The invasion plan proceeded without haste. The winter camp of the Beaver and Buffalo Bands was a large open-ended hoop of tipis near Mink Creek, less than an hour's ride from the soddies of the Tobacco and Corn Bands. It was the largest single concentration of the Dkota people. Jorval had visited the hoop only about once a month, to spare his lungs, and on the principle that familiarity breeds contempt. Furthermore, by nature he was a student, and by habit (outside his chaos compulsion) a dabbler. Once-a-month meetings with Mazeppa left him time to explore. He visited and recorded numerous sites on Terra, from the polar regions to the tropics. He experienced the monsoon deluges of the Ivory Coast, the thick heavy snowfalls of the Pacific coastal mountains, the idyllic beaches of Pacific islands (fishing from time to time), and from within the shuttle, the fierce ground blizzards of the Greenland and Antarctic ice caps.
On the prairie, the winter had been severe. But with the arrival of spring, the bands had dispersed, and the Helverti spent more time with the Dkota. It was an agreeable season. The mosquitoes were still only wigglers, and despite showers, a late snow and occasional thunderstorms, the lengthening days were mostly sunny. Larks trilled, and red-winged blackbirds chattered and sang amongst the cattails.
The shuttle or scout might sit all morning near the hoop, even all day, with none of the Helverti showing themselves. Then it might leave without explanation, and be gone for days. All of which, as intended, maintained a useful degree of otherness. Twice Jorval created sonic booms immediately before landing, for the Dkota considered thunder an important attribute of God.
And sometimes Jorval emerged from the shuttle, or the scout, always before midmorning, his burly form (the locals had unknowingly resurrected the name White Bear, from the survey days) striding to Mazeppa's tipi, where he would announce himself in the standard courteous manner by scratching on the flap. If the chief was in, they would talk by the fire, or better yet, leave the tipi to walk alone together. Jorval had been impressed by Mazeppa. Although less powerfully built than Jorval, the Dkota was strong and athletic. Sinewy, even for a Dkota. Having far less body hair than a Fohannu, he was a living chart of the human skeletal muscles. And he stood half a head taller. But what impressed Jorval most was Mazeppa's charisma—he was an innate leader and at the same time invariably courteous.
On one gorgeous spring morning, Jorval sent Ench, his fifteen-year-old nephew, to Mazeppa's tipi with an invitation to the scout craft. Not for a ride—he'd given him one the autumn before, and it wouldn't do to let flying become ordinary—but a courtesy lunch, including the Fohannid equivalent of hot chocolate. None of it was familiar to Mazeppa. He ate it in trust, and found it interesting.
While the two chiefs ate, they made the small talk that was part of Dkota manners. They spoke of the weather; of the great flocks of migrating geese and swans whose formations crossed the sky day and night in this season, their honking cries audible far below; of the broad rafts of ducks that gabbled and muttered on the lakes at night, lakes whose thick roofs of ice had recently melted.
Jorval found Dkota lives and folkways interesting, and covertly recorded their conversations. "I'm surprised not more of your people are out hunting them," he commented, gesturing at a formation of geese settling toward a nearby lake.
"Of birds we kill only what we want to eat at one time. And the meat of birds is not so nourishing as buffalo. It is the meat of hoofed creatures—especially true meat, the buffalo—that makes the people strong, enduring. Also we would have to kill many ducks or geese or swans or cranes, and skin and clean them, to make as much meat as one buffalo. And we can kill numerous buffalo in a day, when we find them."
Jorval nodded. "Ah! I understand."
For a minute they sat unspeaking, sipping. Then Helverti Chief asked a question of greater interest. "How went your council with the Ulster-Dkota?"
Mazeppa grunted. "They did not disagree with any of my plans, but they are still uncomfortable about my decisions. They believe I am too much influenced by the Helverti, who are not buffalo people."
He chuckled. "So I have given Chief Gallagher a very important role in the planning." He paused, a smile playing around his lips. "And I have left them little time to grumble. We will destroy the Sotans soon after the horseflies come out."
Uncertainty tightened Jorval's chest. Destroy? After the horseflies come out? "When will that be?"
"By then the young geese will wear feathers." Seeing that neither reference had meant anything to Jorval, Mazeppa tried something the sky people would surely know about. "The moon will wax and wane two times by then."
Now it seemed that Jorval understood. "You will destroy the Sotans this summer?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't what we decided last fall."
"Things have changed since last fall. After the Sotans have been defeated, the grass has cured, the bracken is dead and brown, we will set fire to the land. We will burn it every year it's dry enough, and when the new grass greens in the ashes, buffalo will go there. Then Sota will truly be fit to live in, all the way to the Misasip."
This shook Jorval. Last fall they'd agreed! On a raid in force, when the Sotan grain had matured, and the stems and leaves had dried. The Dkota would raid widely into Sota, burn the grain fields, storage sheds, barns, villages, then return to their hunting grounds, driving the Sotan's spotted buffalo westward with them. Leaving the Sotans to face a winter of hunger, their grain crop burnt up, and with little breeding stock from which to rebuild their herds.
The following spring, the Sotans would emerge from the long winter weakened, disheartened by hunger, and by the sickness and deaths that would come with it. Much less able to repulse the Dkota. They would plant what potatoes they'd saved for planting, and what grain they'd saved for seed. Then the Dkota would return—in high spring they'd return—and the Sotans would lack the strength and energy to fight strongly. Those who weren't killed would flee.
Mazeppa had defined the strategy; it was he who had the necessary knowledge. It would almost ensure victory, and save Dkota lives. Yet he'd changed his mind! Drastically! Jorval felt the urge to argue, to accuse the chief of breaking his word! The impulse shocked him. It would undo, perhaps beyond repair, all that Jorval had accomplished. For the first time the extraterrestrial understood how fully he was committed to this people and its chief. It was go with Mazeppa—or go back to r'Fohann unfulfilled. And that he would not do. He'd invested too much of himself in this.
The soul of the project was its potential: refugees fleeing Sota, carrying their tale of tribal savagery, of fire and murder and rape, eastward to the Sea of Mishgun, southward along the Misasip, and up the valley of the Ohio. Meanwhile, he in the shuttle and Lorness in the scout would visit tribes throughout the plains, spreading word of the dirt-eaters' plan to exterminate the buffalo, and of the great Dkota victory, inspiring alliances and war plans. Plans doomed to fail, in the long run, because the tribesmen were too few and disunited.
At the same time, the eastern kings would begin to build armies, and create their own alliances and plans, perhaps first to defend the frontier, but sooner or later to eradicate the tribes. Plans also doomed to fail, because of the mobility and self-sufficiency of the buffalo peoples. It would be chaos—a beautiful mess—creating cruelties, hatreds, appetites for vengeance that would persist for centuries.
So instead of outrage, Jorval chose the way of reason, reviewing for Mazeppa the scenario they'd agreed on the previous autumn. Mazeppa listened patiently against the backdrop of his own wants and considerations. And his secret, which he was not ready to share, because it could still fall through. Success was probable, or so it seemed to Mazeppa, but if it didn't work out, then he could revert to last autumn's agreement.
Not until Jorval had finished did Mazeppa speak again, directing his gaze past his listener, to avoid seeming confrontational, though he looked at Jorval from time to time. "Helverti Chief has been a good guest," he said calmly, "and you have given me much to think about. Much of value. But the People of the Buffalo have their own ways. The Great Spirit whispers in the minds of men, and he has whispered differently to me than to you.
"Also, the Ulster haven't gotten used to us, or to our dominion over them. And only three of their four bands have joined with us. The Swift Current people are unlike the others; they have taken refuge in their stronghold, the Black Mountains, which are covered with forest. A broken land with many draws and canyons. It is easy for them to defend themselves there.
"And because of them, the Ulster-Dkota must wonder now and then if they surrendered too easily to us. But if I lead them to a great victory—if together we drive the dirt-eaters from Sota—and if then I praise them, and they share equally in the spoils, they will be pleased, and the union will be strong."
Now he looked openly at Jorval. "The sooner all this happens, the better. Then we will parley with the Swift Current people—and if need be hinder them from coming out of their hills to hunt buffalo. Which will make their women thin, and their infants . . ."
Ench had been standing behind his guardian and to his left. Now he stepped forward, interrupting and confronting Mazeppa. "Why don't you just do what my uncle tells you?" he said. "What you plan is foolish. Lots more of your warriors will get killed, and it will be your fault. The Sotans will fight you from their forts, and when enough of your men have been killed . . ."
"ENCH!" Jorval cut off the youth's outburst more in shock than in anger, but the Fohannid words that followed snapped like gunshots: "FOR GOD'S SAKE SHUT YOUR MOUTH!"
For a long moment the scout craft was absolutely still, no one moving, no one speaking. Then Mazeppa got to his feet and folded sinewy arms across his chest. "I will follow the way of the buffalo people," he said to Jorval. "You are free to stay, for you have been courteous. And he—" he gestured at Ench "—he may also stay, because you are his uncle. But your people did not raise him very well."
Then he turned and left the sky canoe.
Jorval stared, watching Mazeppa leave. Then he turned, and his voice hissed. "Do you realize what you just did? The good will of that human is vital to our project, and I've spent much of a year cultivating him. To the Dkota, simply interrupting is offensive, and to call him foolish? To his face? Didn't you see the knife he wore? You're lucky he didn't cut your throat! You made an arrogant fool of yourself, and by extension you made a fool of me."
He paused, his eyes impaling the boy. "I wish I'd given you back to your mother, left you on r'Fohann with her." Now his words became measured, crisply enunciated. "In the future you will keep your ignorant mouth shut! Or I will have Widhros take you back to the Delight and put you in stasis till we get home."
Ench had turned so pale, for a moment Jorval thought the boy might have a seizure of some sort, and it brought him up short. You have, he told himself, let your temper run away with you. Reaching, he laid a hand on a thin young shoulder. Thin but stiff. "Ench," he said, trying now for temperance, "these people may be primitives, but they're observant, intelligent, and experienced. Mazeppa knows far more about this world, its conditions, and how to live here, than we ever will. And more about the psychology of the buffalo people: what they can be gotten to do and what they can't."
It struck him then that he himself had taken far too much for granted. Mazeppa probably did know best. Listen and watch, he told himself. You'll learn something, and between what you know and what Mazeppa knows, things will turn out well enough.
Meanwhile Ench still stood frozen-faced. His mother's acid tongue had scalded the boy's spirit from early on, he told himself, and now you have made it worse. "Ench," he said, "I'm sorry I lashed out at you. It was inexcusable. You need a change. Go outside. Walk around and observe the indigenes. Find one your age, talk with him courteously, question him, learn what he's like. Visit his family if he invites you. When you get back, I'll be interested in hearing what you've learned about them."
Ench didn't meet his eyes, simply left, looking whipped.
It occurred to Jorval that he knew very little about young people. What had he been like at that age? Cocky; probably hard-wired that way. He'd told Ench more than once to be bolder; might even have used the term "self-assertive." This morning the boy had decided to try it out, apparently, and self-destructed.
Jorval shook his head and looked toward the cockpit. Its door had been open since before Mazeppa had entered. "I suppose you heard all that, Lorness."
"Every word." Lorness, his pilot, confidant and chief enforcer got up from his seat and stepped into the cabin.
"How does anyone handle a pup like that?" Jorval asked.
Lorness's lips quirked. "He's still a boy, Jorval. His mother resented him, and for the most part you haven't done much better. And today you flogged him in front of company, so to speak. Do that a time or two more, and he won't be worth worm shit. But that was good advice you gave him at the end—if he's not too far gone to make use of it."
Inwardly Jorval cringed. Too far gone! Terrible words! He hoped they weren't true. He couldn't imagine ever liking his nephew, but the boy was family, and he'd accepted responsibility for him.
From his sentry post outside the door, weapons technician Harmu Griss had heard some of it too—all of it, beginning with Jorval's explosion. Now the boy stood slump-shouldered at the foot of the ramp.
"Hey, Buddy," Griss said quietly, "need a friend?" Ench didn't look at him, but he didn't leave, either.
"I kind of know how you feel. My old man used to jump all over me sometimes. Then I'd go talk to my older cousin. If you need an older cousin, look me up when I'm not on watch.
"As for what Jorval said about talking to some local, someone about your age . . . that was good advice. Let me see if I can do him one better. When you find one, ask him to teach you how to be a Dkota. He might like that. And I don't know about you, but I think I'd like being a Dkota. Riding around on those big animals they've got looks like good stuff."
Ench walked away without answering or glancing back, his gaze still on the ground, but Griss was pretty sure his words had registered. Whether anything would come of them, though . . .