Uplift 1 - Brightness Reef

by Brin, David

  With that he nodded pointedly at Sara.

  The Stranger glanced at her, too, and somehow seemed to grasp the threat. His stream of scatological curses tapered, and he ceased heaving against the men holding him down. Sara felt relieved that he stopped straining so hard-and strangely moved to be the reason.

  "That's better," Dedinger said in the same smooth, reasonable voice he had used before UrKachu's fatal charge. "Now, let's take a look at what you've got hidden in that handy little hole in your head."

  The ex-sage began to peel back the Stranger's rewq, revealing the wound from which he had taken the mysterious pellets.

  "No!" Sara shouted, despite sharp pain when two men yanked her arms. "You'll give him an infection!"

  "Which his star-friends will cure, if they so choose, once we make our exchange," Dedinger answered. "Meanwhile, this stuff he was feeding the urs seems worth looking into. It could prove powerfully handy during the years ahead."

  Dedinger had finished pulling back the rewq and was about to insert his hand, when a new voice broke in, whistling a trill-stream of rapid Galactic Two.

  "Sara, I (earnestly) urge you to (swiftly) close your eyes!"

  She turned her head and glimpsed Kurt, the Tarek Town exploser, holding a small brown tube. A burning string dangled from one end, giving off sparks at a furious pace. The exploser cranked his arm back and threw the tube in a high arc, at which point Kurt dove for cover.

  Sara squeezed her eyes shut tight as Dedinger began to shout a warning to his men-

  A flash like a thousand lightning bolts filled all reality, stabbing through her eyelids. At the same instant, roaring noise shook her like a bird in a ligger's jaws, rolling the mass of sweaty men off, releasing her twisted arms, so that waves of relief clashed with agonizing sensory overload.

  It was over almost the moment that it happened- except for howling reverberations, rebounding off the stony pillars that now could be seen towering over the shredded tent ... or perhaps they were shock waves hammering inside her own head. Hurriedly she fled the tangle of screaming men, who clutched their useless eyes. Blinking past purple spots, she made out one other human who could stand and see: Dedinger, who would also have understood Kurt's brief warning. The desert prophet peered ahead while holding forth a gleaming blade of Buyur metal.

  He yelled past the bedlam in her ears and charged at Kurt, knocking the old man down before the exploser could bring a new weapon to bear. Sara recognized a pistol from pictures in ancient texts.

  "So much for exploser neutrality!" Dedinger shouted, twisting Kurt's arm until the old man groaned and the weapon fell. "We should have searched you, and tradition be damned."

  Overriding pain, Sara tried to spring at the ex-sage, but he lashed out with savage backhand, knocking her down amid a swirl of spinning stars. Consciousness wavered. Only gritty resolution let her rise again, turning on her knees to try one more time.

  There came another flash-and-roar, as Dedinger fired the pistol just past her and then tried awkwardly to cock for a second shot-before being bowled over by two hairy forms, hitting him from both sides. Sara somehow managed to fling herself into the fray, joining Ulgor and Prity in subduing the former scholar, whose wiry strength was astonishing for his age.

  Fanaticism has rewards, she thought, as they finally managed to tie Dedinger's hands and feet.

  Recovering his weapon, Kurt backed away, taking a rocky perch where he could watch the moaning remnants of the desert gang, as well as the surviving urs. Especially Ulgor. The tinker's sudden return might have been fortuitous, but that would not make him trust her.

  A sticky sensation made Sara stare at her hands, trying to separate red stains from vision-blotches left by Kurt's stun bomb. The stains had the color and scent of blood.

  It isn't me--and Ulgor wouldn 't bleed this shade of--

  It was Prity stanching a crimson flow from a deep gash in her side. Sara took the trembling little chimp into her arms and fought a sudden fit of weary sobs.

  The wrecked tent was a horror scene of dead or delirious Urunthai and flash-blinded men. The Stranger seemed in better shape than most, when he finally staggered to his feet. At least he could see well enough to help Ulgor bind the arms of Dedinger's. crew, while young Jomah returned to hobble the legs of sedated urs. Still, it soon grew clear that the battered man from the stars could not hear a blessed sound.

  Against every instinct that urged her to be thorough, Sara forced herself to make do with a pressure compress over Prity's wound. It did not seem immediately life-threatening, and someone else might yet be saved by quick action. So with the chimp's grunt of approval, she hurried over to one wheezing quadruped, a young urs thrashing feebly with an arrow through her neck, whose labored breathing made noisy, purple bubbles--

  --and who died with a shuddering gasp of despair, before Sara could do a thing to help her.

  Asx

  BATTLE-ECHOES GOUGED THE LAND, ONLY A FEW short duras ago. Firebolts lashed from heaven, scourging the Six, laying open flesh, chitin, and bone.

  Traekis gushed molten wax across the tortured valley, or else burst aflame, ignited by searing beams.

  Oh my rings, what images lay seared throughout our trembling core!

  The dead.

  The dying.

  The prudent ones, who fled.

  The rash heroes, who came.

  Their blur-cloth tunics are now grimy with mud and grue, no longer quite as slippery to the eye. Young tree farmers and donkey-drivers. Simple keepers of lobster pens. Junior hands on the humblest fishing coracles. Volunteers who never imagined their weekend training might come to this.

  Our brave militia, who charged into that maelstrom, that cauldron of slicing rays. Amateurs, soft and unready after generations of peace, who now wince silently, clenching their limbs while horrid wounds are dressed or while life slips away. Bearing agony with the gritty resolve of veterans, their suffering eased by the only balm that soothes.

  Victory.

  Was it only yesterday, my rings, that we feared for the Commons? Feared that it might fly apart in jealous hatreds fostered by crafty star-devils?

  That dread fate may yet come to pass, along with a thousand other terrors. But not today. Right now the arrogant aliens stand captive, staring about in surprise, stripped of their godlike tools, their hellish robots destroyed by the crude fire-tubes of our brave militia.

  A day of reckoning may not be far off. It could swoop at any moment from an unforgiving sky.

  Yet there is exhilaration. A sense of relief. The time of ambiguity is over. No more subtle games of misdirection and innuendo. No more pretense or intrigue. Ifni's dice have been shaken and cast. Even now they tumble across Jijo's holy ground. When they stop rolling, we will know.

  Yes, my second ring. You are right to point this out. Not everyone shares a sense of grim elation. Some see in recent events cause for nihilism. A chance to settle old grudges, or to spread lawlessness across the land.

  One vocal minority-"Friends of the Rothen"-demands the release of Ro-kenn. They advise throwing ourselves prostrate before his godlike mercy.

  Others call for the hostages to be done away with at once.

  "The starship may have means to track its lost members, " they claim, "perhaps by brain emanations, or body implants. The sole way to be sure is to grind their bones and sift the dust into a lava pool!"

  These and other testy groups might think differently, if the full truth were told. If only we sages could divulge the plans already set in motion. But secrets are innately unfair. So we hold our peace.

  To the folk of the Six, we say only this--

  "Go to your homes. See to your lattice screens and blur-webs. Prepare to fight if you can. To hide if you must.

  "Be ready to die.

  "Above all, keep faith with your neighbors--with the Scrolls--with Jijo.

  "And wait."

  Now our survivors hurry to pull down pavilions, to pack up valuables, to bear the wounded off on li
tters. Children of all races spend one sacred midura scouring the Glade for every scrap of dross they can find. Alas, that midura is all we can spare for tradition. There will be no festive mulching ceremony. No gaudy caravan, bearing ribboned crates down to the sea and ships-the most joyous part of any Gathering.

  Such a pity.

  Anyway, the aliens' ruined station will take generations to haul away, one donkey-back at a time. That task must wait for after the crisis. If any of us remain alive.

  The hostages are spirited off. Caravans depart toward plains, forest and sea, like streams of sentient wax, creeping in liquid haste to flee a fire.

  The sun retreats, as well. Bitter-bright stars now span that vast domain called The Universe. A realm denied the Six, but where our foes roam at will.

  A few of us remain, rooted to this sacred vale, awaiting the starship.

  Are we/i in agreement, my rings? To linger near the Holy Egg, resting our base on hard stone, sensing complex patterns vibrate up our fatty core?

  Yes, it is far better to rest here than to go twisting up some steep, rocky trail, hauling this old stack toward an illusion of safety.

  We shall stay and speak for the Commons, when the great ship lands.

  It comes now, roaring out of the west, where the sun lately fled.

  A fitting replacement, the ship hovers angrily, erupting a brilliance that puts daylight to shame, scanning the valley floor with rays that sear and scrutinize. Scanning first the ruined station, then the surrounding countryside.

  Searching for those it left behind.

  XXVII. BOOK OF THE SEA

  Animals exist in a world of struggle,

  in which all that matters is one result--

  continuity of self and the genetic line.

  Sapient beings dweII in nests of obligations,

  to their colleagues, patrons, clients, and

  ideals.

  They may choose fealty to a cause,

  to a godhead or philosophy,

  or to the civilization that enabled them

  to avoid living animal lives.

  Knots of allegiance cling to us all,

  even after treading down

  the Path of Redemption.

  Still, children of exile, remember this--

  --in the long run, the Universe

  as a whole

  owes you nothing.

  --The Scroll of Hope

  Alvin's Tale

  PERHAPS THE SPIDER-THINGS FIND ME AS EERIE AS I find them. Maybe they are trying their best to help. Given the little that I know, it seems best to take an attitude of wait-and-see.

  We hoon are good at that. But I can only imagine what poor Huck is going through, if they put her in a cell like this one. A steel room with barely enough room to spin her wheels before hitting a wall, with the ceaseless drone of some weird kind of engine humming in the background. She's got no patience and may have gone quite loco by now.

  If Huck's still alive.

  She seemed to be, when last I saw her, after our plummet into the Midden's icy depths was stopped by crashing into a sea monster's gaping mouth. I recall seeing Huck sprawled on a metal surface, wheels spinning, kicking feebly with her pusher legs, while the floor and walls shook under a roaring wind that scraped my ears with incredible screeching pressure.

  That pressure saved us, driving out the crushing mass of water before we drowned. But at the time, all I could do was scream, wrapping my arms around my head while my back convulsed from the blow I'd taken, escaping from our broken Wuphon's Dream.

  Vaguely, I was aware of someone else howling. Ur-ronn huddled in a far corner, sliced and torn by slivers of her precious shattered window and further panicked by the drenching wetness.

  Looking back, it seemed a miracle she was breathing at all, after the Dream broke up and harsh sea pounded in from all sides. The force of that blow slammed me against the garuwood hull, while my friends spun away, heads over hooves and rims.

  I had never before seen an urs try to swim. It's not a pretty sight.

  I remember thinking it would be my last sight, until that explosive cloud of bubbles poured in from a hundred wall slits, splitting the water with a foaming roar. The bubbles frothed together, merging into that screeching wind, and we survivors flopped onto the splintered wreckage of our beautiful bathy, gasping and gagging into dark, oily puddles.

  Of the four of us, only Pincer seemed to come through with any power of movement. I seem to recall him clumsily trying to tend Ur-ronn's wounds, pinning her against a wall with his scarred carapace while fumbling with two claws, pulling shards of glass out of her hide. Ur-ronn wasn't cooperating much. She didn't seem coherent. I couldn't blame her.

  Then a door opened, opposite the clamshell mouth that bit through the Dream. It was a smaller portal, barely offering clearance for two demons to emerge, one at a time.

  They were horrible-looking, six-legged beasts, with horizontal bodies longer than a hoon is tall, flaring wide in back and bulging up front with huge, glassy bubble-eyes, black and mysterious. They stamped into the chamber, awkwardly crushing both Uriel's depth gauge and Ur-ronn's compass underfoot, looking like waterbugs, whose spindly appendages met along a tubelike body that glistened and flexed with fleshy suppleness. Smaller limbs, dangling in front, looked like mechanical tools.

  All right, I'm describing a lot of stuff I couldn't have seen all that well at the time. It was dark until the spider-things entered, except in the sharp glare of two beams cast from opposite walls. Also, I was half conscious and in shock, so nothing I write can be taken as reliable testimony.

  Especially my impressions of what came next.

  Waving their own dazzling lanterns, the two shadowy forms began inspecting their catch, first pausing to illuminate and stare at Pincer and Ur-ronn, then poor Huck, wheeling vainly on her side, and finally me. I tried to move and nearly fainted. When I fought to speak or umble, I found my bruised throat sac would not take air.

  Funny thing, I could swear the monsters talked to one another while they looked us over, something they never do now, when they enter my cell in teams to tend me. It was an eerie, trilling, and ratcheting kind of speech, totally unlike GalTwo or any other Galactic language that I know. And yet something about it felt familiar. Each time their lights fell on another of us for the first time, I swear the beasts sounded surprised.

  When they reached me, part of my terror was eased by the sudden appearance of Huphu. Somewhere in my addled mind, I'd been worried about our mascot. Abruptly, there she was, rearing in front of me, chattering defiance at the towering spider-things.

  The creatures rocked back, amazement now so evident that I might have been watching them with perfectly tuned rewq. One of the things crouched down and murmured hurriedly, excitedly, either talking excitedly about the little noor or right at her. I couldn't tell which.

  Can I trust that dreamlike impression? At this point, as they say in some Earthling books, I was fading to vacuum, fast. In retrospect, it seems an illusion.

  One thing I know I fantasized. Something that comes back now more as notion than memory. Yet the image clings, flickering the same way consciousness flickered, just before dimming out.

  Without warning, a final figure crept into view, crawling from under a slab of our poor shattered bathy. Half-flattened and deformed, Ziz regathered its conical shape while the two monsters staggered backward, as if they had seen something deadlier than a poison-skenk. One of them swung a gleaming tube at the battered traeki partial and fired a searing bolt that blew a hole in thepoor stack's middle ring, flinging it against the wall near Huck.

  My overtaxed brain shut down about then. (Or had it done so already?) Yet there is just one more vague, dreamlike impression that clings to me right now, like a shadow of a phantom of a ghost of stunned astonishment.

  Somebody spoke, while the midget traeki oozed sap across the sodden floor. Not in the trilling whistles the creatures used before. Not in GalSeven or any other civilized tongue--but in
Anglic.

  "My God--" it said, in tones of disbelief, and it struck me as a human female's voice, with a strange accent I never heard before.

  "My God--all these--and a Jophur too!"

  XXVIII. THE BOOK OF THE SLOPE

  Legends

  It is said that we are all descended from unlucky races.

  /ccording to many of the tales told by the Six, there is endless war, persecution, suffering, and fanaticism amid the Five Galaxies. But it this really were typical, that civilisation could not have lasted even a million years, let alone a billion or more.

  If it were typical, places like Jijo would be teeming with countless sooner infestations, not just half a dozen.

  If it were typical, worlds like Jijo would have been used up Iong ago.

  Other accounts tell that the vast majority or star-faring races are relatively calm. That they manage their interests, raise their clients, and tend their leased worlds with serene attentiveness to good manners and the ancient codes, while trodding the Upward Path toward whatever transcendence awaits them. They see the abrasive antics or jealous, fanatical alliances as tasteless, immature--but why intervene when it is simpler and safer just to keep your head (or heads) down and mind your own business? Clients lucky enough to be adopted into such moderate clans grow up peaceful and secure, except during those intervals--legendary times of Change--when upheaval overwhelms even the cautious and discreet.

  Then it is the hardy that tend to thrive.

  Those toughened by scrappy interactions in the back alleys of space.

  Those alleys claim victims, though. It is said that we Six count among the bleeding refugees who slunk away from lost causes and broken dreams, seeking a place to hide. To heal. To seek another path.

  To search in quest of one last chance.