Authors: Gregory Benford and Larry Niven
These Sils evolved first in trees—often a source of later troubles, for it gave them dexterous use of several limbs. Thus the Bird Folk bred quite deliberately for higher intelligence and tool use, by increasing artificial selection, testing the results, and directing their mating to enhance the effects. The Sil were domesticated and made smarter, suiting them better for the technological jobs needed to tend the Bowl. Troubles came when these wily ones rebelled, or worse, tried to expand their territory. The tragic solution was to be avoided, of course, but even that didn’t always work.
“Crews! Begin firing!” the Captain called.
Memor braced herself. This was the inevitable problem with using living beings to fly in the Bowl’s deep atmosphere. Of course, they could not use chemical fuels for every aircraft, as that would tax the farming regions beyond their endurance. Electrodynamic flight was preferred for long stays aloft, but was too delicate for the long skirmishes that regional patrol officers had to carry out. Skyfish, though, could bear up under the typically archaic weaponry Adopted species could bring to bear. Further, its immense vault of hydrogen made it ferocious in close air support.
As Memor watched, the crew used their flame guns on scattered Sil groups on the ridgeline. These were apparently spotters, for they were armed with simple chemical explosive weapons. As the skyfish slewed slowly to the left, it brought its flame spouts to bear. Gouts of rich golden flame raked the ridge. They were so close, Memor could hear angry shouts from the burning ridge, often followed by shrieks and screams as their last agony came to them. Not a delicious sound, but reassuring, yes.
Then the pain projectors came into play. Memor watched as the Captain adroitly directed the assaults, driving the Sil. The running, struggling Sil looked like herd animals in a panic. Then the green laser pulses destroyed them in densely packed groups. It slashed down, annihilating in fire and ferment. The Sil broke into fleeing remnants.
But the skyfish was taking hits as well. The simple Sil had fixed artillery set up with surprisingly mischievous warheads that blew shredding blasts into the underbody. Memor felt the floor vibrate as the great beast reacted, flinching from the wounds. A deep bass note rang and the wall membranes fluttered. In answer the gun crews poured on more pain projector power. Soundless, this was the standard weapon to terrify opponents.
Yet the artillery fire did not abate, even under maximum power. “The Sil surely cannot withstand—” Memor broke off as she saw on the viewer the gun crews. Primates!
The Late Invaders had come. “Captain, use your lasers.”
The male displayed a corona of dismay. “Their fire has disabled our forward batteries, Astronomer. I apologize for—”
The skyfish writhed as shrapnel struck it. Long rolling waves warped the moist walls. Equipment smashed down from their perches. Crew ran by, babbling of emergencies. Memor ignored this and said, “Your sting does not take with these primates. They have different neurons. You must use the gas-fed lasers.”
“We will get them up and running. A few moments—”
A volley from below slammed into the great beast. Memor carefully descended, feet seeking a balance as the floor shifted—down a great curving stair and through a polished plate glass dilating door into the skyfish bridge. Chaos.
The Captain turned and bowed. “We have taken many hits, Astronomer. Perhaps we relied on the agony projectors too much—”
“Perhaps?” Memor scarcely thought it necessary to point out that the skyfish was floundering, spewing fluids from multiple wounds, losing altitude, veering erratically. “Perhaps?”
“I propose we withdraw—”
“If you can.”
“We can mend and rearm at higher altitude—”
“If you can reach it.”
Skyfish had all the advantages of living technologies, but they had their own life cycles as well. The marriage of life with material was a great ancient success that made the Bowl biosphere work, but of course with drawbacks. Life-forms needed rest and could self-repair, and even with help could reproduce—and all that took time. In battle, at times knowing the organism’s limits meant having the wisdom to withdraw.
“This beast is badly damaged. It’s frightened—feel it?” The floor and walls were vast lapidary membranes that now shook with a neurological spasm. Smoldering fumes rose amid the clanging discord.
“We relied too much perhaps on the agony projectors. In future—”
“You have no future. We are so close to these primates, yet they prevail.”
“I can—”
“Get me to my pod.”
“I believe we have the situation in hand, or soon will,” the Captain persisted. “My crews can quickly bring the laser—”
“If the hydrogen vaults are breached, we shall have no further disputes. I will have my pod
now.
”
Memor loved the moist, fragrant membranes of skyfish, but prudence demanded that she not risk herself while this great being floundered and perhaps even failed. She swiftly followed the running escorts, down a long ramp and to the side farthest away from the rattling battle. Here her pod waited, with crew looking anxious. “Depart,” she said, “with speed.”
As they dropped away from the great belly of the beast, Memor wondered what this reversal might mean. There had been regional revolts before, of course. These Sil fit the age-old pattern—an Adopted species suffers some cultural or even genetic shift, and becomes difficult to manage. Standard strategy was to contain the conflict, using reliable nearby territories. Such struggles set up larger scale rivalries, of course, and with adroit handling, these could lead to calm. Once the regional Profounds played factions off against each other, stability emerged.
That would have to be done here—unless the aliens upset the usual forces. These Sil were canny creatures, a fairly recent addition to the Adopted. A mere twelve-triple-cubed Annuals had passed since their genetic alteration had pacified them. Perhaps it was time for a more fundamental solution—pruning.
But the primates had now shown that they were too destabilizing. Their ship, which might hold technologies of some use, might as well be destroyed. Those at large would have to be exterminated. It was a pity, for their minds were a fount of oddities, and study might reveal some of the features of the Folk in far antiquity—even before the opening of the Undermind.
Well, perhaps Memor could conduct some research with them, before the executions. That would be a just reward for her, after all the annoying troubles they had brought.
Sitting on a riverbank beside lounging aliens, Cliff recalled his
father showing him how to cast for fish.
The rhythm, first—how to cast the line with his elbow doing the real work and his wrist firm while the left hand payed out the line. A quick rainbow trout had leaped for it in a silver flash. He had felt it tug back and forth as it fought. When he reeled it in, the gasping body was a sacred, beautiful thing. He had thrown it back, on impulse, and his dad had laughed, comprehending the wonder of it.
No such goal here. He landed a big, floppy thing that watched him with huge round yellow eyes when he dragged its bulk up onto the shoreline. Oddly, once out of the water it did not fight. Maybe it expected to be tossed back in? If aliens did catch-and-release, maybe so.
He fidgeted the hook out—the fish mouths were bony and complex here—and turned with the heavy body in his arms. The Sil danced their heads around and made a high, murmuring noise. Slowly it dawned on him that this was their way of applauding.
One Sil came forward, took the fish, and did an astonishing thing. It cast the fish up and with a flashing knife blade caught the skin, tossed the fish up using the leverage, and spooled the skin off. It was a miraculous trick, skinning the fish—and then the Sil sectioned the fish, too, in slashing cuts as it turned in air. One of the Sil offered Cliff a hand-sized slice of sashimi.
Cliff took a bite out of courtesy. It was near tasteless, something like tai.
These creatures were quicker than the eye could see.
Their lands were different, too: lush greenery, few rocky landscapes, odd trees and big-leafed plants rich in fruit. Plenty of scampering small game, too, which the Sil must relish hunting.
He sat and thought about the Sil for a while and then of Beth. He wondered where she was, what she had learned. He recalled the soft brush of her hair on his chest when she hovered over him, sighing in low, sliding notes. He longed to see her, share the eerie wonder of this place with her. There might be trouble over Irma, but …
but what?
He had deliberately not thought about the problem. Irma had been a refuge from the increasing tensions that came from roving in hostile territory, yes.… But was there more to it? He didn’t know.
Face problems as they come,
he realized, had become his working rule. Irma sat down lazily beside him. “If you leave out these meaningful silences, I won’t fall asleep.”
Cliff shrugged. “No meaning at all. I’m just feeling good.”
She yawned. “My dad always said—” She did a deep, boisterous male voice. “—it’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
“I already had mine.”
“Did you follow all that talk from Quert?”
“About being an ‘Adopted’ species?”
“Yeah, that whoever runs this place takes on board species from worlds they cruise by.”
“They have the room for it.”
“Not really a new idea, just bigger scale. I mean, we humans invented our own little niche evolution when we domesticated wolves.”
“Sure, and when we turned bottle gourds into containers. But equally, that let dogs and gourds colonize the human niches—catch a ride on an opportunity.”
“The Bowl is an opportunity passing by, with land to spare.”
“This is a clue to why they built this thing. It’s impossibly big, sure, using materials so strong, they rival the subnuclear struts we have in
SunSeeker
. But they haven’t let the smart species here overrun the natural environment.”
She sat up and watched a Sil try Cliff’s makeshift fishing rod. The Sil had their own, but were curious. It spun a line out a long distance with one liquid move. “You mean, they haven’t done what we did to Earth.”
“Right. And got to go star-hopping while they do it.”
“We evolved to take short-term predictions and make snap decisions using them. Long term isn’t our strong suit. Just look at the Age of Appetite—it ran more than two centuries!”
“Must have been fun.”
He applauded as the Sil caught a fish, uglier and even bigger than his. His noise made Sils nearby turn, startled, and give them long looks. Cliff recalled that if humans stared at each other for long, it meant they would either fight or make love. With the Sil, staring was clearly more complex. Their graceful faces used the eyes as much as humans used their mouths for signaling. Apparently right eye squinting and left wide open meant puzzlement.
He contented himself with just waving. Their eyes widened in appreciation.
“The 2100s were about digging out from the damage, getting the climate stable. Only way to do it was with a big presence in space, metals and rare earths from asteroids, a solar system economy. Then we got hungry for the stars.”
“They must’ve, too.”
“Then why not just send out ramscoops, like us?”
“Maybe they did. Maybe came to Earth and left no trace.”
“Haven’t we seen Earth species here?”
He nodded. “I’ve seen plenty of things I recognized. It could be parallel evolution—function calls out form, the same shapes. Like that fish. It’s god-awful ugly, but so are some fish I saw in the Caribbean.”
“Bet it tastes good, though.”
His stomach growled. “I’ll start a fire. That’s a good point—the twist of molecules, the chemical hookups here. They’re close enough to ours so we don’t starve.”
Quert appeared from the rich foliage, carrying a pack. “Swimmer! Good.” In one swift sweep, he took it from Cliff and said, “Cook we will.”
Cliff sniffed the air. “Woodsmoke. They already knew I’d catch something.”
“They’re smart. I wonder why they took such losses just to pluck us off that train.”
“They want out from under the boss who runs this.”
“Well, we sure can’t help them.”
“Probably not. We’re damned lucky to be alive.”
“Did you think we’d last this long?”
“Not really.” Cliff took a deep breath and plunged on, feeling awkward. “I … didn’t think we’d become lovers, either.”
She blinked and looked hard at the river flowing past, clear and cool. Avoiding his eyes. “We’re not, really. At least, I don’t love you.”
“Me either. ‘Utility sex,’ wasn’t that what you called it?”
She giggled nervously. “I did say that.”
“You and your guy were going to have a standard contract marriage?” he said to be saying something.
“Yup, when we got settled at Glory. Then I’d bring out my stored eggs and have a family. We figured a twenty-five-year contract would do that nicely.”
“Beth and me, we hadn’t gotten that specific. In all the training, there wasn’t time to…”
“To really think it through? Actually, it’s feeling it through that does the trick.”
“Um. ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ I suppose.”
“What? Oh, Shakespeare. Well, this is alteration”—she waved a hand at the Bowl, which hung like a shimmering haze across the sky—“beyond anything I imagined.”
“So…” He savored finally getting some use from his high school English, then sobered. He wanted to get something settled but didn’t know how. “We keep up with the … utility?”
She shrugged. “It helps.” Then she gave him a wicked grin. “That’s my story for now.”
“Might be trouble when we meet our mates.”
“Face that when it comes.”
He stood, stretching. He watched in the distance dust devils climb toward the roof of the sky, in an atmosphere so deep, he could see huge dark clouds that hung like mountains in the high, fuzzy distance. How were they ever going to figure out this place?
Aybe, Howard, and Terry arrived, carrying some plants they had harvested with the Sil. “Shoulda had you along, Cliff, so’s you’d know what these things are, if we can eat ’em. Howard spotted a lot of this.”