The term "Commonwealth of Homid Worlds" is a translation from Xioxa, and "homid" a Terran word of Indo-European origin meaning any sapient, mobile, limbed and usually bipedal life-form that manipulates its environment.
The Commonwealth originated as a logical effort to keep peace in the Xiox section of the galaxy, to regulate commerce and adjudicate controversies. It evolved as (1) the result of Xiox socio-philosophical evolution, (2) the hazards of shared existence, and (3) the impulse to nurture other sapient homid life forms through the minefields of technological and philosophical evolution.
Chaos cults are a reactionary fringe phenomenon, decay products of abandoned cultural values. The Xiox themselves have had chaos cults, have survived and outgrown them, by learning to tolerate them within limits, and excising (with minimal force) only the dangerously destructive. Tolerance, compassion and inclusiveness had been the keys. Those and patience. It had not been easy.
The Helverti result from the Fohannid culture's absorption into the broader and more mature Xiox culture. They are an ill-defined set of individuals unhappy with the direction their species had chosen. A sort of cultural foam, self-skimmed from the kettle of change. Their adherents were sparse, a network without membership rolls, ranging from wealthy to indigent, professional to unskilled, sober to addict, affable to hair-triggered. A few are scions to fortunes, others to misfortunes.
But in general they share a need to contact others similarly disaffected. And what defines them is their attraction, at some level, to chaos as a response. Most are relatively benign, the basic difference between the benign and the malignant being zealotry. . . .
Most Helverti are not zealots. They simply seek connection—on the broadest level electronic—with others similarly disaffected. Groups grow out of those contacts—groups and sometimes chaos projects, clandestine, more or less haphazard, and often self-aborting.
The Fohannid cultists led by Charconvera Jorval were a mixed group. Jorval himself had good intelligence, some management talent, and considerable if low-key magnetism. He'd been born wealthy but not extremely wealthy, been well-educated, and employed in the family enterprises. Deemed lacking in judgement by his seniors, his had been staff positions, which he'd filled with as little diligence as the family would accept. Basically he was self-destructive (a common feature among chaos cultists), and at some level was aware of it. Thus at critical junctures he tended to back out of situations. But some situations are difficult to back out of.
From four miles up, it seemed to Jorval that Mazeppa had done remarkably well, given the scattered people he worked with, and their independent nature. They appeared to be fully gathered now, needing only to mount and ride eastward. He realized his major role in this had been to provoke and justify the war, and that fighting it was entirely in Mazeppa's hands. The only reason to stay—a very compelling reason—was to see it happen. Then he'd pick up Ench and return to the shuttle.
After taking Mazeppa up in the courier, some days earlier, and showing him his approaching allies, the chief's appreciation had warmed Jorval's heart. Which had surprised Jorval; he'd never imagined that appreciation would mean anything to him. Now he wanted more of it. So he'd had the shuttle's shipsmind create and print out detailed maps to facilitate the tribes' military operations, and had flown to Many Geese to give them to Mazeppa.
Mazeppa had frowned. "What are these?" he'd asked.
Maps were familiar to the Dkota, scratched in soil with a stick, or made with paint on leather. But what Jorval had given him were so loaded with arcane detail, Mazeppa hadn't recognized what they were. He should, Jorval realized, have foreseen the problem. So he'd explained, which by itself tarnished the pleasure of giving. "Maps," he'd finished, "are a means of knowing where you are, and finding places."
Mazeppa had shaken his head. "My people know where they are," he'd said, "they know where they are going, and what they are to do. In the greening month, Gallagher and I sent scouts—truth tellers in dirt-eater clothing—to scout the way. They fasted, purified themselves, prayed to the Great Spirit, Mother Earth, the four directions. Then they rode separately all the way to Hasty, looking about them. Every brave knows that water flows downhill, that the streams gather, that the trails of men come together, separating from time to time, and end, and that the great trails lead to the principal places."
He'd handed the maps back to Jorval. "These can only mystify and distract them."
From the Fohannu's expression, Mazeppa had recognized his disappointment. So he'd reached, grasping the sky chief's thick shoulders in friendship. "My people are unlike your people," he'd said, "but we appreciate our friends, and Jorval is truly my friend. When my spirit sagged, he lifted it. He showed me the coming of the Wolf warriors. I will not forget that."
So Jorval had departed feeling . . . not so badly. And with a new understanding of Mazeppa and his people, who were not so primitive after all. This morning he was revisiting Many Geese for one purpose: to congratulate Mazeppa on his armies. He felt a bond between the two of them, and this congratulation would validate it. Also, his visit would boost Mazeppa's stature among any non-Dkota there.
It took a while to locate the chief from the air, for Mazeppa was not at his hoop, but with his southern army, mustering to march. When Jorval located him, he landed at once. The chief was at the ramp before Jorval stepped out—and stunned him with a bitter and unexpected indictment! "You stole my son from me!" His voice was hard, hard. "Why?"
Jorval stammered his reply. "Stole? Your son? I've never even seen him!"
Mazeppa told him of his foster son's treachery, and what the guards had reported: that Sky Chief had taken Lemmi away. Jorval shook his head. "It's not true! They lied! Why would I want him? He's your son, not mine. Maybe—maybe his guards treated him roughly, and he died, and they buried him. I don't know!"
Mazeppa was not touched by his denial. "He is yours now," he said. "I give him to you. I do not want him back. But you stole him from me. I will remember that."
He turned and stalked away then, leaving Jorval deeply shaken by the unjustness of the accusation—and by the focused anger of such a powerfully charismatic personality.
Then, abruptly, Jorval realized: for whatever reason, the COB had done this thing. The guards had never seen him personally, certainly not close up, but they'd have heard him described. And to the Dkota, no doubt all light spacecraft would look alike.
He was so shaken, it was difficult to climb back aboard the scout. The indigene Mazeppa called his son was a COB agent. Had to be. And they'd rescued him without compromising their secrecy.
It wasn't fair! He hadn't deserved this! He'd played within the bounds!
But the COB had touched him, even though indirectly, and he knew the taste of fear.