Dirge (25 page)

Unable to contain herself, Irene Tse threw her arms around Mallory’s neck and shoulders and hugged him so hard that the psychiatrist feared he would drop the container. There was little chance of that. For the foreseeable future it was wedded to the patient’s hand: a small, square, silvered sixth digit. The former patient, she corrected herself. Standing by the side of the table, the ensign who had found the box beamed proudly. No one had acknowledged her question. No one had to.

A somber Tse stared at the unprepossessing contents of the box. “So much tragedy in such a tiny space.”

Mallory nodded. “It’s full of death. Death, and justification. I wish the two weren’t joined.” Putting it back in the sealtight, he closed the lid but did not try to reactivate the container. Frankly, he was unsure if the battered seal could be repowered. “Intelligent beings are going to die because of what’s on that mollysphere. A lot of intelligent beings.”

“I hope so, sir,” one of the other soldiers who had accompanied the ensign declared. Standing at attention, he was not smiling. “One of my cousins and his family were colonists on Treetrunk.”

“Better no one jumps to any conclusions.” Pushing back from the table, Nadurovina rose. “We must go inform Rothenburg and the rest of the staff. Meanwhile, let’s pray that the sphere is still functional and that it contains more than tridee of Argusian fauna and scenes of settlement life.” She started for the doorway.

Mallory and Tse followed. She was leaning against him. “I don’t care what happens now, or if the sphere operates, or what’s on it. Finding it vindicates you, Alwyn.”

“I know. But I don’t care if I’m absolved. I want what I saw and experienced to be vindicated. Not me.” In what should have been a moment of triumph, his expression was forlorn, his tone bleak. “The psyche is exonerated. Let’s hope the same holds true for the technology.”

17

H
erringale had been chosen by lot from the pool of qualified candidates. Inoffensive, gentle voiced, with a physical profile from which all the rough edges had long since been buffed by time, he was one of those faceless but professional bureaucrats who do most of the work for little of the recognition. An engraved plaque now and again or an extra day’s paid vacation were all the extra reward someone of his position and demeanor could reasonably expect.

Now he was waiting to receive Suin-Bimt, the ranking Pitar on Earth. He was not nervous, and in fact was looking forward to it. He would control himself, he knew. His life had been spent in controlling himself. It was one of the reasons he had been chosen to conduct the interview.

The conference chamber was very large for two. An enormous curved window, seemingly poured in one piece and unsupported by braces throughout its length, overlooked the Bodensee. Ancient castles were visible along the lakeshore, and snow crowned the majestic rampart of the northern Alps. Gleaming golden, a meeting table capable of seating thirty in comfort shone behind him. He and Suin would not need it. They would use two comfortable chairs and a small round table instead.

The Pitar entered from the far corridor, the doors sliding silently apart to admit him. Locating Herringale as his host rose, Suin altered course toward him. When he extended a hand in the customary human fashion, the much smaller human took it politely, then gestured that they both should sit.

Outside, pleasure boats cruised the calm waters of the immense alpine lake. The sun shone brightly, filtered by the glass. On the small table between them stood two tall glasses and a citrine pitcher filled with ice water. Suin took in the view and smiled.

“This is very pleasant. I was told my presence was required here, so I came. Not for long, I hope. I have a full schedule today.”

“It shouldn’t take much of your time.” Fingering the arm of his chair, Herringale activated the player. A large rectangular heads-up display darkened in the center of the window, blocking out a portion of the villatic view of the lake and mountains. “I’ve been asked to watch a recording with you and seek your comments. It’s been cleaned up a little, but I’m told it’s more or less identical to the original. There’s water, and glasses. If you need anything else, ask me.”

“What kind of recording?” The Dominion’s ambassador settled back in the easy chair. “One of your frenetic entertainment features? Or is it music? I quite like your music.”

“There’s no music,” Herringale told him quietly, “and it’s not entertainment.”

The display flickered briefly. An added title appeared, giving time, date, and length as well as other relevant vitals. Herringale was watching the Pitar, not the display. He had already seen the recording. More than once.

Everything that appeared was from the point of view of a moving recorder. The images drifted dreamily in the air in front of the window, rendered in soft tridee or what the ancients would have called bas-relief. Adjusting the display controls would have brought them forward in full three dimensions, but Herringale and his superiors saw no need for that. There was enough to comprehend in the reduced format.

Suin watched for a while without commenting. Insofar as Herringale could tell, the Pitar’s expression did not change. Twice, he turned slightly to pour himself a glass of water. Only when the recording reached its end did the alien turn to regard his host. During the replay the ambassador had shown no emotion, had offered no comment.

“Very imaginative. And very insulting. I am forced to inquire as to the rationale behind such an expensive travesty. Your entertainment people are very clever, but this is not in any wise amusing.”

“We are in agreement on that,” Herringale informed him stiffly. “It is not amusing. Nor was what you have just seen the product of our ‘entertainment’ people. It is a tridee media recording, broadcast on Treetrunk at the time of its invasion and recorded by an alert citizen who had access to more professional equipment than the average resident.”

“Absurd.” The Pitar’s voice was unchanged. “No record of the devastation of that unfortunate world exists. If it did, it would have come to light long before now.”

“It was hidden,” Herringale explained. “And only recently recovered.”

The Pitar shifted his position in the cradling chair. “I had been given to understand that your people had scoured the surface of Argus Five and continue to do so without finding anything remotely like what you have just forced me to watch.”

“That is so. However, this recording was not found on Treetrunk. It lay buried and unnoticed on Treetrunk One, the smaller of that martyred world’s two moons. A refugee who fled during the invasion concealed it there. He is the same person who made the recording.”

Ambassador Suin was repeatedly making the Pitarian gesture that signified negativity. “No one escaped the destruction. Your own people say so.” He shifted his legs preparatory to rising. “I do not like this game, and I have important work to supervise.”

“Oh, please.” Herringale leaned forward sharply. “Humor me a moment longer. This really is very important.”

Impatient and reluctant, the ambassador retained his seat. “I disagree, but very well. A few moments more, and then I really must go.”

“Yes. Just a few moments. Does the name Alwyn Mallory mean anything to you?”

The Pitar’s expression rippled. “No. Is this person attached to the diplomatic mission here?”

“Hardly. He’s not even attached to the government. One of your people on the other side of the planet, a diplomatic attaché named Dmis, has met him.”

“I do not know that name, either. I am not expected to know the names of everyone assigned to duty on your world, any more than you would be required to identify everyone working in the diplomatic arm of your government.”

Herringale nodded. “Maybe you should contact and converse with Dmis. He met Mr. Mallory, so he knows that he is a real person. We also know that Mr. Mallory is a real person—an unusually independent and resourceful one. Among other things, Alwyn Mallory is an ex–starship engineer. As a hobby, he obtained and restored a ship’s lifeboat of antiquated design. It was adequate to convey him to the far side of the moon in question, together with a copy he had made of this remote media broadcast. To ensure its safety, he buried the recording on the moon. It has only recently been recovered.”

“A very disturbing story.” Suin pressed outer edges of his hands together in the formal Pitarian manner. Like all his kind he was an extraordinarily handsome individual, tall and regal. Granted unlimited access to the skills of Earth’s finest cosmetic surgeons, Herringale knew he could never look half so imposing.

“The recording has been authenticated. Among the methods employed to do this was the extensive excavation of the specific locales imaged in the tridee. Everything matches up, from the ruined buildings to the traces of blood found in the city of Weald’s central square.” He found that he was compelled to take a swallow of cold water. “I am told that such traces are extensive. Having viewed the recording several times previously, even as a nonexpert I can understand this.”

“I am leaving now.” The ambassador moved to rise. Herringale rose with him. The Pitar towered over the soft-bodied, middle-aged diplomat.

“We have many questions.” Herringale’s voice was as calm as when he had first greeted the alien. “Foremost among these is the desire to know the reason behind the careful evisceration of so many females and the concurrent careful preservation of their reproductive organs. I admit that I am personally interested. I have two daughters of approximately the same age as the young women who are shown in the recording being disemboweled while still alive.” Without realizing what he was doing, he reached out to pluck at the ambassador’s sleeve. “Please, won’t you explain? I’m really, really curious.”

Suin stared down at him. “I intend to register a formal protest with my government. To waste my time with such nonsense is bad enough, but to subject me to additional slander borders on wanton malice.”

“Go ahead and register,” Herringale told him. Something was rising within the career diplomat, and he fought hard to suppress it. Professional self-control was a major reason, after all, why he had been chosen for this morning’s work. “It is possible your complaint will arrive before my government’s formal declaration of war.”

The ambassador finally showed some emotion, though it was as subdued as all such Pitarian reactions. “What kind of joke are you making? You can’t mean that your people would begin a war based on a single recording purportedly made by a lone human?”

“The recording has been validated. Mr. Mallory’s reminiscences have been validated. The decision of the world council was unanimous. The colonies have been informed, and their respective individual councils wholeheartedly concur. In effect, the war has already begun. It will be interesting to observe the consequences. There are those pundits who insist that interstellar war is an oxymoron. We are about to find out.” Despite efforts to control himself, his tone darkened somewhat. “Your people are about to find out.”

“Is there no stopping this travesty?”

Herringale gazed up at the much taller alien. He found that he was not intimidated. “Beginning at six o’clock tonight, Greenwich mean time, the recording made by Mr. Mallory will be broadcast across the planet and on all the colonies. It will be flanked by detailed information explaining the nature of the recording and how it came to be. The program will be followed by the official announcement of mobilization. Reservists are already reporting to their positions and their ships. I have been asked to conclude this meeting, Ambassador Suin, by informing you that you and your entire staff are under arrest, and heretofore should regard yourselves as prisoners of war.” This time it was the sallow-faced human who smiled.

“You cannot reciprocate, of course, since you have never allowed us to establish a formal mission on either of the Twin Worlds. In the light of what we now know, such puzzling decisions on your part strike us as ever more suspicious.”

“Are there to be no ends to these insults?” Suin drew himself up to his full, impressive height. “By your own laws, my staff and I have diplomatic immunity.”

“I’m sorry, but after viewing that recording there is little inclination among any of my people, be they members of the diplomatic corps or the local janitorial staff or the general populace, to grant any kind of immunity to any Pitar. In fact, I can honestly say that if the privilege were bestowed upon me, I would take great pleasure in cutting you into smaller and smaller pieces of raw meat right here in this room, even at the risk of permanently staining a very expensive and historically important floor covering.”

Suin was striding toward the doorway. “I refuse to stand here and be subjected to continued insult and innuendo.”

“You don’t have to,” Herringale called after him. “You can keep going and be subject to continued insult and innuendo later.”

Herringale was not quite finished with the ambassador. Confronted beyond the doorway by a quartet of heavily armed and armored security personnel, the Pitar surprised them by drawing a weapon of unknown type from a hidden compartment within his left pants leg. It must have been a well-shielded compartment in order for the diplomat to have successfully blinded the security scanners that monitored all comings and goings to the inner chancellery. There was no need for a diplomat to carry a weapon, Herringale mused as he ducked down behind one of the chairs, unless the possessor had something to fear—or was particularly paranoid.

They never found out in Suin’s case because, after wounding two of the guards, the Pitarian ambassador died in a blaze of gunfire as he attempted to flee the building. An offer to remand the remainder of his colleagues into protective custody was declined with disdain. Following the general broadcast of the Mallory record, as it came to be known, a mob stormed the building housing the Pitarian embassy in Zurich. Defending themselves, the Pitar killed several dozen people before the military could intervene. The aliens perished to the last.

Similar confrontations took place wherever Pitar could be found, from the supposedly inviolate compound on Bali to more isolated urban facilities in Brisbane, Delhi, and Lala. Within twenty-four hours of the worldwide broadcast of the unexpurgated recording, not a Pitar was left alive on Earth.

At the time, there were two Pitarian vessels in orbit. In attempting to flee, one was blown apart while the other managed to escape. It being impossible to track a ship in space-plus, the pursuing humans terminated the chase halfway between the moon and distant Mars.

All the while, warships and supply vessels were in the process of assembling—not only in the vicinity of Earth, but around its far-flung colonies as well. From Proycon to Centaurus, from New Riviera to Mantis, ships and personnel gathered. There was no singing of patriotic songs, no mass rallies of fervid supporters. It was all business, serious business, and was organized and conducted accordingly.

Some hoped that the Pitar would admit their crime and capitulate, following which suitable punishment and penalization could be decided upon. Others prayed that the aliens would resist. As the Twin Worlds of the Dominion did not lie that far from either the galactic plane or the expanding human sphere of influence, an answer to these questions was expected soon.

Once they had been informed of Pitarian responsibility for the Treetrunk atrocity, outrage was general among every other civilized species. It did not translate into action, however. The quarrel was between humankind and Pitar, and it would be left to those two civilizations to settle the matter. The Quillp, the Unop-Patha, and everyone else expressed their regret and sorrow and then stood back to see which species would prevail. In this regard the AAnn proffered their condolences as fervently as anyone else, while quietly hoping that both powerful space-going races would permanently and severely incapacitate one another in the coming conflict.