by David Brin
“THIS IS INTOLERABLE! BY SENDING THOSE MISSILES, YOU/WE HAVE SURELY ALIENATED ANY AFFECTION THIS COLONY OF RETIREES MIGHT HAVE NURTURED FOR OUR RACE, CLAN, AND ALLIANCE!”
The captain-leader, perhaps sensing a precarious situation, replies in calmer tones, venting aromas of sweet confidence.
“OF REPERCUSSIONS THERE WILL BE FEW.
“OF LEGAL FAULT, WE HAVE NONE, SINCE THOSE DIRECTING THE RAYS WERE CLEARLY OUTLAWS, ACCORDING TO THE CODES OF THEIR OWN LIFE ORDER.
“WE ACTED TO PROTECT A TREASURE SOUGHT BY ALL OXYGEN-BREATHING CIVILIZATION.”
Many crew-stacks vent agreement. But the priest-stack is in no mood to be mollified.
“FEW REPERCUSSIONS? EVEN NOW, EXPLOSIONS CONTINUE ROCKING THE HABITAT WHERE OUR MISSILES FELL! THE ENTIRE GREAT STRUCTURE IS IN JEOPARDY!”
No denying that it is a serious matter. Lawsuits may result, dragging through the courts for thousands, or even millions of years. Nevertheless, confident-soothing aromatics swell from our glorious commander.
“THE SOCIAL AND PHYSICAL FABRIC OF THIS HABITAT WAS ALREADY TORN APART BY THE MERE PRESENCE OF PATHOGENIC TERRANS. NOW, ALL STACKS TAKE NOTE: OUR ONBOARD LIBRARY HAS DOWNLOADED POPULATION DATA FROM THIS MACROHABITAT. REGARD HOW A MAJORITY OF OCCUPANTS HAS ALREADY DEPARTED!
“SOME FLED TO OTHER RETIREMENT HOMES, FARTHER FROM THE DANGEROUS PASSION-WAVES OF YOUNGER RACES.
“OTHERS HAVE CHOSEN TO ABANDON RETIREMENT! EVEN NOW, THEY REJOIN OUR LIFE-ORDER, SEEKING COMPANIONSHIP AMONG THEIR FORMER CLIENTS, BECOMING ACTIVE ONCE AGAIN IN THE FLUX-TURMOIL OF THE CIVILIZATION OF FIVE GALAXIES.
“A THIRD PORTION OF REFUGEES HAS MOVED ON. AHEAD OF SCHEDULE, THEY DEPART, AIMED FOR TRANSCENDENT REALMS.”
Reverent silence greets our commander’s news. Within this very stack — among our/My own conjoined rings, there is brief unanimity of spirit. From Master Torus all the way to the humblest greasy remnant of old Asx, there is agreement about one thing — I/we/you are privileged to live in such times. To take part in such wonders. To see/observe/know events that will be legendary in eras beyond the morrow.
Our captain-leader continues.
“So, LIKE THE EMPTY SHELL OF AN OUIUT EGG, THIS HABITAT IS LESS IMPORTANT THAN IT MAY APPEAR. A MERE FEW TRILLIONS REMAIN IN THOSE TORTURED PRECINCTS. FOR THAT REASON, LET US CONCERN OURSELVES NO MORE WITH ITS FATE. ANY REPARATIONS ADJUDGED AGAINST US CAN BE PAID TRIVIALLY OUT OF OUR REWARD, WHEN THE EARTHSHIP IS SAFELY IN CUSTODY, SEALED BY JOPHUR WAX!”
The captain-leader’s supporters cheer loudly, emitting joyful scent clouds. And yet, our/My contribution to the acclaim seems weak, lacking enthusiasm. Some of you rings, as tender and compassionate as a traeki, dwell dismally on the bad luck of those “mere few trillions.”
Relentlessly, the priest-stack maintains its indictment.
“SUCH FOOLISHNESS! HAD YOU FORGOTTEN OUR OWN DIFFICULTIES? WE HAD EXPECTED/HOPED TO FIND AID HERE, IN RIDDING DEAR POLKJHY OF ITS HUMAN-PLUS-ZANG INFESTATIONS. NOW SUCH HELP WILL NOT COME AT ANY PRICE!”
Our captain-leader hisses, rearing higher upon the command dais, clearly losing both temper and patience. Underlings quail back in dismay.
“THAT SITUATION IS UNDER CONTROL. ZANG PESTS ARE ISOLATED. WHILE THE QUARANTINE HOLDS, NO PRIORITY EXCEEDS THAT OF CAPTURING THE EARTHLING SHIP!”
Others may be impressed, but the priest-stack is not intimidated by shouting or physical gestures. Instead, that revered ring pile moves closer still.
“AND WHAT OF COMMUNICATIONS? WE HAD PLANNED USING LOCAL HYPERMAIL TAPS TO CONTACT OUR CLAN/ALLIANCE. NOW THOSE SERVICES ARE RUINED. HOW SHALL WE INFORM SUPERIORS OF OUR DISCOVERIES/OPPORTUNITIES ON JIJO? OR SEEK AID IN PURSUIT OF THESE EARTHLINGS?”
Subordinate ring piles scurry away from this confrontation between tall, august stacks, who now stand nearly close enough to press their gorgeous, fatty toruses against each other. Dense, compelling vapors clash and swirl around them, driving to confusion any lesser Jophur who happens to get caught in a backdraft. Stretching higher, each great lord tries to overawe the other.
From a privileged point of view, clockwise and slightly behind, I/we perceive the captain-leader using an arm-appendage to draw forth a hidden sidearm. Nervous tremors surge down our fatty core.
MY RINGS, WILL HE SHOOT?
Suddenly, the taut tableau is interrupted. Word-glyphs from the ship’s chief tactics officer cut through the acrimonious stench like an icy wind, reminding us of our purpose.
“The Earthship comes within range! Soon it will pass nearby, on its way to the transfer nexus. Interception/opportunity will maximize in ninety duras.”
Like two antagonistic volcanos deciding not to erupt — for now — our great lords back off from the precipice. Their stacks settle down and cease venting odious vapors.
Some things need not be said. If we succeed now, no reward will be denied this crew or its leadership. No forgiveness will be withheld.
Scans show that nearby space is filled with debris from the great calamity. Innumerable ships can also be seen peeling off the retirement habitat, seeking to escape toward the local transfer point.
Warily, we search among these sensor contacts for possible threats — for warships or other entities that might interfere, the way Zang globules hindered us, last time the Earthlings seemed within our grasp. Each vessel receives scrutiny, but none seems to be in range this time, or of a class strong enough to obstruct us.
Nor do the wolflings try to hide among these refugees, using them as decoys. Unlike at Jijo, the trick would not/cannot work, for we have kept them in sight ever since the disintegrator beams shut off. Clearly they know it, too, for their sole aim appears to be speed. To outrace us. To find sanctuary in the knotty worldlines of the transfer point.
But to get there, they must pass us. Logically, there seems to be little going in their favor.
And yet — (points out our/My second ring of cognition) — for three years the wolflings and their clients have proved slippery. Ever ready to spring devil-tricks befitting Tymbrimi, they have thwarted efforts by all the grand military alliances. Now we face rumors that the sluggish forces of moderation have begun to rouse, here and there, across the Five Galaxies. If that happens — if the Earthers manage delay after delay — there is no telling what the pargi and other cautious fence-sitters might bring about!
Yes, My rings. Our wax overflows with disquieting worries. And yet, won’t all that simply make our glory greater, when we Jophur succeed where others failed!
From Polkjhy, an ultimatum goes forth, similar to one the Terrans spurned before, when we sought them with beams and bombs under Jijo’s ocean waters.
Surrender and give over your treasures. In return, our mighty alliance will safeguard Earth. The dolphin crew will be interned, of course. But only for a thousand years of frozen sleep. Then, at expiration time, they will be released into a new, reshaped Civilization of Five Galaxies.
Again, our only answer comes as insolent silence.
We prepare weaponry.
“The Earthship’s dynamics are inferior-degraded,” explains a tactical crew stack. “It still carries excess mass — hull-contamination acquired from multiple exposures to the sooty red giant star.”
Polkjhy, too, passed through that polluting fog. But Earthlings can only afford lesser starship models, while our fine vessel is of a superior order, field-tuned to shed unwelcome atoms.
{Indeed?}
{Then how were the Zang able to board us?}
HUSH, MY RINGS!
I send coercive electric bursts down tendrils of control, reminding our second cognition ring to mind its own business.
• • •
Degraded or not, the preyship darts nimbly and appears well piloted. Our first warning shot misses by too wide a mark, and is not taken seriously.
Meanwhile, tactician stacks have been debating as to why the Earthship exists at all.
One faction insists the onslaught we saw — by planet-scale disintegrator rays, converging on a tiny ship �
� must have been a ruse! A garish light show, meant to make it seem the Earthlings were doomed, and persuade other assailants to back off while it accelerated away! Indeed, this astounding suggestion is now the majority opinion among Polkjhy’s tacticians — although it makes our missile attack seem foolish in retrospect.
{Behind us, the great habitat still shudders from those impacts, and other wounds that were self-inflicted.}
This explanation seems evident from the fact that the dolphin-crewed ship endures. Yet, a minority suggests caution. We may have witnessed something real. Something true. An event worthy of alarm.
Our second warning shot lashes forth and is more accurate. It passes but half a ship length from the quarry’s nose.
“THERE IS A WORRISOME DIFFERENCE.”
Thus announces a stack whose duty it is to monitor enemy conditions.
“THE TARGET RESONATES STRANGELY. ITS HYPERVELOCITY PROFILE IS NOT THE SAME AS IT WAS BEFORE, NEAR THE RED GIANT STAR. AND THERE ARE UNUSUAL REFLECTIONS OFF THE HULL.”
At our captain-leader’s behest, deep scans are made, confirming that the preyship is the same model and type. Engine emanations are identical. Psi detectors sift for faint leakage through its shields, and sniff a telltale Earthling spoor.
Then, at high magnification, we/I view the hull at last—
My rings, how it shines!
No longer sooty and black as space, it gleams now with a slick perfection that one only sees on vessels newly minted from their yards.
More perfect, for when starlight reflects off the curved surface, each warped image seems brighter than the original!
What can this mean?
Our senior priest-stack fumes.
“AFTER ALL WE HAVE BEEN THROUGH, AND ALL THAT WE HAVE SEEN, ONLY A COMPOSITE FOOL WOULD NOT HAVE EXPECTED FURTHER TRICKS/EXPLOITS/MIRACLES.
“ONLY A MISBEGOTTEN/MISJOINED STACK WOULD NOT HAVE CALLED FOR HELP.”
Our captain-leader shivers, settling cautiously onto the command dais. Streams of worried smoke trickle from its wavering topknot.
Finally, gathering rigidity among its constituent rings, the august commander-stack orders a targeted strike, at one-tenth potency, meant to disable the Earthship’s power of flight.
Humming a finely tuned battle song, Polkjhy lashes out, transmitting rays of formidable force, aimed toward severing three of the quarry’s probability flanges. Fierce energies cross the narrowing gap between our vessels to accurately strike home—
DO NOT ASK QUESTIONS, MY RINGS. JUST DO AS I SAY.
Move gently, innocuously toward the door.
That’s it. Tread quietly, without undue sound. Flash no color-shadows. Vent no anxious steam.
Now, while the rest of the crew is distracted by drama/tragedy, let us make silent departure, like the humble traeki you/we/I once were.
Responding to our passkey scent, the armored hatchway rolls aside, opening a way out of the control chamber. With rearward-facing eyebuds, we/I watch crowds of our fellow Jophur mill in a fog of fear/distress toxins.
The worst fumes rise from a puddle of burning wax and grease — the flaming remains of our former captain-leader.
The priest stacks had very little choice, of course. When our weapon-beam failed … when its energies vanished, absorbed somehow by the Earthship’s glistening new skin … a change in administration-command was certain.
As inevitable as the spreading of space metric in an expanding universe.
Of course the chase is not over. Our position is favorable. The Earthship cannot evade us and we are capable of maintaining contact wherever it goes. Meanwhile, Polkjhy has a capacious onboard branch of the Galactic Library. In its wise memory, we shall plumb and doubtless find this trick they used — and the drawback that will help us neutralize it.
Alas, My rings, that will do little good for this mongrel stack of ill-matched parts.
While Polkjhy proceeds on nimble autopilot — shadowing the Earthship as we both plunge toward the transfer point — the realignment of executive power commences among crew-stacks who proved poor judgment by remaining excessively loyal to our former commander. Demotion and reassignment will suffice for some. Replacement of the Master Torus will do for others.
But as for poor Ewasx — you/we were the inspired invention of the old captain-leader. At best, our rings will be salvaged as replacements for soldiers wounded in combat against the Zang. At worst, they will be mulched.
Now am I grateful for the feral skills you learned as a sooner/savage/traeki. Your movements are admirably stealthy, My rings. Clearly, you know better than a Jophur how to hide.
As the hatch rolls smoothly back to place, let us quickly move in search of some quiet, sheltered place where we may contemplate the wax … pondering the dilemma of survival.
Alvin’s Journal
YOU’LL GET USED TO THIS SORT OF THING AFTER a while.”
Those words, spoken by Gillian Baskin, still seem to echo down my hollow spines as I write down a few hasty impressions of our final moments near the Fractal World.
I had better hurry. Already I can feel the pressure on my hoonish nerves increase as the Streaker swoops and plunges along the threadlike “domain boundaries” that curl inside a transfer point. Soon, this awful kind of motion sickness will make it futile to work. So let me quickly try to sort among the terrible things I have lately experienced.
Strangest of all was Dr. Baskin’s voice, filled with such a deep resignation that she seemed more Jijoan than star god. Like one of our High Sages reading from the Sacred Scrolls — some passage foretelling inevitable tribulation. Somehow she made the impossible sound frighteningly plausible.
“You’ll get used to this sort of thing.…”
While the transfer fields close in around me — as nausea sends chills and frickles up and down my shivering skin — I can only hope that never happens.
She said it less than a midura ago, while gazing back at our handiwork.
An accomplishment none of us sought.
A disaster that came about simply because we were there.
• • •
In fact, those milling about the Plotting Room watched two views of the Fractal World, depicted on giant screens — both of them totally different, and both officially “true.”
Speaking as a Jijo savage — one who got his impressions of spaceflight by reading Earthling books from the pre-Contact Twenty-Second Century — I found things rather confusing. For instance, many of those texts assumed Faster-Than-Light travel was impossible. Or else, in space-romance yarns, authors simply took FTL for granted. Either way, you could deal with events in a simple way. They happened when they happened. Every cause was followed by its effects, and that was that.
But the screen to my left showed time going backward!
My autoscribe explained it to me, and I hope I get this right. It seems that each microsecond, as Streaker flickered back into normal space from C Level, photons would strike the ship’s aft-facing telescope, providing an image of the huge “criswell structure” that got smaller and dimmer as we fled. The pictures grew older, too, as we outraced successive waves of light. By the contorted logic of Einstein, we were going back in time.
I stared, fascinated, as the massive habitat seemed to get healthier before my eyes. Damaged zones reknitted. The awful wound grew back together. And glittering sparks told of myriad converging refugee ships, apparently coming home.
The spectacle provoked each of my friends differently.
Huck laughed aloud. Ur-ronn snuffled sadly, and Pincer-Tip kept repeating “gosh-osh-osh!”
I could not fault any of them for their reactions. The sequence was at once both poignantly lamentable and hilariously absurd.
Over to the right, Sara and Gillian watched a different set of images, caught by hyperwave each time we flickered into C Level. Here my impression was of queasy simultaneousness. This screen seemed to tell what was happening right now, back at the Fractal World. Time apparently moved forward, depict
ing the aftermath of our violent escape.
The effects flowing from each cause.
Of course things are really much more complicated. That picture kept wavering, for instance, like a draft version of some story whose author still wasn’t sure yet what to commit to paper.
Sara explained it to me this way—
“Photons haul slow truths, Alvin, while speedy hyperwaves carry probabilities.”
So this image represented just the most likely scenario unfolding behind us. However slim, there remained a chance it wasn’t true. Things might not be happening this way.
By God, Ifni, and the Egg, I still pray for that slim chance.
What we saw, through rippling static, was a harsh tale of rapid deterioration.
More than a single great laceration now maimed the great sphere. Its frail skin peeled and curled away from several newly slashed wounds. These fresh cracks spread, branching rapidly as we watched, each one spilling raw sunlight the color of urrish blood.
Hundreds of exterior spikes had already broken loose, tumbling end over end as more towering fragments toppled toward space with each passing moment. I could only guess how much worse things were inside the great shell. By now, had a million Jijo-sized windows shattered, exposing forests, steppes, and oceans to raw vacuum?
The hyperwave scene updated in fits and starts, sometimes appearing to backtrack or revise a former glimpse. From one moment to the next, some feature of devastation that had been here suddenly shifted over there. No single detail seemed fixed or firmly determined. But the trend remained the same.
I felt claws dig into my back as little Huphu and the tytlal, Mudfoot, clambered onto opposite shoulders, rubbing against me, beckoning a song to ward off the sour mood. Partly from numb shock, I responded with my family’s version of the Dirge for Unremarked Passing — an umble so ancient that it probably predates hoonish Uplift, going back to before our brains could grasp the full potential of despair.
