The crimson feather had the stoop-colonel captivated, its colors ‹loing things to its very blood. “I shall prepare my Talon Soldiers to go down and meet the Terrans,” the stoop-colonel suggested, hopefully. “We shall drop down, advance, attack in equal numbers, lightly armed, without robots.”
“No! You must not, will not, shall not! I have carefully assigned roles for all my forces. I need, require them all when we deal with the Thennanin! There shall be no wasteful squandering.
“Now, heed me! At this moment, this instant, the Earth-lings below shall feel, bear, sustain my righteous vengeance!” the Suzerain of Beam and Talon cried out. “I command that the locks be removed from the weapons of mass destruction. We shall sear this valley, and the next, and the next, until all life in these mountains—”
The order was never finished. The stoop-colonel of Talon Soldiers blinked once, then dropped its saber pistol to the deck. The clatter was followed by a double thump as first the head and then the body of the former military commander tumbled as well.
The stoop-colonel shuddered. Lying there, the body clearly showed those iridescent shades of royalty. The admiral’s blood mixed with the blue princely plumage and spread across the deck to join, at last, with the single crimson feather of his queen.
The stoop-colonel told its stunned subordinates, “Inform, tell, transmit to the Suzerain of Propriety that I have placed myself under arrest, pending the outcome, result, determination of my fate.
“Refer to Their Majesties what it is that must be done.”
For a long, uncertain time — completely on inertia — the task force continued toward the hilltop where the Earthlings had gathered, waiting. Nobody spoke. On the command dais there was hardly any movement at all.
When the report arrived itwas like confirmation of what they had known for some time. A pall of mourning had already settled over the Gubru administration compound. Now the former Suzerain of Propriety and the former Suzerain of Cost and Caution crooned together a sad dirge of loss.
Such great hopes, such fine prospects they had had on setting out for this place, this planet, this forlorn speck in empty space. The Roost Masters had so carefully planned the right oven, the correct crucible, and just the right ingredients — three of the best, three fine products of genetic manipulation, their very finest.
We were sent to bring home a consensus, the new queen thought. And that consensus has come.
It is ashes. We were wrong to think this was the time to strive for greatness.
Oh, many factors had brought this about. If only the first candidate of Cost and Caution had not died… If only they had not been fooled twice by the trickster Tymbrimi and his “Garthlings.” … If only the Earthlings had not proven so wolfishly clever at capitalizing on every weakness — this last maneuver for instance, forcing Gubru soldiery to choose between dishonor and regicide…
But there are no accidents, she knew. They could not have taken advantage if we had not shown flaws.
That was the consensus they would report to the Roost Masters. That there were weaknesses, failures, mistakes which this doomed expedition had tested and brought to light.
It would be valuable information.
Let that console me for my sterile, infertile eggs, she thought, as she comforted her sole remaining partner and lover.
To the messengers she gave one brief command.
“Convey to the stoop-colonel our pardon, our amnesty, our forgiveness. And have the task force recalled to base.”
Soon the deadly cruisers had turned about and were headed homeward, leaving the mountains and the valley to those who seemed to want them so badly.
110
Athaclena
The chims stared in amazement as Death seemed to change its mind. Lydia McCue blinked up at the retreating cruisers and shook her head. “You knew,” she said as she turned to look at Athaclena. Again she accused. “You knew!”
Athaclena smiled. Her tendrils traced faint, sad imprints in the air.
“Let us just say that I thought there was a possibility,” she said at last. “Had I been wrong, this would still have been the honorable thing to do.
“I am very glad, however, to find out that I was right.”
PART SEVEN
Wolflings
Hamlet, Act V, Scene II
111
Fiben
“Goodall, how I hate ceremonies!”
The remark brought a jab in his ribs. “Quit fidgeting, Fiben. The whole world is watching!”
He sighed and made an effort to sit up straight. Fiben could not help remembering Simon Levin and the last time they had stood parade together, just a short distance from here. Some things never change, he thought. Now it was Gailet nagging him to try to look dignified.
Why did everyone who loved him also incessantly try to correct his posture? He muttered. “If they wanted clients who looked elegant, they’d have uplif—”
The words cut short in an “oof!” of exhaled breath. Gailet’s elbows were sure a lot sharper than Simon’s had been. Fiben’s nostrils flared and he chuffed irritably, but he kept quiet. So prim in her well-cut new uniform, she might be glad to be here, but had anyone asked him if he wanted a damn medal? No, of course not. .Nobody ever asked him.
At last the triple-cursed Thennanin admiral finished his droning, boring homily on virtue and tradition, garnering scattered applause. Even Gailet seemed relieved as the hulking Galactic returned to his seat. Alas, so many others also seemed to want to make speeches.
The mayor of Port Helenia, back from internment on the islands, praised the doughty urban insurrectionists and proposed that his chim deputy ought to take over City Hall more often. That got him hearty applause… and probably a few more chim votes, come next election, Fiben thought cynically.
Cough*Quinn’3, the Uplift Institute Examiner, summarized the agreement recently signed by Kautt on behalf of the Thennanin, and for Earthclan by the legendary Admiral Alvarez, under which the fallow species formerly called gorillas would henceforth enter upon the long adventure of sapiency. The new Galactic citizens — already widely known as “The Client Race That Chose” — would be given leasehold on the Mountains of Mulun for fifty thousand years. Now they were, in truth, “Garthlings.”
In return for technical assistance from Earth, and fallow gorilla genetic stock, the mighty clan of the Thennanin would also undertake to defend the Terran leasehold of Garth, plus five other human and Tymbrimi colony worlds. They would not interfere directly in conflicts now raging with the Soro and Tandu and other fanatic clans, but easing pressure on those fronts would allow desperately needed help to go to the homeworlds.
And the Thennanin themselves were no longer enemies of the trickster-wolfling alliance. That fact alone was worth the power of great armadas.
We’ve done what we can, and more, Fiben thought. Until this point, it had seemed that the great majority of Galactic “moderates” would simply sit aside and let the fanatics have their way. Now there was some hope that the apparent “inevitable tide of history” that was said to doom all wolfling clans would not be seen as quite so unstoppable. Sympathy for the underdogs had grown as a result of events here on Garth.