As Kurile fumbles yet another cube, the library drones swoop to floor level. The overhead cameras swivel and come to tight focus.

  And it is at this moment that Qíri takes center stage. Snapping his frilled gill webbing taut, streamlining his figure, he extends an intense electrostatic field and takes control of the Davao surveillance systems. Adjusting wavelength and frequency through posture and controlled thought in the same way an adult male might be expected to protect the members of his clan harem from assault, he then adjusts his pixilated flesh to fluoresce a modified version of the images he and Kurile had gathered earlier.

  There, as though projected on screen, Kurile and Qíri and I race to gather wayward cubes while Tegwin threatens to demote or fire the lot of us. Palps flexing sideways out of her vitreous mane, she colors and looks on the verge of murder.

  “I am now,” says Qíri, “temporarily in control of their observation systems. As this is … oomph … something of a strain, could you please get on with it?”

  “Right,” says Tegwin, also slimming as she drops her overbearing stance. “Where is that interface panel?”

  “Behind these shelves,” says Kurile. “According to Symons, we have less than three minutes. Awa has entered the building. He is approaching his assigned position and should deploy on schedule.”

  I help nudge the shelf away from the wall.

  Tegwin removes a maintenance panel.

  “Ah, excellent,” says Kurile. “As predicted, this building is so old; they are still relying on good-old optical monofiber. We should be in and out with time to spare.”

  She removes a pair of transparent, egg-shaped objects from her hip pouch. She draws a palm pad across a slim control slab the size of a ration bar. Adjusting the tactile gain, she compares what she feels to the exposed circuit. “I need to splice in a couple prismatic relays … here should do. And … here.”

  The intervening field barrier shimmers and fades but does not fail.

  As alarms threaten to wail, Kurile throws her handiwork a troubled glance. Releasing further notes of annoyance, she asks, “What did we forget?”

  Chapter 20

  “The Seyu,” says Tegwin, with a vertical flexing of palps. “We forgot about the Seyu. The poor thing has to do his part. Have you not been paying full attention? We were never going to break through all the field barriers on our own.”

  Qíri shuffles on his basal tread pads. “Here,” he says, still streaming our comic efforts at straightening data cubes. “I can let you watch. This part of the plan was in place long before you arrived to take Kayelan and Asja’s place.”

  Inset image-in-image, we watch a young Seyu cross the main rotunda. The guy, “Awa,” looks like a heavyset caterpillar. Throwing hairs passive, muscular legs roll in rhythm with his throbbing heart nodes. Mobile grasping lips lift in a semblance of unconcern. As he passes the curator’s reception area, he sweats clear beads of raw, unfermented narra.

  “I thought you, this Awa fellow, and Symons rehearsed this,” I say. “Why then, does your guy look so nervous?”

  “The security kiosk probably looks a lot like every other checkpoint he has endured in his life. The layout is the same. As are the guards and isolation screens. Even so, he normally has nothing to fear. This may be the first time Awa has something to hide.”

  When a Davao security agent drapes a striking baton across Awa’s leading motile segment, pinning him to the floor, Qíri explains, “The Davao refuse to police their tourist or arms industries. Instead, they focus on controlling their lower classes. Consider this security agent. Are you not aware of his sense of conflict?”

  I nod. Even at this distance, I sense doubt over frustration. Hints of inadequacy and unease. Anger.

  Qíri expands the inset view. He pops a small buzz that translates as, “Similar attitudes permeate much of this city. Government directives in the areas of safety and security are at best, inconsistent. With most of the usual regulatory forces drained for Yoonra’s conquests, the mounting ambiguity of this world’s intricate, shifting social picture may soon trigger any number of groundless, vile, or excessive outcomes. This is why Asja felt the Seyu had to have some input in our operation. This is part of what she and Shass set out to force or otherwise jumpstart. Direct Seyu involvement.”

  “But why?”

  “The Seyu need kindness. Healing. According to Asja, they and their worlds have been occupied for so long they have forgotten they were once a free people. At one time co-equal with the Davao, their willing participation may even be necessary to open Dar Chetyr.”

  As he enters the security mantrap, the itching at the base of Awa’s mobile spines looks to verge on the intolerable. Squirming, mouthparts chittering, Awa sputters, “Damn these offworlders! Why must their devices feel so much like the real thing? What would other Seyu think if they were to believe me so heavily infested with sand fleas?”

  “He’s going to give us away,” I say.

  “That would be true,” says Qíri, “only if the Davao had any interest in listening to a lone Seyu. Believe me, they are picking up little more than ‘blah blah blahs.’ Same as we would hear, had not Asja supplied us with the Seyu’s likely translation matrix.”

  “Which is, I should remind you, an illegal translator. One unable to confirm the true emotions behind the spoken word.”

  Awa comes even with Dizzy’s cage. As Dizzy eases his caudal webbing through the basket’s mesh, Awa answers by lifting several needle-slim tendrils.

  “Now,” urges Symons. “Now, Awa! Now, or never!”

  Apparently taking the dust weasel’s display as a threat, Awa hisses alarm. He throws himself into a curling twist. Like a dog shedding rainwater, the motion lifts his throwing spines into launch position.

  The local field barriers shimmer.

  At this point, deception veers toward instinct. In real danger now, Awa hisses a final warning, takes aim and—

  The guard’s striking rod grazes Awa’s wind gills before cracking against the arch of his scalp ridge. Another rod crashes between his second and third body segments.

  The field barrier shimmers and fades but still does not fail.

  “Come on, Awa!”

  Feet cycling, the little Seyu struggles erect while bracing for another blow.

  The Davao do not disappoint. As the striking baton snaps across Awa’s tender calyx, I sense flashes of piercing numbness.

  Eyes dancing left to right, Awa heaves. Body segments convulse.

  “Deploy,” says Symons. “Deploy. Deploy.”

  Raisha’s sand fleas gain little sustenance from a rotting corpse. As such, it is their nature to abandon their host when detecting the endorphin surge associated with imminent death. Sometimes they are right. Often, they are wrong. Either way, they spring away like shrapnel from a land mine.

  Kurile’s smallest of small remotes behave likewise. Springing away, they strike the Davao, as well as the security monitors and field barriers.

  At the edge of consciousness, Awa smiles.

  “The surge looks good,” says Symons.

  As each sand flea hits the barrier, the energy of its demise codes a powerful system update.

  “Nice,” says Qíri. “Very nice.” Then, as each remaining flea morphs to its next task, Qíri matches waveforms, line impedance, and power-to-current ratios. “This reminds me,” adds Qíri, “of the adjustments we have to make when shifting from ship to station power. Piece of cake.”

  “Be careful,” advises Symons. “We don’t dare provoke the Davao by taking all their barriers offline. The outlying security screens must work as well as always. Only those between our team and their quarry need be compromised.”

  “I have a complete match,” says Qíri. “Advise accordingly.”

  “Have you stabilized the first barrier?”

  “Of course.”

  “Janek? Kurile? Tegwin needs to stay with Qíri in case he loses the bubble on any of this. The two of you may proceed. Infrared shows the lower archives completely vacant.”

  “What about this last field barrier?”

  “I’ve checked Asja’s model of the entire security system. Don’t worry. We’ve now dialed all remaining barriers to a strength of less than two percent. You’ll feel a tickle, but that’s about it. Good luck. Press on. Qíri’s best hold time is fifteen minutes, but I do not want you pushing his endurance.”

  Kurile chucks me on the shoulder. “‘Luck,’ she says.” And also, “Shall we ‘press on.’”

  Tegwin plucks a lingual strand. “See you back at the rendezvous. I will be cooking a big breakfast.”

  “Pancakes?” I ask. “Sausages and fried potatoes?”

  “That sounds … just terrible.” She knots a tentacle. “Wait and see.”

  Qíri blushes. “Guys? How about getting a move on?”

  signs Kurile. She makes a hand-washing gesture. “Qíri, maintain surveillance as long as you can. Our probes do not seem to have penetrated as far as Asja may have hoped. Thus, Janek and I will be out of comm range from here on out. If anything goes wrong, let Symons know immediately. Tegwin, watch his back. Keep an eye on your relays. Be ready to cover our exit. Use separate shimmer portals when heading home.”

  Turning, Kurile grips my forearm. “Are you ready for this? Shouldn’t feel any worse than a slight, electric tickle.”

  “I’m with you,” I say. “Whatever it takes.”

  The muted field barrier does not tickle so much as constrict, sizzle, and flow around us like a viscous, liquid solar corona.

  Two minutes later, six levels down and in near-perfect darkness, Kurile draws me to a halt. Claws forming and against my chest as if I’ve become some sort of deluxe pincushion, she says, “So far, we have done little we cannot either explain, conceal, or repair. Our next task involves an actual theft. After letting Symons force you into this, I need to know how far you are willing to go.”

  “She didn’t ‘force’ anything.”

  “While I have little history with humans, I know that promises made while under sexual duress carry little endurance past—”

  I dial my light wand to fresh illumination. “What kind of … duress? Are you kidding me?”

  “I witnessed it. You stood pelvis-to-pelvis with Symons as she talked you through her plan. After but a few minutes, you appeared agreeable. Even enthusiastic.”

  “And you think—”

  In the shadows, a flush of heat creeps across my cheeks. With comms out, what might Symons’ deep IR scans make of that?

  “Shut up, Kurile.” I part a veil of cobweb. “Are you sure no one can hear us?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then may I ask a question?”

  Our passage has attracted some notice, and a host of clustered eyes glitter at my light wand’s every turn. Nested sand fleas? Pack geckos? Rodents? An irregular background rustle accompanies our every step. Nervous sweat and Kurile’s natural musk vie with redolences of old manuscripts, phosphorescent mold, and withered vellum.

  “Ask.”

  “How much of the big picture do you think we’re seeing? I mean, I’ve known Symons for some time. One thing’s for sure; she and Asja usually liked keeping things to themselves.”

  Kurile signs , a brief curling of digits. “What is your point?”

  “Just that, well it seems to me they’ve been fairly straightforward in telling us our ultimate goal. Dar Chetyr. Dar Chetyr, and local unification.”

  “This is true. Have I missed your question?”

  Arriving at a stairwell, we drop several more levels. As the air becomes increasingly stale, I follow the path of my wand beam and realize we have seen the last of our small observers. Gone also are the conservation offices, annotated stasis bins, nitrogen seals, and any attempt at humidity control. According to Symons, the Davao had only holo scanned or digitized the last thousand years of their history. Given our current rate of descent, I take it we are already looking at objects and stored documents well beyond that time limit.

  The reduced ceiling height is becoming a nuisance. Dodging a tier of manuscripts bound in panels of black slate, I thrust my light at Kurile and say, “It’s more of a worry than a question. Do you really think it necessary to risk all-out war in order to keep the Davao from what’s rightfully theirs? I mean, your ancestors must have placed Dar Chetyr out here for a reason. Perhaps even, as with Dar Cenia, to correct some ancient discord. If not for your new Sirsa fleet, wouldn’t you and the Cleve be at war?”

  Kurile finds this .

  As she pauses to check her note slab, I wonder if I’ve crossed into a sensitive area. While not a uniformly reticent race, the Dhyda might not have been able to coexist with their closest neighbors without the ability to maintain a few dark racial secrets.

  She kneels to examine a worn carving. Her smallish eyes water. “Can you read this marker? The numbers are clear, but is that a pair of opposing slashes? Or something more like a ‘Y,’ but inverted?”

  “Looks like an uppercase Greek lambda.” I narrow my beam focus. “Yes, but with some kind of accent mark to one side.”

  Following the accent mark, Kurile peers into a pitch-black side passage. Drifting dust has dulled her coat’s natural gloss.

  “Well?” I press. “Do you think we’re right in possibly provoking a war?”

  “While you have yet to see evidence of this, you must trust me when I describe the Davao as violent and often brutal. Without going into specifics, their neighbors have learned that it is uniformly unwise to risk a passive approach in the face of aggression. To sit back and hope everything will simply ‘work out.’” She seals her note slab. “Think of your dilemma this way, Janek. Long before the inauguration of your Diplomatic Corps, we Dhyda had a similar organization of our own. A group which sought to establish what you would call ‘commonalities’ by sifting through the histories of our companion and mentor races.”

  The passageway narrows. Storage alcoves grow both broader and deeper. Here, Raisha’s earliest Seyu caretakers had preserved their relics in small stone or polished-hardwood boxes. Even after so many centuries, the wax seals still carry the scent of grain and wildflowers.

  “Among many truths, we learned that all conscious beings have one thing in common when it comes to confronting tyranny. In every corner of the universe, the conditions for wretchedness and despair thrive simply due to an innate aversion to risk. Though hardly effective, many of us would rather carry on while trusting in the belief that things will get better. That the universe in some way owes us a better life.”

  The floor drops. The walls shift to chiseled stone. Bones and irregular ornaments clutter oblong holes and ledges.

  “That is the essence of all contemplative life. To suffer. To endure. To abide the darkest times while hoping things will improve.”

  “And do they? Improve?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Then why hope?”

  “Because, in every generation, there is often someone who sees the danger more as a challenge than a threat. An individual not only disinclined to sit idly by but also willing to let everything hang in the balance while taking the fight to the enemy. To expose herself to the greatest of evils. Not merely for survival. But for the enlightenment of an entire culture or society.”

  She has me balance my light atop a mound of disarticulated vertebrae. While the walls are virtually bare, close inspection reveals that a rather more sinuous text has replaced the severe row and column markings of recent archivists.

  Using the wash of light to inspect a final vault, Kurile adds, “Your diplomatic training will make this analogy difficult, but try to think of it this way. You command a military courier. A hostile spacecraft is inbound. Its pilot has announced his intent to destroy you. His ship carries a standard weapons suite with a maximum firing distance of a thousand klicks. Your shields are down hard, but your weapons envelope extends a full twelve thousand klicks. Do you engage at greatest range, or do you wait?”

  “Did I do something to antagonize this guy?”

  “Never.”

  “Then I’d warn him as he approached the edge of my perimeter.”

  “Fine. He should have heard you. Yet he not only fails to respond but also continues his advance.”

  “But isn’t a preemptive attack dishonorable?”

  “You are carrying vital information. Lives are a stake.”

  “I’d hit him before his weapon’s lock. I’d try to pick him off before he could hit me.”

  “Exactly. Never wait to counterstrike. The same principle is in operation here. All beings have a right to defend themselves and their loved ones. While we have never sought to antagonize the Davao, we know their intentions are less than honorable.”

  This brings back some of the training scenarios Yasa had loved and which I’d mostly hated. I’m about to say so, and to question Kurile concerning the prevention of racial atrocities when she trills a piercing whistle, and signs .

  “Hand me the sonic depth probe.”

  As she tunes the probe, something glows within the wall. She deftly jimmies a panel loose. Probing the darkness, she says, “Fortunately for us, the Seyu are major packrats. They rarely throw away anything.”

  Her barbels clench. The fur along her dorsal ridges lifts erect. In addition to incredible body heat, she radiates feelings of euphoria, grave curiosity, and vexed impatience.

  Her claws have revealed six small packets of rotting wood and inset jade. While each holds a fragment of laminated tile, the exterior carvings remind me of two things. Dar Cenia’s mosaics. And the Jade Temple I’d visited on Tass the same day I screwed up and set all the galaxy against humanity.

  “Here.” She presses two decaying containers into my hands. “Slide these up your sleeves.”

  “Wait! Kurile! I thought we were going to take pictures. To relay a data stream or something!”

 

  “What about security? Surely, we can’t expect to make it out of here—”

 

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