by David Brin
A corporal gently took the binoculars and resumed reporting.
“Dead,” was the first word she said.
“I see dead soldiers. They’re all down.”
A hush settled over the crowd. Across the Bibur nothing seemed to be moving anymore, except an occasional sharp-edged machine shape, flitting underneath the Fist of Stone.
The explosers… Nelo wondered. Why didn’t they set off their charges?
The greatest secret of the Six Races. The most secure fortress of humankind on Jijo. Biblos had been captured in a matter of duras. Its treasured archive lay in the tight grip of Jophur invaders.
Ewasx
IS IT SETTLED THEN, MY RINGS? HAVE WE ROOTED out the last corners of your clandestine resistance? Can we assume there will be no more episodes of surreptitious rebellion?
The Priest-Stack threatened to dismantle us/Me after the last embarrassment, when you silly rings foolishly/cleverly managed to perform a vlenning without your master torus knowing. The priest aimed to scrape every drip trail of waxy memory lining our core, seeking clues to the whereabouts of the pair of wolfling vermin you (briefly, mutinously) released into our glorious Polkjhy ship.
But then the stack in change of psychological tactics reported telemetry showing that Lark and Ling almost surely departed the ship when instruments showed an airlock hatch anomalously opening.
Humans are good with water. No doubt they imagined themselves safe after entering the lake, never suspecting that they were about to be swept downstream into a vortex of ruin when our majestic Polkjhy took off!
The droll appropriateness of this fate — the dramatic irony — so pleased the Captain-Leader that a ruling was made, overturning the Priest-Stack’s desire. For the time being, then, our/My union is safe.
DO NOT COUNT ON CONTINUED TEMPERANCE/FORGIVENESS, MY RINGS!
Forgiveness for what, you ask?
Now you worry Me. Is the shared wax so badly melted? Did the Asx personality so damage us, with its second attempt at suicide-by-amnesia? Must I provide memory of recent events through the demi-electronic processes of the master torus?
Very well, My rings, I shall do so. Then we will begin again, restoring the expertise that made us useful to the Jophur cause.
• • •
Together we watched while a party from our ship took possession of the so-called Library used by the savage Six Races. Though it contains a pathetically small amount of bit-equivalent data, this is the source/font of their wolfling trickery.
Feral scheming that has cost us dearly.
A fine thing happened when we/I caught sight of those crude buildings made from sliced trees, sheltered in an artificial cave. Many hidden waxy trails resonated with sudden recognition! Accessing these recovered tracks, we were able to tell the Captain-Leader many secrets of this trove of pseudo-knowledge. Secrets Asx had meant to render inaccessible.
Slowly, we regain our former reputation and esteem. Does that make you glad, My rings?
How gratifying to feel your agreement come so readily now! That brief rebellion, followed by a second suicide amnesia, appears to have left you more docile than before. No longer sovereign traeki rings, but parts of a greater whole.
Now regard! Leaving a force behind to secure Biblos, our Polkjhy turns to. its main task. Too long have we let ourselves be diverted/delayed. There will be no more negotiating with Rothen sneak thieves. No more dickering with savage races. Those six will meet their varied fates from land forces already scattered across the Slope.
As for Polkjhy, we cruise toward that continental cleft, that ocean abyss. Estimated locale of the dolphin ship.
IT IS DECIDED. THE ROTHEN HAD THE RIGHT IDEA, AFTER ALL.
We’ll bombard the depths, putting the fugitive Earthlings in peril. To preserve their lives, they will have no choice but to rise up and surrender.
Until now, the Captain-Leader preferred patience over rash action. We did not want to destroy the very thing we seek! Not before learning its secrets. Since no competing clan or fleet has come to Jijo, we appeared to have a wealth of time.
But that was before we lost both corvettes. Before postponements stretched on and on.
Now we are resolved to take the chance!
With depth bombs ready in great store, we plunge toward the zone known as the Rift.
WHAT IS THIS? ALREADY?
DETECTORS BLARE.
IN THE WATERS AHEAD OF US — MOTION!
Joyous hunt lust fills the bridge. It must be the prey, giving away their location as they scurry in search of a new hiding place.
Then remote perceptors cry out upsetting news.
No single ship is making the vibrations we detect.
THERE ARE SCORES OF EMISSION SITES … HUNDREDS!
Sara
EMERSON SEEMED CHEERFUL DURING THE LONG ride down from Mount Guenn, pressing his face against the warped window of the little tram, gazing at the sea.
How would he feel if he knew whom we were meeting? Sara wondered as the car zoomed down ancient lava flows, swifter than a galloping urs.
Would he be ecstatic, or try to jump out and flee?
Far below, a myriad bright sun glints stretched from the surf line all the way to a cloud-fringed western horizon. Jijo’s waters seemed placid, but Sara still felt daunted by the sight. A mere one percent ripple in that vastness would erase every tree and settlement along the coast. The ocean’s constancy proved the ample goodness of this life world — a nursery of species.
I always hoped to see this, before my bones went to the Midden as dross. I just never figured I’d come by horseback, across the Spectral Flow, over a volcano … and finally by fabulous cable car, all toward confronting creatures out of legend.
Sara felt energized, despite the fact that nobody on Mount Guenn had slept much lately.
Uriel had finished using her analog computer barely in time. Just miduras after sending the ballistics calculations north, semaphore operators reported breathless news about the consequences.
Stunning rocket victories.
Discouraging rocket failures.
Forest fires, dead sages, and the Egg — wounded, silent, possibly forever.
Flash floods below Festival Glade, leaving countless dead or homeless.
Nor was that all. Throughout the night, tucked amid other tidings from across the Slope, came clipped summaries of events bearing hard on Sara.
Elation surged when she learned of Blades unqheuenish aerial adventures. Then her father’s report triggered overpowering images of the destruction of Dolo Village, forcing her to seek a place to sit, burying her head in her hands. Nelo lived — that was something. But others she had known were gone, along with the house she grew up in.
Lark and Dwer … we dreamed what it might be like when the dam blew. But I never really thought it could happen.
Waves of sorrow kept Sara withdrawn for a time, till someone told her an urgent message had come, addressed specifically for her, under the imprimatur of a former High Sage of the Six.
Ariana Foo, Sara realized, scanning the brief missive. Ifni, who cares about the dimensions of the ship that crashed Emerson into the swamp? Does it matter what kind of chariot he used, when he was a star god? He’s a wounded soul now. Crippled. Trapped on Jijo, like the rest of us.
Or was he?
After so many shocks that eventful night, Sara was just lying down for a blotting balm of sleep when events close at hand rocked Uriel and her guests.
At dawn, the captains of Wuphon Port sent word of a monster in their harbor. A fishlike entity who, after some misunderstandings, claimed relatedness to human beings.
Moreover, the creature said it bore a message for the smith.
Uriel was overjoyed.
“The little sneak canera that scared us so … the device cane fron the Earthling shif! Ferhafs the Jophur have not found us, after all!”
That mattered. The sky battleship was said to be on the move, perhaps heading in their direction. But Uriel co
uld not evacuate the forge with several projects still under way. Her teams had never been busier.
“I’ll go see the Terran at once,” the smith declared.
There was no lack of volunteers to come along. Riding the first tram, Sara watched Prity flip through Emerson’s wrinkled sketchpad, lingering over a page where sleek figures with finned backs and tails arched ecstatically through crashing waves. An image drawn from memory.
“They look other than I inagined,” commented Uriel, curling her long neck past the chimp’s shoulder. “Till now, I only knew the race fron descrifshuns in vooks.”
“You should read the kind with pictures in ’em.” Kurt the Exploser laughed, nudging his nephew. But Jomah kept his face pressed to the window next to Emerson taking turns pointing at features of the fast-changing landscape. Ever-cheerful, the starman showed no awareness of what this trip was about.
Sara knew what tugged her heart. Beyond all other worries and pangs, she realized, It may be time for the bird to fly back to his own kind.
Watching the robust person she had nursed from the brink of death, Sara saw no more she could offer him. No cure for a ravaged brain, whose sole hope lay back in the Civilization of the Five Galaxies. Even with omnipotent foes in pursuit, who wouldn’t choose that life over a shadow existence, huddling on a stranded shore?
The ancestors, that’s who. The Tabernacle crew, and all the other sneaksbips.
Sara recalled what Sage Purofsky said, only a day ago.
“There are no accidents, Sara. Too many ships came to Jijo, in too short time.”
“The scrolls speak of destiny,” she had replied.
“Destiny!” The sage snorted disdain. “A word made up by people who don’t understand how they got where they are, and are blind to where they’re going.”
“Are you saying you know how we got here, Master?”
Despite all the recent commotion and tragedy, Sara found her mind still hooked by Purofsky’s reply.
“Of course I do, Sara. It seems quite clear to me.
“We were invited.”
Ewasx
FOOLS!” THE CAPTAIN-LEADER DECLARES. “ALL BUT one of these emanations must come from decoy torpedoes, tuned to imitate the emission patterns of a starship. It is a standard tactical ruse in deep space. But such artifice cannot avail if we linger circumspectly at short range!
“Use standard techniques to sift the emanations.
“FIND THE TRUE VESSEL WE SEEK!”
Ah, My rings. Can you discern the colors swarming down the glossy flanks of our Captain-Leader? See how glorious, how lustrous they are. Witness the true dignity of Jophur wrath in its finest form.
Such indignation! Such egotistic rage! The Oailie would be proud of this commander of ours, especially as we all hear impossible news.
THESE ARE NOT DECOY DRONES AT ALL.
The myriad objects we detect … moving out of the Rift toward open ocean … EVERY ONE OF THEM IS A REAL STARSHIP!
The bridge mists with fearful vapors. A great fleet of ships! How did the Earthers acquire such allies?
Even our Polkjhy is no match for this many.
We will be overwhelmed!
Dwer
I AM SORRY,” GILLIAN BASKIN TOLD HIM. “THE DECISION came suddenly. There was no time to arrange a special ride to shore.”
She seemed irked, as if his request were unexpected. But in fact, Dwer had asked for nothing else since his second day aboard this vessel.
The two humans drifted near each other in a spacious, water-filled chamber, the control center of starship Streaker. Dolphins flew past them across the spherical room, breathing oxygen-charged fluid with lungs that had been modified to make it almost second nature. At consoles and workstations, they switched to bubble domes or tubes attached directly to their blowholes. It seemed as strange an environment as Dwer had ever dreamed, yet the fins seemed in their element. By contrast, Dwer and Gillian wore balloonlike garments, seeming quite out of place.
“I’m not doing any good here,” he repeated, hearing the words narrowly projected by his globe helmet. “I got no skills you can use. I can hardly breathe the stuff you call air. Most important, there are folks waiting for me. Who need me. Can’t you just cut me loose in some kind of a boat?”
Gillian closed her eyes and sighed — a brief, eerie set of clicks and chuttering moans. “Look, I understand your predicament,” she said in Anglic. “But I have over a hundred lives to look after … and a lot more at stake, in a larger sense. I’m sorry, Dwer. All I can hope is that you’ll understand.”
He knew it useless to pursue the matter further. A dolphin at one of the bridge stations called for attention, and Gillian was soon huddled with that fin and Lieutenant Tsh’t, solving the latest crisis.
The groan of Streaker’s engines made Dwer’s head itch — a residual effect, perhaps, of the way his brain was palped and bruised by the Danik robot. He had no proof things would really be any better if he found his way back to shore. But his legs, arms, and lungs all pined for wilderness — for wind on his face and the feel of rough ground underfoot.
A ghostly map traced its way across the bridge. The realm of dry land was a grayish border rimming both sides of a submerged canyon — the Rift — now filled with moving lights, dispersing like fire bees abandoning their hives. So it seemed to Dwer as over a hundred ancient Buyur vessels came alive after half a million years, departing the trash heap where they were consigned long ago.
The tactic was familiar. Many creatures used flocking to confuse predators. He approved the cleverness of Gillian and her crew, and wished them luck.
But I can’t help them. I’m useless here. She ought to let me go.
Most of the salvaged ships were under robotic control, programmed to follow simple sets of instructions. Volunteers rode a few derelicts, keeping close to Streaker, performing special tasks. Rety had volunteered for one of those teams, surprising Dwer and worrying him at the same time.
She never does anything unless there’s an angle.
If he had gone along, there might have been a chance to veer the decoy close to shore, and jump off.…
But no, he had no right to mess up Gillian’s plan.
Dammit, I’m used to action! I can’t handle being a passive observer.
But handle it he must.
Dwer tried to cultivate patience, ignoring an itch where the bulky suit would not let him scratch, watching the lights disperse — most heading for the mouth of the Rift, spilling into the vast oceanic abyss of the Great Midden itself.
“Starship enginesss!” The gravitics detector officer announced, thrashing her tail flukes in the water, causing bubbles in the supercharged liquid.
“P-passive detectors show Nova class or higher … it’sss following the path of the Riffft.…”
Ewasx
REALIZATION EMERGES, ALONG WITH A STENCH OF frustration.
The vast fleet of vessels that we briefly feared has proved not to be a threat, after all. They are not warships, but decommissioned vessels, long ago abandoned as useless for efficient function.
Nevertheless, they baffle and thwart our goal/mission.
A blast of leadership pheromones cuts through the disappointed mist.
“TO WORK THEN,” our Captain-Leader proclaims.
“WE ARE SKILLED. WE ARE MIGHTY. SO LET US DO YOUR/OUR JOBS WELL.
“PIERCE THIS MYSTERY. FIND THE PREY. WE ARE JOPHUR. WE SHALL PREVAIL.”
Dwer
R GLITTERING LIGHT ENTERED THE DISPLAY ZONE, much higher and much larger than any of the others, and cruising well above the imaginary waterline.
That must be the battleship, he thought. His mind tried to come up with an image. Something huge and terrible. Clawed and swift.
Suddenly, the detection officer’s voice went shrill. “They’re dropping ordnance!”
Sparks began falling from the big glow.
Bombs, Dwer realized. He had seen this happen before, but not on such a profuse scale.
<
br /> Lieutenant Tsh’t shouted a warning.
“All handsss, prepare for shock waves!”
Sara
A HOONISH WORK CREW SWARMED OVER THE TRAM after the passengers debarked, filling the car with stacks of folded cloth. Teams had been sending the stuff up to the forge since dawn, stripping every ship of its sails. But the urrish smith hardly glanced at the cargo. Instead, Uriel trotted off, leading the way down to the cove with a haughty centauroid gait.
The dense, salty air of sea level affected everybody. Sara kept an eye on Emerson, who sniffed the breeze and commented in song.
“A storm is a-brewin’
You can bet on it tonight.
A blow is a-stewin’
So you better batten tight.”
The khutas and warehouses of the little port were shaded by a dense lattice of melon vines and nectar creepers, growing with a lush, tropical abundance characteristic of southern climes. The alleys were deserted though. Everyone was either working for Uriel or else down by the bay, where a crowd of hoons and qheuens babbled excitedly. Several hoons — males and females with beards of seniority — knelt by the edge of a quay, conversing toward the water, using animated gestures. But the town officials made way when Uriel’s party neared.
Sara kept her attention on Emerson, whose expression stayed casually curious until the last moment, when a sleek gray figure lifted its glossy head from the water.
The starman stopped and stared, blinking rapidly.
He’s surprised, Sara thought. Could we be wrong? Perhaps he has nothing to do with the dolphin ship.
Then the cetacean emissary lifted its body higher, thrashing water with its tail.
“Sssso, it’s true.…” the fishlike Terran said in thickly accented Anglic, inspecting Emerson with one eye, then the other.
“Glad to see you living. Engineer D-D’Anite. Though it hardly seems possible, after what we saw happen to you back at the Fractal world.
