“Which is?”
“Human greed, Bishop Meewee. Together we’ll harness the power of greed for the betterment of both the planet and humanity.”
MEEWEE TURNED FROM the promontory and continued his walk home. A fickle breeze rustled the purplish soybimi leaves overhead, shaking ripening beans from their stems and sending them clattering down collection chutes.
Despite all her persuasive power, it had taken Eleanor Starke several months to convince him to join her project. Still, after all these years he wasn’t sure what had motivated her to establish an organization dedicated to launching a thousand ships on thousand-year voyages to the stars. It was for more than mere profit, he was certain, but she was no Gaiaist or lover of humanity. He never managed to come right out and ask her, afraid of breaking the spell. And now it was too late.
Meewee was lost in his thoughts, tramping through the fruited fields when suddenly, out of nowhere, he was confronted by three miniature flying mechs blocking his path. Two of them were sleek and menacing, like assassins, while the third, hovering between them, looked like a larger version of a witness bee. All three of them had bright orange heads. Meewee remembered Zoranna’s parting warning and feared for his life.
“What do you want?” he demanded, but the mechs made no reply. Two of them, the assassins, flew about his head, buzzing him and grazing his scalp with their wings. “Help! Help!” he cried, flailing his arms over his head. Then there was a sharp pain in his armpit. While the assassins had distracted him, the bee stung him through his clothes. The pain quickly spread up his arm and neck.
“I’m dead,” he wailed. “You killed me.” But his assailants only regrouped and flew away. After a few minutes, when he didn’t grow weak or dizzy, he hurried the rest of the way home to his apartment in the executive housing. There he stripped off his overalls and examined the sting mark in the bathroom mirror. It was a swollen lump the size of a grape under the loose flesh of his underarm. It throbbed and was sensitive to touch.
Then he heard a buzzing sound and saw the orange bee behind him in the mirror. “Help! Help!” he cried again and hurled towels and a cologne bottle at it. It chased him into the living room where he picked up a chair to use as a shield.
“Relax, Meewee,” someone said. “You’ll injure yourself.” Meewee looked all about but didn’t see anyone. “I’m over here,” the voice said. It was Ellen Starke’s mentar, Wee Hunk, the size of a doll, sitting on the edge of the tea table. He was still wearing animal skins, but he was rendered more realistically, less like a cartoon.
“You!” Meewee said. “What’s the meaning of this?” As he spoke, he searched the room for the bee.
The meaning of this, Wee Hunk replied in Meewee’s head, is that I’ve got to find Ellen, and you’re going to help me.
Meewee found the bee with its two mates on a high shelf. He set the chair down and jabbed a finger at them. “Those things attacked me!”
So I hear. I’ll explain why, but please glot to me instead of speaking out loud. We must assume there are eavesdroppers everywhere, even here in the bosom of Starke headquarters. The little caveman crossed his brawny legs and leaned back against a flower vase. And please sit down, Merrill. You make me nervous with all that charging about.
“So, it’s Merrill now, is it?” Meewee said and went to the bedroom for his robe. “Like we’re old chums when only a couple of hours ago you dismissed me with a shrug of your ridiculous shoulders.”
Again, please glot. Don’t vocalize. I’m not kidding when I say we’re being monitored. And as to your clinic visit, you seemed to me to be more concerned with your own private agenda than Ellen’s welfare, so I tested you, and you failed.
You tested me?
Yes, I challenged your integrity.
Meewee searched his memory of their conversation in the clinic. I don’t recall anything like that.
Of course not, the little Neanderthal said, because I did so in Starkese.
Starkese? What is that, a language?
Exactly, and it’s the reason you were stung.
Meewee pulled the chair opposite the tea table where he could keep an eye on both the mentar and mechs. “Go on,” he said, sitting down.
Starkese is a private language spoken only by the Starke family and its retainers. Since you are one such retainer, I naturally assumed you spoke it too. If you had answered my challenge, I would have been inclined to cooperate with you. But you didn’t.
Meewee said, I don’t recall any challenge in any language.
Exactly, because Starkese can be hidden inside other languages. And since you failed even to realize you were being challenged, I took you for an outsider who was not to be trusted.
Meewee shook his head in befuddlement. And something has changed your mind?
Yes, our little friends there. Wee Hunk gestured at the mechs on their high shelf. They’re part of Eleanor’s command and control structure. They were activated after the crash. They vetted you and instructed me to cooperate with you in locating and assisting Ellen.
Meewee returned to the bookcase and stood on tiptoes to get a better look at the mechs. They were crowding a spot near the skylight that caught the rays of the afternoon sun. They were so still they looked more like jeweled broaches than weapons.
Eleanor sent them? Is Eleanor—?
She’s dead and irretrievable as far as I can determine, but that won’t stop her from exercising her impressive will on worldly affairs for some time to come.
Meewee returned to the chair. They told you to cooperate with me, in what way?
Before we go into that, Myr Meewee, allow me to state clearly what my interests here are. Ellen Starke, not Eleanor, is my sponsor and my friend. I am concerned only for her welfare and could care less about Starke Enterprises or your precious Oships. I do not take orders from Eleanor, Cabinet, or you. The tiny ape man extended his arms and cracked his bony knuckles one by one. Is that clear?
Meewee nodded.
Good. The only reason I’m here is because that bee there says that you have the means to find Ellen.
“I do?”
Yes, though obviously not on any conscious level. I suspect that’s why the bee stung you.
Meewee leaned forward and held his head, which had begun to throb. To help me remember something?
Actually, it said it injected you with Starkese.
Meewee looked up. Starkese again. If Eleanor wanted me to learn a language, why didn’t she just ask? I have a language alphine, after all. I speak thirteen world languages.
Starkese is not something one can learn; strictly speaking, it’s not even a language but a metalanguage that piggybacks on top of other languages. It has no lexicon of its own but simply borrows whole phrases from other languages for its morphemes. Its syntax is based on family lore, literary allusion, juxtaposed images, and much more. It’s not a code, not based on any fixed or one-to-one correspondence or mathematical model or encryption—so it can’t be “deciphered.” The same utterance you’d use now would have a completely different meaning five minutes from now. It can be hidden within ordinary-sounding conversation. No, Myr Meewee, I’m afraid it’s not possible to learn Starkese. You must be imprinted with it.