The Uplift War

The map pins, however, dealt with a much closer, nearer-term calamity. It was easy to read the array of pink and redmarkers. “They’ve really got a grip on things, haven’t they?”

The elderly chim named Micah brought Robert a glass of water. He frowned at the map also. “Yessir. The fighting seems to all be over. The Gubru have been concentrating their energies around the Port and the Archipelago, so far. There’s been little activity here in the mountains, except this perpetual harassment by robots dropping coercion gas. But the enemy has established a firm presence every place that was colonized.”

“Where do you get your information?”

“Mostly from invader broadcasts and censored commercial stations in Port Helenia. Th’ General also sent ru

“Who’s got ru

“The Gen—… um.” Micah looked a bit embarrassed. “Ah, some of the chims find it hard to pronounce Miss Athac—… Miss Athaclena’s name, sir. So, well…” His voice trailed off.

Robert sniffed. I’m going to have to have a talk with that girl, he thought.

He lifted his water glass and asked, “Who did she send to Port Helenia? That’s going to be a touchy place for a spy to get into.”

Dr. Soo answered without much enthusiasm. “Athaclena chose a chim named Fiben Bolger.”

Robert coughed, spraying water over his robe. Dr. Soo hurried on. “He is a militiaman, captain, and Miss Athaclena figured that spying around in town would require an … um… unconventional approach.”

That only made Robert cough harder. Unconventional. Yes, that described Fiben. If Athaclena had chosen old “Trog” Bolger for that mission, then it spoke well for her judgment. She might not be stumbling in the dark, after all.

Still, she’s hardly more than a kid. And an alien at that! Does she actually think she’s a general? Commanding what? He looked around the sparsely furnished cavern, the small heaps of scrounged and hand-carried supplies. It was, all told, a pitiful affair.

“That wall map arrangement is pretty crude,” Robert observed, picking out one thing in particular.

An elderly chen who hadn’t spoken yet rubbed the sparse hair on his chin. “We could organize much better than this,” he agreed. “We’ve got several mid-size computers. A few chims are working programs on batteries, but we don’t have the power to run them at full capacity.”

He looked at Robert archly. “Tymbrimi Athaclena insists we drill a geothermal tap first. But I figure if we were to set up a few solar collectors on the surface… very well hidden, of course…”

He let the thought hang. Robert could tell that one chim, at least, was less than thrilled at being commanded by a mere girl, and one who wasn’t even of Earthclan or Terragens citizenship.

“What’s your name?”

“Jobert, captain.”

Robert shook his head. “Well, Jobert, we can discuss that later. Right now, will someone please tell me about this ‘raid’? What is Athaclena up to?”

Micah and Soo looked at each other. The chimmie spoke first.

“They left before dawn. It’s already late afternoon outside. We should be getting a ru

Jobert grimaced again, his wrinkled, age-darkened face dour with pessimism. “They went out armed with pin-rifles and concussion grenades, hoping to ambush a Gubru patrol.

“Actually,” the elderly chim added dryly. “We were expecting news more than an hour ago. I’m afraid they are already very late getting back.”

27

Fiben

Fiben awoke in darkness, fetal-curled under a dusty blanket.

Awareness brought back the pain. Just pulling his right arm away from his eyes took a stoic effort of will, and the movement set off a wave of nausea. Unconsciousness beckoned him back seductively.

What made him resist was the filmy, lingering tracery of his dreams. They had driven him to seek consciousness… those weird, terrifying images and sensations. The last, vivid scene had been a cratered desert landscape. Lightning struck the stark sands all around him, pelting him with charged, sparking shrapnel whichever way he tried to duck or’hide.

He recalled trying to protest, as if there were words that might somehow placate a storm. But speech had been taken from him.

By effort of will, Fiben managed to roll over on the creaking cot. He had to knuckle-rub his eyes before they would open, and then all they made out was the dimness of a shabby little room. A thin line of light traced the overlap of heavy black curtains covering a small window.

His muscles trembled spasmodically. Fiben remembered the last time he had felt anywhere near this lousy, back on Cilmar Island. A band of neo-chimp circus entertainers from Earth had dropped in to do a show. The visiting “strongman” offered to wrestle the college champion, and like an idiot Fiben had accepted.

It had been weeks before he walked again without a limp.

Fiben groaned and sat up. His i

His skin and body hair were moist. Fiben sniffed the pungent odor of Dalsebo, a strong muscle relaxant. So, at least his captors had taken efforts to spare him the worst aftereffects of stu

He grabbed rough fabric on both sides of the thin line of light and snapped the drapes apart. Immediately Fiben stumbled back, both arms raised to ward off the sudden brightness. Afterimages whirled.

“Ugh,” he commented succinctly. It was barely a croak.

What was this place? Some prison of the Gubru? Certainly he wasn’t aboard an invader battleship. He doubted the fastidious Galactics would use native wood furnishings, or decorate in Late Antediluvian Shabby.

He lowered his arms, blinking away tears. Through the window he saw an enclosed yard, an unkempt vegetable garden, a couple of climbing trees. It looked like a typical small commune-house, the sort a chim group marriage family might own.

Just visible over the nearby roofs, a line of hilltop eucalyptus trees told him he was still in Port Helenia, not far from Sea Bluff Park.

Perhaps the Gubru were leaving his interrogation to their quislings. Or his captors could be those hostile Probationers. They might have their own plans for him.

Fiben’s mouth felt as if dust weavers had been spi

Focus! Fiben told himself. If you want to get out of this, try to think like a member of a starfaring race!

It was hard. The subvocalized words were painful just behind his forehead. He could feel his mind try to retreat … to abandon Anglic for a simpler, more natural way of thinking.

Fiben resisted an almost overpowering urge to simply grab up the pitcher and drink from it directly. Instead, in spite of his thirst, he concentrated on each step involved in pouring another cup.

His fingers trembled on the pitcher’s handle.

Focus!

Fiben recalled an ancient Zen adage. “Before enlightenment, chop wood, pour water. After enlightenment, chop wood, pour water.”

Slowing down in spite of his thirst, he turned the simple act of pouring into an exercise. Holding on with two shaking hands, Fiben managed to pour himself about half a cupful, slopping about as much onto the table and floor. No matter. He took up the tumbler and drank in deep, greedy, swallows.

The second cup poured easier. His hands were steadier.

That’s it. Focus… Choose the hard path, the one using thought. At least chims had it easier than neo-dolphins. The other Earthly client race was a hundred years younger and had to use three languages in order to think at all!