Necessity

by Jo Walton

  “Where’s Aroo?” I asked, realizing for the first time as I looked for her that none of our Saeli senators or councillors were present.

  “Not here. But the meeting isn’t due to begin for an hour and a half. We all came here now because we heard the news. The Saeli don’t think that way,” Dad said.

  “It would be good to make some decisions quickly, and we need information. Can somebody find Aroo and bring her back here?” I asked. I looked around for people who Aroo was likely to pay attention to, and noticed Parmenion sitting near Crocus. “Parmenion?” He had been consul three years ago, a quiet man in his forties, an excellent lyre-player and composer.

  He nodded, accepting the errand, and rolled his chair out.

  “Meanwhile,” I said, looking out over the room, at my friends and allies and political rivals, “we have a plan for this situation. It’s been in place since Maia and Klio were consuls. Unless there’s some really good reason not to follow it, that’s what we ought to be doing, not running around in circles trying to make new decisions in advance of information.”

  “We have been following the plan so far,” Klymene said. She hadn’t moved. Though she was frail with age, she still stood straight-backed. It was easy to imagine her leading troops in the art raids long ago.

  I nodded, and she went back to her seat, squeezing in on the end of a bench next to Dad, who moved up to make room.

  “The plan is that we find out as much as we can about them, and when they ask about us we tell them the truth as an origin myth, expecting that they won’t believe it,” I said. “Maia wrote that this was what Zeus wanted.”

  “I can confirm that,” Dad said. He had actually been on Mount Olympus and talked to Zeus at the time of the Relocation. “Porphyry said it, and Zeus seemed to agree.”

  “So what happens if they do believe it?” Diotima asked. “What happens if they use carbon dating?”

  “Carbon dating will show nothing to surprise anyone, as the atoms have not existed through all the time between,” Crocus said. “But that’s an extremely interesting philosophical question. Would it change everything for humanity if we gave them all proof that the gods exist and care, and interfere with our lives?”

  “Ikaros said, and Zeus didn’t disagree, that it was better for us to discover things for ourselves. But all of us on Plato know, unavoidably, and we certainly haven’t hidden it from our alien allies,” Dad said.

  “It’s not the sort of thing that’s usually a problem in everyday life,” Halius said. He was the youngest person present, a representative from Marissa, very enthusiastic. He was fair-skinned and blond, and he always reminded me of a spring lamb, dashing off in all directions, shaking his tail with enthusiasm. “And it doesn’t stop people debating about religion. There are people born since the Relocation who don’t believe in it. And there are Ikarians in Amazonia who’ll argue with Porphyry to his face that they understand what he is and what that means better than he does.”

  “Call them followers of the New Concordance, not Ikarians,” I said, wearily, in advance of the forest of hands raised by Ikarian senators. “You know that, Halius.”

  Halius nodded in the direction of the Ikarians. “Apologies,” he said. Of course, everyone called them Ikarians all the time and they knew it. They believed in a strange syncretic version of Christianity which had been invented by Ikaros. After Ikaros became a god (or, according to them, an angel, though do not ask an Ikarian what the difference is unless you have a lot of spare time), they took this as proof of his theories. Older people say the New Concordance has changed a lot since Ikaros’s apotheosis.

  Dad was asking for permission to speak, and I granted it, relieved. “Even if some people do believe when they’ve seen the proof, it’s likely that most people won’t,” Dad said. “Athene said it could block off other paths to enlightenment. But it would only do that if everyone knew and believed it. And they wouldn’t. They might read accounts of Phaedrus and the volcanoes, or the bodies of the Children disappearing at death, and so on, but they would think other people had been fooled. It’s only a problem for people who actually come here and see incontrovertible evidence, and that will only be a few people. Nobody else would have proof.”

  Androkles raised a hand to be recognized, and I nodded to him. He was a bearded man about my own age, from Sokratea. His son Xanthus was one of Alkippe’s playmates.

  “I haven’t thought about this much before,” he began. “But why are we obeying the gods in this? Telling the truth, and proving it with rigorous philosophy and evidence, seems to me better than lying by misdirection. I’d like to hear from our own gods on this, from Pytheas and his children, to hear their arguments. There may be good reasons for it, but I want to hear them. I see no inherent reason why we should follow the dictates of Zeus merely because he issued them. We know the gods aren’t inherently good. Or wise.”

  “They could smite us with lightning or turn us into flies,” Diotima pointed out.

  “That’s a terrible reason to obey them, out of fear of their bad temper,” Androkles replied without hesitation.

  “They do know more than we do,” Dad said. “They have an inherently wider perspective.”

  “Good! Then let them come here and make their points,” Androkles said. “Let’s hear the explanation for why we should keep the truth from wider humanity, and see whether we agree. And if they turn this Chamber into a buzzing cloud of flies, then we’ll know they didn’t have a good argument, like Athene at the Last Debate.”

  “In Sokratea you might think it’s better to be metamorphosed into an insect than lose an argument, but we don’t all agree,” Dad said. There was a laugh.

  “Have you finished?” I asked Androkles.

  “I only want to say that the fact you have a plan formulated way back in the consulship of Maia and Klio that doesn’t mean we should abjectly follow it without re-examination.”

  And that was Sokratea all over. They spent so much time re-examining everything it was a wonder they ever got anything done at all.

  “Why isn’t Pytheas here?” Diotima asked.

  “Pytheas died this afternoon,” I said. Most people had heard already, but there were a few gasps.

  “What does that mean, for a god?” Halius asked.

  Crocus raised his arm and I acknowledged him gratefully. “It means he’s a proper god again, and has his powers back,” Crocus said. “We have often talked about it.”

  “But he’s the only person serving in the Senate with any experience of other human cultures,” Diotima said, frowning. “Was, I mean. Do you think this coincidence of events is significant?”

  “Who can tell?” Crocus asked.

  Makalla spoke up from close beside him. “All of us Children have some childhood experience of other human cultures,” she said. “I don’t know what use it might be.”

  “Perhaps we should set up a committee to extract knowledge of variant human cultures from the remaining Children,” I said.

  “It’s probably too late,” Androkles said. “There are so few of them left and they are all old; and besides, they have spent the majority of their lives in Platonic cultures. That was Plato’s whole reason for starting with ten-year-olds. Also, a committee would take too long to get the information. The new humans are here now. We should have done it years ago if we had wanted to.”

  “Of course, many of us have written autobiographies, and many of the Masters did too, and they had spent a large part of their lives in other cultures. The knowledge is probably in the library if we need it,” Makalla said.

  “But it isn’t available immediately. And who can tell what kind of culture these new humans might have come from? The seventy years of the Republic have brought about huge changes. These people are hundreds of years separated from the latest human culture we knew anything about,” Androkles said. “Pytheas might have known, but he’s gone. Perhaps Porphyry knows, but Porphyry is oracular at the best of times and never seems to want to say anything
definite about anything.”

  I recognized Crocus. “A committee on re-examination of the issues seems like a good idea. But we need to react without delay. Should we let the humans land?”

  “We should follow the plan,” Martinus said. He was from Psyche, and usually one of the most difficult members of the Council, implacably opposed to almost everything I wanted. Now I was grateful to him.

  “We should vote on whether to follow the plan,” I said. “And I endorse following it for the time being in the absence of a better specific immediate strategy.”

  At that moment, Parmenion came back with Aroo. Aroo was a paler green than Hilfa, with pinker swirls on her skin. She wore a grey kiton with blue edging, fastened with her gold pin. “I apologize, nobody told me the time of the meeting was changed,” she said, going at once to her proper place, which Diotima yielded to her immediately, moving to the side.

  “It wasn’t changed, this is an emergency session,” I explained. Aroo blinked, which was especially noticeable on Saeli with their multicolored triple eyelid. “Are you aware that a human spaceship is in orbit?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said at once. The Saeli have been in contact with us for twenty years. They have a fascination with Plato, and have been closely allied with us. Lots of them live here, and many of them have, like Aroo, taken oaths of citizenship. I like them, and have put effort into studying them, especially recently, because of Hilfa. But sometimes they’re infuriating.

  “We know the human spaceship has been in contact with the Saeli ship in orbit,” I said.

  “Yes,” Aroo said again, but this time to my relief she kept talking. “They seem highly surprised. They have not met Saeli before. The only language we have in common is Amarathi, which is slow and uncomfortable. We have asked to learn their language. They seem to be hesitating about allowing this.”

  “I know an older form of their language, which they can comprehend. I will teach it to you according to our existing agreements about exchange of information,” Crocus said immediately.

  Aroo’s pink markings grew darker, which I suspect is a sign of approval. “Good,” she said.

  “Perhaps you should offer a class,” I said. “Many of us might need to learn English now. Though probably we can’t manage it at Aroo’s speed.” A few people laughed. The Saeli skill at languages was legendary.

  Aroo looked at me for permission to continue, and I waved my hand. “Communication was limited by language difficulties. They seem extremely interested in learning the location of our planets, for what they state are purposes of wholesome trade. They have also expressed interest in immediately purchasing fuel from us for their spaceship. We have not made any hasty decisions. And although the captain of our ship in orbit is an independent agent and not bound by me or by decisions made on Plato, he has agreed to take my advice for the time being, in consideration of existing agreements and negotiations soon to be concluded.” She meant the new trade agreement, of course.

  “If they need fuel for their spaceship, does that mean they have run out?” Jasmine asked. Jasmine was a younger Worker, one of the ones brought to the Republic by Porphyry after the Relocation. “And does their spaceship work the same way yours does, so that you could sell them fuel, or would it be like putting a battery for a train into a Worker?”

  “I believe their ship must use the same fuel,” Aroo said. “Excuse me, it is difficult to convey this in Greek. This fuel is not like electricity. We and the Amarathi know only one way to be drawn up to what you might call the second hypostasis and come back down again elsewhere, thus evading the necessary barriers of light. We do it by using a fuel that comes from the heart of exploding stars. This must be the same for the space humans, for this is the fuel they named, using the Amarathi term.”

  “We don’t need to go into either the physics or the metaphysics of that right now,” I said, cutting off all the people whose hands shot up to ask for clarification. “We’ll simply accept for today’s argument that you use the same fuel. Does your ship have enough of this fuel to spare that it can sell it to the space humans, if you decide to?”

  “Yes,” Aroo said. “Though that might be a difficult negotiation. It is precious. It is hard to imagine what they might give to us of a comparable value to make this a mutually beneficial trade. We could better make them a gift of it to establish a long-term friendship, but this they have not asked, and we have not offered, as we were waiting for discussion with you. Such an offer could be made, but it would draw them into the established matrix of ongoing friendship and communication between us on Plato and the Saeli League.”

  “We should know more about them first,” Diotima said.

  I nodded. “Do you have thoughts on the other part of Jasmine’s question, Aroo? Might they have exhausted their fuel coming here, like a fishing boat draining the motor to avoid rocks?”

  “It is possible, but they did not say that this was the case.” Aroo came back and sat down, as expressionless as ever.

  “We were about to vote on the established plan to tell the new arrivals of our divine origins in such a way as they will believe them to be a myth, and believe that this planet was truly settled by spaceships.”

  Aroo looked down. We had followed the plan when we met the Saeli, but those of them who lived here had inevitably seen things that couldn’t be explained away. Aroo was a Gold. I wondered what she believed about Pytheas and the Relocation. The Saeli have their own gods, and a little closed circular temple down in the harbor district. Permission to build temples in the other cities was one of the terms of the new agreement. But they didn’t like to discuss religion. It always seemed to make them uncomfortable.

  “I have no new information, and no objection,” she said, her eyes veiled behind her lilac and beige outer lids.

  We voted, and to my relief there was a clear majority for following the plan. Aroo abstained. I set up the committee on investigation of other cultures, then formally closed the session for the day. Halius proposed an emergency meeting for the next morning, when we’d have more information from the ship. We voted, and it passed overwhelmingly. I knew I could count on Crocus to count the votes and analyze them, but I could tell at a glance that these votes cut across our usual party lines.

  So we were to follow the plan, and the plan called for us to squeeze out as much from the humans as we could before they came down. Crocus rolled down to join me and Dad where we were talking with Klymene and Aroo.

  “I’m going back to talk to the ship,” Klymene said. “Will you come out to the spaceport?”

  “I think that we should go to Thessaly first,” Dad said, including me in his glance.

  “I ought to go to Thessaly to pay respects too,” Aroo said. “First I will hurry home, and tell our ship that you will teach us the space human language. Perhaps I can find a volunteer to begin learning it immediately. Then when I have dealt with that, I will go briefly to Thessaly, and then out to the spaceport.”

  “We’ll call for you on our way,” Dad said.

  “Thank you,” Aroo said, giving a Saeli sideways head-bow, and left.

  “Who can we send to take a message to Porphyry?” I asked Dad.

  “He’ll be here already, at Thessaly,” he said.

  Here for Pytheas’s wake, of course. “We should go and talk to him now,” I said. I was tired but excited.

  “You did well in the chair,” Dad said. I glowed in his approval.

  “Can this really be human recontact, at last?” I asked, hardly able to believe it even now.

  “It’s wonderful,” Dad said. “We’ll have so much to learn from each other. So much history to exchange. And we’ll be able to visit Earth, and their new planets. All that art!”

  “No art raids on Earth!” I said, smiling at the impossibility.

  Dad gave a little laugh. “I wouldn’t put it past the Amazons if they had the means. Art exchange, now—wouldn’t it be something if we could get them interested in joining in!”

 
“They might want to join in the Olympics and other athletic contests, and be prepared to put some of their art in as prizes,” I said, excited at the thought. “It’s something we could suggest. It’s such a great way of having it circulate.”

  “And it keeps the young hotheads focused on competing instead of killing each other,” Dad said, soberly. He remembered the art raids, of course, and had lost his mother and friends to them. It was hard to keep in mind, when they seemed to me like old history.

  “We should bring up such participation in negotiations,” Crocus said.

  “They might even have made some new art in the centuries since. They must have. I wonder what it’s like?” I asked.

  “It will be so interesting to find out, and to talk to humans,” Crocus said, then stopped. “You are humans too. What should we call them?”

  “Earth humans?” Klymene suggested.

  “But we all come from Earth,” Crocus said. “Space humans?”

  “Perhaps they’ll have space Workers,” I said.

  “I would like that very much,” Crocus said.

  “Maybe we can call them by the name of their ship, or their civilization, when we know it,” Dad said.

  “I will come with you to the spaceport, Klymene,” Crocus said.

  “Don’t you want to go to Thessaly too?” she asked. “We can manage. And I know you and Pytheas were close.”

  “I have been there and paid my respects. And there’s bound to be a proper memorial later.”

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “It’s an odd circumstance. It’s not as if he’s dead the way anyone else would be. There could be a memorial for Pytheas, for his mortal life, but … he’s also and really Apollo, and Apollo’s still alive with all his memories. He’s an undying god. He could come to his own memorial. He might be at Thessaly now.”