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Authors: Jr. L. E. Modesitt

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I'd also have to be careful not to venture anywhere near the line of fire of the marcyb squad that would be accompanying Kemra and the naturalist the next morning. Another worry, as if I weren't piling them up quickly enough already.
With a nod, I turned and walked away, ignoring the side-transmissions of the junior officers.
“ … arrogant bastard …”
“ … coldcock him or shred him … were the majer …” The cybs hadn't changed, not a bit, and I had to be the one to inherit the legacy of Wayneclint's partial clemency. Lucky me.
I pulsed Keiko.
“Yes, ser?”
“I've changed my mind. Give Majer Henslom maps for the Aquarius/Severe Wash—and don't bother with a screamer.”
“Are you sure?”
“He couldn't see the sun on Mercury's dayside with a ten-meter telescope.”
“As you wish, Coordinator.” Keiko disagreed with my decision, but that was why I was Coordinator. Besides, marcybs weren't draffs.
Miris was doubtless waiting, and who knew what else. I kept walking.
The draff representative was waiting, but he was alone, for which I was thankful.
I gestured toward the office. “Would you like anything to drink, Representative Miris?”
“No, thank you, Coordinator.” His voice was a pleasant bass.
Keiko closed the door behind us with enough of a gentle thud to ensure that Miris knew the door was shut.
Miris turned one of the green chairs so that it faced the desk directly, and then sat on the edge, not quite so stiffly as Majer Henslom had. “Your aide told you my purpose.”
“You believe letting the cybs land on Old Earth violates the understanding behind the Construct.”
“That's a fair summary. The incident this morning”—he stroked the dark beard—“seems to prove that the cybs haven't changed since The Flight. What do you think?” His eyes were dark and intent. Why he hadn't opted for demi training I didn't understand, but that had been his choice.
“What I
think
isn't the question under the Construct,” I pointed out. “I cannot strike in anticipation, nor can I offer threats. I also can't bar any visitor from Old Earth merely because I mistrust him or her.”
“I thought that would be what you said.” He smiled, faintly. “How do you plan to protect the locials?”
“We are implementing contingency plans.” I shrugged.
“It might not hurt to have people review emergency evacuation routes.”
Miris nodded. “So you will destroy them.”
“I could not predict any action on those lines. I am still working quite hard under the Construct—”
Miris laughed. “You're amusing, Coordinator. They picked you because you're crazy enough to bend the Construct without breaking it. What you did to that cyb agent—I do have access to some things as the locial draff representative—was as close to a threat to them as possible even under your interpretations. And they chose not to see it.”
“Perhaps they will. I can't sign death warrants for most of the demis by taking any further action now.”
“Your people took it too far. Encoding passive resistance genetically, even into all the draffs … that was suicide.”
“No. Preemptive warfare nearly destroyed Old Earth and has annihilated several of the former colonies. The Construct works. It has a high price, but it works.”
“For you.”
“It works for you. That's why everyone got the mods. Do you want to be turned into the equivalent of marcybs?”
Miris stood. “I didn't expect much more, but you know we're concerned.” He walked toward the door.
“I know. I'm concerned, too.” I stood.
“For what it may be worth, Coordinator, I'd rather have you behind that desk than anyone else.” The draff rep paused, his hand on the door frame. “Try not to wait until the de-energizers are slagging the place, though.”
“I have to try not to let it get that far.”
He nodded and opened the door. He nodded to Keiko on his way to the stairs.
How long could I afford to wait before officially deciding that Majer Henslom wouldn't issue an apology or “act” on the morning's “incident” with Nislaki? A day? Two?
I shook my head. I needed to link with Locatio and see if we could figure out a better strategy for Ellay.
Outside the office, Keiko frowned, but said nothing as I walked to the window and looked down at the park and the winter-browned grass.
T
he navigator stretched out on the narrow couch in the small cabin with the temp-controlled-wall colors, waiting for the net conference. One hand brushed back sandy hair, and she frowned as the chime rang, both in her head and on the invisible speaker beside the door.
“Commander's conference,” announced MYL-ERA. “Report.”
“Kemra,” the nav announced, waiting as the others reported.
“All on net,” MYL-ERA announced.
“Subcommander Kemra. You spent time on the previous day with the demi planetary coordinator.” Gibreal's words were cold-forged.
“My report is on the net. I'd be happy to answer questions.”
“You indicated the probability of higher technology. On what do you base that?”
“As I indicated …” the cybnav paused, “an array of subtle signs … .”
“No weapons, no systems that produce miraculous results?” Gorum's words dripped with acid, hissing as they fell upon the net.
“Item one,” snapped Kemra. “Houses that have remained intact for five millennia, perhaps longer—yet no sign of such structures outside one area of designated ruins. Item two: instantaneous communications that I
could barely sense but not even analyze basics. Some transmissions were not even detectable. Item three: none of the draffs live outside the locial areas. Item four: the extraordinarily stable and long-lived culture. Item five: the ability to respond to our arrival within hours. Item six: a functioning satellite planetary navigation system. Item seven—do I have to go on?”
“Does anyone else have something more
concrete
to support the subcommander's listing?” asked Gorum, words now coated so thickly with honey that several anonymous gagging sounds permeated the net.
“Gorum … your agent in the Deseret locial was neutralized,” announced Gibreal.”Despite the fact that he was a trained systems technician, the entire locial control detected his entry and isolated him in one structure before he could accomplish more than minor damage.” Gibreal paused.”The last impulses from the compboost indicate that he was killed by the demi Coordinator—by hand. Their draff commnets have only indicated a maintenance failure, and no one questions it.” Gibreal's words got harder.”Systems?”
“Yes, ser?”
“What's your success in tapping their nets and links?”
“The same as the subcommander's. To date we've been unable to tap anything except the draff public comm freqs and the totally open-weave transportation traffic net, and that's designed to be penetrated on the top level. We can't go below that.”
“Why not?”
“We don't know. If we knew …”
“What's stopping you?”
“First, the frequencies shift continuously, and they're entwined multiples to begin with. Second, it's all encrypted, and even the encryption changes continuously. We can't even figure out the basis of the encryption, and that's with the combined analytics of the entire fleet.
Third, from what we've tapped on the transport traffic control net, they're using a proprietary data compression module.”
“You're saying that they're better cybs than we are.”
A withering silence froze the net.
“Yes, ser.”
“Honesty's cold comfort, Systems.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Let's just fry the bastards and go home,” snapped Gorum.
“Bad idea,” the nav found herself replying.
“That was one of the mission goals, wasn't it?”
“I don't dispute that,” answered Kemra. “But think about our welcome. No medical quarantine, no tests—just an offering of food and drink and some general information.”
“So?”
“Don't you see? This people's actions bespeak a form and depth of confidence—or arrogance—that suggests we'd better be careful.”
“The ancient Mandi thought their empire was the center of the universe, and they had more culture and sophistication than the Anglas. The Mandi went down under the bigger guns. I'd suggest we use the guns and forget about culture,” said Gorum.
“Is the marine commander correct, MYL-ERA?” asked Gibreal.
“Yes, Commander. We can blast anything on the planet at present. There are no defense screens in place. Interrogative objective?” MYL-ERA's tone was cool, carrying the sense of stale refrigerant.
The cybnav gagged, but kept that feeling clear of the net.
“The cities—those minuscule energy concentrations that wouldn't be villages on Gates—after one or two go, they'll agree,” insisted Weapons.
“Observational and behavioral profiles indicate that
analysis is flawed.” The sensed odor of refrigerant chilled the net more with MYL-ERA's response.
“Explicate.”
“Old Earth has nothing Gates needs—except the technology in those cities. To date, no cybsenser can penetrate that technology, and the probabilities remain that effective use of that technology is unlikely without demi help, specifically the help of the ones called comps. The comps refuse to assist, and the draffs know nothing. The draffs appear restricted to the locials, but the demis appear to be able to live anywhere. The death of the last agent indicates that any isolated cyb can be killed without triggering the sensis.”
“Get to the point.”
A net-sense of an old-human shrug followed. “Destroying the cities will hurt the draffs, but not the demis. The probability approaches unity that one or more technological replication stations exist in locations unknown and unsensible by our equipment.”
“Frug …” muttered Gorum. “You're saying that we can't force them, and we can't destroy them. So exactly what are we supposed to do?”
“If they were confident of destroying us or could do so or wanted to,” answered Gibreal, “they would already have acted. So we have nothing to lose by waiting and seeing what else we can discover while we amass the energy stores necessary for our primary mission.
“For now, the nav will return planetside, with the naturalist, and attempt to use her influence with the demi Coordinator to gain greater advantages, such as the key to the main demi systems.” After a pause, Gibreal added, “We will continue the power-up.”
I
actually had my flitter secured below the locial tower before Lieza and the magshuttle drifted in, or before the cyb lander had thundered out of the gray sky and rumbled down the strip.
I checked the knife and slugthrower on opposite sides of my belt and then sealed the flitter. As I walked toward the magshuttle through the unsettled air that mixed comparative warmth and chill, Keiko caught me on the net.
“Coordinator?”
“Yes, Keiko? What's the status on Delta?”
“K'gaio isn't happy about your cannibalizing equipment from three locials, but she's not complaining too loudly. Elanstan thinks that they might have the station operational in two to three days.”
“That's too long.”
“That's what it will take.” She paused only minutely before she added, “That's not why I linked. The cybs are headed out along the lower Aquarius trail.”
“With Majer Henslom?” I glanced toward the north. Was there a hint of distant clouds?
“Yes, ser.”
“Good. I'd like them to get a solid feel for Old Earth.”
“You still don't want a screamer?”
“They're big boys,” I pointed out.
“Yes, ser.” Her disapproval—black on black—was clear.
She still thought I was wrong, and maybe I was, but I didn't see any changes in the cyb attitude toward us, and without any changes, they were still going to try to wipe
out us demis, seize our technology, enslave the draffs, and claim it was all justified by The Flight.
She also thought I was bending the Construct, and perhaps I was doing that, too, but the Construct didn't say anything about having to protect people from the ecosystem or the environment. It just said you couldn't provoke, threaten, or take the first step in a destructive action, no matter what the result
might
be. It also said, both fortunately and unfortunately, that you could not act contrary to the Power Paradigms. That precluded moral compromises, which was what most aggressors demanded. Working within those parameters was almost impossible—and sometimes it had proved so. That's why more than half the eleven historical Coordinators hadn't survived their charges.
I stopped by the base of the tower and waited for Lieza to float-taxi the shuttle to the area just north of the tower. While it might have been a quarter of the size of the cyb troop landers—not that I'd seen any cyb landers other than troop landers—the magshuttle was still big enough to make a flattened maize cake out of a careless Coordinator.
We still don't believe in all the excessive warning and safety devices that were another contributing factor that led to the SoshWars. Personally, I thought that attribution was just Masc propaganda, since men tend to be more careless. But we have so little left from that time that it's hard to say what happened. We do know that when safety devices exceed five percent of a device's resource contribution or weight, then there's either a fault in the design or in the operator, or both. Basically, if you can't operate well-designed equipment without safeties on safeties on safeties, you shouldn't be trying it.
I waited until the magshuttle settled onto the permacrete and the hatch door slid opened, then climbed up out
of the light swirling winds and poked my head into the cockpit area.
“You cut things close, Coordinator,” said Lieza. “There's a big storm coming in from the north. Won't get where we're going until late in the day.” She paused. “Do you really want to see a prairie dog town?”
“The cyb navigator and naturalist do.”
“You didn't discourage them?” The redhead glanced at the screens and then back at me. “Their lander's on final.”
“I don't have to, under the Construct.”
“You're as bad as a cybschemer.”
“I appreciate the compliment.”
“I didn't quite mean it that way.”
“I know,” I told her. “I know. I'm going to meet our friends.” I ducked out of the cockpit, stepped out onto the permacrete, and walked northward to where the lander would stop.
The permacrete vibrated as the cyb lander rolled off the strip and turned back north toward the tower.
After it came to a halt, the olive-black metal ramp whined down, and Subcommander Kemra and a thinner and taller man descended. Both wore informal greens under the heavy brownish-green winter jackets. Kemra wore the gold starburst of a subcommander on her collars. Her companion wore no rank insignia.
“Greetings,” I offered.
“Hello.” Kemra gestured to the brown-haired and gangly man. “Viedras is our naturalist.”
I bowed slightly.
“I appreciate the opportunity,” Viedras offered, his words spaced deliberately.
Two cyb officers appeared—one beside Viedras and one beside Kemra.
“Force Leader Babbege and Subleader Cherle.” Kemra inclined her head to each in turn. Babbege was a whipcorded
woman a centimeter or two taller than I was, while Cherle was a block of a man more Kemra's height. Both had the typical flat-eyed look of cyb soldiers.
On the permacrete behind them stood the cyb squad, each cyb with a rifle.
“I notice you are carrying a weapon,” observed Babbege.
“Around the prairie dog towns, that's generally a good idea,” I admitted. “Rifle slugthrowers for your troops should be sufficient.”
“Ah …” began Viedras. “According to the older references, prairie dogs were a unique species of rodent … .”
“They're still unique, and they're still rodents, but their teeth are razor sharp, and they mass ten to fifteen kilos each. Some of the males are bigger.” I glanced toward the magshuttle, then toward Kemra. “Ready, Subcommander?”
“A fifteen kilo rodent?” asked Viedras.
“Yes.”
“You wanted to see them, Viedras,” Kemra added. “We won't see them from here.” Her eyes passed over me as though I didn't exist.
So I was in the middle of the procession to the magshuttle, behind Kemra and Viedras and followed by the marcybs.
The dozen marcybs took the rear seats in the shuttle, two abreast, and the two officers sat down in front of them, leaving several seats between the soldiers and Kemra, Viedras, and me. I half-wished I were in the cockpit, but my job was guide and host.
“Ready, Coordinator?” asked Lieza, looking back through the open hatch.
“Lift off,” I said aloud.
Unlike the initial pressed-back acceleration of the cyb lander, the magshuttle's departure was smoother and more gradual. Our seats weren't quite as comfortable as the officers'
seats in the cyb lander, but a lot more so than the troop seats.
“I suppose we'd better go over the background of the prairie dogs,” I began after Lieza had leveled off and headed the magshuttle northeast.
“That might be a good idea.” Kemra's words were cold.
I couldn't blame her for her anger at discovering prairie dogs weren't just rodents, but far larger than their ancestors. The cybs needed to see the town firsthand, and giving the entire story first might well have violated the Construct, if it were construed as a threat, as well as discouraged them from seeing what they needed to see. Besides, the prairie dogs were cute-
looking
huge rodents.
“As I indicated, the prairie dogs are genetic descendants of the original rodents of the same name. Their mass is also somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty to a hundred times that of their ancestors.”
“How is that possible?” asked Viedras.
“They're mammals, and we theorize that they're offshoots of survivors of the Thimeser virus.”
“You mentioned the virus earlier,” said Kemra. “What exactly was it?”
“A further modification of the immune-system related diseases that preceded the SoshWars,” I explained. “Something triggered more massive modifications in the Chaos Years, and in some species there were deliberate DNA modifications. That's how we ended up with, we think, the vorpals and the kalirams—among other things.” I cleared my throat, trying not to think about the cybs being led along the Aquarius trail by Majer Henslom. “Anyway, some of the results bred true, and the prairie dogs almost overran the higher plains for a time before the ecosystem reached a balance. Their aggressiveness is generally restricted to their perceived territory, except in the breeding seasons, or when a member of the family screams for help. This is not breeding season, but we'll have to be careful.
They look like big furry toys. They're not. They can be very dangerous.”
“What do they eat?” asked Viedras.
“Like us, they're omnivores. They're pretty good mousers or ratters. They're good at finding desert prawns in the hot weather, and they can take on most snakes. They also like cactus fruits, seeds, berries … .” I shrugged. “They can eat and digest the Degen plains olives.”
“You say they're dangerous. Why?”
I thought I'd explained, but I expanded. “They're communal. Once they're threatened, you may find most of the guard males and females chasing you, and they're quicker than they look and their teeth are sharp. If you don't get into their territory, except close to breeding times, they'll just watch.”
“How far back have they been breeding true?”
“We don't have records that far. Some time after the Chaos Years and The Flight. The original progenitors started east of the mountains, actually in the area near the Cherkrik ruins, and they've spread east and west from there.”
Most of Viedras's questions I could answer. Some I couldn't. I had no idea of the differences in genetic structure from the original and extinct prairie dogs. There wasn't any way to compare since we didn't have any verifiable genetic material from the original species.
Kemra half-listened and half-looked at the destination screen on the bulkhead before her.
Lieza interrupted the questioning. “We're starting down, Coordinator.”
I sat back and took a deep breath. Viedras shifted his weight in the seat, but I didn't look in his direction. I didn't want to answer more questions at that point.
Lieza set the lander down on hard and flat ground almost eight hundred meters north of the newest hummocks.
“Why did you set down so far away?” asked Viedras, with a touch of a whine, as he stepped down into the high grass. Some naturalist he was, but maybe he'd been in low ship-gee for too long.
“If we set down closer to the perimeter, we'd wait longer for them to return to their normal guard status. Also, the north side has the newer burrows, and that makes it easier to calculate the territoriality line.” I surveyed the expanse of grass that separated us from the town.
Even from more than a half a klick away, the embanked mounds that constituted the prairie dog burrows were impressive, rising clear of the chest-high grasses. Viedras walked slightly ahead and to my left, pausing every few meters to use the recording device/scanner he carried. Kemra was to his left. Half the marcybs were on the left flank, with Babbege—the others on the right, with Cherle.
As we neared the town, I kept scanning for other predators, but could sense none. I pulsed Lieza. “Do you have the scanners on?”
“Do kalirams have hoofs?”
“And?”
“It's clean. We made enough noise to clear out any vorpals anyway. Too flat for kalirams.”
Viedras paused and bent down to inspect something. “Hmmmm.”
We waited. Then he straightened as if he hadn't stopped at all and continued scanning or recording.
From a hundred meters, the burrows were more impressive, rising two and a half meters and forming an undulating rampart.
When we reached seventy meters, I motioned for the line to halt.
The outliers were sitting on the corner burrows, perched on their hind legs as I guess prairie dogs had from the beginning. Their well-groomed brown fur glistened even under the gray light of the oncoming storm. Their heads
swiveled in quick, jerky movements, taking in the grasslands around their town.
“They are attractive animals,” murmured Kemra.
At least she hadn't called them cute.
There was a single eagle circling under the high gray clouds, but one eagle wasn't a danger, except to a pup, and there wouldn't be any small pups loose this late in the year.
Farther to the west, the clouds were darker, lower, and headed our way—the storm Lieza had mentioned.
I gestured. “There's an outlier—a guard, if you will, at each corner of the town. You can't see the one in the center of the town, but there's one burrow that's higher, and there's another young male there.”

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