'I certainly do. Were you listening to that report just now?'
'I listen to everything this ship's micro-branch does. It is my primary function here. Didn't Thomas Orley ever explain that to you?'
Gillian restrained herself. Her foot was too close to the offending screen. She put it on the floor to remove temptation. 'Niss,' she asked evenly, 'why does the micro-branch Library talk gibberish?'
The Tymbrimi machine sighed anthropomorphically. 'Dr. Baskin, virtually every oxygen-breathing race but Mankind has been weaned on a semantic which evolved down scores of patron-client links, all influenced by the Library. The languages of Earth are strange and chaotic by Galactic standards. The problems of converting Galactic archives into your unconventional syntax are enormous.'
'I know all that! The ETs wanted us to all learn Galactic Seven at the time of Contact. We told them to take the idea and stick it.'
'Graphically put. Instead, humanity applied immense resources to convert Earth's branch Library to use colloquial Anglic, hiring Kanten, Tymbrimi, and others as consultants. But still there are problems, are there not?'
Gillian rubbed her eyes. This was getting them nowhere. Why did Tom imagine this sarcastic machine was useful? Whenever she wanted to get a simple answer, it only asked questions.
'The language problem has been their excuse for over two centuries!' she said. 'How much longer will they use it? Since Contact we've been studying language as it hasn't been studied in millions of years! We've tackled the intricacies of 'wolfling' tongues like Anglic, English, Japanese, and taught dolphins and chimps to speak. We've even made some progress communicating with those strange creatures, the Solarians of Earth's sun!
'Yet the Library Institute still tells us it's our language that's at fault for all of these lousy correlations, these clumsily translated records! Hell, Tom and I can each speak four or five Galactic tongues. It's not the language difference that's the trouble. There's something queer about the data we've been given!'
The Niss hummed silently for a time. The sparkling motes coalesced and separated like two immiscible fluid merging and falling apart into droplets.
'Dr. Baskin, haven't you just described the major reason for ships such as this one, which roam space hunting discrepancies in the Library's records? And the very purpose of my existence, to attempt to catch the Library in a lie, to try to: find out if the most powerful patron races, as you would say: 'stack the deck' against younger sophonts such as Men and Tymbrimi?'
'Then why don't you help me?' Gillian's heart raced She gripped the edge of the desk, and she realized suddenly that the frustration had come close to overcoming her.
'Why am I so fascinated with the human way of looking at things, Dr. Baskin?' the Niss asked. Its voice turned almost sympathetic. 'My Tymbrimi masters are unusually crafty. Their adaptability keeps them alive in a dangerous galaxy. Yet they, too, are trapped in the Galactic mode of thinking. You Earthlings, from a fresh perspective, may see what they do not.
'The range of behaviors and beliefs among oxygen-breathers is vast, yet the experience of Man is virtually unique. Carefully uplifted client races never suffer through the errors made by your pre-Contact human nations. These errors have made you different.'
That was true enough, Gillian knew. Blatant idiocies had been tried by early men and women — foolishness that would never have been considered by species aware of the laws of nature. Desperate superstitions had bred during the savage centuries. Styles of government, intrigues, philosophies were tested with abandon. It was almost as if Orphan Earth had been a planetary laboratory, upon which a series of senseless and bizarre experiments were tried.
Illogical and shameful as they seemed in retrospect, those experiences enriched modern Man. Few races had made so many mistakes in so short a time, or tried so many tentative solutions to hopeless problems.
Earthling artists were sought out by many jaded ETs, and paid well to spin tales no Galactic would imagine. The Tymbrimi particularly liked human fantasy novels, with lots of dragons, ogres and magic — the more the better. They thought them terrifyingly grotesque and vivid.
'I am not discouraged when you grow frustrated with the Library,' the Niss said. 'I am glad. I learn from your frustration! You question things that all Galactic society takes for granted.
'Only secondarily am I here to help you, Mrs. Orley. Primarily, I am here to observe how you suffer.'
Gillian blinked. The machine's use of an ancient honorific had to have had a purpose — as did its blatant attempt to make her angry. She sat still and monitored a flux of conflicting emotions.
'This is getting nowhere,' she spat. 'And it's making me crazy. I feel all cooped up.'
The Niss sparkled without commenting. Gillian watched the motes spin and dance.
'You're suggesting we let it sit for a while, aren't you?' she said at last.
'Perhaps. Both Tymbrimi and Humans possess preconscious selves. Perhaps we should both let these matters lie in the dark for a time, and let our hidden parts mull things over.'
Gillian nodded. 'I'm going to ask Creideiki to send me to Hikahi's island. The abos are important. After escape itself, I'd guess they're the most important thing:'
'A normal, moral view from the Galactic standpoint, and therefore of little interest to me.' The Niss sounded bored already. The dazzling display coalesced into dark patterns of spinning lines. They whirled and converged, fell together into a tiny point, and disappeared.
Gillian imagined she heard a faint pop as the Niss departed.
When she reached Creideiki on the comm line the captain blinked at her.
'Gillian, is your psi working overtime? I was just calling you!…
She sat up. 'Have you heard from Tom?'
'Yesss. He's fine. He's asked me to send you on an errand. Can you come down here right away?'
'I'm on my way Creideiki.'
She locked the door to her lab and hurried toward the bridge.
24 ::: Galactics
Beie Chohooan could only rumble in amazement at the magnitude of the battle. How had the fanatics managed to gather such strength in so short a time?
Beie's little Synthian scout ship cruised down the ancient, rocky jet stream left by a long-dead comet. The Kthsemenee system was ablaze with bright flashes. Her screens showed the battle fleets as they merged into swirling knots all around her, scratching and killing and separating again. Alliances formed and dissolved whenever the parties seemed to sense an advantage. In violation of the codes of the Institute for Civilized Warfare, no quarter was being given.
Beie was an experienced spy for the Synthian Enclave, but she had never seen anything like this.
'I was an observer at Paklatuthl, when the clients of the J'81ek broke their indenture on the battlefield. I saw the Obeyor Alliance meet the Abdicators in ritual war. But never have I seen such mindless slaughter! Have they no pride? No appreciation of the art of war?'
Even as she watched, Beie saw the strongest of the alliances fall apart in a fiery betrayal, as one flank fell upon the other.
Beie snorted in disgust. 'Faithless fanatics,' she muttered.
There was a chitter from the shelf to her left. A row of small pink eyes looked down upon her.
'Which of you said that!' She glared at the little tarsier-like wazoon, each staring out the entrance hatch of its own little spy-globe. The eyes blinked back at her. The wazoon chittered in amusement, but none of them answered her directly.
Beie sniffed. 'Well, you're right, of course. The fanatics have quick reactions on their side. They do not stop and consider, but dive right in, while we moderates must ponder before we act.'
Especially the ever-cautious Synthians, she thought. Earthlings are supposed to be our allies, yet timidly we talk and consider, we protest to the impotent Institutes, and send expendable scouts to spy upon the fanatics.
The wazoon chattered a warning.
'I know!' she snapped. 'Don't you think I know my business? So there's a watcher probe up ahead. One of you go take care of it and don't bother me! Can't you see I'm busy?'
The eyes blinked at her. One pair vanished as the wazoon scuttled into its tiny ship and closed the hatch. In a moment a small shudder passed through the scout as the probe departed.
Luck to you, small wazoon, faithful client, she thought.
Feigning nonchalance, she watched as the tiny probe danced up ahead amongst the planetoidal debris, sneaking toward the watcher probe that lay in Beie's path.
One expendable scout, she thought bitterly. The Tymbrimi are fighting for their lives. Earth is besieged, half her colonies taken, and still we Synthians wait and watch, watch and wait, sending only me and my team to observe.
A small flame burned suddenly, casting stark shadows through the asteroid field. The wazoon let out a low groan of mourning, stopping quickly when Beie looked their way.
'Do not hide your feelings from me, my brave wazoon,' she murmured. 'You are clients and brave warriors, not slaves. Mourn your colleague, who died so well for us.'
She thought about her own cool, careful people, amongst whom she always felt a stranger.
'Feel!' she insisted, surprised by her own vehemence. 'There is no shame in caring, my little wazoon. In this you may be greater than your patron race, when you are grown up and on your own!'
Beie piloted closer to the water world, where the battle raged, feeling more akin to her little client-comrades than to her own ever-cautious race.
