Silverrock, p.10
Silverrock, page 10
“Lucien was right about his headaches coinciding with blasts in the hills,” I said. “I know something about post-traumatic stress. It doesn’t make him crazy or a liar.”
Emma side-eyed me. “It doesn’t make him psychic either.”
I stared out the window at the craggy foothills. “So we’ve opened a hornets’ nest with a first-contact assessment and threatened the livelihood of thousands of people, and our crucial translator may be mentally ill.”
She cocked her head at me. “Ah, you’re worried about both Lucien and the good people of Silverrock. You really take things to heart, don’t you?”
I closed my eyes. “I wish I’d never brought up the whole concept of scorp intelligence. You’re focused on figuring out the Builders’ tech, but I can’t forget that I have friends here on the planet. If scorps can read, that would make them a sapient species, wouldn’t it? The Coalition will evict every human on Silverrock.”
Emma’s mouth twitched in a half smile. “Would that be so bad? It’s not much of a planet.”
“It is when it’s all you’ve got.”
She laid her warm hand over my cold one. “Maybe we have better things to think about.”
I wrapped her in my arms. She fit there, very neatly. I kissed her hair until she turned her face up, eyes twinkling.
“That’s what I like,” she murmured. “A man of action.”
CHAPTER 13
Trash
I DIDN’T HAVE to worry about recognizing Dr. Charlotte Havens—the transit depot’s departure area was full, but she and her assistant were the only two passengers coming through the arrivals gate.
Havens looked like a spritely grandmother, all bones and cropped gray hair. Her sharp eyes reminded me of one of my schoolteachers, the one who always knew exactly which boy was going to throw the first spitball. Her assistant was a young fellow named Samson Marley—his first name being wholly at odds with his spindly, nervous frame. He had the hair for it, though: a halo of dark curls.
I introduced myself and collected their baggage—two crates of equipment, but only two suitcases apiece. I took that as a hopeful sign that the assessment wouldn’t last long.
“Can I ask what equipment you brought?”
Samson hunched forward. “A bunch of components for constructing tests of reasoning ability. Stuff for observing a nocturnal species, like remote cameras for operating in the dark. Night-vision helmetcams. We don’t want to spook them with lights while we’re conducting research.”
At that moment, I was spooked. Our walk through the depot had set people to staring and pointing. Looks of deep resentment accompanied whispered comments from the travelers lined up to leave the planet: “Coalition hacks . . . non-homs ruining our lives . . . killing our business.”
“Are you sure you want to pay an official visit right away?” I asked. “The colonists aren’t happy about the edict.”
Havens walked briskly, head high. “Unhappy? Or actively resisting?”
“A little of both.” Somebody had painted Scorp lovers and a few other rude remarks on the fence at the ranch the night before. I’d barely had time to paint over them before heading to the depot.
“In that case,” Haven said, “it’s even more important that we show our resolve immediately.”
The drive into the center of town showed how quickly fortunes can change on the frontier. On Venture Avenue, where shoppers had strolled a few days before, knots of people conversed on the street with hunched shoulders and sullen faces. Construction on the new hotel had ceased. Scattered storefronts already sported Going Out of Business signs.
When we arrived at town hall, the mayor met Havens in the presence of the town council, a news reporter, and Odom, the Venture Mining representative.
With the news camera running, the mayor said stiffly, “Of course we will comply with the Stellar Coalition’s demands. However, we have already lodged an official protest at this extreme overreaching. Silverrock has been designated a human planet—non-homs have no business interfering in colony affairs.” She glared directly at me. “The persons raising these questions are newcomers who arrived here within the last earthyear. If anyone had bothered to discuss with the town leaders our experience with scorps, we would have set them straight. They are a nuisance, but a nuisance we have lived with for thirty earthyears. A few more fences are all that’s needed.”
Havens smiled all through those remarks, then requested a more private meeting with the mayor to discuss the community’s concerns about the assessment. The mayor huffily declined.
As we filed out, Odom grinned, muttering, “See you in court.”
Everywhere we went, people pointed at us—or pointedly avoided us. Sheriff Ugarte was out of the office, unavailable, and no one knew when he was expected back. Shopkeepers locked their doors as we walked past. I began to worry that we’d have to order food from off-world sources. Even Doc Slade flatly refused to discuss with Havens anything about the incidence of scorp injuries.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Patient confidentiality. And please, don’t come back unless you need medical treatment. I don’t want my patients to think I would speak to you.”
As I drove Havens back toward the ranch, I felt the need to apologize. “I’m afraid you wasted your time.”
“Not at all,” she replied, unperturbed. “I fully expect the assessment to be unpopular with the colonists. The point is that we have followed procedure. I don’t need the town’s affection, merely their compliance.”
On the outskirts of town, I stopped the hopper at the dump. Even though it was still daylight, a couple of suitcase-sized scorps picked over trash.
“There. Those are scorpidons, small ones. The biggest ones weigh more than me, but they don’t come out until dark.”
Havens watched with no sign of revulsion. “And the little crablike ones scurrying beneath their feet? Offspring?”
I laughed. “Those are rockskippers, a separate species. Also known as Silverrock lobster. You’ll be seeing a lot of them—at breakfast, lunch, and supper.”
Samson had pulled out a televiewer and was peering at the scorps. “We’ll have to tag individual scorpidons so we can follow their movements remotely. I understand the shell is hard? We should be able to glue a transponder to the carapace, just behind the eyestalks. That should be out of reach of their claws.”
“They’re skittish,” I said. “The trick will be getting close enough to tag them. I suppose we could trap them . . .”
“Absolutely not,” Samson said. “We need to avoid disrupting their daily routine. A drone can make the placement. We’ll concentrate on feeding sites and tag them while they’re occupied.”
A farmhopper pulled up behind us. With a brief glance our way, the driver walked over to a rockskipper trap painted in green and white. He emptied the rockskippers inside into a bucket, then rebaited the trap and replaced it. He emptied three more traps, all marked with his colors, tossing back a few rockskippers that were too small to bother cleaning. After taking the bucket to his hopper, he paused long enough to dump a barrel of refuse onto the piles of muck. Even before he’d driven away, the rockskippers and scorps were scrambling over the new trash, picking it apart with their claws.
Havens’s lips were taut with disapproval. “This is a scorpidon feeding site.”
“Well, it’s the dump,” I said. “The rockskippers and scorps just take advantage of our leavings. And the locals take advantage in turn—their traps provide a little extra income and keep the rockskipper population under control.”
“The edict specifies that humans should avoid areas where scorpidons feed.”
I squirmed a little. “But it’s our dump. We didn’t invite them.”
“There’s no leeway in the edict,” she said, chin high. “The people of Silverrock must comply.” She turned to Samson. “Place a call to the mayor.”
As soon as she arrived at the ranch, Havens called a meeting, presiding at the head of the dining table. Samson sat at her right hand, taking notes on his mocom. Across from him, Emma and Lucien sat together like allies. Lydia and I joined as afterthoughts at the foot of the table.
Havens blessed the gathering with a chilly smile. “The mission of the first-contact assessment is to determine whether scorpidons are a sapient species as defined by the Stellar Coalition.” Her short gray hair lay close to her skull, her dark eyes burning out over sunken cheeks like a skeleton come to life. Her intensity worried me. Witch trial inquisitors had probably had the same look—the look of a true believer determined to root out heresy.
“This is an important milestone,” she said. “The Stellar Coalition currently regards humans as the least developed among interstellar-traveling species. They consider us violent and undisciplined, with little value to add to the Coalition’s collective wisdom. Silverrock provides us with a rare opportunity to prove that humans can interact fairly with less-developed species. It would not be exaggerating to say that how we deal with scorpidons may determine humanity’s future in the stellar community.”
I squirmed, exchanging glances with my coconspirators.
Emma’s brows rose. “Then you’re assuming scorps are sapient?”
“On the contrary, it seems unlikely that the Coalition would have overlooked a sapient species. However, strict adherence to proper procedure is vital.” She pinned us each in turn with a searching stare. “You must realize that the Coalition has made an exception for Silverrock. Ordinarily, a planet would be placed off-limits until a full first-contact assessment is complete. However, since humans already have a legally established colony here, the Coalition will allow the colonists to remain during the assessment—but only so long as they comply with the edict. In short, we must give scorpidons the benefit of the doubt. Until a final determination is made, the colonists must provide scorpidons the respect and protection a sapient species is due.”
“Even if that means closing our dump,” I muttered. The conversation between Havens and the mayor had lasted the entire drive to the ranch. Havens had been cold and implacable while the mayor had progressed from anger to excuses and finally to resentful surrender.
Lucien, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, asked, “What’s your first step?”
“Observation,” Samson replied. “We need to understand the basic physical and social circumstances of scorpidon life. We’ll also conduct problem-solving tests to estimate intelligence.”
Lydia lifted her chin. “They’re smarter than people think.”
Havens nodded. “That may be true. But for the purpose of Coalition standards, ‘sapience’ requires more than basic intelligence. It requires culture—the preservation and passing of learned knowledge from one generation to the next. Only then can a species advance beyond the accomplishments of an individual life.”
“And if you decide scorps fit the definition, what happens?” I asked.
“If the evidence warrants, we will attempt to establish communication.” Her thin smile didn’t reach her eyes. “The Stellar Coalition will review our findings and determine whether humans should be allowed to continue to inhabit the planet.”
Lydia’s lip trembled. “Everything I’ve got is here. I don’t want some non-homs tellin’ me I got to go.”
“It’s far too early to speculate about consequences,” Havens murmured. “Let us start from the beginning. Emma, what do we know of the evolution of scorpidons on Silverrock?”
Emma tented her hands. “The limestone that dominates this area indicates that there were once extensive oceans on the planet, but most of the surface water dried up millennia ago, leaving only two extremely saline seas. That change killed off most of the plant and animal life. Silverrock’s surviving vegetation consists of seasonal grasses and long-rooted shrubs that draw water up from underground. The planetwide survey done prior to colonization turned up only three native animals larger than a fly: sandbugs, rockskippers, and scorpidons. All three are arthropods—shelled creatures rather like Earth’s beetles, crabs, and scorpions. For water, they depend on the vegetation they eat and the moisture in the caverns, lifted by air currents from the underlying aquifer.”
I nodded at that. “The tunnels are always more humid than the air outside, humid enough that algae grows in the crevices, and the little sandbugs eat the algae. They love our latrines too, and rockskippers and scorps eat our garbage.”
Havens frowned. “It’s apparent that human occupation has changed the behavior of the local wildlife. It’s not surprising that the incidents of human-scorpidon conflict have increased with the expansion of the human population. What do we know about the scorpidon life cycle?”
Emma repeated her theories of a hive of males and drones dominated by a single breeding queen, but the anthropologists’ questions soon made clear how much we didn’t know about scorps. Social interaction, breeding, care of offspring, even what they did in the Pueblo when we weren’t around—we had speculation but no answers.
Samson looked up from his note-taking. “What about defensive behavior?”
“Defensive or offensive?” I asked. “I made a full report on the attacks I witnessed.”
Havens glanced at Lucien. “That report did not include your input, Lucien. What provoked the attack on you by the scorpidon Booker refers to as Pinch?”
Lucien had been fidgeting, twining his fingers, making me wonder if he was “hearing” miners working in the foothills. “Nothing,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think it was an attack. Pinch stung me, but he didn’t use his claws to try to hurt me.”
“He damn sure snapped at me when I tried to pry him off you,” I said. “My pants and jacket had so many tears, I had to refabricate them.”
“Lucien suffered some trauma in that attack,” Emma added. “He may not remember the details.”
“Then perhaps he lacks the objectivity needed for this assessment,” Havens snapped.
“I can do my job.” Lucien shot Emma an angry look. “I’m the only one here who really believes scorps are sapient.”
“Indeed? On what evidence?”
“You mentioned communicating with the scorps. I think that’s possible—I believe scorps can read.” He glanced toward the parlor, where the replica south wall loomed. “That is, I have a theory that the inscriptions in the Pueblo were meant for them.”
Havens’s eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting that scorpidons built the ruins in the caverns and left the inscribed stones for future generations?”
He flushed. “Of course not. I’m sure you’ve read Professor Ambrose’s reports. There’s no evidence of construction before or after the building of the Pueblo some fifty thousand earthyears ago. There wasn’t even any rebuilding or expansion of the village like you’d see in dwellings occupied for any length of time. The Builders were undoubtedly aliens who came, dug out the minerals they wanted, and left. What I’m suggesting is that the inscriptions were created by the Builders for the scorps.”
“An interesting theory. Perhaps you can consider ways to test it.” She sat back with a dissatisfied frown. “It’s clear we have a great deal of work to do. We’ll begin with simple observation of the scorpidons in their environment.”
“In the caverns?” I asked. “That’s where they live.”
“We’ll start at the dump tonight,” Samson said. “While they eat, I’ll begin tagging individuals. Once we learn more about their patterns of movement, we’ll install cameras in places where they congregate so we can observe without intruding.”
“I’ll continue to deal with the human side,” Havens said. “It’s essential the colony authorities understand the importance of this assessment.”
Lydia folded her thin arms. “They understand, all right. Folks stand to lose their jobs, their homes, and everything else they worked for over the last thirty years.”
Havens nodded gravely. “That is a possibility, but there are more important issues at stake.” She leaned forward, her eyes boring into Lucien, Emma, and me. “A failure to act responsibly toward a native sapient species would seriously impair the effort to promote humans to full membership in the Stellar Coalition. Unfortunately, most members of the Coalition regard humans with great suspicion. They believe we are too impulsive, too violent, and too shortsighted to be trusted. Our future is in jeopardy. This assessment may be the best opportunity of our generation to prove that we can be responsible members of the stellar community.”
“Even if we all die trying,” Lydia murmured.
Once it was full dark, Samson gathered his equipment for a foray to the dump. Havens balked at the idea of wearing armor, but I insisted. “Scorpidons are crustaceans,” I said. “If you don’t have a hard shell, you probably look like prey to them.”
Even all suited up with armor and helmets, neither one of them would have intimidated a grade-schooler. I wanted to carry my sidearm, but Havens vetoed it and refused to even carry a stun rod. “We’re going to observe, not engage,” she said. I tucked an extra rod into my pack just in case.
Lucien asked to go along, but Havens vetoed that too, saying there was no need for a linguist on a simple observation-and-tagging run and she preferred him to develop an experiment to test whether scorps could read. By the way she was eyeing him, I figured she was having second or third thoughts about whether he should be part of the assessment at all.
At the entrance to the dump, a chain lay curled on the dirt like a dead snake. The Closed—No Trespassing sign lay on the ground, riddled with bullet holes. Havens glowered but said nothing. Maybe she was learning what sort of person sought out life on the frontier.
I parked next to some heaps of fresh garbage and helped Havens and Samson clamber atop the hopper for a good view. I hitched my jacket closer against the chill.
Rockskippers ranging in size from salad plate to turkey platter combed through the garbage for morsels to eat. In the helmets’ thermal cameras, they gave off a dull glow. As long as we didn’t move around much, they ignored us and went about their business. A few had fumbled into traps.
