She was clearly delighted. “All of it—the blockade expenses, the so-called First Contact, all of it!” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “They think we’re backward. But they all swallow that tripe. It’s just made up. It’s just made up to justify whatever the Empire is doing with all that money. It’s just the modern version of thinking they’re Angels. We’ve known they’re just animals all along. It’s one of our teaching points now, on the good use of science. To avoid confusion.”

Barthes breathed deeply. “Ah. Well then. How very—interesting. Might I see the Swenson collection, then? While we wait?”

But she was already handing the glass back to the librarian, shaking her head. “Oh, no. I am sorry. That collection is classified now. You see—” she switched to stage whisper—”we think that’s how they made all those fake newsreels. We think someone pirated an unauthorized copy of the Swenson archives and—manipulated—it. Not from here of course.” She returned to full voice. “From the Zion U. archives. Their security is terrible over there.”

Throughout the technical meeting, Colchis Barthes was numb. He remained numb as he left the security zone. He was numb as he looked in at his office, and left instructions on how to carry on. He was numb as he arrived at his hotel; numb as he climbed the stairs; numb as he entered his room. He slumped onto the edge of the bed without even bothering to close the door. He pulled the report from the portfolio again. The portfolio dropped to the floor. He rifled through the many pages, until he arrived at the second, unread section. The Planet of the Apes, it began.

He became more agitated as he read, eyes darting across the page:

Lesser Ape species…bilaterally symmetrical…Greater Apes…only three arms…Colors included white, brown, black, and occasionally striped…colors were separate species…multi-species colonies…division of labor by species…watchdog species with sharp, chitonous, cutting spines…largest species usually white.

That was Moties. That was Moties, plain and simple. Masters—that was the white ones—Farmers—Mediators, even—that would be the striped ones. And the “watchdogs”—those were clearly Warriors. All described. Something else too—one that excavated the colony dens, or mounds, or whatever it was they lived in. Was that a primitive Engineer? He read on. It became biologically technical, but from what he could make of it, that matched too:

Colonies were few and far between… hermaphrodites…chimeras…mechanism for apparent sex-change during reproductive cycle.

But none of this made sense. This paper referred to a time centuries before First Contact. These—apes, only Swenson was clear that they absolutely were not apes—were already here when New Utah was first colonized. But they lived like—animals. Where was the advanced technology? Was this a fallen civilization? If so, where were the ruined cities? He read on:

Swenson’s Apes cultivated marsh “grasses” that concentrated selenium and prevented it leaching from soils…Interfered with agricultural expansion…Most Swenson’s apes exterminated; locally extinct…some Swenson’s Apes fled…Founder era plowing destroyed root mats so that commercial irrigation resulted in rapid selenium depletion…

We should investigate methods for re-establishing selenium-concentrating algal fields for livestock forage and local nutritional supplementation. Doing so would eliminate New Utah’s dependency on imported fertilizers and vitamins.

Barthes felt ill. Tales of extinction were common enough. That was merely sad, but nothing that could be undone in the present. Actually, he momentarily forgot even the Motie issue, under the weight of that final sentence. He was ill, because Librarian or no, he did not actually live in an ivory tower. Well, he did, but that was beside the point. The point was, nobody was ever going to catch the boys who had firebombed the University Library. They were long since safely back on Maxroy’s Purchase.

And suddenly, it all made sense. The Jackson delegation came and went nearly twenty years ago—and New Utah had nearly plunged into civil war immediately thereafter. Or hadn’t. They’d arrived—himself, HG, Asach, as the advance team for the Accession Delegation—and the city had hotted up, putting everyone on edge. Teetering on the brink. Never quite going over, but teetering on the brink.

And who benefited from that? Colchis sighed. Entrepreneurs, of a certain ilk. Colonizers. Maxroy’s Purchase. Anybody who themselves gained from New Utah’s not gaining Classified status. He hated this. He was a scholar, not a warrior, but that did not mean he was naive. It would get uglier before it got better. Color slowly drained from his hands as he added to this a potential Motie connection. Had they broken the blockade?

He reminded himself that they hadn’t. They were here all along. Or had been. Surely, they were gone by now. If no, with their phenomenal reproductive rates, they’d have long since swamped the planet. So, sad it was, the extinction was for the best. Absent that, the likes of a Kutuzov would have vitrified New Utah. Kutuzov himself, even.

He rose, packed the paper away again, moved like a wooden nutcracker. Out of his room. Down the corridor. Up the back stairs. Climbed and climbed. Up to the roof. Only in dire emergency. Asach had said. I can’t tell you how, but in dire emergency, I can get a message off-planet. It will pass into—Imperial hands. I cannot tell you more than that. Barthes, I am trusting your discretion.

So Colchis Barthes, data recovery expert, who had spent his entire life in Imperial service and understood exactly what Asach had meant by that, if not exactly who, nicked some cable housing, clipped a connector, attached his locator, typed in a direction. The small dish wobbled a bit, like a flower seeking the sun, then settled. He detached the locator, attached a nano, spoke to it.

Many kilometers across the ground, and several miles above his head, unheard by Colchis, a tiny, silent voice began a long sequence of electronic chatter.

And much, much farther away from that, spake an electronic voice on Sinbad.

“Kevin?”

Renner floundered awake. Joyce groaned, rolled over, pulled the covers over her head.

“What, goddamn it!”

“To your office, Kevin, All Due Haste.”

Muttering, he marched down the corridor, barefoot and shirtless, pulling on a bathrobe as he went.

“Kevin, are you ready?”

“Goddamn it, yes. On desk.”

And then he truly awoke as he read:

Priority: Flash

From: Colchis Barthes, on Behalf of Asach Quinn.

He raced through Colchis’ summary, muttering again. The usual pre-accession jitters didn’t bother him much. The usual crap. They’d get it together, or not. It was part of the test. But the Motie connection gave him gooseflesh. Unlike Barthes, he read the Swenson’s Ape report immediately, and extremely carefully. So, unlike Barthes, he did not miss the crucial paragraph:

…in the case of Swenson’s Apes, ... selenium deficiency resulting from collapse of access to the algae fields was especially dramatic in its effects on reproductive hormonal regulation. Absent selenium, reproductive drive increased, as did copulation rates. … the immediate effect was a local population explosion. However, the second consequence … became manifest in isolated individuals: spontaneous, habitual abortion and miscarriage. Outwardly, apparently “female” Swenson’s Apes gradually sickened and died, as internal egg and sperm stocks were repeatedly fertilized, aborted, and reabsorbed…

“Damnation!” he blurted, slapping the desk. “I am sick of this crap!” Then, because his fingers were faster than his voice, he punched: Redirect. Flash. Directors’ Eyes Only, Blaine Institute, New Caledonia.”