by David Brin
Harry’s gonna be mad, he thought, plunging outside, hoping to catch sight of her. Dwer briefly glimpsed a short bipedal form just turning a corner, and sped in pursuit, but soon lost the dim figure in a maze of side avenues.
He needed a plan. Carefully, Dwer ran through a list of Rety’s priorities.
Number one — get away from Jijo and make sure no one ever takes her back again.
To Dwer, that seemed pretty much a done deal. But she might worry that Harry Harms knew too much. Conceivably the chimp might gather enough information to figure out Jijo’s location, and even insist they return with him. Rety might not want to take the chance.
Number two — make a living. Become invaluable to somebody powerful, so she’ll never be hungry again.
That left Dwer at a loss. The girl had her computerized tutor unit, plus the data on Kazzkark that Harry provided. Could she have figured out a scheme while Dwer was in the toilet?
Number three — get rid of her scars. Rety had always been self-conscious about the weals that marred one side of her face, caused by cruel bullies who had tormented her back in the Gray Hills Tribe. Personally, Dwer did not much notice the marks. He had seen worse on Jijo. Besides, anyone who ever loved or hated Rety would do so because of her powerful presence and force of will.
Still, she would want to take care of that as soon as possible.
Was it possible, on Kazzkark? With no resident human population, would there be proficiency to perform repairs on Earthling flesh?
Why not? Computers can store the expert knowledge of countless skilled workers. And medicine would get top priority. You never know which species will visit an outpost, so you’d best he prepared for all of ’em.
Dwer knew he was reasoning from a slim base of information. Since infancy, he had heard stories about the radiant civilization his ancestors left behind. Now he felt numbed and dazzled by the reality.
Maybe I should’ve waited for Harry. I know Rety and he knows Kazzkark. We’d do better together than separately.
Preparing to head back, Dwer suddenly experienced a strange, disquieting sensation. It took moments for him to find a word to describe it.
I’m … lost.
It had never happened to him before! Not back home. Always there had been the sure draw of north, and a sort of internal map that unreeled each time he made a turn or took a step. But here on a drifting planetoid, his brain must lack some necessary cue. Dwer had no idea where he was!
He stood near a stony wall, trying to get bearings while streams of varied, bizarre life-forms swept past. Ignoring them, he fought to concentrate but was blocked by a rising sense of panic.
After E Space, I figured I could adjust to anything. I may be a sooner, but I’m not a savage. I grew up with other races around me. But this … all this …
The noise, bustle, smell, and grating presence of so many types of sapient minds — some of them brimming with hostility toward his kind — made him want to duck into the nearest hole and not come out again.
How long the funk would have lasted, Dwer had no idea. But it cut short abruptly when a large, fuzzy figure barged into his field of view, shorter and much rounder than a human, with whiskered cheeks and a pelt of bristly brown fur. A stout biped, vaguely mammalian, it displayed sharp teeth in a grimace that Dwer took as a deadly threat — until it boomed eager greetings in Anglic!
“Well, well. As I live and breath mints! A human? Well, well! Indeed a human, here in the booney tunes! I have not this pleasure had since past times … before crisis times, when peace was! Shake?”
The creature held forth a meaty paw, from which retractile claws kept popping in and out, unnervingly. Dwer blinked, remembering vaguely about an old Earthling tradition of touching and clasping palms that had largely been abandoned long ago, since most aliens disliked it. Nervously, he extended his left hand — the one he would miss a little less if the creature snapped it off. “Shaking” felt awkward, and they were both clearly glad when it was over.
“Forgive my ignorance,” Dwer said, attempting to mimic the formal, interspecies bow he had seen used a few times on Jijo. “But can you tell me who … or what …”
His voice trailed off as the rotund figure opposite him grew flushed. Sallow skin reddened underneath the streaky brown fur. Dwer feared he must have given offense — until the creature began huffing in a rhythmic manner, clearly trying to imitate human-style laughter.
“Is true? You recognize me not? A Synthian? Among the best of friends we have been to you humans! Very best! Well, well. Until this cursed crisis, that is. I admit. Friendship is tested, sorely, when death flows like starlight. I admit this. I, who am called Kiwei Ha’aoulin. This I admit. You will not hate me for it?”
Dwer nodded. A Synthian? Yes, he had heard of them … and vaguely recalled seeing pictures in an old folio, when Fallon taught him a little Galactoxenology in the Biblos archive. Indeed, the race had been known for good relations with Earth, back in the early days before starship Tabernacle fled to Jijo. Though a lot might have changed since then.
“It is my turn to apologize, Kiwei Ha’aoulin,” he said, mimicking the name as well as he could. “I kind of suffered a little … er, brain damage in deep space. An accident where all my possessions were lost.”
The Synthian’s eyes swept across Dwer’s ragged clothes before settling on the qheuen-made bow and quiver of arrows.
“All possessions? Then this lovely proto-aboriginal archery set … it is not thine to display, or possibly to sell?”
Dwer stared for several seconds. According to Harry Harms, no Galactic should even recognize the finely carved wooden implements for what they were. Yet this one knew the primitive weapon on sight, and clearly desired it! Covetous eagerness seemed to crackle from its bunched-up muscles.
A hobbyist, Dwer realized. An enthusiast. He had met the type, even back on Jijo. For some reason, his instincts as a tracker and hunter abruptly kicked in. Commerce, after all, followed many laws of the jungle. Panic fled as familiarity took its place.
“Well, well,” he said, slipping into a soft semblance of the other person’s speech. “Perhaps I exaggerated. I admit that I managed to hold on to a thing or two from the shipwreck. A few special things.”
“Treasures, no doubt,” the Synthian replied, while avid tremors coursed its hunched spine. “Well. I am one, among my kind, known as a fishy-naddo of things Terran-earthly. I would help you find a market for such things. And thus? From poor castaway to enabled starfarer you might become! Enabled enough to buy a ticket in comfort from this miserable un-place to a some-where-else-place, perhaps?”
Not waiting for an answer, the Synthian slipped an arm around Dwer’s.
“Well, well. Shall we talk more? Kiwei Ha’aoulin knows very nice meal-site nearby. Good food! Good talk about treasures and news from the stars! Come?”
Dwer’s right hand stroked his bow. On Jijo it was, indeed, valuable. Beneath his foolish demeanor, Kiwei Ha’aoulin must have a keen eye for quality. Who knew what an aficionado of primitive Earthling tools might pay?
I’d hate to part with it, hut this could help me learn more, and maybe find Rety.
Driven as much by hunger as curiosity, Dwer nodded.
“I accept your hospitality, Kiwei Ha’aoulin. Let’s go and talk of many things.”
Ignoring hostile stares and murmurs from all sides, he accompanied his new friend, hoping for the best.
Emerson
GAZING FROM A SECRET CRYSTAL SANCTUARY, he watched countless stars roll by … along with just as many glittering lights that were actually huge vessels. In fact, nearby space had grown so crowded that a single sweep of the naked eye made out hundreds of shining snowflakes, or bubbles, liquidly shimmering. Fractal arks jostled past globule-forms in an ever-tightening throng, spiraling toward their common goal — a white-hot disk surrounded by swarms of giant, glittering needles that almost grazed its surface.
Emerson chose not to look that way. Just thinking about th
e destination was as painful as its glaring image. He knew what must happen soon, before Streaker arrived. He had worked hard to prepare.
Crippled without speech, Emerson had only a rudimentary grasp of why Streaker was here, or what it meant for Zang vessels to mix amicably with some of the same oxygen breathers they used to shun … or sometimes fought bitterly. Watching Gillian and Sara converse, their brows furrowed with a blazing intensity of focused thought, he had tried to sift amid the “wah-wah” sounds for hints of meaning. But many of their oft-repeated phrases — like “the Embrace of Tides”—evoked no response from his wounded mind. Unless it had something to do with the increasing tendency of his body to twist and stretch in a preferred direction, with his feet aimed toward the white dwarf star.
At least some individual words seemed to resonate, just a little.
“Embrace,” he whispered, relishing its sensuous quality.
A few hours ago Emerson had been sitting beside Sara, with her head resting against his shoulder while they enjoyed a quiet moment together. Stroking her hair had become his normal way to help ease the tension of her daily struggle — Sara’s ongoing effort to wrestle truth out of the universe by sheer mathematical force. His duty was a pleasant one. He would gladly provide anything she needed or wanted.
That is, except for the one thing she desired this time.
With gentle hints, Sara had shyly made known her willingness to reach new intimacy … but he was forced to turn her down. Peeling away from her warm clasp, Emerson saw questions in her eyes. Worry that he might not find her arousing. Worry that his wounds had robbed him of manly desires. Worry that there was so little time left for two to become one.
How could he explain? It would take words, sentences, volumes to justify thwarting such a natural desire, for bodies to follow where hearts already had gone. Frustrated, he sifted memory for a song that might suffice, but came up empty. All he could do, before fleeing to his star-covered sanctuary, was touch Sara’s cheek and let his eyes express the trueness of his love.
In fact, there was nothing wrong with Emerson’s sexuality. He longed to prove it to her. But not now. A confrontation loomed, and he needed every resource. Strong animal cravings might help keep him anchored through the coming showdown, reminding him of priorities that more advanced minds had forgotten.
His plan was necessarily crude, since thinking came so hard without words. By visualizing certain acts, body movements, emotions, and images, he had a general idea what to expect, and how to react when the time came.
It must be soon. Emerson could still discern meaning from a spatial diagram, and one truth grew plain as Streaker gyred into the white dwarf’s gravitational funnel. A point of no return would come when the convoy of immense spacecraft got so closely packed that no single ship could escape on normal engine power. Gillian would have to break out before then, or risk forever abandoning the outer cosmos — the realm of open vacuum where young races thrived. Where blazing spaceships crossed star-speckled skies.
The same logic applied to the secret faction of Old Ones.
They have to act soon, or else he trapped along with …
Emerson stopped short — then resumed his thought, warily.
… or … else … be … trapped along with us, down among the Transcendent habitats, unable to intervene any longer in the affairs of the Five Galaxies.…
A low grunt escaped his throat. Despite expecting it this time, the sudden return of speech filled him with aching mixtures of sorrow, joy, and fear.
The words … the words are back again!
At least Emerson was better prepared now. For many days he had been storing memories, laboriously freezing snippets of speech that others said, in hope of fitting the pieces when this moment came.
“Let me conjecture. The emblem stands for a union of hydro-and oxy-life, coming together at last.…”
“… those derelict ships we found in the Shallow Cluster must have come from our past … when more than five galaxies made up this nexus-association.”
• • •
“… suppose older, wiser spirits asserted themselves after each disruption … controlling the Great Library … to erase and adjust archives … or divert blame …”
“… So this is transcendence. Every species that was uplifted … and survives to adult phase … winds up in such a place.…”
“Whoever gave Streaker this coating not only saved our lives … they made sure we must stay with this convoy, all the way to the bottom.…”
“… no way to get rid of the heat …”
So many ideas, converging at once! It might seem like this for a blind man to have cataracts removed from his eyes, revealing vistas of utter clarity where there had been fog. And yet, many concepts also felt somehow familiar! As if they had been lurking close to comprehension for quite some time, massaged and predigested by undamaged portions of his brain, awaiting only clear sentences to make it all come together.
Emerson would gladly have spent hours just standing there, letting gravitational tides align his head toward the heavens while he grabbed and combined notions from cascades that seemed to roar through his mind like a pent-up flood. But he was not given the leisure.
A voice interrupted — at once both remote and mocking. Distant, yet derisive.
“WE NOTE THAT YOU DID NOT CALL US, DESPITE HAVING BEEN SUPPLIED WITH A CODE TO USE, WHEN READY TO ACT ON OUR OFFER.”
Emerson scarcely bothered peering amid the glittering lights outside. A dark ship must have drawn nearby in cloaked secrecy, and trying to spot it would be futile. Instead, he went into rapid motion, squeezing his body out of the narrow crystal dome, then sliding down the rungs of a ladder designed for another race, in a far different time.
“I was curious to see just how badly you want the goods you asked for,” he replied in a low mutter under his breath. Sound wasn’t the medium of communication here. Rather, the Old Ones were monitoring a stolen plug of his own gray matter they had somehow kept in quantum contact to the rest of his brain. When brought close enough, it flowed with words. His words.
Words they could instantly read.
“WE DO NOT HAVE TO EXPLAIN TO THE LIKES OF YOU. IT IS ENOUGH THAT WE SEEK, AND YOU SHALL PROVIDE.”
Jogging down a hallway, Emerson pulled from his pocket a small handmade instrument with a flashing indicator. No words had been needed to construct the simple tool, nor did he contemplate its meaning.
“Aren’t you guys running out of time?” he asked his tormentors — members of the Retired Order, whose homes had vanished in the ruin of the Fractal World. Retirees whose vaunted detachment had failed under testing.
“If you wait much longer, you’ll transcend, whether you like it or not. The data you seek won’t do you any good. There’ll be no way to tell your friends, back in the Five Galaxies.”
Icy tones echoed in his head.
“WE HAVE SPENT AEONS CULTIVATING PATIENCE. ALL THIS RACING ABOUT, TAKING FIERCE ACTIONS … IT IS UNPLEASANT WE HAD FORGOTTEN HOW QUICKLY DEEDS ARE FOLLOWED BY EFFECTS.”
Emerson rounded a corner and passed through a hatch, guided by the telltale marker.
“Yeah, all the uncertainty must be driving you nuts. So tell me, how does it feel to almost gain entry to the Transcendent Order, your goal for a million years, only to sneak away at the last, moment, just to carry off a few bytes of data stolen from a miserable Earthship? Aren’t you tempted just to let go of all those old obsessions? To give in and embrace the tides?”
The reply came only after a long pause, while he raced down Streaker’s long, almost-deserted hallways.
“YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO HOLD BACK. THE GRAVITATIONAL TUG AND STRETCH ARE VOLUPTUOUS IN A MANNER THAT NO WORDS — NO MERE PHYSICAL SENSATION — CAN DESCRIBE.”
“Go ahead and try,” Emerson urged. “What is the big deal about the Embrace of Tides?”
“YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND. WITHIN THE EMBRACE, ONE FEELS UNION WITH THE WHOLE COSMOS. IT IS CO
MPORTING PHILOSOPHICALLY, AS WELL AS ON THE LEVEL OP FAITH. THERE IS WISDOM HERE, AND KNOWLEDGE VASTLY BEYOND THE GREAT LIBRARY, OR EVEN WHAT WE KNEW IN THE FRACTAL WORLD.”
“Really? Then why not just go?” Vehemence filled his voice, now echoing off the pale walls. “Do the wise and noble thing. Accept your diploma. Graduate, dammit! Gimme back my brain. The life you stole from me. Go down to your paradise with clean karma and a clear conscience!”
When the meddlers replied, there seemed almost to be a note of contrition.
“UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, YOUR PLEA MIGHT HAVE ETHICAL MERIT. BUT NOW FAR GREATER ISSUES ARE AT STAKE THAT FORCE US …”
There was another pause.
“JUST A MOMENT. WE DETECT SOMETHING IN YOUR EMOTIVE TONE. IN YOUR MANNER …”
Emerson felt strange, tickling sensations, as if the left side of his brain were being scraped or probed. When the voice resumed, it had a new, resentful tone.
“YOU HAVE LEARNED TRICKS OF DECEPTION AND DISTRACTION. CLEARLY, IT IS NO LONGER POSSIBLE TO SCAN YOUR THOUGHTS SIMPLY BY MONITORING WORDS AND GLYPHS. THE THINGS YOU SAY APPEAR ARGUMENTATIVE, BUT IN TRUTH THEY ARE MEANT TO DEFER. TO DELAY.
“REVEAL WHAT YOU ARE HIDING! REVEAL, OR EXPERIENCE PAIN!”
Emerson gritted his teeth as he ran, trying hard not to laugh out loud or show the depth of his contempt. But a little leaked out as blankets of concealment were assailed by ancient skill. While the Old Ones could not draw facts out of his reluctant mind, they got a good picture of his attitudes.
“WE PERCEIVE THAT ALL FORMS OF BASIC COERCION ARE OBSOLETE OR INAPPLICABLE IN YOUR CASE. YOU HAVE GONE PAST PAIN, A LESSON THAT MANY RETIREES SPEND AGES OVERCOMING. NOR DO YOU WHIMPER AND CLASP AFTER WHAT WAS TAKEN FROM YOU NO INDUCEMENT OR BRIBE WILL CAUSE YOU TO BETRAY FRIENDS AND CLAN MATES. YOU HAVE NOT EVEN TRIED TO STEAL THE DATA WE ASKED FOR.
“ALL OF THIS MAY BE ADMIRABLE, ESPECIALLY IN A WOLFLING. INDEED, UNDER OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES, WE MIGHT TAKE PLEASURE IN COMPENSATING YOU FOR YOUR TRIALS, AND CONVERSING FURTHER ABOUT THE VIRTUES OF UNCERTAINTY.
