David Weber - Fire Season

Have a chance to chat, Stephanie thought, wishing that, like Lionheart, she could reach out and offer comfort that was more than just words. Unlike with all those people who died in the Plague. People who are gone forever and that those who are left will never have a chance to talk to again.

Anders was relieved when Dr. Hobbard told them that Stephanie Harrington was unharmed. More excitingly, she had agreed to meet with them the next morning.

“I must warn you,” Dr. Hobbard said that evening when she met them for dinner, “to handle Stephanie Harrington with no less care and courtesy than you would any adult. She may be a girl of fourteen, but where treecats are concerned, she’s old as the hills.”

Anders could tell his father didn’t believe that anyone-especially a girl of fourteen-could hold back any information he was determined to get. It wasn’t until later, when he and his dad were back in their suite, that Anders realized to what extent Dr. Whittaker was prepared to go to get what he wanted.

“Anders,” Dr. Whittaker said, “the time has come for you to show yourself a part of our field team.”

He rubbed his hands together, and Anders was reminded of a coach he had once had, a man who had liked to proclaim himself his players’ “buddy” and “pal”-that is, right up until he was screaming at you for “letting down the side.”

The similarity went beyond attitude. Like that coach, Dr. Whittaker was a big man, both tall and broad. In earlier years, fieldwork had kept him trim, but lately most of his work had been in libraries and laboratories. This might be mentally arduous, but did not put the same demands on his body, making him fleshy if not quite fat. Over the last few years, Dr. Whittaker’s brown hair had been retreating from his forehead at an alarming rate, Whittaker family genetics defying a wide array of “cures,” both scientific and otherwise. The fact that genetic engineering had all but eliminated male pattern baldness only added to Dad’s frustration since, in his case, tinkering with the associated genes created a solution that was far worse than mere hair loss.

Anders distinctly hoped he’d been spared this particular gene. He had even checked with his doctor during a routine physical a few years ago and had been disproportionately relieved to learn that his scans showed no evidence of the baldness gene. More likely, he’d wind up with a thick head of hair like his maternal grandfather.

Surreptitiously comparing himself with his father, Anders thought that overall he hadn’t done too badly. He was showing promise of his father’s height and solid build, but his deep blue eyes and sandy-blond hair came from his mother. His features were also shaping into a masculine version of hers, a throwback to Scandinavian ancestors who had favored clean lines, rather than the blunter, more polyethnic mix that dominated in his father.

“Part of the field team?” Anders echoed.

“That’s right, my boy. You’ve shown yourself interested in the treecats, but have you considered that anthropology is more than studying interesting cultures? Sometimes you must also work with those who dominate the area.”

Anders had a sneaking suspicion where this was heading, but he’d long ago learned that it was politic to hear the other person out before jumping to conclusions. He also had a creepy feeling that he now knew why Dr. Whittaker had been so enthusiastic about taking him to Sphinx.

“Oh?”

“That’s right. In this case, of course, the ones who dominate the area are not the treecats themselves, although they are the indigenous intelligent species and therefore should have some rights themselves to decide who does and does not have access to them.”

Anders noted with some admiration how Dr. Whittaker could use this complex conclusion-one that, as far as he knew, was not shared by the majority of the residents of Sphinx-to his own advantage. It made Dr. Whittaker sound like the true treecat advocate, not the Forestry Service, who had set themselves up as the treecats’ protectors.

I guess I’m not the only one who has learned something from living with a politician all these years. Now if Dad could only learn to be as nice-as genuinely caring-as Mom, he’d be ahead of the game.

Anders nodded. “Like the treecat who made friends with Stephanie Harrington-Lionheart. He chose to make contact with the humans.”

“Actually, that’s not precisely correct,” Dr. Whittaker said. “‘Lionheart,’ as Ms. Harrington has so quaintly named this treecat, actually was making contact with the greenhouse. All his actions show that he intended to stay away from humans. He showed remarkable ingenuity in avoiding the alarms. Only Ms. Harrington’s admittedly brilliant deduction regarding the wavelengths in which treecats perceived light enabled her to catch a recorded image.”

“But,” Anders protested, “they’ve stayed friends since.”

“Again, Anders, I fear you are jumping to the same romantic conclusions that so many have reached. Lionheart-I do wish we knew what manner of naming conventions treecats use for themselves-actually fled from that initial contact. It was not until Ms. Harrington pursued him, using tracking methods about which she has been very vague, and was injured, that Lionheart came to the rescue. Her actions were irresponsible, putting both herself and the treecat in considerable danger.”

“She saved his life!” Anders said angrily.

“Only after endangering it in the first place. Really, Anders, I thought you were more capable of scientific detachment. Perhaps your mother is correct and you have developed a-romantic attachment, shall we call it? — to the idea of the heroic Stephanie Harrington.”

Anders glowered and bit back a couple dozen things he would have liked to say. Instead, dreading more discussion on this subject, he steered the conversation back to his father’s original statement.

“So, Dad, you said there was something I could do to help out the team?”

Dr. Whittaker brightened. “That’s right. As I was saying, often well-meaning non-indigenous cultures assume a paternalistic attitude regarding what they consider vulnerable primitive cultures.”

“That is,” Anders couldn’t resist saying, “the high-tech newcomers decide to protect those who might suffer otherwise.”

“You are romanticizing again,” Dr. Whittaker replied, waggling one finger at Anders. “Paternalism is not simply protectiveness. As the word-which has its roots in an old word for ‘father’-implies, those who become paternalistic set themselves up in the role of parents, assuming they know better for no other reason than they have more technology and that technology enables them to dominate.”

“So the Sphinx Forestry Service is paternalistic,” Anders summarized.

“Yes,” Dr. Whittaker agreed enthusiastically, “and not merely toward the treecats, but also toward Ms. Harrington herself. You heard Dr. Hobbard’s warning.”

“That didn’t sound protective,” Anders said. “I mean, except maybe of us. Dr. Hobbard was warning us that Ms. Harrington might button up if we pushed her too hard.”

“I can see you are determined not to see things my way,” Dr. Whittaker said. Since this was pretty much the truth, Anders said nothing, but waited for him to continue. “I do not plan to ‘push’ Ms. Harrington. Clearly, this would be a bad tactic. However, it has occurred to me that you are about her own age. She might loosen up around you. Moreover, you are a handsome young man and she is a young lady-a clever young lady, no doubt, but no less a female for all that.”

“You want me to sweet-talk her so she’ll tell us more about the treecats?” Anders didn’t know whether to be indignant or to laugh.