Whipping Star by Frank Herbert
“Some idea. Why?”
“Some idea,” McKie muttered. “Back in the primitive days, Palenkis made criminals eat their arms, then inhibited regrowth. Much loss of face, but even greater injury to something very deep and emotional for the Palenkis.”
“You’re not seriously suggesting . . .”
“Of course not!”
Bildoon shuddered. “You humans have a basically bloodthirsty nature. Sometimes I think we don’t understand you.”
“Where’s this Palenki?” McKie asked.
“What’re you going to do?”
“Question him! What’d you think?”
“After what you just said, I wasn’t sure.”
“Come off that, Bildoon. Hey, you!” McKie gestured to a Wreave enforcer lieutenant. “Bring the Palenki in here.”
The enforcer glanced at Bildoon.
“Do as he says,” Bildoon said.
The enforcer looped his mandibles uncertainly but turned and left the room, signaling half a squad to attend him.
Ten minutes later the Palenki phylum leader was herded into Bildoon’s office. McKie recognized the snake-weaving pattern on the Palenki’s carapace, nodded to himself: Shipsong Phylum, all right. Now that he saw it, he made the identification himself.
The Palenki’s multiple legs winked to a stop in front of McKie. The turtle face turned toward him expectantly. “Will you truly make me eat my arm?” it asked.
McKie glanced accusingly at the Wreave lieutenant.
“It asked what kind of human you were,” the Wreave explained.
“I’m glad you rendered such an accurate description,” McKie said. He faced the Palenki. “What do you think?”
“I think not possible, Ser McKie. Sentients no longer permit such barbarities.” The turtle mouth rendered the words without emotion, but the arm dangling to the right from its headtop juncture writhed with uncertainty.
“I may do something worse,” McKie said.
“What is worse?” the Palenki asked.
“We’ll see, won’t we? Now! You can account for every member of your phylum, is that what you claim?”
“That is correct.”
“You’re lying,” McKie said, voice flat.
“No!”
“What’s your phylum name?” McKie asked.
“I give that only to phylum brothers!”
“Or to the Gowachin,” McKie said.
“You are not Gowachin.”
In a flat splatting of Gowachin grunts, McKie began describing the Palenki’s probable unsavory ancestry, its evil habits, possible punishments for its behavior. He concluded with the Gowachin identification-burst, the unique emotion/word pattern by which he was required to identify himself before the Gowachin bar.
Presently the Palenki said, “You are the human they admitted to their legal concourse. I’ve heard about you.”
“What’s your phylum name?” McKie demanded.
“I am called Biredch of Ank,” the Palenki said, and there was a resigned tone in its voice.
“Well, Biredch of Ank, you’re a liar.”
“No!” the arm writhed.
There was terror in the Palenki’s manner now. It was a brand of fear McKie had been trained to recognize in his dealings through the Gowachin. He possessed the Palenki’s privileged name; he could demand the arm.
“You have compounded a capital offense,” McKie said.
“No! No! No!” the Palenki protested.
“What the other sentients in this room don’t realize,” McKie said, “is that phylum brothers accept gene surgery to affix the identity pattern on their carapaces. The index marks are grown into the shell. Isn’t this true?”
The Palenki remained silent.
“It’s true,” McKie said. He noted that the enforcers had moved into a close ring around them, fascinated by this encounter. “You!” McKie said, snapping an arm toward the Wreave lieutenant. “Get your men on their toes!”
“Toes?”
“They should be watching every corner of this room,” McKie said. “You want Abnethe to kill our witness?”
Abashed, the lieutenant turned, barked orders to his squad, but the enforcers were already at their shifty, turning, eye-darting inspection of the room. The Wreave lieutenant shook a mandible angrily, fell silent.
McKie returned his attention to the Palenki. “Now, Biredch of Ank, I’m going to ask you some special questions. I already know the answers to some of them. If I catch you in one lie, I’ll consider a reversion to barbarism. Too much is at stake here. Do you understand me?”
“Ser, you cannot believe that . . .”
“Which of your phylum mates did you sell into slave service with Mliss Abnethe?” McKie demanded.
“Slaving is a capital offense,” the Palenki breathed.
“I’ve already said you were implicated in a capital offense,” McKie said. “Answer the question.”
“You ask me to condemn myself?”
“How much did she pay you?” McKie asked.
“Who pay me what?”
“How much did Abnethe pay you?”
“For what?”
“For your phylum mates?”
“What phylum mates?”
“That’s the question,” McKie said. “I want to know how many you sold, how much you were paid, and where Abnethe took them.”
“You cannot be serious!”
“I’m recording this conversation,” McKie said. “I’m going to call your United Phyla Council presently, play the recording for them, and suggest they deal with you.”
“They will laugh at you! What evidence could you . . .”
“I’ve your own guilty voice,” McKie said. “We’ll get a voicecorder analysis of everything you’ve said and submit it with the recording to your council.”
“Voicecorder? What is this?”
“It’s a device which analyzes the subtle pitch and intonation of the voice to determine which statements are true and which are false.”
“I’ve never heard of such a device!”
“Damn few sentients know all the devices BuSab agents use,” McKie said. “Now, I’m giving you one more chance. How many of your mates did you sell?”
“Why are you doing this to me? What is so important about Abnethe that you should ignore every interspecies courtesy, deny me the rights of . . .”
“I’m trying to save your life,” McKie said.
“Now who’s lying?”
“Unless we find and stop Abnethe,” McKie said, “damn near every sentient in our universe excepting a few newly hatched chicks will die. And they’ll stand almost no chance without adult protection. You’ve my oath on it.”
“Is that a solemn oath?”
“By the egg of my arm,” McKie said.
“Oooooo,” the Palenki moaned. “You know even this of the egg?”
“I’m going to invoke your name and force you to swear by your most solemn oath in just a moment,” McKie said.
“I’ve sworn by my arm!”
“Not by the egg of your arm,” McKie said.
The Palenki lowered its head. The single arm writhed.
“How many did you sell?” McKie asked.
“Only forty-five,” the Palenki hissed.
“Only forty-five?”
“That’s all! I swear it!” Glistening fear oils began oozing from the Palenki’s eyes. “She offered so much, and the chosen ones accepted freely. She promised unlimited eggs!”
“No breeding limit?” McKie asked. “How could that be?”
The Palenki glanced fearfully at Bildoon, who sat hunched across the desk, face grim.
“She would not explain, other than to say she’d found new worlds beyond the ConSent jurisdiction.”
“Where are those worlds?” McKie asked.
“I don’t know! I swear it by the egg of my arm! I don’t know!”
“How was the deal set up?” McKie asked.
“There was a Pan Spechi.”
&n
“He offered my phylum the profits from twenty worlds for one hundred standard years.”
“Whoooeee!” someone behind McKie said.
“When and where did this transaction take place?” McKie asked.
“In the home of my eggs only a year ago.”
“A hundred years’ profits,” McKie muttered. “A safe deal. You and your phylum won’t be around even a fraction that long if she succeeds in what she’s planning.”
“I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know. What is she doing?”
McKie ignored the question, asked, “Have you any clue at all as to where her worlds may be?”
“I swear not,” the Palenki said. “Bring your voicecorder. It will prove I speak the truth.”
“There’s no such thing as a voicecorder for your species,” McKie said.
The Palenki stared at him a moment, then, “May your eggs rot!”
“Describe the Pan Spechi for us,” McKie said.
“I withdraw my cooperation!”
“You’re in too far now,” McKie said, “and my deal’s the only one in town.”
“Deal?”
“If you cooperate, everyone in this room will forget your admission of guilt.”
“More trickery,” the Palenki snarled.
McKie looked at Bildoon, said, “I think we’d better call in the Palenki council and give them the full report.”
“I think so,” Bildoon agreed.
“Wait!” the Palenki said. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t,” McKie said.
“But I have no choice, is that what you say?”
“That’s what I say.”
“May your eggs rot if you betray me.”
“Every one of them,” McKie agreed. “Describe your Pan Spechi.”
“He was ego-frozen,” the Palenki said. “I saw the scars, and he bragged of it to show that I could trust him.”
“Describe him.”
“One Pan Spechi looks much like another. I don’t know—but the scars were purple. I remember that.”
“Did he have a name?”
“He was called Cheo.”
McKie glanced at Bildoon.
“The name signifies new meanings for old ideas,” Bildoon said. “It’s in one of our ancient dialects. Obviously an alias.”
McKie returned his attention to the Palenki. “What kind of agreement did he give you?”
“Agreement?”
“Contract . . . surety! How did he insure the payoff?”
“Oh. He appointed phylum mates of my selection as managers on the chosen worlds.”
“Neat,” McKie said. “Simple hiring agreements. Who could fault a deal like that or prove anything by it?”
McKie brought out his toolkit, removed the holoscan, set it for projection, and dialed the record he wanted. Presently the scan which the Wreave enforcer had captured through the jumpdoor danced in the air near the Palenki. McKie slowly turned the projection full circle, giving the Palenki a chance to see the face from every angle.
“Is that Cheo?” he asked.
“The scars present the identical pattern. It is the same one.”
“That’s a valid ID,” McKie said, glancing at Bildoon. “Palenkis can identify random line patterns better than any other species in the universe.”
“Our phylum patterns are extremely complex,” the Palenki boasted.
“We know,” McKie said.
“What good does this do us?” Bildoon asked.
“I wish I knew,” McKie said.
No language has ever really come to grips with temporal relationships.
—A Gowachin Opinion
McKie and Tuluk were arguing about the time-regeneration theory, ignoring the squad of enforcers guarding them, although it was obvious their companions found the argument interesting.
The theory was all over the Bureau by this time—about six hours after the session with the Palenki phylum leader, Biredch of Ank. It had about as many scoffers as it had supporters.
At McKie’s insistence, they had taken over one of the interspecies training rooms, had set up a datascan console, and were trying to square Tuluk’s theory with the subatomic alignment phenomenon discovered in the rawhide and other organic materials captured from Abnethe.
It was Tuluk’s thought that the alignment might point toward some spatial vector, giving a clue to Abnethe’s hideout.
“There must be some vector of focus in our dimension,” Tuluk insisted.
“Even if that’s true, what good would it do us?” McKie asked. “She’s not in our dimension. I say we go back to the Caleban’s . . .”
“You heard Bildoon. You don’t go anywhere. We leave the Beachball to enforcers while we concentrate on . . .”
“But Fanny Mae’s our only source of new data!”
“Fanny . . . oh, yes; the Caleban.”
Tuluk was a pacer. He had staked out an oval route near the room’s instruction focus, tucked his mandibles neatly into the lower fold of his facial slit, and left only his eyes and breathing/speech orifice exposed. The flexing bifurcation which served him as legs carried him around a chairdog occupied by McKie, thence to a point near a Laclac enforcer at one extreme of the instruction focus, thence back along a mixed line of enforcers who milled around across from a float-table on which McKie was doodling, thence around behind McKie and back over the same route.
Bildoon found them there, waved the pacing Wreave to a halt. “There’s a mob of newspeople outside,” he growled. “I don’t know where they got the story, but it’s a good one. It can be described in a simple sentence: ‘Calebans linked to threatened end of universe!’ McKie, did you have anything to do with this?”
“Abnethe,” McKie said, not looking up from a complicated chalf doodle he was completing.
“That’s crazy!”
“I never said she was sane. You know how many news services, ’caster systems, and other media she controls?”
“Well . . . certainly, but . . .”
“Anybody linking her to this threat?”
“No, but . . .”
“You don’t find that strange?”
“How could any of these people know she . . .”
“How could they not know about Abnethe’s corner on Calebans?” McKie demanded. “Especially after talking to you!” He got up, hurled his chalf scribe at the floor, started up an aisle between rows of enforcers.
“Wait!” Bildoon snapped. “Where’re you going?”
“To tell ’em about Abnethe.”
“Are you out of your mind? That’s all she needs to tie us up—a slander and libel case!”
“We can demand her appearance as accuser,” McKie said. “Should’ve thought about this earlier. We’re not thinking straight. Perfect defense: truth of accusation.”
Bildoon caught up with him, and they moved up the aisle in a protective cordon of enforcers. Tuluk brought up the rear.
“McKie,” Tuluk called, “you observe an inhibition of thought processes?”
“Wait’ll I check your idea with Legal,” Bildoon said. “You may have something, but . . .”
“McKie,” Tuluk repeated. “do you . . .”
“Save it!” McKie snapped. He stopped, turned to Bildoon. “How much more time you figure we have?”
“Who knows?”
“Five minutes, maybe?” McKie asked.
“Longer than that, surely.”
“But you don’t know.”
“I have enforcers at the Caleban’s . . . well, they’re keeping Abnethe’s attacks to a min—”
“You don’t want anything left to chance, right?”
“Naturally, not that I’d . . .”
“Well, I’m going to tell those newsies out there the . . .”
“McKie, that female has her tentacles into unsuspected areas of government,” Bildoon cautioned. “You’ve no idea the things we found in . . . we’ve enough data to keep us busy for
“Some really important powers in with her, eh?”
“There’s no doubt of it.”
“And that’s why it’s time we took the wraps off.”
“You’ll create a panic!”
“We need a panic. A panic will set all sorts of sentients trying to contact her—friends, associates, enemies, lunatics. We’ll be flooded with information. And we must develop new data!”
“What if these illegitimates”—Bildoon nodded toward the outer door—“refuse to believe you? They’ve heard you spout some pretty strange tales, McKie. What if they make fun of you?”
McKie hesitated. He’d never before seen such ineffectual maundering in Bildoon, a sentient noted for wit, brilliant insight, analytical adroitness. Was Bildoon one of those Abnethe had bought? Impossible! But the presence of an ego-frozen Pan Spechi in this situation must have set up enormous traumatic shock waves among the species. And Bildoon was due for ego-collapse soon. What really happened in the Pan Spechi psyche as that moment neared when they reverted to the mindless crèche-breeder form? Did it ignite an emotional frenzy of rejection? Did it inhibit thought?
In a voice pitched only for Bildoon’s ears, McKie asked, “Are you ready to step down as Chief of Bureau?”
“Of course not!”
“We’ve known each other a long time,” McKie whispered. “I think we understand and respect each other. You wouldn’t be in the king seat if I’d challenged you. You know that. Now—one friend to another: Are you functioning as well as you should in this crisis?”
Angry contortions fled across Bildoon’s face, were replaced by a thoughtful frown.
McKie waited. When it came, the ego-shift would send Bildoon into shambling collapse. A new personality would step forth from Bildoon’s crèche, a sentient knowing everything Bildoon knew, but profoundly different in emotional outlook. Had this present shock precipitated the crisis? McKie hoped not. He was genuinely fond of Bildoon, but personal considerations had to be put aside here.
“What are you trying to do?” Bildoon muttered.
“I’m not trying to expose you to ridicule or speed up any . . . natural process,” McKie said. “But our present situation is too urgent. I’ll challenge you for the Bureau directorship and throw everything into an uproar, if you don’t answer truthfully.”
“Am I functioning well?” Bildoon mused. He shook his head. “You know the answer to that as well as I do. But you’ve a few lapses to explain, as well, McKie.”