Colonies were few and far between… hermaphrodites…chimeras…mechanism for apparent sex-change during reproductive cycle.
But none of this made sense. This paper referred to a time centuries before First Contact. These—apes, only Swenson was clear that they absolutely were not apes—were already here when New Utah was first colonized. But they lived like—animals. Where was the advanced technology? Was this a fallen civilization? If so, where were the ruined cities? He read on:
Swenson’s Apes cultivated marsh “grasses” that concentrated selenium and prevented it leaching from soils…Interfered with agricultural expansion…Most Swenson’s apes exterminated; locally extinct…some Swenson’s Apes fled…Founder era plowing destroyed root mats so that commercial irrigation resulted in rapid selenium depletion…
We should investigate methods for re-establishing selenium-concentrating algal fields for livestock forage and local nutritional supplementation. Doing so would eliminate New Utah’s dependency on imported fertilizers and vitamins.
Barthes felt ill. Tales of extinction were common enough. That was merely sad, but nothing that could be undone in the present. Actually, he momentarily forgot even the Motie issue, under the weight of that final sentence. He was ill, because Librarian or no, he did not actually live in an ivory tower. Well, he did, but that was beside the point. The point was, nobody was ever going to catch the boys who had firebombed the University Library. They were long since safely back on Maxroy’s Purchase.
And suddenly, it all made sense. The Jackson delegation came and went nearly twenty years ago—and New Utah had nearly plunged into civil war immediately thereafter. Or hadn’t. They’d arrived—himself, HG, Asach, as the advance team for the Accession Delegation—and the city had hotted up, putting everyone on edge. Teetering on the brink. Never quite going over, but teetering on the brink.
And who benefited from that? Colchis sighed. Entrepreneurs, of a certain ilk. Colonizers. Maxroy’s Purchase. Anybody who themselves gained from New Utah’s not gaining Classified status. He hated this. He was a scholar, not a warrior, but that did not mean he was naive. It would get uglier before it got better. Color slowly drained from his hands as he added to this a potential Motie connection. Had they broken the blockade?
He reminded himself that they hadn’t. They were here all along. Or had been. Surely, they were gone by now. If no, with their phenomenal reproductive rates, they’d have long since swamped the planet. So, sad it was, the extinction was for the best. Absent that, the likes of a Kutuzov would have vitrified New Utah. Kutuzov himself, even.
He rose, packed the paper away again, moved like a wooden nutcracker. Out of his room. Down the corridor. Up the back stairs. Climbed and climbed. Up to the roof. Only in dire emergency. Asach had said. I can’t tell you how, but in dire emergency, I can get a message off-planet. It will pass into—Imperial hands. I cannot tell you more than that. Barthes, I am trusting your discretion.
So Colchis Barthes, data recovery expert, who had spent his entire life in Imperial service and understood exactly what Asach had meant by that, if not exactly who, nicked some cable housing, clipped a connector, attached his locator, typed in a direction. The small dish wobbled a bit, like a flower seeking the sun, then settled. He detached the locator, attached a nano, spoke to it.
Many kilometers across the ground, and several miles above his head, unheard by Colchis, a tiny, silent voice began a long sequence of electronic chatter.
And much, much farther away from that, spake an electronic voice on Sinbad.
“Kevin?”
Renner floundered awake. Joyce groaned, rolled over, pulled the covers over her head.
“What, goddamn it!”
“To your office, Kevin, All Due Haste.”
Muttering, he marched down the corridor, barefoot and shirtless, pulling on a bathrobe as he went.
“Kevin, are you ready?”
“Goddamn it, yes. On desk.”
And then he truly awoke as he read:
Priority: Flash
From: Colchis Barthes, on Behalf of Asach Quinn.
He raced through Colchis’ summary, muttering again. The usual pre-accession jitters didn’t bother him much. The usual crap. They’d get it together, or not. It was part of the test. But the Motie connection gave him gooseflesh. Unlike Barthes, he read the Swenson’s Ape report immediately, and extremely carefully. So, unlike Barthes, he did not miss the crucial paragraph:
…in the case of Swenson’s Apes, ... selenium deficiency resulting from collapse of access to the algae fields was especially dramatic in its effects on reproductive hormonal regulation. Absent selenium, reproductive drive increased, as did copulation rates. … the immediate effect was a local population explosion. However, the second consequence … became manifest in isolated individuals: spontaneous, habitual abortion and miscarriage. Outwardly, apparently “female” Swenson’s Apes gradually sickened and died, as internal egg and sperm stocks were repeatedly fertilized, aborted, and reabsorbed…
“Damnation!” he blurted, slapping the desk. “I am sick of this crap!” Then, because his fingers were faster than his voice, he punched: Redirect. Flash. Directors’ Eyes Only, Blaine Institute, New Caledonia.”
And then he went back to bed. They’d wake him soon enough.
The Librarian did not nurse Shadenfreude. He was not pleased when his sour predictions came to pass. It began with the Christian High Churches. The Armenian and Syrian Catholic churches a few blocks from his office, the Russian Orthodox church across the river, and the Chaldean church on the south side of the city were bombed during high mass the following afternoon. Several of his colleagues’ family members suffered minor cuts from flying debris, and bruising from being trampled in the ensuing confusion. After the bombings, the red lights and sirens went on for hours.
The first two explosions rattled the office building. He could also hear the second two in the far distance. Several people arrived at the office a few minutes later, shaken, bloodied, battered, but otherwise all right. Colchis showed a kindly, tender side. He cleaned them up, dressed their wounds, and offered what support he could. They reported that at least three were killed at the Armenian Church, and perhaps a dozen injured. Later that day, the death toll rose to twenty.
The community took the immediate precaution of closing the Christian clubs and offices, so communications were effectively shut down. Colchis himself was fine, and other colleagues even joined him at his hotel for coffee late in the evening. In the night, he was awakened once by gunshots in the street outside, but nothing seemed to come of it.
There seemed to be several local news outlets. One, which provided especially graphic coverage, was subsequently shut down by the True Church Bishop himself. Barthes presumed that it had become confusing. A competing piece, commenting on the muzzling of its competitor’s reporters, ran a hyperbolic headline: “No Bad News Allowed!” It railed against suppression of the free press.
Colchis questioned this. No bad news? From Saint George? His impression was that there had been very little except bad news reported—despite concerted, obvious, and often successful efforts by a great many citizens to calm things down and move life onto a—if not normal, than at least hopeful—footing. The utter failure to report any of the good news was clearly demoralizing for a lot of people who had not had a day’s respite in quite some time. They just wanted a little credit for what they had accomplished.
The next evening, after the office closed, Colchis went grocery shopping. The experience was utterly mundane. No-one harassed him. No-one closed the door. No-one nervously thanked him for his custom, then requested quietly that he not come back. He made selections from well-stocked shelves, paid predictably high-ish prices for imported items, and predictably dirt-cheap prices for local commodities, then went on his way.