“Azi.” The deep baritone harmonies of the Warrior vibrated even through the table surface. The elder faces at the end of the table were stark with dread. Eron watched them and not the Warrior, reckoning their every reaction. “We widen the hives,” the Warrior said “We protect human hives, for payment in goods. We need more fields, irrigation, more food, more azi. You can give these things. Red-hive and Kontrin—” More air hissed into the chambers. “—are compatible. We group now without the translation computers. We have found understanding, identification, synthesis. We taste…mutual desire.”
Thatwas awe. Eron saw it and smiled, a grim, taut smile, that melted into a friendlier one. “The power of the hives. Kontrin power, cousins. Human space shuts us out. Kontrin policy has limited our growth, limited our numbers, limited beta generation growth, limited the breeding of their azi. Colonised worlds throughout the Reach are fixed at the level of population reached four centuries ago, Our whole philosophy has been containmentwithin the Reach. We have all acquiesced in a situation which was arranged for us…in the theory that humans and majat can’t co-operate. But we can. We don’t have to exist within these limits. We don’t have to go on living under these restrictions. Item number one in the program before you is essentiaclass="underline" widening access permitted by the Pact Your affirmative vote is vastly important. Majat will be willing to assist us on more than the Worker level. We already have Warriors accessible to our direction, at this moment; and possibly, possibly, my dear cousins—Drones. The key to the biologic computer that is the hive. Thatkind of co-operation, humans working directly with what has made the hives unaided by machines…capable of the most complex order of operations. Thatkind of power, joined to our own: majat holistic comprehension, joined to human senses, human imagination, human insights. A new order. We aren’t talking now about remaining bound by old limits. We don’t have to settle for containmentany longer.”
No one moved. Eyes were fixed on him, naked, full of speculations.
No, more than speculation: it was fact; they had made it fact. This, here, in this room, was the reality of the Council Decisions were being shaped here, and no one objected—no one, staring into the glittering eyes of the red Warrior—objected. At this end of the long table, in the hands of the Thels, the Meth-marens, the Ren-barants and the Halds…rested authority; and the others would go into the Council hall and vote as they were told, fearing for themselves what had been wrought elsewhere.
And perhaps…perhaps conceiving ambitions of their own. The old order had been stagnant, centuries without change; change confronted them. Possibilitiesconfronted them. Some would want a share of that.
“Second item,” Eron said, not needing to look down. “A proposal for expansion of the azi breeding programs. The farms on Istra…have applied for expansion of their industry, repeatedly denied under the old regime. The proposal before Council grants that license…with compensations for past denials. The facilities on Istra and elsewhere can be quadrupled, an eighteen-year program of expansion easily correlated with the majat’s eighteen-year cycle of increase. The hives can be paid…in azi; and the population of the Reach can be readjusted.
“Third item, cousins: authorisation to beta governments for a ten percent increase in birth permits. The supervisory levels of industry and agriculture must increase in proportion to other increases.
“Fourth: licensing of Kontrin births pegged to the same ten percent. There has already been attrition; there may be more.
“Fifth: formal dissolution of certain septs and allotment of their Colours and privileges to other septs within those Houses. This merely regularises certain changes already made.”
There was laughter from the left side of the room, against the wall, where some of the younger generation sat. Eron looked, as many did. It was Pol Hald who extended big long legs and smirked to himself, ignoring his great-uncle’s scowl.
“Questions?” Eron asked, trying to recapture the attention of those at the table. “Debate?”
There was none offered.
“We trust,” Tel a Ruil said, “in your votes. Votes will be remembered.”
Meth-maren arrogance. Eron scanned faces for reactions, as vexed in Ruil’s bald threat as he had been in Pol’s mistimed laughter. The elders took both in silence.
Glass smashed, rattled across the tiled floor. Eron looked rage at Pol Hald, who was poised in the careful act, hand open, his drink streamered across the floor. Eron started to his feet, thought better of it, and was grateful for the timely band of Yls Ren-barant, urging him otherwise; and for Del Hald, who heaved his own bulk about from the table to rebuke his grandnephew.
Meth-marens and Raids: that hate was old and deep, and lately aggravated. Pol’s act was that of a clown, a mime, pricking at Family pomposities, more actor than the azi-performers. The poised hand flourished a retraction, buried itself beneath a folded arm. Sorry, the lips shaped, elaborate mockery.
Tel a Ruil was hard-breathing, face flushed. Ren-barant calmed him too, a slight touch, a warning. Tand Hald and Pol’s cousin Morn both looked aside, embarrassed and wishing to disassociate themselves. Eron scanned the lot of them, smiled in his best manner, leaned back. Tel a Ruil relaxed with a similar effort. The small knot of oldest Houses at the end of the table was a skittish group, apt to bolt; those faces did not relax.
Eron relaxed entirely, and kept smiling, all cordiality. “We’ve begun a smooth transition. That has its difficulties, to be sere, but the advantages of keeping to a quiet schedule are obvious. There is the absolute necessity of keeping a calm face toward the betas and toward the Outside. You understand that. You understand what benefits there are for all of us. We have energies that are only grief to us, so long as we’re pent within these outmoded limits. Those talents can be of service. Is there any debate on agenda issues?
“Are we agreed without it, then?”
Heads nodded, even those at the end of the table.
“Why don’t we,” Eron suggested then, “move on into the bar, and handle this in a more…informal atmosphere. Take your drinks with you if you like. We’ll talk there…about issues.”
There was a relieved muttering, ready agreement. The air held a slightly easier feeling, and chairs went back, men and women moving out in twos and threes, talking in low voices—avoiding the majat Warrior, whose head rotated slightly, betraying life.
Eron cast an urgent scowl at Del Hald, and a grimmer one at Pol and his two companions, who tarried in the seats against the wall, no more anxious to quit the room than their elders. Ros Hald and his several daughters delayed too, the whole clutch of Halds banded for defense.
But Del wilted under Eron’s steady gaze, turned to Pol as he rose and caught at Pol’s arm. Pal evaded his hand, cast his great-uncle a mocking look…son of a third niece to Del and Ros, was Poclass="underline" orphan from early years, Del’s fosterling, and willing enough to put Del in command of Hald—but Del could not control him, had never controlled him. Pol was an irritant the Family bore and generally laughed at, for his irritation was to the Halds as often as any…and others enjoyed that.
Pol rose, with his cousins.
“The essence of humour,” said Eron coldly, “is subtlety.”
“Why, then, you are very serious, cousin.” And seizing young Tand by the arm, Pol left for the bar, self-pleased, laughing. Morn followed in their wake, his grim face once turned back to Eron with no pleasure at all.
Eron expelled a short breath and looked on Del. The eldest Hald’s lips were set in a thin line. “He’s a hazard,” Eron said “Someone has to make sure of him. He can do us hurt.”
“He should go somewhere,” Yls said softly to Del, “where be can find full occupation for his humour. Meron, perhaps. Wouldn’t that satisfy him?”