We did not really need all these brains in order to rule our world.
He approached the herd again, and while hunger drove him, he also contemplated the beauty of the native creatures. No doubt they were growing rapidly in stature with each passing generation. Already they were far larger than their ancestors had been back when the Bururalli slew all the great ungulates which used to roam these plains. Someday they might fill some of those empty niches. Even now they were already far swifter than a man.
Speed was one thing. But endurance was quite another matter. As they turned to flee him again, Robert saw that the herd members had begun to look a little panicky. The pseudo-deer now wore flecks of foam around their mouths. Their tongues hung out, and their rib cages heaved in rapid tempo.
The sun beat down. Perspiration beaded and covered him in a thin sheen. This evaporated, leaving him cool. Robert paced himself.
Tools and fire and speech gave us the surplus. They gave us what we needed to begin culture. But were they all we had?
A song had begun to play in the network of fine sinuses behind his eyes, in the gentle squish of fluid that damped his brain against the hard, driving accelerations of every footstep. The throbbing of his heartbeat carried him along like a faithful bass rhythm. The tendons of his legs were like taut, humming bows… like violin strings.
He could smell them now, his hunger accentuating the atavistic thrill. He identified with his intended prey. In an odd way Robert knew a fulfillment he had never experienced before. He was alive.
He barely noticed as he began overtaking deer who had collapsed to the ground. Mothers and their fawns blinked in dull surprise as he ran past them without a glance. Robert had spotted his target, and he projected a simple glyph to tell the others to relax, to slip aside, while he chased a big male buck at the head of the herd.
You are the one, he thought. You have lived well, passed on your genes. Your species does not need you anymore, not as much as I da.
Perhaps his ancestors actually used empathy-sense quite a bit more than modern man. For now he saw a real function for it. He could kenn the growing dread of the buck as, one by one, its overheated companions dropped aside. The buck put in a desperate burst of speed and leaped far ahead. But then it had to rest, panting miserably to try to cool off, its sides heaving as it watched Robert come on.
Foaming, it turned to flee again.
Now it was just the two of them.
Gimelhai blazed. Robert bore on.
A little while later he brought his left hand to his belt as he ran, and loosened the sheath of his knife. Even that tool he chose with some reluctance. What decided him to use it, instead of his bare hands, was empathy with his prey, and a sense of mercy.
It was some hours later, his stomach no longer growling urgently, that Robert felt his first glimmerings of a clue. He had begun making his way southwestward, in the direction Athaclena had hoped would lead him to his goal. As the day aged, Robert shaded his eyes against the late afternoon glare. Then he closed them and reached forth with other senses.
Yes, something was close enough to kenn. If he thought of it metaphorically, it came as a very familiar flavor.
He headed forth at a jog, following traces that came and went, sometimes cool and sentient and sometimes as wild as the buck who had shared its life with Robert so recently.
When the traces grew quite strong, Robert found himself near a vast thicket of ugly thorn bush. Soon it would be sunset, and there was no way he would be able to chase down the thing emanating those vibrations, not in this dense, hurtful undergrowth. Anyway, he did not want to “hunt” this creature. He wanted to talk to it.
He was sure the being was aware of him now. Robert halted. He closed his eyes again and cast forth a simple glyph. It darted left, right, then plunged into the vegetation. There came a rustle.
He opened his eyes. Two dark, glittering pools blinked back at him. “All right,” he said, softly. “Please come on out now. We had better talk.”
There was another moment’s hesitation. Then there shambled forth a long-armed chim, hairier than most, with thick brows and a heavy jaw. He was dirty, and totally naked.
There were a few stains that Robert was sure came from caked blood, and it had not come from the chim’s own minor scratches. Well, we are cousins, after all. And vegetarians don’t live long on a steppe.
When he sensed that the comate chim was reluctant to make eye contact, Robert did not insist. “Hello, Jo-Jo,” he said softly, and with sincere gentleness. “I’ve come a long way to bring a message to your employer.”
81
Athaclena
Its occupant — naked, unshaven, and looking very much the wolfling — stared down at Athaclena with an expression that would have burned even without the loathing he radiated. To Athaclena it felt as if the little glade were saturated with the prisoner’s hatred. She planned to keep her visit as short as possible.
“I thought you would want to know. The Gubru Triumvirate has declared a protocol truce under the Rules of War,” she told Major Prathachulthorn. “The ceremonial site is now sacrosanct, and no armed force on Garth can act except in self-defense for the duration.”
Prathachulthorn spat through the bars. “So? If we’d attacked when I planned, we’d have made it before this.”
“I find it doubtful. Even the best plans are seldom executed perfectly. And if we were forced to abort the mission at the last minute, every secret we had would have been revealed for nothing.”
“That’s your opinion,” Prathachulthorn snorted.
Athaclena shook her head. “But that is not the only or even the most important reason.” She had grown tired of fruitlessly explaining the nuances of Galactic punctilio to the Marine officer, but somehow she found the will to try one more time. “I told you before, major. Wars are known to feature cycles of what you humans sometimes call ‘tit-for-tat’ where one side punishes the other side for its last insult, and then that other side retaliates in turn. Left unconstrained, this can escalate forever! Since the days of the Progenitors, there have been developed rules which help keep such exchanges from growing out of all proportion.”
Prathachulthorn cursed. “Damn it, you admitted that our raid would’ve been legal if done in time!”
She nodded. “Legal, perhaps. But it also would have served the enemy well. Because it would have been the last action before the truce!”
“What difference does that make?”
Patiently, she tried to explain. “The Gubru have declared a truce while still in an overpowering position of strength, major. That is considered honorable. You might say they ‘win points’ for that.
“But their gain is multiplied if they do so immediately after taking damage. If they show restraint by not retaliating, the Gubru are then performing an act of forbearance. They gather credit—”
“Ha!” Prathachulthorn laughed. “Fat lot of good it’d do them, with their ceremonial site in ruins!”
Athaclena inclined her head. She really did not have time for this. If she spent too long here, Lieutenant McCue might suspect that this was where her missing commander was being hidden. The Marines had already swooped down on several possible hiding places.
“The upshot might have been to force Earth to finance a new site as a replacement,” she said.
Prathachulthorn stared at her. “But — but we’re at warl”
She nodded, misunderstanding him. “Exactly. One cannot allow war without rules, and powerful neutral forces to enforce them. The alternative would be barbarism.”
The man’s sour look was her only answer.
“Besides, to destroy the site would have implied that humans do not want to see their clients tested and judged for promotion! But now it is the Gubru who must pay honor-gild for this truce. Your clan has gained a segment of status by being the aggrieved party, unavenged. This sliver of propriety could turn out to be crucial in the days ahead.”