by David Brin
“Apologies. It did not occur to us that you would look at it that way. Alas, you have already told us a great deal. We will now return your information store. Please accept our contrition over having accessed it without expressed permission.”
A door slid open and one of the little amphibian creatures entered the cubicle, bearing in its four slim arms my backpack!
Better yet, on top lay my precious journal, all battered and bent, but still the item I most valued in the world. I snatched up the book, flipping its dog-eared pages.
“Rest assured,” the spinning pattern enounced. “Our study of this document, while enlightening, has only whetted our appetite for information. Your economic interests are undiminished.”
I thought about that. “You read my journal?”
“Again, apologies. It seemed prudent, when seeking to understand your injuries, and the manner of your arrival in this realm of heavy wet darkness.”
Once again, the words seemed to come at me with layers of meaning and implications I could only begin to sift. At the time, I only wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible, and confer with Huck and the others before going any further.
“I’d like to see my friends now,” I told the whirling image, switching to Anglic.
It seemed to quiver, as if with a nod.
“Very well. They have been informed to expect you. Please follow the entity standing at the door.”
The little amphibian attended while I set foot on the floor, gingerly testing my weight. There were a few twinges, just enough to help me settle best within the support of the flexible body cast. I gripped the journal, but glanced back at my knapsack and the bowl of baby vertebrae.
“These items will be safe here,” promised the voice.
I hope so, I thought. Mom and Dad will want them … assuming that I ever see Mu-phauwq, and Yowg-wayuo again … and especially if I don’t.
“Thank you.”
The speckled pattern whirled.
“It is my pleasure to serve.”
Holding my journal tight, I followed the small being out the door. When I glanced back at the bed, the spinning projection was gone.
Asx
HERE IT IS, AT LAST. THE IMAGE WE HAVE SOUGHT, now cool enough to stroke.
Yes, my rings. It is time for another vote. Shall we remain catatonic, rather than face what will almost certainly be a vision of pure horror?
Our first ring of cognition insists that duty must take precedence, even over the natural traeki tendency to flee unpleasant subjectivities.
Is it agreed? Shall we be Asx, and meet reality as it comes? How do you rule, my rings?
stroke the wax.…
follow the tracks.…
see the mighty starship come.…
Humming a song of overwhelming power, the monstrous vessel descends, crushing every remaining tree on the south side of the valley, shoving a dam across the river, filling the horizon like a mountain.
Can you feel it, my rings? Premonition. Throbbing our core with acrid vapors?
Along the starship’s vast flank a hatch opens, large enough to swallow a small village.
Against the lighted interior, silhouettes enter view.
Tapered cones.
Stacks of rings.
Frightful kin we had hoped never again to see.
Sara
SARA LOOKED BACK FONDLY AT LAST NIGHT’S WILD ride, for now the horses sped up to a pace that made her bottom feel like butter.
And to think, as a child I wished I could gallop about like characters in storybooks.
Whenever the pace slackened, she eyed the enigmatic female riders who seemed so at home atop huge, mythological beasts. They called themselves Illias, and their lives had been secret for a long time. But now haste compelled them to travel openly.
Can it really be just to get Kurt the Exploser where he wants to go?
Assuming his mission is vital, why does he want my help? I’m a theoretical mathematician with a sideline in linguistics. Even in math, I’m centuries out of date by Earth standards. To Galactics I’d be just a clever shaman.
Losing altitude, the party began passing settlements — at first urrish camps with buried workshops and sunken corrals hidden from the glowering sky. But as the country grew more lush, they skirted dams where blue qheuen hives tended lake-bottom farms. Passing a riverside grove, they found the “trees” were ingeniously folded masts of hoonish fishing skiffs and khuta boats. Sara even glimpsed a g’Kek weaver village where sturdy trunks supported ramps, bridges, and swaying boardwalks for the clever wheeled clan.
At first the settlements seemed deserted as the horses sped by. But the chick coops were full, and the blur canopies freshly patched. Midday isn’t a favorite time to be about, especially with sinister specters in the sky. Anyone rousing from siesta glimpsed only vague galloping figures, obscured by dust.
But attention was unavoidable later, when members of all six races scurried from shelters, shouting as the corps of beasts and riders rushed by. The grave Illias horsewomen never answered, but Emerson and young Jomah waved at astonished villagers, provoking some hesitant cheers. It made Sara laugh, and she joined their antics, helping turn the galloping procession into a kind of antic parade.
When the mounts seemed nearly spent, the guides veered into a patch of forest where two more women waited, dressed in suede, speaking that accent Sara found tantalizingly familiar. Hot food awaited the party — along with a dozen fresh mounts.
Someone is a good organizer, Sara thought. She ate standing up — a pungent vegetarian gruel. Walking helped stretch kinked muscles.
The next stage went better. One of the Illias showed Sara a trick of flexing in her stirrups to damp the jouncing rhythm. Though grateful, Sara wondered.
Where have these people lived all this time?
Dedinger, the desert prophet, caught Sara’s eye, eager to discuss the mystery, but she turned away. The attraction of his intellect wasn’t worth suffering his character. She preferred spending her free moments with Emerson. Though speechless, the wounded starman had a good soul.
Villages grew sparse south of the Great Marsh. But traeki flourished there, from tall cultured stacks, famed for herbal industry, all the way down to wild quintets, quartets, and little trio ring piles, consuming decaying matter the way their ancestors must have on a forgotten homeworld, before some patron race set them on the Path of Uplift.
Sara daydreamed geometric arcs, distracting her mind from the heat and tedium, entering a world of parabolas and rippling wavelike forms, free of time and distance. By the time she next looked up, dusk was falling and a broad river flowed to their left, with faint lights glimmering on the other bank.
“Traybold’s Crossing.” Dedinger peered at the settlement, nestled under camouflage vines. “I do think the residents have finally done the right thing … even if it inconveniences wayfarers like us.”
The wiry rebel appeared pleased. Sara wondered.
Can he mean the bridge? Have local fanatics torn it down, without orders from the sages?
Dwer, her well-traveled brother, had described the span across the Gentt as a marvel of disguise, appearing like an aimless jam of broken trees. But even that would not satisfy fervent scroll thumpers these days.
Through twilight dimness she spied a forlorn skeleton of charred logs, trailing from sandbar to sandbar.
Just like at Bing Hamlet, back home. What is it about a bridge that attracts destroyers?
Anything sapient-made might be a target of zealotry, these days.
The workshops, dams, and libraries may go. We’ll follow glavers into blessed obscurity. Dedinger’s heresy may prove right, and Lark’s prove wrong.
She sighed. Mine was always the unlikeliest of all.
Despite captivity, Dedinger seemed confident in ultimate success for his cause.
“Now our young guides must spend days trying to hire boats. No more rushing about, postponing Judgment Day. As if the explosers and their f
riends could ever have changed destiny.”
“Shut up,” Kurt said.
“You know, I always thought your guild would be on our side, when the time came to abandon vanities and take redemption’s path. Isn’t it frustrating, preparing all your life to blow up things, only to hold back at the crucial moment?”
Kurt looked away.
Sara expected the horsewomen to head to a nearby fishing village. Hoonish coracles might be big enough to ferry one horse at a time, though that slow process would expose the Illias to every gawking citizen within a dozen leagues. Worse, Urunthai reinforcements, or Dedinger’s own die-hard supporters, might have time to catch up.
But to her surprise, the party left the river road, heading west down a narrow track through dense undergrowth. Two Illias dropped back, brushing away signs of their passage.
Could their settlement lie in this thicket?
But hunters and gleaners from several races surely went browsing through this area. No secret horse clan could remain hidden for more than a hundred years!
Disoriented in a labyrinth of trees and jutting knolls, Sara kept a wary eye on the rider in front of her. She did not relish wandering lost and alone in the dark.
Gaining altitude, the track finally crested to overlook a cluster of evenly spaced hills — steep mounds surrounding a depression filled with dense brush. From their symmetry, Sara thought of Buyur ruins.
Then she forgot about archaeology when something else caught her eye. A flicker to the west, beckoning from many leagues away.
The mountain’s wide shoulders cut a broad wedge of stars.
Near its summit, curved streaks glowed red and orange.
Flowing lava.
Jijo’s blood.
A volcano.
Sara blinked. Might they already have traveled to—
“No,” she answered herself. “That’s not Guenn. It’s Blaze Mountain.”
“If only that were our destination, Sara. Things’d be simpler.” Kurt spoke from nearby. “Alas, the smiths of Blaze Peak are conservative. They want no part of the hobbies and pastimes that are practiced where we’re headin’.”
Hobbies? Pastimes? Was Kurt trying to baffle her with riddles?
“You can’t still reckon we’re going all the way to—”
“To the other great forge? Aye, Sara. We’ll make it, don’t fret.”
“But the bridge is out! Then there’s desert, and after that, the Spec …”
She trailed off as the troop turned downward, into the thorn brake between the hills. Three times, riders dismounted to shift clever barriers that looked like boulders or tree trunks. At last, they reached a small clearing where the guides met and embraced another group of leather-clad women. There was a campfire … and the welcome aroma of food.
Despite a hard day, Sara managed to unsaddle her own mount and brush the tired beast. She ate standing, doubtful she would ever sit again.
I should check Emerson. Make sure he takes his medicine. He may need a story or a song to settle down after all this.
A small figure slipped alongside, chuffing nervously.
No — Go — Hole—Prity motioned with agile hands. Scary — Hole.
Sara frowned.
“What hole are you talking about?”
The chimp took Sara’s hand, pulling her toward several Illias, who were shifting baggage to a squat, boxy object.
A wagon, Sara realized. A big one, with four wheels, instead of the usual two. Fresh horses were harnessed, but to haul it where? Surely not through the surrounding thicket!
Then Sara saw what “hole” Prity meant — gaping at the base of a cone hill. An aperture with smooth walls and a flat floor. A thin glowing stripe ran along the tunnel’s center, continuing downhill before turning out of sight.
Jomah and Kurt were already aboard the big wagon, with Dedinger strapped in behind, a stunned expression on his aristocratic face.
For once Sara agreed with the heretic sage.
Emerson stood at the shaft entrance and whooped, like a small boy exploring a cave first with his own echoes. The starman grinned, happier than ever, and reached for her hand. Sara took his while inhaling deeply.
Well, I bet Dwer and Lark never went anywhere like this. I may yet be the one with the best story to tell.
Alvin
I FOUND MY FRIENDS IN A DIM CHAMBER WHERE frigid fog blurred every outline. Even hobbling with crutches, my awkward footsteps made hardly a sound as I approached the silhouettes of Huck and Ur-ronn, with little Huphu curled on Pincer’s carapace. All faced the other way, looking downward into a soft glow.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked. “Is this any way to greet—”
One of Huck’s eyestalks swerved on me.
“We’re-glad-to-see-you’re-all-right-but-now-shut-up-and-get-over-here.”
Few other citizens of the Slope could squeeze all that into a single GalThree word-blat. Not that skill excused her rudeness.
“Hr-rm. The-same-to-you-I’m-sure, oh-obsessed-being-too-transfixed-to-offer-decent-courtesy,” I replied in kind.
Shuffling forward, I noted how my companions were transformed. Ur-ronn’s pelt gleamed, Huck’s wheels were realigned, and Pincer’s carapace had been patched and buffed smooth. Even Huphu seemed sleek and content.
“What is it?” I began. “What’re you all staring …”
My voice trailed off when I saw where they stood — on a balcony without a rail, overlooking the source of both the pale glow and the chill haze. A cube — two hoon lengths on a side, colored a pale shade of brownish yellow — lay swathed in a fog of its own making, unadorned except by a symbol embossed on one face. A spiral emblem with five swirling arms and a bulbous center, all crossed by a gleaming vertical bar.
Despite how far the people of the Slope have fallen, or how long it’s been since our ancestors roamed as star gods, that emblem is known to every grub and child. Inscribed on each copy of the Sacred Scrolls, it evokes awe when prophets and sages speak of lost wonders. On this frosted obelisk it could only mean one thing — that we stood near more knowledge than anyone on Jijo could tally, or begin to imagine. If the human crew of sneakship Tabernacle had kept printing paper books till this very day, they could have spilled only a small fragment of the trove before us, a hoard that began before many stars in the sky.
The Great Library of the Civilization of the Five Galaxies.
I’m told moments like these can inspire eloquence from great minds.
“J-j-jeez,” commented Pincer.
Ur-ronn was less concise.
“The questions …,” she lisped. “The questions we could ask …”
I nudged Huck.
“Well, you said you wanted to go find something to read.”
For the first time in all the years I’ve known her, our little wheeled friend seemed at a loss for words. Her stalks trembled. The only sound she let out was a gentle keening sigh.
Asx
If only we/i had nimble running feet,
i/we would use them now, to flee.
If we/i had burrowers’ claws,
i/we would dig a hole and hide.
If we/i had the wings,
i/we would fly away.
Lacking those useful skills, the member toruses of our composite stack nearly vote to draw permanently, sealing out the world, negating the objective universe, waiting for the intolerable to go away.
It will not go away.
So reminds our second torus of cognition.
Among the greasy trails of wisdom that coat our aged core, many were laid down after reading learned books, or holding lengthy discussions with other sages. These tracks of philosophical wax agree with our second ring. As difficult as it may be for a traeki to accept, the cosmos does not vanish when we turn within. Logic and science appear to prove otherwise.
The universe goes on. Things that matter keep happening, one after another.
Still, it is hard to swivel our trembling sensor rings to face towar
d the mountain dreadnought that recently lowered itself down from heaven, whose bulk seems to fill both valley and sky.
Harder to gaze through a hatchway in the great ship’s flank — an aperture broad as the largest building in Tarek Town.
Hardest to regard the worst of all possible sights — those cousins that we traeki fled long ago.
Terrible and strong — the mighty Jophur.
How gorgeous they seem, those glistening sap rings, swaying in their backlit portal, staring without pity at the wounded glade their vessel alters with its crushing weight. A glade thronging with half-animal felons, a miscegenous rabble, the crude descendants of fugitives.
Exiles who futilely thought they might elude the ineludable.
Our fellow Commons citizens mutter fearfully, still awed by the rout of the smaller Rothen ship — that power we had held in dread for months — now pressed down and encased in deadly light.
Yes, my rings, i/we can sense how some nearby Sixers — the quick and prudent — take to their heels, retreating even before the landing tremors fade. Others foolishly mill toward the giant vessel, driven by curiosity, or awe. Perhaps they have trouble reconciling the shapes they see with any sense of danger.
As harmless as a traeki, so the expression goes. After all, what menace can there be in tapered stacks of fatty rings?
Oh, my/our poor innocent neighbors. You are about to find out.
Lark
THAT NIGHT HE DREAMED ABOUT THE LAST TIME HE saw Ling smile — before her world and his forever changed.
It seemed long ago, during a moonlit pilgrimage that crept proudly past volcanic vents and sheer cliffs, bearing shared hope and reverence toward the Holy Egg. Twelve twelves of white-clad celebrants made up that procession — qheuens and g’Keks, traekis and urs, humans and hoons — climbing a hidden trail to their sacred site. And accompanying them for the first time, guests from outer space — a Rothen master, two Danik humans, and their robot guards — attending to witness the unity rites of a quaint savage tribe.
