//I am not Center anymore, zunre,// Jindigar told them. Ill can’t lead in this, for I am too Active to see anything but my own point of view.//
Llistyien answered, //It’s our point of view too. Very seldom has an Oliat been called to such a task, but it’s not unprecedented. Jindigar, the Dushau species will die out if we stagnate on Dushaun.// She gestured at the new worldcircle. //With this the colony has a real chance. But if we can’t accept that there is no Completion for us, that we’re called to serve our species, then the colony will fail and there will be no Completion for anyone.//
Trinarvil agreed. //I have pursued the Healer’s path to Completion: working at the performing and creative arts, learning all the cosmogonies, magicks, and sciences, and even doing the regimens of all the priesthoods, including, most recently, the Ambassadorial. I had no idea it would lead me to the Healing of a nine-species community. But there is one thing I have learned in Healing—it is not something that is done to you but something you do to yourself. I am of this community and of this world—and so I must do what is necessary to Hail.//
Krinata stated, as if she really understood, //It’s up to Center to decide what’s necessary. The Center’s job is to guide the officers along Aliom toward Completion. And, Jindigar, whether you’re still qualified or not, you’re our Center—and you must decide; not us—not a vote—you. I’ll abide by whatever you decide.//
//A promise, Krinata?//
She frowned. //No—a prediction.//
//And how would Takora decide?//
//That’s not fair,// she objected.
Ill know.// Takora had once opted to take her Oliat with her to oblivion. Would she do it again?
Finally Krinata met his gaze. //Takora’s had no vital objective worth seven lives to achieve. We do.//
She was right—a habit with her. And he had resolved to make the decisions a Center must. //You’ve all been lulled into a false sense of security by the dangers we have already survived. We’re not talking about danger now, we’re talking about certain death.//
A somber stillness settled over them all. They were unanimously willing. But it was his decision. He knew what he had! to do, but his worst regret was that by doing this he’d be violating his Priest’s vow to Cyrus to return Krinata to him. It would be the first major breach in his integrity since his Inversion. What does it matter? I’m giving up Completion, anyway. But something in him stubbornly refused to believe that. If there’s any path out of this, it lies straight ahead.
//We go into the field. On pensone. Trinarvil, will you get the vial?// He adjusted the linkages so Trinarvil wouldn’t be bothered with multiawareness and announced, //Meanwhile we’ll survey the situation. This Oliat will succeed before we die.// Why did I add that? My promises aren’t worth anything anymore.
//Good,// agreed Krinata. Then she offered, //Besides, we have to get the whule back. Lelwatha would never forgive Jindigar if he lost it to someone who couldn’t play it.//
Darllanyu asked, //Jindigar, is that why you like humans?//
//One of the important reasons, yes.//
A warmth suffused the linkages and made his Oliat whole, as if they had just met the real Krinata, the Krinata who had dragged him across the galaxy, saving his life time after time, refusing to give up no matter how hopeless it became. Suddenly it became very hard not to hope they would survive.
Refusing to let the feeling grow, he flung their awareness wide, encompassing the entire settlement. The colonists had worked in shifts to construct an assault on the hive’s position. Now deep furrows were clearly visible in the ground, leading from the river to the ships—water channels that were almost ready to be flooded.
On the ground just beyond the new trenches an arrangement of large wooden shafts and levers was being raised upright. It was a catapult with a person-sized basket at the top of the throwing arm. A thick cable led from the basket off toward the south—to the power station at the waterfall. A Cassrian was strapped into the basket, both arms wrapped around his head as if the swaying of the basket made him ill. ‘• ,,
The area where the ships were parked was now encircled by a solid barrier of dirt and rocks compacted into the classic foundation for a hive-dome.
The Oliat could see why the hive had gravitated to the shipyard. By chance the ships had been parked around a central monster of an orbit-to-orbit vessel that had been floated down by tenders so it could be cannibalized for parts. It jutted above the large ships next to it, which in turn dwarfed the smaller ships around them, and the whole array formed a dome-shaped outline.
Not one ship was still spaceworthy, but in every one, the Natives who were not working on the hive-dome or digging the well in the middle of the dome area were building fires and preparing food they had brought with them.
At even intervals around the new dome foundation, clusters of hivebinders faced outward, vigilantly. The hivemind behind them was shaky but recovered.
Zannesu interpreted his Reception. //They don’t know what Terab is up to, but they understand that those trenches are meant to be a threat.//
//She’ll have to break their foundation before she can get the water around the bases of the ships,// observed Jindigar, wondering how long the crude generator could electrify the ship’s hulls—and how much real damage that might possibly do. They could only plant one cable at a time, and the Cassrian who rode the catapult with that cable would never return.
//Why such an elaborate scheme?// asked Darllanyu.
//It seems,// answered Jindigar., //that our ephemeral allies have finally discovered that attacking in force doesn’t work on Phanphihy. They probably think the primitives won’t understand what hit them.//
Terab, plastered with half-dried mud, came onto the field leading a party of burly Holot. They carried charges of chemical explosives in all four arms and walked on their hind legs, stepping carefully. A demolition crew.
The hive had not missed their approach. Below the rim of the foundation, warriors, unsure of what sort of attack they faced, crept bravely to the point targeted by Terab’s party.
//Jindigar, we’ve got to stop them!// Krinata gathered her legs under her, as if to make for the door. But then she halted, and Jindigar sensed the conflicting impulses in her. Determined not to usurp Center again, she looked back at Jindigar.
He adjusted the Outreach link so she got only a comfortable trickle of information but4old her, //There’s nothing we can do but watch. Even if we could get there in time, we aren’t stable enough yet to work on a battlefield.//
Before Terab’s demolition crew reached the foundation, the warriors leapt out at them, throwing weapons flying and spears thrusting. The universe spun into an insane distortion—the hive’s defense.
Reeling from the mental impact, dodging their attackers, the demolition crew swarmed onto the barrier. One by one they placed their charges and turned to flee. The warriors, unaware of their danger, attacked the fleeing Holot.
The hivebinders increased their efforts. Suddenly one of the demolition crew hurled his explosives aside and went after one of his fellow Holot. The Oliat saw the hideous monster he fought so heroically. Three other Holot scrabbled to disarm the charges they had just placed, deluded into believing that they were about to destroy a priceless work of art. Nearby a Holot female, with gleaming teeth bared, heaved at an invisible monster and stood up straight, as if in victory. Then, sanity once again in her eyes, she glanced around and saw Terab leading a pitched battle against the warriors.
With quiet dignity the Holot female bent to the charge primer, and Jindigar knew what she was doing. Frantically he grabbed up the linkages and pulled in the Reception.
The horror he felt and the horror he anticipated joined as the explosion erupted. Their own flesh tore apart. Chunks of themselves went flying, showering blood onto the ground.
Cringing, Jindigar yanked them free and sent the Oliat spinning into blackness. The horror followed them, churning the blackness with nightmares. Jindi
gar gripped the linkages and focused on the worldcircle, tapping into the balm of Dushaun. Then he eased them back to limited awareness.
Krinata slumped to the floor where, she stood. The others knelt or hugged themselves. The hive’s defense redoubled in volume. Anchoring to the worldcircle, Jindigar, inspired by desperation, organized the linkages so their multiawareness cross-checked each perception and accepted only what seemed the same to all of them, sifting reality from hallucination.
It made an incredible tangle of the linkages, but within moments the others pushed upright, blinking hard at Jindigar as they sorted out this new function. Real images became extra-bright translucencies surrounded with white halos of worldcircle energy. Hallucinations appeared transparent and pale next to the real—but sometimes there were many layers of hallucinatory images. If I could have done this for Eithlarin….
Only Krinata still felt the warped reality eating at the edges of her mind. //I’m sorry, Krinata,// Jindigar apologized, //but if I opened any further to you, the data flow would be more confusing to you than the distortion.//
She shoved her hair back from her face and shook as if to divest herself of something wet and unpleasant. //It’s all right– as long as I know it’s not really real.//
Venlagar asked, working hard to hold the unique pattern Jindigar had set, //Can you manipulate the Oliat like this?//
Observing what he had created, Jindigar didn’t give himself time to think but merely took up the linkages and called, //Receptor, we must find out what has happened.//
Zannesu fumbled about until he focused on the hive again. The last dirt clods spattered down. All the ex-Imperials kept their heads down until it stopped, but a few colonists looked up too soon and were hit with rocks and dirt. As if out of nowhere, water coursed into the channels the colonists had dug. It tunneled through the hole the explosion had ripped in the hive’s dome foundation and spread out among the ships» The ground, already saturated from spring rains, soaked up very little, and most of the water formed a puddle around the base of the lab ship.
Soon water backed up in the channel. An innocent-seeming piece of wood began to float in that water– It lifted a lever and set off a chain reaction. Ultimately the catapult fired.
The Cassrian and the end of the cable went flying toward the lab ship—the only ship powered up to supply heat and light within, the one ship likely to contain the most vulnerable members of the hive.
Now everything depended on the Cassrian.
But this one must have been an acrobat or a stuntman. He landed square on the sloping hull and anchored himself with fittings taken from a vacuum suit. His task was extremely simple—clamp the electrical contacts into place. But when he did, he would be the first to die.
Several times, as they watched, it seemed he would abandon the task to chase phantasms of horror that opposed him while the real adversary, six warriors and two rustlemen, closed in from below, climbing handholds on the ship’s skin. The Cassrian battled with rapidly weakening movements, as if his initial feat had taken up all his remaining strength. But, with only seconds to spare, the Cassrian overcame his personal demons and plunged the cubic home.
Instantly he stiffened, then tumbled down the polished hull.
Below him, the eight Natives screamed and died.
Those who ran to help them were caught in the current and died. Those inside the ship, not knowing they were insulated from the danger, rushed out to see what was happening, touched the hull and died. The entire hive was gravitating toward the charged puddle. Three hivebinders cautiously advanced toward the stricken and died. At the same instant the horror broadcast flicked off, and reality settled in around them.
The hivemind stopped the headlong rush to the rescue of its dead it ml dying. Natives danced around the edges of the puddle, feeling the tingle of electrical charge through the damp ground. Then the generator at the waterfall blew.
A column of black smoke rose from the generator shed, but the Natives didn’t connect that with the cessation of deaths. They circled the puddle, sniffing and babbling at each other.
The colonists picked themselves up and congratulated each other as they gathered their dead.
// Why?// It was Krinata, scrubbing at her face with her hands as if to dispel the last nightmare. //Why did Terab let them do that? Jindigar, two people killed themselves to deliver a relatively minor blow to the hive. Why?//
Jindigar plucked his cross-check linkage pattern apart and reassembled it into a standard global search. It wasn’t an Outreach’s function to Formulate such questions, but Darllanyu was only a split instant behind her with the correct formulation.
It didn’t lake long. In the houses and in one barn that had been designated a hospital, people lay tossing helplessly in the grip of Krinata’s Fever. In less than two days, while the Oliat had struggled to recover, fully a quarter of the colony had come down with it—and a dozen bodies of all four ephemeral species had been laid out for burial.
Several were infants.
But no Dushau. Some ephemerals must feel the Oliat has deserted them because we don’t care–the fever hardly touches Dushau.
Krinata’s thoughts flew toward Cyrus and the Outriders. //Krinata, take care. Outreach must retain exterior contact.//
//I’m sorry. I’ve got to know!// She got to her feet again, making for the door. Then she stopped. //Jindigar, please!//
It took every bit of discipline Jindigar had to keep from flickering the Oliat awareness into a search for the Outriders. //Of course, Krinata. Take your place.// He waited for her to resume her position as Outreach, feeling what it cost her. His Oliat might be doomed, but Jindigar wasn’t going to throw their lives away by laxness in the most basic safety rules separating officers’ functions.
At the very instant she reached her position he broke, and opened the linkages wide in a full global search for Cyrus and the Outriders.
He found them together, in Storm’s cabin in the outer courtyard of the compound. Storm was seated on the bed, knees gathered to his chin, arms tightly binding himself together as if he might fly apart from grief.
In the crib beside the bed the Lehiroh’s baby lay, unbreathing, a flush of fever still suffusing the skin, though the features were slack in death.
Cyrus leaned weakly against the doorjamb, blocking the door into the adjacent room. His upper lip was damp with beads of sweat, and his shirt showed dark stains. “Maybe this doesn’t help,” he said, “but I’m glad his mother didn’t have to live to see him die. It would have killed her, Storm. Ruff, you tell him.”
Ruff was bent over the tiny body, tenderly composing it for the burial. Only the slight trembling of his hands showed the tightly coiled emotion within him. But as Cyrus spoke he glanced up at his human colleague, left his job to one of the other co-fathers, and went across the room lo him. “Cy! You shouldn’t he out of bed! We can’t afford to lose you too. Think of Krinata – -think of the Oliat.”
Storm roused himself to gaze at the two, and as Ruff eased himself under Cyrus’s free arm to help him back into the other room, the front door rattled to an insistent touch. One of the other humans opened it, then stepped back, asking, “Threntisn?” His eyes shitted. “Isn’t that—”
“Chinchee. Yes. May we enter?”
“We’re quarantined,” called Storm.
“I have had the disease,” announced Threntisn, “and Chinchee is unlikely to acquire it until it mutates again.”
Storm waved them inside, saying to Ruff over his shoulder, “Put Cy to bed and see that he drinks more of that concoction that brings the fever down.”
Threntisn glimpsed Cyrus and stopped them. “This concerns you, most especially Cyrus. When I heard that you had contracted the fever, I knew it would endanger the Oliat. They have not Dissolved yet, but when they prepare for the effort, they will become aware of your condition. Krinata will be affected—the Oliat could be endangered.”
“We’ve told him that, but he won’t stay in bed,”
explained Storm, casting a frustrated look at his human colleague but paying no attention to Chinchee.
The Native, with his hivebinder on his shoulder, crept closer to the infant’s bed to look down on the stillness there. He watched the Lehiroh who was wrapping the body. Solemnly the Native gestured in the air over the baby, then relaxed as if a grave but necessary chore had been completed. Finally he turned to study Cyrus, comparing him to the infant, comprehending at last that the adult human had the disease that had killed the infant Lehiroh.
The Oliat gathered that such cross-species diseases were common on Phanphihy.
“I have devised a plan,” announced Threntisn. “I have retrieved the techniques necessary to operate the lab machinery. I can create the appropriate serum from my own blood and inoculate Cyrus. If I do so as the hive watches, they will come to understand why we demand our ship back.”
“You’ll never get near them!” protested Storm. “Terab’s trick didn’t even impress the hive.”
“Chinchee assures me that it won’t move, no matter what Terab does,” answered Threntisn, “but it may give us the lab ship.”
“You can talk to Chinchee?” demanded Cyrus. , “His Cassrian isn’t good enough to let him understand much, but he is anxious for the hive and the colony to negotiate. That seems to be a Herald’s function, and Chinchee feels he has failed. I think he’ll do his best to get us into the hive area– the rest I believe I can manage.”
“Chinchee,” asserted Chinchee, confirming that he understood he was being discussed. With one hand he stroked the hivebinder on his shoulder, while in Cassrian whistles he said, “Go. Now.”
“Wait now,” countered Threntisn in good Cassrian. As a Historian, Threntisn had to be skilled in many professions. He probably could “manage” the lab. But Jindigar couldn’t figure where his crazy scheme had come from.
Then he remembered Dar’s comment on the Historians’ view of Completion. Threntisn must see himself as assisting at the birth of a new civilization, Completing all Dushau, not just himself. But carrying the Archive, Threntisn wasn’t free to risk his life. On the other hand, Historians were such mystics, shunning the simple, rigorous derivations of Aliom. How often had he heard Complete Priests say, Never extrapolate a Historian’s future actions. They delight in confounding us.
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