"I do," Thrr-gilag managed. "And if I may say so, Overclan Prime, there's no need to make threats. I understand as well as you the need to avoid a panic."
"Just so long as we understand each other," the Prime said. "Where exactly will you be going right now?"
"Just to get something to eat," Thrr-gilag said. "There's a place nearby called the Lapper's Paradise I thought I'd try."
"Very well," the Prime said. "But I meant what I said about staying close to the complex. These Mrachani aliens may hold the key to our survival against the Human-Conquerors."
Survival. Previous Overclan Primes throughout history, facing other aggressive alien races, had spoken not of survival but of victory. Or so the histories said.
3
And worried sick. Thrr-gilag could hear the fear in the nervous laughter; could see it in the serious faces huddled together across tables; could smell it in the glycerol- and sweat-scented air.
Somewhere out there, in the blackness of space, the Humans were waiting. Powerful, deadly, and ruthless... and gathering for war.
Thrr-gilag sipped at his drink, looking around the tavern and listening to snatches of passing conversations as he marveled once again at the incredible speed of information flow that the Zhirrzh culture was capable of. He'd done his searcher thesis on general information dissemination among the cultures of the four known alien races, and in none of them had he found anything to compare with this vast informal network of Elders—one reason, his thesis had concluded, that the Zhirrzh had always been able to defeat the spacefaring races who attacked them.
But the Human empire was far larger than anything the Zhirrzh had faced before. And if the Humans had an Elder network of their own...
"Thrr-gilag?" a voice called from behind him.
Thrr-gilag turned around. Beckoning him over from a small group seated together around one of the tables was Nzz-oonaz. Picking up his drink, Thrr-gilag slid off his bar couch and went over. "Thought that was you," Nzz-oonaz said, indicating an empty couch across the table from him. "Join us?"
"Sure," Thrr-gilag said, easing past the other Zhirrzh and seating himself. "I'm surprised to find you here—I'd have thought you'd be standing over our prisoners."
"They're sleeping quite soundly," Nzz-oonaz said. "I decided I could risk leaving for a while." His tongue flicked sourly. "Besides, Gll-borgiv seems to have things well under control."
"Taking over, is he?"
"He's trying," Nzz-oonaz said. "Him and the whole Dhaa'rr clan, from Speaker Cvv-panav on down. Actually, I'm half-inclined to let them have the mess. See how far they can get with it."
Thrr-gilag looked around the group. All of them were young members of the Overclan staff, he saw now, wearing the jumpsuits and insignia threads of assorted service positions within the complex. An admiring entourage of overawed youngsters? Or were they a quiet protector escort, here to make sure no one mentioned the name CIRCE? "From what I've heard of Speaker Cvv-panav, he'd probably enjoy the challenge," he commented.
"I'm sure he would," Nzz-oonaz said with a grimace. "Right up to the point where it rose up and strangled him." He took a sip from his cup. "I don't like this, Thrr-gilag. None of it. Especially this whole Mrachani business."
"Anything specific?"
"The whole thing strikes me as just a little too simplistic," Nzz-oonaz said. "They fire on the Cakk'rr ship with Elderdeath weapons but completely ignore my question as to why. They sleep practically the whole way back from Base World Twelve—which conveniently keeps them from having to answer any questions, you'll note—coming out of it just long enough to let us know they speak the Human language. We get here, and again they come up just long enough to deliver a plea for help before dropping back down again. You'd think that after four fullarcs they'd be healing and getting stronger, but you wouldn't know it from their behavior or metabolic readings."
Thrr-gilag thought about that. The complete lack of communication with the Mrachanis during the trip here had bothered him, too. "Still, it's not completely unreasonable," he said. "Without a biochemical/metabolic baseline, there's really no way to know how bad their injuries are."
Nzz-oonaz grunted. "Yes. Again, how convenient for them."
"You think they're spies for the Human-Conquerors, Searcher?" one of the Overclan youths asked.
"That's one possibility," Nzz-oonaz said. "Another is that they're fish lures, sent here to spin us this tale of a subjugated people eager to recruit allies. We go to their aid, and they promptly turn around and slice us in the neck. We've certainly done that sort of thing often enough to each other."
For a few hunbeats no one spoke. Thrr-gilag sipped at his drink, listening to the swirl of other conversations as he looked around the tavern. It was a mixed lot there this postmidarc, with little if any attention being paid to the old traditional standards of social and clan stratification that used to be the norm of Zhirrzh society. Construction and maintenance workers, professional people like searchers and advocates, even a scattering of warriors from the Unity City bases—all sitting or standing and drinking together. Over and through it all floated a mobile cloud of Elders, listening or joining in the conversations or just watching. Some scrutinized the unseemly mixing of social strata with undisguised disapproval; others watched the eating and drinking with wistfulness or equally undisguised envy.
Mostly, though, their expressions seemed to match those of the physicals around them. Like everyone else, the Elder community was worried.
"Perhaps we're being too cynical," another of the Overclan youths at the table said. "Perhaps the Mrachanis are being completely sincere. I can see where these Human-Conquerors would be pretty terrifying to everyone."
Thrr-gilag looked at the grim expression on Nzz-oonaz's face. If you only knew the half of it, he thought silently at the youth. "I'm sure we'll find out firsthand about that soon enough," he said aloud. "Speaking of Human attacks, Nzz-oonaz, has anyone been able to confirm yet whether the warcraft that hit the pyramid on Study World Eighteen were the same ones that hit us five tentharcs later?"
"I doubt it," Nzz-oonaz said. "From what I've heard, the pyramid on Study World Eighteen had mostly construction and structural engineer types aboard, there to study the ruins of that city. They didn't have any actual alien specialists along."
Thrr-gilag nodded heavily. Which meant there'd been no one there with the training to sort out the fine details of a specific alien's face or body type or stance, or who could memorize the unintelligible wing markings on an alien warcraft. "Typical," he said to Nzz-oonaz.
"You got that right," Nzz-oonaz grunted. "Bored Elders falling all over each other looking for something to do, but no one thought about putting an alien specialist's fsss cutting out there."
Thrr-gilag flicked his tongue. "Backsight is always so much clearer," he reminded the other. "Any idea which clan was running that pyramid?"
"No idea," Thrr-gilag said. "Probably one of the ones who think alien studies are beneath the dignity of a proper Zhirrzh. You know: 'The proper study of Zhirrzh is Zhirrzh,' and all that."
Abruptly, an Elder appeared, his torso coming partway through the tabletop. "Searchers Nzz-oonaz and Thrr-gilag," he said, his faint voice barely audible over the background noise. "Urgent message: you're both needed at the medical center."
"The Mrachanis?" Nzz-oonaz asked as he and Thrr-gilag scrambled to their feet.
"Yes," the Elder said. "Their metabolic readings have suddenly dropped. Searchers Gll-borgiv and Svv-selic think they may be dying."
"Get me some readings," Nzz-oonaz ordered, starting across the crowded tavern. "And tell Svv-selic to rig life-support gear."