By David Baker

Tharsis, Spawn of the Founders, and heir to the throne of Makharis, stood transfixed in his work-lair, his attention captured by the tiny shifting holograms arrayed before him in his dynorama. From the large window behind him the last rays of a ruby colored sun dropping rapidly toward a close horizon cast the objects on his learning table in high shadowy relief. Overhead a high vaulted ceiling stretched upward in a series of sweeping parabolic arches, reminiscent of the great forest canopies where his species had developed. Through one of the many skylights, two small, pale yellow moons, in near-conjunction, moved almost perceptibly through the darkening sky.

The scene before him changed. At some unseen and unheard signal, the images of the worker-technicians at the equatorial launch ramp ceased their apparent random motion and converged into two streams moving rapidly toward the blast shields at the far end of the complex. Tharsis fixed his vision on the small cylindrical object resting on the launch sled at the base of the ramp. To a human, the cargo drone would have appeared as a bright silver object -- clearly a sort of rocket transport -- featureless apart from a trio of stubby fins required for making directional adjustments during its ascent through Makharis' thin atmosphere. To Tharsis, whose vision was more acute in the near infra-red, the object had a dull gray appearance that gradually lightened toward the rear of the craft where various generators and onboard fuel cells were venting heat into the cool tropical night of his planet.

As Tharsis watched, half a world away, the three dimensional image of the ship began to stir. Enormous turbojets attached to the sides of the sled upon which the craft rested roared to life, and the entire assembly began to accelerate up the sloping ramp. When the sled reached its peak speed, Tharsis could see the rocket engine in the cargo vessel ignite. The tiny ship separated from the sled and sped upward into the dawning sky.

He had seen a thousand such launches, and still he felt an adrenaline-like rush with each one. Such was the nature of his kind -- to attend instinctively to rapid movement. It was prey or predator. A million years of evolution and another ten thousand of civilization had not succeeded in extinguishing this trait.

Tharsis extended his dominant grasping limb toward a recess on the side of the dynorama and switched it off. Instantly the laser projections faded, giving way to amorphous eddies of gas in the argon-filled cube. He had the need to run. It was the invariable response to the biochemical changes that took place in his body after observing a launch. To be sure, there was a large cognitive component to the excitement he felt at watching the robotic cargo ship propel itself away from his planet, but at the root of it all was a hard-wired response to movement -- to the sight of the quarry. He flexed his hind limbs and headed for the courtyard, bounding over the thirty meter distance to his doorway in a dozen easy strides, then stopped abruptly as the call signal on his dynorama began to emit a series of low beeps.

Tharsis hissed silently in frustration and stepped back into the room. Inside the dynorama, he could see the intersections of the infrared laser beams in the swirling gases begin to carve out the visage of his mentor, Athan-Atharkhis. Tharsis lowered his head and twisted his neck to one side, exposing his unprotected thorax in deference to his venerable teacher. Running would have to wait. He had not completed his assigned lessons, and there was much the future ruler of Makharis needed to know and understand.

*******

Bathar Mak Makharis, Spawn of the Founders and ruler of all Makharis, reviewed his son's progress with deep satisfaction. He looked across the polished surface of the work table in the Council Lair and locked eyes with his old friend Athan-Atharkhis. "Is he ready?" he asked.

Athan-Atharkhis averted his vision. There was something disquieting about Bathar's present coloration. "Tharsis is diligent," he replied. "He has excelled at his studies. He is respected by the council and by all Makharians. Yes, he is ready."

Bathar sensed the approaching end of his life. He had already lived more than 300 earth years -- a life span that was long, even by Makharian standards. His mind was as sharp and keen as ever, but his body was giving out, and when he attempted to run, which he rarely did any more, his gate was lumbering and uneven, his large thigh muscles protesting painfully even the slightest exertion. He was tired, and some part of his being would welcome that final sleep, deep within the safety of his private lair. Now, as Athan-Atharkhis awaited his response, Bathar shuttered his eyes with two layers of thin tissue and allowed his thoughts to drift freely through a lifetime of memories.

He had accomplished much. It was he, Bathar, who had brought about the end of the thousand years' war and led his planet to peace. The primal brain of every Makharian was compelled to protect and enlarge territory; yet, in perfect counterpoint, and every bit as strong, were instincts to surrender and submit to a superior male. There followed endless territorial conflicts, marked by bluff and posturing, but with little actual loss of life, for as one clan clearly attained dominance over another, hostilities abruptly ceased. The vanquished would pull back and, as they did, the victor would relinquish his grip. In time, new alliances would be forged and new battles would be mounted, but they nearly always ended as quickly as they had begun. The incessant turmoil of these ongoing battles had sapped vital energy from the engine of civilization and slowed the process of social and political maturation.

Still, war has an uncanny ability to accelerate technological progress. Moreover, the limited nature of Makharian conflicts was undemanding of resources and materiel. So it was that Makharian science was able to invest disproportionately large efforts in research and development. Among the warring clans, teams of scientists and technicians labored independently to produce ever more sophisticated weapons of intimidation. When Bathar had assumed the throne, various warring factions were utilizing lighter-than-air craft to perform reconnaissance and deliver incendiary devices to enemy targets. In the 187th year of his reign, he had landed a military force on Mahor-Minedes, Makharis' smallest and nearest moon. From this high ground, mass drivers hurled boulders into the atmosphere above enemy territory, sending them streaking down in a fiery plasma sheath that made the night sky brighter than day. None of the artificial meteors impacted on the surface -- his scientists were careful to ensure this -- nevertheless, capitulation was instantaneous. The supremacy of Bathar's clan was universally recognized and uncontested.

Aided by common language and culture, Bathar brought the feuding clans of Makharis together in a loose confederation. Having thus strengthened the veneer of civilization on his planet, he then turned his attention to channeling the energies of his species toward more socially productive activities. Under his rule, deserts began to bloom with arghis and thrasimis, vital staples of the Makharian diet. The seas blossomed, rich with plankton, and species of marine animals believed to be on the verge of extinction were increasing their numbers. And there was his greatest achievement -- the Makharian thrust into space.

Bathar reflected on his life and on his victories. He would leave behind many memorials in testimony to his triumphs -- his magnificent palace and halls of government, his great dams and waterways, and his inspired system of roadways and transit systems that girdled the planet. Yet his most enduring monuments were not to be found on Makharis. No, his memory would be most honored by the horticultural and mining settlements he had established on Makharis' moons and by distant scientific outposts he had placed among its planetary neighbors.

But now, it was time for a new king. "Tharsis Mak Makharis." He turned the phrase over in his mind. Somehow, it seemed to comfort him.

******

They arrived in the third year of Tharsis' reign. From beyond the dark nebula; from the outer reaches of the galaxy.

The giant orbiting radio telescopes on Makharis' moons were first to detect the signals. It was wideband radiation, a cacophony of electromagnetic spectral energy unlike anything that could be attributed to natural phenomena. The two outermost moons were at opposition at the time of first reception, and the very long baseline of the measurements made it possible to locate the source with a great deal of precision. Close study of the stars near the suspected point of origin revealed one that expressed a perturbed motion consistent with the existence of one or more large satellites. It was a small yellow sun situated in a far-flung arm near the edge of a galactic spiral.

Within days, scientist-technicians had begun to trap small samples of the signal at specific resonant frequencies. It was clearly language. Language and all manner of sounds. Some seemed familiar, like the rush of the wind through a field of three meter-high Makharian grain, or like the chirping and clicking noises of prey. Some were strange and unfamiliar, like the frequent choruses of various pitched wines and whistles punctuated by regular percussive explosions of various magnitudes.

No, they were wrong. It was not a single language, but many languages. They classified them, catalogued them, and noted their strange periodicity. As they listened in the shorter wavelengths, languages and frequencies would fade, to be replaced by different languages at different frequencies. After a period of time, they would begin again to hear broadcasts from the first language group, and the cycle would repeat. The observations of propagation and content were elementary, but nevertheless, when combined with the measurements taken of the distant start, they allowed Makharian scientists to deduce the rotational period of the planet, its size and approximate mass, the density of its atmosphere, and its distance from the sun.

News of the discovery could not be contained. It was too big a truth to hide. It spread across Makharis with the speed of thought: "We are not alone!"

******

Tharsis moved quickly along the cobbled corridor to the Great Hall of Proclamation, aides and advisors trailing in his wake. Past the Hall of Agriculture, past the Hall of Arms, past the Hall of Judgment, the Hall of Science -- past scores of lowered heads and twisted necks, as officials and functionaries bowed in submissive postures to their monarch.

He entered the Great Hall and paused. Inside the chamber, rows of seats were arranged in concentric semicircles on a floor that sloped upward to a raised dais. On this central platform rested a massive throne flanked on either side by chairs for high-ranking ministers. The layout was clearly not designed for debate. In this space, communications flowed outward and downward from the seat of power, with no allowance made for response or rebuttal. Tharsis heard the arguments and made his policy in the Council Lair with the aid of those ministers he most trusted. In this Great Hall, he announced his policy so all might know it.

For one instant, Tharsis' jaws parted and he allowed the olfactory organ in the roof of his mouth to sample the rich mixture of odors emanating from the large gathering. The spoor of many clans pervaded the room. Most of the delegates had already taken their seats, but he observed here and there little knots of diplomats, military officers, and scientists -- some engaged in intensive discussions, others clustering around each other as if seeking some form of mutual comfort and support. He began his march to the dais, straining to elevate his head to the utmost until he began to feel spasms in his neck muscles. Each step involved a carefully choreographed movement of the three articulated joints of his hind legs. He hoped with all his being that the others in the room did not sense his fear.

-------

Rathor-Armensis, Spawn of the Founders, Cousin of Tharsis, and Admiral of the Fleet, stood on the battle bridge of his flagship, in high orbit around Makharis. Now there would be no war.

Throw-away stuff

Transparent on the top and four sides, the device rested chest-high on a small pillar, allowing him ample room to move around the object and view its three dimensional animated facsimiles from all perspectives. At this moment, Tharsis was receiving sound and images from the launch complex at Makha-Massanis.

It was a robotic supply vessel with material for the newly established science station on Alafar-Elomenes, the nearly habitable large moon of the next most distant planet from their sun. The planet was a gas giant, ringed with a debris belt just inside its Roche limit. Processes at its core produced heat that, when supplemented by the radiated energy from the distant sun, provided Alafar-Elomenes with an average surface temperature of just under zero degrees Centigrade. There were even large bodies of liquid water on the moon, making it the obvious target of the first thrust of the Makharians away from their home world's system of moonlets.