Absorption (20 page)

Ames said, “That’s a Drinking Bird. Careful not to let it in.”

Brett could see why it was called a Drinking Bird. The black patch around the eye and the black triangular shape on the head gave it a rakish appearance, almost as if it wore a piratical eye patch and hat.

Behind Brett, Williams pointed out, “If you understand what happened you should be able to tell us about it – and if you don’t, it’s difficult to see how you can be completely certain it won’t repeat.”

Brett agreed with the words though not the tone. Williams didn’t sound impatient, or even deliberately patient, but as if he were saying it for the first time. Williams’ phobia about close contact with the bearers of nanotechnology seemed to be in remission; it was as if the other three were experts in a precise mincing dance which Brett could not perform, a dance which was no longer sufficient, a dance for which there was no more time. Brett felt a kinship with the bird in front of him. They were both unsubtle, but direct, persistent, and determined.

“Don’t open the screen or the bird will come in,” Nocker advised, perhaps not having heard Ames’ previous caution to that effect.

Brett didn’t see that the little bird flying around could make negotiations any slower. Maybe it would shake things up. His main concern was that the bird might be bored to death.

Brett slid aside one of the screens and the bird flew in. It didn’t fly around aimlessly but headed directly for the rim of Brett’s mug and began drinking beer rapidly. Surprised, Brett returned to his seat.

Nocker addressed Brett with a tone which was distinctly cool. “I see you’ve learned about some of the descendents of Earth fauna which have evolved to fill specialized niches on Oceania.”

Brett nodded, but he knew little about them.

“Soon I’m sure you’ll learn something about our culture too. We’re not all Lifists, but the idea of not killing pointlessly is engrained deeply. Some even consider Drinking Birds lucky. Children who find killing them an amusing game are usually considered distasteful.”

Brett didn’t quite understand how this involved him. “What?”

Nocker replied in a tone of determined patience none of the diplomats had used earlier, as if explaining something Brett only pretended not to know. “Drinking Birds often subsist on partially fermented fruit that has fallen from the tree. Liquid alcohol goes through their system much faster. When the drunk and hyperactive bird manages to get out through the open screen, it will bash its brains out flying into various obstacles – unless it manages to get high enough to die from the fall.”

Brett had to strangle a feeling that Nocker, or life in general, was being unfair. The Oceanians could hardly be blamed for his own misconstrual of their advice. Apparently Nocker was able to read the sincerity of his dismay, because his voice was softer when he continued.

“My fault then for assuming you understood – though I don’t know quite why you let the bird in anyway. It’s too fast to catch, even flying unsteadily, so there’s nothing we can do now. They breed fast, and thousands die every year.”

Brett couldn’t explain why this so dismayed him. Yet Nocker seemed to understand. “In that case there is one last resort. Close the screen if you will, the bird is already drunk.”

Brett complied. Nocker pulled a flexible cap out of his pocket. Neither of the Oceanians wore them so as to put their negotiating partners at ease. A few moments later several waiters and busboys rushed in. One actually had a net almost suited to the task at hand, others made do with colanders or bread baskets. The Drinking Bird flew fast and erratically, bumping its head as predicted, but there wasn’t enough space for it to build up too much speed. Even so it would have been uncatchable if not for the fact that the pursuit was crowded into such a small space.

A curly haired busboy triumphantly imprisoned it in a breadbasket, which he slid face down on the table with a little dish of water underneath so the bird didn’t dehydrate while sobering up.

Brett remarked with astonishment, “The service is excellent here.”

Before leading the others out, the taller waiter told Brett, “It’s our pleasure to serve you.”

Nocker said, “The ‘Aerie’ is playing a key role in the history of our world by hosting the negotiations where we convince you there is nothing to fear from our technology, and that your economy in fact benefits indirectly from it. Even capturing the little bird is a privilege for them, though you needn’t feel obliged to let any more in today.”

Brett took a deep breath, uncertain what to dispute first. It was Williams who spoke. “Perhaps we could view these discussions as a forum where each side discovers it can make concessions which formerly seemed unpalatable.”

Unfortunately there weren’t many concessions the Federalist Worlds could afford to make, given what was at risk.

Nocker sounded almost conciliatory. “Some Lifists believe each of us has an animal self somewhere in the world. Perhaps the Drinking Bird is yours. They can migrate long distances, sometimes individually rather than in flocks. Intrepid, wouldn’t you say?”

A waiter silently placed another mug of beer in front of Brett. Brett drank and wondered at this unexpected recognition of his finer qualities.

Nocker continued, “Sometimes they mate for life, sometimes not.”

Brett was glad the mug hid much of his face, although presumably Nocker wasn’t alluding to his personal life. Surely Oceanian gossip columnists and their equivalents had forgotten him by now.

“They are infinitely more than birds that fly out of the stratosphere, involve themselves in things they don’t understand, and leave a mess on the table.”

Brett almost choked on his beer. Unfortunately the bird had just made a mess on the tablecloth. Brett tried to think of a witty reply to puncture Nocker with. “I think it’s most unchivalrous of you to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.”

Not original, but self deprecatory humor was better than nothing.

Nocker smiled an acknowledgement and continued. “Perhaps I’ve misconstrued your, um, direct manner of speech. I’m aware you’ve found the courage to do something the vast majority of your compatriots would not have, and I do believe it will ultimately help us greatly.”

The words sounded good, but Brett’s infusion could hardly make them more willing to drop the technology. So Nocker must still be hoping the Federalist Worlds would become reconciled to it. Brett refused to become distracted.

“That’s me, dumb but brave,” he said amiably. “You know, every assumption I’ve made about this planet since I’ve been here has been wrong. I’m going to prospect for uranium by studying geological surveys, and when I’m sure I’ve found the perfect place, mine somewhere else. Now to me it seems obvious that if you could prove there was no danger of the tragic events on Roundhouse being repeated elsewhere, you would do so at all costs.”

Brett saw the anger on Nocker’s face, and headed off a distracting argument by saying immediately, “So everything that seems obvious to me always turns out to be wrong. You have the proof. You can’t or won’t give it. Does anyone in the Federalist Worlds have this evidence as well?”

Although he was watching Nocker, out of the corner of his eye he saw Ames hesitate a moment then nod his head a fraction of an inch. It had to be coincidence.

Brett asked, “Better yet, do you think anyone with my task force might know anything about it?”

This time there was no mistake, Ames hesitated a moment, either uncertain of the answer or hesitating to give it, then nodded his head a fraction. Could it be the Oceanian delegation was at cross purposes?

So someone knew …and hadn’t told! Brett needed to phrase his next question carefully. Much was on the line.

“Just hypothetically, if –”

Nocker interrupted. “I think you know we can’t answer these questions. I need to have a conference with my associate.”

The bastard had guessed his colleague was cooperating. Damn.

Brett knocked on Williams’ door with a cheery rat-tat-tat. Finally there would be progress.

He didn’t really need to report to Williams, whom he considered his superior in name only. Might as well be magnanimous though.

“Come in.”

As the door opened, Williams glanced at the chair on the visitor’s side of the rosewood desk. “And have a seat.”

Williams hadn’t finished his coffee, and there was still a little sleep in his eyes. Clearly not an early bird, though he sounded alert enough. “Good morning Brett. Any news?”

So Williams had noted the lack of recent progress. Brett started small, saving the best for last. “Today I’m going to practice learning verbal knowledge. After that I’ll be about as good with the nannies as an average Oceanian.”

Williams smiled. “Great. Lots of Oceanians think Federalists have an unreasoning fear, and you’re certainly helping.”

Brett continued. “I’m going to be reading an Oceanian history of Roundhouse. Understandably enough, some Oceanians find it difficult to accept the fact that the overmind built with their technology was responsible for what happened on Roundhouse. This guy thinks differently, and he’s a reputed historian.”

Williams lifted his head, and his eyes widened. “The book isn’t called ‘Alexander and His Mother’, is it?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Brett, be careful. You’re not the first one to hear about open intelligence. I think you’ll learn some useful things, but remember that the people above you already know them.”

What a peculiar reaction. Brett shrugged. “OK, thanks for being concerned. See you tonight.”

Brett didn’t dwell on the strangeness. He’d be seeing Ariel soon.

Brett asked dubiously, “So this building is called a library?”

Ariel nodded. “Is that a difficult concept?”

Brett shook his head. “Heck no. A huge warehouse full of books, user searchable, with a reading room attached. Should I ask why they aren’t available electronically all over the planet, or why people come here even though they are?”

Actually it was a rather pleasant place. The table was polished to a high gloss. The chairs were not entirely comfortable, despite a depression shaped vaguely like the human fundament carved into the seat. The seat kept the occupant alert. A breeze blew through the open windows on either side.

A teenage boy in a brown uniform placed a heavy book in front of Brett. He hurried off before he could be thanked.

The leather tome showed signs of wear. He asked, “Have a lot of people been studying the history of Roundhouse lately?”

It seemed natural enough, considering Oceanian involvement in recent events there, but Brett looked again, and amended his question. “They wouldn’t all turn the pages the same way, putting their fingers in the same spot on the edge. I wonder if someone recently wrote a thesis on this.”

“Maybe, but printing books that look used has become fashionable. Anyhow, reading a physical volume can be an anchor to help the nannies feed you knowledge. Try it out.”

Brett studied the cover. It was more garish than he would have expected of a scholarly history. The gigantic woman on the cover was familiar: the symbolic goddess Oceania. The artist had made her easily recognizable, yet with coarse and domineering features. She placed her hand on the head of another figure, as if giving a blessing. The other man had a brutal face, with a sloping forehead and a sneer. He carried a bloody sword and was dressed in anachronistic armor.

Never having been enthusiastic about long winded historical volumes full of footnotes, Brett was surprised how easily he became involved in this one – although the first few chapters were old history indeed. Few truly ancient records survived from the days the Octoids had maintained colonies of that useful servant species Humanity on some of their worlds. When the Octoid Empire had broken apart in civil war, humans had at first been treated more like valuable property to be captured than enemies. Over the millennia, as Octoids had killed each other, humans had taken over much of Roundhouse, the remaining Octoids reduced to allying with some human nations against others. But even for humanity, the situation was not ideal. Civilizations rose and fell as populations reached unsustainable levels and nations collapsed into anarchy. Each time more and more of the conveniently reachable fossil fuel was used up.

Brett looked up and stretched. “This is good stuff, but it would take me months to read it. Can’t the nannies help?”

Ariel glanced at the pages under his left hand. “You read a lot in the past forty minutes.”

It had to be a lot longer than that, but the computer on his belt agreed. He must have been turning pages without reading them. Then he recounted to himself a few of the different Human and Octoid factions he had read about, surprised by his retention.

“OK, you convinced me.”

She winked at him and continued reading. Brett stood up, stretched a few more muscles, and did the same.

For most of the last five hundred years, ‘modern’ times, the planet had been divided into two large alliances. Brett settled for thinking of one as the Eastern alliance and one as the Western alliance. The Western alliance included the remaining Octoids on the planet. Every thirty or forty years, war would engulf much of the planet. Large scale atrocities were perpetrated against civilian populations to avenge atrocities from previous wars, or in hope of cowing populations into perpetual submission, or in attempts at total extermination.