PART ONE
Invasion
Let them uplift us, shoulder high. Then we will see over their heads to the several promised lands, from which we have come, and to which we trust to go.
W. B. YEATS
1
Fiben
There had never been such traffic at Port Helenia's sleepy landing field -- not in all the years Fiben Bolger had lived here. The mesa overlooking Aspinal Bay reverberated with the numbing, infrasonic growl of engines. Dust plumes obscured the launching pits, but that did not prevent spectators from gathering along the peripheral fence to watch all the excitement. Those with a touch of psi talent could tell whenever a starship was about to lift off. Waves of muzzy uncertainty, caused by leaky gravitics, made a few onlookers blink quickly moments before another great-strutted spacecraft rose above the haze and lumbered off into the cloud-dappled sky.
The noise and stinging dust frayed tempers. It was even worse for those standing out on the tarmac, and especially bad for those forced to be there against their will.
Fiben certainly would much rather have been just about anywhere else, preferably in a pub applying pints of liquid anesthetic. But that was not to be.
He observed the frenetic activity cynically. We're a sinking ship, he thought. And all th' rats are saying a'dieu.
Everything able to space and warp was departing Garth in indecent haste. Soon, the landing field would be all but empty.
Until the enemy arrives... whoever it turns out to be.
"Pssst. Fiben. Quit fidgeting!"
Fiben glanced to his right. The chim stand next to him in formation looked nearly as uncomfortable as Fiben felt. Simon Levin's dress uniform cap was turning dark just above his bony eye ridges, where damp brown fur curled under the rim. With his eyes, Simon mutely urged Fiben to straighten up and look forward.
Fiben sighed. He knew he should try to stand at attention. The ceremony for the departing dignitary was nearly over, and a member of the Planetary Honor Guard wasn't supposed to slouch.
But his gaze kept drifting over toward the southern end of the mesa, far from the commercial terminal and the departing freighters. Over there, uncamouflaged, lay an uneven row of drab, black cigar shapes with the blocky look of fighting craft. Several of the small scoutboats shimmered as technicians crawled over them, tuning their detectors and shields for the coming battle.
Fiben wondered if Command had already decided which craft he was to fly. Perhaps they would let the half-trained Colonial Militia pilots draw lots to see who would get the most decrepit of the ancient war machines, recently purchased cut-rate off a passing Xatinni scrap dealer.
With his left hand Fiben tugged at the stiff collar of his uniform and scratched the thick hair below his collarbone. Old ain't necessarily bad, he reminded himself. Go into battle aboard a thousand-year-old tub, and at least you know it can take punishment.
Most of those battered scoutboats had seen action out on the starlanes before human beings ever heard of Galactic civilization... before they had even begun playing with gunpowder rockets, singeing their fingers and scaring the birds back on homeworld Earth.
The image made Fiben smile briefly. It wasn't the most respectful thing to think about one's patron race. But then, humans hadn't exactly brought his people up to be reverent.
Jeez, this monkey suit itches! Naked apes like humans may be able to take this, but we hairy types just aren't built to wear this much clothing!
At least the ceremony for the departing Synthian Consul seemed to be nearing completion. Swoio Shochuhun -- that pompous ball of fur and whiskers -- was finishing her speech of farewell to the tenants of Garth Planet, the humans and chims she was leaving to their fate. Fiben scratched his chin again, wishing the little windbag would just climb into her launch and get the hell out of here, if she was in such a hurry to be going.
An elbow jabbed him in the ribs. Simon muttered urgently. "Straighten up, Fiben. Her Nibs is looking this way!"
Over among the dignitaries Megan Oneagle, the gray-haired Planetary Coordinator, pursed her lips and gave Fiben a quick shake of her head.
Aw, hell, he thought.
Megan's son, Robert, had been a classmate of Fiben's at Garth's small university. Fiben arched an eyebrow as if to say to the human administrator that he hadn't asked to serve on this dubious honor guard. And anyway, if humans had wanted clients who didn't scratch themselves, they never should have uplifted chimpanzees.
He fixed his collar though, and tried to straighten his posture. Form was nearly everything to these Galactics, and Fiben knew that even a lowly neo-chimp had to play his part, or the clan of Earth might lose face.
On either side of Coordinator Oneagle stood the other dignitaries who had come to see Swoio Shochuhun off. To Megan's left was Kault, the hulking Thennanin envoy, leathery and resplendent in his brilliant cape and towering ridge crest. The breathing slits in his throat opened and closed like louvered blinds each time the big-jawed creature inhaled.
To Megan's right stood a much more humanoid figure, slender and long-limbed, who slouched slightly, almost insouciantly in the afternoon sunshine.
Uthacalthing's amused by something. Fiben could tell. So what else is new?
Of course Ambassador Uthacalthing thought everything was funny. In his posture, in the gently waving silvery tendrils that floated above his small ears, and in the glint in his golden, wide-cast eyes, the pale Tymbrimi envoy seemed to say what could not be spoken aloud -- something just short of insulting to the departing Synthian diplomat.
Swoio Shochuhun sleeked back her whiskers before stepping forward to say farewell to each of her colleagues in turn. Watching her make ornate formal paw motions in front of Kault, Fiben was struck by how much she resembled a large, rotund raccoon, dressed up like some ancient, oriental courtier.
Kault, the huge Thennanin, puffed up his crest as he bowed in response. The two uneven-sized Galactics exchanged pleasantries in fluting, highly inflected Galactic Six. Fiben knew that there was little love to be lost between them.
"Well, you can't choose your friends, can you?" Simon whispered.
"Damn right," Fiben agreed.
It was ironic. The furry, canny Synthians were among Earth's few "allies" in the political and military quagmire of the Five Galaxies. But they were also fantastically self-centered and famous cowards. Swoio's departure as much as guaranteed there would be no armadas of fat, furry warriors coming to Garth's aid in her hour of need.
Just like there won't be any help from Earth, nor Tymbrim, them having enough problems of their own right now.
Fiben understood GalSix well enough to follow some of what the big Thennanin said to Swoio. Kault apparently did not think much of ambassadors who skip out on their posts.
Give the Thennanin that much, Fiben thought, Kault's folk might be fanatics. Certainly they were listed among Earth's present official enemies. Nevertheless, they were known everywhere for their courage and severe sense of honor.
No, you can't always choose your friends, or your enemies.
Swoio stepped over to face Megan Oneagle. The Synthians bow was marginally shallower than the one she had given Kault. After all, humans ranked pretty low among the patron races of the galaxy.
And you know what that makes you, Fiben reminded himself.
Megan bowed in return. "I am sorry to see you go," she told Swoio in thickly accented GalSix. "Please pass on to your people our gratitude for their good wishes."
"Right," Fiben muttered. "Tell all th' other raccoons thanks a whole bunch." He wore a blank expression, though, when Colonel Maiven, the human commander of the Honor Guard, looked sharply his way.
Swoio's reply was filled with platitudes.
Be patient, she urged. The Five Galaxies are in turmoil right now. The fanatics among the great powers are causing so much trouble because they think the Millennium, the end of a great era, is at hand. They are the first to act.
Meanwhile, the moderates and the Galactic Institutes must move slower, more judiciously. But act they would, she assured. In due time. Little Garth would not be forgotten.
Sure, Fiben thought sarcastically. Why, help might be no more'n a century or two away!
The other chims in the Honor Guard glanced at one other and rolled their eyes in disgust. The human officers were more reserved, but Fiben saw that one was rotating his tongue firmly in his cheek.
Swoio stopped at last before the senior member of the diplomatic corps, Uthacalthing Man-Friend, the consul-ambassador from the Tymbrimi.
The tall E.T. wore a loose black robe that offset his pale skin. Uthacalthing's mouth was small, and the unearthly separation between his shadowed eyes seemed very wide. Nevertheless, the humanoid impression was quite strong. It always seemed to Fiben as if the representative of Earth's greatest ally was always on the verge of laughing at some joke, great or small. Uthacalthing -- with his narrow scalp-ruff of soft, brown fur bordered by waving, delicate tendrils -- with his long, delicate hands and ready humor -- was the solitary being on this mesa who seemed untouched by the tension of the day. The Tymbrimi's ironic smile affected Fiben, momentarily lifting his spirits.
Finally! Fiben sighed in relief. Swoio appeared to be finished at last. She turned and strode up the ramp toward her waiting launch. With a sharp command Colonel Maiven brought the Guard to attention. Fiben started mentally counting the number of steps to shade and a cool drink.
But it was too soon to relax. Fiben wasn't the only one to groan low as the Synthian turned at the top of the ramp to address the onlookers one more time.
Just what occurred then -- and in exactly what order -- would perplex Fiben for a long time afterward. But it appeared that, just as the first fluting tones of GalSix left Swoio's mouth, something bizarre happened across the landing field. Fiben felt a scratchiness at the back of his eyeballs and glanced to the left, just in time to see a lambency shimmer around one of the scoutboats. Then the tiny craft seemed to explode.
He did not recall diving to the tarmac, but that's where he found himself next, trying to burrow into the tough, rubbery surface. What is it? An enemy attack so soon?
He heard Simon snort violently. Then a chorus of sneezes followed. Blinking away dust, Fiben peered and saw that the little scoutcraft still existed. It hadn't blown up, after all!
But its fields were out of control. They coruscated in a deafening, blinding display of light and sound. Shield-suited engineers scurried to shut down the boat's malfunctioning probability generator, but not before the noisome display had run everyone nearby through all the senses they had, from touch and taste all the way to smell and psi.
"Whooee!" the chimmie to Fiben's left whistled, holding her nose uselessly. "Who set off a stinkbomb!"
In a flash Fiben knew, with uncanny certainty, that she had called it right. He rolled over quickly, in time to see the Synthian Ambassador, her nose wrinkled in disgust and whiskers curled in shame, scamper into her ship, abandoning all dignity. The hatch clanged shut.
Someone found the right switch at last and cut off the horrible overload, leaving only a fierce aftertaste and a ringing in his ears. The members of the Honor Guard stood up, dusting themselves and muttering irritably. Some humans and chims still quivered, blinking and yawning vigorously. Only the stolid, oblivious Thennanin Ambassador seemed unaffected. In fact, Kault appeared perplexed over this unusual Earthling behavior.
A stinkbomb. Fiben nodded. It was somebody's idea of a practical joke.
And I think I know whose.
Fiben looked closely at Uthacalthing. He stared at the being who had been named Man-Friend and recalled how the slender Tymbrimi had smiled as Swoio, the pompous little Synthian, launched into her final speech. Yes, Fiben would be willing to swear on a copy of Darwin that at that very moment, just before the scout boat malfunctioned, Uthacalthing's crown of silvery tendrils had lifted and the ambassador had smiled as if in delicious anticipation.
Fiben shook his head. For all of their renowned psychic senses, no Tymbrimi could have caused such an accident by sheer force of will.
Not unless it had been arranged in advance, that is.
The Synthian launch rose upward on a blast of air and skimmed out across the field to a safe distance. Then, in a high whine of gravitics, the glittering craft swept upward to meet the clouds.
At Colonel Maiven's command, the Honor Guard snapped to attention one last time. The Planetary Coordinator and her two remaining envoys passed in review.
It might have been his imagination, but Fiben felt sure that for an instant Uthacalthing slowed right in front of him. Fiben was certain one of those wide, silver-rimmed eyes looked directly at him.
And the other one winked.
Fiben sighed. Very funny, he thought, hoping the Tymbrimi emissary would pick up the sarcasm in his mind. We all may be smokin' dead meat in a week's time, and you're making with practical jokes.
Very funny, Uthacalthing.
Continue reading sample 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8, or purchase The Uplift War.
The Real Culture War
