by David Brin
Brightness Reef
( Uplift - 4 )
David Brin
Millennia ago the Five Galaxies decreed the planet Jijo off limits. But in the last thousand years six races have begun resettling Jijo, embracing a pre-industrial life to hide their existence from the Galactics. Overcoming their differences, the Six have built a society based on mutual tolerance for one another and respect for the planet they live on. But that has all changed with an event the Six have feared for hundreds of years: the arrival of an outside ship. David Brin has returned to his popular Uplift universe in this, the first book of a new trilogy.
Brightness Reef
by David Brin
Asx
i must ask your permission. You, my rings, my diverse selves.
Vote now! Shall i speak for all of us to the outer world? Shall we join, once more, to become Asx?
That is the name used by humans, qheuens, and other beings, when they address this stack of circles. By that name, this coalition of plump, traeki rings was elected a sage of the Commons, respected and revered, sitting in judgment on members of all six exile races.
By that name — Asx — we are called upon to tell tales. Is it agreed?
Then Asx now bears witness… to events we endured, and those relayed by others. “I” will tell it, as if this stack were mad enough to face the world with but a single mind.
Asx brews this tale. Stroke its waxy trails. Feel the story-scent swirl.
There is no better one i have to tell.
Prelude
Pain is the stitching holding him together … or else, like a chewed-up doll or a broken toy, he would have unraveled by now, lain his splintered joins amid the mucky reeds, and vanished into time.
Mud covers him from head to toe, turning pale where sunlight dries a jigsaw of crumbly plates, lighter than his dusky skin. These dress his nakedness more loyally than the charred garments that fell away like soot after his panicky escape from fire. The coating slakes his scalding agony, so the muted torment grows almost companionable, like a garrulous rider that his body hauls through an endless, sucking marsh.
A kind of music seems to surround him, a troubling ballad of scrapes and burns. An opus of trauma and shock.
Striking a woeful cadenza is the hole in the side of his head.
Just once, he put a hand to the gaping wound. Fingertips, expecting, to be stopped by skin and bone, kept going horribly inward, until some faraway instinct made him shudder and withdraw. It was too much to fathom, a loss he could not comprehend.
Loss of ability to comprehend …
The mud slurps greedily, dragging at every footstep. He has to bend and clamber to get through another blockade of crisscrossing branches, webbed with red or yellow throbbing veins. Caught amid them are bits of glassy brick or pitted metal, stained by age and acid juices. He avoids these spots, recalling dimly that once he had known good reasons to keep away.
Once, he had known lots of things.
Under the oily water, a hidden vine snags his foot, tripping him into the mire. Floundering, he barely manages to keep his head up, coughing and gagging. His body quivers as he struggles back to his feet, then starts slogging forward again, completely drained.
Another fall could mean the end.
While his legs move on by obstinate habit, the accompanying pain recites a many-part fugue, raw and grating, cruel without words. The sole sense that seems intact, after the abuse of plummet, crash, and fire, is smell. He has no direction or goal, but the combined stench of boiling fuel and his own singed flesh help drive him on, shambling, stooping, clambering and stumbling forward until the thorn-brake finally thins.
Suddenly, the vines are gone. Instead a swamp sprawls ahead-dotted by strange trees with arching, spiral roots. Dismay clouds his mind as he notes — the water is growing deeper. Soon the endless morass will reach to his armpits, then higher.
Soon he will die.
Even the pain seems to agree. It eases, as if sensing the futility of haranguing a dead man. He straightens from a buckled crouch for the first time since tumbling from the wreckage, writhing and on fire. Shuffling on the slippery muck, he turns a slow circle…
…and suddenly confronts a pair of eyes, watching him from the branches of the nearest tree. Eyes set above a stubby jaw with needle teeth. Like a tiny dolphin, he thinks — a furry dolphin, with short, wiry legs… and forward-looking eyes… and ears…
Well, perhaps a dolphin was a bad comparison. He isn’t thinking at his best, right now. Still, surprise jars loose an association. Down some remnant pathway spills a relic that becomes almost a word.
“Ty … Ty …” He tries swallowing. “Ty-Ty- t-t-t—”
The creature tips its head to regard him with interest, edging closer on the branch as he stumbles toward it, arms outstretched-
Abruptly, its concentration breaks. The beast looks up toward a sound.
A liquid splash… followed by another, then more, repeating in a purposeful tempo, drawing rhythmically nearer. Swish and splash, swish and splash. The sleek-furred creature squints past him, then grunts a small disappointed sigh. In a blur, it whirls and vanishes into the queer-shaped leaves.
He lifts a hand, urging it to stay. But he cannot find the words. No utterance to proclaim his grief as frail hope crashes into a chasm of abandonment. Once more, he sobs a forlorn groan.
“Ty… ! Ty… !”
The splashing draws closer. And now another noise intervenes — a low rumble of aspirated air.
The rumble is answered by a flurry of alternating clicks and whistled murmurs.
He recognizes the din of speech, the clamor of sapient beings, without grasping the words. Numb with pain and resignation, he turns — and blinks uncomprehendingly at a boat, emerging from the grove of swamp trees.
Boat. The word — one of the first he ever knew — comes to mind slickly, easily, the way countless other words used to do.
A boat. Constructed of many long narrow tubes, cleverly curved and joined. Propelling it are figures working in unison with poles and oars. Figures he knows. He has seen their like before. But never so close together.
Never cooperating.
One shape is a cone of stacked rings or toruses, diminishing with height, girdled by a fringe of lithe tentacles that grasp a long pole, using it to push tree roots away from the hull. Nearby, a pair of broad-shouldered, green-cloaked bipeds paddle the water with great scooplike oars, their long scaly arms gleaming pale in the slanting sunlight. The fourth shape consists of an armored blue hump of a torso, leather-plated, culminating in a squat dome, rimmed by a glistening ribbon eye. Five powerful legs aim outward from the center, as if the creature might at any moment try to run in all directions at once.
He knows these profiles. Knows and fears them. But true despair floods his heart only when he spies a final figure, standing at the stern, holding the boat’s tiller, scanning the thicket of vines and corroded stone.
It is a smaller bipedal form, slender, clothed in crude, woven fabric. A familiar outline, all too similar to his own. A stranger, but one sharing his own peculiar heritage, beginning near a certain salty sea, many aeons and galaxies distant from this shoal in space.
It is the last shape he ever wanted to see in such a forlorn place, so far from home.
Resignation fills him as the armored pentapod raises a clawed leg to point his way with a shout. Others rush forward to gape, and he stares back, for it is a sight to behold-all these faces and forms, jabbering to one another in shared astonishment at the spectacle of him- then rushing about, striving together as a team, paddling toward him with rescue their clear intent.
He lifts his arms, as if in welcome. Then, on command, both knees fold and turbid water rushes to embr
ace him.
Even without words, irony flows during those seconds, as he gives up the struggle for life. He has come a long way and been through much. Only a short time ago, flame had seemed his final destiny, his doom.
Somehow, this seems a more fitting way to go — by drowning.
I. THE BOOK OF THE SEA
You who chose this way of life — to live and breed and die in secret on this wounded world, cowering from star-lanes you once roamed, hiding with other exiles in a place forbidden by law — what justice have you any right to claim?
The universe is hard. Its laws are unforgiving. Even the successful and glorious are punished by the grinding executioner called Time. All the worse for you who are accursed, frightened of the sky.
And yet there are paths that climb, even out of despair’s sorrow.
Hide, children of exile! Cower from the stars! But watch, heed and listen — for the coming of a path.
—The Scroll of Exile
Alvin’s Tale
On the day i grew up enough for my hair to start turning white, my parents summoned all the members of our thronging cluster to the family khuta, for a ceremony giving me my proper name — Hph-wayuo.
I guess it’s all right, for a hoonish tag. It rolls out from my throat sac easy enough, even if I get embarrassed hearing it sometimes. The handle’s supposed to have been in the lineage ever since our sneakship brought the first hoon to Jijo.
The sneakship was utterly gloss! Our ancestors may have been sinners, in coming to breed on this taboo planet, but they flew a mighty star-cruiser, dodging Institute patrols and dangerous Zang and Izmunuti’s carbon storms to get here. Sinners or not, they must have been awfully brave and skilled to do all that.
I’ve read everything I can find about those days, even though it happened hundreds of years before there was paper on Jijo, so all we really have to go on are a few legends about those hoon pioneers, who dropped from the sky to find g’Keks, glavers, and traeki already hiding here on the Slope. Stories that tell how those first hoon sank their sneakship in the deep Midden, so it couldn’t be traced, then settled down to build crude wooden rafts, the first to sail Jijo’s rivers and seas since the Great Buyur went away.
Since it has to do with the sneakship, I guess my given name can’t be too bad.
Still, I really like to be called Alvin.
Our teacher, Mister Heinz, wants us upper graders to start journals, though some parents complain paper costs too much here at the southern end of the Slope. I don’t care. I’m going to write about the adventures me and my friends have, both helping and heckling the good-natured sailors in the harbor, or exploring twisty lava tubes up near Guenn Volcano, or scouting in our little boat all the way to the long, hatchet-shadow of Terminus Rock.
Maybe someday I’ll turn these notes into a book!
And why not? My Anglic is real good. Even grumpy old Heinz says I’m a whiz at languages, memorizing the town copy of Roget’s by the time I was ten. Anyway, now that Joe Dolenz, the printer, has come set up shop in Wuphon, why should we have to count on the traveling librarian’s caravan for new things to read? Maybe Dolenz would even let me set the type myself! That is, if I get around to it before my fingers grow too big to fit around those little backward letters.
Mu-phauwq, my mother, calls it a great idea, though I can tell she’s partly humoring a childish obsession, and I wish she wouldn’t patronize me that way.
My dad, Yowg-wayuo, acts all grumpy, puffing his throat sac and telling me not to be such a human-mimicker. But I’m sure he likes the idea, deep down. Doesn’t he keep taking borrowed books on his long voyages to the Midden, even though you’re not supposed to, because what if the ship sank and maybe the last ancient copy of Moby Dick went down with the crew? Wouldn’t that be a real disaster?
Anyway, didn’t he used to read to me almost from the day I was born? Booming all the great Earthling adventure tales like Treasure Island, Sindbad, and Ultraviolet Mars? So who’s he to call me a humicker!
Nowadays, Dad says I should read the new hoon writers, those trying to go past imitating old-time Earthers, coming up with literature by and for our own kind.
I guess maybe there should be more books in languages other than Anglic. But Galactic Two and Galactic Six seem so darn stiff for storytelling. Anyhow, I’ve tried some of those writers. Honestly. And I’ve got to say that not one of them can hold a peg to Mark Twain.
Naturally, Huck agrees with me about that!
Huck is my best friend. She picked that name even though I kept telling her it’s not a right one for a girl. She just twists one eyestalk around another and says she doesn’t care, and if I call her “Becky” one more time, she’ll catch my leg-fur in her spokes and spin till I scream.
I guess it doesn’t matter, since g’Keks get to change sex after their training wheels fall off, and if she wants to stay female, that’s her business. As an orphan, Huck’s lived with the family next door ever since the Big North-side Avalanche wiped out the weaver clan that used to squat in Buyur ruins up that way. You’d expect her to be a bit strange after living through that and then being raised by hoons. Anyway, she’s a great friend and a pretty good sailor, even if she is a g’Kek, and a girl, and doesn’t have legs to speak of.
Most times, Pincer-Tip also comes on our adventures, specially when we’re down by the shore. He didn’t need a nickname from some story, since all red qheuens get one the minute they set five claws outside the brooding pen. Pincer’s no big reader like Huck and me, mostly because few books can stand the salt and dampness where his clan lives. They’re poor, living off wrigglers they find in the mudflats south of town. Dad says the qheuens with red shells used to be servants to the grays and blues, before their sneakship brought all three to hide on Jijo. Even after that, the grays kept bossing the others for a while, so Dad says the reds aren’t used to thinking for themselves.
Maybe so, but whenever Pincer-Tip comes along, he’s usually the one chattering-with all leg-mouths at once-about sea serpents, or lost Buyur treasure, or other things he swears he’s seen … or else he heard of somebody who knows someone else who might’ve seen something, just over the horizon. When we get into trouble, it’s often on account of something he thought up inside that hard dome where he keeps his brain. Sometimes I wish I had an imagination a dozenth as vivid as his.
I should include Ur-ronn in the list, since she comes along sometimes. Ur-ronn’s almost as much of a book maniac as Huck and me. Still, she’s urrish, and there’s a limit to how much of a humicker any urs can be, before planting four feet and saying whoa.
They don’t take to nicknames, for instance.
Once, when we were reading a mess of old Greek myths, Huck tried calling Ur-ronn “Centaur.” I guess you could say an urs sort of looks like one of those fabled creatures — if you’d just been conked on the head by a brick and can’t see or think too well from the pain. But Ur-ronn disliked the comparison and showed it by swinging her long neck like a whip, nearly taking off one of Huck’s eyestalks with a snap of her three-way mouth.
Huck only said “Centaur” just that once.
Ur-ronn is a niece of Uriel, who runs a forge next to fiery lava pools, high up on Mount Guenn. She won a scholarship to ’prentice as a smith instead of staying with the herds and caravans on the grassy plain. Too bad her aunt keeps Ur-ronn busy most of the time and won’t ever let her go off in the boat with us, on account of urs can’t swim.
Ur-ronn used to read a lot, back in that prairie school. Books we never heard of in this hick corner of the Slope. She tells us the stories she can recollect, like all about Crazy Horse and Genghis Khan, and urrish hero-warriors from those big battles they had with the humans, after Earthers came to Jijo but before the Commons got patched together and they started the Great Peace.
It’d be uttergloss if our gang could be a complete Six, like when Drake and Ur-jushen and their comrades went on the Big Quest and were the very first to set eyes on the Holy Egg. But the only
traeki in town is the pharmacist, and that er is too old to make a new stack of rings we could play with. As for humans, their nearest village is several days from here. So I guess we’re stuck being just a foursome.
Too bad. Humans are gloss. They brought books to Jijo and speak Anglic better than anybody, except me and maybe Huck. Also, a human kid’s shaped kind of like a small hoon, so he could go nearly all the same places I can with my two long legs. Ur-ronn may be able to run fast, but she can’t go into water, and Pincer can’t wander too far from it, and poor Huck has to stay where the ground is level enough for her wheels.
None of them can climb a tree.
Still, they’re my pals. Anyway, there are things they can do that I can’t, so I guess it evens out.
It was Huck who said we ought to plan a really burnish adventure for the summer, since it would likely be our last.
School was out. Mister Heinz was on his yearly trip to the great archive at Biblos, then to Gathering Festival. As usual, he took along some older hoon students, including Huck’s foster sister, Aph-awn. We envied their long voyage — first by sea, then riverboat to Ur-Tanj town, and finally by donkey-caravan all the way up to that mountain valley where they’d attend games and dramas, visit the Egg, and watch the sages meet in judgment over all six of Jijo’s exile races.
Next year we may get our turn to go, but I don’t mind saying the prospect of waiting another seventeen months wasn’t welcome. What if we didn’t have a single thing to do all summer except get caught loafing by our parents, then sent to help pack dross ships, unload fishing boats, and perform a hundred other mindless chores? Even more depressing, there wouldn’t be any new books till Mister Heinz got back — that is if he didn’t lose the list we gave him!
(One time he returned all excited with a big stack of old Earth poetry but not a single novel by Conrad, Coope, or Coontz. Worse, some grown-ups even claimed to like the stuff!)
