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Authors: Vernor Vinge

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BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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I’LL SAY ONE THING ABOUT MY STAY ON SHIMA: IT CURED ME ONCE AND FOR all of any nostalgia I had felt for pre-millennium Earth. Shima had the whole bag: the slums, the smog, the overpopulation, the starvation—and now this. I looked down from our hiding place at the congregation standing below. The Shimans sang from hymnals, and their quacking was at once alien and familiar.
On the dais near the front of the room was a podium—an altar, I should say. The candelabra on the altar cast its weak light on the immense wooden cross that stood behind it.
It took me all the way back to Chicago, circa 1940—when a similar scene had been weekly ritual. Funny, that was one bit of nostalgia I had never wished to part with. But after seeing those shark-faced killers mouthing the same chants, I knew the past would never seem the same. The hymn ended but the congregation remained standing. Outside I could hear the night traffic—and the occasional rumble of military vehicles. The city was not calm. A million tons of hostile metal still sat in their sky.
Then the “minister” walked rapidly to the altar. The crowd moaned softly. He was dressed all in black, and I swear he had a clerical collar hung around the upper portion of his neckless body.
Tsumo shifted her weight, her thigh resting momentarily against mine. Our friend Sirbat had hidden us in this cramped space above the hall. He was supposedly negotiating with the reverends for better accommodations. The Earthpol girl peered through the smoked glass which shielded us from the congregations’s view, and whispered, “Christianity is popular on Shima. A couple of Catholic Evangels introduced the cult here nearly two centuries ago. I suppose any religion with a Paul would have sufficed, but the Shimans never invented one of their own.”
Below us, the parishioners settled back in their pews as the minister began some sort of speech—and that sounded kind of familiar, too. I
glanced back at Tsumo’s shadowed face. Her long blond hair glinted pale across her shoulders.
“Kekkonen,” she continued, “do you know why Earthgov has quarantined Shima?”
An odd question. “Uh, they’ve made the usual ‘cultural shock’ noises but it’s obvious they’re just scared of the competition these gooks could provide, given a halfway decent technology. I’m not worried. Earthgov has never put enough store by human ingenuity and guts.”
“Your problem, Professor Doctor, is that you can think of competition only on an economic level: a strange failing for one who considers himself so rough and tough. Look down there. Do you see those two at the end of the pew fight to hold the collection tray?”
The Shimans tugged the plate back and forth, snarling. Finally, the larger of the two raked his claws across the other’s face, opening deep red cuts. Shorty squealed and released the plate. The victor ponderously drew a fat wallet from his blouse and dropped several silver slugs into the tray, then passed it down the row, away from his adversary. Those near the struggle gave it their undivided attention, while from the front of the hall the minister droned on.
“Are you familiar with the Shiman life cycle, Professor.” It was a statement.
“Certainly.” And a most economical system it was. From birth the creatures lived to eat—anything and everything. Growing from a baby smaller than your fist, in less than two years the average Shiman massed sixty kilograms. Twenty-one months after birth a thousand embryos would begin to develop in his combined womb/ovary—no sex was necessary for this to happen, though occasionally the Shimans did exchange genetic material through conjugation. For the next three months the embryos developed in something like the normal mammalian fashion, drawing nourishment from the parent’s circulatory system. When the fetuses were almost at term the womb filled most of the adult’s torso, absorbed most of the adult’s food intake. Finally—and I still didn’t understand the timing mechanism, since it seemed to depend on external factors—the thousand baby Shimans ate their way out of the parent, and began their own careers.
“Then you know that parricide and genocide are a way of life with these monsters. Earthgov is not the stupid giant you imagine, Professor. The challenge Shima presents us transcends economics. The Shimans are very much like locusts, yet their average intelligence is far greater than ours. In another century they will be our technological equal. You entrepreneurs will lose more than profits dealing with them—you’ll be exterminated. The Shimans have only one natural disadvantage and that is their short life span. In twenty-four months, even
they
can’t learn
enough to coordinate their genius.” Her whisper became soft, taut. “If you succeed, Professor, we will have lost the small chance we have for survival.”
Miss Iceberg was blowing her cool. “Hell, Tsumo, I thought you were on our side. You’re taking our money, anyway. If you’re really so in love with Earthgov policy, why don’t you blow the whistle on me?”
THE EARTHPOL AGENT WAS SILENT FOR NEARLY A MINUTE. AT FIRST I THOUGHT she was watching the services below, but then I noticed her eyes were closed. “Kekkonen, I had a husband once. He was an Evangel—a fool. Missionaries were allowed on Shima up to fifty years ago. That was probably the biggest mistake that Earthgov has ever made: Before the Christians came, the Shimans had never been able to cooperate with one another even to the extent of developing a language. The only thing they did together was to eat. Since they were faster and deadlier than anything else they would often come near to wiping out all life on a continent; at which point, they’d start eating each other and their own population would drop to near zero and stay there for decades. But then the Christians came and filled them with notions of sin and self-denial, and now the Shimans cooperate with each other enough so they can use their brains for something besides outsmarting their next meal.
“Anyway, Roger was one of the last missionaries. He really believed his own myths. I don’t know if his philosophies conflicted with Shiman dogma, or if the monsters were just hungry one day: but my husband never came back.”
I almost whistled. “OK, so you don’t like Shimans—but hating them won’t bring your husband back. That would take the skills of a million techs and the resources of …” My voice petered out as I remembered that that was about the size bribe Samuelson had offered her. “Hm-m-m, I guess I’m getting the picture. You want things both ways: to have your husband back, and to have a little vengeance, too.”
“Not vengeance
, Professor Doctor. You are just rationalizing your own goals. Remember the things you have seen on Shima: The cannibalism. The viciousness. The constant state of war between the different races of the species. And above all the superhuman intelligence these monsters possess.
“You think it ridiculous for me to accept money on a project I want to fail. But never in a thousand years will I have another chance to make such a fortune—and you know a thousand years is too long. It would be so terribly simple for you to fail. I’m not asking you to give up the rewards promised you. Just make an error that won’t be apparent until after the rejuvenation treatments are started and you have been paid.”
If nothing else, Tsumo had the gall of ten. She was obviously an idealist: that is, someone who can twist his every vice into self-righteous morality. “You’re nearly as ignorant as you are impudent. S.E. won’t buy a pig in a poke. I don’t get a cent till my process has boosted the Shiman life span past one century.” That’s the hell of immortality—you can’t tell until the day after forever whether you really have the goods. “This is one cat you’ll have to skin yourself.”
Tsumo shook her head. “I intend to get that bribe, Kekkonen. The human race is second with me. But,” she looked up and her voice hardened, “I’ve studied these creatures. If their life span is increased beyond ten years, there won’t be any Samuelson Enterprises to pay you a century from now.” Ah, so self-righteous.
The discussion was interrupted as a crack of light appeared in the darkness above us. Sirbat’s burred voice came faintly. “We have moved the Bible classes from this part of the building. Come out.” The light above silhouetted some curves I hadn’t noticed before as Tsumo crawled through the tiny trap. I followed her, groaning. I never did learn what they used that cramped box for. Maybe the reverends spied on their congregations. You could never tell about those cannibals in the back pews.
We followed Sirbat down a low, narrow corridor into a windowless room. Another Shiman stood by a table in the center of the room. He looked skinny compared to our guide.
Sirbat shut the door, and motioned us to chairs by the table. I sat, but it was hardly worth the effort. The seat was so narrow I couldn’t relax my legs. Shimans are bottom heavy. They don’t really sit—they just lean.
SIRBAT MADE THE INTRODUCTIONS. “THIS IS BROTHER GORST OF THE ORDER of Saint Roger. He keeps the rules at this church, by the authority of the Committee in Senkenorn. Gorst’s father was probably my teacher in second school.” Brother Gorst nodded shyly and the harsh light glinted starkly off his fangs. Our interpreter continued, “For this minute we are safe—from Shiman police and army forces. The Earth Police spaceship is still hanging over the water, but only Miss Tsumo can do anything about that. Gorst will help us, but we may not use these rooms for more than three days. They are needed for church purposes later this eightday. There is another time limit, too. You will not have my help after tomorrow morning. Naturally, Gorst has no knowledge of any Earth languages, so—”
I interrupted, “The devil you say! There’s no such thing as half a success in this racket, Sirbat. What’s the matter with you?”
The Shiman leaned across the table, his claws raking scratches in its
plastic surface. “That is not your business, Worm!” he hissed into my face. Sirbat stared at me for several seconds, his jaws working spasmodically. Finally, he returned to his chair. “You will please take account of this. Things would not be so serious now if you had only given care to the Earthpol danger. If I were you I would be happy that Shima is still willing to take what you have to offer. At this time our governments take Earthpol’s orders, but it is safe to say they hope by Christ’s name that you are out of danger. Their attempts to get you will not be strong. The greatest danger still comes from
your
people.”
The blond Earthpol agent took the cue. “We have at least forty-eight hours before Ohara locates us.” She reached into a pocket. “Fortunately I am not so poorly equipped as Professor Kekkonen. This is police issue.”
The pile she placed on the table had no definite form—yet was almost alive. A thousand shifting colors shone from within it. Except for its size, her
‘mam’ri
seemed unremarkable. Tsumo plunged her hand into it, and the device searched slowly across the table. Brother Gorst squeaked his terror, and bolted for the exit. Sirbat spoke rapidly to him, but the skinny Shiman continued to tremble. Sirbat turned to us. “The fact is, it’s harder for me to talk with Gorst than with you. His special word knowledge has to do with right and wrong, while my special knowledge is of language. The number of words we have in common is small.”
I guess two years isn’t much time to learn to talk, read, write and acquire a technical education.
Finally Sirbat coaxed Gorst back to the table. Tsumo continued her spiel. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m only checking to see that—” and she lapsed into Japanese. Old English just isn’t up to describing modern technology. “That is, I’m making sure that our … shield against detection is still working. It is, but even so it doesn’t protect us from pre-millennium techniques. So stay away from windows and open places. Also, my
o-mamori
can’t completely protect us against—” She looked at me, puzzled. “How can I explain
f’un,
Professor?”
“Hm-m-m. Sirbat, Earthpol has a weapon which could be effective against us even if we stay hidden.”
“A gas?” the Shiman asked.
“No, it’s quite insubstantial. Just imagine that … hell, that’s no good. About the best I can say is that it amounts to a massive dose of bad luck. If the breaks run consistently against us, I’d guess
f’un
might be involved.”
Sirbat was incredulous, but he relayed my clumsy description on to Gorst, who seemed to accept the idea immediately.
Finally Sirbat spoke in English. “What an interesting thing. With this ‘fa-oon’ you no longer need to be responsible for your shortcomings.
We used to have things like that, but now we poor Shimans are weighted down by reason and science.”
Sarcasm yet! “Don’t accuse us of superstition, Sirbat. You people are clever but you have a long way to catch up. In the last two centuries, mankind has achieved every material goal that someone at your level could even
state
in a logical way. And we’ve gone on from there. The methods—even the methodology—of Tsumo’s struggle with Earthpol would be unimaginable to you, but I assure you that if she weren’t protecting us, we would have been captured hours ago.” I touched the police-issue
‘mam’ri.
In addition to being our only defense against Earthpol, it was also my only hope for finishing my biological analysis of the Shimans. Apparently, the Earthpol agent really meant to keep her part of the bargain with Samuelson
et al.
Perhaps she thought I would foul things up
for
her. Fat chance.
“Before things blew up, I was pretty close to success. Only one real problem was left. Death for a Shiman isn’t the sort of metabolic collapse we see in most other races. In a way you die backwards. If I’m gonna crack this thing, I’ve got to observe death firsthand.”
BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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