Yiithrii’ah’aash glide-walked through the doorway with precisely the same rolling gait as the natives Caine had met on Delta Pavonis Three. The familiar smallish and tightly furred head of that species—shaped more like a brazil nut than an almond—rode smoothly atop the equally familiar and improbably long ostrich neck. The body was closely furred and wasp-waisted. The long gibbon’s-arms swung easily alongside the oddly flanged hips and dog-jointed legs. Prehensile finger-tentacles extended in some form of greeting and the knee-length bifurcated tail was shorter than those Caine had seen on Delta Pavonis Three. However, a few purposeful coiling and flexing motions indicated that it was still a functional appendage.
The Slaasriithi was not a Slaasriithi. It was a Pavonian. Or Pavonians were Slaasriithi. Caine wished he could close his eyes until the pointless debate in his head subsided. Whoever, or whatever they were, they were the same species. He opened his eyes—damn, I guess I did close them—and discovered that Yiithrii’ah’aash was holding something out to him. Caine, reached out to receive it. A small, recently harvested branch with small green leaves. It was subtly fragrant, familiar—
It’s an olive branch. Where did they get this? And is this a sign of peace? Or—and Caine could not tell whether his next insight was profound or paranoid—are you telling me you know many of our secrets, including my code name? Are you telling me you know the tale of how, when Odysseus finally came home to his own family and his own life, he returned to a bedroom which was built around an olive tree: a sign of life, hope, fruitfulness, closure? Caine couldn’t decide whether, in receiving this branch, he was being encouraged to see himself as coming full circle, his wanderings and wonderings at an end, or whether he was being pitched headlong into another odyssey of mysteries and risks. He looked from the leaves back to Yiithrii’ah’aash, and was surprised to find three irregularly shaped eyes staring at him from either slanted facet of the edge-on, furry brazil-nut that was his head.
Caine swallowed. “I know you. I mean, we—your people and I. We have met before.” How erudite.
“Ah, you refer to your experiences on Delta Pavonis Three.”
Okay, so I guess everyone knows about that “secret,” now. “Er—yes.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendril-fingers spread straight and flat to either side. The gesture of negation was so clear that Caine almost expected him to shake his head as well. “That was not us.”
Caine simply stared at the contrary evidence before his eyes.
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils unfolded into a slow-motion writhe of baby snakes. “Allow me to clarify. As Neanderthal is to you, what you met on Delta Pavonis Three is to us. We cherish it and call it ours, but it is not us.”
“But it communicated with me, and knew about—things.” Such as, which star we come from.
“Be at ease. Understanding will come when you visit us.”
“When I what?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash looked at him. Caine felt the small hairs on his spine stand in response to the eerie familiarity of the purring sound that Yiithrii’ah’aash made deep in his chest. “Was I not clear? I said that you shall understand all when you visit us. For you shall visit us, the-Riordan-called-Caine. And soon. Very soon.”
“Is that an invitation, a request, or a prophecy?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash just stared.
And purred more loudly.
Epilogue
Custodian shift vessel Olsloov, twenty AU above the ecliptic of Sigma Draconis
The voice of Vruthvur, Senior Coordinator of the Custodians, burbled through the humid, comforting darkness of the ship’s most private Communitarium. “Alnduul, members of this council have expressed some concern in regard to your management of the assistance we provided the humans in the recent war. More than one observer feels that your success owes as much to luck as it does to logic and methodical planning.”
Alnduul settled deeper into his couch. “I must remind you of the rules of contact and engagement imposed upon us Custodians at the start of this operation. Until the war commenced, we were prohibited from making direct contact with anyone but Downing, once Corcoran’s decease was confirmed. This severely limited our ability to influence or even be aware of, human strategic decisions.”
“Do you feel we should have made more open contact, exerted more direct control?”
“These two variables are quite different. More open contact? Yes—but with the Earth Confederation as a whole. Conversely, exertion of more direct control was not a practicable option and, if detected, would have played into the Ktor hands.”
Vruthvur’s voice remained patient, serene. “Why so?”
“Because if the humans had learned that we were manipulating their governments from within, they would have rejected us as allies. Sooner or later, they would have aligned themselves with the Ktor. Moreover, I am of the opinion that more direct control would have hindered rather than helped the humans’ prosecution of the war. Long before hostilities commenced, Corcoran’s strategy of losing the first battles in order to later be in a position to win the war was well underway.”
The Coordinator’s voice was slow. “I do not understand what you mean by this phrase, nor how Corcoran’s strategy impacted our planning.”
“Venerable Vruthvur, as you may recall, Nolan Corcoran came to our attention during incident 2083B—the ‘impending asteroid collision’ crisis that the humans refer to as the Doomsday Rock.”
“I do recall this.”
“Then you may also recall that, by the time he had come to our attention, and we were able to situate proximal surveillance and security assets, that he had already begun to set plans in motion for humanity’s accelerated move toward the stars.”
“My recollection is unimpaired, Alnduul. What do you adduce based on this preamble?”
“We presume to guide events, Vruthvur. But Corcoran moved too decisively, and was too strong a mind, for that customary approach to be practicable. He crafted a set of subtle, interlocking plans without any input—active or passive, direct or indirect—from us. And it is well that we were too late to succumb to the temptation of attempting such influence. It would have ruined his extraordinarily bold and insightful plans.”
“So you imply that Corcoran—and through him, the humans—were truly in charge of the situation?”
“I do not imply this. I state it unequivocally.”
A new voice intruded: Menrelm, whose pointed inquiries often produced more irritation than enlightenment. “How can this be? The humans had not yet even attained interstellar capability at that point.”
“True, but after the asteroid crisis, some of their leaders now had evidence of its attainability, because they had discovered the impending collision had been engineered by interstellar intruders. Corcoran’s consequent strategic deductions were not merely inspired, but proleptic. He reasoned that if Earth had already been the target of an attack, it would be again. He further reasoned that once a proper First Contact occurred, a second attack on Earth would follow soon after, since a new target is best attacked when it is small, weak, or disoriented. He further conjectured—correctly—that Earth, having been watched, would face opponents who would not merely have technological advantages. They would also enjoy advance intelligence on humankind, its capabilities, forces, deployments.”
“He could hardly conclude otherwise,” Menrelm commented, “given what he found on the asteroid.”