Phylogenesis

  Her interest as she studied him was genuine. "This doesn't bother you? You are prepared to go and live among the humans?"

  "I will be with others of my own kind." He genuflected confidence. "Surely I'm not the only one to be so assigned. The humans would not request only a lowly assistant food preparator to come live and work among them."

  "No, there have been others. You are right about that. Only you from our division, but I have talked with other level-nine supervisors. One from meteorology has been similarly assigned, another from engineering-you will have company." She gestured brusque negativity." _I_ couldn't do it."

  "You don't have a sufficiently open or exploratory nature," Desvendapur replied gently. It was not a criticism.

  "Yes I do, but only where innovative food preparation is concerned." Rising from the desk, she dipped her antennae toward him. "I will miss you, Desvendapur. Not particularly on a personal basis, but in the kitchen. You are a good worker. In fact, I don't believe I have ever seen such dedication in so prosaic a classification. It is almost as if you have the capa­bility to achieve much more."

  "As you say, I like to work hard," he replied evasively, re­fusing to bite on the bait of the compliment. "At first light, you said?"

  "Yes." She turned away. "Report to the transition chamber, dock six. I am told there are three others who are going at the same time, so your first encounter with the humans will not be a solitary one."

  He had already had a first encounter, but that was and would always remain a private matter. "It will not take me long to gather my things."

  "No, from all that I've been told you are not an accumu­lator. I suppose that under the circumstances that's all for the best. Farewell, Desvendapur. I hope you find your stay among these creatures enlightening, or at least not too frightening."

  She would not have understood if he had told her that he hoped to be frightened-also amazed, overwhelmed, terri­fied, awed, and subject to every other strong emotion pos­sible. It was only from such extremes of feeling that true art arose. But he could not tell her that. He could not tell anyone. What emotions he experienced, as first assistant food preparator Desvendapur, were only supposed to arise from inti­mate contact with vegetables.

  Chapter Eight

  He was the first of the four adventurous ones to present himself at the designated assembly point. The others arrived soon after. The meteorologist was there, as was a senior struc­tural engineer. The third member of the group was a young female sanitation worker who went by the dulcet patronymic of Jhywinhuran. Forcing himself to ignore the more inter­esting conversation of the two high-level researchers, he gravi­tated toward the only one of the group with whom he might naturally be expected to bond.

  He would much rather have discussed their situation and prospects with the two scientists, but joining in an ongoing discussion with two such cerebral heavyweights was just the sort of misstep that could call his carefully constructed false identity into question. As it turned out, he was only mildly disappointed. Jhywinhuran was lively, personable, far more attractive than either of the two senior techs, and did not rank his job classification. It did not take much of an effort on his part to settle readily onto the bench alongside hers.

  "This is so exciting!" Light from overhead sparkled in her eyes. He observed that the red bands that streaked the pre­dominant gold of her multiple lenses shaded delicately to pink. "Ever since the existence of the bipeds was acknowl­edged by the government I've dreamed of working closely with them. That's why I applied for a position here. But I never imagined I would ever have the opportunity of actually living among them as well."

  "Why?"

  She gestured uncertainty. "Why what?"

  "Why do you want to work and live among them?" Beneath them, the transport shifted slightly as it backed out of the loading bay and moved toward a tunnel whose terminus he knew from a previous visit.

  "I've always liked new things," she replied. "Anything new. When I heard about this, it seemed like the newest thing there could be."

  He looked away from her, scrutinizing the tunnel ahead. "You sound like you should be an artist."

  "Oh, no!" She seemed shocked at the notion. "For that you need a constructive imagination. Mine is purely deductive. I have no aesthetic discipline at all. But I'm very good at what I do."

  "You must be," he told her, "or you would not have been chosen for this transfer."

  "I know." She stridulated personal pride. "I'm proud of my skills, even if my position is a lowly one."

  "Not at all," he chided her. "Mine is lower still. In essence we are both laborers in the same discipline: biology. I work one end, and you the other."

  To make the mild witticism work he was forced to employ a couple of whistles in High Thranx. It took her several mo­ments for comprehension to dawn, but when it did her gesture of amusement was highly appreciative. As always, he knew that he would have to be careful not to reveal too much of his erudition. Assistant food preparators rarely made use of High Thranx, which was not a dialect but a second language whose use was largely reserved for the learned.

  The journey through the tunnel seemed to go on forever. Certainly he did not remember it taking half so long on his previous visit. When questioned, the transport driver could only say that he was taking them to the destination decreed on his manifest. What would happen to them after they arrived at their destination he did not know.

  After what felt like an interminable junket the transport pulled into a dock unlike any Des had seen before. All thranx facilities were spotless, but this one gleamed as if it was scoured down every other time-part. Security was noticeably prominent. The travelers were escorted off the transport, equal attention being paid to scientists and support workers. Ushered into a clean room, their bodies and personal luggage were minutely inspected, scanned, probed, and analyzed. Desvendapur would have been uneasy had he not observed that Jhy was even more nervous. Was she too the manufacturer and possessor of a false identity?

  No, that was absurd, he told himself. As ever, he needed to be wary of slipping into paranoia. The four of them were going to be working in close quarters with humans. What more natural than that they should be profoundly screened?

  Still, the procedures being followed struck him as exces­sive. After all, he had experienced close contact with one of the bipeds without any prescreening whatsoever, to the detri­ment of neither. But that contact had been unofficial.

  He had anticipated the inspection and review would last a few time-parts at most. It occupied the better part of three days, during which time the four assignees were kept isolated not only from humans but from all other thranx except those immediately involved in their examination. At the end of that period they were directed to board another transport. Des noted that it was not independently powered, but instead was mounted on magnetic repulsion strips. That suggested a high­speed journey, and a much longer one than he had expected.

  He was moved to query the official marching alongside him. She had a silver star and two subsidiary bursts em­bedded in the chitin of her right upper shoulder. "Where are we going? Why the rapid transport?" He gestured with a tru-hand. "The human sector is right over there somewhere."

  "The Geswixt sector is," the escort agreed. "But you four have not been assigned to Geswixt. You're going to the project."

  "The project!" Striding along just behind the poet, Jhywinhuran was listening intently. "The project on Hivehom. They didn't tell us."

  "No point in keeping it a secret now. I envy you," the es­cort murmured. "You will have the opportunity to meet and interact with the famous first-contact supervisor, the Eint Ryozenzuzex. Quite an honor."

  "I've never been offworld." Desvendapur's mind was spin­ning. Space-plus travel itself-the experience of journeying between different star systems-should provide marvelous fodder for composition. And then there was the opportunity to live and work with members of the original project, set up soon after the first tentative thranx-human
contact was established.

  "Neither have I." The escort gestured appropriately as they reached the portal that provided entrance to the trans­port. "Nor is it likely I will ever be. But I am grateful for the opportunity to work here and contribute to interspecies understanding."

  "How many humans have you met?" Des asked as he stepped into the waiting vehicle. "How many have you dealt with?"

  "None." The escort stood stiffly to one side as they boarded, all four arms upraised in salute. "I am with Security. Our job is to keep the wandering curious away from the humans, not to interact with them. But there is still the satisfaction of con­tributing. Sweet traveling to you."

  Anticipation surged through Desvendapur as he settled his abdomen over a vacant bench, straddling it expectantly. Very soon thereafter, the transport began to move, picking up speed as it rose above the strip and raced toward an unknown destination. No, not entirely unknown, he told himself. There would be a ship waiting, a shuttle to lift them into orbit. There they would board a starship for the journey through space-plus to Hivehom, the thranx homeworld and the location of the project.

  For someone who had hoped only to meet another human or two in their own environment, events were moving along encouragingly indeed.

  There were no signs to identify the station where they eventually disembarked, and no crowds to query. Insignia and attitude indicated that they had arrived at a military as opposed to a commercial facility, a supposition that further inspection and scrutiny confirmed.

  Everything was going so well that Desvendapur was un­prepared when the processor standing on the other side of the railing looked up from his readout to declare calmly but firmly, "Desvendapur? There's no Desvendapur in this file."

  The poet's blood went colder than it had on the day he had stumbled inadvertently outside the Geswixt hive and into the accumulated rilth above. The new identity he had worked so long and hard to construct seemed to evaporate like a puff of perfumed _pleorin,_ leaving him standing exposed and re­vealed to every set of compound eyes in the facility. But no one was looking in his direction; no one was staring at him accusingly. Yet.

  "There must be a mistake. I made a proper application and have been passed on through to this point without any diffi­culty." He struggled to keep his antennae from twitching, fought to conceal the fear that was raging through him.

  The processor was not impressed. He was a senior, his chitin shading heavily to purple, but he was still alert and in full possession of his faculties. He replied without looking up from the readout.

  "That is why a hive has multiple layers of security. What slips past one can be caught by another."

  There was nothing Desvendapur could do but stand and wait. Having passed on to the next station, a puzzled Jhy walked back to see what was taking so long. When Des ex­plained, she became irate.

  "What nonsense is this? Of course this male belongs. He is one of four assigned to this duty. No-_honored_ by this duty."

  "Really, Jhy." He did his best to quiet her, looking around uneasily. Drawn to the commotion, the two scientists who had already been cleared had paused at the top of the landing to look back. The one thing Des did not seek in his present in­carnation was attention. "I'm sure it will sort itself out."

  She gazed at him out of eyes that were a flaxen compos­ite of shattered mirrors. "You shouldn't let him treat you like this, Des. You are special now. All four of us are." She eyed the processor sternly. "Regardless of our individual job classifications."

  The elderly drone remained unperturbed. "Procedures must be followed. Otherwise you do not have a hive: you have an­archy. If he is not in the file, then it admits of an irregularity. Irregularities must be resolved."

  "I am sure this one will be." The poet made short, swoop­ing, soothing gestures with both truhands. "It has to be some sort of administrative error."

  "No." The processor was adamant. "There is no Desvendapur registered here." A truhand reached toward a commu­nicator. "I will have to summon a superior-and Security."

  Tussling with a couple of warriors with oversized man­dibles would not get him a cubicle on the waiting starship, Des knew. There was nothing he could do but stand and wait. Wait, he feared, for the inevitable-for that which he had succeeded in putting off for more than a year.

  "I do not understand." If Desvendapur was distressed, Jhywinhuran was openly baffled. "He has been working at Geswixt hive for some time. That is a security-sensitive area, and there has been no difficulty. Why should there be a confusion now? It's not as if he is laboring for military intelligence or energy research. He works in food processing."

  "It does not matter," declared the processor with final­ity. "A security breach is a security breach, no matter what the status of the ..." He halted in midapprobation. "Food preparation?"

  "Eighth-level assistant," Desvendapur supplied quickly.

  The processor clicked sharply, his mandibles grinding to­gether just so. "The file lists you as a food _synthesizer._ That is a much more illustrious designation."

  "I completely agree," Des told him, "but it is not one that applies to me. I am only an assistant preparator." Leaning for­ward, he tried to steal a glimpse of the readout, and failed. It was attuned only to the eyes of the processor.

  Digits moved and the readout changed. Desvendapur re­minded himself to breathe.

  _"Aht,_ here it is." The drone's tone did not change. "Desvendapur. Assistant food preparator, level eight. You may proceed to the next checkpoint."

  "That's it?" The challenge emerged of its own accord. "After all that?"

  "After all what?" The processor eyed him curiously. "It was a simple filing error. I was doing my job."

  He would have to learn to accept such things in stride, a relieved Desvendapur told himself. His identity had not been compromised-only momentarily misplaced. With Jhy leading the way, he advanced to the next station, ready now for whatever challenge it might present.

  He need not have concerned himself. At each successive checkpoint his presence was acknowledged and his legiti­macy confirmed. If he had been at all worried about the integrity of his newly wrought identity, two days of processing did much to lay his concerns to rest.

  They were housed together until the following morning, when they were due to lift off via atmospheric shuttle. Wait­ing in high orbit was the space-plus transport _Zenruloim._ No one had officially told them they were going to Hivehom, and no one had to: That was where the project was located.

  He tried to prepare himself mentally for the voyage ahead. His first journey offworld should be good for a folio at least. Then would come the descent to an entirely new planet, the ancestral homeworld of the thranx. Finally there would be, at long last, extended and intimate contact with the extraordi­nary bipedal mammals called humans. His sleeping chamber was comfortable enough, but he hardly slept at all.

  Morning brought with it an excitement that was as difficult to contain as it was to quantify. He was pleased to note that the two scientists, far from being intellectually or emotion­ally above such simple emotions, were as visibly excited as food preparator and sanitation worker.

  They boarded the shuttle via a long access ramp. At no time were they exposed to the outside, but that was perfectly natural. Very little of a hive beyond parks and recreational sites was located on the surface. The atmospheric shuttle it­self was of modest dimensions, long and low. Brief prelift in­struction was given; no one materialized to offer good-byes or farewells; and before he really had time to inspect his surroundings, Desvendapur found himself airborne and thun­dering toward orbit.

  Offworld. There were no ports on the government trans­port, but by utilizing the seat controls he was able to call up a three-dimensional projection of the external view in any di­rection. He saw Willow-Wane receding below him and the firmament of stars and worlds and other species-primitive and intelligent, familiar and alien-drawing infinitesimally closer. Within him fresh inspiration simmered but did not boil. Tha
t would come with consistent contact, he felt. When he was surrounded by alien bipeds, by humans dwelling in their own facilities, that was when the river of enlightenment would wash over him to cleanse him of the puerile, classical heritage of traditional thranx rhythmic narrative.

  He had studied hard, had prepared for this his whole life. What it was permitted to know, he had absorbed, from avail­able records and reports. He knew how humans lived, but that was not the same as living with and among them. He knew how they were supposed to smell, but that was not the same as smelling them. He knew how they moved, how their pecu­liarly restricted speech patterns sounded, how they viewed the universe out of undersized single-lensed eyes, how their digestive systems worked to process not only normal food but dead animal products as well. All these things he knew, but studying them in recordings and reading about them in second- and third-hand reports was not the same thing as ex­periencing them for himself.

  Furthermore, almost all of it was knowledge that had been gained under controlled conditions. From the standpoint of an artist as opposed to a scientist, he valued his single, brief, dangerous encounter with the lone human in the rilth above Geswixt more than all the recorded lore he had assimilated. How he was going to duplicate and expand upon that under the controlled conditions of the project he did not know. He only knew that it was necessary, even vital, to the maturation of his art. Somehow he would make it happen.

  But first they had to get there.

  When the _Zen_ made the jump from normal space to space-plus he was sufficiently disoriented to contrive the sounds for what he believed to be a modestly successful tripartite stanza. Realizing that it undoubtedly duplicated, in spirit if not in ac­tual phraseology, a hundred similar initial deep-space experi­ences, he promptly discarded the entire minor opus. He had not come this far, had not lied and invented and lowered him­self and abandoned the patrimony of his hive, to grind out pale imitations of the work of others who had gone before him. He sought the unique, the new, the distinctive. That would not be found in duplicating the obvious experiences of predecessors.