The Greatship (9 page)

Hoop described the aliens’ arrival:  A crude, ungainly starship suddenly plunging from deep space, fusion engines struggling to kill its terrific momentum.  Ishwish was the first human voice they ever heard, and the first human face they had ever seen for themselves; and in a pose of perfect submission, he begged the ruling clans for help.  They gave permission for him to move into orbit, but the machine struggled with even that simple task.  Once a sun-blasted comet, the ship was a fancy set of engines rooted in black tar and porous stone, the entire contraption bolstered with hyperfiber girders and incalculable amounts of luck.  Ten thousand humans, plus supplies and an army of sleeping machines, had set out to make a new world habitable.  But the colonists were plainly inexperienced at terraforming.  Dressing a newborn world in a breathable atmosphere and a drinkable ocean would require more bodies than they had, as well as a heroic patience.  Yet most alarming to the Clans was that their crude starship had been damaged, and not by natural means.

“Internal explosions,” Washen said.

“Some flavor of fighting.  Yes.”  The creature stared at a distant point, watching events he could only imagine.  “We made scans, and the scans were followed by probes.  Probes gave way to diplomats.  A civil struggle had broken out among the colonists, we learned.  Two governments had coalesced around opposing ideals, each occupying a different portion of the damaged vessel.”

Washen nodded, saying nothing.

“Our world was relatively isolated,” Hoop continued.  “None of us had any direct experience with humans.  To us, your species were abstractions.  Well-drawn abstractions, since we had collected substantial files about your history and nature.  But until your arrival, no one imagined that we would become neighbors, much less that you would slink up to our front door, pleading for aid.”

She nodded.  “To whom did the captain speak?”

“It was my father.”  Hoop extended a giant hand, palm up—a sign of charity for both species.  “He was an Elder in my clan’s council.  Others urged distrust.  But my mother told me, more than once, that my father felt it would be wise to make friends with humans.  You were a bold young and foolish species, investing too much energy to place a few bodies on an ugly little planet that didn’t look at all promising to us.  But he believed that he liked you.  In Ishwish, he found qualities that struck him as…the concept does not translate well…but in his eyes, the human captain was sympathetic and pathetic, honorable and powerfully intriguing…”

Washen quoted a Clan truism, declaring, “‘Kindness is power; charity proves strength.’”

“Strength.”  Hoop repeated the word several times, in both languages, while the hand closed, a mailed fist turning slowly in the air between them.  “My father led the delegation that met directly with Ishwish.  Captain and crew as well as the loyal colonists were gathered around the engines, while rebel colonists controlled the bow and most major habitats.  The fighting was constant, but sloppy.  So the ship was still intact.  Half of the humans were dead, but only temporarily.  Their burnt, eviscerated corpses were mummified and kept locked away, mostly held as prisoners, waiting for one winner to be declared and for the ship’s hospital to be reactivated.”

Washen imagined herself sitting on a captain’s chair.  “The situation was treacherous.”

“Chaotic and frightful, and to us, difficult to comprehend.  How can two sides fight for decades with no winner standing over the loser?”  The black eyes focused on her face.  “Yet when he breathed the same air, my father was deeply impressed with the Ishwish creature.  Returning home, he told my mother that he had felt as if the human had been his friend for ten thousand years.  The creature offered perfect words, often in our language.  How he spoke was flawless and soothing.  And the stance of his little body…well, his performance was superior to yours today, my monkey dear…that great man clinging to the filthy black floor, licking at tar dusts and human blood, confessing to his guest that he was helpless to save his wicked, doomed ship.”

“The captain had experience with your species,” she said.

“Ishwish told us about those old human wars, yes.  He named battles and offered dates that we found waiting in our files, and in all the respectable ways, he proved that he trusted us and that we could trust him.  With our sweet help, he would regain control over the starship.  And as final proof, Ishwish surrendered his name and wealth to my father, begging for our mighty clan to give him a few hands…just enough hands so that he could gain the momentum, defeating his enemies and winning this disgusting shambles of a war.”

Washen struggled to picture the man she knew—the arrogant Submaster—reduced to such a state.  “It would seem like a small request.”

“Miniscule, yes,” Hoop agreed.  “A hundred hands with fifty fighters attached.  But unknown to my father, a delegation of the rebellious colonists had made contact with our neighbor clan.  A different tribe of monkeys begged in the same perfect fashion, requesting a few hands of their own.”

Nothing was new.  Washen had always understood the essential history of the disaster.  But now she saw possibilities that she hadn’t noticed before…subtle undercurrents that even a novice captain should have spotted, if only while listening to the gossipy chatter of her peers…

The towering figure continued speaking.  “One day, long after those days, my mother grabbed hold of me and crushed me against her body, whispering that this was the moment when we should have realized what was true.  Your Ishwish had experience with us, yes.  But he seemed to be the only human with that distinction.  We should have asked ourselves how the rebel leaders were able to speak and act with the same perfection, winning cooperation as well as a pledge of loyalty from our neighbors.”

Washen took a breath, holding it deep in her chest.

Hoop made fists, saying, “Even in our ignorance, the situation was ours to control.  We should have been able to stop our fighting after those first moments.  You see, both clans sent the requested volunteers, and through what seemed like miserable luck, each attacked the other in the same awful instant.  Plasma weapons were used, which meant that every soldier was annihilated.  Which is where we should have stepped back then, waiting for the blood to dry.”  The mailed fists opened and dropped, fingers limp.  “But the clans had made pledges, and both sides wished to earn respect from these newcomers.  That’s why larger blows were inflicted, in quick succession.  Suddenly the space above our world was bright with fighting.”  The eating mouth pushed itself into a single hard point.  “And then we came close to stopping again.  After five days of mounting casualties, a pause erupted.  A necessary rest began.  And with an official truce in place, bids of peace were offered, and in another moment or another day, those bids would have been accepted.”

Washen stared his slack, empty hands.

“Three tritium bombs,” Hoop said.  Then he paused, gathering himself before completing his story.  “In the quiet of a truce, three sophisticated weapons in the five-hundred megaton range were delivered to three cities.  In a single cowardly stroke, our clan lost one tenth of its population and much of its wealth.  But even worse, the truce had been cheated, which was never done.  One grand abomination demanded a suitable revenge, which is why my ancestors used three equally powerful weapons.  And that should have been the end, if our enemies had been sensible.  But they insisted on spreading lies.  Against all evidence, they claimed that those first three weapons had not come from any stockpile or bad dream of theirs.”

Washen said, “I see,” even when nothing quite made sense.

“The tritium bombs simply had to belong to the enemy clan,” Hoop reported.  “My father digested every report, every shred of intelligence, and doubt was impossible.  According to security eyes, the weapons were ceremonial Death-bringers, authentic to their isotope yields and the markings on their diamond jackets.  They were launched from an enemy base in high orbit, and they were shielded by our usual methods, and lying about their culpability just made the horror worse.  That was why another enemy city had to be destroyed; it was a punishment for the lie.  Then the other clan annihilated three more of our cities, plus the honored site where our species first landed on our sweet world.”

The giant face dipped, eyes losing all focus.  “For three days, we ceased to be the Clan of Many Clans.  We became what you call us:  The harum-scarum.  We were madmen filled with blind rage, wild actions devoid of thought and reason.  Only when most of us were dead did we dare make peace, and then only on the condition that both of our miserable clans abandon our home, poisoned as it was by radiations, and worse, sickened by our grand stupidity.”

Washen was crying.  With a soft, slow voice, she asked, “Did your father die in the war?”

“No.”  Hoop’s spines straightened, in reflex.  “He survived and returned to his good friend, Ishwish, and did what he believed was best.  He begged for help from the human animal.  He bowed before the captain and colonists from both tribes, and licked the comet’s tar until the help was given.  In a gesture of extraordinary compassion, we were offered the same little world to which they had been traveling.  ‘It isn’t much,’ Ishwish admitted, ‘but as a place for fresh beginnings, it might serve you well.’”

Washen blinked.  “Your father met with every colonist?”

The alien showed a forest of little teeth inside his eating mouth.  “Yes.  While we were slaughtering one another, the humans had suddenly made their own peace.”

Washen breathed quickly, the air stale and hot.

“Just enough ships for our journey were available,” he continued.  “My parents left for the new world, while the other clan retreated deeper into the galaxy, if only to place distance between the two of us.  Twelve light-years had to be covered, but the voyage was productive.  Even decimated by the war, there were more of us than there had been humans, and we had enough experience to make any new world habitable, if not comfortable.  So my clan made its plans and refined them until we felt ready.  And throughout the journey, messages arrived from our good allies.  The human colonists were quickly cleaning up poisons and repairing the ecosystems.  In the proper ways, they thanked us again for our charity, they promised to make our old home prosper, honoring our memories, and buried in their words was news that their mission’s captain, dear Ishwish, had been awarded a tenth of the colony’s future value—in thanks for his guidance and considerable bravery.”

The Submaster was famously wealthy.  But Tidecold-6 was an exceptionally rich world today—a favored destination for emigrants and every species of money—and ten percent of that single planet would make any man into a king.

Hoop had fallen silent.

Washen remembered the platform of ground waiting empty in the hallway, needing to be guarded.  “Your father,” she said.  “What’s the rest of his story?”

Quietly, the alien confessed, “He suffered terribly.  A moment of clarity took him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He woke one morning, as our new sun was growing bright…he woke and felt strong enough finally to ask questions that he hadn’t dared pose until then.  He turned to my mother and wondered aloud, ‘But what if my very good friend, dear Ishwish…what if he was not what he seemed to be…?’”

Washen bit her bottom lip.

“Then as his strength drained, he asked, ‘What if everything was other than it seemed to be…the civil war, the humans in despair, the three weapons appearing above our heads…?’”

Tasting blood, Washen said, “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Hoop agreed.

“A captain could have played the colonists against each other.  Fomented war, but kept it under control.  And maybe he coached a few of the rebels, perhaps without even telling them his entire plan.”  She closed her eyes, envisioning what would have been both possible and necessary.  “He could have bought those tritium bombs from somewhere else, using his military connections.  He brought them all that way and prepositioned them in a higher orbit, ready to accelerate the hostilities.”  Her voice sputtered and then came back again.  “But that would mean the beast had everything planned out, starting centuries before.”

“This was what my father realized,” said Hoop.  “And that is why a great despair claimed his sorrowful mind.  And about that good honorable man, I wish to say no more.”

His father was dead, probably a suicide.  No other conclusion to life was as dishonorable, not for a creature such as that, which was why there was no fatherly statue standing guard over his son’s home.

Washen took them past that awful moment.  “Help me now,” she said.  “When you purchased your home, this room and that hallway, did you know exactly who had lived here before?”

The black eyes brightened.  “I knew about the Higgers,” he said.  “For years, I cleaned their silicone out of the cracks and pores.”

“What about the past human owners?”

“I suspected nothing.  I had no idea.”  He paused for a moment.  “Until an acquaintance mentioned Ishwish to me, I was ignorant.”

“An acquaintance?”

“A Clan woman.  She mentioned the name and asked if I knew who he was.  Had I ever seen him with my eyes?  And after I explained what the man might be, she asked how it felt.  What did it do to my soul to know that this awful human once shit in these rooms of mine?”

Washen nodded, considering.  “And when was this conversation?”

“It was a year ago.”

“Just one year ago?”

“Plus a few days,” Hoop reported, which was the same as yesterday, when your life stretched for millennia.

“That is one spectacular coincidence,” Washen mentioned.  “Of all possible passengers, you end up living in the Submaster’s old home.”

Hoop rolled his face—the Clan equivalent of a nod.  “I have asked these question many times.  What are the probabilities?  In a vessel of this size, with all these possible addresses to claim for myself…why must this be the home that I find for myself…?”

“The odds are long,” she allowed.

“Which is why you and I are imagining along the same lines,” he replied with quiet amazement.  “What agent or force or malicious spirit is responsible for this conundrum…?”