Emile and the Dutchman (20 page)

I took out my Fairbairn knife and scraped at the bone-white ceramic surface of the dirty filter. Most of the real clogging was in the pores themselves, of course, but some of it was on the surface.

And, besides, it gave me an excuse to have the knife in my hands.

Some things were starting to become clear. Not good, mind, just clear.

First was the Dutchman and his situation. A blocked engine is like a hung bullet in a gun barrel, only more so: light the engine, and all you have is a rapidly expanding cloud of gas, slightly salted with fragments of metal and flesh.

Not good.

If the Dutchman couldn't clear the engine—and with a badly broken leg, he wasn't going to be able to—at least one of us had to get topside to clear it. Either that, or hope that Third Team would bring back our bones.

Of course, we could try to hold out in the shuttle.

No. Cancel that. Hischteeel was confident of the Artificers' abilities to make things; even though they hadn't changed over their power technology to combustion, they apparently had some pretty fine catalytic electricity generation going on. And that's tricky stuff.

I wasn't willing to bet that they couldn't duplicate far too much of the scout's equipment.

We hadn't seen many examples of advanced technology here, but that can be incredibly deceptive. Come to think of it, we'd only seen a very few examples of what the locals could do, and the more I thought about it, the less I liked the high green-to-brown ratio of their cultivated land. Agriculture is tricky.

So: the Dutchman was right. The scout had to either get topside, or get blown into very small pieces.

Which brought us back to problem two: the schrift.

I tucked the filter in my pouch, but I didn't put the knife away. "Donny?"

"Yes, sir?"

"How much of what you told me are you sure of?"

He eyed me levelly. "All of it."

Damn. I was hoping that most of what he'd gleaned from Hischteeel's mind was wrong. At least, I was hoping that it was low-reliability information, not hard intelligence.

Intelligence. That was the problem.

I'd never heard of even a semi-intelligent race of amphibians before, and a lot of the trouble came from the fact the schrift were amphibians, not saurian like the Sesss or vaguely mammalian like the poncharaire or onrians; they were legitimate amphibians.

The puzzle of Hischteeel's interest in the Contact Service, and the source of our problem, lay in an obvious fact: amphibians don't know who their parents or children are, and can't care. Females lay unfertilized eggs in the water; males come along and fertilize them by the zillions. Less personal than the kind of cathouses the lower-ranking Navy files patronize, although I wouldn't have thought it possible.

No vague idea of who your parents are means no family.

And the family is the basis of society: you can ask a mother cat teaching her kittens to clean themselves. If she won't answer, you can ask my father.

Without some way of transmitting cultural and intellectual information, a species might almost be better off not being sapient, specializing in something other than brains and adaptability; the main survival edge that intelligence gives us is learning to avoid being killed by our grandparents' mistakes. Family is necessary.

But the schrift didn't have families. Amphibians have no way of knowing who their children are. Or their parents.

Somewhere along the line, probably back when they had just come down from the trees or up out of the muck, they had evolved an alternative. As Hischteeel described it and N'Damo translated—and I knew I missed almost all the subtext; I made a mental note that if we ever got out of here, we'd have to make sure that all of Third learned the language—it sounded like a souped version of a guild system, but Hischteeel called the guilds
schtann.

They were tight, empathic groupings based on professions—the schrift idea of professions. I'd worked out what the Teachers of Plants and Harvesters of Animals schtanns were, but . . .

"Donny—the Artificers with That Which Comes from the Ground. Are they potters, blacksmiths, or electronicists?"

His face went blank for a moment; he hadn't assimilated the language all that well, and translating was still a problem for him.

"A bit of all three, sir. I think, I think." He shook his head. "Not jewelers or large-structure builders, though; that's another schtann."

"That doesn't help me much." I had to get a hold on what was going on. The conflict and contact between the different schtanns was complex, and while I couldn't hope to get a good reading on the complexity at this stage of the Contact, I had to do the best I could. Part of it looked like this:

Younglings were picked up and examined by members of the Childgrowers schtann shortly after they grew legs and came up on land. While the intelligence of the baby schrift was probably not as good as a dumb dog's, they could learn. Don't snicker; a three-month-old chimp's a
lot
brighter than you and I were at that age; the difference is where we plateau.

In return for not setting the children against the various other schtanns, the Childgrowers received food from the Farmers, and everything else they needed from the Artificers, Healers, Transporters, and so on. Naturally, they encouraged the best, the brightest youngsters to join the Childgrowers, but that still left a lot for the other schtanns. And when a youngster's instinctive and trained inclination to join a schtann ripened . . .

—specifically, when Hischteeel's instinct and inclination ripened, just as a Contact Service scout, a powerful esper aboard, was touching down—

. . . it had suddenly found itself in weak contact with Donny N'Damo's mind, and felt Donny's carefully ingrained loyalty to the Contact Service, and decided to join the Contact Service schtann, to which it immediately pledged its life, fortune, and sacred honor. So it said.

"I've
got
to learn the language," I said. There's a lot of indications in a language as to the worldview of the user.

"Sir?"

"Language," I said. "There's got to be some hints in the language. What's the word for stranger?"

"
Tsanav
," he said.

"Break it down for me. Any of the roots mean anything?"

He screwed his face up so tightly I thought he was going to break something. "Well,
av
is a radical suffix—means 'unknown,' or 'the answer is.'
Tsan
is . . . a lot like
Itsan,
which means enemy."

Figures. That's typical, all throughout sapient societies: stranger usually means enemy.

"Translate, quickly: my schtann."

"Schtann
." He shrugged. "No difference, not even in reflection."

"Friend."

"
Kvaschtannassst
."

"I hear the word
schtann
in that. Any connection?"

"Well,
kvaschtannassst is
a schtann-mate."

"Any other word for friend?"

"There's
kdzheez,
but that means . . . a school chum? Close enough—but there's no word for just plain friend. Or if there is, Hischteeel doesn't know it."

It figured. "Translate: your schtann."

"
Klavashat' t-tsan
."

"
Tsan
mean the same thing that it did a moment ago?"

"Yes, sir. The other part is like, like a collection of . . . objects. No.
Sharp
objects."

My schtann meant family;
your
family was a bunch of knives. Wonderful. Fucking wonderful.

One more step. "Allied schtann."

"
Avklavashat't-takshtsht-tsan.
Breaks down to
Klavashat't-tsan
in a weak container. But there's the
av
radical again."

And there it was:

Me and mine: human beings. No, not
Homo sapiens:
just people. Folks.

You, singular: unknown enemy.

You-in-general, plural: sharp knives.

You-my-allies, plural: sharp knives in cheap sheaths. What's unknown is when you're going to turn on me, or me on you.

"How many synonyms for 'treachery' can you come up with, Donny?"

"Well, there's—"

"Just count." There are human languages without a word for treachery; I was willing to bet that the schrift had several.

"Twenty . . . three."

That did it. A standard sort of strategy was out: maybe we could back a schtann, pay them off, show them how it was in their interests to protect Thousand Worlds interests, but all that would amount to would be loading a gun at our heads. Not with a worldview like that.

Damn. I didn't know
what
I'd recommend. Dropping right away seemed a bit premature, but what would work?

We could recommend that the Navy keep a battlecruiser or two in permanent orbit, but the Xeno War was started by the Navy's being too slow with a trigger. Almost better to drop a worldwrecker.

Almost, I said. We can't do that. One day, humanity will run into a race a lot more powerful than we are, and we have to be ready for that day. Having a bit of dirty linen in our closet is bad enough; having wiped out a sapient alien species without knowing for
damn
sure that it really represented a clear and present danger isn't the sort of precedent we'd want to set.

So. What was left? Maybe mess with their worldview by teaching them human languages?

Don't be silly—a whole
world?

How about just one hostile schtann? No. Not when they already had twenty-odd words for treachery.

No; the schrift were going to be insular, and faithful to their own. Only their own.

I wasn't even sure I liked the idea of a Drop. This whole schtann business sounded awfully powerful, awfully dangerous.

No treaty with the race, no treaty with a schtann, no wiping the whole species out, no Dropping them and leaving them be.

I needed another idea, but I didn't have one.

"Ehh-mhill," a rough voice whispered from behind me.

I spun; Hischteeel stood there, my wiregun held in its thick, alien hands. So it had betrayed us, after all. What was the reward for two hunted aliens?

Didn't matter. There was too much information in my head, and in Donny's; and his head held too much ability to communicate. I snatched at his harness and drew him toward me, holding him as a shield.

"Don't move, Lieutenant," I said, quietly, holding the blade against his neck. "I'm sorry, but—"

"We can't be taken alive," he said calmly. "I understand, sir. But—Hischteeel;
dshat vars.
English."

Hischteeel dropped the wiregun as if it was on fire; it backed away quickly.

"Nohh for," it hissed. "Fffoorr yoooo. Schtann. Conn. Servve. Schtann." It held out its hands, pleadingly. "Trrrussst keschun.
Trrrusst
." It backed away further.

I let go of Donny and stooped to pick up the wiregun. A quick glance showed me it still had ninety wires left.

Just to be on the safe side, I snicked the safety off and sent a single wire hissing into the soft dirt floor of the cave, well away from where we'd stashed the lifters.

"Ehmil—trusst Hischteeel. Blezee."

It knew from Donny what a wiregun could do, even if it hadn't seen the rabbit on the trail. And it could have taken the gun to one of the searchers, and turned us in.

But it hadn't. I looked at the triggerguard and at Hischteeel's finger; probably it couldn't even have fit its index finger inside.

It hadn't even tried.

Okay, Hischteeel
, I thought
,
I'll trust you. With my life.
"Yeah, trust, dammit."

I swear: the next thing I knew, this amphibian was hugging me.

Day broke like a bottle of dark wine dashed to bits on a cement floor.

Standing a few feet back from the opening of the cave, I was splattered by the dark sheets of rain clawing at the plain, while a small stream of dirty water worked its way between my boots and back into the cave.

Every few seconds, yet another bright finger of lightning would zigzag its way groundward. Even when the lightning was far off, I could always tell when the thunder would boom; it would start with a loud
rrrip,
just to warm up.

Off in the distance, the lamps of the searchers still flickered. I couldn't see them all that often, not through the downpour, but they were there.

Being a hunted animal isn't fun. I hadn't had the experience before, and I didn't like it much now. The schrift wouldn't stop for this; amphibians don't mind the rain. Mammals don't function all that well in it. Not well at all.

What do you think, Donny? I wanted to ask. Do we wait for the rain to clear, or do we go now?

But I didn't ask. Donny didn't have any information I didn't have, and I didn't need to have him doubt that I knew what I was doing.

I had enough of those kinds of doubts for the three of us. Hell, I had enough of those kinds of doubts to keep a regiment of St. Thomases happy in their cynicism.

I stood and let the rain beat down until I'd had enough.

"Donny, Hischteeel—saddle up," I said. "We're moving out."

I'd been expecting N'Damo to have to translate for the benefit of the schrift, but Donny's instant language class seemed to be taking pretty well; the schrift nodded its massive head slowly, ponderously, as though the movement was strange to it.

"Esyess, Ehmill . . . saddloop. Hischteeel carreeeee keschun."

My belly was still sore from where it had bumped against the schrift's shoulder while it carried me. "No, thanks."

"Nohhthankssss keschun keschun."

"Means no," I turned to Donny. "No, I don't want it to carry me."

Donny listened as the schrift hissed a complicated refrain at him.

"No, it's asking about carrying the lifters." In confirmation, the schrift bent to demonstrate that it could carry the lifters easily in its broad hands.

"Negative. We leave them." There was no way we were going to be able to make the climb while carrying lifters.

Have them lift us, instead? Don't be silly. Four minutes of lift—max—wouldn't get Donny and me high enough, assuming that I could fly in the downpour. Forgetting that—trust or no trust—I wasn't going to leave Hischteeel behind.