Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck wobbled diffidently once again. “Any social creature that is not part of a polytaxon is ultimately corruptible. The survival imperative of disparate individuals is particularly acute and so the values of self-preservation and selfhood may overpower any instinct toward communal preservation and group identity. Conversely, the inevitable outcome of our polytaxic evolution is that the group is more important than the individual; this makes the Slaasriithi unique among the races of the Accord. On the other hand, while human individualism is not unique, its extraordinary intensity also makes your species the most readily corruptible.”
Riordan was tempted to shake his head in dismay. “Then why not presume that we will eventually become just like the Ktor?”
“Because although the countervailing communal impulses of altruism and empathy may not be as strong in your society as in ours, those impulses nonetheless remain intact and uncompromised. However, this balance between egoism and altruism was disrupted by whatever mechanistic modification was used to alter your genecode into that of the Ktor. Possibly this disruption was an unintended artifact of the modification. It is no less likely that it was one of the explicit objectives of the process. However, undamaged, that dynamic tension between love of self and love of others is the guarantor of your social equilibrium.”
Caine leaned back. “I confess I never associated these issues with ‘love.’”
“Indeed? No other word or concept in your species is so powerful, so universal, and yet so variform. Its ends and objects are neither simple nor consistent. Yet your dogged embrace of what you love is ultimately the source of the greatest power, the greatest virtue, of your species.”
“And what is that virtue?”
“It is compounded of two traits. Because your evolution emphasized the importance and survival of the individual, you make new decisions and take new actions with extraordinary rapidity and autonomy. But because your reflex to love transcends self-interest, so do your survival instincts and imperatives. Were this not so, how could you have saved your legation? You and your group, far away from the counsel of the rest of your species, innately employed a mix of individual and collective actions to respond quickly and innovatively to great dangers and obstacles.”
“The Ktor did the same.”
“True. But if both history and current implications are reliable, their sole motivation was self-interest. They are like viruses; they are self-interested and self-perpetuating engines unencumbered by extraneous concerns, least of all love. You are perpetually active engines as well, but it is in your nature to turn that power to many purposes. And in the record we have of your recent centuries, of the wars you have fought and the social changes you have wrought, we see the unremitting influence of the dynamic equilibrium — and struggle — between self-interest and altruism.” Yiithrii’ah’aash leaned forward. “You are not the Ktor. We know this. Possibly better than you do.”
Riordan inclined his head. “You are very generous in your opinion of us.”
“It is not generosity to understand the characteristics of a species. Perhaps, in the future, if you wish to alter your own innate proclivities to further distance yourself from the possibility of becoming similar to the Ktor, we may be able to help. We would certainly be able to reduce the possibility that you might inadvertently propagate the expression of negative traits within your genecode. Conversely, we could assist you in any attempts to amplify the positive traits.”
Caine kept himself from shuddering. Social conditioning on the genetic level, courtesy of the Slaasriithi? No thank you.
Yiithrii’ah’aash had not noticed Riordan’s reaction, but kept speaking. “And insofar as an apology is concerned, if either of us owes one to the other, it is we, the Slaasriithi, who must apologize to your legation.”
Riordan waved away Yiithrii’ah’aash’s concern. “We did not accept your invitation on the presumption that there would be no hazards on the journey. You protected us as well as you could—”
“That is not what prompts my apology, although our failure to ensure your safety also warrants one.”
Caine’s hand stopped in midwave. “Go on.”
“We told you that the only way to know us was to visit our worlds, that in experiencing how we spread biota, and with what results, you would come to understand us.”
Riordan frowned. “And you have done just that. What you have shown us has imparted far more insight than anything we could have gleaned from reading files and data packets.”
“Yes. But there was another reason for our insistence upon that method of acculturation, one we could not initially reveal.”
Caine felt a cool chill on his back, a sensation he’d come to associate with those moments in first contact when, invariably, a crucial and often dangerous new wrinkle insinuates itself into the budding relationship. “And what is this reason?”
“We wanted to watch you.”
“Well, that only stands to reason. You wouldn’t want to allow just any bunch of—”
“You misperceive, Caine Riordan. We wanted to watch you. I mean the singular pronoun.”
Caine stopped. “Oh.” Then: “Why?”
“Because our contact with your people is not just motivated by our desire to open normal diplomatic relations. We have another crucial objective, and we needed to be certain — beyond any doubt — that when the time came to reveal it, that we could do so to an individual who had demonstrated powerful affinity with our species, without the benefit of any of our pheromones or spores. When we learned of your travels on Delta Pavonis Three, it raised our interest and hopes. When I met you briefly at Sigma Draconis, it confirmed much, not only because of the easy amity of our discourse, but because of the mark you bear. It meant that you had been touched by, and Affined to, a lost branch of our family tree, a fallen branch. But now, also a crucial branch. This was the other reason we were eager to mount this mission so quickly; not only did we fear the machinations of the Ktor—”
Well, you certainly called that correctly.
“—we also realized that, with you, we had a fleeting opportunity to reveal our needs to the liaison we sought. And we were aware that it might be years, or longer, before so promising a candidate as yourself arose again.” Yiithrii’ah’aash seemed to become distracted. “Besides, time is short. Which is quite ironic: our current urgency arises not from the events of this moment, but from those of past, and largely forgotten, epochs.”
Riordan held up a pausing hand. “Forgotten by you, perhaps. But for us, that past is a blank. So if you want my help, you’ll have to explain how events from those lost epochs are creating urgent problems now.”
“I took the liberty of disturbing your rest, Caine Riordan, so that I might unfold that paradox,” Yiithrii’ah’aash answered. “Because until you know its origins, you cannot fully comprehend why we wish you to be our liaison. Nor can you fully understand why we exhorted your legation to meet us.” He paused. “Or rather, to save us.”
Chapter Fifty-Three. THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)
Wait: to save them? Damn, what’s that about? “You have my full attention, Yiithrii’ah’aash.”
The Slaasriithi ambassador sat very straight. Riordan had the impression that he was preparing to strive for absolute precision and clarity in what he said, that he was possessed by a terrible need to impart this information correctly. “Long ago, my species lost something: the ability to defend itself against aggressors who were too large or fast or bold for us to ameliorate, and then constrain, with our various strategies of inducement.