Judge by Karen Traviss Page B

stopped short of the necessary measures. She gazed at the three-dimensional animated models of expanding and contracting ice, isotherms, storm systems and sea levels. The warming had slowed; so had the deliberate destruction of many habitats, but humans had no technology for putting things back the way they were. The reports emerging on her screen showed a debate growing between her ecology analysts about how much of that slowdown could be attributed to declining human numbers, remedial action, or the planet’s natural cycles. The gethes were dying in greater numbers from famine, floods and disease. There still seemed to be an ample and renewable supply of them, though.
    â€œAitassi,” Esganikan called. “Aitassi?”
    The ussissi normally hung around the cabin, but sometimes she disappeared to be with her clan, complete with infants, subordinate females and the complex hierarchy of males. Ussissi traveled in packs, and Esganikan understood why. Only a handful of her crew had families back home, waiting for their return in synchronized suspension. When a ship landed, and the crew was revived, their kin back home were as well, so that they could have the illusion of a shared life with no time dilation. Most of the crews were therefore young, unmated, and relatively inexperienced. Those with families endured a peculiar thing that Shan referred to as hell.
    The sound of skittering claws announced Aitassi’s arrival, and she appeared in the hatchway with a small infant clutched under one arm like a piece of baggage. That was how ussissi transported their offspring; it looked so casual to a wess’har that Esganikan was always worried for their safety, but the little ones seemed perfectly secure. At that age, their finely ribbed skin—Shan called it corduroy —made them look appealingly wrinkled.
    It was impossible to get away from reminders of family and offspring. Aitassi made no introduction of the new baby.
    â€œWhat do you want, Commander?”
    â€œThe climate projections. Have you looked at them?”
    â€œI have, but I don’t fully understand them.”
    Esganikan, kneeling in the most comfortable resting position for a wess’har, looked at the projections and interpretations again. She was a soldier, a planner and strategist, not a scientist: she wanted to be absolutely certain she understood what she thought she was seeing in the data. The information had been prepared by the senior analyst in the biodiversity team, Balagiu Je.
    â€œGet Balagiu for me,” she said. “I think we have a hard decision to take.”
    â€œWhat would that be?” asked Aitassi. “Which humans to cull?”
    â€œI don’t think that will be difficult,” said Esganikan. “The environmentally responsible ones are easy to identify, and Shan Chail will help with that. No, this is a matter of what kind of Earth we help them restore, because it may not be the same world the species in the gene bank were taken from. The issue is how far to reverse the damage already done. We’re not here to recreate a museum.”
    Aitassi considered the dilemma and appeared to understand. The baby under her arm—her grandchild—began squealing, demanding food and attention. “I fear this will be the major point of contention between you and the host government. They clearly have their own expectations of what will be offered.”
    â€œShan called it a theme park mentality , but I suspect she wants the entire gene bank revived.”
    â€œYou should watch more of the gethes’ factual programming output. That’s what we’ve been doing today.” Aitassi hoisted the baby into a more comfortable position. “It always seems to be an outpouring of their wishes and opinions. They should at least ask for what they want, so we’re all clear.”
    â€œThey’re humans. They’re oblique and manipulative.” Esganikan still hadn’t had a