine which is in the heart of the Heart of the world open. And only when that Shrine is opened by your unified effort will you be worthy to return to your world.’”
“We entered our ships,” said Parsa.
“We pierced the sky,” crooned Keere.
“We found homes on a new world,” said Javar. “And we waited and learned to work together and watched our birth-world purify itself from our poisons. And the Great Day came when Tson was pure once again.”
“As we are pure of hatred,” added Brasn, nodding rhythmically. “As we are pure.”
The background humming ceased, and Javar, his shockingly blue eyes focused directly on Rhys, said, “But we come home only to find that another people has taken our world. We have waited ages for this Great Day. This is our world, not yours. You must leave.”
Rhys tapped off his trans-collar and turned to Governor Bekwe with a bemused frown. “Well, Governor, what do we do now?”
“What do you mean? Good God, we talk them out of this!”
Rhys studied the other man for a moment, then turned to Javar. “If you will excuse us,” he said, “we must consult about what you have just told us.”
Javar tilted his head. “Yes,” he said.
Rhys rose and herded the Governor and his lieutenant out of the chamber.
“What do you mean, ‘We talk them out of it?’” he asked when they were out of Tsong Zee earshot. “Governor, that epic they just recited has all the markings of a long-standing Tribal tradition—a compression of centuries into sung verse.”
The governor was visibly disturbed. “Then you’re entertaining the idea that this... epic, as you called it, is a true story—that this really is their home planet?”
“Haven’t you entertained that idea yourself?”
Bekwe glanced at his lieutenant, Alleen Goodyear, and shared a grimace with her. “No, Dr. Llewellyn, we haven’t, because the archaeological data doesn’t support the idea.”
“Archaeological data has been known to mislead,” observed Rhys. “Tell me, Governor, what if their story is true? What if Velvet really is their homeworld?”
Both the governor and his lieutenant paled visibly.
“We can’t leave,” said Alleen Goodyear. “How can we? Every man, woman, and child on this planet has invested way too much to pack up now. My God, Professor, there’s a whole culture here! And even if it is their homeworld, they abandoned it. They didn’t even leave an OCCUPIED sign or—or a monolith or anything.”
“At least not anything we’ve seen,” corrected Governor Bekwe. “They did speak of a Shrine as if they expected it would be here when they returned. It’s conceivable the Collective would take that as an OCCUPIED sign.”
Alleen grimaced. “With their fleet hovering over our heads, does it even matter?”
Bekwe shook his head. “Possibly not, although, to hear them talk, they’ve abandoned the warlike behavior that got them into this situation... Look, the first thing we’ve got to do is establish the truth of their claim. If they can prove this is their homeworld, Collective Law stipulates we must negotiate an agreeable treaty for its use or leave without contest. That might be an attractive enough idea to them that they’d spend some time in the proving.”
“Buying time for what?” asked Rhys, frowning.
“Buying time to get our own military here,” said Goodyear emphatically.
The governor shook his head. “How, Ally? They’ve jammed every communication since they arrived here except for Danetta’s message to Dr. Llewellyn. We’re cut off.”
“But eventually, that’s bound to attract someone’s attention.”
“Yes, eventually. But not today, not tomorrow. Maybe not even next week. And with the massed power they’ve got hanging over us, they could just take us by force at any time.”
“Which they haven’t done yet,” Rhys reminded him. “And that leads me to believe they believe they’re within their rights. After all, if they can force us off the planet, why invent a bogus history? Why rehearse it so well?”
“I can think of a couple of good reasons,” said Alleen. “They may simply want to avoid a military confrontation with the Collective. Or they may not want the surface of the planet polluted. Maybe that’s what happened last time. Maybe they really are responsible for the mass poisoning. Maybe they wanted the planet and exterminated the people living here to get it. Now they’re back. They find the planet is inhabited again, but they don’t want to repeat their mistake and have to wait another two thousand years to take possession. So this time, they negotiate.”
It was a horrific idea, that one race might callously wipe another from the face of a world merely to possess it, but Rhys had to grant it a certain hideous logic. He literally shook himself to sweep the chill from his spine.
“I want to talk to them some more,” he told Governor Bekwe. “Are you game?” He gestured at the council chamber where the Tsong Zee waited.
Bekwe was nodding when the comlink chimed. It was his secretary, looking harried and nervous as she peered at them from the holo-column. “Sir, there’s a colonial delegation here” —she glanced fleetingly to one side— “headed by Mr. Beneton. They say they won’t leave until you see them.”
Bekwe seemed relieved to be called away even to what was an apparently onerous task. “Do you mind handling this...?” he asked Rhys, gesturing toward the council chamber.
“Not at all. I’d like to involve my assistants, if I may.”
Bekwe nodded and disappeared through the door of the anteroom.
“I’d like to sit in, too, if you don’t mind,” said Lieutenant Governor Goodyear.
The look she gave him did not exactly set up Rhys’s hackles, but it did little to inspire camaraderie. She didn’t trust him, and her eyes said so. He nodded and called out to collect his entourage.
Three
“We have no wish
to usurp the rights of another race of beings.” Rhys gazed around the circle of black, gleaming faces. “But how are we to believe what you have said?”
“We are here,” said Keere.
Rhys spread his hands in a human gesture of bemusement. “So are we. To all appearances we arrived first. Have you any better claim?”
“We sang for you The Leaving,” said Keere.
“It was a tragic story. But it is not proof that Velvet is your homeworld. Our archaeologists—our Searchers of History—have found no evidence that a race such as yours ever lived upon this planet. We believe there was a city here and some small settlements, but we find no evidence of a technology capable of sending a people to the stars.”
“We did not go to the stars,” argued Keere. “We went to the outer planet.”
Yoshi Umeki, who had been listening raptly at Rhys’s side, stirred restively. “Pardon me, sir,” she whispered, “but according to the system surveys, the outer planet is a chilly ball of rock barely able to support life. There is no one there.”
Rhys pursed his lips. “My... apprentice tells me the outer planet is not hospitable to our variety of life. Yet you say you have been there for two thousand years?”
The Tsong Zee held a rapid-fire consultation and Javar took over the Speaking duties. “It would be more proper to say that we have lived two thousand years of our collective existence upon the outer planet, but we... we have not lived there for the last two thousand years... precisely.”
“You mystify me,” Rhys told him, making an eye-covering gesture he had seen the Tsong Zee use to indicate a lack of clarity.
“There was a time when our star burned much hotter. We selected a portion of that period for our exile. The outer planet was quite temperate at that time.” His wide mouth quirked into what Rhys could only believe was a smile.
“Time travel!” marveled Rick Halfax from Rhys’s opposite side.
Rhys waved him down. “You are living in the past of the outer planet?”
The Tsong Zee canted his head in the affirmative.
Rhys made a grand gesture of bewilderment. “Yet another great claim!” At the last second he remembered to widen his eyes. “You ask us to believe so much when there is so little evidence. You ask us to believe you now live on a planet that shows no sign of sustaining humanoid life and that you once lived on a planet that shows no sign of supporting a spacefaring technology. Can you prove either claim?” He kept his widened eyes locked with Javar’s.
“If need be, we can transport a delegation of Humans to Exile. You will be able to see our world.”
Rhys tilted his head. “But how are we to know that it is the same planet which now treads the frigid path beyond this one? And to believe that this world harbored your race...”
“When we left Tson,” said Javar, “all Tribes but for the Gondavar—the Searchers of the Earth and Sky—went on before. We stayed and obliterated all signs of the technology that had provided fuel for our downfall. We razed the cities and the centers of learning—all but the smallest, poorest settlements were destroyed utterly. We wanted this world to be pure—pure as the day our fathers and mothers crawled from the streams and lakes onto the land. Do you understand this?”
Rhys did understand. And yet... and yet Javar and his companions were calling on their Human counterparts to believe the unbelievable. He frowned slightly, tugging at his lower lip. Why were they calling on that belief?
“I understand,” Rhys said carefully. “What I do not understand is why you do not simply force us from the face of this world. Your fleet is immense. Your weapons are powerful. Yet, you hesitate to use the force they represent.”
Brasn spoke then. “We have spent two millennia appreciating the results using of force, Speaker Rhys. And even though the weapons we now use are... clean,” —he said the word with what struck Rhys as sarcasm— “they are to be used as a last resort only. We would prefer to convince you that our claim on this world is just. We understand that what we ask is difficult—”
“It’s impossible,” muttered Alleen Goodyear.
Speaker Brasn afforded her a swift glance. “Still,” he concluded, “we must ask it. This is our world. You have many. Your technology carries you vast distances in space. Ours carries us effectively only through time. We are bound to this system.”
“But you have a planet at your disposal,” argued the lieutenant governor. “You must have ages to go before Bronte begins to cool.”
Brasn fixed the Human woman with an intense gaze (Rhys doubted the Tsong Zee possessed any other kind). His thin nostrils rippled slightly and his lower lip protruded as if pursed in thought. “Have you ever seen a world like this one, Administrator Alleen?”
The woman actually bit her lip. “I barely remember, Speaker Brasn. My family moved here when I was nine. This is my home. I don’t want to leave it.”
A chorus of soft murmurs and sniffs rose from the Tsong Zee. “Then you understand why we wish to reclaim it,” said Brasn.
“Yes, but what you ask is impossible. Surely we can share this world.”
“No!” Keere very nearly jumped to his feet—would have, if Parsa had not reached out to stop him. “What you ask is impossible. We cannot share Tson. Tson is sacred!” He fell silent, quivering with the unspoken.
Yes, thought Rhys, and you believe we would defile it.
“The world we call Exile is not like this world,” Brasn continued ignoring Keere’s outburst. “There our people subsist. Here, we may live. I have never before set foot upon this world. Yet I have seen it every day of my life as it was before The Leaving. We have carried it with us, to remind us of what we sacrificed to our greed.”
“Yes, sacrificed,” said Alleen. “You gave it up. You left it. We found it. We—”
“Please,” interrupted Rhys. “If we may return to the matter of proof. How do you propose to prove your existence in the past of the planet you call Exile? How do you propose to prove your claim to this world? Your story of self-destruction is plausible, but I find it hard to credit that your scientists could destroy all trace of a civilization capable of travel through time and space.”
Brasn’s broad mouth rippled in something like a grimace. He palmed off his translator and said something to Javar that to Rhys’s ears—already adjusting to the Tsong Zee tongue—sounded like, “It seems you did your job too well, Searcher-of-the-Sky.” He turned back to Rhys with a palms up gesture of conciliation. “There is the White Shrine. If we could find the Shrine and open it, would that not prove what we say?”
“The White Shrine?” Rhys tilted his head left then right. “Yes, I recall you spoke of such a place. But your words surprise me. You say if you could find it. You have not already done this?”
The Tsong Zee exchanged glances.
“No,” said Brasn. “We have not.”
“And may I know why this is?”
Again, glances flew between bright pastel eyes. Brasn actually sighed. “We... have lost one of the Keys.”
o0o
“Lost one of the Keys?” Danetta was incredulous. “You’re joking,” she said, then waved her hand dismissively. “No, no—forget I said that. You wouldn’t joke about something like this. How the hell could people with that strong an imperative lose something as important as the Key to repossessing their homeworld?”
Rhys ran long fingers through his thick thatch of wavy copper hair. “Well, it’s a bit incredible...”
“What have they told us that isn’t incredible?” asked Alleen Goodyear caustically.
Joseph Bekwe waved her down. “Did they show you these Keys? Are they any kind of indicator? If the materials were native to Velvet—”
Rhys was shaking his head and waving his hands all at once. “It’s not that simple, Governor. The Keys aren’t things.”
“Not things? What does that mean? What the hell are they?”
“Oh dear,” murmured Rhys, rubbing the back of his neck. “This isn’t easy to explain. The Keys are
... sensory devices—aural, tactile, visual—em—savory, aromatic.”
“What?” The governor’s eyes begged him to be joking.
“The—em—Avatar or whatever he was, Kalkt, gave each Tribe a sensory Key. One Tribe has a snatch of song and sound, another a particular fragrance, the third a taste and so on. Together they form keys to a racial memory of the Sacred Shrine—oh, the way a sudden fragrance or a bit of song reminds you strongly of something you did or someone you were with or a time in your life. We’ve all experienced that. Well, to the Tsong Zee these sensory cues are much more tangible than they are to us. Which, by the way, is one of the reasons you were having so much trouble initially with Tsuru.”
“With —?”
“Their language—Tsuru. It’s made up to a great extent of visual cues, inflections... in fact, I believe they even recognize scent messages.”
Yoshi was nodding emphatically. “The sniffing,” she said. “I caught them sniffing as if they could divine what you meant by the odor of your words.”
Rhys pointed his finger at her. “Right. And I don’t know if anyone else noticed it, but they were all wearing the same perfume.”
“I noticed, sir,” murmured Yoshi.
“But why?” asked Danetta. “Why would they wear a uniform scent?”
“Maybe it’s exactly that—part of their uniform. Or maybe it’s a negotiating tactic. To quite literally throw us off their scent. Maybe they don’t want to give away individual emotions, express individual viewpoints. They want, rather, to express the view of the group. Perhaps having a roomful of Tsong Zee all exuding personal thoughts as scent would be the equivalent of us going in there and jabbering away all at once.”
“The Keys?” prompted Governor Bekwe.
“According to Brasn, when the planet was purged, the Speakers of the Five Tribes were to share their Keys. The collective Keys would lead them to this White Shrine. The problem is, the visual Key has been lost.”
“The Tribe forgot it?”
Rhys shook his head. “Didn’t you notice, Governor, that when they told us the epic, Parsa—who is a Tiller by descent—chanted on behalf of the Walkers, telling the Walker part of the story from the Tiller point of view? Keere, a Trader, did the same thing when his Tribe’s interaction with the Walkers came up. That’s because there are no more Walkers. Their ship failed to make it through the time shift. And they had the visual Key.”
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