Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon
, or at a bookstore near you.
, or at a bookstore near you.Chapter 5
You have changed, G’Rishela. Is your mind still numbed from the cold, or has life among the longnoses truly altered your outlook?” In the room darkened to receive the holograph from the Capital, a look of wry scorn flashed across the image of Ya’Lisha, Lord Deputy of the Imperial Foreign Ministry.
The gathering was in festive mood, for a Celebration of Return was always an occasion of joy. Succulents of all kinds filled the tables, and the bowls overflowed with the remaining stocks of Terran Ambrosia from beyond the Great Divide. Music wafted through the air, and the lights in the oval room danced as brightly as the celebrants at a Festival of Spring. Dignitaries from all corners of the Grand Alliance shared in the gaiety as well as the food, laughing at the brightly clad jesters and applauding the strolling musicians, conversing on topics ranging from politics at court to the curiosities of life among the Terrans.
In a small room behind a door of carved wood, one floor above the ballroom, Ga’Glish played host to a gathering of his own. The mood of this gathering was markedly less than festive.
On the table a glowing orb cast soft shadows into the far corner of the room, as two unlikely friends spoke in the shadow of a sound masker in the hushed tones of conspirators. On the walls hung the portraits of past havenmasters, all forgotten in the river of time. Stillness filled the room, and aside from voices the only sound was the gentle pulse of the clock on the table, marking each moment as it passed into forever.
“And if you forestall, they are likely to grow weary and turn their attention elsewhere, most probably at imagined slights inflicted by the Glinci and Atkvalo, who by then will have tried to befriend them.”
Ga’Glish listened over the translating machine, his attention riveted. They were alone and would be, for as long as Zatar’s aides could distract the attention of Her Grand Eminence, the Veshnan Ambassador. Even across the abyss of alien cultures, he felt a special kinship for Zatar, as for a kindred spirit, one who shared a common love of Truth and a mocking disdain for foolishness. And as he himself served two masters, so did Zatar—only the contention for the Veshnan’s loyalty transcended petty bureaucratic bickering. Zatar owed allegiance to both the High Council of the Grand Alliance as well as to the Veshnan Presidium, and neither would take kindly to finding him sharing insights over tea with one of the Imperator’s masters of security. Of course, many such insights were likely to be shrouded by the formalisms of the Veshnan language, but few things in life came as unmixed blessings.
“So given their limited span of attention, you discount the nature of the threat. And so I worry needlessly.”
Zatar smiled sadly. “On the contrary, though I stand nearly alone in my concern. It is true that they are primitive by our standards. But they are more awkward than primitive. And though you may laugh at the thought, I believe that they are a race on the threshold of greatness, though in acute danger of falling back into the pit.”
Ga’Glish exhaled loudly, venting his disbelief. Veshnans, it seemed, had a gift for hyperbole, and Zatar was among the most gifted practitioners of the art. It was one of their most endearing traits, made quainter still by the stilting limitations of their mode of speech.
“Scoff as you will, Ga’Glish, and I freely admit that I am just coming to understand that of which I now speak, and may well be prattling along in the serenity of ignorance. But note my words: their history is littered with the ruin of war— ”
“As are the histories of all. It is the common failing of primitives and one that Terra brings even to the present day.”
“Yet their wars transcend the notion of a Supreme Conquest, that final quest for glory that brings peace along as its byproduct. Often as not in the last millennium their wars were battles against oppression, made all the more bitter because they fought for ideas rather than riches, and consequently all the more confusing to their growing moral awareness. They sense a grander purpose to life than mere existence, though as a People they lack the wisdom to perceive its outlines. But I tell you, Ga’Glish—they are groping their way toward enlightenment, and some among them already have the necessary vision. All they need is time to mature.
“And note this as well, my g’Khruushtani friend: alone among the races known to Civilization, the Terrans have the energy of youth. If properly guided, they could rejuvenate the entire Alliance. But if provoked to rage, we cannot fathom the consequences.”
Ponderously, the Veshnan shook his head. His unblinking eyes stared into the very soul of Ga’Glish, and Zatar’s words burned themselves into the Crutchtan’s memory.
“The Grand Alliance thinks of them as children, with a child’s tiny grasp and small horizons. Yet they are children who play among the stars, with toys that can bring planets to ruin. As with all children, there is a dark side to their nature that cries to be civilized, and it is that which draws our scorn. Yet though their Science be primitive, there is a single aspect in which it is a prodigy.”
“And what is that, Zatar?”
The Veshnan smiled sadly. “We may laugh at their backwardness, Ga’Glish. Robbers infest their skies, and their khasg’arhdh can barely protect their lanes of commerce. But of necessity, they excel in the science of war.” The Veshnan leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper.
“And they have been waiting for us, as frightened as your Small Ones at tales of the Sheregal, for the last forty of your cycles.”
Ga’Glish rocked back and forth in contemplation. All his old fears were rising to life, like a false Ghilgh’a’sin sowing Terror with the dawn of Spring. Still, he found one small point of satisfaction, though he sadly reflected that he could not confide it to Zatar. He resolved, come what may, that his ships would continue their secret fortifications along the Great Divide, no matter that he was violating the orders of his own Ministry. He would guard the Imperator’s flanks, even if it would cost his honor and his rank, if his treachery were revealed.
© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky
You have changed, G’Rishela. Is your mind still numbed from the cold, or has life among the longnoses truly altered your outlook?” In the room darkened to receive the holograph from the Capital, a look of wry scorn flashed across the image of Ya’Lisha, Lord Deputy of the Imperial Foreign Ministry.Ls’Sala’s found his own amusement tempered by the fire he felt welling in G’Rishela’s soul. His friend had been quiet since the return from Terra, Sala thought, and the few words that Shela did speak were deliberately vague and uncharacteristically subdued. So long as he kept his own counsel, the source of G’Rishela’s unease remained imponderable. Now, though, Shela’s anger was too pronounced to conceal, and though the image of Ya’Lisha was blind to its depth, Ls’Sala felt it like the midday sun. His friend was usually much too disciplined to let another perceive his private thoughts, but rage was getting the better of him. Ls’Sala hoped that G’Rishela could remain outwardly calm until they could talk in private.
“Surely, Lord Deputy Ya’Lisha would wish his subordinates to learn from experience,” G’Rishela replied coldly. “Or perhaps the Imperial Minister himself prefers that his emissaries retain as little as his deputies?”
Fury darkened the Lord Deputy’s eyes. “You forget yourself, G’Rishela. And you forget He whom you serve.”
G’Rishela refused to accept the correction. “It seems that you have confused servant with master already, Ya’Lisha.”
Ls’Sala exhaled a warning rush of air, but it was too late. Indignant, the Deputy Minister rose and nodded to someone out of view. Then he turned his harsh glare back to confront G’Rishela. “You have heard not the last of this, Emissary,” hissed Ya’Lisha, spitting the last word hatefully. “This transmission is ended.” The image vanished abruptly, leaving Ls’Sala and G’Rishela alone with the darkness.
“He is not one to offend needlessly.” Ls’Sala could feel the rage slowly die in his friend’s soul and clapped his hands, summoning the lights to activation. The walls showed murals of comely females, dancing in the ritual of mating. Near them, on the dining table, a feast stood untouched. G’Rishela insisted that he knew no hunger, and Ls’Sala was too good a host to eat alone.
“He is a fool,” G’Rishela replied softly, blinking rapidly to accustom his eyes to the renewed brightness. “We are all fools.”
“But Ya’Lisha speaks truly of one thing, my friend. You are not as before. Something within you is changed.”
G’Rishela’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. Ls’Sala felt a wave of melancholy grip them both. “We are dancing on a bed of eggs, Sala.”
“But our duty is clear, Shela. And it comes from the highest authority.”
“Folly knows no rank, my friend. And with fools for advisors, the Imperator can be little better than a fool himself.”
“Your talk sounds of treason, G’Rishela.”
“I talk of danger, my friend, and yet none pays me heed, not even you. Does this betoken wisdom?”
“But speak reason, Shela. The Terrans are but primitives.” G’Rishela’s eyes bulged with amusement, but Ls’Sala felt a deep sadness in his friend’s soul.
“Yes, they are primitives—such primitives as walk the heavens. I tell you, Ls’Sala, and I hope that Time proves me little more than a circus clown, but I cannot but feel the most profound misgivings about our course.”
“But the dictates of diplomacy, G’Rishela. Surely, you do not suggest that we permit— ”
Smiling, G’Rishela raised his hand to silence his friend, and placed it on Ls’Sala’s shoulder. “I know all about the dictates of diplomacy, Friend of Mine. Such things now haunt my days even as I see the Universe changing around me. I only wish that someone would explain it to the Terrans.”
* * *
The gathering was in festive mood, for a Celebration of Return was always an occasion of joy. Succulents of all kinds filled the tables, and the bowls overflowed with the remaining stocks of Terran Ambrosia from beyond the Great Divide. Music wafted through the air, and the lights in the oval room danced as brightly as the celebrants at a Festival of Spring. Dignitaries from all corners of the Grand Alliance shared in the gaiety as well as the food, laughing at the brightly clad jesters and applauding the strolling musicians, conversing on topics ranging from politics at court to the curiosities of life among the Terrans.
In a small room behind a door of carved wood, one floor above the ballroom, Ga’Glish played host to a gathering of his own. The mood of this gathering was markedly less than festive.
On the table a glowing orb cast soft shadows into the far corner of the room, as two unlikely friends spoke in the shadow of a sound masker in the hushed tones of conspirators. On the walls hung the portraits of past havenmasters, all forgotten in the river of time. Stillness filled the room, and aside from voices the only sound was the gentle pulse of the clock on the table, marking each moment as it passed into forever.
“And if you forestall, they are likely to grow weary and turn their attention elsewhere, most probably at imagined slights inflicted by the Glinci and Atkvalo, who by then will have tried to befriend them.”
Ga’Glish listened over the translating machine, his attention riveted. They were alone and would be, for as long as Zatar’s aides could distract the attention of Her Grand Eminence, the Veshnan Ambassador. Even across the abyss of alien cultures, he felt a special kinship for Zatar, as for a kindred spirit, one who shared a common love of Truth and a mocking disdain for foolishness. And as he himself served two masters, so did Zatar—only the contention for the Veshnan’s loyalty transcended petty bureaucratic bickering. Zatar owed allegiance to both the High Council of the Grand Alliance as well as to the Veshnan Presidium, and neither would take kindly to finding him sharing insights over tea with one of the Imperator’s masters of security. Of course, many such insights were likely to be shrouded by the formalisms of the Veshnan language, but few things in life came as unmixed blessings.
“So given their limited span of attention, you discount the nature of the threat. And so I worry needlessly.”
Zatar smiled sadly. “On the contrary, though I stand nearly alone in my concern. It is true that they are primitive by our standards. But they are more awkward than primitive. And though you may laugh at the thought, I believe that they are a race on the threshold of greatness, though in acute danger of falling back into the pit.”
Ga’Glish exhaled loudly, venting his disbelief. Veshnans, it seemed, had a gift for hyperbole, and Zatar was among the most gifted practitioners of the art. It was one of their most endearing traits, made quainter still by the stilting limitations of their mode of speech.
“Scoff as you will, Ga’Glish, and I freely admit that I am just coming to understand that of which I now speak, and may well be prattling along in the serenity of ignorance. But note my words: their history is littered with the ruin of war— ”
“As are the histories of all. It is the common failing of primitives and one that Terra brings even to the present day.”
“Yet their wars transcend the notion of a Supreme Conquest, that final quest for glory that brings peace along as its byproduct. Often as not in the last millennium their wars were battles against oppression, made all the more bitter because they fought for ideas rather than riches, and consequently all the more confusing to their growing moral awareness. They sense a grander purpose to life than mere existence, though as a People they lack the wisdom to perceive its outlines. But I tell you, Ga’Glish—they are groping their way toward enlightenment, and some among them already have the necessary vision. All they need is time to mature.
“And note this as well, my g’Khruushtani friend: alone among the races known to Civilization, the Terrans have the energy of youth. If properly guided, they could rejuvenate the entire Alliance. But if provoked to rage, we cannot fathom the consequences.”
Ponderously, the Veshnan shook his head. His unblinking eyes stared into the very soul of Ga’Glish, and Zatar’s words burned themselves into the Crutchtan’s memory.
“The Grand Alliance thinks of them as children, with a child’s tiny grasp and small horizons. Yet they are children who play among the stars, with toys that can bring planets to ruin. As with all children, there is a dark side to their nature that cries to be civilized, and it is that which draws our scorn. Yet though their Science be primitive, there is a single aspect in which it is a prodigy.”
“And what is that, Zatar?”
The Veshnan smiled sadly. “We may laugh at their backwardness, Ga’Glish. Robbers infest their skies, and their khasg’arhdh can barely protect their lanes of commerce. But of necessity, they excel in the science of war.” The Veshnan leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper.
“And they have been waiting for us, as frightened as your Small Ones at tales of the Sheregal, for the last forty of your cycles.”
Ga’Glish rocked back and forth in contemplation. All his old fears were rising to life, like a false Ghilgh’a’sin sowing Terror with the dawn of Spring. Still, he found one small point of satisfaction, though he sadly reflected that he could not confide it to Zatar. He resolved, come what may, that his ships would continue their secret fortifications along the Great Divide, no matter that he was violating the orders of his own Ministry. He would guard the Imperator’s flanks, even if it would cost his honor and his rank, if his treachery were revealed.
© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky
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