Authors: Gregory Benford and Larry Niven
“I expected more of you.”
“I can explain some features, Packmistress, and then describe—”
“On with it.”
“These primates have to live with a spectrum of desires driven by natural selection, as do we all. Their starship is a simple design, as if from a society that has developed quickly. That surely means they now operate in a world much different from their primitive lives. Yet still driving them are their deep desires. These, as our own species long ago learned, are hard to govern with learned experience or even medication. Their morality, as did ours, often fights with their desires. So to understand themselves is impossible for them, unless they can
see
their inner, unconscious minds.”
“They are retarded, then,” put in an Ecosystem Savant. This provoked feather-ripples of amusement, but no one made noises of glee; the occasion did not invite such.
“Indeed,” Memor said. “We could help them with this—”
“Help them?” Asenath showed vibrant oranges and reds in a dancing pattern, half in jesting colors, half in rebuke. “They got away from you!”
Memor stepped back, bowed, hooted in the notes of sorrow and beseeching. “They proved more clever than their ship implied.”
“Certainly more clever than their approach suggested,” Judge Savant Thaji injected. “They simply landed and came through our air lock. No caution! So young!”
“I can see that as misleading,” Asenath remarked without a single feather display. “Or subtle. They gained entrance, we thought we had them—then they got away.”
“And now they roam at will!” the Judge Savant said. “Doing damage! We have reports of several dead in 12-34-77 district—their doing, no doubt. They captured a car, as well.”
“Very grave,” a Biology Savant said. “Grounds for removal.”
“Or a more exacting measure,” the Judge Savant said with display of scorn and censure, gray and violet fans dancing in rebuke.
Memor stood and let the discussion run, for it would harm her cause to speak now. Instead she let her Undermind rule the moment. It conjured up for her a memory of a visit to the funeral pit, in all its elegant yet somber majesty. At its center was the Citadel of the Honored Dead, who would be churned into a matrix they shared with plants, animals, insects, and the depleted topsoil the honored would enhance. Subtly hidden machinery adjusted the slowly roiling mud-fluid for bacterial content, acidity, temperature, trace elements. First the Pit, then the Garden: the fate of all.
When the Undermind let go of the memory and was satisfied, Memor turned attention to the argument rustling all about her. Harsh things had passed her by in a flurry of hot words. She deliberately let these go, as was best in such heated moments. Insults are best not remembered. She let it all go, following the long-ranging talk but not engaging with it. Here, the Undermind helped.
The Judge Savant pressed her case for execution, calling it “a just recycling.” Others differed, calling for Memor’s replacement. Much talk. If Memor had followed it, laid it deep and solid in memory, she would then go through doubt and regret—which would in future impede her work. Better to let the moments glide by.
Yet questions about the primates called her out of her needful reverie. Refreshed, Memor pointed out that she had used classical methods of psychological control, since these primates were strongly social animals. She began by keeping them in comparatively small areas, and gave them just enough food to be sure they did not starve. “Still, hunger began to play a role in their behavior. Within ten of their sleep intervals—they seem to come from a planet with a fairly long day—they showed classic symptoms. Some began to communicate with us more often. This was obvious food-seeking. Slowly, I believe, they began to identify less with their fellows, and more with us—specifically, me.”
“Yes, very good,” a helpful underling allowed himself to say. All else ignored him, of course.
“Within five more sleep intervals, their mood shifted. Disputes began, often in their talk during meals. This, too, fits classical theory—eating brings food to the front of their minds, their hunger drives competition, then disagreement.”
“You broke down their social code? Their solidarity?”
“In part,” Memor said, hoping this would come over as modesty. In fact, though, she was unsure that she had. Hurrying on, she said, “They were obviously crew on a distant voyage, so we cannot expect to break them down quickly. Time is our friend here.”
“Any signs of the early stages of Adoption?”
“I believe so. They often brightened when one of my team gave them a bit of food, or allowed a small favor.”
“Your analysis of their minds suggests they can be Adopted?”
“In time, yes.”
This gained her shuffling fan-gestures of approval, and the air eased.
In the end it came down to a vote. Memor suffered through the moments as each voter consulted her Undermind and finally cast an electronic signal. Asenath displayed the results, and—a shocked hush.
“You have survived in your office,” Asenath said, letting a pitch of reluctance skate among her words. “But I shall monitor you, and report you to this assembly when needed.”
Memor allowed herself a relieved bow. There came hoots of derision, and a background soft melody of approval, expressed in sighs and foot-claps of applause.
In the great vault the gathered began a rhythmic chanting. The Protocols called for some group expression, and the momentum of the moment gave it forth. The chant called out an ancient rhythm. It spoke of what the Essence is not, instead of what it is. This set the Citadel into a great rolling call, amid hooting songs and vibrant bass notes.
Joyful joined we are, eternal.…
This was clearly a rebuke of Memor, a reminder of what the Universe of Essences demanded of all the Folk.
She felt grateful to escape with a mere reproach. She even roared and stomped and joined in with the chorus. The humming calls grew and she began to enjoy it all. Release.
But the memory of the Pit, then the Garden—these remained long after.
Cliff awoke to feel the ground trembling. Blinking, eyes gritty, he
looked around at the small copse of ellipsoidal ferns they had sheltered under. Nothing visible in the shadows. No odd scuttlings.
But he could make out a faint, ominous rumble from below. There was no actual geology here, so it had to be machinery moving on the outer face of the Bowl. He got up and walked barefoot, feeling the vibration. It seemed louder in one direction and as he moved, the ground trembled a bit more. Birds rustled and chirruped in response to it.
Then it began to fade, though he kept walking, and by the time he reached a slab of fused rock, he could feel nothing. The source must have passed, so maybe it was a moving platform on the other side, an elevator or similar.
Then he noticed he was out of the trees. Feeling vulnerable alone, he glanced at the mercifully empty sky and quickly sought the canopy cover.
Like a terrified rodent,
he thought ruefully.
But he couldn’t get back to sleep. He had been deep in a softly erotic dream of Beth. Their biggest problem was the unending day. They all had trouble sleeping because there was always something up and active, rustling through foliage, setting off their apprehensions. Now, though, the others were snuffling and snoring and he envied them. At least he could use the time to think, to plan.
He lay back and looked through the canopy at the dim presence of the star. The jet was a scratch across the sky, flexing with whorls and tendrils. Near the star little flashes of brilliance lit the base. He was getting used to this sky, to this place—and that was dangerous.
So much here had a familiar feel—the sudden sizzle of lightning splintering a sky, a patter of rain, moaning breezes—but the tremor just now gave him an important warning. Here they all lived with a strangeness made all the more discomforting by its deceptive likeness to a world they all knew, and would never see again.
So they had to use everything, especially deception. They were torn between the need to stay out of sight and the drive to explore. They had disguised their craft, making it sand colored. From a distance, the sand ship made no impression, but close up it did move and attract the eye. The fixed wing aerial surveys they occasionally saw in the distance had missed them. Cliff hoped their pursuers were losing interest, because the fliers were getting spotty. Luckily, no intelligent aliens seemed to live in this vast desert.
But his gang of five was getting surly and hungry. They had learned to spot and shoot the large, savage lizards that lived in the rock outcroppings. The meat was nearly as leathery as the brown hide, but over a roaring fire of hardwood that did not give off smoke, it supplied protein they badly needed. No talk; they ate eagerly. Carbohydrates were harder to find, and water always an issue.
He had tried to forage for edibles, but the problem was tough. Not only was this an alien ecology, but it was also one that worked without night. What did that do to plant evolution? What kind of defenses did plants have here? On Earth, poisons were defenses against predators—tobacco was a particularly effective one in the tropics, where there was no winter to kill off the insects.
But in this Bowl, no winter saved plants or animals from constant predation. So Cliff expected to find plenty of poisons, deceptions, disguises. He had already seen plants that looked like rocks or even skeletons. The leathery lizards could bound sideways, because they had two forelegs and one hindleg designed to give them startling leaps. What hunted the lizards? He expected that the evolutionary arms race meant that a big predator was around, but he saw none. Maybe the lizards ruled this region, the top predators.
Humans were new here, so creatures mostly took no notice of them. But big birds smacked them in the head, or dived for their eyes, apparently mistaking them for some easier game—but what creature was that?
They had all lost weight. Howard, who was always recovering from some accident or injury, was now downright pallid and scrawny. They all leaned on Cliff to find more edible foods, and he had some successes—but was running out of ideas.
He heard some movement nearby and turned, automatically reaching for his laser. “You woke me up,” Irma said, sitting down beside him.
“Spotty sleep is better than none,” Cliff said, holding out a piece of the odd fruit they’d found. It looked like a puffer fish with spokes of purple hair, but tasted sweet and dark.
“Good call on this one. Better than mangoes, even.”
“Sliced it, smelled it, tip of the tongue—that’s all we’ve got to go by. I wish I had some testing gear to use on candidate food.”
Irma nodded. “Those woodlands we first went into, the soil was more acidic and moist. The soil here, though, seems alkaline and dry.”
“Like most Earthside deserts.”
“Right, so we can use our intuition from what works there. Look there—”
Within a few meters were fernlike plants, thorny bushes, prickly globes dangling temptingly from enormous trees. “Okay.”
They climbed partway up the crusty bark of the tree and brought down two of the large oval fruit. “Funny,” Irma said. “They trail these coarse leafy strands, look more like tendrils.”
He cut into one. “There’s this fuzzy red tinge to the skin, like blister rust on Earth. But what’s that mean here?”
He sniffed the rosy skin and found no stink of decay, but again, what would rot smell like here? So he sliced off a chunk, bit in—and found a gusher of warm soft sweet succulence burst in his mouth. “Maybe poison, sure, but soooo good…”
She grinned. “I’ll wait, see if you topple over.”
He waited to see if his stomach rejected it, but nothing happened. Irma said, “I think we should sleep in shifts. Keep two guards up, spell each other every four hours.”
“Let’s try it. But it’s hard to sleep on the sand ship.”
“We have to keep moving if we’re going to learn much.”
“Yeah, sure—but I’m wondering what we’re doing, running around. We sure as hell aren’t getting closer to understanding this place.”
She patted him on his shoulder. “Don’t get down about it. The guys take their cues from you.”
“Huh? I’m not in charge.”
She grinned. “Like it or not, you are.”
“Who said?”
“Primate politics. Ever notice? They say their piece, argue, then look at you.”
He sniffed. “No, I hadn’t noticed. Aybe and Terry give me plenty of grief.”
“They’re scared. We’re all scared. Sometimes that comes out as anger.”
“Uh, glad you brought that up.” The scent of her, after yesterday’s swim in a pond, was messing with his concentration. He felt uncomfortable somehow, so resorted to safer generalities. “I see some old patterns emerging under the stress. The guys are summoning up their inner macho, like putting on armor. Not that I’m immune, either.”
“You don’t flex it like they do.”
He chuckled ruefully. “Look, as a teenager I practiced cool smoking in the mirror—” She laughed and he blushed. “No, I really did. Cancer sticks! I also impressed dates by revving the engine at stoplights.”
She laughed. “No! You had a combustion car?”
“An heirloom, the license cost a fortune. Once I tried on thirty sunglasses to get the right ominous look. With guys like Aybe and Terry, I talked tech and .45 automatics, usually while holding a beer bulb. And—” He glanced at her. “—I wore jeans so tight, I got sore balls and a red rash.”
She cackled, slapped her knee. “That’s so bad, it must be true.”
“Sure, it was ridiculous then, it’s ridiculous now—but Aybe and Terry are faking a calm they don’t have.”
She nodded. “Sometimes it’s so thick, you could cut it with a knife. I see them eyeing us, hiding their fears. Good deduction, Cliff-o.”
He turned to her. “We’ve gotten used to being scared, maybe. But I don’t—”
Without warning, she reached over, hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. Held it, long and hard. Let go, sat back, looked at him levelly. “Had to say that.”
Say what?
he thought. “I, look, I’m—”