Mike Resnick - Birthright

“Is the acid vat here?” asked Darlinski. He looked around until he found it. “All right, nurse. We will now prepare for amputation.”

“What are you amputating, sir?” asked the nurse. “The head,” said Darlinski.

“I knew it!” said Jennings. “You've got to be out of your mind!'’ “What've we got to lose?” asked Darlinski, unmindful of the nurse's horrified reaction. “Mindless or dead, the war starts; this is the only way to stop it.” And, so saying, he made an incision midway on the long stalk that passed for a Pnathian neck. His hands moved quickly, expertly, until the neck was all but severed. “Nurse,” he said, looking up for an instant, “it will doubtless bother you no end, but I don't want this sutured or closed in any way. We will apply a tourniquet for about ninety seconds, but it must then be removed.”

The nurse, pale and horrified, nodded weakly. “Jennings, you know what to do with the head?'’ “The vat?”

Darlinski nodded. “If I'm right, it's going to be screaming bloody murder anyway, so we'll destroy it as quickly as possible.”

“Wouldn't the incinerator have been more humane?” “Doubtless. However, I don't relish taking a babbling, decapitated head down five levels and through crowded corridors to the incinerator. Do you?” “I see your point.” Jennings grinned. He grunted as the head rolled off the Pnathian's body, and, averting his eyes as best he could, he quickly took it to the opaque vat and placed it inside. When he got back to the table he found Darlinski removing the tourniquet. No blood poured forth. “It probably doesn't need it, despite the absence of its mouth, but let's open up the neck a bit and insert

a breathing tube. Then you'd better run up to Pathology and figure out what kind of solution we can give

it intravenously until it can eat for itself, though with all that subcutaneous fat I doubt that it'll be necessary.” Jennings left, and Darlinski turned to the nurse. “Until I know the outcome of all this, I'm afraid you're going to be confined to quarters. You are not to discuss this with anyone except Mr. Hammett, Dr. Jennings, or myself. Is that clear?” The nurse nodded.

“Fine. Stick around a bit longer, until we can hunt up a replacement. And call Hammett and tell him to get his tail down here on the double.”

It took Hammett exactly four minutes to arrive, at which time Darlinski explained the operation to him. “You see,” he began, “the whole problem was that the ambassador is very definitely not a female. That threw me for a while, but I couldn't give it my full attention until I figured out what had caused its problem in the first place. But there were so many hints I should have seen it even sooner: the fact that its tissue kept growing, even when it wasn't cultured; the fact that we couldn't find any sexual apparatus; the fact that there were no outlets for spores. So of course, what could it be but an entity that is capable of reproduction by fission, and hence of regeneration? I should have guessed something like that the first day, when only one of my scrapings drew any blood at all, and that coagulated in just two or three seconds.”

“But can it grow a head?” asked Hammett. “After all, you've removed its brain and all its orifices. Even a starfish has to have part of the core remaining to regenerate.” “I think it will. If not, the body and head would probably have died immediately. Neither did, which is why I destroyed the head: I didn't want that mindless pseudo-cranium growing another body. Also, if I can coin a word, we occasionally tend to Earthomorphize, to give certain Earthly qualities to all forms of non-Earthly life. It seems unlikely to me that any creature could survive with its head severed, but the fact remains that it is indeed surviving. However, the really major problem still remains.” “And what is that?” asked Hammett.

“The new brain won't know that it's an ambassador, or that we saved its life—so I think we'd better prepare for a little war.”

10: THE POLITICIANS

...Thus it was that, toward the end of the Democracy's first millennium, a wave of sentiment swept across the human worlds and colonies of the galaxy. Long had they waited for Man to reestablish what they considered to be his rightful position of primacy among the sentient races, and the prevailing mood was almost akin to that ancient credo of “Manifest Destiny.” And, indeed, it was fast becoming manifest that Man had served his galactic apprenticeship and would no longer be content to play a secondary role in the scheme of things.

It was at the height of this crisis of conflicting philosophies and overviews that Joshua Bellows (2943-3009 G.E.) began his meteoric rise to power. Immensely popular with the masses, he was originally opposed and later lauded by certain elements within his own party. For if it is true that great events summon forth great leaders, then... — Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...That Bellows had considerable charm and charisma as a politician cannot be denied. However, those writings and tapes of his that still exist would seem to imply that he had neither the capacity nor, originally, the motivation to have accomplished what he did without

some powerful behind-the-throne assistance...

...Although the Democracy survived him by more than twelve centuries, there can be no doubt that Bellows was responsible for...

— Origin and History of the Sentient Races , Vol. 8 Josh Bellows sat behind a huge desk, its shining surface dotted here and there with papers and documents, a score of intercom buttons by his right arm. Immaculately tailored and groomed, he presented the ultimate picture of dignity, with his heavy shock of gray-black hair, the firm, hard line of his jaw, and the tiny smile wrinkles at the corners of his clear blue eyes. He looked every inch a leader of men, which was in fact what he was.

“So how's it going?” he asked.

The figure approaching his desk was almost his antithesis in every respect. Clad in wrinkled, crumpled clothes, squinting through lenses so thick that one couldn't see his eyes behind them, what hair he still possessed in total disarray, he seemed as out of place in these majestic surroundings as anyone could be. “The natives are getting restless,” said Melvyn Hill, pulling up a beautifully carved chair of Doradusian wood and unceremoniously putting his feet on the desk. “The natives always look restless when you're staring down at them from the top,” commented Bellows. “When I was one of them I was restless too. That's how I got here.” “That was a little different, Josh. You were restless for power. They're restless for you to exercise that power.”

“I know.” Bellows frowned. “But what the hell do they expect me to do? Declare war?” “No,” said Hill. “Although,” he added thoughtfully, “not one out of five would be adverse to it.” “I won the Governorship of Deluros VIII with sixty-four percent of the vote,” said Bellows. “I think that shows a mandate of some sort for my judgment.” “I'll agree with the first half of it, Josh,” said Hill. “It shows a mandate of some sort.” “You know,” said Bellows, “you are the one member of my staff who continually makes me wonder about the wisdom of not surrounding myself with yes-men and sycophants.” “You're paying me too much to simper and suck my thumb and tell you that everything you do is right,” said Hill, swinging his feet back to the floor with a grunt. “Someone in this damned Administration ought to tell you the truth.”

“Which is?”

“Which is that you are in considerably more danger of impeachment than you realize.” Bellows just stared at him for a minute, his face expressionless. “Nonsense,” he said at last. Hill got to his feet. “Let me know if and when you want the rest of my report.” He turned to leave. “Hold on a minute!” snapped Bellows. “Get back in your chair and let's have this out.'’ Hill returned and