Mother of Demons Read online

  I shall not be treated so, vowed Guo silently. They will only take my dead body for meat.

  She picked up her mace and hefted it. A club, essentially, with six long blades protruding from all sides—edges out, not points out. It was a clumsy weapon, for a clumsy mother. But what it lacked in finesse, it made up for in size and weight. The weapon was huge. A gukuy warrior could barely lift the mace, much less wield it in combat. The mace was a weapon for battlemothers—designed to compensate for their awkwardness by using their enormous strength.

  Staring at the mace, Guo's mantle turned suddenly yellow. Contempt—for the weapon and herself.

  I wanted to use a flail—from the time I first began my training. Like a real warrior, instead of a giant slug.

  She winced mentally, remembering the hard lesson Kopporu had given her. Guo had thought she could use a flail, at first. Was she not quicker and more nimble than any infanta in memory? She was, in fact. But all things are relative. A quick and nimble battlemother is still far too clumsy to properly wield a flail. Guo had not believed it until Kopporu matched her against Aktako with practice flails and forks. The experience had been utterly humiliating.

  That same night Kopporu had come into Guo's yurt. The infanta had attempted to fade the brown misery in her mantle, with no success. Like all mothers—and she hated herself for it—she was all but incapable of controlling her color.

  Kopporu no sooner saw the brown than she whistled derision.

  "Do you wallow in misery because you can't float on the breeze like a puopoa? Or breathe water like a dikplo?"

  Guo was silent.

  "Foolish child! You are a mother, Guo."

  "I want to be a warrior!" exclaimed the infanta.

  "And what is that?"

  Guo was silent.

  "You think a warrior is grace—and speed?"

  Another whistle of derision.

  "I will tell you what a warrior is, stupid one. A warrior is not agility and reflexes. Mindless. A warrior is brain, and heart—at the service of the tribe. A warrior faces the truth unflinchingly. Do you understand?"

  After a moment, miserably: "No."

  "Still have the brains of a spawn! Listen to me, Guo. Learn to face the truth, peeled of its shell. The truth is that you are not and cannot be a warrior. If you still don't believe that, then tomorrow I'll put you back on the field and let Aktako make a fool out of you again."

  Kopporu had let that sink in before continuing.

  "If you can learn to face that truth, then perhaps you can learn to face another truth."

  Unwillingly: "And what is that?"

  "It is that if you abandon these foolish fantasies of becoming a warrior, and apply yourself, you can become the greatest battlemother in the history of the Kiktu since Dodotpi. Maybe even greater than she."

  Orange astonishment flooded Guo's mantle.

  "Really?"

  A tinge of green entered Kopporu's mantle. The battle leader stretched out her palp and gently stroked the brow of the infanta.

  "Yes, Guo. Really. You are very fast and nimble, for a mother. And you are incredibly strong. Aktako told me she could feel the earth shake every time you smote the ground with your flail."

  A humorous whistle.

  "Fortunately, she was far away by the time the blow landed."

  "She would have been just as far away if I'd been using a mace!" protested Guo.

  "True. But only a stupid infanta—or a stupid leader—thinks a battlemother can fight like a warrior. Your flankers will keep the foe from dodging your blows. Your task is to crush the enemy in front of you. And for crushing, the mace is a better weapon than a flail."

  Kopporu fell silent. After a few moments, Guo had said softly:

  "I will try to learn. With the mace."

  "And the shield. And the visor."

  Yellow contempt rippled across Guo's mantle, but she did not voice the protest. Again, Kopporu whistled amusement.

  "You will learn to appreciate the lowly shield and visor, child. When you become a renowned battlemother, every piper in the enemy's army will be aiming at you. Would you rather be blind?"

  Remembering that conversation, Guo's mantle was suddenly flooded a deep green. She, like the other two battlemothers and all of the warriors in the group, adored Kopporu. In part, that was because of Kopporu's brilliance as a battle leader. But her charisma had deeper roots. There was a—greatness in the battle leader's spirit. Even a young infanta like Guo could sense it.

  Sadly, Guo reflected that Kopporu's potential would never be realized. Kopporu's clan was small, and Kopporu's own rank within it was insignificant. Her battle group, of course, was the biggest in the tribe. Warriors chose their own battle groups. Most chose the battle groups of their own clan. But many warriors sought acceptance into the groups of renowned battle leaders, regardless of clan affiliation. Almost three fourths of the warriors in Kopporu's group were from clans other than her own—an unprecedented figure in Kiktu history, so far as anyone knew. The clan leaders had complained, but the battle leaders had supported Kopporu. Many of the battle leaders were jealous of Kopporu's status among the warriors, but they were united in their determination to protect their traditional rights.

  Guo herself was from a different clan—from the dominant clan in the tribe, in fact. It was unlikely, but not inconceivable, that she herself might someday become the Great Mother of the Kiktu.

  She did not view that prospect with pleasure. She had no desire to become a mother. She wanted to remain a battlemother, surrounded by warriors.

  Like all infanta, she had her moments of curiosity and interest on the subject of truemales. Strange, silly creatures. Flighty; given to emotional excess. But skilled, it was said, in the ways of pleasure.

  But such moments were few and fleeting. Had life been as she would have wanted, Guo would have been born a warrior. A female. She would have taken a lover from the ranks of the veterans, who would bring her joy in the yurt and protection on the battlefield.

  A sudden image came to her mind of the beautiful Kopporu reaching her arms into Guo's mantle—

  She thrust the image away, horrified. Perversion.

  She forced her thoughts to the future. She would probably not survive the morrow, in any event. The word had already spread throughout the tribe's warriors, in whispers—Kopporu was opposed to the plan of battle, although she had insisted on the command of the right flank. The deliberations of the tribe leaders were supposed to be held in confidence, but such news could not be contained. Kopporu herself had said nothing, but the word had spread regardless.

  The warriors had greeted the news with mixed emotions. Anger at Kopporu's apparent disdain for the invincibility of the Kiktu warriors. Disquiet, because all knew of Kopporu's genius on the battlefield. Determination to prove Kopporu wrong. Fear that Kopporu was right. But, most of all, admiration for Kopporu's nobility of spirit.

  Guo herself had no doubts of her own feelings. Her faith in the battle leader was absolute. And thus, she knew the tribe was doomed. But she would follow Kopporu's example.

  She grasped the mace in a huge palp. So fiercely that even a kogoclam would have been crushed within.

  The Utuku will never take me alive. I will die with the tribe. And I will slay the savages in numbers beyond counting.

  She stared at the mace. It was a gift. Kopporu had given it to her on the day the battle leader announced to the tribe that Guo had completed her training and was accepted into the battle group as a battlemother. It was a gift worthy of a great clan leader. Guo had no idea how Kopporu had managed to obtain it. The haft of the club was made of uluwood, beautifully carved. But the treasure was in the blades—made of the finest bronze, honed to a keen edge. The blades of most maces were obsidian. Guo, as a young and untested battlemother, had expected a mace with flint blades.

  That night, Guo made a solemn vow. If she and the Kiktu survived the battle, she would see to it that justice was done. Like many of the younger warriors—a
nd even some of the older ones—she was tired of the stifling regime of the clan leaders. She had no wish to become a mother, but when the time came she would do so—without complaint. She would devote herself to rising within the complex, intrigue-filled world of the mothers until she became the Great Mother of the Kiktu.

  When that day came, she would see that Kopporu was given her rightful place in the tribe. Traditions be shat upon.

  Let the old clan leaders wail.

  PART II: The Warp

  Chapter 5

  Indira Toledo turned the page of the notebook. A passage caught her eye.

  It's not as if I hadn't spent years thinking about it. I wanted to be an exobiologist from as far back as I can remember. Fought like hell to win a place on the Magellan. But all those years I was convinced the vertebrate Bauplan—or some variation on it—was the only suitable structure for large terrestrial life-forms. That's why I specialized in vertebrate paleontology.

  Well, here I am. My dream come true. A planet full of large terrestrial life-forms. Including intelligent life forms—the first we've ever encountered. And the joke's on me!

  Molluscs. Of all things—molluscs!

  They're not really molluscs, of course. Hardcore cladists would lynch me for even thinking it. A totally separate evolutionary history. But the convergence is uncanny. It makes you wonder if old Arrhenius was right—all life came from spores drifting through interstellar space. That would make us distant relatives. Very, very, very distant. Even if Arrhenius was right, we'd be more closely related to algae and bacteria than we are to anything on Ishtar.

  Indira smiled ruefully. She remembered criticizing Julius once for using the human name for the planet.

  "Typical biologist," she'd said to him. "Arrogant beyond belief."

  "But it's a great name!" he'd protested. "In most pantheons, the goddess of love and the god of war are separated not only in person but in sex. Ishtar was both. What could be more suited for this planet? A goddess of war and love. I should think you, of all people, would approve."

  That had made her even angrier.

  "I am not one of those feminists who thinks it's an advance for women to participate in slaughter. Anyway, that's beside the point—and you know it. Throughout history, the first act of aggression on the part of a more advanced society toward a less advanced one is to rename everything. Goes all the way back to your damned Bible. The first thing Adam did was name everything. That gave him the right to do what he pleased with his beasts. Columbus was just following the program. Rhodesia, for God's sake!"

  Julius had grinned. "Egad, I'm exposed. Julius Cohen, slavering imperialist." He rubbed his hands, cackling with glee. "Wait till I get these natives into the gold mines! Copper mines, rather. Doesn't seem to be much gold on this planet, curse the luck. Pizarro'll never forgive me."

  She chuckled, remembering the argument. Julius was the most good-hearted of men, in all truth. And, in the end, he had been proven right. For reasons which would have astonished all of the adult colonists at the time.

  Her eyes watered. She and Julius were all that was left, now, of that small group of adults who had survived the first months after the disaster.

  She raised her head and stared at the kolo-cluster down in the valley. They were all buried there. Vladimir Koresz. Janet Mbateng. Hector Quintero. Francis Adams. Following owoc customs, the humans had adopted the grove as their own cemetery. The owoc had a particular reverence for the kolo. Indira was not sure why, exactly. The owoc were not good at explaining things. But she thought it was because of the way the kolo always grew in dense clusters, the willowy shoots intertwining and curling about each other like vines. And they were pale green, color of tranquillity.

  The Coil of Beauty. It was when she had finally grasped the meaning of that owoc concept that her gratitude toward them had crystallized into a profound love for the gentle creatures. Even Julius, once she had explained it to him, had been shaken out of his normally linear way of thinking. Thereafter, to her relief, he had stopped referring to the owoc as "dimbulbs."

  She shook her head sharply, exorcising the sadness, and resumed reading.

  I shouldn't be all that surprised. How long ago was it that Stephen Jay Gould pointed out how chancy the evolution of vertebrates had been? There was hardly a trace of chordates in the Burgess Shale, after all. Even on Earth, the phylum might have easily disappeared during the Permian extinction, if not sooner. And then what would have happened?

  Still, I would have bet on some branch of the arthropods. But perhaps not. Maybe the very success of the arthropod Bauplan militates against them ever evolving into forms suitable of filling the ecological niche of large terrestrial life forms. And why should they? Popular mythology to the contrary, that niche has always been on the outer edge of existence. It's amazing, really, how the large size of humans prejudices our view of life. To this day, biologists talk of mammals dominating the earth. That's news to bacteria! Not to mention insects and worms. We, and all our bulky mammal relatives, are just rare clouds drifting over the teeming landscape of life. So were the dinosaurs.

  It reminds me of J. B. S. Haldane's quip, when he was asked what his life's study of biology indicated about God. "He has an inordinate fondness for beetles."

  No, not the arthropods. They've always been evolution's biggest winners. And winners don't evolve, in any major way. Losers do.

  Still, it's odd that I haven't seen any signs of an arthropod equivalent on Ishtar. It's certainly not because of any lack of life! Ishtar's biomass is as big as Earth's. Bigger, probably, than today's Earth. About the same, I would guess, as the Earth during the Mesozoic. The climate's right—semi-tropical, no seasons worth talking about. Whereas the modern Earth is in an unusually frigid period of its existence. Has been for millions of years.

  Indira smiled again. The words in the notebook brought back the first conversation she'd ever had with Julius. It had taken place shortly after the Magellan had left Earth orbit, on the start of the first leg of its voyage. It had taken three months to build up the ship's velocity to its maximum 13% of light-speed. During those months, the adults had remained conscious, getting to know each other in order to lay the basis for forging an effective team once they arrived at Tau Ceti. After the Magellan had reached its maximum velocity, and the crew was satisfied that the huge vessel was performing properly, all the adults had joined the children in coldsleep, there to spend the long years of the voyage in blissful unconsciousness. Weeks before that time came, she and Julius had become lovers.

  But, she remembered fondly, we began with an argument.

  Entering the large equatorial lounge, she had heard a man pontificating loudly on the stupidity of "ecofreaks" in general and their wails about global warming in particular. Mildly curious, and with nothing else to do, she had joined the small group listening to him.

  "The idiots have no sense of the real history of life on earth," the man had been saying, as she took a seat on the armchair opposite him. "The average temperature on earth today is as low as it's ever been—at least since the Cambrian explosion. Probably lower. It's because of the modern configuration of the continents. It's not been unusual to have one ice-cap in our history. A continent often gets pushed over one of the poles by plate tectonics, just like Antarctica is today. But there's never been two ice-caps before. So far as we can tell, anyway."

  Another man sitting around the circle of chairs (Vladimir Koresz, she later learned, one of the colony's doctors) had spoken up.

  "But, Julius, there's no continent today under the north pole."

  Julius had leaned forward, gesticulating with great animation (one of his characteristics, she learned over time).

  "I know—that's the beauty of the whole thing! Instead, tectonics has encircled the north pole with most of the great continents. The flow of warm water which would normally keep the pole from freezing has been strangled. The result? The formation of a floating ice-cap. Do you have any idea of the odds against that ha
ppening?"

  He drank from a cup of coffee sitting on the table before him.

  "And that's my whole point. The Earth's climate today is a freak. It's not 'normal'—just the opposite. We live in a freezer. For almost the entire Phanerozoic Eon—"

  "The what?" asked Koresz.

  "Sorry. That's just jargon for the last 700 million years, since the evolution of multi-cellular life. Anyway, throughout that entire period—700 million years, folks—when life spread over the entire planet and evolved into all its wonderful permutations, the average temperature on Earth was much higher than it is today—ten or fifteen degrees, on the average. That's the normal temperature for the planet—and it's the optimum temperature for terrestrial life."

  He set down his cup and spread his arms wide.

  "You see? The real problem life has on earth today isn't global warming. It's just the opposite! The place is too damned cold. If we really cared about life, we'd go back to using fossil fuels. Crank up the greenhouse effect! It'd be great! It's not just that the temperature would be better, either. What's just as important is that the oceans would rise. That's another problem we have on Earth today. There aren't enough shallow seas and continental shelves, which are always the best environments for life to flourish. Raise the sea level a few hundred feet and we'd double or triple the area where life thrives the best."

  She had interrupted at that point.

  "I'd like to butt in, if you don't mind."

  "Not at all!" said Julius, waving his hands.

  She leaned over, extending her hand.

  "I'm Indira Toledo. Historian."

  "Julius Cohen. Paleontologist."