by David Brin
Dwer
THE STUFF FELT STRANGE. IT SEEMED TO REPEL HIS hand slightly, until he got within a couple of centimeters. Then it pulled. Neither effect was overwhelming. He could yank his hand back fairly easily.
He could not quite place why it was eerily familiar. Dwer walked all the way around his circular cage, stopping on occasion to bend down and examine the starscape beyond. He recognized most of the constellations, except for one patch that had always been invisible from the Slope. So that's what the southern sky is like. Undimmed by dust or atmosphere, the entire Dandelion Cluster lay before him, a vast unwinking spectacle. It would be even more fantastic without the filmy golden barrier in the way.
Thank Ifni for that barrier, he reminded himself. There is no air out there.
In one direction lay a tremendously bright star he did not recognize at first.
Then he knew ... it was the sun, much diminished, and getting smaller all the time.
In the opposite direction lay Izmunuti's fierce eye. The red glare grew more pronounced, until he began to make out an actual disk. Yet he realized it must still be farther away than the sun. Izmunuti was said to be a giant among stars.
In time he noticed other objects. Not stars or nebulae, but gleaming dots. At first they all seemed rather distant. But over the course of a midura, they drew ever closer, rounded shapes that revealed themselves more by their glimmering rims, occulting the constellations, than for any brightness they themselves put out.
One of them-a rippled sphere on the side toward Izmunuti-had to be a starship. It loomed larger with each passing dura. Soon he recognized it as the behemoth that had twice crossed the sky over the Poison Plain, shaking his hapless balloon with each passage,
When Dwer crossed his prison to peer through the membrane on the other side, he saw a line of yellowish globes, even closer than the starship. Their color made him realize, They're other captives, like me.
Pressing close to the barrier, a tingle coursed his scalp and spine. He felt similarities to when the Danik robot sent its fields through his body, changing his nervous system in permanent, still-uncertain ways.
Well, I was unusual even before that. For instance, no one else I know ever talked to a mule spider. . . .
Dwer yanked his head back, recalling at last what this stuff reminded him of. The fluid used by the mad old spider of the mountains-One-of-a-Kind-to seal its victims away, storing its treasured collections against the ravages of time. Months back, a coating of that stuff had nearly smothered him, until he escaped the spider's trap.
A strange sensation came over Dwer. An odd idea. I could talk to spiders, not just in the mountains, but the one in the swamp, too.
I wonder if that means ...
Once again, he put his hand against the golden material, pushing through the initial resistance, pressing his fingertips ahead. The resistance was springy. The material seemed adamant.
But Dwer let his mind slide into the same mode of thinking that used to open him to communion with mule beings. Always before, he had felt that the spider was the one doing most of the work, but now he realized, It's my own talent. My own gift. And by the Holy Egg, I think I can-
Something gave way. Resistance against his fingertips suddenly vanished and they slipped through, as if penetrating some greasy fluid.
Abrupt cold struck the exposed hand, plus a feeling as if a thousand vampire ants were trying to drink his uncovered veins through straws. Dwer jerked back his arm and it popped out, the fingers red and numb, but mostly undamaged. The membrane flowed back instantly, never leaving an opening to space.
Lucky me, he thought.
When Dwer next checked, the starship had grown to mammoth size. A great bull beast, bearing down on him rapidly, with a hunter's complacent confidence.
I'm a fish on a line. It's reeling me in!
On the other side, the captive globes bobbed almost touching, like toy balloons gathered along an invisible string. The separating distances diminished rapidly.
Dwer sat and thought for a while.
Then he started gathering supplies.
The Sages
PHWHOON-DAU LED THE NEW SEXTET, COMMENCing the serenade with a low, rolling umble from his resonating throat sac.
Knife-Bright Insight followed by rubbing a myrliton drum with her agile tongue, augmenting this with syncopated calliope whistles from all five leg vents.
Ur-Jah then joined in, lifting her violus against a fold in her long neck, raising stringed harmonies with the double bow.
After that, by seniority, the new sages for traeki, human, and g'Kek septs added their own contributions, playing for a great ovoid-shaped chunk of wounded stone. The harmonies were rough at first, but soon they melded into the kind of union that focused the mind.
So far, the assembly was unexceptional. Other groups of six had performed for the Egg, over the course of a hundred years. Some of them more gifted and musical.
Only this time things were fundamentally different. It was no group of six, after all.
Two other Jijoan types were present.
The first was a glaver.
The devolved race always had an open invitation to participate, but it was centuries since any glaver took part in rituals of the Commons-long before Earthlings arrived, and certainly before the coming of the Egg.
But glavers had been acting strangely for months. And today, a small female came out of the brush and began slogging up the Pilgrimage Path, just behind Phwhoondau, as if she had the same destination in mind. Now her huge eyes glistened as the music swelled, and strange mewling noises emerged from her grimaced mouth. Sounds vaguely reminiscent of words. With her agile forked tail, she waved a crude rattle made of a stretched animal skin, with stones shaking inside.
Not much of an instrument, but after all, her kind were out of practice.
What must it take, Phwhoon-dau pondered, to draw them back from the bliss a,Redemption's Path?
Lounging on a nearby boulder, an eighth creature paused licking himself now and then to survey the proceedings. The noor-tytlal had two blemishes on an otherwise jetblack pelt-white patches under each eye-adding to its natural expression of skeptical disdain, j
The sages were not fooled. It had arrived just after the I others, gaunt, bedraggled, and tired, having run hard for several days. Only urgency, not complacent inquisitiveness could have driven a noor to strive so. The creature's mobile ears flicked restlessly, and pale, spiky hairs waved behind the skull, belying its air of feigned nonchalance.
Now the secret was out. Everyone knew these were clients of the legendary Tymbrimi. Moreover, their patrons had given the tytlal a hoon as uniquely personal as music,
Phwhoon-dau noticed a soft agitation start to form above the insouciant creature, as if a pocket of air were thickening, and beginning to shimmer. The sages altered their harmony to resonate with the throbbing disturbance, helping it grow as a look of hesitant surprise spread across the sleek, noorlike face.
Reluctant or not, he was now part of the pattern.
Part of the Council of Eight.
In the narrow, resonant confines of the Egg's abode, they made their art, their music.
And soon, another presence began to make itself known. best speed of pursuit, our tactics stacks compute that all but the very last convoy should be in reach before the storms of Izmunuti are near.
To help speed progress, the Captain-Leader has ordered that the string of captive ships be reeled in closer behind us. When robots can board them, we will be able to cast aside the decoys, one by one.
Now the detections stack reports data arriving from Jijo, the planet behind us.
"More digital cognizance traces,More engine signs!" But the Captain-Leader rules that this is but a futile attempt to distract us from our pursuit. The Earthling vessel may have left salvaged wrecks behind, to turn themselves on after a timed delay. Or else living confederates have acted on Jijo to set off this ruse. It does not matter. Once the fleeing vessels are in to
w, we will be in between the Earthers and Izmunuti.
Things would be very different if there were more than one route in or out of this system. But matters are quite convenient for one capital ship to blockade Jijo effectively.
There will be no more breakouts.
That much is true. Yet, i/we hesitate to point out that this may not yet be the end. Indeed, the wolflings may have sent us on a "wild-goose chase," pursuing only robot ships while they use this respite to cache themselves in new hiding places, deep beneath Jijo's confused waters. They may even abandon their vessel, taking their vital information ashore, where we will only find it by slay-sifting the entire ecosystem!
The Priest-Stack will not permit so extreme a violation of Galactic law, of course. If such a drastic policy proves necessary, the priest may have to be dismantled, and the watcher-observer destroyed. Then we would be committed irrevocably. In case of failure, we would be labeled bandits and bring shame upon the clan.
How is it possible even to contemplate such measures? Because all auguries show, with growing certainty, that a Time of Changes has already commenced upon the Five Galaxies. Hence all the desperate activity by so many great clans.
Cwasx
BEHOLD, MY RINGS, HOW WELL THE CHASE PROgresses!
Already one fugitive convoy is liquidated, its component vessels enjoined to our train of captives. While this growing impediment slows the Polkjhy from engaging her
If the Institutes are indeed about to fall, there will be no one to investigate crimes committed on this world.
DO NOT TREMBLE SO, MY RINGS. Have I not assured you, repeatedly, that the mighty Jophur are fated to prevail? And that you,I am destined to be useful toward that end?
Crime and punishment need not be considerations, if we are the ones who will make the new rules.
Anyway, it may not prove necessary to return to Jijo. If the prey ship truly lies before us, the high ambitions of our alliance may soon be within tentacle reach.
We near the second convoy. And now missiles spring forth.
WITH THE MIGHTY STARSHIP LOOMING CLOSER ON one side, he had to wait in frustration while the yellow beads clustered on the other, coming together with disheartening slowness. His preparations made, Dwer raced back and forth to check each direction.
In time, he learned a technique to make each crossing go much quicker--kicking off from the wall and flying straight across the open interior.
The Jophur vessel impended, mammothly immense. When its dark mass blocked nearly half the starscape, a door of some sort opened in its curved flank and several tiny octagonal shapes emerged, floating toward Dwer's prison.
He recognized the silhouettes.
Battle robots.
They took their time drifting closer, and he realized there was still a large span to cross. At least twenty arrowflights. Still, only duras remained until they arrived.
On returning to the rear of the prison sphere, he breathed a sigh of relief. The captive bubbles were touching now! Yellow spheres, they ranged widely in size, but none was anywhere near as large as the battleship. Most were much larger than his own little ball.
Dwer sought the place where his bubble touched the second in line. A low drumming sound carried through each time the surfaces pressed together.
He zipped up the coverall the Streaker crew had given him-a fine garment that covered all but his feet, hands, and head. It had never occurred to him to ask for more.
But right now space gloves and a helmet would be nice.
No matter. The next time the spheres touched, he concentrated for the right frame of mind, and made his move.
SHE LEFT THE CONTROL ROOM WHEN HER SKIN started puckering from too much exposure to fizzy water. Anyway, there seemed no point hanging around. The same news could be had in her comfortable suite--once the home of a great Earthling sage named Ignacio Metz.
Sara dried herself and changed into simple shipboard garments, snug pants and a pullover shirt that posed no mystery even to an unsophisticated sooner. They were wonders of softness and comfort nevertheless.
When she asked the room to provide a tactical display, vivid 3-D images burst forth, showing that the Jophur dreadnought had once again chosen the wrong decoy swarm, and was just finishing firing missiles. Meanwhile, its string of earlier victims merged with the red glow, as if it were gobbling them one by one.
At her voice command, the viewscreen showed Streaker's goal, the red giant star, magnified tremendously, the whirling filamentary structure of its inflamed chromosphere extending beyond the width of any normal solar system. Izmunuti's bloated surface seethed, sending out tongues of ionized gas, rich with the heavy elements that made up Sara's own body.
Purofsky thinks the Buyur had ways to meddle with a star.
Even without that awesome thought, it was a stirring sight to behold. Past those raging fires had come all the sneakships that deposited their illicit seed on Jijo, along with the varied hopes of each founding generation. Their aspirations had ranged from pure survival, for humans and g'Keks, all the way to the hoonish ancestors who apparently came a long way in order to play hooky.
All those hopes will come crashing down, unless Streaker can make it to Izmunuti's fires.
Sara still had no idea how Gillian Baskin hoped to save Jijo. Would she let the enemy catch up and then blow this ship up, in order to take the Jophur out, as well?
A brave ploy, but surely the enemy would be prepared for that, and take precautions.
Then what?
It seemed Sara would find out when the time came.
She felt bad about the kids-Huck, Alvin, and the others. But they were adults now, and volunteers.
Anyway, the sages say it's a good omen for members of all six races to be present when something vital is about to happen.
Sara's own reasons for coming went beyond that.
Purofsky said one of us had to take the risk-either him or me-and go with Streaker, on the slim chance that she makes it.
One of us should try to find out if it's true. What we figured out about the Buyur.
All her life's work, in mathematical physics and linguistics, seemed to agree with Purofsky's conclusion.
Jijo was no accident.
Oh, if she delved into psychology, she might find other motives underlying her insistence on being the one to go.
To continue taking care of Emerson, perhaps?
But the wounded starman was now with those who loved him. Shipmates he had risked death alongside, many times before. After overcoming initial shame, Emerson had found ways to be useful. He did not need Sara anymore.
No one really needs me.
Face it. You^re going out of curiosity.
Because you are Melina's child.
Because you want to see what happens next.
Dwer
IT WAS A GOOD THING HE REMEMBERED ABOUT AIR. There would be none on the other side. By twisting through the barrier, writhing, and making his body into a hoop, Dwer managed to create a tunnel opening from his prison sphere into the next. A brief hurricane swiftly emptied the atmosphere from his former cell until the pressure equalized. He then pushed through, letting the opening close behind him.
Dwer's ears popped and his pulse pounded. The trick had severely diluted the available air, taking him from near-sea-level pressure to the equivalent of a mountaintop in just half a dura. Speckles danced before his eyes. His body would not last long at this rate.
There was another reason to hurry. As he departed the sphere containing the balloon remnants, he had seen shadows touch beyond the far side. Jophur robots. Come to inspect their first captive.
His gear had settled against the golden surface of his new cell. Dwer grabbed the makeshift pack and moved toward the only possible place of refuge-the nose of the imprisoned starship.
It looked nothing like the massive Jophur vessel, but resembled a pair of spoons, welded face-to-face, with the bulbous end forward. Fortunately, the enclosure barely cleared the ship, fore a
nd aft. A bank of dim windows nearly touched the golden surface.
And there's a door!
Dwer gathered strength, flexed his legs, and launched toward the beckoning airlock. He sailed across the gap and barely managed to snag a protruding bracket with the tip of his left hand.
If this takes some kind of secret code, I'm screwed.
Fortunately, the dolphin work crews had a standard procedure for entering and converting Buyur wrecks. He had accompanied them on some trips, lending a hand. Dwer was glad to see the makeshift locking mechanism still in place, set to work in a fashion that even a Jijoan hunter might understand.
