The Best of All Possible Worlds (2 page)

So we understood, and maybe we were making a point, too. There isn’t a group on Cygnus
Beta who can’t trace their family back to some world-shattering event. Landless, kinless,
unwanted—theoretically, the Sadiri would fit right in.

Those were the thoughts that were foremost in my mind the day the Sadiri came. I barely
even noticed when my friend Gilda said to me, “But where are the women?”

I should have paid attention.

It’s not that all-male homesteader groups don’t come to Cygnus Beta. Many times people
send the strongest and most intrepid to establish a level of comfort on the homesteads
before sending for the rest of the family, and for some cultures that translates as
men only. The reality of Cygnian society is that those men often end up settling down
with someone who’s already here, because, let me tell you, there’s no long-distance
relationship like an interstellar one, especially when you’re all but marooned on
a rock where communication with the rest of the galaxy means week-delayed real-space
transmissions from the nearest long-range sat. But … 
Sadiri
men? The epitome of morality and tradition, savants too absorbed in their mental
exercises to succumb to base urges? It was hard to imagine them going native like
most frontier boys.

Fortunately for my curiosity, I was in a position to find out about them. I’m second
assistant to the Chief Biotechnician of
Tlaxce Province, which means that I get to travel a lot because it’s the biggest province,
and it’s also the province with the largest number of new homesteads. Sadiri homesteads
galore, in other words. Plus, and keep this one quiet, please, I’m kind of a language
nut. Old languages, new languages, made-up languages—whatever, that’s my hobby. I
already had a smattering of Sadiri, so it was inevitable that I would get stuck with
the duty of liaison for the public health and agriculture departments.

My opposite number was a joy to work with. No chitchat, no wasted time. I’d turn up
at his office, he’d go over the schedule briefly with me, and off we’d go in a groundcar
to do our inspections. His Standard was better than my Sadiri, needless to say, so
many times I just did a lot of listening while he talked with the homesteaders, and
then afterward he’d summarize for me so I wouldn’t miss anything. I didn’t expect
them to speak Standard to me. When you’ve been almost exterminated, language is the
first thing you cling to, one of the main roots of identity.

One day, while we were driving back to his office, a very interesting conversation
took place. “Dllenahkh,” I said to him (learning to pronounce his name had been a
fine challenge, but once I substituted a Zulu “dl” and a Scots “ch,” I got it), “tell
me how we can help you in the long term. What kind of settlement do you plan to establish?
We understand if your aim is to keep as much of Sadira alive as possible. Do you require
Sadiri plants? Hardy variants crossed with the indigenous flora or hothouse specials
in biodomes? We can requisition anything we like from the galactic seed bank or even
check with New Sadira to see what strains they’re developing.”

“Thank you, Second Assistant Delarua, but at present it is enough for us to adjust
to the environment and achieve basic self-sufficiency with what is readily available.
Closer consideration
of our long-term goals will follow after the completion of the initial phase.”

I must confess, I liked listening to Dllenahkh. He had a very soothing voice—deep,
somewhat slow, and very precise. It was a voice that matched his thoroughness and
professionalism. I wish I had a voice that matched what I do. I’ve been told I sound
like an overexcited rooster when I start rambling about my work.

“There is one matter in which you can assist us, however,” Dllenahkh continued. “Our
community is relatively isolated, and it has been suggested that it would be appropriate
for us to take the opportunity to experience other cultures on Cygnus Beta. To participate.
To … mingle.” He used Standard for that last, there being no precise equivalent in
Sadiri that could convey the frivolous intent behind such a word.

“Mingle?” I repeated incredulously.

“Yes. Mingle. While much remains to be done, we are beginning to suffer from a lack
of mental stimulus. Cygnus Beta is reputed to have some of the most complex and vibrant
cultures in the galaxy. It would be appropriate to study them.”

I gave him a slanted look. I’d been around the Sadiri long enough to learn that whenever
they start claiming something is appropriate, there’s something they’re not telling
you or something they’re not admitting to themselves. Dllenahkh had said “appropriate”
twice now.

He mirrored my look, which I’d learned was his style of humor. “So. Do you have any
recommendations?”

“Do I have any recommendations for a Sadiri boys’ night out?” I shrugged, smiled,
and allowed myself a laugh. “I can come up with something.”

I did, too. The Ministry of Culture has all kinds of programs, and I got someone to
put together a package that even the Sadiri
might enjoy. But people, this is
Cygnus Beta
. Yes, we have a few large cities and several towns—we’re not all country bumpkins,
vagabonds, and adventurers—but there are few professional artists and actors, few
galactic-standard museums and theaters. We simply can’t afford them. It’s true that
most of the action happens in the urban belt, but often bands of entertainers travel
around and test their luck—some venues they might get paid in credits; other places
it’ll be in kind. I did speak to one performer who waxed poetic about the joys of
the road and how he’d made a map with locations marked for the excellence of their
particular product: the best wines and spirits, of course; the best baked goods; the
best cured meat and smoked fish; the most fragrant smoking herbs for incense or pipe—you
name it, he could tell you where to get it.

I should point out that amateur or semiprofessional doesn’t mean low quality. It means
variable
quality. You get serious thespians next to dilettante wannabes because theater companies
have to take people as and when they become available. Your best King Lear might be
the security guard at a small branch of a city bank. He’s only going to get two or
three weeks off for performances, then you’re back to the understudy, the very earnest
but not really that good retired schoolmate of the director.

I offered two options: either a series of overnight trips to the urban belt or visits
to the Sadiri homesteads by some of the touring companies.

“Both,” said Dllenahkh.

“Both?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow, my tone more flat than querying.

He raised an eyebrow back.

Both it was.

I’ve mentioned my friend Gilda before. I love her dearly, but I swear she’s a bad
influence on just about everyone. I suspect that
three out of her six children aren’t her husband’s and that he knows it but doesn’t
care. He’s so under her thumb, she must have had more than one Zhinuvian ancestor.
She has three main groups she hangs out with, and she tries to annoy each one. She
bores her housewives group with her science research, she makes her drinking buddies
miserable with her tales of domesticity, and she scandalizes her coworkers (that’s
me) with her lurid sex-capades.

So Gilda was happy to hear that the Sadiri were venturing out, because she too wanted
“the opportunity to experience other cultures,” if you know what I mean. She insisted
on being the coordinator and guide. At first I was glad when she took it out of my
hands so that I could go back to ordinary stuff, but this was Gilda, and something
told me to inquire more deeply.

“So,” I asked her at the office when she set up the first theater visits, “what’s
the playbill for this trip?”

“
Grease: The Space Musical
,
Titus Andronicus
, and that new monologue by Li Chen where he first spends ten minutes crisscrossing
the stage in silence, then sits in a Bagua-inspired design in the center and periodically
plays the Uilleann pipes.”

“Aie-yi-yi,” I yodeled mournfully. “Do you
want
them to judge us?”

“They’ll judge us anyway. They’re Sadiri, and we’re Terran—well, mostly Terran. Judging
other humans and finding them wanting is what the Sadiri
do.”
She was quite unperturbed about it.

At first I said nothing. Strictly speaking, it was true. The Sadiri and their fleet
of mindships had been the backbone of galactic law, diplomacy, and scientific discovery
for centuries. Even though other humans slightly resented them, I knew I wasn’t the
only one who quietly hoped that the pared-down version of their government would be
just as effective at running the fleet. On a personal level, I hadn’t noticed a judging
attitude from Dllenahkh, but
when one considered that their home planet was poisoned by their own close cousins,
the Ainya, well, they didn’t have that much high ground to stand on to look down at
others anymore, did they? Before I could voice that thought, there was a polite cough
at my door.

“Dalenak!” Gilda said in cheery greeting. How
did
Dllenahkh manage not to wince at the woman’s atrocious pronunciation? “Are you here
for the inaugural trip?”

Dllenahkh thanked her courteously and said no, he had but come to consult me regarding
the matter of the hydroponics on the homesteads of the southwestern quarter, which
had been experiencing some difficulty. She took the hint and her leave so that I could
close the door and speak to Dllenahkh in privacy.

“I thought lying wasn’t a Sadiri thing,” I began. Then I looked at him more closely.
“Dllenahkh? Who hit you?”

“It is an internal matter, already resolved,” he said.

I frowned, but there was nothing I could say to that. “You seem”—
depressed
—“distracted. What’s brought you to town if it’s not Gilda’s entertainment tour?”

“There is a visiting emissary from the Government of New Sadira. We have a meeting
scheduled for tomorrow.”

That still didn’t explain why Dllenahkh was in my office. “Would you like to come
with me to the Museum of History?” I said.

“Yes,” he acquiesced somewhat absently. “That would be quite interesting.”

We walked there. I kept silent, waiting for Dllenahkh to talk to me.

He waited until we had passed the geological displays and entered the Hall of Names
before breaking into speech. “Do you know why we came to Cygnus Beta?” he asked.

I glanced at him. His eyes were staring straight ahead at the writing etched on the
granite walls.

“We came to find the taSadiri.” He turned his head very slightly and looked at me.
“Do you know of whom I speak?”

“Sadiri who do not practice the mental disciplines,” I replied immediately. “They
left Sadira and founded Ain, and a few settled elsewhere in the galaxy. But they did
not found Cygnus Beta. It was already here.”

“I have heard of the beings you call the Caretakers.” He said it neutrally, and I
was glad for the small courtesy. Some people think the idea of the Caretakers is just
another one of those savior-guardian myths that primitive societies dream up to deal
with the uncertainty of the universe.

“Yes,” I said firmly, “they are the true founders of Cygnus Beta, but we acknowledge
other early settlers—mostly Terrans, it’s true, but also Ntshune, Zhinuvians, and
taSadiri.”

“There are strong psionic and proto-psionic strains in your ancestry,” he noted. “That
was another one of the reasons we chose to come here.”

I wondered where this was going. “So what’s wrong, Dllenahkh?”

He struggled. Clearly these were very private matters. “There is a lack of consensus
concerning our path. Securing the future of our people is, of course, the primary
concern, but the way this can best be achieved is in dispute. Some feel that preserving
genetic and cultural integrity would be the most effective course of action. With
so few of us surviving, every person would be needed for this endeavor to succeed.
Others believe that negotiation with the Ainya with a view to eventual integration
of our tribes is the best option.”

“But perhaps that was their reason for … doing what they
did,” I said awkwardly. “They’ve never had your level of galactic influence. Wouldn’t
integration be kind of like giving them what they want?”

He paused. “Yes,” he said at last. “Many of us hold the same view. However, from the
Ainya perspective,
we
drove out their forefathers and denied them their birthright; hence their pride in
claiming responsibility for our downfall. Perhaps they wish to see us not merely humiliated
but destroyed completely.”

He sighed and continued. “A third way has been proposed: colonies of hybrids selected
for Sadiri physical traits and mental abilities and raised according to Sadiri values
and traditions.”

A wry smile twitched my lips. Terrans: the chicken stock of every human genetic soup
in the galaxy. Terra was the newest of the crafted worlds and Terrans the youngest
breed of humans in the galaxy, but what they lacked in technology and mental development,
they made up for in sheer evolutionary potential. Other humans patronized them and
overlooked them, but just mention
hybrid vigor
and suddenly Terrans became very popular. Of course, since Terra itself was still
under embargo, that meant Cygnus Beta got all the attention.

“So,” I asked him, “which Sadiri are you? The second way or the third way?”

His face went still in that manner I had come to interpret as profound uncertainty.
“No decision has as yet been made. We are a reserve.”

I tilted my head and frowned at him, confused.

His eyes glanced briefly at mine, and then he blinked and looked aside again as if
acutely embarrassed. “As many of our off-planet occupations are filled by men, more
Sadiri males survived the disaster than females. This has created some … disruption
to our usual bonding customs. For this reason, the excess of males was sent to this
colony. The Science Council of New Sadira
will as a priority select for a greater number of females to be born as soon as possible.
Given our life span, it is possible that they may be our future wives.”