Etienne Gaspard hovered near the entry of the room. “Well, Dr. Hwang?”
Hwang shook his head. “I can’t tell much. I’m not a medical doctor, and I’ve only had a day to absorb the details on half of what they’re using to keep him alive. And they won’t explain the other half. ‘Culturally destabilizing technology,’ they call it.”
“Yes, yes, but will he recover?” Gaspard stepped closer, glancing up into the soaring, asymmetrical ceiling that was typical of the chambers within the Third Silver Tower. Seeing it the first time, Hwang had wondered if Gaudí had been coached by the Slaasriithi when he was building La Sagrada Família. At any rate, Hwang didn’t want to answer Gaspard’s question.
“Doctor, will Riordan recover; yes or no?”
Hwang turned to look the ambassador in the eyes. “Etienne, he’s dying. There’s too much compromised tissue, too little respiratory capacity. I wish I had the skill, the knowledge, to help him — but I don’t.”
Gaspard nodded curtly. “Then I shall talk to those who do. Forcibly.” He turned on his heel, stalked toward the exit.
Hwang stared after him.
* * *
The Silver Towers, the cognitive hive of Slaasriithi life, were also renowned for their serenity, their simplicity. The Towers were objects, yes. They depended upon, and functioned as, machines, yes. But that was why such pains had been taken to create them as artifacts that invoked ancient feelings of safety and repose. They soared up beyond where predators might threaten, presenting adamantine walls to the world while, within, their chambers strove gracefully upward toward the sky.
But serenity was in short supply in the Third Silver Tower, Mriif’vaal reflected sadly as he entered the neoaerie. From the moment that Yiithrii’ah’aash’s shift-carrier had been attacked in orbit, and the human survivors had landed in the reaches overseen by the Tower, its many halls and chambers had been in comparative turmoil. Calls for urgent decisions on urgent matters — a rarity in themselves — had flooded in at an increasing rate. And then in the last forty-eight hours—
Another orbital attack. An atmospheric intrusion. Requests for help and consequent protocol challenges. Consultations with the First Silver Tower. Responses and debates. Transfers of equipment and authority. Bloody battle. And now a collection of bedraggled and bruised humans, their eyes furtive and cautious, dwelling within the Third Silver Tower like so many truant predators, uncertain of what they should trust, if anything. It was most unsettling, Mriif’vaal admitted wearily.
But when the neoaerie’s spore-transfer ducts wafted the approach of W’th’vaathi and Thnessfiirm, he signaled his receptivity. They, of all Slaasriithi, were the most knowledgeable about the humans and had the most right to make inquiries or reports, given the harrowing days they had just lived through.
To Mriif’vaal’s right, Hsaefyrr gestured subtly with one tendril tip when the pair appeared in the entrance. “Note the cerdor, Thnessfiirm. She appears distressed.”
Mriif’vaal allowed that “distressed” was a charitable description. Thnessfiirm evinced more than the typical quick motions and eager activity of her taxon; she seemed ready to tremble. Her sensor cluster did not merely move swiftly, but abruptly; gone was the smooth steadiness of a neurologically healthy cerdor. Her neck skin was haggard and her pelt beginning to tuft, in patches. Mriif’vaal grieved her obvious distress, greeted the two with a greater measure of affinity and empathy spores as they arrived at the Ratiocinator’s Ring and sat.
“I am most gratified to see you, W’th’vaathi and Thnessfiirm. I trust you are recovering from your ordeal.”
W’th’vaathi’s sensor cluster angled briefly toward Thnessfiirm. “I do not believe I may call my experience of the last days an ordeal, Senior Ratiocinator. Not in comparison to my companion.”
If Thnessfiirm had any reaction to, or had even registered, the conversation thus far, she gave no indication of it. She seemed intent on gazing up into the soaring heights of the neoaerie.
W’th’vaathi settled into the framed stool that Slaasriithi preferred as chairs. “Mriif’vaal, I have a — a difficulty to report.”
Mriif’vaal’s tendrils were a soothing current of invitation. “Please do so.”
“I speak without preamble, though much might be wanted. In short, the human ambassador Gaspard has learned that we have a cure for Caine Riordan’s condition.”
Mriif’vaal peripherally noticed Hsaefyrr’s sensor cluster rotate toward W’th’vaathi and remain focused there. “And how did the human ambassador learn of this?”
“I alluded to it in a conversation, Senior Ratiocinator. During the final leg of our journey here, he asked me to confirm my earlier assurance that we had cures for Caine Riordan’s affliction. I answered that we did. He specifically followed by asking if we were certain that our cures would be sufficient to deal with a condition as severe and advanced as Captain Riordan’s.”
Mriif’vaal resisted the impulse to retract his sensor cluster sharply. “And you answered in the affirmative?”
“Not precisely, but I assured him that there were several different therapies we could apply, and that our records indicated that the strongest of them was efficacious against the spores which afflicted Riordan. Even unto the last hours of a human’s life.”
Mriif’vaal closed his many eyes. W’th’vaathi was skilled and a fast learner. However, the skill of dissembling — even in so small a degree as prudently keeping one’s silence, or electing not to share crucial information — was always difficult for Slaasriithi to acquire, no matter their taxon, no matter their role. “This places us in a difficult position,” he admitted to W’th’vaathi.
W’th’vaathi’s voice was surprisingly firm in reply. “With all due regard, Senior Ratiocinator, we are complicit. The humans requested, on multiple occasions, stronger and faster intervention on our part. And we did nothing.”
Mriif’vaal waved two tendrils in temporizing agreement. “There are always casualties, even amongst the most deserving, when contention erupts, W’th’vaathi. It is one of the great truths which has driven our evolution away from the conflicts you witnessed in these past days.”
“Yes, but I wonder if Yiithrii’ah’aash will feel similarly. The humans were our guests here, invited explicitly to this planet. Although their misfortunes may illuminate and underscore the benefits of our evolutionary path, that does not absolve us from having failed to intervene in a timely fashion.” She paused. “I presume you are also aware of how strongly, and uniquely, Caine Riordan is marked.”
Mriif’vaal was quiet. “And the human ambassador is also aware of Riordan’s atypical marking?”
“Yes, and it has emboldened him. He is adamant that we save the captain or, to quote Mr. Gaspard, ‘the relations between our two species may be strained to such a point where they cannot be productively pursued at this time.’ He also wondered how Yiithrii’ah’aash would react if he were to learn that we had not used every resource to save Riordan’s life.”
As well he might wonder. As must we all.
Mriif’vaal was startled out of his thoughts by Thnessfiirm’s sudden interjection; there was no spore-warning that she had even intended to speak. “Caine Riordan is a brave being. His ways may not be ours, but he sought to minimize harm to all of us. He did not fight to kill, not as a predator; he fought to protect, to preserve. I–I wish I had his instincts for that.”
And now the source of Thnessfiirm’s misery and distress was clear. It was the age-old risk that accompanied all contact between Slaasriithi and other species. Our natural empathy is perturbed when we Affine ourselves to creatures whose ways are praiseworthy, yet not our own. It can tear us in two, if we are not careful. “Thnessfiirm, I assure you: the conduct of Caine Riordan is known to us and shall weigh greatly upon our decision in this matter, as it would upon any boon these humans would ask of us.”