It had happened at night. Not far away, other pieces of even hotter sky-debris had cracked stone and set fires, but here the impact had been only a glancing blow.
Long minutes after the explosive noise of collision ebbed there remained other disturbances. Landslides rattled down the nearby cliff, and trees near the tortured path creaked and swayed. At the end of the furrow, the dark object that had wreaked this havoc emitted crackling, snapping sounds as superheated metal met a cool fog sweeping up from the valley below.
At last things settled down and began returning to normal. Native animals nosed out into the open again. A few even approached, sniffed the hot thing in distaste, then moved on about the more serious business of living one more day.
It had been a bad landing. Within the escape pod, the pilot did not stir. That night and another day passed without any sign of motion.
At last, with a cough and a low groan, Fiben awoke. “Where …? What …?” he croaked.
His first organized thought was to notice that he had just spoken Anglic. That’s good, he considered, numbly. No brain damage, then.
A neo-chimpanzee’s ability to use language was his crucial possession, and far too easily lost. Speech aphasia was a good way to get reassessed—maybe even registered as a genetic probationer.
Of course samples of Fiben’s plasm had already been sent to Earth and it was probably too late to recall them, so did it really matter if he were reassessed? He had never really cared what color his procreation card was, anyway.
Or, at least, he didn’t care any more than the average chim did.
Oh, so we’re getting philosophical, now? Delaying the inevitable? No dithering, Fiben old chim. Move! Open your eyes. Grope yourself. Make sure everything’s still attached.
Wryly put, but less easily done. Fiben groaned as he tried to lift his head. He was so dehydrated that separating his eyelids felt like prying apart a set of rusty drawers.
At last he managed to squint. He saw that the clearshield of the pod was cracked and streaked with soot. Thick layers of dirt and seared vegetation had been speckled, sometime since the crash, by droplets of light rain.
Fiben discovered one of the reasons for his disorientation—the capsule was canted more than fifty degrees. He fumbled with the seat’s straps until they released, letting him slump against the armrest. He gathered a little strength, then pounded on the jammed hatch, muttering hoarse curses until the catch finally gave way in a rain of leaves and small pebbles.
Several minutes of dry sneezing ensued, finishing with him draped over the hatch rim, breathing hard.
Fiben gritted his teeth. “Come on,” he muttered subvocally. “Let’s get outta here!” He heaved himself up. Ignoring the uncomfortable warmth of the outer shell and the screaming of his own bruises, he squirmed desperately through the opening, turning and reaching for a foothold outside. He felt dirt, blessed ground. But when he let go of the hatch his left ankle refused to support him. He toppled over and landed with a painful thump.
“Ow!” Fiben said aloud. He reached underneath and pulled forth a sharp stick that had pierced his ship briefs. He glared at it before throwing it aside, then sagged back upon the mound of debris surrounding the pod.
Ahead of him, about twenty feet away, dawn’s light showed the edge of a steep dropoff. The sound of rushing water rose from far below. Uh, he thought in bemused wonder at his near demise. Another few meters and I wouldn’t’ve been so thirsty right now.
With the rising sun the mountainside across the valley became clearer, revealing smoky, scorched trails where larger pieces of space-junk had come down. So much for old Proconsul, Fiben thought. Seven thousand years of loyal service to half a hundred big-time Galactic races, only to be splattered all over a minor planet by one Fiben Bolger, client of wolflings, semi-skilled militia pilot. What an undignified end for a gallant old warrior.
But he had outlived the scoutboat after all. By a little while at least.
Someone once said that one measure of sentience was how much energy a sophont spent on matters other than survival. Fiben’s body felt like a slab of half-broiled meat, yet he found the strength to grin. He had fallen a couple million miles and might yet live to someday tell some smart-aleck, two-generations-further-uplifted grandkids all about it.
He patted the scorched ground beside him and laughed in a voice dry with thirst.
“Beat that, Tarzan!”
14
Uthacalthing
“ … We are here as friends of Galactic Tradition, protectors of propriety and honor, enforcers of the will of the ancient ones who founded the Way of Things so long ago.…”
Uthacalthing was not very strong in Galactic Three, so he used his portable secretary to record the Gubru Invasion Manifesto for later study. He listened with only half an ear while going about completing the rest of his preparations.
… with only half an ear … His corona chirped a spark of amusement when he realized he had used the phrase in his thoughts. The human metaphor actually made his own ears itch!
The chims nearby had their receivers tuned to the Anglic translation, also being broadcast from the Gubru ships. It was an “unofficial” version of the manifesto, since Anglic was considered only a wolfling tongue, unsuitable for diplomacy.
Uthacalthing crafted l’yuth’tsaka, the approximate equivalent of a nose-thumb and raspberry, at the invaders. One of his neo-chimpanzee assistants looked up at him with a puzzled expression. The chim must have some latent psi ability, he realized. The other three hairy clients crouched under a nearby tree listening to the doctrine of the invading armada.
“ … in accordance with protocol and all of the Rules of War, a rescript has been delivered to Earth explaining our grievances and our demands for redress …”
Uthacalthing set one last seal into place over the hatch of the Diplomatic Cache. The pyramidal structure stood on a bluff overlooking the Sea of Cilmar, just southwest of the other buildings of the Tymbrimi Embassy. Out over the ocean all seemed fair and springlike. Even today small fishing boats cruised out on the placid waters, as if the sky held nothing unfriendlier than the dappled clouds.
In the other direction, though, past a small grove of Thula great-grass, transplanted from his homeworld, Uthacalthing’s chancery and official quarters lay empty and abandoned.
Strictly speaking, he could have remained at his post. But Uthacalthing had no wish to trust the invaders’ word that they were still following all of the Rules of War. The Gubru were renowned for interpreting tradition to suit themselves.
Anyway, he had made plans.
Uthacalthing finished the seal and stepped back from the Diplomatic Cache. Offset from the Embassy itself, sealed and warded, it was protected by millions of years of precedent. The chancery and other embassy buildings might be fair game, but the invader would be hard-pressed to come up with a satisfactory excuse for breaking into this sacrosanct depository.
Still, Uthacalthing smiled. He had confidence in the Gubru.
When he had backed away about ten meters he concentrated and crafted a simple glyph, then cast it toward the top of the pyramid where a small blue globe spun silently. The warder brightened at once and let out an audible hum. Uthacalthing then turned and approached the waiting chims.
“ … list as our first grievance that the Earthlings’ client race, formally known as Tursiops amicus, or ‘neo-dolphin,’ has made a discovery which they do not share. It is said that this discovery portends major consequences to Galactic Society.
The Clan of Gooksyu-Gubru, as a protector of tradition and the inheritance of the Progenitors, will not be excluded! It is our legitimate right to take hostages to force those half-formed water creatures and their wolfling masters to divulge their hoarded information …”
A small corner of Uthacalthing’s thoughts wondered just what the humans’ other client race had discovered out there beyond the Galactic disk. He sighed wistfully. The way things worked in the Five Galaxies, he would have
to take a long voyage through D-level hyperspace and emerge a million years from now to find out the entire story. By then, of course, it would be ancient history.
In fact, exactly what Streaker had done to trigger the present crisis hardly mattered, really. The Tymbrimi Grand Council had calculated that an explosion of some sort was due within a few centuries anyway. The Earthlings had just managed to set it off a bit early. That was all.
Set it off early … Uthacalthing hunted for the right metaphor. It was as if a child had escaped from a cradle, crawled straight into a den of Vl’Korg beasts, and slapped the queen right in the snout!
“ … second grievance, and the precipitate cause for our ennomic intervention here, is our strong suspicion that Uplift irregularities are taking place on the planet Garth!
“In our possession is evidence that the semi-sentient client species known as ‘neo-chimpanzee’ is being given improper guidance, and is not being properly served by either its human patrons or its Tymbrimi consorts.…”
The Tymbrimi? Improper consorts? Oh, you arrogant avians shall pay for that insult, Uthacalthing vowed.
The chims hurried to their feet and bowed low when he approached. Syulff-kuonn glimmered briefly at the tips of his corona as he returned the gesture.
“I wish to have certain messages delivered. Will you serve me?”
They all nodded. The chims were obviously uncomfortable with each other, coming as they did from such different social strata.
One was dressed proudly in the uniform of a militia officer. Two others wore bright civilian clothes. The last and most shabbily dressed chim bore a kind of breast panel-display with an array of keys on both sides, which let the poor creature perform a semblance of speech. This one stood a little behind and apart from the others and barely lifted his gaze from the ground.
“We are at your service,” said the clean-cut young lieutenant, snapping to attention. He seemed completely aloof to the sour glances the gaudily clad civilians cast his way.
“That is good, my young friend.” Uthacalthing grasped the chim’s shoulder and held out a small black cube. “Please deliver this to Planetary Coordinator Oneagle, with my compliments. Tell her that I had to delay my own departure to Sanctuary, but I hope to see her soon.”
I am not really lying, Uthacalthing reminded himself. Bless Anglic and its lovely ambiguity!
The chim lieutenant took the cube and bowed again at precisely the correct angle for showing bipedal respect to a senior patron ally. Without even looking at the others, he took off at a run toward his courier bike.
One of the civilians, apparently thinking Uthacalthing would not overhear, whispered to his brightly clad colleague. “I hope th’ blue-card pom skids on a mud puddle an’ gets his shiny uniform all wet.”
Uthacalthing pretended not to notice. It sometimes paid to let others believe Tymbrimi hearing was as bad as their eyesight.
“These are for you,” he told the two in the flashy clothes, and he tossed each of them a small bag. The money inside was GalCoin, untraceable and unquestionable through war and turmoil, for it was backed by the contents of the Great Library itself.
The two chims bowed to Uthacalthing, trying to imitate the officer’s precision. He had to suppress a delighted laugh, for he sensed their foci—each chim’s center of consciousness—had gathered in the hand holding the purse, excluding nearly all else from the world.
“Go then, and spend it as you will. I thank you for your past services.”
The two members of Port Helenia’s small criminal underworld spun about and dashed off through the grove. Borrowing another human metaphor, they had been “his eyes and ears” since he had arrived here. No doubt they considered their work completed now.
And thank you for what you are about to do, Uthacalthing thought after them. He knew this particular band of probationers well. They would spend his money well and gain an appetite for more. In a few days, there would be only one source of such coin.
They would have new employers soon, Uthacalthing was sure.
“ … have come as friends and protectors of pre-sentient peoples, to see that they are given proper guidance and membership in a dignified clan …”
Only one chim remained, trying to stand as straight as he could. But the poor creature could not help shifting his weight nervously, grinning anxiously.
“And what—” Uthacalthing stopped abruptly. His tendrils waved and he turned to look out over the sea.
A streak of light appeared from the headland across the bay, spearing up and eastward into the sky. Uthacalthing shaded his eyes, but he did not waste time envying Earthling vision. The glowing ember climbed into the clouds, leaving a kind of trail that only he could detect. It was a shimmering of joyful departure that surged and then faded in a few brief seconds, unraveling with the faint, white contrail.
Oth’thushutn, his aide, secretary, and friend, was flying their ship out through the heart of the battle fleet surrounding Garth. And who could tell? Their Tymbrimi-made craft was specially built. He even might get through.
That was not Oth’thushutn’s job, of course. His task was merely to make the attempt.
Uthacalthing reached forth in kenning. Yes, something did ride down that burst of light. A sparkling legacy. He drew in Oth’thushtn’s final glyph and stored it in a cherished place, should he ever make it home to tell the brave Tym’s loved ones.
Now there were only two Tymbrimi on Garth, and Athaclena was as safe as could be provided for. It was time for Uthacalthing to see to his own fate.
“ … to rescue these innocent creatures from the warped Uprearing they are receiving at the hands of wolflings and criminals …”
He turned back to the little chim, his last helper. “And what about you, Jo-Jo? Do you want a task, as well?”
Jo-Jo fumbled with the keys of his panel display.
YES, PLEASE
HELP YOU IS ALL I ASK
Uthacalthing smiled. He had to hurry off and meet Kault. By now the Thennanin Ambassador would be nearly frantic, pacing beside Uthacalthing’s pinnace. But the fellow could just wait a few moments more.
“Yes,” he told Jo-Jo. “I think there is something you can do for me. Do you think you can keep a secret?”
The little genetic reject nodded vigorously, his soft brown eyes filled with earnest devotion. Uthacalthing had spent a lot of time with Jo-Jo, teaching him things the schools here on Garth had never bothered to try—wilderness survival skills and how to pilot a simple flitter, for instance. Jo-Jo was not the pride of neo-chimp Uplift, but he had a great heart, and more than enough of a certain type of cunning that Uthacalthing appreciated.
“Do you see that blue light, atop the cairn, Jo-Jo?”
JO-JO REMEMBERS,
the chim keyed.
JO-JO REMEMBERS ALL YOU SAID.
“Good.” Uthacalthing nodded. “I knew you would. I shall count on you, my dear little friend.” He smiled, and Jo-Jo grinned back, eagerly.
Meanwhile, the computer-generated voice from space droned on, completing the Manifesto of Invasion.
“ … and give them over for adoption by some appropriate elder clan—one that will not lead them into improper behavior …”
Wordy birds, Uthacalthing thought. Silly things, really.
“Well show them some ‘improper behavior,’ won’t we, Jo-Jo?”
The little chim nodded nervously. He grinned, even though he did not entirely understand.
15
Athaclena
That night their tiny campfire cast yellow and orange flickerings against the trunks of the near-oaks.
“I was so hungry, even vac-pac stew tasted delicious,” Robert sighed as he put aside his bowl and spoon. “I’d planned to make us a meal of baked plate ivy roots, but I don’t guess either of us will have much appetite for that delicacy soon.”
Athaclena felt she understood Robert’s tendency to make irrelevant remarks like these. Tymbrimi and Terran both had ways of making light
of disaster—part of the unusual pattern of similarity between the two species.
She had eaten sparingly herself. Her body had nearly purged the peptides left over from the gheer reaction, but she still felt a little sore after this afternoon’s adventure.
Overhead a dark band of Galactic dust clouds spanned fully twenty percent of the sky, outlined by bright hydrogen nebulae. Athaclena watched the starry vault, her corona only slightly puffed out above her ears. From the forest she felt the tiny, anxious emotions of little native creatures.
“Robert?”
“Hmmm? Yes, Clennie?”
“Robert, why did you remove the crystals from our radio?”
After a pause, his voice was serious, subdued. “I’d hoped not to have to tell you for a few days, Athaclena. But last night I saw the communication satellites being destroyed. That could only mean the Galactics have arrived, as our parents expected.
“The radio’s crystals can be picked up by shipborne resonance detectors, even when they aren’t powered. I took ours out so there’d be no chance of being found that way. It’s standard doctrine.”
Athaclena felt a tremor at the tip of her ruff, just above her nose, that shivered over her scalp and down her back. So, it has begun.
Part of her longed to be with her father. It still hurt that he had sent her away rather than allow her to stay at his side where she could help him.
The silence stretched. She kenned Robert’s nervousness. Twice, he seemed about to speak, then stopped, thinking better of it. Finally, she nodded. “I agree with your logic in removing the crystals, Robert. I even think I understand the protective impulse that made you refrain from telling me about it. You should not do that again, though. It was foolish.”