Shaman (14 page)

“The—em—Avatar or whatever he was, Kalkt, gave each Tribe a sensory Key. One Tribe has a snatch of song and sound, another a particular fragrance, the third a taste and so on. Together they form keys to a racial memory of the Sacred Shrine—oh, the way a sudden fragrance or a bit of song reminds you strongly of something you did or someone you were with or a time in your life. We've all experienced that. Well, to the Tsong Zee these sensory cues are much more tangible than they are to us. Which, by the way, is one of the reasons you were having so much trouble initially with Tsuru.”

“With —?”

“Their language—Tsuru. It's made up to a great extent of visual cues, inflections... in fact, I believe they even recognize scent messages.”

Yoshi was nodding emphatically. “The sniffing,” she said. “I caught them sniffing as if they could divine what you meant by the odor of your words.”

Rhys pointed his finger at her. “Right. And I don't know if anyone else noticed it, but they were all wearing the same perfume.”

“I noticed, sir,” murmured Yoshi.

“But why?” asked Danetta. “Why would they wear a uniform scent?”

“Maybe it's exactly that—part of their uniform. Or maybe it's a negotiating tactic. To quite literally throw us off their scent. Maybe they don't want to give away individual emotions, express individual viewpoints. They want, rather, to express the view of the group. Perhaps having a roomful of Tsong Zee all exuding personal thoughts as scent would be the equivalent of us going in there and jabbering away all at once.”

“The Keys?” prompted Governor Bekwe.

“According to Brasn, when the planet was purged, the Speakers of the Five Tribes were to share their Keys. The collective Keys would lead them to this White Shrine. The problem is, the visual Key has been lost.”

“The Tribe forgot it?”

Rhys shook his head. “Didn't you notice, Governor, that when they told us the epic, Parsa—who is a Tiller by descent—chanted on behalf of the Walkers, telling the Walker part of the story from the Tiller point of view? Keere, a Trader, did the same thing when his Tribe's interaction with the Walkers came up. That's because there are no more Walkers. Their ship failed to make it through the time shift. And they had the visual Key.”

“Puzzle with a piece missing,” murmured Danetta.

“Do you believe them?” asked Joseph Bekwe.

“Yes, dammit, he does!” Alleen Goodyear made no attempt to hide her anger. “Admit it, Doctor. You
like
them.”

Rhys took a deep breath and felt for the small, leather Pa-Kai fetish pouch on its silken thong. Patience. “Yes, I like them. They're a likable lot.”

“But their story is incredible!” Bekwe argued. “With temporal technology that would send them backward millions of years, why didn't they simply jump forward into Velvet's purified future?”

“They didn't have the skills necessary. Nor did they have the capacity to work together. They had their own purging to accomplish—prejudices, hatreds, mutual distrust. According to Brasn, they had to acquire the wisdom and discipline necessary to use the Keys. They viewed it as their part of a covenant with Kalkt.”

“Hooey,” said Alleen. “And you fell for it. It was penitent nonsense, Joseph, really. I don't believe for one moment that they've been living in the past, doing penance for their sins, and learning to behave like good little aliens. Nobody exiles themselves to a ball of cold rock just so they can learn the error of their ways.”

“No Human, you mean,” said Rhys. “You're judging them by Human standards—or, well, Terran ones, at any rate. And I don't even think you're right about that. Human history is full of individuals who voluntarily did penance, as you put it. But as to the proving of it—they offered to transport us back for a tour of Exile.”

Danetta stared at him. “Rhys, you aren't seriously considering getting aboard one of those ships!”

“Actually, I'd love to get aboard one of those ships, but what would be the point? We'd have no way of being certain that what they showed us was actually that planet out there.” He jabbed his finger at the ceiling. “Besides which, what they've shown us of their technology is enough to make any sane person suspect they may have even more wonders up their colorful sleeves.”

“But you believe them anyway,” pressed Danetta.

Rhys's gaze touched hers obliquely on its way to the window. “Well, they're supposedly going to show me something by way of evidence at our next session.”

Bekwe sighed explosively. “We need to get a message to the Collective before this situation gets completely out of hand. There's already a citizens' group agitating for a military response. A surprise attack. They find the idea of us negotiating with the Tsong Zee extremely repugnant and are of the firm if uninformed opinion that anyone with that much firepower can't possibly mean well. They're psyching themselves up for a battle.”

“Better dead than Red,” murmured Rhys.

“What?”

“A very old nationalistic watchword. It expresses the idea that it's better to die fighting than to live under alien fiat.”

“Well, isn't it?” asked Goodyear.

“The Tsong Zee aren't trying to enslave us, Ms. Goodyear,” Rhys observed. “If their story is true, they are asking us to liberate their planet... to liberate them.”

Bekwe shook his head. “How can we? Even if they did find this Shrine of theirs, how can we just pack up and leave?”

Rhys gestured his two assistants to his side. “We'll need to establish a headquarters, Governor. We'll need access to the Dynamic Translator and your computer system—complete library access.”

“Of course. Our resources are at your disposal.”

Rhys moved closer to the transparent outer wall of the office, affording Velvet's scenery what was probably only the second notice he'd given it since arriving.

Stunning
, he thought.
Bloody stunning
. It made him think almost painfully of Scotland in early summer.

Movement on the plaza below pulled his attention down from the outlying mountains. A crowd had gathered there to mill and chatter, while above them, on the edge of an ornamental planter, a man paced and gestured, turning to address them, pausing to tease them. He had their attention, and drew their fear into his hands where he could massage it, amplify it, direct it.

“How dangerous is this citizens' group, Governor?” Rhys asked, his eyes not leaving the square.

“Dangerous? To whom?”

“To themselves, to all of you.” He turned back to the group in the office. “Who pushes the buttons, Governor? Who aims the lasers? Could this lot get access to them?”

“I like to think not. But they're fronted by some fairly powerful businessmen and, in case you hadn't noticed, Velvet is almost all business.”

Rhys's eyes went back to the window. “The Traders versus the Searchers, this time, then,” he murmured.

“Funny you should put it that way,” said Governor Bekwe with nothing like humor, “because Harris Beneton wants to meet with you.”

“Wonderful,” Danetta said and looked anything but pleased.

Rhys's eyebrows ascended. “Should I know this name?”

Danetta shook her head. “No, but I do. I had a brief altercation with him during some business negotiations before all of this happened. A singularly stubborn individual who seemed to be very much aware of his own worth... in dollars and cents, at any rate. By the end of the first ten minutes, I wanted to call him Lord Beneton.”

Joseph Bekwe was nodding vigorously, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. “I've never heard a more accurate description of the man. I met with him and a group of his associates earlier today. Harris Beneton is the head of BeneCon Enterprises, a growing consortium of businesses that now have major interests in Velvet's vast array of resources. This situation is extremely unsettling to him—to put it mildly. Mr. Beneton will lose an empire if the Tsong Zee force us to leave Velvet. Even if we were to come to some sort of terms—I told him we'd try to negotiate, at any rate—well, let's just say he's not inclined to share. He and his associates are of the firm opinion that a military option is the only one we should be discussing.”

“May I ask,” Rhys asked, “how Mr. Beneton came to find out that the Tsong Zee were claiming Velvet?”

Joseph Bekwe's face suffused with sudden color. “He claims he figured it out himself—scuttlebutt from incoming merchanters and, of course, the big aerial display they put on. He... told me what he thought was happening—that we were being invaded—and demanded to know if his enterprises were at risk. I really didn't see an advantage to being evasive. He'd already jumped face first into a worst-case scenario—one I had no intention of letting him spread all over Haifa. The true situation, as I knew it at the time, was a long step back from the brink.”

“And why,” asked Rhys, “does he want to talk to me?”

“I explained that we had an expert dealing with the situation. He demanded to know what kind of expert, so I told him you were an anthropologist, xenologist, linguist, and a top negotiator for the Tanaka Corporation.”

“Ah. And did that impress him suitably?”

“It did not. He wants to make sure you understand the situation from the viewpoint of Velvet business concerns.”

“Sir, is this where someone measures you for concrete galoshes?”

Everyone in the room turned to stare at Yoshi, whose face, despite the sheer absurdity of what she'd said, was completely and ingenuously solemn.

Quailing under the sudden scrutiny, she took a step in retreat and unnecessarily batted a wing of glossy black hair away from her cheek. “I'm sorry, sir. I was just reading a history of twentieth century mega-business and... well, you know sir... the ‘Big Boss?' ‘The Man?' Concrete galoshes were used to make recalcitrant associates appreciate corporate policy. Although, sometimes they got... 'iced'... or... 'chilled'...” Her voice trailed away miserably. “Excuse me, sir. I must have misunderstood the situation.”

“I'm not so sure, young lady,” said Joseph Bekwe. “Beneton and his cronies are... the sort of businessmen you're not terribly pleased to see in a new colony. I'm not sure ruthless is the right word for them, but they are singularly purposeful in their undertakings. There were a lot more small, independent businesses in Haifa before BeneCon came into being.”

“But they've never done anything illegal?” Rhys asked.

“Not that I know of. At least, I've never had any official complaints. But you'll want to be careful with him. Tactful. The last thing we need right now is someone of Beneton's stature encouraging the sort of thing that's happening in our courtyard.”

“What's the official stance in the media? What are you telling your colonists?”

“That we have visitors. That they are in no danger. That the situation is being dealt with.”

Rhys nodded. “I suppose that's about all you can say under the circumstances. It'd do no good at all to tell them they may have to start packing... or fighting.”

Bekwe started uneasily. “Do you think that's a possibility?”

“My dear governor, anything's possible. Conventional wisdom would suggest we expect the best and prepare for the worst.”

o0o

Harris Beneton was not what Rhys expected. He was a young man—of an age with Rhys—which indicated he was either formidable or fortunate or both. He had a quiet, sober manner and eyes that missed nothing.

“You're the expert negotiator?” he asked, shaking Rhys's hand. It was not so much a question as an expression of incredulity which Rhys was obliged not to react to.

“That's what they tell me,” he returned agreeably. “And you're the head of a consortium. I'm told you wanted to discuss something with me. I can't imagine what.”

Danetta, already seated with the governor at the oval table in his private conference room, quickly suggested the two men take their places.

Once they had, Beneton came directly to the point. “I do have something to discuss with you, Dr. Llewellyn. My consortium has a major interest in Velvet. In fact, Velvet is its only interest. BeneCon is not part of some off-world conglomerate, so our destiny is rather more tied to the survival of this colony than say, Tanaka's. If you are to be negotiating for this entire colony, I want to be assured that you're not going to bargain it out of existence.”

Rhys smiled. “And you think that's something I can guarantee? That's raw flattery, Mr. Beneton.”

“No, I don't think you can guarantee it. That's why I stand behind a military solution to this problem. I want you to make the Orcas understand that if they aren't willing to leave peacefully, military intervention will become necessary.”

“Orcas?”

Beneton smiled briefly. “A term I coined. Accurate, don't you think? I find their skin reminiscent of a killer whale's.” His eyes added that he thought he was extremely clever.

Rhys let the racial slur pass and pursued the more relevant theme. “I can't make the Tsong Zee understand something I don't appreciate myself. Governor Bekwe has mentioned military action as a defensive last recourse and then, only if the Tsong Zee resort to violence themselves. We are conducting negotiations—”

“Negotiations? They come in here all but flying the Jolly Roger, and you want to negotiate? What's to negotiate? They're clearly the aggressors. We've no choice but to call in the Collective.”

“They may have a viable claim. A reasonable approach—”

“They can't possibly have a viable claim. The extinct natives of Velvet were not a spacefaring race. That's common knowledge, Dr. Llewellyn. I can only assume that your being new to the situation—”

“Mr. Beneton, I am an anthropologist. I have been over the archaeological data and I thoroughly understand them. One of the first things an archaeologist learns is that unless it's written in stone, nothing is written in stone. Your people here have been dealing in theories and hypotheses built upon a foundation of fragmentary physical evidence. It is possible, if not probable, that the Tsong Zee have a claim to Velvet. And we have to investigate that possibility.”