“Well,” said Gabe, “if that was really what happened, I would understand why DPSAR would want to keep it quiet. Incidentally, I heard that you’re a member of the Maracaibo Caucus. Is that true?” The Maracaibo Caucus is, as anyone living close to Andiquar knows, a group of Ashiyyureans and locals who joined together in an effort to maintain a shaky peace back in the days when we were not comfortable with each other. Those times have changed, although the presence of an Ashiyyurean, or a Mute as they’re more commonly referred to, still makes people nervous.
They resemble oversized mantises, extremely tall, with leathery flesh. Their faces are vaguely humanoid, with arched diamond eyes. When they smile, even with the best of intentions, people tend to leave the room. In a hurry.
They unnerve everyone. But their appearance, despite the fangs, the eyes, and the tall pointed ears, is not the main cause. The real problem is that human minds are open to them. No secret is safe when a Mute’s at the table.
They communicate telepathically with each other, and while they can read us, they require translator boxes to talk to us.
“Yes,” said Alex. “I joined the Caucus three years ago.”
“How long have they been around?”
“Only a few hundred years.”
“I didn’t mean how long we’d known about them. I seem to recall reading somewhere that they had offworld technology forty thousand years ago.”
“Yes,” said Alex. “That’s about right.”
“Have they encountered aliens anywhere?”
“Just us. They’ve come across a few dead civilizations. As we have. But nothing that’s still functioning.”
Gabe’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve some questions I’d like to ask. Do you think you could get me in to see them?”
IX.
.
Alex made the call to the Maracaibo Caucus. They said sure, come on down. The language was considerably less formal than had been the case in my previous encounter at the Caucus. Even though I’ve spent considerable time with Mutes, and established friendships with some, they’re still disconcerting. Especially the part where they automatically read my mind.
When that happens, you spend most of your time trying not to think of aspects of your life that are less than elegant. Which means, of course, that your worst moments are all you think of. It’s why you seldom run into Mutes at parties.
Alex and I went with him. We arrived in the late afternoon at Kostyev House, which was once a Dellacondan embassy. A flat, gray structure that resembles an abandoned school building, it’s located near the capitol. We descended into a landing area two blocks away, walked across a broad green park, and entered through the front door between a pair of white pillars. A tube took us up to the third floor, where a wall panel admitted us into a carpeted corridor. We passed carved doors, and murals portraying Mutes in sedate postures contemplating approaching storms, strolling past fruit-laden tables, or simply standing in contemplative poses. Particularly noticeable was a portrait in which one of them gazed down at a chessboard.
“You think,” I asked, “that Mutes play chess?”
“I doubt it,” said Gabe. “How do you play any kind of game, except maybe bingo, if the players can read each other’s minds?”
“That was going to be my question.”
“Let’s try to stay on target here,” said Alex.
We passed several offices. One was Trotter and Smythe, a prominent legal firm; another was a transit corporation that arranged vacations. The others showed names, but nothing I recognized. And then, near the end of the corridor, we reached a set of double doors marked .
Alex activated his commlink and one of the doors opened. We walked into an office. It was nothing out of the ordinary. An empty desk, circled by a large sofa and a couple of fabric armchairs. A wooden table stood before two square windows that looked out over the city. Somehow the sky seemed grayer than it had when we were on the street.
We heard voices from an adjoining room. Moments later it opened and a young man, probably not more than twenty years old, entered and closed the door behind him. His eyes settled on me but he spoke to Alex. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Benedict. Why don’t you and your guests be seated? Roka Kailan will be with you in a moment.”
He waited while Gabe and I took chairs and Alex relaxed on the sofa, which almost engulfed him. “My name’s Jerry, by the way. If you need anything while you’re here just tell the AI.” He smiled and then reacted as if he’d heard something. The door behind us opened and a Mute came in.
He had a huge prothorax and large bulbous dark eyes that inevitably put humans into a kind of spotlight. “Welcome, Alex,” he said, speaking through a gold-colored locket that hung on a chain around his throat. “I’m happy to meet your uncle Gabriel and to see Chase again.”
“Hello, Roka,” said Alex with a smile. Introductions were always a bit awkward with someone who can read your mind.
Roka wore a long rust-colored robe with a red sash over his left shoulder. He was tall and moved with easy grace. But Mutes find it difficult to smile, and he was no exception. I’d almost learned to relax in the presence of the Ashiyyur, but I couldn’t recall having met Roka before and I could feel my mind opening and every private thought drifting out into the daylight. Including my failure to recognize him. “It’s okay, Chase,” he said with a smile that was almost innocent. “I’ve blocked myself off. Nothing’s coming through.”
Our understanding of Mutes is that, because of their communication method, the basic context created by a culture in which telepathy rules, nobody lies. They . There’s no point in it. As much connection as I’ve had with them over the years, I still have a hard time understanding how their interactions work with each other.
“I wish we could manage more time together, Roka,” said Alex as the Mute sat down beside him.
“My feeling exactly, Alex. What can I do for you?”
“You know of Octavia?”
“The lost station? Yes, of course. Is there news? Has anything changed?”
“No. Unfortunately not. They’ve made no progress.”
Roka’s eyes darkened. They generated a chilling look. “We did not have anything to do with it.”
“We have to consider every possibility. But that’s not one we’ve given much credence. I can see no advantage, no reason, for your people to make off with a space station.”
“Had it happened,” said Roka, “it would probably have been influenced by a desire to discover how we might travel through wormholes.”
“Except that I’m pretty sure your people know that if we’d gained that kind of technology it would have been yours for the asking.”
“Alex, I don’t know whether that’s true or not.”
“We would not have kept it from you. But you know nothing about it?”
“We do not.”
From a society that, as far as we knew, couldn’t keep secrets, that seemed to settle the issue. Unless Roka was willing to lie to humans. That thought crept into my head despite every effort to push it away. I looked across the room at him, and believe it or not, he was smiling at me. He wasn’t reading my mind, but he knew exactly what I was thinking.