And especially when the honest answer might give Tabini a reassuring insight into human mental processes.
“Aiji-ma, nothing I’ve learned on Mospheira inside or outside official channels has changed my initial impression: Mospheira is disturbed—not alarmed, but disturbed, for exactly the same reasons atevi are disturbed. No one planned for this. I agree: no government likes to be surprised. Mospheira was surprised. You were surprised. And I think that ship is surprised. It left a functioning station. It came back to a situation it can’t have counted on finding, and a complexity of political arrangements it can’t readily unravel.”
“So what does this mean? Are there two human associations now, or one? And is the authority in our sky—or on Mospheira?”
Critical questions. Urgent questions. From a ruler who couldn’t conceptualize geographic boundaries as valid. “Aiji-ma, my answer from my own understanding is—they’re two authorities which once were one, not hostile to each other, each now with separate interests to protect. You’ve been monitoring transmissions. You surely have recordings.”
“Such exist.”
“Do you find them encoded?”
“Numbers and names are quite clear. I assume that you can translate the rest of the voice segments for us.”
That it wasn’t code was reassuring. He was entirely uneasy about an agreement to translate—but Mospheira knew he had that capacity, as they knew Hanks had when they’d sent her here: they weren’t unwilling to have it done—or they hadn’t indicated it to him that he could remember.
“I would think so, aiji-ma. I would naturally prefer to consult with the university on—”
“If the Mospheiran authorities put themselves in association with that ship, tell me, where would your responsibility lie?”
“I can construe no circumstance under which that would happen.”
“I can. But perhaps my imagination is extravagant.”
“Human associations are more and less hierarchical than atevi.” An alarming thought occurred to him. “And they’re not biological imperatives. I know it’s difficult to construe this, aiji-ma, but on the basis of what I’ve lately learned, I have to tell you that we feel absolutely nothing about that ship that atevi would feel in our place.”
“You haven’t convinced me, nand’ paidhi. I assure you, many atevi have already assumed a unitary human authority is unquestionably what we’re dealing with. Where human biology enters into it—I confess myself at a loss. But that you say two authorities exist separated by time, and that you say there isn’t hostility, does confuse me.”
They were up against one of those walls—imperfect interface. Atevi gut feelings and human. Tabini didn’t understand, absolutely didn’t understand that there wasn’t man’chi, loyalty in the atevi definition: a gut-level, emotional compulsion for Mospheira to join the authority represented by that ship, which looked strong, which had historically held authority—
Mospheira itself could have no comprehension how atevi would read the situation, either. Tabini was at least canny enough in the differences between atevi and human to know that, gut level, he might think he understood—but chances were very good that he wouldn’t, couldn’t, and never would, unaided by the paidhi, come up with the right forecast of human behavior, because he didn’t come with the right hardwiring. Average people didn’t analyze what they thought: they thought they thought, and half of it was gut reaction.
But because lately—very lately—the paidhi-aiji had tumbled across that line and lived far away from experts at making that interface, stayed among ordinary atevi in the hinterlands long enough for the paidhi to meet those gut-level reactions, he at least had awareness how and on what critical points Tabini was coping with him—and in the process changing the interface, unwittingly corrupting what the paidhiin thought they knew about atevi.
“Aiji-ma, wise and perceptive as you are, I’m reluctant to use the word man’chi as a human thought, even when it almost works, but it’s very close to what Mospheirans feel toward this world. We think we have that feeling in common with atevi, not with the ship. A man’chi to this planet.”
Tabini’s pale eyes were unreadable and thoughtful. Interest in the concept was the best a human could guess.
And after a long moment digesting that idea or another, chin on fist, Tabini said, “Another why, nand’ paidhi, when you say you feel no such emotions.”
So, so much riding on the understanding. He felt the shakes coming on, a feverishness that made focus difficult “Whys lead to whys. I should go to bed, aiji-ma, and let you ask me when I’ve thought it through. I’ve been through too much to give answers lightly.”
“This answer, nand’ paidhi. Don’t toss me a lure of reassurance and then say don’t follow.”
“Aiji-ma, it’s simply emotional, our attachment to the world. There’s no logic. It just is. Like man’chi, it just is.”
“You say there’s been no preparation for this ship to occupy the station. No—hidden presence up there.”
“You don’t believe there’s a human presence up there, aiji-ma.”
“But there certainly is now, is there not, over our heads at this very moment?”
“True.”
“So. Let me tell you: this is very serious business, Bren-ji. Humans swooping down with death rays used to be bad television. Now it’s speculation on the evening news.”
It was slowly sinking in, how far his mission to the mainland had deteriorated in the passage of a few days: the structure of trust was—if not gone—at least badly bent. “Three days ago, aiji-ma, I’d have sworn I understood what sane atevi believed. Now—I don’t know. I can at least swear to you there are no death rays.”
“On Mospheira? Or on that ship? By the Treaty you agreed to turn over all your technology to us, in such steps as wouldn’t wreck—what, our environment? Our cultural destiny? As I recall, our own Space Committee was talking about slosh baffles for a heavy-lift rocket and the launch facilities for communications satellites. I think these people are somewhat beyond that.”
“Yes, aiji-ma,” he said humbly. “They possibly are.”
“And will you turn over their technology to us? I fear we’re back to that question again: are these people part of your association, bound by the Treaty? Or are they not? Hanks has been talking recklessly about the expansion of the industrial base. About stars and the distances between stars—and faster-than-light travel, which, you are aware, defies the views of certain sects, even commits heresy.”
He felt his head light, his thinking unstable. FTL. Hanks took it on herself—
“Pardon, Tabini-ma, was she perhaps speaking in confidence—or—?”
“In confidence, oh, yes. To lord Geigi. Coupled with suggestions that, with sweeping advances in technology, the oil price might rise.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Deity?”
He’d been so confounded he’d reacted in Mosphei’—of which Tabini knew at least a salient few words.
“Tabini-ma. The woman is a—”
“—fool?”
“Naive,” he said faintly.
“Lord Geigi, as you know, is a Determinist. With immense oil reserves. Is she insulting his beliefs? Or promising him revenue—what do you say—under the table?”
“One could, if one were Geigi, be very confused.”
“Especially since Geigi is heavily in debt. Not for public release. The man is desperate.”
“God,” he breathed, and a shaky, perilous vision opened in front of him—the Association tottering on uncertain communications, disaffection of the lords, numerology confounded. Faster-than-light was now a fact in certain atevi minds, God knew how far the rumor had spread. The Determinist numerologists would have heard about it: ultimately the astronomers and the space scientists were going to hear the transmissions from the ship. The seed, as the atevi proverb had it, would see the sun.
Then unless there was some clever face-saving device on which the Determinists might explain
their embarrassing paradox, all hell was going to break loose. Important people would be called liars, respected authorities and culturally important systems would be overthrown by incontrovertible fact—possibly even taken down in bloodshed, since flesh and bone supported these glass structures of belief.
“I’ll deal with Hanks.”
“Faster-than-light.” Tabini reached aside to let Eidi pour a cup of tea. “And do we, after all, deal with death rays next?”
“I trust not,” he breathed, while his mind was searching wildly for justification, for rationalization with Departmental policy, for something that could let him tell Tabini the thoughts that hit a fevered human brain with sudden, rare, atevi-language clarity. He couldn’t count on recovering the moment tomorrow, not the approach to both Tabini and the situation.
“Aiji-ma, here’s the fact that occurs to me: atevi assume weapons. But weapons weren’t the real threat in the War.”
“Ask the dead.”
“No, but they weren’t decisive. We had the weapons—which did us no good. What hurt atevi—the very threat that hangs over Mospheira and atevi—is the mere shock of them being here. The numbers they deal with. Their bringing new things into the world faster than atevi can adjust. The same mistakes we made—and destabilized the society, the economy. Everything.” The shoulder was giving him sudden, particular pain at the angle he’d chosen in the chair, and the threads of logic tried to escape him, but he hung on. “Worse, aiji-ma, we’re not dealing with a slow information flow among atevi this time. Now it’s instant information, instant crisis, instant reaction, as fast as television can throw it at the world. And if change comes at people so fast the electorate doesn’t understand it, aiji-ma, if people can’t plan for their own personal futures, if the businesses can’t adjust to it—fast enough—”
“Baji-naji,” Tabini said, and shrugged—which was to say, proverbially, that the random devil lurked in every design, and the numbers could inevitably forecast, but not infallibly predict. “We survived it once. We even, as you recall, won the resultant war.”
“That, I swear to you, I swear to you without hearing them—isn’t their intent. We don’t want a war.”
“War shouldn’t have happened the last time. But how will we avoid it? Don’t just tell me we’re wiser. Or that you are. Tell me who Hanks is representing.”
He drew a slow breath, only to win time to think. He’d led Tabini around to his argument; now, in a turnabout which confused a weary brain, he was back where Tabini had led him—feeling the dull ache spread from the newly fused bone, and sensing Tabini’s belief in him, Tabini’s expectations of him, riding on a knife’s edge of attention.
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out, aiji-ma. Certainly she’s not representing that ship. Or the Foreign Office, at this point. They sent me back. And I will not let everything we’ve worked for go down, aiji-ma.”
“So. The paidhi will mediate. Is that what you say? The paidhi will convince the Mospheiran authorities, the Foreign Office and the internal authorities of this ship, and speak my arguments and my requirements?”
Tabini was pushing a sick man and Tabini damned well knew it. Tabini had his own job to do, for his people, and Tabini wanted information out of the best and readiest source he had.
Tabini also believed in truth under duress. Tabini would push in such sessions until he got something of substance from the paidhi and felt that sufficient truth was on the table. You couldn’t put him off, not unless you were prepared to see Tabini pull far, far back.
The paidhi damned well knew that trait. And knew when to gamble.
“All right, aiji-ma, you want to know what course humans on Mospheira can possibly take. One—fall in line behind these people and end up negotiating with them for the ability of their young, their talented, and their ablest people to go up to the station and live, because—and I gather Hanks has raised the issue—neither you nor we have the industrial base to build a launch system. If we take their transport, we become passengers—on somebody else’s space program. Or—”
Pain was coming in waves. He had to shift back in the chair and risk mistaken interpretation of body language. “I’m sorry, aiji-ma, a twinge.”
“Or,” Tabini said.
Primary rule: never leave an explanation for an ateva to fill in the blanks.
“Or, aiji-ma, the world can try, as I think Hanks is legitimately suggesting, aside from her oil industry estimates, to build the requisite industrial base under our own regulation, as fast as the world can deal with it, and refuse to go faster. Ordinary folk aren’t going to give up their homes or their plans. The aiji in Shejidan can’t trample on the opinions of a Wingin brickmason, no more than the President of Mospheira can tell some North Shore fisherman in my brother’s town that he’s going to go up into space and work on some orbiting fish farm. They’d have to come and get him. The same as your atevi mason.”
“Ah, but what when these celestial visitors offer you cures for disease? Instant technology? Instant answers? It strikes me that Mospheira is in the same position we were in when you came floating down out of our sky. These people can offer you your dearest ambitions. These people can make you lords.”
“Aiji-ma, these people should approach Mospheira and Shejidan both with great trepidation. You’re absolutely right about the bait they’ll use, consciously or unconsciously. But we can’t take it. The Treaty is our collective safety, aiji-ma. You and I have internal differences, emotionally, logically, culturally, that these strangers don’t know about. You have natural allies in humans who want to stay on this planet. We have to make Mospheira listen, and we have to make the ship crew listen to us.”
“They might simply decide our objections were irrelevant.”
“Unfortunately they don’t need to do a damned thing—excuse me, aiji-ma—but rebuild the station and sit up there to preempt atevi ever achieving the future they might have had.”
“So? Would this not benefit you—even your fisherman—in the long run?”
“Aiji-ma, we came down to build factories and make roads and transgress the lines of atevi associations with no sense of the damage we were doing. But that ship up there—that’s not a chemical rocket. Believe me that it’s just as disruptive of my world.”
“Not your world.”
“Then we’ve nowhere to belong, Tabini-ma.” They’d gone past what he intended and he’d said far more than he meant to. He wasn’t sure now what impression he’d created that he couldn’t undo. His head was throbbing. He felt a wave of dizziness and nausea. He picked up the teacup, controlled action, trying to control the information he passed. “I want to go into space, understand, Tabini-ma. I want that—personally, for me, I want so much to go up there I can’t explain it. But I won’t sell atevi interests to get that ticket, and I won’t sell Mospheira.”
“Sell them?”
“Sell out. A Mosphei’ proverb. One sells melons in a market. That’s proper. But one doesn’t sell one’s duty to people who aren’t qualified to have it.”
“Sell one’s duty. A curious notion.”
“I said—for us it’s not biological. Because it isn’t, it can be sold, aiji-ma, for money, for other considerations. But good humans will never sell it.”
“What then do they do with it?”
“They give it away, very much—but not quite—as atevi do.”
“These not-quites are the very devil.”
“They always are, aiji-ma.”
“Indeed.” Tabini set aside his empty cup and rested his chin on his fist. “Indeed. For this very reason I demanded you back, Bren-ji. You are a treasure. And yet you want me not to shoot Deana Hanks. Why?”
Pale, pale and oh-so-sober eyes. Tabini was calling him a fool, by atevi lights. And asking an honest question. There was everything at risk. And it was time to take the debate aside.
“Well, for one thing, Tabini-ma, —it would make one hell of a mess with the State Department.”
Tabini gave on
e of his rare, silent laughs. “Don’t divert me, clever man. You’ve given me nightmares of death rays. Let me spoil your sleep. Grandmother is in residence.”
“God, I’d have thought she’d want to get straight home.”
“Oh, this is home, Bren-ji. As much home as Malguri, at least in title.”
“Is the situation in Malguri Province then quiet, aiji-ma?”
“If you mean have my forces stopped the gunfire, yes. If you mean have all the rebels come around to my way of thinking, and is there absolutely no likelihood that certain folk both noble and common would gladly assassinate you and me with one bullet, I fear the answer is no. Doubtless my grandmother will want to talk to you. Bear in mind her associations with the rebels. You have such a generous, unsuspicious nature.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Beware of her. I tell you, there are far too many people in the world who would wish to silence you.”
“Has anyone filed Intent?”
“No. But I tell you this, nadi, I may be utterly mistaken, but I fear some of those individuals may reside on Mospheira. And do I understand, on Mospheira they don’t have a law requiring a filing?”
He’d believe in betrayals of other kinds, perhaps, but not in physical danger from Mospheira.
Though silencing him need not be physical. He had sufficient reason for misgivings in his successor’s presence on the mainland.
“Tabini-ma, I honestly—honestly don’t think even my dedicated detractors would want to give up the only means they have of talking to you, now that they know you won’t talk to Hanks. Not when—” He didn’t know what happened to him. There was a black space. He wasn’t holding the cup all of a sudden, and made a grab for it as it fell on the priceless carpet. It rolled—unbroken, but tea stood on the immaculate designs. He was appalled—he seized his napkin and flung it down on the spill, trying to bend to see to it himself.
But Eidi was there instantly, to recover the cup and to mop up the damage.
“Forgive me,” Bren said, intensely embarrassed. “I’ve had terrible luck with teacups.”
“Bren-ji, it’s only carpet.” Tabini made a furious wave of the hand, dismissing Eidi, dismissing the whole fuss. “Listen just this moment more. I need you as soon as you can possibly bring yourself up to date with this crisis, to go before the joint legislatures, explain these strangers in our sky and translate the dialogue between Mospheira and this ship. End the speculation. More—tell this ship the things atevi have to say to them. That is what I need of you, Bren-ji. Do you agree?”