The Companions (15 page)

He said, “The same system as Jungle, yes. I'm sorry. I'd just…forgotten that's where…where that was.”

I took a deep breath. “No one ever mentioned the system name when it happened. Everyone said
the rock world, the jungle world, the moss world
: descriptions, not names.”

“They're names now,” he admitted. “Stone, Jungle, and Moss. Moss has a moon called Treasure, but it's been sold off already…”

I said, in a reasonably calm voice, “I should have realized the systems were one and the same.” To stop my lips trembling, I pressed the almost empty cup against them, telling myself I would not cry. “Do we know anything about the physiology of…what are they called?”

“The PPI people call them the Mossen. The Derac, who discovered the system, say they
found
a dead one and dis
sected it. Knowing the Derac, no one can be sure whether they really found it or more likely hunted and killed it. If they killed it, everyone would love to know how they got close enough. Since we and the Derac don't communicate directly, they gave us a copy of the recorded dissection process with the comments of the butchers…”

“Butchers?” I asked.

“My translation.” He made a face. “The Derac have no scientists, they certainly have no anatomists. The only Derac who systematically cut things up are the butchers who share out the meat and hides in shipclans. ESC and PPI couldn't get within striking distance of a live Mossen until they started dancing, after which it didn't seem politic to try and catch one. In any case, they've never even seen a dead one, so they're grateful for the information, though it's too crude to be genuinely helpful.”

“I wonder why they have so many eyes.”

“We don't know they are eyes. The butchery film shows a network under the skin that's connected to all of the lenses, if they're lenses. It's been suggested that different ones perceive different things: color perhaps, or motion, or distance. The creatures have to perceive their surroundings somehow; they don't go bumping into things or one another.”

“And they move how?”

“We don't know. Some think they might do it like starfish used to do, or sea urchins. A whole slew of little footsies rippling along under their skirts. We say ‘think,' because the Derac tell us the body they examined wasn't complete.”

“And the PPI claims they have speech! If they have speech, then they qualify as a protected race.” This was really the important point. Any race with speech qualified as a protected race.

Paul frowned. “
If
they have speech. That judgment was made on extremely shaky evidence. They have no history of exploration or trade; they have no possessions, no technology; they don't need dwellings, and their clothing—if that's what it is—grows itself. From what the embassy says,
they're a lovely, mostly sweet-smelling population of…totally enigmatic creatures that PPI claims desire to emerge from solitude, God knows why.”

“Well, if we can't talk to them, how do we know that?” I demanded.

“PPI received a written message crudely and briefly written on bark with colored sap. Supposedly, that is. For some unknown reason, the place has become a favorite posting for PPI staffers on preretirement duty, so the installation has a larger staff than one would expect, a staff that's spent several years talking, posting notices, writing things down. The assumption is that the Mossen have heard human speech and deciphered enough of both speech and writing to create a written message saying something like, ‘We desire knowing outside people.'”

“That would indicate a primitive people, at best.”

He laughed. “If they're a people at all! Which is why they need me. PPI Central can't make up its mind. The Derac contingent is becoming increasingly belligerent. They want the certification done and over with! And ESC is getting itchy. They want to leave the planet since they finished their survey of the moss part over a year ago.”

“There's another part?”

“Two continent-sized, very high plateaus with an ecology totally different from the mossy part. The one unusual, not to say weird, thing the orbital surveyors reported on the plateaus was a group of Earther ships dating back some centuries, Hargess-Hessing ships, from the shape of them.”

I pricked up my ears. “Didn't that stimulate some interest?”

“It might have, if the ships had been found sooner in the process, or if they'd crashed there more recently, but the certification process is far advanced, and the ships are centuries old. ESC hasn't done any more than peek at the plateaus because the contract specifies a joint survey after certification, and PPI can't move toward certification so long as the question of peoplehood is unanswered.”

“Surely there's been enough time to have done more exploration.”

He made a face. “What Interstellar Coalition calls ‘intrusive' exploration and survey cannot be done until native people have been consulted. Native people can't be consulted until we know if there are any. As a result, the only exploration and survey has been ‘nonintrusive,' the kind of survey work that can be done by orbiters and airborne observers.”

“So what has PPI done in all this time?”

He threw up his hands. “It's followed orders. It's been nonthreatening and passive while learning whatever can be learned, letting the natives take the lead. So far all the natives have done is dance rather frequently in areas near the PPI compound, which is all very pretty but totally unrevealing as to linguistics. The only hard evidence is the written message that precipitated the request for a linguist.”

The door opened, and one of Paul's concubines skipped in, half-naked and in full body paint. “Ouw, Pau-wie, din know y'ad comp'ny.”

“Poppy, I told you to get back in your case!” Paul growled impatiently.

I accepted the interruption as a chance to get away. I headed for the door, saying, “It's all right, Poppy. You come in and make Pau-wie happy. I was just leaving.” I patted the conc's behind as I passed him-her-or-it, eliciting a chortle that covered three octaves.

In my own space, with the door locked, I sat down to make a list of things I would have to do before leaving on a three-year contract. There was not a doubt in my mind that I would go to Moss, and to its moon, Treasure. The opportunity had come too serendipitously to be refused.

While I was making plans for our mission to Moss, something consequential was taking place in quite another direction, on quite another planet: the home world of the Orskimi.

That planet was known as E'Sharmifant, “ancestral home.” In the capital city of that world, as in all cities of the Orskimi, dawn was greeted by a mass shrilling that rose above the hives to fill the morning air with a pulsating tremor signifying unity, purpose, and dedication. The clamor stopped as abruptly as it had begun and was succeeded by a profound silence dedicated to remembrance of those who had perished while pursuing the purposes of the people. The silence eased only gradually into the normal clatter of morning: wings buzzing as groups flew from one place to another; feet scraping their way into centers of commerce, religion, warfare, or intelligence. As on every early morning, some few directed their steps toward the mortuary complex, which stood upon a low hill at the center of the city and was surmounted by the Temple of Eternal Memory.

This vast pile, assembled by mercenaries from another world in a time so ancient that it was almost forgotten even by the Orskimi themselves, was furnished mostly with shadows. Each corner held its quota of dust and darkness into which futile, gray light oozed from high, hooded openings, the nostrils of the temple, exhaling incense smoke that never quite masked the odor of death.

Some of the dying lay on pallets in the sacred portico, lax limbed, ashen plated, breath faltering, dimmed eyes focused, if at all, on the top of the processional stairs. The servants of purpose would mount those stairs, and those brought here to die watched for them intently, even impatiently, so long as they had the strength for either intensity or impatience. Even these last longings waned before the end, a little seeping away with each breath, until, when the awaited ones came at last, the dying barely stirred at the sound of the bell, the chanting voices, the horny rustle of scraping footsteps, growing louder as the climbers ascended.

Those who still watched saw first the tall plumes of the High Priest's headdress, followed by the chitinous ridges of his forehead, glowing scarlet above great faceted eyes. The six arms of the upper body angled outward, each bearing one of the ritual implements: the censer, the bandage, the knife, the shears, the saw, and the retractor.

“Oh, ye upon the doorstep of death,” shrieked the High Priest, as he set his forefeet within the temple door, “prepare for thy final agony.” Left and right triple legs made clicking triplets, whikalap-whikalap, as he came across the portico to the altar, the sound echoed by the footfalls of the ritual surgeons, the fire masters, the litter bearers with their quiet burden. Outside in the tall growths, several species of chitterers fell quiet at the High Priest's cry. In the low growths a family of howlers, their cousins, did likewise. Silence brooded. Smoke wafted.

Some of the Orskimi who lay dying here had been born on this world and lived out their lives here; others were residents of far worlds who had been brought from great distances to die here, for this was the sole place in the Orskim Empire equipped to transfer the memories of the departing into the minds of the young. Orskimi were six-armed, six-legged, armored in chitin, capable of making brief flights, capable of walking forever, eaters of any organic matter—no matter how foul others might find it—even capable of regenerating arms that might be lost. However, what was about to
be removed from these dying members of the race had to be preserved, for it would not grow back.

One of the old ones lying in the temple had been there for several days. The somber vault reeked of formic acid and fungus, some from this Orski's body, some from the bodies of the pallid klonzi who squirmed feebly upon the drying carcass. Though klonzi were so long-lived that some families removed them from the dying and used them thereafter as a remembrance, the klonzi on this body were too old to be useful. When the old one died, they would begin a shrill screaming, so high-pitched that few ears could hear it. This screaming would continue alternately with spells of panting until the parasitic creatures fell away from the dead one, curled into shivering rings on the floor, and gave up life.

At the IC, among the diplomats and strategists, it was said that klonzi had once been an independent and intelligent race, now modified by Orskimi to be body scavengers who crawled on Orskim body armor, eating away the dried or injured cells. Their brains were too compressed to hold the idea of escape, much less rebellion. Long ago, it was also said, Orskimi had had only six extremities until they had captured another six-legged race, also independent and intelligent. Now that race served as the hinder part of each Orski, furnishing locomotion. On Earth it was said that each Orski, when hatched, was fixed onto the body of one of the locomotors, the locomotor's brain having been removed. Certain nerve connections were then made and by the time the Orski was ready to walk, it had full control over the creature that helped move it. Such things, it was said, were common among the Orskimi as they had been common to the Zhaar, when that evil race had ruled the galaxy.

No Orski commented on these allegations. Let the other races say what they would, Orskimi knew the truth, and what was said made no difference. Now that the Zhaar had gone, Orskimi intended to take their place of power. So the Orskimi themselves acknowledged.

The priest went to the altar, the fire masters to the pit of
burning, the surgeons to the creature nearest death. As the priest laid down the symbolic tools in their ritual positions, the surgeons laid theirs on the worktable near at hand. The priest waved a censer and bowed toward the surgeon. The surgeon poised a knife at the base of the dying one's skull and thrust it down. This severed the connection between the memory node and the balance of the mind. Now the old one remembered nothing, thought nothing. He merely was. When the saw began cutting through his dorsal plate, the old one screamed at the pain.

“Do they always do that?” asked a troubled young assistant.

“Always,” said the surgeon, who was manipulating the heavy shears at the bottom of the skull shell while his assistants retracted the stiff dorsal shell to the sides. “Of course it is painful. There are many nerves attached to the dorsal surface. There will be even more pain as we cut into the head shell.”

“Can't you give iki some of the drugs we use to ease pain?” asked the same youngster.

“Doing so runs the risk of corrupting the memory,” said the priest. “The node is still connected through a nutrient duct. That duct will be influenced by any drug owki might use. In any case, this honored one does not know that iki is in pain. Iki's body shrieks, but it is a mindless shrieking. Since the memory can no longer be affected by what is felt by the body, using anesthetic would gain us nothing.”

“The Orskimi do not waste materials,” said an assistant surgeon to the students around him. “On the battlefield, if one is beyond repair, the physician makes the same cut we have just made, separating memory from the body. We do not give precious drugs to relieve pain. Only those destined for continuing are given such things in order that their memories not be clouded by trauma when the time comes for them to go. If this one had been injured a year ago, iki would have received pain medication, to prevent a memory of agony. Such memory might adversely influence later decisions.”

“I do not understand,” said a student, antennae quivering.

The surgeon bobbed his head. “It is much easier to deal objectively with the subject of pain if one has not felt pain oneself. Surgeons, for example, deal with the pain of others. Those destined to be surgeons are carefully protected against pain so they can make decisions without any sense of personal involvement. Now watch as the memory node is removed.”

The node lay quivering beneath a flap of brain shell. Within moments they had it in their pincers, an oval organ, the size of a large egg. They held it high, still connected by a length of nutrient duct to the body of the old one. Now the litter bearers came forward, carrying between them a young Orski, one already anesthetized, iki's exoskeleton already opened, the site of transplantation already prepared with a length of nutrient duct exposed. Only after connecting the node to the nutrient ducts of the new body was the old nutrient duct severed. The old body quivered with its last breath.

The students heaved a collective sigh, both awed and somewhat dismayed. It was a holy occasion. Anyone might, during iki's lifetime, gain memories that would be precious to the race. Those who did would live on in successive generations. It was almost immortality, and it was not out of reach of the ambitious and venturesome. Though the thought of that final agony was not pleasant, living on, virtually forever, could make up for a good deal of pain. Particularly since one would not remember it.

While the High Priest perfumed the sacred bandages with the censer, the dorsal plate of the anesthetized young one was glued with an organic cement before being bandaged to hold the plates in place while they grew together. The honored ones who bore the memories of earlier generations could easily be recognized by the long ridge of scarred integument down their backs. They were revered wherever they went, though it was said they were not interesting company for ordinary persons.

“Iki will sleep for a few days,” said the priest. “When iki wakes, there will be no memories of this. Within twelve
days, however, the memories will begin, and all that the old one knew, iki will know. As the old one was laden with the memories of twelve or thirteen generations before, so this new one will have all those plus whatever experiences iki will have from this time on.”

“Will he experience adventures?” asked the irrepressible young Orski. “Travel far worlds?”

The priest shook his head. “No. Our repository people may not adventure, for those who carry our memories are too valuable to risk. This young one will sit among the councilors and hear the reports of travelers and adventurers. This one will advise the warlords with recollection of past battles, comment upon the plans of the Great Work, made and remade in perpetuity by each generation in conformity with the plans of generations past.”

“What shall this one be called?” asked the surgeon, indicating the unconscious youngster.

“This one's name is Gerfna'ors,” said the High Priest in hierarchical tones, laying three pairs of hands in blessing upon the young one. “In the lifetime of this one will the eggs of the humans be broken, the eggs of the Derac, the eggs of the Tharst. In this generation the plan comes to fruition, by which those races will be overcome so that the Great Work may be accomplished.”

There was a generalized thrill at these words, a vibration of wing cases, a moment's shrill exultation. “Gerfna'ors! Breaker of Eggs.” “Great Breaker!” “Mighty Crusher of the Defilers!” “Profound Exalter of the Great Work!”

“Enough,” said the High Priest. “Lay the old one's carcass in the fire pit. Put down your klonzi to clean up this mess.”

Several among those present detached one or two clinging creatures and set them upon the floor, where they obediently began eating the tissue and fluids that had accumulated during the surgery as well as the bodies of the dead klonzis. Later, when the ashes and scraps were put outside, argni, larger scavengers than klonzi, would consume them. On E'Shampifant, nothing went uneaten.

High above the floor of the temple, on one of the great rafters that supported the heavy roof, an observer lay hidden behind a perforated ornament, an observer who saw and heard all that went on below. It had no involvement in what it saw. It had no feelings concerning what went on. Its presence was unknown, unguessed at. The Orskim on whom it spied were too complacent to believe themselves vulnerable. They would not have thought to look for a small, mostly biological device capable of listening, remembering, reciting; capable of smelling any odor present; capable of seeing and identifying individuals, even touching them occasionally, though usually not until the being in question was quite dead.

The observer, a member clone of a vast set named by its Tharstian masters “Perceptives Number Eleven,” was able, if required, to translate the language spoken here into several other languages. As it heard the word Gerfna'ors, it translated into Tharstian and also into Earthian, “Breaker of Eggs” as it zoomed its eye parts to catalog the attributes of the klonzi: two eyes, one nose, one mouth, two ears. Not unlike the human physiognomy, an ear on each side, short little arms, four of them, for picking and scraping. A strange set of legs that could carry the creature either on the feet or on the knees with the feet latched up behind. The observer looked closely, searching for signs of intelligence, finding none.

As those below busied themselves cleaning their equipment, the observer sent out a tiny probe shaped like the ubiquitous chitterers. It darted to the floor below and returned unobserved, carrying in its sharp little beak tissue samples that would yield the genetic pattern of the klonzi, of the leg section worn by these Orskim. Orski DNA had already been cataloged and its relationships and descent studied, but these other creatures were not of this planet originally.

The observer noted that the younger assistants had gone out, into the sun, while the surgeon and the priest walked down the line of the dying, assessing when the next implants should occur.

“Tomorrow for this one,” said the surgeon. “Two or three
days for the rest. When will we have the first humans to work on?”

“Within our allotted time. As soon as the humans go to war.”

“Will they go to war?”

“Oh, certainly. Very soon, one of their planetary survey groups will be attacked by the Derac! Atrocities will be committed! After that, it will be impossible for them to avoid war. It is all being done as we planned, generations ago. In the fury of war, the disappearances of humans will go unnoticed.”

“Has it been decided what they will be used for?”