Diuturnity's Dawn Page 8

  Botha slipped out of his chair. It rocked briefly in his absence, then steadied to await the next set of perambulating buttocks. “Hopefully, Pierrot hasn’t blown up anything prematurely.”

  “If she has, she better have included herself.” Skettle did not look in Botha’s direction, for which the smaller man was grateful. He admired, even revered, Elkannah Skettle as much as any member of the cause. But the old man could scare you sometimes, without even intending to. Something in his manner, in his mental makeup, was skewed: a powerful ego skimming swiftly across the ice of the mind on skates fashioned of parallel psychoses.

  That did not make him any less of a leader in Botha’s eyes. You just had to be wary of his occasional . . . moods.

  Like his companions, Beskodnebwyl found Dawn unappealing. Had the authorities in charge not decided to hold this misconceived melange of a fair in the middle of the hottest month on the northern continent of the colony, he did not think he could have stood being outside for very long without proper survival gear. The idea of spending a winter on such a world . . .

  As it was, it was near noon and he was still chilly. Afternoon would be better. The local temperature tended to reach its most intense just before sunset. Nothing could be done about the dryness of the atmosphere, however. Like the temperature, the local humidity fell just within the limits of what was tolerable. He felt some sympathy for the thranx who were actually participating in the fair. They did not have his flexibility, could not always come and go when the weather suited them best.

  It was not enough sympathy to keep him from watching them die, however.

  Flanked by Sijnilarget, Meuvonpehif, and Tioparquevekk, he wandered in apparently incessant spirals that in fact were designed to carry him and his square of four to a specific destination. Not one of the many clever amusements that had been constructed by the resident humans, nor any of the engagingly familiar displays that had been erected by the invited thranx, distracted the Bwyl from their chosen course. The four resisted all such blandishments, ignoring lights and music, recitations and performances, disdaining to sample even the finest examples of thranx foodstuffs imported by invitees from Hivehom, Willow-Wane, Eurmet, and elsewhere. They had no time to partake of such diversions. The truly dedicated are not easily swayed from their intendment.

  The closer they got to their destination, the more edgy they became. It was not necessary to conceal the emotions running through them, however, because certain movements of limbs and antennae that would have been highly suggestive to another thranx meant nothing to the humans among whom they passed, and all other thranx were busy operating exhibits. The fair infrastructure had been designed, laid out, and was being run solely by the hosting humans of Dawn.

  Even if they were confronted at the wrong time or in the wrong place, Beskodnebwyl knew, they could easily plead ignorance.

  No one challenged them as they reached the building that had been constructed on the shore. A large portion of it extended out over the lake. This bulky apparatus was to be expected, since the building’s task was to integrate communications within the fairgrounds, both private and public. Concessions, restaurants, exhibits, and most of all, Security—all depended on the gleaming new transmission and relay system to supply their needs. This it did admirably, in manner mostly automated.

  Working with data extracted from restricted reports, a mated pair of renegade scientists sympathetic to the Bwyl cause had developed a wonderful set of miniaturized explosives easily deliverable by hand. At their chamber in the temporary hivelike structure the humans and their thranx advisors had built to provide comfortable climate-controlled lodgings for thranx visitors to and workers at the fair, the Bwyl had left a small packing case containing an assortment of favorite drinks. One drink container held enough of the explosives to kill a significant number of people.

  Utilized throughout the fair, they would quickly cause widespread havoc. When the source of the havoc was identified as thranx, it should not be enough to start a war, but should prove more than sufficient to place a freeze on the upgrading of diplomatic relations that would last for years at a minimum.

  They located and memorized several entrances to the structure, which was to be one of their principal targets. All were secured, as Beskodnebwyl and his companions knew they would be. Beskodnebwyl and Tioparquevekk kept watch while Sijnilarget and Meuvonpehif inspected the security arrangements.

  “Difficulties?” Beskodnebwyl asked as soon as they returned. Few humans had passed their way. Those that glanced in the direction of the four thranx had assumed they were part of the fair maintenance staff. A reasonable, if totally incorrect, assumption.

  “Not many.” Sijnilarget was peering through a device that no human would have recognized. “Though important to the smooth functioning of the fair, this is not a military installation. I would estimate less than ten time-parts to gain entry without setting off any alarms. Admittedly, I have not had as much time as I would like to study human designs of this nature, but I see nothing insurmountable. Regardless of the sentient species that designs them, security systems for oxygen breathers adhere to certain fundamental patterns.”

  Beskodnebwyl gestured his understanding. “Gaining entrance is the difficult part. Once inside, it becomes a simple matter of setting and timing a couple of containers. In the absence of communications, the chaos we will create will only be magnified.”

  “There may be human guards inside,” Tioparquevekk cautioned. “Or at least maintenance workers we may have to deal with.”

  Meuvonpehif flicked her truhands sharply forward, producing a small cracking sound as chitin snapped against chitin. “You concern yourself with getting us in. The rest of us will handle matters should any unfortunate humans decide to try and intercede.”

  “Anyone observing our activities must be silenced.” Sijnilarget deliberately spoke in Low Thranx to emphasize the crudity of his response. “They must not be allowed to raise the alarm.”

  “We don’t even know if there will be any humans to be encountered in what must surely be a largely automatic operation.” Beskodnebwyl continued to shield Tioparquevekk’s instrumentation with his body. “No one enters a strange burrow looking for trouble. How are you coming?”

  “Almost finished.” Tioparquevekk hovered over his equipment. “I have analyzed and ascertained the requisite patterns. All that remains is to record them and then run a phantom, to ensure that everything will work on the day we choose to act.” He went silent, busy with all four hands and sixteen digits.

  “Hey!”

  Beskodnebwyl, whose knowledge of human speech forms verged on fluency, recognized the word as an exclamation of accusation. What mattered, he knew from his painstaking studies, was the intensity with which it was delivered, and whether querulousness was implied. It struck him that in this instance all the relevant ingredients were involved.

  “What are you doing there?” The human who had spoken now adopted a tone more belligerent than curious. Beskodnebwyl did not panic. There were only two of the bipeds, and they were not clad in the attire of the several maintenance teams that serviced the fair. That meant they were only casual fair-goers, not unlike himself and his three companions. Behind him, he could sense Tioparquevekk concluding his work and hastily downpacking his equipment. Despite a rising sense of anxiety, the other three thranx worked smoothly and efficiently. With four hands, they were not prone to fumbling.

  If this human did not occupy an official position, what right did it have to bark accusingly at Beskodnebwyl and his companions? Assuming a defensive stance, he moved forward to confront the human. It was rangy, even for its kind. Standing tall on his four trulegs, Beskodnebwyl could not have raised his head to the level of the biped’s chest. Nonetheless, he was not intimidated. Proximity to the lumbering, lurching mammal brought on feelings of disgust and mild nausea, not fear.

  “I will tell you as soon as you have shown me your license.”

  Looking bemused, the two men halted
. The taller one continued to do all the talking. “What license?”

  “The one that gives you the authority to challenge peaceful visitors to this fair.” Behind him, Beskodnebwyl sensed his companions shifting their stances to form the rest of a traditional defensive four-headed square. Whatever happened now must be resolved quietly, he knew, lest the confrontation draw unwanted attention.

  The smaller of the pair spoke up, speaking to his friend. “Not only talkative bugs, but sarcastic ones.” His hand, Beskodnebwyl noted, was hovering over a slight bulge in the garment that covered his lower body. The Bwyl was not worried. If the human flourished a weapon, Sijnilarget, Meuvonpehif, and Tioparquevekk would be ready to respond with firepower of their own. Though differing greatly from thranx in their physical makeup, human bodies reacted similarly to an encounter with high-velocity explosive pellets.

  The taller one’s tone became slightly less combative. “I asked you what you were doing here.” His head bobbed in a gesture Beskodnebwyl knew was meant to indicate the building behind them. “This isn’t part of the fair exhibit. There’s nothing here for the public to see.”

  “We know,” Meuvonpehif commented readily in her heavily accented Terranglo. “It’s the central communications facility.”

  Beskodnebwyl was furious enough to reach back and snap one of the female’s antennae. By her physical reaction, he could see that she recognized her error almost as soon as she made it. Perhaps, he hoped agitatedly, the humans would find the comment innocuous.

  They did not.

  The tall man chose to continue to direct his words to Beskodnebwyl. “Is it really? That’s interesting. How do you know that? It isn’t marked as such on the outside.”

  “It’s function is quite obvious,” Beskodnebwyl replied a bit too quickly. “The necessary apparatus for the transmission of information dominates the roofline.”

  The human nodded again. Beskodnebwyl thought his expression now indicated thoughtfulness, but it was difficult to tell. Mastering the range of human facial expressions took time and patience. “So you’ve been studying the communications center from other vantage points besides this one. That’s even more interesting. I wonder what the Dawn police would make of your interest?”

  The biped was preternaturally perceptive, Beskodnebwyl thought tightly. This was threatening to get out of hand. He could feel his companions shifting their stances behind him, preparatory to . . .

  He was contemplating how best to dispose of the humans’ bodies when the short human appeared to lose control of himself. Drawing the bulge from his shirt, he aimed a device that was as lethal-looking as it was compact directly at Beskodnebwyl’s head.

  “Goddamn dirty bugs want to get their filthy claws on everything!”

  Reacting almost instantaneously, the trio of thranx behind Beskodnebwyl extracted from their thorax pouches weapons of their own. Confronted unexpectedly by thrice his number, the stocky biped hesitated, unsure now how to proceed, his initial bravado much reduced by the revelation that his intended victims were armed. He stared at them, glanced up at his companion, then back at the thranx. Like the rest of him, the muzzle of his weapon wavered.

  Admirably calm, the tall human stepped between his friend and the armed defensive square. “Now, this I would not have expected. Piet is quite right: It is unthinkable to have disgusting, germ-ridden quasi-insects such as yourselves stumbling about this close to a vital human installation. It inevitably raises the question of why you would want to do so. The presence of concealed weapons at a peaceable venue like this fair greatly enhances those questions. As does the undeniable skill and readiness with which they have just now been deployed. Yet you are not members of an officially recognized organization.”

  “I dispute nothing you say, but what does it prove save that thranx are always ready to defend themselves from reasonless attack?” Beskodnebwyl was watching the tall human carefully. The man’s stocky companion he had already dismissed as unimportant, despite the fact that he was the one holding the weapon.

  “It may prove a very odd thing indeed.” The human smiled, fully exposing his teeth. Beskodnebwyl had to force himself not to turn away from the distasteful sight. “It suggests that you and I may be here for the same purpose.”

  Beskodnebwyl had nothing to frown with, and the human could not understand the thranx’s gestures. It was left to inadequate words to convey subtleties of meaning. “And what purpose could that possibly be?”

  “Elkannah?” the shorter man murmured uneasily. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I always trust my instincts, Piet. If there’s another explanation, we’ll divine it in short order.” Turning his attention back to Beskodnebwyl, he continued as calmly as if requesting a change of shuttle seat assignment. “You and your dirt-dwelling friends are here to disrupt this fair, aren’t you? You’re planning to do something to, or with, local communications. You are here to cause trouble.”

  This was it, Beskodnebwyl reflected. They would have to kill both bipeds, and kill them quickly. All it would take would be a gesture from him. The humans would not recognize it, and so the one holding the gun would not have time to react. But . . . he was curious.

  “That’s the kind of observation that could get an individual killed. Why shouldn’t it?”

  “Because my friends and I are here for the same reason. From civility, we plan to bring forth chaos. We don’t like your kind, you see. Among us are many, too many I fear, misguided people who think we should cuddle up to you bugs, make you part of our cultural and political lives, let you set up your teeming, odious colonies on our own worlds. That sort of thing is reprehensible, unnatural, and must be prevented at all costs.” He stopped, waiting while the bugs digested his words.

  “How very astonishing.” At a gesture, the trio behind him lowered, but did not put up, their weapons. Somewhat reluctantly, the shorter human did likewise. “Your speech is admirable, except that for sake of veracity the word phrase for stinking soft flesh should be substituted for the derogatory term bugs.”

  The biped smiled again. Beskodnebwyl found he was better able to tolerate it this time. “I think we may be able to come to an understanding. If we do not cooperate, our natural antipathies will surely undo our respective plans. Ours do not especially involve the communications facility. Your plan is just to destroy it?”

  “Yes,” Meuvonpehif replied before Beskodnebwyl could silence her.

  The biped looked in her direction. “You are lying. Such as you would not come all this way, smuggling in weapons as well as intentions, just to render the visitors to and promoters of this abomination of a fair unable to communicate with one another. You must have something more extensive planned.” He returned his gaze to Beskodnebwyl. “I will reiterate: If we do not cooperate, we will end up at cross-purposes, when what we both want is the same result.”

  Beskodnebwyl nodded, an absurdly easy human gesture to imitate. “We intend to set off explosives not only here but throughout the length and breadth of the depravity.” Behind him, he heard Tioparquevekk and Sijnilarget inhale sharply in disbelief. “The more fair-goers—human and thranx alike—that we can kill or incapacitate, the stronger will be the reaction among your kind.”

  Again the human nodded—approvingly, Beskodnebwyl thought. “We plan to make use of some custom-built explosive devices. As I understand it, the more creative types we execute, the angrier will be the response from your infernal hives.”

  “Quite correct.” Beskodnebwyl found himself staring up at the human. Used to dwelling underground, the human’s greater physical stature did not intimidate him. That sort of psychological positioning was for open-air dwellers only. “You confirm what we already believe: that your kind are inherently violent and murderous, and must be kept as far away as possible from a truly civilized society such as our own.”

  “We want nothing less. Back on Earth, you know, we step on bugs all the time. Have been doing so since the beginning of our recorded history.”


  “What more can be expected,” Beskodnebwyl responded, “from a species that flops about like ambulatory sacks of iron-based blood and loose meat?”

  Skettle’s smile faded slightly. “We understand each other, then. We will not interfere with whatever it is you intend to do, and you will not interfere with us. Working separately but with the same goal in mind, we will with our endeavors here succeed in putting relations between our species where they belong: at a distance sufficient to ensure that we have to do no more than tolerate your presence in the same galactic arm as ourselves.”

  “I could have put it better,” Beskodnebwyl replied, “but your words will do. It may even be that we will, over the next several days, find reason to cooperate more closely in carrying out our respective efforts, and might even try to synchronize our operations in hopes of achieving maximum outcome.”

  “That’s a fine idea.” Skettle started to retrace his steps. At no time did he turn his back on the bugs. “We should arrange for some of us to meet daily to continue this exchange of information. How about at the Syxbex Restaurant, on the lakeshore?”

  “That location will be eminently satisfactory.” Beskodnebwyl maintained the defensive square, watching as the pair of bipeds retreated. “We want to be sure to avoid any misunderstandings.”

  When we have done what we came for, he mused, we will also find a way to kill you. Loose antennae could not be allowed to flutter about. Besides, it would give him pleasure to preside over the demise of so forthrightly antagonistic a human. He raised a foothand in the human gesture of farewell.

  Skettle waved back, thinking as he and Botha turned the first available sheltering corner that he was going to delight in seeing this particular bug’s skull cracked and its brains oozing out over the colorful pavement that had been laid down for the fair.

  There is nothing in art, in philosophy, or in politics to match the fervor of mutual cooperation among discordant bands of fanatics.