by David Brin
The story of hydrogen-based life had similarities, but the plot took a different twist.
On Jovian-type worlds, size emerged from the start. Simple beings of vast extent flapped and fluttered across skies broad enough to swallow several hundred Jijos. Evolution caused such creatures to improve, though more slowly at cooler temperatures. Indeed, change did not always come about through reproduction and inheritance. More often, some part of a huge, drifting beast might stumble onto a new chemical trick or behavior. That portion would spread laterally, consuming and replacing the flesh next to it, gradually transforming the whole entity.
Death was still part of the process, but not quite in the same way it occurred on Earth.
To us, dying is a quantal thing. An individual may succeed in having offspring, or not. But either way, personal extinction stalks you all your life, and must eventually win, however hard you struggle or however much you innovate.
But to hydros, everything is murky, qualitative. Without such clear lines, death is relative. So long as a transformation happens slowly and smoothly, you look at it with no more dread than I fear cutting my hair.
Instead of building up through hard-won cooperation among tiny cells, life on Jupiter-type worlds was large from the start. It did not revolve as much around cooperation-competition. Self and other were known concepts, but distinguishing between the two had less central a role in existence than it did to oxy-beings.
Then how do you organize yourselves? Lark thought at one point, wrestling with frustration. How do you recognize objects, goals, opponents, or ideas?
Lark’s tutor could not read his mind, or perceive his questions as discrete sentences. But clearly some kind of meaning entered his bloodstream, secreted by Lark’s brain when he posed a query. It was a slower, less efficient process than speech, involving many iterations. But he wasn’t going anywhere.
Objects throbbed within the vacuole, budding off the parent body, pulsing as they crossed the open space, then merging together or recombining with the greater whole. For quite some time, Lark had watched these little forms writhe into subtly formed shapes that performed for his edification. Now, all at once, he realized the deep truth underlying it all.
These little subselves. They are …
A throbbing wave penetrated his thigh, swarming down a leg then up his torso. The sensation was unlike any other, and Lark abruptly realized he had been given a name.
A name he could not repeat aloud in any language, or even in his thoughts — so he translated as best he could.
Deputies.
In their native environments, hydrogen-breathing entities did not tend to look outward for learning or fulfillment. If one huge beast encountered another, it might lead to combat, or predation — or peaceful intercourse — but little chance of permanent companionship. The vast winds of a Jovian sky soon scattered all acquaintances. A return visit or rendezvous was next to impossible.
Growth requires challenge, however. So, for conversation, appraisal, or understanding … they turned within.
Contained by spacious membranes, the core of a natural hydro-being was an oasis of calm amid planet-sized storms. Sheltered chambers could be fashioned at will, and small subunits budded to float freely for a while, engaging others in myriad ways. Like a human’s internal thoughts and fantasies, these deputies might cluster, converse or clash, working out countless scenarios for the good of the greater whole.
Simulations.
Lark glanced at the globule-creature floating just outside his membrane enclosure. It had seemed autonomous, but now he knew the hydro was a mere “deputy” of something larger still — perhaps the huge ship-entity that had sacrificed itself under withering Jophur fire in order to penetrate this place.
Lark abruptly recalled something he had read once, in a rare galacto-xenology text, about a type of hydro-life called Zang.
Their great passion is simulating the world … the universe … but not through math or computers. They do it by crafting living replicas, models, mimicries, inside their own bodies.
In an odd way, it seemed familiar.
Like the way we humans explore future possibilities with our imaginations.
But there was more.
Because we start life as little bags of water — as cells — we oxies must work our way from the ground up, by a complex, bootstrapping dance of competition and cooperation, building coalitions and societies, gradually becoming creatures capable of taking the process in hand, through Uplift. For all its faults, our galaxy-spanning civilization is the culmination of all that.
From many … one.
Hydros do it differently. They begin large, but loneliness forces them to subdivide, to seek diversity within.
From one … many.
The insight filled Lark with sudden heady pleasure. To behold both differences and similarities with an entirely different empire of life was a gift he had never imagined receiving. One beyond his ability to ask or anticipate.
He yearned to share it, to tell Ling everything, and hear her enthralled insights.…
Sadness was an abrupt flood, equal to the pleasure of moments before. Both emotions meshed and swirled, a mixture that poured into his veins, driven by his pounding heart. In moments it reached the tube in his leg, and then—
The tutor-entity floating nearby gave a sudden jerk. The globule quivered, as if contemplating the chemicals given off by Lark’s body during his epiphany, when everything became clear.
At least a hundred tiny vacuoles opened throughout its bulbous body. In each of these, a froth of nearly microscopic animalcules suddenly burst forth and interacted, frenetically merging, bouncing, and dividing. Lark stared, fascinated to watch a Zang “think” right in front of him. In practice, it was complex and blurringly fast.
The fizzing commotion ended as quickly as it had begun. All the little openings collapsed and the minuscule subdeputies resorbed into the main body. Lark’s tutor throbbed—
He felt another wave of stimulation penetrate his leg, a warm sensation that spread quickly through his guts and arteries — a form of communication so intimate that it transcended any thought of embarrassment. It simply was.
Appreciation.
At least that was how Lark interpreted the molecular wave — hoping that it was not wishful thinking.
Appreciation is welcome.
Appreciation is reciprocated.
• • •
A short time later, he lost consciousness. A sudden drowsiness told Lark that his hosts wanted him to sleep — and he did.
Awareness returned nearly as swiftly. He had no idea how much later it was, only that he had been moved.
No longer did a spacious chamber surround him, filled with other prisoners and visibly noxious fumes. Instead, his transparent cocoon had been transplanted to a much smaller room. And there were other changes, too.
The membranes surrounding him had shrunk to form-fit against his body, like a baggy suit of clothes. Lark found that he was standing up. Perhaps they had even walked him here, prompting his body to move like a marionette. The notion was unpleasant, but freedom to stretch out from a cramped fetal position more than made up for it.
He still could not breathe, and relied on the thigh catheter for life support, but Lark’s surroundings looked less hazy and there was not as great a sensation of nearby cold.
Carefully, tentatively, he shuffled his feet to turn around.
One of the Zang hovered nearby, though whether it was his erstwhile tutor he could not tell. Probably not. This one resembled the warrior-globule he had encountered in the halls of Polkjhy — the being that had burst through a wall, frightened Rann away, and rushed forward to take Lark captive. On close inspection, it was possible to see some of the adaptations necessary to shield hydrogen-breathing envoys against a caustic oxygen environment. Thick protective layers glistened, and it maintained a spherical form, ideal for minimizing exposure.
So, we’re both suited up. Girded to meet each other
halfway. Except that I’m still anchored by an umbilicus, and you fellows can shut me off like a light, anytime you want.
Lark raised his eyes beyond the Zang, and saw a feature of the room that had escaped his notice till now.
A window … looking outside!
Careful not to trip, he shuffled close, eager to see the stars. It would be his first direct view of space since he and Ling were trapped aboard the Jophur vessel when it took off from Jijo.
But instead of strange constellations, his attention was riveted at once by something vastly more strange — an object, floating against blackness, that somewhat resembled a spiny hedge anemone you might find behind a rock in an alpine meadow back home. Except his impression this time was of incredible size. Somehow, he felt the prickly thing might be as large as Jijo … or bigger still.
Soon, he could tell one more thing. The dark object was damaged. Glimmering sparks could be seen, twinkling in dim reddish light that poured through a jagged opening, torn across one hemisphere.
Polkjhy appeared to be heading toward that gaping hole, at a very rapid clip.
Earlier, the Zang seemed to say they had not succeeded in taking over the ship. Maybe their resources are stretched too thin. From simulated charts, it appeared that the Jophur still command the engines, weapons, and life support.
Perhaps they are speeding to a place where they can get help ridding the ship of infestations like the Zang … and me.
Or else, maybe the Jophur think this is where they’ll find the “prey” Rann spoke of — the Earthship everyone’s been searching for.
Lark turned his head to regard the warrior-globule. Did it have a purpose in bringing him here, and showing him this scene? Perhaps the Zang had figured out that Lark was no friend of the Jophur. Maybe they wanted an alliance. If so, he would gladly comply … on one condition.
You must help me find and release Ling. Give us a lifeboat, or some other way out of here, either back to Jijo or someplace else safe.
You do that, and I’ll act as your hound, sniffing out and hunting down my own kind.
Lark was being intentionally wry in his thoughts, of course. Only compared to hydrogen breathers could Jophur possibly be called his “kind.” But sardonicism was probably far too subtle for the Zang to read by sifting his blood.
If we’re going to team up, we’ll need much better communications.
He watched the globule for any sign of an answer, or even comprehension. But instead, a few moments later, it seemed to jump in sudden agitation and surprise. Waves of nervous excitement entered Lark’s body from the catheter.
What? What is it!
Spinning around, he sought a reason. Then his gaze passed through the window once again.
Oh, Ifni …
The battleship had already plunged much closer to the great corrugated ball, clearly aiming for the hole in one side. Lark noted at once that it seemed hollow, and glimpsed a compact round flame glowing within. Lark had no idea what to make of the scene, or what the flame could be. Anyway, something else quickly caught his attention.
Sparkling explosions rippled along one edge of the wide cavity. He watched several of the giant quills or spikes break off and drift in slow motion, already dissolving as the aperture widened destructively.
Most of the havoc seemed to be wrought by sharp needles of light, generated somewhere deep inside the great shell. A dozen or so rays converged on a single point, a speck, near a rim of the great wound, creating a painful mote of brilliance. Reflections off this target did most of the glancing damage to the nearby shell.
The speck darted about, sometimes evading the shafts completely, leaving them to hunt as it fled outward from the gap at a rapid clip. Whenever a pursuing ray caught up with it, the distant spark glared so brightly that Lark had to blink and avert his gaze.
What’s going on? What is happening out there?
Once again, he felt like the ignorant savage that he was. Wisdom hovered nearby — the Zang no doubt understood these strange sights. But it might take several miduras of patient puppet shows to explain even the simplest aspect.
An abrupt thrumming vibration shook the floor beneath Lark’s feet. The masters of Polkjhy were doing something.
He recognized the grating tempo of weapons being fired.
Soon, a double handful of glittering objects could be seen darting away from this ship, tracing an arc across space, hurtling at fantastic speed toward the sundered ball-of-spikes.
Are those missiles?
Lark recalled how the Commons of Jijo surprised the Jophur by attacking this very ship with crude chemical rockets. He had a feeling the bright arrows out there were more deadly, by far.
At first he thought the weapons might be joining the attack on the bright speck. But their glitter swept on past it, following each of the cruel rays toward its source.
Another swarm of emotion-laden connotations swept through Lark’s body. This time it was easy to interpret the Zang’s critical commentary.
Hasty.
Unwise.
Self-defeating.
His tutors did not approve of the Jophur action. But there was nothing to be done about it now. The missiles had already vanished into the great cavity.
For lack of anything better to do, Lark nervously watched and waited.
A short time later, the bright beams began winking out, one by one.
Still glowing, their target kept darting toward deep space, while Polkhjy plunged to meet it.
Ewasx
CALMNESS, MY RINGS.
Cultivate serene reflection, I urge you.
Stroke the wax.
Respect the wisdom of our captain-leader.
TRUE, that august stack has not been itself lately. Some of its component rings suffered wounds when human vermin infiltrated our control center, using a crude bomb to attempt sly sabotage.
TRUE, a far worse shipboard infestation has now driven our proud crew from several decks, forcing us to abandon and quarantine portions of our dear Polkjhy-vessel to the Zang blight.
TRUE, our leader’s rings-of-command have fumed odd-smelling flavors and scents lately, prompting a few priest stacks to vent mutinous steam, fomenting rebellious vapors among the crew.
NEVERTHELESS, be assured that I/we shall remain loyal to our commander. After all, was not this conjoined pile of ill-fitting rings put together as an experiment, designed and implemented at the behest of our captain-leader? If another chief takes charge, the new leader might order our/My swift disassembly into spare parts!
MY RINGS, SOME OF YOU DO NOT SEEM ADEQUATELY OUTRAGED AT THAT PROSPECT.
Therefore, as your beloved Master Torus, let Me remind you (with jolts of electric pain/affection) that a Jophur is not the same sort of composite being as the one you composed on feral Jijo, when together you made up the traeki sage, Asx.
We/you/I are much greater now.
Ever since the gracious Oalie intervened, rescuing our race from placid unassertiveness, the Jophur clan has risen to power and eminence among vigorous competing races of the Civilization of Five Galaxies. This is not a destiny to be given up lightly. Especially with signs and auguries now pointing to an onrushing Time of Changes. With each passing jadura it grows clear that fortune may turn around, presenting us with the clues/hints/coordinates/relics carried by the dolphin-wolfling ship.
HENCE, MY/OUR AGREEMENT WITH THE CAPTAIN-LEADER’S DECISION TO INTERVENE!
Let the senior priest stack rant about law and decorum. Should we stand back and allow the Earthlings to be incinerated? After all we have been through, chasing them across vast reaches and five levels of hyperspace, with our prey/prize finally in sight, should we now let panicky members of the Retired Order lash out and destroy the greatest treasure in the known cosmos?
TRUE, we have no legal standing here in Galaxy Four. No formal right to fire missiles into the fractal sanctuary just ahead. But it is their own fault that we were forced to act! The Earthship and its contents are of rightful inter
est to our life order — we descendants of the Progenitors who still cruise star-speckled lanes. Retirees should mind their own business, contemplating deep thoughts and obscure philosophies, preparing their genetic lines for transcendence, not meddling in affairs that are no longer their concern!
One by one, our superlight projectiles strike their targets on the habitat’s inner shell … and one by one, disintegrator beams flicker out.
BEHOLD! The last one goes dark, leaving the Terran vessel still driving ahead under its own power.
Success!
Now the wolflings sprint with alarmed speed toward the transfer point, hoping to escape this trap toward some unknown sanctuary beyond. But their hope is forlorn.
We are here, in good position to pounce.
{But how is it possible?}
Our second stack of cognition makes this query, venting steam-of-curiosity.
{Truly, we/I are glad to see the Earthlings survive those terrible, destructive rays. But how was it achieved? Should they not have vaporized during the first moments they fell under attack by such voracious beams?}
The same question travels in muted tones among Jophur stacks responsible for tactical evaluation. Pastel shadows of troubled concern flash across light-emitting ring flanks, while a worried mist wafts over that portion of the control center. Specialist toruses grow hot as they interact with computers, laboring to solve this quandary.
How did the Earthship survive such a fierce assault?
Is this yet another insidious wolfling trick?
Are they still receiving protection from the meddling Zang, in violation of the basic rule that each life order should mind its own business?
Are the hydrogen breathers truly willing/ready to risk Armageddon over matters they could not care about, or comprehend?
Now the senior priest stack ventures to challenge our captain-leader openly.
Striding forward on its ring of legs, that illustrious/sacred composite being nods its oration peak in a circle of righteous accusation.
