Diuturnity's Dawn (31 page)

“No,” the leader of the Bwyl replied in Terranglo. “Not all of us bugs.”

The Preserver promptly turned back to his work. As the key popped the seal on the panel, he reached inside his shirt and pulled out the cylinder of volatile solution. “We can still accomplish much of what we came for. Shoot these two and come and help me.”

Twikanrozex performed a half bow in concert with a series of hand movements too rapid for Briann to follow. “We are spiritual advisors. We carry no weapons.”

“That is unfortunate for you,” Beskodnebwyl declared, “since it prevents you from defending yourselves.” The muzzle of his sonic projector came up. Briann tensed.

“Come on; come on!” Skettle was struggling to affix the cylinder to the now open, blinking interior. “Let’s do this and get out of here.” On the floor nearby, the injured female officer moaned as she struggled to crawl toward the exit. He ignored her.

Beskodnebwyl turned slowly. The great golden eyes were as expressionless as ever, but the clipped thranx voice was not. “Are you giving me orders, you sickening sack of slack slush?”

Skettle barely looked over from his efforts. “Not now, bug. We can discuss species primacy another time. Come and help me.”

“
Crr!!k
, I will help you.” Whereupon he proceeded to shoot the leader of the Preservers in his left thigh. The blast of highly focused sound waves smashed into the thick quadriceps muscle and broke the bone within. Letting out a cry of anguish, Skettle collapsed to the floor clutching at his crushed leg.

Advancing with deliberation, the Bwyl approached him. As the thranx changed his focus, Briann considered reaching into his shirt’s inner pocket. A glance in Twikanrozex’s direction showed that his companion felt this would be, at least for the moment, a bad idea. Taking into consideration the Bwyl’s phenomenal marksmanship with his frightening weapon, together with the usual exceptional thranx peripheral vision, Briann kept his hands out in front of him. Alert but cautious, the two padres waited to see what the other thranx would do.

“You cretinous insect!” Wincing in pain, Skettle was clutching his smashed leg. “What did you do that for?” Indicating the cylinder of liquid explosive, which was now securely fastened to the sensitive instrumentation and needed only to be activated to disrupt communications throughout the fair, the Preserver tried to pull himself back to the open panel, dragging his unusable leg behind him.

Beskodnebwyl calmly shot him in the other leg—the calf, this time.

Elkannah Skettle had been toughened, by work in the field and by philosophy both, but this time he screamed. Very little blood leaked from his ruined limbs, since the condensed burst of sound had compressed veins and arteries without cutting them. Designed to shatter the resistive chitinous material that comprised the thranx exoskeleton, the gun’s output passed comparatively harmlessly through soft, spongy human flesh but was highly effective at breaking human bones.

As the two padres looked on, the leader of the hiveless clan Bwyl stood staring down at his whimpering human counterpart. “This is all your fault. If you people had not come here, all would have gone as planned. Everything would have transpired as set down in the burrow layout.”

“You’re out of your deranged bug mind!” Skettle tried to stand on his broken right leg, only to have it collapse beneath him.

“You betrayed us.” Beskodnebwyl was quietly implacable. “Your clumsiness revealed our presence to the local authorities.”

“Us!” Unable to walk or even to rise, Skettle was reduced to glaring murderously at his tormentor. “Our security was airtight! My people were, to an individual, highly trained and motivated. There were no breaches of security on our part. Somehow, someone from outside must have learned of our presence here. I am not accusing your kind directly, but—” He broke off unexpectedly.

An impatient Beskodnebwyl prodded the severely injured human with a foothand. “What now,
srrlkpp
? Finish your thought before I kill you.”

Skettle said nothing, but instead continued to stare. He was looking not at his antagonist, but past him. Following his gaze—a simpler matter with humans than with thranx, Beskodnebwyl reflected—the Bwyl turned his head in the same direction to find himself gazing at the two beings who were still standing, hands held inoffensively in front of them. At the two padres. Theologians, by their dress and demeanor. Upholders of misplaced virtue and the wrong right. That by itself was not enough to condemn them.

Their presence among the dead and wounded police, however, was rather more suggestive.

“Yes, I will kill them,” the Bwyl finally declared. “It may be that they are not responsible for this failure. But I am no longer willing to take chances, and what compassion remained within my upper gut has died along with my friends and companions.”

Skettle spoke through pain-clenched teeth. “About time you came to your senses. We can still activate the explosive, still reduce this squalid convocation to pandemonium. Still accomplish many if not all of our goals here.” He extended a hand upward. “Help me to finish this.”

“I surely will do that,” Beskodnebwyl agreed. Raising the muzzle of his pistol, he placed it against the top of the injured human’s skull. Briann flinched inwardly, having already seen what the weapon could do to solid bone.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, Martine burst from the corridor behind the two padres, rushed past them, and brought the cylinder of explosive she had been carrying down with great force. The police trackers had never singled her out since she was carrying only the cylinder and not a weapon. Espying her charge without having to turn, Beskodnebwyl calmly fired in the wildly onrushing biped’s direction.

The sonic burst struck the curved cylinder and glanced off, causing her to stumble but not to slow her mad charge. Before the startled Bwyl could get off a second shot, she brought the cylinder down on his V-shaped head as hard as she could. There was a loud, sickening sound as the insectoid skull was split. Blood and internal fluids gushed forth in a green fountain as the open circulatory system was ruptured. Falling sideways, Beskodnebwyl fired one last time. Too close to dodge, the woman caught the burst square in her chest. Fragments of shattered sternum were blown into her lungs and heart.

Briann immediately started to reach for his own concealed handgun, only to find himself restrained by his companion. Turning, he saw that Twikanrozex was pointing with both truhands.

Using both arms, a determined Skettle had levered himself into position to reach for and activate the cylinder of explosive. Neither padre knew what the slim bottle contained, but if it was worth this many lives to attach it to the appropriate instrumentation, then its contents would surely do the crowds of unsuspecting visitors who were presently thronging the fair no good.

Nor was there time to call in a warning. As Twikanrozex let go of his friend’s arm and rushed forward, Briann was right behind him. The biped’s greater speed over a short distance enabled the human to reach Skettle and the open panel at exactly the same time as his multilimbed companion.

Cursing defiance, Skettle mustered one last supreme effort. Pulling his useless lower body upright, he threw himself forward. Both hands latched onto the cylinder, one gripping it for support while the other stabbed at the softly blinking contact that would activate its contents. At almost the same instant, the leaping, stridulating Twikanrozex struck the larger biped with all six feet, knocking him away from the exposed instrumentation. Briann launched himself at the cylinder, grabbed hold, and twisted, throwing his whole body into the maneuver. The tough sealant that had been incorporated by the deceased engineer Botha to hold the cylinder against the panel’s interior snapped beneath the padre’s weight an instant after the desperate Skettle succeeded in activating it.

There was supposed to be a delay of several minutes between activation and detonation to allow the bearer enough time to escape the blast perimeter. Perspicacious terrorist that he was, however, the recently demised Botha had assumed that once the cylinders of liquid explosive were emplaced, the only individuals interested in removing them would be representatives of the unwelcome authorities. He had therefore rigged the cylinders’ triggers to bypass the programmed time lapse in the event of early dislodging.

A frantic Skettle was in the process of trying to deliver himself of this explanation when the cylinder Briann and Twikanrozex were conveying as rapidly as possible toward the exit supplied its own clarification.

Explosively.

21

It was a locality Lyrkenparmew never expected to have to visit. It was not necessary that he do so now. Through the highly covert channels that were open to him, he could have requested that the individual in question return to meet with him, instead of him going to see her. But upon learning the details of what had happened, and knowing the suffering she had already endured on behalf of their mutual interests, he felt it was incumbent upon him to repay the honors.

Which was why he found himself, bundled and shivering beneath an overcast sky, walking slowly through an open, neatly tended garden asprout with vegetables so alien in shape and coloring he felt he might have fallen into the proverbial pupae land of psychedelic metamorphosis. At the moment, there was only one biped tending to the fantastic, exotic growths. She did so for purposes of therapy, he had been informed. What benefit there was to be gained from attending to an excrescence the shade and shape of a
gorn!eyak
he could not imagine. Just looking at it threatened to upset both his stomachs.

Fanielle glanced up at his approach. Rising, she wiped sweat from her forehead and dirt from her gloved hands. It was a pleasant, cool day, but the thranx envoy was obviously uncomfortable.

“No,
yrr!kk,
” he replied when she suggested they go inside. “It is cold out here, but private. Let your friends think we are discussing the merits of rehabilitative agriculture.” He searched her face, trying to apply what knowledge he had acquired of the multiple meanings conveyable by the wonderfully flexible human countenance. Insofar as he could tell, he detected there neither fear nor permanent damage. “I have seen the official report dealing with your unfortunate encounter. While vacationing outside Daret you were accosted by fanatical adherents of a xenophobically antihuman sect called the Bwyl. You fled, were chased, and were rescued by local peace patrollers called by the staff of the retreat, whereupon you lapsed into unconsciousness.” His tone was candidly solicitous. “You suffered no permanent scarring, physical or psychological?”

She managed a thin smile. “I retain my fondness for your people, if that’s what you mean. Physically, I’m fine.” Her expression shifted as unpredictably as the low clouds overhead. A captivated Lyrkenparmew looked closer.

“Fascinating. There appears to be saline fluid leaking from the sockets in which your optics reside.”

Reaching up, she wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. The gesture rubbed a few grains of Hivehom soil into one eye, which resulted in an increased flow of the liquid to which her visitor referred. While the agent looked on, she fought to regain control of her emotions.

“It’s an involuntary expression of remorse,” she explained, seeking refuge in biology. “Analogous to certain of your sorrowing gestures. We call it
crying
. I’m crying for Haflunormet.”

“A credit to his hive, his clan, and his family.” Lyrkenparmew gestured appropriate melancholy. “Much merit did he bring to them.”

“You have no idea.” Putting down the nitrogen fixer, she settled herself into a sitting position alongside the cucumbers. They thrived in the clean air and fine soil of the Mediterranea Plateau, hundreds of parsecs from home. Responding to her action, Lyrkenparmew folded his legs beneath him and settled on the ventral side of his abdomen. She gazed evenly at her visitor.

“What do you know about a human outpost world called Comagrave?”

The agent gestured emphatically. “Until just recently,
viyyrp,
very little. A small outpost world undergoing exploration by your kind. Apparently, some serious unpleasantness occurred there recently that resulted in the expulsion of all transient AAnn on the planet.” His next gesture probably should not have been translated, but Fanielle recognized it anyway. “I can’t say that I, or anyone else in my section, is disappointed by the news. There was talk of a massacre perpetrated by the AAnn at a scientific site of considerable importance.”

She nodded slowly, enveloped by the atavistic, loamy musk of freshly turned earth. Something black and slinky slithered through the dirt by her legs. Convergent evolution in earthworms, she thought as she watched its oily progress: refuge for a mind overwhelmed by clashes on a galactic scale. Nematodes crawling near her toes.

I’m getting silly, she told herself firmly, and this visit is serious.

“There’s more to it than that. Much more.” A glance showed that they were alone, and the device she was wearing beneath her gardening dress would ensure their privacy from any stray electronic pickups. “Haflunormet found out about it. In a way, that information contributed to his death. He had just finished telling me the details when we were attacked.”

Lyrkenparmew gestured second-degree empathy swirled with intense curiosity. “Details of the incident were even then common knowledge. What about it was there that could prompt a violent assault on your persons, even by extreme xenophobes?”

She considered how best to tell him. “Insofar as Haflunormet was able to determine from the available records, the AAnn on Comagrave had no intention of attacking the archeological dig. Haflunormet became convinced they were provoked into doing so.”

Unlike humans, Lyrkenparmew could not frown. But at the moment, he wished he could. It was so much more economical than waving one’s limbs about. “Provoked? By whom?”

“By a resident thranx exoarcheologist named Pilwondepat.” At the agent’s gesture of disbelief, she added, “Haflunormet found proof. Enough to convince the skeptical. I don’t know where it is now, or how he stored it, but without the requisite commands I’m sure it would be extremely difficult to recover.” She put her fixer aside and pushed back the brim of her shade hat. “However, from the details he gave me, I’m sure that
I
could reconstruct the necessary evidence.”

Lyrkenparmew was silent for a while, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what the human female had told him. If true in all details, it was an exceedingly dangerous bundle of knowledge. He eyed the biped closely. He liked a majority of humans, and this one more than most. Besides, she was
Bryn’ji!
. All of which, notwithstanding, did not prevent him from contemplating how best he might execute her and still slip away from the human outpost unnoticed.

No, that would not be necessary, he told himself. If she had intended to release the information, she would already have done so. And, she certainly wouldn’t be sitting there in the dirt, relating it to someone she knew was likely to kill her to prevent its release. It was sufficient to reaffirm what he already knew: They were of different body, but like mind.

“If the substance of Haflunormet’s report was to achieve general dissemination, it would rejuvenate human-AAnn relations while severely impacting those between your kind and mine.” Feathery antennae waved gently. “I need not tell you that those are presently entering a most sensitive stage.”

“No, you need not.” Idly, she contemplated an incipient radish. “We want the same thing, Lyrkenparmew. You, I, poor Haflunormet, everyone who has worked so hard and for so long to achieve our final goal.” Picking up a handful of alien earth, she let it trickle out between her dirt-smudged fingers. “But we might not have any choice. We may have to release the information and try to spin it as best we can.”

“Why in the name of the Eight Original Great Hives would we want to do that?” Lyrkenparmew’s disbelief was plain to see in his flowing gestures.

She swallowed hard. “Because others besides myself know the truth of what happened on Comagrave. Those xenophobes who attacked me and Haflunormet, who call themselves the hiveless clan Bwyl, are still in custody. I know—I’ve checked. But they have been allowed outside communication. I don’t think there’s any question but that they’ve passed the general thrust of Haflunormet’s story, which they overheard that day on the lookout at the retreat, along to others of their kind.” Her expression was stricken. “It’s too late, Lyrkenparmew. Too late. By now the Bwyl have spread it to all their branches, possibly even off Hivehom. So you see, we can’t bury it. All we can do is try to preempt their disclosure.”

Lyrkenparmew considered a moment before gesturing with both right hands. “Is that what is worrying you so? Let them disclose all they want. Their story will not be believed.”

“You don’t understand.” Full of regret for the consequences she knew would ensue the instant the story reached the unrestricted media, she looked at him intently. “Details can be researched, traced, unearthed. The truth can be reconstructed. Slowly, perhaps, but when the Bwyl release their version of what happened on Comagrave, some dedicated pundit oblivious to the consequences will find it intriguing enough to pursue.”

“
Girritt,
that might have been the case a month or two ago, but no longer.” The four delicate manipulative digits of a truhand reached out to brush against her forearm. “You haven’t heard about what happened yesterday on Dawn?”

“Dawn?” Her expression twisted. “What has that colony got to do with what happened on Comagrave?”

“Directly, nothing. Coincidentally, perhaps quite a good deal.” He gestured meaningful apology. “The details will not arrive through regular diplomatic channels until tomorrow morning, but I could not be certain of what you knew and what you did not without asking.” He gestured meaningfully. “Our mutual confidants have their own sources. Because of what happened on Dawn, the Bwyl can now spew any tales they like. Whatever their superficial veracity, they will not be believed. Dawn has destroyed their credibility as a responsible clan. Anything they choose to say from now on will be regarded as a fabrication.”

Fanielle mined her memory. “I remember reading something about Dawn recently. The usual mundane fodder that those of us in the diplomatic service are expected to assimilate. Wasn’t some kind of elaborate seminar or multispecies conclave going to be held there?”

“You are scurrying down the right burrow, but to the wrong destination,” he corrected her with utmost finesse. “The term you are seeking in Low Thranx is
drim!!ata
.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She remembered now. “A fair. Something to promote interspecies harmony and understanding while hopefully making a little money on the side. It was to be quite a production, I recall now. The locals were putting everything they could muster into the effort, hoping it would raise their profile on the colonial scene. Planetary promotion, investment opportunities, tourism—that sort of thing.”

Lyrkenparmew gesticulated sharp irony. “If it was attention they were seeking, they more than achieved their objective. But not for the reasons you might think.” Emphasizing the importance of what he was about to say, he switched seamlessly to speaking in High Thranx. “Fan’l Anju, this has been an eventful succession of correlative time-parts. It seems that elements of the very same renegade clan that attacked you and Haflunormet at the Retreat of Xer!kex planned to disrupt this fair, setting off bombs and shooting visitors indiscriminately. By coincidence, the identical notion appears to have appealed to a group of similarly xenophobic humans who call themselves
the Preservers
.” He gestured confusion. “I am always astonished at the organizations and individuals formed to promote destruction who identify themselves with names like
Preserver
, or
Savior
, or
Rescuer
, and the like.

“Unaware at first of each other’s existence and aims, these two groups apparently learned of their parallel intentions and presence sometime before attempting to carry them out. The scheme propounded by the human group was particularly insidious.” He leaned toward her, bowing slightly from his thorax.

“That both of these antisocial organizations were found out and reported just in time for the domestic patrollers to prevent widespread disaster was due to the good work and intervention of a pair of theologians, or padres as they call themselves, who notified the local authorities. As a consequence, many hundreds of lives were saved and a diplomatic disaster was averted.” Lyrkenparmew executed a gesture involving his entire upper body that Fanielle recognized as indicative of extreme regret. “Unfortunately, both of these heroic ecclesiastics perished in the course of the operation.”

“That’s too bad,” she remarked sincerely.

“For them, yes. And personally, I would prefer they had survived.” He straightened. “But since they did not, their unintentional sacrifice, combined with the debacle on Comagrave that has been ascribed to the AAnn, presents us with an exceptional opportunity.”

She rested her hands in her lap. “I don’t follow you, Lyrkenparmew.”

Compound eyes glittered in the sun as the envoy drew his protective warming garments tighter around him. “One of these ill-starred padres was thranx. His companion was human. Don’t you see? Thranx and human give their lives to save humans and thranx.” He gestured first-degree significance. “The cause of unification has, inadvertently, acquired its first martyrs.”

She considered the possibilities. They were striking. “Did they intend to become martyrs, these two?”

“Most probably not, but it will not matter to the general media that serve both our kind. Among humans, they will be remembered as having given their lives to save babies and innocents. Among my people, they will be thought of as two brave soldiers who sacrificed their bodies to seal a critical opening into a vulnerable burrow. It comes to the same thing. A report filed by two human patrollers who barely survived the final encounter corroborates the details of the matter.” He gestured diffidently.

“The fringe belief system to which this pair belonged calls itself the United Church. A grandiose appellation,
crrk!k,
for so modest an organization—though I am told it is gaining adherents at a surprisingly rapid rate. Despite the fact that the sacrifice of their two disciples on Dawn will bring them a considerable amount of beneficial publicity, the leaders of this religious order interestingly want nothing to do with the promoting of it. They are sorry for the death of two of their own, but their doctrine apparently does not believe in or sanction the concept of martyrdom. They say there is no future in it.