“It’s something like reading the Tsong Zee sense-stones. You miss a lot when you’re not practiced at picking out the sensory details. You just get hit and, initially, overwhelmed with the wealth of input. What I’m hoping is that my experience with Javar will make them think again about our differences—make them reconsider sharing this world.”
“What’s your plan?”
Rhys grinned ruefully. “What plan? I’m making this up as I go along.”
o0o
“You didn’t tell them?” Javar’s eyes rested, unblinking, on Rhys’s face. “Why didn’t you tell them?”
“I thought it would destabilize the situation. And I wanted to buy time to find the Shrine.”
“How are we to do that?” asked Keere.
Rhys sat in his council seat, facing the Tsong Zee delegation. “How would you do it if you had the missing Key Holder?”
“We would Trade,” said Brasn. “All five Speakers would place their Keys in the confluence of thought. The Gondatrura Key Holder—the Walker—would act as Key Master. He or she would then see the beginning of the journey. We would go to the place and again, we would enter the Trade and offer up our Keys. We would walk the path they showed together, bound in the Trade state.”
“But we cannot do this, now,” explained Keere, “because there is no one to provide the visual Key. No one to assemble the pieces into a whole.”
“Couldn’t any of you be the Key Master?” Rhys asked, feeling frustration begin a slow crawl up his spine.
Javar shook his head an unprecedented three times. “We were not given that, Speaker Rhys. We assemble the normal moment-to-moment input as all beings do, but this is not that. In the state necessary to the Trade, linked to these others, with our collective purpose being to locate the Shrine, my mind will concentrate overwhelmingly on its own Key—sound. This is true for every Gondavar Tsong Zee. Brasn’s mind, and the minds of his fellow Tribe members, concentrate on the feel of the experience; Keere’s mind is attuned only to the fragrance; Parsa knows only a taste. Only the Gondatrura, with their visual Key, were prepared to assemble the input from the others and find their way to the Shrine.”
“Pardon, Brasn,” said Rhys, “but I must ask a delicate question. Have no members of your Tribes inter-bred?”
“Of course. One of the first changes in our culture was the encouragement of inter-Tribal bonding. But just as a child does not receive from her copper-eyed and blue-eyed parents one copper eye and one blue, so the child of a mixed pair does not receive a little of one Key and a little of another. He or she receives one or the other. This determines the Tribal affiliation of each child. Javar, for example, is the product of a union between a Var and a Yan. But he is Var by Key.”
Fascinating as that was, Rhys was ready to begin tearing the hair out of his head. “What process was used to implant these Keys? Is it anything like the Trade?”
“It was a process that embraced both the physical and the metaphysical, Speaker Rhys. It was a process created for a specific purpose by the (true) Speaker of the Gondavar and the Tsadrat of the Gondayan. We no longer know —”
“— how to do it,” Rhys finished with him, nodding.
The Tsong Zee were nothing if not methodical. There seemed to be a trend: technologies developed for one purpose and one purpose only; time-altered space vehicles that only went from one set of time-space coordinates to another on a sliding scale; a programming of the Tribal limbic system that could only handle one type of data. It was amazing that they’d actually conceived of using their tractor web as a ersatz weapon.
Rhys’s heart kicked over rapidly, tripping on one of those thoughts. Something had grasped his subconscious’s attention and shaken it. What —?
“I’m not programmed to any particular stimulus,” he observed, his eyes on Javar’s gleaming face. “Perhaps I can assemble the Keys.”
Not surprisingly, it was Keere who uttered the first word of rejection. “You’re not even Tsong Zee! He’s not even Tsong Zee!” he repeated to Javar, as if he might not have heard. “He has no Key of his own. How can he be the Key Master? This is absurd!”
Brasn and Javar were all but ignoring the younger man’s complaints. Their full attention was on Rhys Llewellyn.
“He did Trade with me,” said Javar. “Fully. More fully than I imagined possible. He even took thoughts from me which I had believed to be hidden.”
“But he can have no ability of his own!” objected Keere. “He was merely a passive participant.”
“We cannot know that,” said Brasn. “His mind is receptive. We have proven that. And we know he is to be trusted.”
“How? How do we know this?” Keere had gotten to his feet and begun to pace the outside of the circle of chairs, his apprentice practically glued to his side.
“He thwarted an attempt to harm us,” returned Parsa, “and he hasn’t told them we are weaponless. I believe we can trust him. Surely, we must try. Javar, you Traded with him. Can he be trusted?”
Javar’s eyes pinned Rhys to the air. “I believe so,” he said. “And I agree with Speaker Parsa. Time may be short. Our ships are in danger. Perhaps our very lives, if this Trader Beneton has set others like himself in motion. We must attempt it. To do otherwise is to give up hope.”
Brasn merely canted his head to one side and held it there for emphasis.
Keere was incensed. “You allow yourselves to be manipulated! Let us forget this insanity. We have tried to recover Tson and we have failed. It was a ludicrous idea to pass ourselves off as warriors, and I willingly admit my fault in its conception. Now, let us go back to Kamorg and pick up our lives again and go on.”
Brasn turned to the younger man with inscrutable gaze. “If that is what you wish to do, you are free from your commitment as Speaker. We ask only that you provide a suitable replacement.”
That cut deep, there was no doubting it. Keere’s body was shaking with suppressed emotion beneath his bright, silken garments. “That will not be necessary. I will abide by the decision of the group. I merely wish to make my own feelings known.”
Brasn made a small gesture of acceptance. “Then, if Keere is prepared to join us in our madness, let us proceed.”
The Trade was a bit more complicated with five people involved. It was Brasn’s apprentice who performed the mediator’s function, making certain the participants—seated in a circle that reminded Rhys of nothing so much as a séance—were maintaining physical contact. The other apprentices—Rhys’s included—looked on with concern, skepticism, hope, or anxiety.
Incense curled about the group in the dimly lit room, tendrils forming palpable links. Rhys could almost believe the information passed along those smoky ways, airborne, wafted between the individual islands now sharing a sea. Melody took him first, wrapping itself around him, cool and light. Three Sisters. It was a song given to the Gondavar, written to their memories, passed along like blue eyes or copper hair.
The fragrance was winy, pungent, like... lake weed or rushes. Water gurgled over rocks now, framing the fluting melody. He tasted the dampness on the breeze and the sweetness of blossoms... they tasted of honey—of nectar. Warm rock was beneath his feet and his hand rested against a rough, curving surface, also Sun-warmed. Sun kissed his left cheek and a cool breeze wiped the kiss away.
An image formed behind his eyes, hazy at first, but clearing as if released by morning mist. A stream rushed by below and to his left, and from that side, sun reached him. The breeze blew off the stream and curled up along the steep, rocky scarp on which he stood, right hand resting on the flank of a boulder. Flowering foliage tumbled over the slope, giving up a rich fragrance. The slant of the sun told him he must be facing southeast, the cast of the surface beneath his feet laid a roadbed of cut stone, worn smooth with use. It faded into purple shadow ahead, swallowed in the narrow wedge cut between two slopes.
“Mountains,” he said aloud. “An old road of stone, running tight against a wooded slope, a stream... Three Sist
ers.” He opened his eyes and the sensory pool evaporated.
The Tsong Zee were gazing at him inscrutably.
“The Three Sisters,” said Javar, “are three of the Holy Mountains of the Yanna range. We have assumed that the Shrine lies somewhere among them.”
“There are more than three mountains in that chain,” Rhys reminded him. “Which three are the Sisters?”
“The three closest to the valley would seem most likely,” observed Parsa.
“You’re not sure?”
The Tsong Zee woman’s mouth twisted into a wry grimace, her lower lip pad jutting at a tilt through her bifurcated upper lip. “They are only legends to us, Speaker Rhys. We left rather hastily and had tasks more critical to our survival than mapping the continent. There are some partial maps, others done from memory—they would indicate only that the Sisters are part of the Yanna range.”
“The road is our best clue, is it not?” asked Brasn. “The books of the Gondayan speak of a highway to the Holy Communities.”
Rhys snapped his fingers, making the Tsong Zee jump in perfect unison. He heard Yoshi, seated behind him, stifle a giggle. “Dr. Kuskov’s cobbled way! One of our scientists, Searcher Kuskov, came across a roadbed in his excavations. If we start with that, we may be able to locate a spot where it parallels a stream on the eastern flank of a mountain.”
“Ah!” Parsa sounded relieved. “Perhaps this will not be as difficult as we anticipated. Speaker Rhys seems to lend visual imagery to our Keys most readily.”
“We haven’t found this place yet,” noted Keere sourly. “We have a fleet of ships poised to strike us, and even if we locate this place before they become openly hostile, that is still only the first step in the journey.”
“What’s the next step?” asked Rhys. “Another Trade?”
Javar gave his head a single shake. “The Trade is to be continuous. It must be. The Key Holders are to be in physical contact with each other and must maintain the state necessary to the Trade as they move toward their goal. In this way, as the Key Master uses the Keys to open the path to the Shrine, the other Key Holders continue to present their Key sequences.”
Rhys frowned. “Sequences?”
“Of course. The Keys are much like the notes of a song. They move forward continually—changing, creating new inversions.”
“But the accoutrements necessary to bring about the state...” Rhys indicated the totems and burning wicks, the incense and dusky atmosphere.
“Merely for ritual purposes, Speaker Rhys,” replied Brasn. “Although, it is helpful to create a meditative atmosphere. We are quite capable of entering the Trade state anywhere at any time, given a suitable amount of quiet or superior concentration where quiet is not available.”
“You mean you were meant to walk down this road, holding hands, continually connected in the Trade?”
“Precisely.”
Ludicrously, a song popped into Rhys’s mind, all but shattering his solemnity. “Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road!” exhorted a chorus of munchkin voices. He was struck by the absurd image of himself and the Tsong Zee skipping along a mountain trail chanting, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” while Harris Beneton circled above on a broomstick.
Not funny. They’re programmed genetically to do this, you’re not.
He had barely been able to concentrate long enough to piece together the vague images he did assemble. A continuous, meticulous application of mental energy...
“I’m not sure I can carry on the rapport while engaging in physical activity,” he told them frankly. He tried to shake the sudden weight from his drooping shoulders, straightening with an effort. “Of course, we must try.”
They did try, but it was beyond Rhys Llewellyn’s capacity to remain in the Trade state while doing anything more than sitting in silent meditation.
“I am sorry,” he said after half an hour of futile struggle. “I simply can’t do this. We need more time.”
“Perhaps this War Leader Sanchez will give us more time,” said Parsa hopefully, her coppery eyes intent on Rhys’s face.
“We are out of time already,” said Keere. “We have failed. No amount of time can change that.”
In the silence that followed that dour pronouncement, Yoshi Umeki cleared her throat delicately. “Pardon me, sir, but if I understand this correctly, you need the full range of sensory images generated by the Tsong Zee Key Holders fed to you in such a way that external distractions are neutralized.”
“Yes, Yoshi, that’s precisely what I need.” And little hope I have of getting it.
“Well, sir, what about establishing an entorhinal feedback loop of some sort?”
Rhys turned to stare at his second assistant. “Go on.”
“Well, sir. If we could do an EC scan of each Tsong Zee entorhinal cortex—or its equivalent structure—and download their bursts of carrier wave activity to your cortex...” Her eyes glittered—a pair of marcasites set in gold.
“Bypassing the receptor neurons,” Rhys murmured, the idea catching fire in his head. “But it would have to go both ways—be a true looping effect. The Tsong Zee have to know what I’m ‘seeing’ to trigger the next part of the Key sequence.”
“That can be done.”
“How did you come to think of this?”
She shrugged. “My sister’s a psych-tech therapist on Jalcin. She specializes in Burst Therapy.”
“But the equipment—EEG arrays, the scanner —?”
Yoshi was nodding. “Most medical facilities have EC monitor and feedback systems in their trauma units, sir. I only question whether a colony of this size would have state-of-the-art equipment.”
“We’ll have to find out, won’t we?” Rhys scrambled to his feet and was immediately caught in a strong web of Tsong Zee gazes.
“Pardon,” said Javar with commendable patience, “but could you kindly explain what you have been saying?”
Rhys colored, realizing suddenly that he and Yoshi had lapsed into English during their digression. “I’m sorry,” he said in Tsuru, “but if you will indulge me a moment, I need to check our situation.”
Their situation, he discovered, was precarious. Informed that Collective Security forces hovered offworld, a large number of colonists, failing to be reassured, demanded that they take immediate military action against the invaders. In the midst of this paranoid frenzy, a volley of laser fire had been sent from a drill cannon at one of Beneton’s mines. It had been aimed, more or less accurately, at the one Tsong Zee vessel that still hovered (or appeared to hover) on the outskirts of the city. That it had caused no visible damage had sent a further tremor of terror through the colony. In expectation of reprisal, the Collective Fleet was put on yellow alert.
To further complicate matters, Admiral Sanchez was meeting with Harris Beneton and Alleen Goodyear personally, and the governor’s staff had been advised to take no action until further notice. That advisement, Rhys discovered, extended to him as well. He and Yoshi had to get Joseph Bekwe’s personal permission to use the comlink for the call to Haifa’s main medical facility.
The equipment they needed was available, was state-of-the-art and could, with the governor’s permission, be made available to them, along with the technicians rated for its operation.
Rhys turned to Governor Bekwe and ran into his first roadblock.
“I’m not sure I should give you permission for this exercise, Rhys.” The governor’s red-rimmed eyes mirrored his ambivalence. “The Admiral has... recommended that I keep you on a tight leash and, frankly, I’m torn. Torn between my conscience and my conscience.” His mouth twisted grimly. “I took an oath to protect this colony. These people are my responsibility. They’re in danger. My instincts say I should snap and snarl at anyone who poses a threat to them. Right now I’m not sure whether that’s the Tsong Zee or BeneCon. I can empathize with the Tsong Zee desire to retrieve their homeworld. It’d be a damn rude howdy to go back to Earth someday and find a bunch of
complete strangers camped out there.” He shook his head. “But if I let you help the Tsong Zee prove their claim, the colony may lose. You may lose, Rhys. Beneton’s not a military strategist, but he sure as hell seems to think he is. I sat in on his interview with Sanchez for a while. He’s awfully smug for a man who’s under arrest. And that episode with the laser cannon...”
“Aye. Stunts like that could turn this place into a battle ground.”
“I don’t think Sanchez will allow that. He’s no buckeroo.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Sanchez, and you know it. I used the word ‘stunt,’ but you and I both know it was much more than that, potentially. Whoever fired that cannon had every intention of blowing their target out of the sky. Sanchez couldn’t stop them. How can we believe he can stop the next attempt to explode this situation? Joseph, right now we’re at stalemate. I think I have a shot at convincing the Tsong Zee we can... communicate with them. That we’re men and women, just like them. The packaging may be different, but we’re enough alike in the important things.”
Rhys tried to keep his voice from betraying the tide of adrenaline that was pushing it. Sanchez could appear at any moment, hopelessly entangling them.
“The Tsong Zee aren’t warlords bent on annihilating humanity, Joseph. All they’re asking for is a chance to prove they’re not lying. That they’ve some right to call this planet home. And if we give them that chance, who’s to say it won’t influence them to let the colony be? This is a big enough planet, I think, for two races to exist on it side by side.”
“They’re poised for war, though, Rhys. That fleet of theirs is huge, well-shielded and well-armed.” Danetta’s voice came quietly from the other side of the office and Rhys, instinctively wanting to blurt out the truth about the Tsong Zee “fleet,” blushed and bit the inside of this cheek.
“Aye, it’s hard to prove good intentions when both sides are armed to the teeth,” he agreed. “But take my word, the Tsong Zee have no desire to harm anyone.” He turned to her beseechingly. “Try to appreciate my position in all this, Danetta. I’m Human and I’ve no wish to see the colonists go homeless. But I have to do what I think is right. And it’s not right to block the Tsong Zee from at least attempting to prove this is their world we’ve taken root on. The Collective was founded on principles of justice for all the member races, not just humanity. And, aye, I know the Tsong Zee aren’t members—but they could be—and good members, too. Contributing members. They’ve done things with their technology and their art we’ve not dreamed of.” He turned back to Bekwe, holding out his hand, palm up, begging. “Please, Governor...”
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