Blaine Institute, New Caledonia
The Blaine Institute for Advanced Motie Studies had found itself in more-or-less constant uproar during the year since Sinbad’s explosive return from the Mote System with a Khanate fleet on its tail. After defeat, the Khanate had thrown their lot in with the Traders, and to ensure that they no longer posed a threat, the genetically modified C-L worm was pumping anti-maturation hormones into the digestive tract of every Khanate member. Whether Bury’s will had cemented, or thrown a spanner into, the Motie trading alliance that now policed the blockade still remained to be seen.
But with their lines now doomed, would the Khanate remain true? Unless the Institute could engineer a way to regulate the worm: to make it possible for Moties to reproduce at will, instead of at necessity, there seemed little hope that the Mote System could ever be stabilized. With the worm, Moties could live out a natural lifespan—whatever that proved to be—but at the cost of becoming sterile. Without the worm, Moties had to breed or die. Their alternatives were at present stark indeed.
The only beneficiaries were Motie Mediators. Diplomats; linguists; social engineers, those brown-and-white crosses between Masters and Engineers were sterile anyway, and as such doomed to radically truncated lives. With the worm, they might gain the advantage of actually living long enough to become elder statesmen. Yet even among Mediators, the assessment was universaclass="underline" to a Master, the C-L solution was anathema.
So, the Blaines’ immediate take on Barthes’ New Utah business was: theoretically interesting, but not of immediate concern. However much the Founder’s-Era frieze might look like Moties, it was centuries old, and the accompanying historical report was very clear. It described an indigenous animal, not some space-borne infiltrating wave from Mote Prime. Sadly, an apparently extinct animal, as well. Had there been an immediate danger to the Empire, given their voracious reproductive rates, Moties would already have overrun the planet. Just to clarify this enigmatic message from the past, there was no point in diverting any Naval vessel from the blockades, where there were definitely Motie vessels—some days, hundreds of them—attempting to break through to human space.
Of course, any input that might bear on Motie reproductive physiology was important. After the Accession talks, one way or another, they would get a copy of all the historical data on Swenson’s Apes now “classified” in the True Church archives. Until then, while C-L work continued around the clock, a couple of bright graduate students played with the implications for various models of convergent evolution and panspermia.
They tried sending to Barthes, but received no reply, which was unsurprising. So they sent a courier via the next outbound ship, and settled in to wait.
Then Quinn’s terse communication arrived, and all Heaven broke loose.
FLASH Renner Eyes Only.
Motie presence confirmed. Communications, translator, critical. Locator on. Contact Barthes. All Due Haste. Quinn.
Lord Blaine himself called the emergency session, pulling in his Motie-raised daughter, every available Mediator, and the linguistic team in charge of the Motie Alexandria Library. They worked late into the night. The questions were simple: Who or what should they send, and how?
“Focus on the who and what,” instructed Blaine. “I’ll worry about the how.”
Renner’s head and shoulders, floating holographically at the end of the conference table, was even more succinct. “Focus on the what,” he said. “You work out the details. Meanwhile, I want Ali Baba here, now.”
Glenda Ruth opened her mouth to interject. Lord Blaine waved her down. “His ship, his ward.”
Ali Baba was impassive. “As you say, Sir Kevin,” and rose to prepare for departure. Inwardly, Ali Baba’s heart was on fire. Outwardly, he showed only mannered calm. The meeting wore on.
House of Sargon, Mesolimeris
“Enheduanna says that you can Speak. Enheduanna reports that you may be an Accountant.” Unfortunately, these words were not spoken in any language that Asach could understand. Sargon regarded the pair without emotion. It was regrettable that the manna-eyed one had been separated from its red, four-legged Porter. But Sargon had given orders that it be brought unharmed, and that was proving to be problematic. The thing fought like a Warrior, ran like a Runner, and had the senses of a Farmer. It has struck out with its forefeet, and a young, inexperienced Warrior had accidentally severed its restraints. Short of killing it, they could not catch it. It had disappeared into the wastes.
Asach was an anthropologist, not a xenobiologist, and certainly not an expert on Moties. But these were clearly social animals, and in all social colonies ever known, only three rules of organization applied: schools, swarms, and hierarchy. Indeed, the closer one looked at the former two, the more they broke down into the latter. These were clearly sentient beings, and apparently hierarchical, so in some fashion status was important. The great unknowns were: how do you get it, and how do you show it? Anything from give it all away to keep it all for yourself; from hide it if you’ve got it to if you’ve got it, flaunt it applied in human societies.
Go with what you know, thought Asach. “I am Amari Selkirk Alidade Clarke Hathaway Quinn, Second Jackson Commission Representative of the Empire of Man. This is Laurel Courter, Seer and Defender of the Church of Him in New Utah. While we appreciate your escort and hospitality, we must inform you that we require food and water. Khkhkh! [drip]!”
Then aside to Laurel, “Tell anyone that and I will kill you and your entire island. I mean it. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.”
Laurel looked supremely puzzled. “Tell them what? Your name?”
“My position.”
Laurel looked confused. “I don’t know what all that is. But everyone already knows you’re an offworlder.”
Asach saw another opportunity, and snapped “Hold!” in perfect Mesolimeran. Thankfully, Laurel fell into silence.
Sargon was impressed. There was no record of any human ever having learned a single word of Mesolimeran. Sargon gestured to someone unseen to comply with the request, then assumed a pose of formal introduction. Mentally, Sargon reviewed a Keeper’s tale to find the right verse, and then, with formal gesture, in perfect, MP-accented Middle Anglic, said, “Get the fuck outa my fields, fuzzball [rifle report]!”
Well, it’s a start, thought Asach.
Laurel fainted.
Odd, thought the Master. It’s from the tale of my line’s arrival in Mesolimeris. I thought that was a nice touch.
The water arrived a few awkward moments later. Sargon considered the options. To know the enemy mind required communication. To know the enemy body required experimentation. The two were not mutually exclusive. The Doctors could wait, Sargon decided. The order was Spoken.
“Send for Lagash.” A blur left the room, like a play of light on the edge of perception.
While they waited, Asach attempted to revive Laurel. There were few comfort options, save a splash of water about the face; propping her feet on the lower step—as it happened, at Sargon’s feet— for a bit of elevation. With a flourish, Asach re-covered her with the cloak.
Sargon got the message, and barked at Enheduanna, who barked in turn to beings unseen. The room was a flurry of activity shortly thereafter. Several Porters arrived bearing large blocks of baked clay. Another arrived carrying a ceramic container filled with silty mud, accompanied by a mirror-and-lens team. Asach watched, fascinated, as they constructed in short order two contoured benches by laying out blocks, then annealing mud to the top surface. One of the Miners went from Asach, to Laurel, to Asach again, and with a combination of pantomime and manhandling tested the curvature of their spines, hips, and heads.