Charles Sheffield - The Mind Pool

“You suggested that you were of a shape too hideous to be seen. I could not imagine such a form — I have seen almost every type of organism within the Perimeter, and some of those are strange indeed. It occurred to me to wonder, perhaps you were not too strange to be seen, but too familiar .”

“And when you saw the results of the imaging?” Skrynol stood upright, towering towards the root Dark compound eyes peered down at Mondrian. “Would it not have been more in keeping with your job to report your findings, rather than bringing those pictures here with you?”

“Report to whom?” Mondrian shrugged. “To myself, as head of Security? To Luther Brachis, so he could use it against me? Anyway, I had too many unanswerable questions. You resembled a Pipe-Rilla, but there were differences. You said that you were an Artefact, the product of a Needler lab. That could have been true.”

“ Could have. Why do you reject that notion?”

“At first I didn’t. You could have been an Artefact of a type I had never before encountered, something new out of the Needler labs. Or you could be a Pipe-Rilla, surgically modified for an Earth environment and for more efficient human speech. It even occurred to me that perhaps you were some kind of renegade Pipe-Rilla, hiding here from her fellows.”

The hissing laugh came eight feet above Mondrian’s head. “A ‘criminal,’ as you call it, taking refuge on this world? Come now, Commander. What crime could a Pipe-Rilla commit, which required a punishment worse than banishment to this planet? What hideous act could match the surgical inflicting of these disfigurements?” Skrynol held out her fleshy forelimbs. “As your poet says, “Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.”

“Let me tell you about Hell. But I also came to that conclusion. A Pipe-Rilla would only suffer such changes, and such exile, voluntarily. And that led me to another. You were modified and sent here with the knowledge and approval of your fellows and your government. You are a spy and observer for the Pipe-Rillas.”

Skrynol lowered herself with a cantilevering of long, multi-jointed limbs, until she was face to face with Mondrian. “It is not just Pipe-Rillas. All other members of the Stellar Group feel the same need to observe humans. You are too violent, too unpredictable, to be left unwatched. But if you are right, then why are you not now in danger? Presumably I must protect my secret.”

“You have been physically modified, but mentally you are still a Pipe-Rilla. You are not capable of violence. Whereas I …”

“… Accept and even relish it? A shrewd observation and one that I cannot dispute. But I am not without other means of persuasion. You still have your own needs. You could announce my presence here, true; but if you did, your own treatment with me would end. And we are making progress, approaching the heart of your problem. Do you realize that?”

“I am sure of it. Why else would I so dread these sessions with you, yet keep on coming?”

“In that case you must make your own evaluation. Am I a danger to humans so great that you must now reveal my existence, or does your personal need dominate the situation?”

“It is not so simple as that. I am convinced that you intended that I should discover your identity, even if not so quickly.”

“Most perceptive.” Skrynol laughed, that same high, twittering laugh. “So I have my own agenda. And there is your dilemma. You must balance your personal needs against the possible danger to humanity of my presence. This is, you realize, something unique to your species. As, indeed, is your term for it. You call it a ‘conflict of interest.’ A conflict — again, always you speak in terms of war, battle, fighting.”

“What would a Pipe-Rilla call it?”

“The situation could never arise. We possess group altruism. The good of the many always takes priority in us over the needs of the individual.”

“I admire your nobility.”

“There is no need for sarcasm. And we can take no credit for our nature. It is built into us, from first meiosis. It is the very reason that I am here, alone and deformed, many lightyears from home and mates. But humans are not so. You are dominated by individual desires and urges. Even you.” Skrynol began to flex her legs, lifting her body higher. “So which is it to be, Esro Mondrian? Do you expose me now, or do we continue your treatment.”

Mondrian stood up also. “What is your name? Your Pipe-Rilla name?”

“I will say it to you. It is no secret. But you will not be able to say it, unless you propose to learn to stridulate.” The Pipe-Rilla rubbed two of her legs together briefly, to produce the wobbly, singing tone of a vibrating saw blade. “There. I think you must still call me Skrynol. That is similar to a word in our speech that means, ‘the insane one.’ A mad Pipe-Rilla, living deep in Madworld.”

“Giving Fropper treatment to a mad human.”

“What could be more appropriate? Commander Mondrian, we have a stalemate. You know my secret — ”

“One of them.”

“One of them. And I know one of yours. What now?”

“I will keep your secret, and you will continue my treatment. And one other thing.”

“Always something new.”

“Not really. I intended this when I came here today for treatment. Why else would I bring those pictures? We agree that we both have needs?”

“We agree.”

“Very well. Then let us … negotiate.”

The offices of Dougal MacDougal, Solar High Ambassador to the Stellar Group, formed a huge and perfect dodecahedron. Two hundred meters on a side, it sat deep beneath the surface of Ceres. Access to it was provided by a dozen entrances on every one of its twelve faces.

The private office of Dougal MacDougal lay at the very center of the dodecahedron. It had just one entrance, approached along a great spiralling corridor. Halfway along the corridor and opening onto it was a tiny office, barely big enough for one person.

In that office, seemingly present for twenty-four hours a day, sat Lotos Sheldrake. A diminutive child-like woman with the face of a porcelain doll, she guarded access to the spacious inner sanctum like a soldier ant protecting the queen’s chamber. MacDougal saw no one unless she approved; nothing entered his office, not even cleaning robots, unless she had performed her inspection.

Luther Brachis walked slowly down the approach corridor, entered Sheldrake’s cramped office, and sat down uninvited on the single visitor’s chair.

Lotos was reviewing a list of supplicant names, crossing off more than half of them. She did not look up until her analysis was complete. “A surprise visit, Commander,” she said at last. She raised pencil-thin eyebrows. “You desire an audience with the Ambassador? We are honored. I believe that this is the first such request.”

“Don’t give me that, Lotos. When you see me come in here to meet with old numbnuts, you’ll know it’s time to cart me off for recycling.”

“That is no way to refer to His Excellency the Ambassador.” But Sheldrake made no attempt to inspect the contents of Brachis’s uniform. She had known when he entered that he was planning to go no farther than her office. “So what’s your business?”

“You know about the Morgan Constructs?”

An imperceptible nod.

“And the decision made by the Stellar Group Ambassadors?”

A hint of a smile on the doll’s face. “With Ambassador MacDougal, shall we say, abstaining? I heard. Poor Luther. After all your efforts, to report to Esro Mondrian … my heart bleeds for you.”