Startide Rising u-2

by David Brin

  23 ::: Gillian

  The ships lay in space like serried rows of scattered beads, dimly reflecting the faint glow of the Milky Way. The nearest stars were the dim reddish oldsters of a small globular cluster, patient and barren remnants from the first epoch of star formation — devoid of planets or metals.

  Gillian contemplated the photograph, one of six that Streaker had innocently transmitted home from what had seemed an obscure and uninteresting gravitational tide pool, far off the beaten path.

  An eerie, silent armada, unresponsive to their every query; the Earthlings hadn't known what to make of it. The fleet of ghost ships had no place in the ordered structure of the Five Galaxies.

  How long had they gone unnoticed?

  Gillian put the holo aside and picked up another. It showed a close-up of one of the giant derelict ships. Huge as a moon, pitted and ancient, it shimmered inside a faint lambence — a preservative field of unguessable properties. The aura had defied analysis. They could only tell that it was an intense probability field of unusual nature.

  In attempting to dock with one ghost ship, at the outer reaches of the field, the crew of Streaker's gig somehow touched off a chain reaction. Brilliant lightning flashed between the ancient behemoth and the little scoutboat. Lieutenant Yachapa-Jean had reported that all the dolphins were experiencing intense visions and hallucinations. She tried to disengage, but in her disorientation she set off her stasis screens inside the strange field. The resultant explosion tore apart both the tiny Earthship and the giant derelict.

  Gillian put down the photo and looked across the lab. Herbie still lay enmeshed in his web of stasis, a silhouette untold hundreds of million years — billions of years old.

  After the disaster, Tom Orley had gone out all alone and brought the mysterious relic back in secret through one of Streaker's side locks.

  A prize of great cost, Gillian thought as she contemplated the cadaver. We paid well for you, Herb. If only I could figure out what we bought.

  Herb was an enigma worthy of concerted research by the great Institutes, not one solitary woman on a besieged starship far from home.

  It was frustrating, but someone had to make this effort. Somebody had to try to understand why they had been turned into hunted animals. With Tom gone, and Creideiki busy keeping the ship and crew functioning, the task was hers. If she didn't do it, it wouldn't be done.

  Slowly, she was learning a thing or two about Herbie… enough to confirm that the corpse was very old, that it had the skeletal structure of a planet-walker, and that the ship's micro-Library still claimed that nothing like it had ever existed.

  She put her feet up onto the desk and pulled another photo from the stack. It clearly showed, through that shimmering probability field, a row of symbols etched into the side of a massive hull.

  "Open Library," she pronounced. Of the four holo screens on her desk, the one at the far left — with the rayed spiral glyph above it — came alight.

  "Sargasso file symbols reference search. Open and display changes."

  A terse column of text displayed in response against the wall to Gillian's left. The listing was dismayingly brief.

  "Sub-persona: Reference Librarian — query mode," she said. The outline remained projected against the wall. Alongside it a swirling pattern coalesced into the rayed spiral design. A low, calm voice intoned, "Reference Librarian mode, may I help you?"

  "Is this all you've been able to come up with, regarding those symbols on the side of that derelict ship?"

  "Affirmative," the voice was cool. The inflections were correct, but no attempt had been made to disguise the fact that it came from a minimal persona, a small corner of the shipboard Library program.

  "I have searched my records for correlates with these symbols. You are well aware, of course, that I am a very small micro-branch, and that symbols are endlessly mutable in time. The outline gives all possible references I have found within the parameters you set."

  Gillian looked at the short list. It was hard to believe. Though incredibly small compared with planetary or sector branches, the ship's Library contained the equivalent of all the books published on Earth until the late twenty-first century. Surely there had to be more correlates than this!

  "Ifni!" she sighed. "Something has got half the fanatics in the galaxy stirred up. Maybe it's that picture of Herbie we sent back. Maybe its these symbols. Which was it?"

  "I am not equipped to speculate," the program responded.

  "The question was rhetorical, and not addressed to you anyway. I see you show a thirty percent correlation of five symbols with religious glyphs of the Abdicator' Alliance. Give me an overview of the Abdicators."

  The voice shifted tone. "Cultural summary mode…"

  "Abdicator is a term chosen from Anglic to represent one of the major philosophical groupings in Galactic society.

  "The Abdicator belief dates from the fabled Tarseuh episode of the fifteenth aeon, approximately six hundred million years ago, a particularly violent time, when the Galactic Institutes barely survived the ambitions of three powerful patron lines (reference numbers 97AcF109t, 97AcG136t and 97AcG986s).

  "Two of these species were amongst the most potent and aggressive military powers in the history of the five linked galaxies. The third species was responsible for the introduction of several new techniques of spacecraft design, including the now standard…"

  The Library waxed into a highly technical discussion of hardware and manufacturing methods. Though interesting, it seemed hardly relevant. With her toe she touched the "skim" button on her console, and the narration leaped ahead…

  "… The conquerors assumed an appellation which might be translated as 'the Lions.' They managed to seize most of the transfer points and centers of power, and all the great Libraries. For twenty million years their grip appeared unassailable. The Lions engaged in unregulated population expansion and colonization, resulting in extinction of eight out of ten pre-client races in the Five Galaxies at the time.

  "The Tarseuh helped bring about an end of this tyranny by summoning intervention by six ancient species previously thought to be extinct. These six joined forces with the Tarseuh in a successful counterattack by Galactic culture. Afterward, when the Institutes were re-established, the Tarseuh accompanied the mysterious defenders to an obscure oblivion…"

  Gillian interrupted the flow of words.

  "Where did the six species that helped the rebels come from? Did you say they had been extinct?"

  The monitor voice returned. "According to records of the time, they had been thought extinct. Do you want reference numbers?"

  "No. Proceed."

  "Today most sophonts believe the six were racial remnants not yet finished stepping off into a later stage of evolution. Thus the six might not have been extinct per se, but merely grown almost unrecognizable. They were still capable of taking an interest in mundane affairs when matters became sufficiently severe. Do you wish me to refer you to articles on the natural passing modes of species?"

  "No. Proceed. What do the Abdicators say took place?"

  "Abdicators believe that there are certain ethereal races which deign to take physical form, from time to time, disguised in a seemingly normal pattern of uplift. These 'Great Ghosts' are raised up as pre-clients, pass through indenture, and go on to become leading seniors, without ever revealing their true nature. In emergencies, however, these super-species can quickly intervene directly in the affairs of mortals.

  "The Progenitors are said to be the earliest, most aloof, and most powerful of these Great Ghosts.

  "Naturally, this is profoundly different from the common Progenitor legend, that the Eldest departed the Home Galaxy long ago, promising to return some day…"

  "Stop!" The Library fell silent at once. Gillian frowned as she thought about the phrase "Naturally, this is profoundly different…

  Bull! The Abdicator belief was just a variant of the same basic dogma, differing only slightly from other millennia
l legends of the "return" of the Progenitors. The controversy reminded her of old-time religious conflicts on Earth, when adherents had performed frantic exegesis over the nature of trinity, or the number of angels that could dance on the head of a pin.

  This particular frenzy over minor points of doctrine would be almost funny if the battle weren't going on right now, a few thousand kilometers overhead.

  She jotted a reminder to try a cross-reference to the Hindu belief in the avatars of deities. The similarity to Abdicator tenets made her wonder why the Library hadn't made the connection, at least as an analogy.

  Enough is enough.

  "Niss!" she called.

  The screen on the far right came alight. An abstract pattern of sparkling motes erupted into a sharply limited zone just above the screen.

  "As you know, Gillian Baskin, it is preferable that the Library not know of my existence aboard this ship. I have taken the liberty of screening it so that it cannot observe our conversation. You wish to ask me something?"

  "I certainly do. Were you listening to that report just now?"

  "I listen to everything this ship's micro-branch does. It is my primary function here. Didn't Thomas Orley ever explain that to you?"

  Gillian restrained herself. Her foot was too close to the offending screen. She put it on the floor to remove temptation. "Niss," she asked evenly, "why does the micro-branch Library talk gibberish?"

  The Tymbrimi machine sighed anthropomorphically. "Dr. Baskin, virtually every oxygen-breathing race but Mankind has been weaned on a semantic which evolved down scores of patron-client links, all influenced by the Library. The languages of Earth are strange and chaotic by Galactic standards. The problems of converting Galactic archives into your unconventional syntax are enormous."

  "I know all that! The ETs wanted us to all learn Galactic Seven at the time of Contact. We told them to take the idea and stick it."

  "Graphically put. Instead, humanity applied immense resources to convert Earth's branch Library to use colloquial Anglic, hiring Kanten, Tymbrimi, and others as consultants. But still there are problems, are there not?"

  Gillian rubbed her eyes. This was getting them nowhere. Why did Tom imagine this sarcastic machine was useful? Whenever she wanted to get a simple answer, it only asked questions.

  "The language problem has been their excuse for over two centuries!" she said. "How much longer will they use it? Since Contact we've been studying language as it hasn't been studied in millions of years! We've tackled the intricacies of 'wolfling' tongues like Anglic, English, Japanese, and taught dolphins and chimps to speak. We've even made some progress communicating with those strange creatures, the Solarians of Earth's sun!

  "Yet the Library Institute still tells us it's our language that's at fault for all of these lousy correlations, these clumsily translated records! Hell, Tom and I can each speak four or five Galactic tongues. It's not the language difference that's the trouble. There's something queer about the data we've been given!"

  The Niss hummed silently for a time. The sparkling motes coalesced and separated like two immiscible fluid merging and falling apart into droplets.

  "Dr. Baskin, haven't you just described the major reason for ships such as this one, which roam space hunting discrepancies in the Library's records? And the very purpose of my existence, to attempt to catch the Library in a lie, to try to: find out if the most powerful patron races, as you would say: 'stack the deck' against younger sophonts such as Men and Tymbrimi?"

  "Then why don't you help me?" Gillian's heart raced She gripped the edge of the desk, and she realized suddenly that the frustration had come close to overcoming her.

  "Why am I so fascinated with the human way of looking at things, Dr. Baskin?" the Niss asked. Its voice turned almost sympathetic. "My Tymbrimi masters are unusually crafty. Their adaptability keeps them alive in a dangerous galaxy. Yet they, too, are trapped in the Galactic mode of thinking. You Earthlings, from a fresh perspective, may see what they do not.

  "The range of behaviors and beliefs among oxygen-breathers is vast, yet the experience of Man is virtually unique. Carefully uplifted client races never suffer through the errors made by your pre-Contact human nations. These errors have made you different."

  That was true enough, Gillian knew. Blatant idiocies had been tried by early men and women — foolishness that would never have been considered by species aware of the laws of nature. Desperate superstitions had bred during the savage centuries. Styles of government, intrigues, philosophies were tested with abandon. It was almost as if Orphan Earth had been a planetary laboratory, upon which a series of senseless and bizarre experiments were tried.

  Illogical and shameful as they seemed in retrospect, those experiences enriched modern Man. Few races had made so many mistakes in so short a time, or tried so many tentative solutions to hopeless problems.

  Earthling artists were sought out by many jaded ETs, and paid well to spin tales no Galactic would imagine. The Tymbrimi particularly liked human fantasy novels, with lots of dragons, ogres and magic — the more the better. They thought them terrifyingly grotesque and vivid.

  "I am not discouraged when you grow frustrated with the Library," the Niss said. "I am glad. I learn from your frustration! You question things that all Galactic society takes for granted.

  "Only secondarily am I here to help you, Mrs. Orley. Primarily, I am here to observe how you suffer."

  Gillian blinked. The machine's use of an ancient honorific had to have had a purpose — as did its blatant attempt to make her angry. She sat still and monitored a flux of conflicting emotions.

  "This is getting nowhere," she spat. "And it's making me crazy. I feel all cooped up."

  The Niss sparkled without commenting. Gillian watched the motes spin and dance.

  "You're suggesting we let it sit for a while, aren't you?" she said at last.

  "Perhaps. Both Tymbrimi and Humans possess preconscious selves. Perhaps we should both let these matters lie in the dark for a time, and let our hidden parts mull things over."

  Gillian nodded. "I'm going to ask Creideiki to send me to Hikahi's island. The abos are important. After escape itself, I'd guess they're the most important thing:"

  "A normal, moral view from the Galactic standpoint, and therefore of little interest to me." The Niss sounded bored already. The dazzling display coalesced into dark patterns of spinning lines. They whirled and converged, fell together into a tiny point, and disappeared.

  Gillian imagined she heard a faint pop as the Niss departed.

  When she reached Creideiki on the comm line the captain blinked at her.

  "Gillian, is your psi working overtime? I was just calling you!…

  She sat up. "Have you heard from Tom?"

  "Yesss. He's fine. He's asked me to send you on an errand. Can you come down here right away?"

  "I'm on my way Creideiki."

  She locked the door to her lab and hurried toward the bridge.

  24 ::: Galactics

  Beie Chohooan could only rumble in amazement at the magnitude of the battle. How had the fanatics managed to gather such strength in so short a time?

  Beie's little Synthian scout ship cruised down the ancient, rocky jet stream left by a long-dead comet. The Kthsemenee system was ablaze with bright flashes. Her screens showed the battle fleets as they merged into swirling knots all around her, scratching and killing and separating again. Alliances formed and dissolved whenever the parties seemed to sense an advantage. In violation of the codes of the Institute for Civilized Warfare, no quarter was being given.

  Beie was an experienced spy for the Synthian Enclave, but she had never seen anything like this.

  "I was an observer at Paklatuthl, when the clients of the J'81ek broke their indenture on the battlefield. I saw the Obeyor Alliance meet the Abdicators in ritual war. But never have I seen such mindless slaughter! Have they no pride? No appreciation of the art of war?"

  Even as she watched, Beie saw the stronges
t of the alliances fall apart in a fiery betrayal, as one flank fell upon the other.

  Beie snorted in disgust. "Faithless fanatics," she muttered.

  There was a chitter from the shelf to her left. A row of small pink eyes looked down upon her.

  "Which of you said that!" She glared at the little tarsier-like wazoon, each staring out the entrance hatch of its own little spy-globe. The eyes blinked back at her. The wazoon chittered in amusement, but none of them answered her directly.

  Beie sniffed. "Well, you're right, of course. The fanatics have quick reactions on their side. They do not stop and consider, but dive right in, while we moderates must ponder before we act."

  Especially the ever-cautious Synthians, she thought. Earthlings are supposed to be our allies, yet timidly we talk and consider, we protest to the impotent Institutes, and send expendable scouts to spy upon the fanatics.

  The wazoon chattered a warning.

  "I know!" she snapped. "Don't you think I know my business? So there's a watcher probe up ahead. One of you go take care of it and don't bother me! Can't you see I'm busy?"

  The eyes blinked at her. One pair vanished as the wazoon scuttled into its tiny ship and closed the hatch. In a moment a small shudder passed through the scout as the probe departed.

  Luck to you, small wazoon, faithful client, she thought.

  Feigning nonchalance, she watched as the tiny probe danced up ahead amongst the planetoidal debris, sneaking toward the watcher probe that lay in Beie's path.

  One expendable scout, she thought bitterly. The Tymbrimi are fighting for their lives. Earth is besieged, half her colonies taken, and still we Synthians wait and watch, watch and wait, sending only me and my team to observe.

  A small flame burned suddenly, casting stark shadows through the asteroid field. The wazoon let out a low groan of mourning, stopping quickly when Beie looked their way.