Prologue
“I must say this is…an unexpected surprise,” Duncan Harrington said as the well-dressed man stepped into his office. Then he smiled. “On the other hand, I don’t suppose it could be a surprise if I’d been expecting it, now could it?”
“No, I suppose not,” the other man said as he crossed the comfortably cluttered office. Duncan stood, extending his hand across his desk, then waved to the comfortable chair in front of it. The visitor seated himself and looked around.
“I swear, Duncan, you’ve added at least two more layers since the last time I was here. What is it about you and hard copy books? Photons pack an awful lot tighter—and neater—than this.”
He waved one hand, indicating the old-fashioned, over-packed bookshelves, and Duncan chuckled.
“Look, I’ll admit e-books are a lot more convenient. Like you say, they pack tighter, and you can find things in them a lot faster, for that matter. But that’s sort of the point. I enjoy the hunt and the thrill of the chase as much as I enjoy pulling down my prey at the end of the safari. Besides, some of these—” it was his turn to wave at the bookshelves “—are so old I probably couldn’t find them in an electronic format even if I tried!”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to put them into storage for a while,” the other man said in a more serious tone, and Duncan straightened in his own chair.
“I will?” He cocked his head. “Why would that be, Abner?”
“Because something needs looking into, and you’re the best man for the job, for several reasons. I know it’ll be inconvenient, but we’ve come up with a pretty fair cover—who you are and what you do for a living helped a lot there. And besides,” he smiled, “I think you’ll enjoy the trip.”
“What trip?”
“The one to visit your cousin Richard in Manticore.”
“Excuse me?” Duncan blinked, but his guest only looked at him with that same smile.
“I thought the decision had been made to let that part of the line go,” Duncan said after a moment. “And, to be honest, I still think that’s the right choice in his case. For that matter, if we were ever going to tell him, we should’ve done it before he and Marjorie left Meyerdahl.”
“I didn’t say we were sending you to recruit him, Duncan.” The other man shook his head. “The truth is, the selection committee agreed with your recommendation at the time, and we haven’t changed our minds since. It’s a pity, since he’s at least as smart as you are, but there’s not much question you were right about how he’d have reacted if the Alignment approached him.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Duncan said. “Believe me, nobody could have wished he’d been a more…receptive candidate more than I did, but he never could have accepted such an enormous breach of the Beowulf Code. That was his mother in him, I’m afraid. Aunt Gabriella was downright fanatical about that.”
“And it didn’t help that the selection group had bypassed his father, either.” The other man nodded. “Your evaluation weighed in the decision, Duncan, but it wasn’t the decisive factor. The assessors agreed completely with you.”
“Then why am I going to visit him?” Duncan asked dryly. “I’m assuming the Powers That Be can come up with a reasonable pretext, but clearing it with the University won’t be a trivial challenge. You do realize that, don’t you? They’re not real crazy about letting their department chairs go haring off across the galaxy just to visit family.”
“It won’t be a problem with the University,” the other man assured him. “I’m meeting with Chancellor Atwell after you and I are finished—officially, this is just me dropping in on an old friend on my way to my appointment with him—but that’s for the public record. The truth is, we’ve already planted the seed, and Atwell’s ready to grab the proposal and run with it as soon as we officially drop the credit.”
“So the Foundation’s fronting for this?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Abner Portnoy sat on the Board of Directors of the Prometheus Foundation, whose charter to constantly push the bounds of human knowledge was an excellent cover for his real purpose in life. “For that matter, I didn’t even have to concoct a pretext to get the rest of the directors on board. It’s more a matter of answering a help-wanted ad or sending a rescue mission than anything else, but this has the potential to completely reorder our understanding of how brains and communication work.”
“I know you like your little mysteries, Abner, but could you sort of come to the point?” Duncan shook his head. “You know I’ll accept my marching orders, whatever they are, when you finally get around to telling me about them. But I do have a lecture coming up in about forty-five minutes, so if you could see your way to explaining what those orders are, I’d appreciate it.”
“Darn, Duncan—you’re no fun at all!” Portnoy chuckled, then raised his hands in surrender as Duncan cocked a fist and shook it in his direction. “No need for violence!” he said, lowering his hands, and his expression was far more serious than it had been. “The truth is, your Cousin Stephanie’s the real reason for the trip.”
“These ‘treecats’ of hers?” Duncan’s dark eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is really about?”
“Of course it is.” Portnoy leaned back, crossed his legs, and shrugged. “Your family does seem to produce a lot of overachievers, even for an alpha line, doesn’t it? Discoverer of a previously unknown tool-using species when she was only eleven. God save the galaxy from what she’ll be doing by the time she’s thirty!”
“The last time I saw Stephanie, she was about nine or ten T-years old,” Duncan said. “Still, I can’t say I was astonished by her accomplishments, especially—I might add, with all due modesty—with me as an example.” He buffed his nails on his sweater and blew on them, then grinned. “What’s that old saying about the apple not falling far from the tree?”
“She does seem to be a credit to her genotype…even with you as ‘an example,’” Portnoy observed. “Has she written you about her new friends?”
“Like I just said, the last time I saw her she was about ten. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s pretty much forgotten about me by now. But, in answer to your question, no, she hasn’t. On the other hand, I’ve had several letters from Richard, and he’s clearly excited about them. We don’t write as much as we probably should, given the transit time; it’s not like there are any direct trade routes between here and Sphinx, so the mail service isn’t exactly reliable. But I’ve got at least a couple of megabytes from him about their physiology, their apparent habitat requirements, and their diet. In that respect, I’m probably better informed than anyone else on Meyerdahl, although at this remove that’s not saying all that much.”
“What’s he told you about their social organization? Or about their intelligence?” Portnoy asked a bit more intently.
“Not as much. In fact, not much at all beyond the fact that he clearly thinks they are sapients.” Duncan frowned. “The truth is, he’s been…I don’t know. He seems almost guarded, if that’s not a silly verb, when he talks about that side of them.”
“It’s probably exactly the right verb, actually,” Portnoy said in a much more serious tone. “Have you been keeping up on the literature about them?”
“What literature?” Duncan raised both hands. “There’s been a certain degree of speculation, but Manticore’s over two hundred and sixty light-years from here, Abner, and we don’t have any direct academic links or partnerships with the Star Kingdom, you know. Essentially, what I’ve seen backs up Richard’s belief that they are, indeed, tool-users with a sophisticated social organization that—in my opinion, judging from what I’ve seen at this range—clearly moves them into the category of true sapients. I can’t begin to tell you where they’d place on the scale, given the third- and fourth-hand reports I’ve seen, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they’re in the running to be named Sphinx’s native sapient species. Which, I’m sure, would have all sorts of repercussions.” He grimaced. “Richard’s mentioned Barstool in a couple of his letters. To be honest, I figured that was probably the reason he’s not waxing more fulsome even to me. Keeping them under the radar until their supporters are in a better position to prove their sapiency is exactly the way his mind would work.”
“And you never wanted to go out and see for yourself, firsthand?” Portnoy asked.
“Of course I did! But unless the University was ready to grant me at least a two and a half T-year sabbatical—or some magical sponsor turned up to underwrite a grant to fund a University-sponsored research trip—there was no way to justify it.”
“Well, it happens the Prometheus Foundation is prepared to underwrite that very grant,” Portnoy told him.
“Why?” Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, does this have to do with understanding brain function or modes of communication? My impression from the literature is that they don’t have a ‘mode of communication.’ In fact, that’s undoubtedly the biggest single bar against accepting their full sapiency. They don’t have a spoken language, they don’t use sign language, and there’s no real evidence of any olfactory mode of communication, either. Which,” he made a small throwing away gesture, “seems very odd to me, given what little I’ve seen about their social sophistication. You don’t get that kind of organization and task sharing without some way of communicating at least basic concepts with your fellows.”
“Exactly. Look, we don’t have any sources or members in Manticore. To be brutally honest, the ‘Star Kingdom’ is at the ass end of nowhere, as far as the galaxy at large is concerned. But that doesn’t mean we don’t hear things, and one of the things we’re hearing is that they may be telepathic.”
“Telepathic,” Duncan repeated carefully, then snorted. “And how long have we been chasing that particular grail without ever once scientifically demonstrating that it’s even possible?”
“A long time,” Portnoy conceded. “And I don’t blame you for feeling a little skeptical. For that matter, you’re not the only one who thinks it’s a long shot. But if it is possible, and if we can figure out how to replicate it in humans, it could be a game changer, Duncan. Think what we could do with that kind of advantage!”
Duncan leaned back, looking at him, and despite his doubts, he had to admit Portnoy had a point. But still—
“Can I ask just who we’re hearing this from?” he said after a moment.
“The most interesting thing, in a lot of ways, is that it’s obvious from your reaction that we’re not hearing it from your cousin. That may be significant, given what you said about Richard’s worries about Barstool and the Amphors. Of course, it may also mean there’s nothing to it, which is why he hasn’t mentioned it. But at least one report from the first wave of xeno-biologists and anthropologists suggests the possibility as the best hypothesis to explain the degree of communication you were just talking about when they don’t have a way to communicate that we can detect.”
“And that report would be from whom, exactly?” Duncan shook his head. “I’m pretty sure somebody here in the Department would’ve heard something about it if there were any kind of supporting evidence.”
“Probably not, since it was from one of Radzinsky’s graduate assistants.”
“The Radford Center Radzinsky?” Duncan raised both eyebrows.
“I see you’ve heard of the lady.”
“Of course I have. We travel in the same academic circles, unfortunately.”
“Not a huge fan, I take it?”
“You take it correctly,” Duncan said flatly. “You know how I feel about the flaws in the sentience scale, and despite her reputation—which, admittedly, is huge—Cleonora Radzinsky is about as humano-chauvinist as anyone you’re ever likely to meet. I haven’t seen anything she may have published about it, but let me guess. ‘They have no complex means of communication, and therefore cannot be considered truly sapient.’ That about right?”
“I see you have indeed heard of the lady.” Portnoy nodded. “That’s almost exactly what she said. And, having said it, how do you think a graduate assistant of hers who seriously postulated that they do, indeed, have a ‘complex means of communication’ would fare in the ranks of academia?”
“I believe the appropriate term would be ‘crash and burn.’” Duncan shook his head. “If there’s a woman in the galaxy who’s more protective of her reputation, I’ve never heard of her. Another reason I’m not a fan.”
“And that’s why the assistant’s report hasn’t been officially circulated anywhere. But a copy of it floated across our horizon a few months ago, shortly after they got home from Sphinx. It was a deep dive into the Radford Center’s files looking for something else entirely, and it didn’t mean a whole lot to the team that actually stumbled across it. In fact, it didn’t mean anything to us until someone on the strategy board happened across it in a summary of the data we’d acquired.” Portnoy shrugged. “Sheer serendipity, really.”
“Sounds like it,” Duncan agreed. “And they really think it’s worth looking into as a serious possibility?”
“You know the Alignment.” Portnoy shrugged again. “We’re probably the galaxy’s biggest knowledge sponge. And I figure it probably popped a flag on one of the genome board’s search filters. They’re always looking for blue-sky possibilities that might give us an edge, and it’s not like they’re all that concerned about Beowulf finding out they’re looking at nonhuman gene donors.”
“No, I suppose not,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “But you said something about finding a pretext to send me?”
“Didn’t even have to look very hard,” Portnoy assured him. “The Star Kingdom’s asking for more help.”
“They are?” Duncan looked at him for a moment, then snorted. “Of course they are. If Richard’s right and they see even the remotest possibility of Sphinx turning into a second Barstool, they absolutely have to dot every I and cross every T, don’t they? And that’s completely on top of the legitimate interest any xenologist worth his salt would feel!”
“Exactly. And since their scientific establishment’s not exactly cutting edge—it’s not bad at all, considering their circumstances, but they’re definitely not a heart world—they’re trolling for xeno-anthropologists to help evaluate the treecats. And they’re offering some very attractive on-site incentives. Including first publication of anything really interesting that turns up. Reading between the lines, I’d say there’s a lot of interest in determining just how intelligent the treecats are and not necessarily on the part of people who wish the little beasties well. It looks to me as if the Star Kingdom’s government knows that and they’d love to have as many neutral third parties as possible involved in evaluating the treecats’ intelligence or lack thereof, if only to cover their ass when they finally rule one way or the other. The stipends they can offer aren’t very high, but they’re paying for transportation and defraying virtually all of the researchers’ on-site expenses. That’s the help-wanted ad I was talking about. We don’t want to waste the time sending letters back and forth to get them to pick up your shipfare, though, so—”
“So the way this would work,” Duncan interrupted, “is that the Foundation’s getting involved proactively because of its mandate, since this is only the twelfth tool-using and at least potentially sentient species we’ve ever encountered. Obviously we need to find out everything we can about it! And, of course, responding to Manticore’s need for assistance ties into the philanthropic side of its mandate. The University’s getting involved because the Foundation’s willing to pick up the tab for a twenty-one-T-month roundtrip voyage and essentially fund the entire effort. And I’m getting sent along because the fact that I’m the vice chair of the Xeno-Anthropology Department and the kid who discovered them is my first cousin—once removed, anyway—makes me the logical person to head the expedition. Which expedition will, hopefully, bring fresh prestige to the University. And, even if it doesn’t, the University gets brownie points for trying to help out a poorer-than-dirt star nation that’s still coping with the aftereffects of a plague that damn near wiped it out. That’s about it?”
“That’s about it,” Portnoy agreed with a nod. “Except, of course, for the bit you left out.”
“That would be the bit where anything I find out about how their telepathy actually works—assuming such a thing really exists—gets shared with the Alignment first.”
“And probably never gets shared with anyone else at all, assuming the genome board decides there’s really a possibility of modding it into the human genotype,” Portnoy said much more seriously.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Duncan acknowledged.
“And it does get you out there to visit your cousins,” Portnoy pointed out. “That’s a plus, too, I think!”
“That’s true.” Duncan nodded and smiled. “I miss Richard, dammit. And Marjorie never did get me the recipe for her Singapore Noodles.” He rubbed his chin for a moment. “Should I assume I’ll be traveling solo? Aside from whoever the University sends along, at least?”
“The intelligence directorate will probably want to send at least one of its specialists along to ride shotgun,” Portnoy said.
“Really? That’s necessary?” Duncan’s distaste was obvious, and Portnoy shrugged.
“If it turns out there’s anything to this whole theory, then the geneticists are going to want treecats, or at least their genetic material, Duncan. Frankly, what they’ll really need are live treecats, because it’s sort of difficult to demonstrate and evaluate telepathy between living brains when you don’t have a living brain to communicate with. It’s not likely anyone in the Star Kingdom will sign off on removing any live treecats from Sphinx, though. So it would seem to be a good idea to send along someone with the…expertise to arrange a treecat extraction if that seems indicated. And, like you say, it’s a ten-plus-T-month trip from Meyerdahl to Sphinx, so it makes sense to send the specialist in question on the same ship.”
“I suppose,” Duncan said.
His distaste didn’t abate, however; not that Portnoy was surprised. Like all of the Mesan Alignment’s members, Duncan Harrington was fiercely devoted to the concept of humanity’s genetic uplift. And equally fiercely opposed to the Beowulf Biosciences Code’s prohibition on anything that even hinted at genetically engineered “supermen.” Most of them would admit that prohibition had actually made sense immediately after Old Earth’s Final War and the horrors of the genetic weapons—and the genetic “super soldiers”—the belligerents had deployed. But that had been over six centuries ago, and what had made sense then was a useless, stultifying relic of the dead. The potential for improving the basic human genome was mind-staggering. Someone like Duncan—a member of one of the Alignment’s alpha lines; Portnoy himself was only a beta line—was an example of what the Alignment’s geneticists had already accomplished: smarter, stronger, longer-lived, resistant to a host of diseases that had plagued humanity for thousands upon thousands of years, stronger and physically tougher than even the standard Meyerdahl package.…It was a long list, and the Harrington Line was scarcely the only alpha line to come out of Meyerdahl. The basic Meyerdahl genetic modifications had been a huge step in that direction, one that had been “grandfathered in” from well before the Final War, and they’d provided an ideal testbed—and concealment—for the Alignment’s further improvements.
But the galaxy at large, and especially Beowulf and the Solarian League, the arbiters of interstellar medicine, would never have allowed that sort of planned, targeted improvement. It was anathema to them, which was what had forced the Alignment underground. Forced it to conceal its purpose, conduct its mission—wage its holy war, in many ways—covertly, always in hiding.
That grated on a lot, probably the majority, of the Alignment’s members, and that had led to a…division of opinions within it. The vast majority of the Alignment was located on the planet Mesa, where concealment was fairly simple, and worked solely within Mesan family lines. A few of those lines had spread off-world from simple emigration, although those cases were vanishingly rare.
But another portion of the Alignment had very quietly dedicated itself to a far broader and more audacious goal. It might be forced to conceal its actions even from its fellows on Mesa, but its purpose was the genetic uplift of society as a whole, and it had been quietly but deliberately extending its efforts to other planets for two or three generations now. Given the galaxy-wide acceptance of the Beowulf Code it was forced to keep its activities very, very clandestine; it was steadily expanding its reach with more and more of its members achieving positions of influence from which to shape opinion and awareness against the day its mission could become public.
Duncan Harrington was one of those influencers, and Portnoy knew how much Duncan hated the need for secrecy. He understood it, but he didn’t like it one bit. He’d hated having to recommend against telling his own cousin, someone who’d grown up more as his younger brother than “just” a cousin, the truth, but he understood that the Alignment had to pick and choose the conservators of its mission carefully. There were seldom more than one or two fully informed members in any given line—outside the Mesa System, at least—in any generation, and sometimes, when there were no suitable candidates for the mission, it simply had to let that branch of the genome go completely, as in Richard Harrington’s case.
It was just as well that he was unaware of certain other harsh realities, however, Portnoy thought now, looking at his friend. Like the fact that revealing their branch of the Alignment’s existence to a potential recruit had turned out to be a mistake. One which then had to be rectified. He would have reacted…poorly to that knowledge,
Yet that was okay, Portnoy reflected. Thinking about things like that was one of his jobs, not Duncan’s. On the other hand, Duncan understood the need for the Alignment to consider every possible advantage in its mission, cast the widest possible net as it considered ways in which the genome might be improved. And he understood that required research and that sometimes clandestine research had to embrace clandestine means to achieve its ends. So in the end, he’d…accommodate the necessary “specialist,” and Portnoy was glad, because he’d known Duncan Harrington since boyhood. Duncan was too good a man—too good a friend—to be burdened with those sorts of decisions, so Abner Portnoy would make certain he wasn’t.
“Hopefully, there won’t be even a ripple, Duncan,” he told his friend now. “So go. Have fun! Spend some time with Richard, hug Marjorie for me, and see what that precocious young cousin of yours has been up to. I know you’ve missed them, so make the most of it, okay? And this way, the entire trip’s on the Alignment’s tab!”