by David Brin
Just before the roaring plummet, traversing the river from bank to bank, lay a broad expanse of rocky shallows that appeared nowhere more than ankle deep.
“I guess this settles the question of whether or not to pro-ceed” He sighed.
Shortly, he and Mudfoot stood at last on the other shore, having sloshed easily across to prove the ford was safe. From there an obvious game trail zigzagged through the forest, departing the canyon eastward.
On my way back downstream I’ll scout an easier path for Danel and the others to get up here. Success took much of the sting out of his aches and pains. There’s a chance Lena beat me to a way across. Still, I found this place, and maybe I’m the first! If all this stupid alien stuff blows over and we get to go home, I’ll check Fallon’s maps to see if anyone’s named this spot since the Buyur went away.
The broad falls reminded him of the spillway back at Dolo Village, a thought that was sweet, but also a bitter reminder of why he was here, so far from Sara and everyone else he loved.
I’m here to survive. It’s my job to cower and have babies with women I barely know, while those on the Slope suffer and die.
The pleasure of discovery evaporated. Shame he displaced with a wooden determination to do the job he had been commanded to do. Dwer started to head back across the shallows… then paused in his tracks, acutely aware of a tickling sensation in the middle of his back.
Something was wrong.
Frowning, he slipped off the bow and drew the string-tightening lever. With an arrow nocked, he flared his nostrils to suck humid air. It was hard to make out anything in the musty dankness. But judging from Mudfoot’s arched spines, the noor felt it too.
Someone’s here, he thought, moving swiftly inland to get under the first rank of trees. Or was here, recently.
Away from the shore, the place stank with a terrible muddle of scents, which was natural next to the only river crossing for many leagues. Animals would come to drink, then leave territorial markings. But Dwer sensed something else, inserting a wary hint of threat.
Painfully aware that open water lay at his back, he moved deeper into the forest.
I smell… burnt wood — someone had a fire, not too long ago.
He scanned. Sniffing and peering.
It was over… there.
Amid the shadows, half a stone’s throw away, he made out the remnants, set in a modest clearing. A large pit of black ashes.
Some of Rety’s band? He worried. Might Jass and Bom be watching right now, picking their best shot at an intruder from the dreaded west?
Clues lay in the brushing rustle of wind in the branches, the furtive movements of insects and birds. But this terrain and wildlife were strange to him, and the racket from the waterfall would drown out a militia company on maneuvers.
Mudfoot made a low chuffing growl and sniffed close to the ground while Dwer scanned the complex dimness beyond the next rank of trees. “What is it?” he asked, kneeling where Mudfoot scratched a layer of freshly fallen leaves.
A familiar odor struck him fully.
“Donkey shit?”
He risked a quick glance — and didn’t need a second look.
Donkeys? But Rety said the sooners didn’t have any!
With dark-adapting eyes he now picked out traces of pack beasts all over the clearing. Hoofprints and droppings from at least a dozen animals. A stake where a remuda line was tethered. Flattened spots where cargo carriers must have lain.
He lowered the bow. So a second expedition had set out, passing the first by a better route, no doubt led by Rety herself.
Well, at least we won’t be quite so outnumbered by the sooners, even if contact doesn’t happen in the order Danel planned.
An element of relief was more personal, if ungallant. My choice in a future mate might go beyond Jenin, Lena, or some surly cousin of Rety’s.
Something still nagged at Dwer, however, making him reluctant to put down the bow. He was counting wallows — the depressions made by donkeys as they lay — and realized there were just too many. Or rather, there were two different kinds of wallow. Nearer the fire they were smaller, closer…
No. It can’t be.
Anywhere else, scent would have hit him long before this. Now a sharp, familiar pungency smacked Dwer in his sinuses. He bent to pluck a clump of stringy fur, still coated from when the owner rolled, in ash after an unpleasantly wet river crossing.
Glossy strands from an urrish mane.
It had been generations since the last war. Regardless, instinctive fear surged in Dwer’s chest — a heart-pounding wave of angst.
An urrish caravan in these parts could not be up to anything good.
Here in the wilderness, far from the restraint of sages and the Commons, with the Six possibly already extinct back home, all the old rules were clearly moot. As in days before the Great Peace,. Dwer knew how dangerous these beings would be to have as enemies.
Silent as a ghost, he crept away, then crossed the river in a zigzag dash, leaping behind a boulder, then swiveling to cover the opposite bank while Mudfoot came splashing behind, clearly as eager to get out of there as he was.
Dwer kept wary watch for a whole midura, till long after his pounding pulse finally settled.
At last, when it seemed safe, he slung his bow and set off downstream, running when and where he could, hurrying southward with news.
Asx
Can you see the smoke, oh my rings? Spiraling from a fresh cavity in Jijo’s ruptured soil? Two Umoons cast wan beams through that sooty pall, piercing a crater wherein twisty metal shapes flicker and burn.
Distracting thoughts rise from our second torus-of-cognition.
What is that you say, my ring? That this is a very large amount of dross? Dross that will not degrade back to nature on its own?
Indeed it is. Shall we hope that the aliens themselves will clean up the mess? It would take a hundred donkey-caravans to haul so much hard waste down to the sea.
Another ring suggests a stream be diverted, to form a lake. A transplanted mulc-spider might dissolve the sinful wreckage over the course of centuries.
By mass vote, we send these thoughts to waxy storage for later reflection. For now, let us watch events flow in real time.
A roiling mob of onlookers teems the slopes overlooking this savaged vale, held in check by stunned, overworked proctors. Higher on tree-shrouded hills, we glimpse murky ranks of disciplined silhouettes, wheeling and maneuvering — militia units taking up positions. From here we cannot tell the companies’ intent. Are they preparing, counter to all hope, to defend the Commons against overpowering vengeance? Or else have inter-sept grudges finally torn the Great Peace, so that we hasten doomsday tearing each other apart with our own bloody hands?
Perhaps even the commanders of those dark battalions don’t yet know for sure.
Meanwhile, closer to the heat, Ur-Jah and Lester Cambel supervise teams of brave urs, men, hoon, and gray qheuens, •who descend into the pit armed with ropes and tools of Buyur steel.
Ro-kenn protests at first, does he not, my rings? In hasty GalSeven, the Rothen emissary decries those he calls “wanton looters.” One of the remnant robots rises, unfolding spiky organs of punishment.
Vubben urges that Ro-kenn look again. Can he not recognize sincere efforts at rescue? For two tense duras we poise on a precipice. Then, with a grudging mutter, the Rothen recalls his death machine — for now.
From Ro-kenn’s charismatic, human-handsome face, our steady old rewq translates undertones of grief and rage. True, this race is new to us, and rewq can be fooled. Yet what else should we expect from one whose home/campsite lies in ruins? Whose comrades languish, dead or dying, in the twisted tangle of their buried station?
The male sky-human, Rann, wears torment openly as he rides the other robot, shouting at those working through the rubble, directing their efforts. A tense but encouraging sign of cooperation.
Ling, the other sky-human, appears in shock, leaning against y
oung Lark as he pokes his foot through debris at the crater’s rim. He bends to lift a smoldering plank, sniffing suspiciously. We perceive his head rock back, exclaiming surprise.
Ling draws away, demanding an explanation. Through our rewq, we perceive Lark’s reluctance as he shows her the smoky plank, a strip of burned wood from a Jijoan box or crate.
Ling drops her hand from his arm. She spins about, hurrying toward Rann’s hovering robot steed.
Much closer to this stack of rings, Ro-kenn has become embroiled in argument. A delegation accosts the Rothen emissary, demanding answers.
Why did he earlier claim the right and power to command the Holy Egg, since it is now clear that the sacred stone violently rejects him and his kind?
Furthermore, why did he seek to sow dissension among the Six with his baseless calumny about the human sept? His groundless lie, claiming that our Earthling brethren are not descendants of sinners, just like the other Five.
“You Rothen may or may not be the high patrons of humanity,” the spokesman contends. “But that takes nothing from our ancestors who came here on the Tabernacle. Not from their crime, or their hope, when they set us on the Path of Redemption.”
There is anger in the voice of the human intercessor. But we/i also descry thick brushstrokes of theater. An effort to smother the fire of disharmony that Ro-kenn ignited with his tale. Indeed, urrish voices rise in approval of his anger.
Now our second cognition-torus vents yet another thought-hypothesis.
What is it, my ring? You suggest disharmony was Ro-kenn’s intent, all along? A deliberate scheme to create strife among the Six?
Our fourth ring rebuts — what purpose might such a bizarre plot serve? To have Five gang up on One? To cause vendetta against the very sept these Rothen claim as beloved clients?
Store and wick this weird postulate, oh my rings. Argue it later. For now the Rothen prepares to respond. Drawing himself up, he surveys the crowd with an expression that seems awesome both to humans and to those who know them — to rewq-wearers and those without.
There is kindness in his expressive gaze. Overstrained patience and love.
“Dear, misguided children. This explosive manifestation was not rejection by Jijo, or the Egg. Rather, some malfunction of the mighty forces contained in our station must have released—”
Abruptly, he stops as Rann and Ling approach, each riding a robot. Each wearing looks of dark anger. They murmur into devices, and the Rothen stares back, listening. Again, my rewq reveals dissonance across his features, coalescing at last in raging fury.
Ro-kenn speaks.
“So, now the (dire) truth is known. Learned. Verified!
“No accident, this (slaying) explosion.
“No (unlikely) malfunction — nor any rejection by your (overly-vaunted) Egg.
“Now it is known. Verified. That this was (foul, unprovoked) murder!
“Murder by deceit, by subterfuge.
“By use of subterranean explosives. By sneak attack.
“By you!”
He points, stabbing with a long, graceful finger. The crowd reels back from Ro-kenn’s fierce wrath, and this news.
At once it is clear what the zealots have done. Secretly, taking advantage of natural caverns lacing these hills, they must have laboriously burrowed deep beneath the station to lay chests of eruptive powder — crude but plentiful — which then awaited a signal, the right symbolic moment, to burst forth flame and destruction.
“With scanners tuned for chemical sleuthing, we now perceive the depth of your shared perfidy. How undeserved were the rewards we planned conferring on murderous half-beasts!”
He might say more to the cowering throng, adding terrible threats. But at that moment, a new disturbance draws our focus toward the smoldering pit. The crowd parts for a phalanx of soot-stained rescuers, coughing and gasping as they bear pitiable burdens.
Rann cries out, bounding from his mount to inspect a crumpled form, borne upon a litter. It is Besh, the other female sky-human. From her mangled figure, our rewq reads no life flicker.
Again, the crowd divides. This time it is Ro-kenn who exclaims a distinctly unhuman wail. The litter brought before him bears the other of his race, Ro-pol, whom we guessed to be female. (His mate?)
This time, a slim thread of breath swirls in the near infrared, from the victim’s soot-stained but still splendid face. Ro-kenn bends close, as if seeking some private communion.
The poignant scene lasts but a few moments. Then the reed of living tension is no more. A second corpse lies in the hollow, under bitter-bright stars.
The living Rothen stands to his full height, a terrible sight, emoting vast anger.
“Now comes the reward (foul) treachery deserves!” Ro-kenn cries, reaching skyward, his voice reverberating with such wrath that every rewq in the valley trembles. Some humans drop to their knees. Do not even gray queens whistle awe and dismay?
“For so long you have feared (righteous) judgment from above. Now behold its incarnate form!”
Along with the others, we/i look up, our gaze following Ro-kenn’s extended arm.
There, crossing the sky, we perceive a single glaring spark. A pitiless glimmer that ponderously moves, passing from the Spider’s Web into the constellation humans call The Sword.
The great ship is still a distant point, but it does not wink, nor does it twinkle. Rather, it seems to throb with an intensity that hurts those who watch for long.
One can hardly fault the zealots’ timing, suggests our ever-thoughtful second-torus-of-cognition. If their objective was to bring an end to pretense, they could have chosen no better way.
Sara
Sage Taine wanted to speak with her before she left for Kandu Landing. So did Ariana Foo. Both wished she would delay her departure, but Sara was eager to be off.
Yet with just a midura to go before the Gopher set sail, she decided on impulse to visit her old office, high in the cathedral-tower housing the Library of Material Science.
West from the Grand Staircase, her ascent first took her by the vast, rambling stacks of physics and chemistry, where the recent evacuation had taken a visible toll. The maze of shelves showed frequent gaps. Scraps of paper lay in place of absent volumes, to help staff put things back if the present crisis passed. In places, the wood surface looked almost new, implying this was the first time a book had budged since the Great Printing.
Glancing down one crooked aisle, Sara glimpsed young Jomah, teetering under a load of heavy volumes, lumbering gamely behind his uncle to begin the ornate rituals-of-borrowing. None too soon if they hoped to make the Gopher in time. The explosers and quite a few others were bound the same way as Sara, first by boat, then donkey-caravan to the Glade of Gathering.
The winding labyrinth triggered complex emotions. She used to get lost back in the early days, but never cared, so happy had she been to dwell in this splendid place. This temple of wisdom.
Her long year away had hardly changed her little office, with its narrow window overlooking the green-flanked Bibur. Everything seemed much as she had left it, except for the dust. Well, I always figured I’d be back before this. Many competed to be chosen by human sept for this life, subsidized by a race of farmers and gleaners whose one great sinful pride lay in their books.
Tacked to the far wall lay a chart showing the “devolution” of various dialects spoken on the Slope. Like branches splitting off from parent roots, there were multiple downward shoots for each Galactic language in current use. This older depiction showed the bias of scholars over in Linguistics, and was colored by one unassailable fact — the billion-year-old Galactic languages had once been perfect, efficient codes for communication. Deviation was seen as part of a foretold spiral toward the innocence of animal-like grunts — the Path of Redemption already blazed by glavers — a fate variously dreaded or prayed for by folk of the Slope, depending on one’s religious fervor.
Human tongues were also traced backward, not over a billion years
but ten thousand. Earthling authorities like Childe, Schrader, and Renfrew had carefully rebuilt ancestral languages and many of those grammars were more primly structured, better at error-correction, than the “bastard” jargons that followed. What better evidence that human devolution began long before the landing on Jijo? Did not all Earth cultures have legends of a lost Golden Age?
One conclusion — the missing Patrons of Earth must have been interrupted in their work, forced to leave humanity half finished. True, the ensuing fall was masked by some flashy tricks of precocious technology. Still, many scholars believed Earthlings had much to gain from any road leading toward re-adoption and a second chance, especially since they appeared to be heading that way anyway.
That’s the orthodox view. My model takes the same data, but projects a different outcome.
Her most recent chart resembled this one — turned upside down, with lightless roots transformed into trees, showing the Six heading in a new direction.
In many directions.
If no one interferes.
Yesterday, she had shown her latest work to Sage Bonner, whose enthusiasm reignited the pleasure of a colleague’s praise.
“Well, my dear,” said Jijo’s oldest mathematician, stroking his bald pate, “you do seem to have a case. So let’s schedule a seminar! Interdisciplinary, of course.”
He punctuated his enthusiasm with a sloppy GalTwo emotion trill of anticipation.
“We’ll invite those stuffy pedants from Linguistics. See if they can bear to hear a bold new idea for a change. Heh. Heh-cubed!”
Bonner probably hadn’t much followed her discussion of “redundancy coding” and chaos in information theory. The elderly topologist just relished the prospect of a brisk debate, one that might knock down some ensconced point of view.
If only you knew how good an example you are of my thesis, she had thought affectionately. Sara hated to disappoint him.
“We can have it when I get back from Gathering, with luck.”
Alas, there might be no return from her coming journey. Or else, it might be to find that the explosers had done their duty at last, bringing down the stony roof, and with it a prophesied age of darkness and purity. She was turning to go, when a low thunk announced a message ball, landing on her desk. Above the in-box, a fleshy tube bounced in recoil, having spit the ball from a maze of pipes lacing the Biblos complex.
