Mike Resnick - Birthright

He spent exactly nineteen days, six hours, and twenty-four minutes in prison. Then he was once again ushered into the Secretary's presence.

The Secretary seemed to have aged perceptibly since the last time he had seen him. There were deep,

heavy lines around his eyes, and his pendulous jowls seemed to sag even more.

“If you ever had any friends on Praesepe II and VI, Alphard XVII, or Altair V, you'll never see them again. I hope that makes you happy.”

“It makes me very sad,” said Coleman sincerely. “And I know their deaths must weigh heavily on the conscience of the Republic.”

“How about your conscience?” said the Secretary. “Doesn't the fact that well over four thousand patients have died because your strike has prevented our hospitals from getting vital materials bother you at all?” “I deeply regret their deaths,” said Coleman carefully. “But our stand has been taken. We are totally committed to our cause, and too many of us have died to back down now. If the Republic cares for either the rights of its miners or the lives of its patients, it has the wherewithal to end the strike this very minute.”

“I told you before: We will not yield to threats.” “We can wait,” said Coleman. “Time is on our side. Not even you, with all the resources of the Republic behind you, can keep this quiet for much longer. If you'd made it public to begin with, you might have been able to stir up sentiment for your side. But now the miners of five worlds are dead, and not a single member of the military has been harmed. Where do you think the public's sentiment will rest?” “What's to stop us from surrounding every remaining mining world and moving in after every last miner blows himself to bits?”

“We're using exceptionally dirty bombs,” said Coleman calmly. “It would be years before most of the worlds could be opened for mining, or before the mined material could be safely used. Do you think the Republic's economy can stand that?”

The Secretary closed his eyes and lowered his head in thought for a full minute. Then he looked up at his aides. “Will you leave Mr. Coleman and me alone for a few moment, please?” When the room emptied out, he gestured for Coleman to sit down opposite him. “If we agree to your financial terms, will you relinquish your request for greater political representation?” Coleman shook his head. “You're going to sign it anyway, so why should we yield? Too many of us have died to start striking bargains now.” “What do you get out of this?” asked the Secretary. “Justice.”

“I mean, personally.”

“I get a salary of a quarter million credits a year,” said Coleman. “And I donate ninety percent of it to our medical program.”

“I never could stand dealing with a thoroughly righteous man,” sighed the Secretary. He pulled the miners’ demands out of the drawer, picked up the seal of his office, stamped the papers, and signed his

name.

* * * *

Victory celebrations were in progress on almost a thousand scattered worlds, not the least of which was Gamma Leporis IX. Intoxicants flowed and happiness reigned supreme on this final night of idleness. “Hey!” cried somebody. “Let's let Ferdy in and give him a drink! He's got as much right inside here as anybody.”

Indeed he did, agreed Ferdinand silently. He had no auditory orifices with which to hear, but he had means of understanding what was said, and he'd been listening intently all evening. He didn't especially like being inside the auditorium. It was warm and uncomfortable, the higher oxygen content of the air made his eyes smart, and his metabolism couldn't cope with the whiskey they were feeding him. But Men were a pretty pleasant species, and he was very happy to kill nelsons in exchange for magnesium.

Tomorrow morning, he decided, would be soon enough to present them with the Butterballs’ list of demands.

4: THE PSYCHOLOGISTS

...Probably no field of study was more instantly expanded than that of psychology, for where Man originally had only himself as a subject, he now had literally thousands of races, many with such foreign values that simply separating sentient from nonsentient life forms became a titanic task. For half a millennium Man was able to communicate with less than five percent of the other races of the galaxy; as his new psychological skills improved, he was ultimately able to understand and exchange ideas with almost half of them...

— Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...Conceived as a pure science, Man's mastery of psychology soon became simply another tool to be used in his expansionist endeavors, often pointing out the weaknesses in an enemy's mental defenses. Nonetheless, in its formative years—100 to G.E.—the purpose of alien psychology was still rather pure and idealistic. Some fascinating problems arose and were ultimately solved, and many of Man's methods have since been adopted by... — Origin and History of the Sentient Races , Vol. 7 Consuela Orta walked into the room and smiled politely at the Madcap. The Madcap immediately began eating its tail.

“Good morning,” she said.

The Madcap growled hideously at her, then started battering its head against the padded wall. “Would you like some water?” asked Consuela, placing a dish on the floor. The Madcap giggled hysterically, took another bite of its tail, and lay on its back, its feet held rigidly in the air.

Consuela remained where she was for five minutes. Then, with a sigh, she opened the door to leave. “Good morning,” said the Madcap.

“Good morning,” repeated Consuela.

The Madcap raced twice around the room, turned over its water bowl, and began licking the liquid up from the floor. Consuela closed the door behind her and stepped out into the hallway to join the man who had been observing her through a one-way mirror. “That one's crazier than most of them, isn't he?” asked the man. “It's well-named,” agreed Consuela, walking toward the commissary. “It's a fascinating creature!” said the man enthusiastically. “Just fascinating! Sometimes I think I went into the wrong field.”

“And just what is your field, Mr. Tanayoka?” asked Consuela. “I was told to show you our facilities and extend every conceivable courtesy to you, but no one has yet told me why.”

“I'll come to that in just a moment, Ms. Orta,” said the small, black-haired man. “ Mrs. Orta,” she corrected him.

“My mistake. Now, about the Madcap: Is it intelligent?” “That is a very chancy question.” Consuela smiled. “I have known many humans that I didn't think were intelligent. If you mean, is it sentient, I suspect that it probably is. No nonsentient life form could possibly come up with so many different aberrant reactions to the same stimuli. A life form incapable of all creative thought would fall into a set pattern, whereas yesterday, for example, the Madcap drank the water immediately, gravely shook hands with me, and then tried to stand on the ceiling.” “Maybe it wasn't thirsty today,” suggested Tanayoka. “Given its history of behavior, I'd suggest that it's just as likely that it wasn't thirsty yesterday and was dying of thirst today. No, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it's probably sentient. Unbalanced, perhaps, but sentient. Now all I have to do is make some degree of sense out of what it does.” She uttered a grim laugh.

“If anyone can do it, I'm told you're the one,” said Tanayoka. “You've succeeded in almost thirty-five percent of your cases; that's more than twice the norm.” “That's me: surrogate mother to the galaxy.” Consuela paused, then turned to Tanayoka. “How did you know that?”