Startide Rising u-2

by David Brin

  Metz's eyes widened. "The sleeve! You crawled into one of the sealed maintenance ways that the builders used on Earth, and made your way to the boat's access panels, down by the thrust motors…"

  "Righto!" Charlie beamed as he buckled his seatbelt.

  "You probably had to remove some plates in the sleeve wall, using a jack-pry. No dolphin could manage such a thing in an enclosed space, so they didn't think of it."

  "No, they didn't."

  Metz looked Charlie up and down. "You passed pretty close to the thrusters. Did you get cooked?"

  "Hmmm. My suit rad-meter says raw to medium rare." Charlie mocked blowing on his fingertips.

  Metz grinned. "I shall, indeed, take note of this rare display of ingenuity, Dr. Dart! And welcome aboard. I'll be too busy anyway, inspecting the Kiqui, to take proper care of that robot of yours. Now you can do it right."

  Dart nodded eagerly. "That's why I'm here."

  "Excellent. Perhaps we can have a few games of chess, as well."

  "I'd like that."

  They sat back and watched as the ocean ridges passed by. Every few minutes one would look at the other, and would burst out laughing. The Stenos were silent.

  "What's in the sack?" Metz pointed to the large satchel on Dart's lap.

  Charlie shrugged. "Personal effects, instruments. Only the barest, most minuscule, most Spartan necessities."

  Metz nodded and settled back again. It would, indeed, be nice to have the chimpanzee along on the trip. Dolphins were fine people, of course. But Mankind's older client race had always struck him as better conversationalists. And dolphins didn't play chess worth a damn.

  It was an hour later that Metz recalled Charlie's first words, on announcing his presence aboard. Just what did the chimp mean when he accused Takkata-Jim of "destroying evidence"? That was a very strange thing to say.

  He put the question to Dart. "Ask the lieutenant," Charlie suggested. "He seemed to know what I meant. We're not exactly on speaking terms," he grumbled.

  Metz nodded earnestly. "I will ask him. As soon as we get settled on the island, I will certainly do that."

  63 ::: Tom Orley

  In the tangled shadows below the weed carpet, he made his way cautiously from airhole to airhole. The facemask helped him stretch a deep breath a long way, especially when he got near the island and had to search for an opening to the shore.

  Tom finally crawled out onto land just as the orange sun Kthsemenee slipped behind a large bank of clouds to the west. The long Kithrup day would last for a while yet, but he missed the direct warming of the sun's rays. Evaporation-chill made him shiver as he pulled himself through a gap in the weeds, and up the rocky shoreline. He climbed on his hands and knees to a hummock a few meters above the sea, and sat back heavily against the rough basalt. Then he pulled the breathing mask down around his neck.

  The island seemed to rock slowly, as if it were a cork bobbing in the sea. It would take a while to grow used to solid ground again — just long enough, he realized ironically, for him to finish what he had to do here and get back into the water again.

  He pulled clumps of green slime from his shoulders, and shivered as the damp slowly evaporated.

  Hunger. Ah, there was that, too.

  It took his mind off the damp and chill, at least. He thought about pulling out his last foodbar, but decided it could wait. It was all within a thousand kilometers that he could eat, barring what he might find in alien wreckage.

  Smoke still rose where the small ET scout had crashed, just over the shoulder of the mountain. The thin stream climbed to merge high above with sooty drifts from the volcano's crater. Once in a while, Tom heard the mountain itself growl.

  Okay. Let's move.

  He gathered his feet beneath him and pushed off.

  The world wavered about him unsteadily. Still, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself standing without too much trouble.

  Maybe Jill's right, he thought. Maybe I have reserves I'd never touched before.

  He turned to his right, took a step, and almost tripped. He recovered, then stumbled along the rocky slope, thankful for his webbed gloves when it came to climbing over jagged rocks, serrated like chipped flint. One step after another, he drew near the source of the smoke.

  Topping a small rise, he came into view of the wreck.

  The scout had broken into three pieces. The stern section lay submerged, only its torn front end protruding from the charred weeds in the shallows. Tom checked the radiation meter at the rim of his facemask. He could stand the dose for a few days, if necessary.

  The forward half of the wreck had split longitudinally, spilling the contents of the cockpit along a stony strand. Loose banners of fine wire wafted above metal bulkheads which had been pulled and twisted apart like taffy.

  He thought about drawing his needier, but decided it would be better to have both hands free in case he fell.

  Looks easy enough, Tom thought. I just go down and inspect the damned thing. One step at a time.

  He moved carefully down the slope, and made it without catastrophe.

  There wasn't much left.

  Tom poked through the scattered small pieces, recognizing bits of various machines. But nothing told him what he wanted to know.

  And there was no food.

  Large bent sheets of metal lay everywhere. Tom approached one that seemed to have cooled off, and tried to lift it. It was too heavy to budge more than a few inches before he had to let it drop.

  Tom panted with his hands on his knees for a moment, breathing heavily.

  A few meters away was a great pile of driftwood. He went over and pulled out a few of the thicker stumps of dried seaweed. They were tough, but too springy to use as pry-bars. Tom scratched his stubble and thought. He looked at the sea, covered all the way to the horizon with vile, slimy vines. Finally he started gathering dried vines together into two piles.

  After dark he sat by a driftwood fire, weaving tough strands of vine into a pair of large flat fans, somewhat like tennis rackets with loops on one side. He wasn't sure they would work as desired, but tomorrow he would find out.

  He sang softly in Trinary, to distract himself from his hunger. The whistled nursery rhyme echoed softly from the nearby cliffside.

  * Hands and fire?

  Hands and fire!

  * Use them, use them

  To leap higher!

  * Dreams and song?

  Dreams and song!

  * Use them, use them

  To leap-long! *

  Tom stopped suddenly, and cocked his head. After a silent moment he slid his needier out of its holster.

  Had he heard a sound? Or was it his imagination?

  He rolled quietly out of the firelight and crouched in the shadows. He looked into the darkness, and like a dolphin, tried to listen to the shape of things. In a stalker's crouch, from cover to cover, he made a slow circuit of the wreckage strewn beach.

  "Barkeemkleph Annatan P'Klenno. V'hoominph?"

  Tom dove behind a hull-shard and rolled over. Breathing open-mouthed to keep silent, he listened.

  "V'hoomin Kent'thoon ph?"

  The voice resonated, as if from a metal cavity… from under one of the large pieces of wreckage? A survivor? Who would have imagined?

  Tom called out. "Birkech'kleph. V'human ides'k. V'Thennan' kleph ph?"

  He waited. When the voice in the darkness answered, Tom was up and running.

  "idatess. V'Thennan'kleeph…"

  He dove once again and fetched up against another shard of metal. He crawled on his elbows and took a quick look around the side of the bulkhead.

  And aimed his weapon directly into the eyes of a large, reptiloid face, only a meter away. The face grimaced in the dim starlight.

  He had only met Thennanin once, and studied them at the school on Cathrhennlin for one week. The creature was half-squashed under a massive, warped metal plate. Tom could guess its expression was one of agony. The scout's arms and back had been
broken under the piece of hull.

  "V'hoomin t'barrchit pa…"

  Tom adjusted to the dialect the other spoke. The Thennanin used a version of Galactic Six.

  "… would not kill you, human, had I even the means. I wish only to persuade you to talk to me and distract me for a time."

  Tom holstered the needier and moved to sit cross-legged in front of the pilot. It would only be polite to listen to the creature — and be ready to put him out of his misery if he asked the favor.

  "I grieve that I am unable to succor you," Tom answered in Galactic Six. "Though you are an enemy I have never been one to call Thennanin wholly evil."

  The creature grimaced again. His ridge-crest bumped intermittently against the metal roof and he winced each time.

  "Nor do we think of hooman'vlech as totally without promise, though recalcitrant, wild, and irreverent."

  Tom bowed, accepting as whole the partial compliment.

  "I am prepared to do the service of termination, should you wish it," he offered.

  "You are kind, but that is not our way. I will wait as my pain balances my life. The Great Ghosts shall judge me brave."

  Tom lowered his gaze. "May they judge you brave."

  The Thennanin breathed raggedly, eyes closed. Tom's hand drifted to his waistband. He touched the bulge that was the message bomb. Are they still waiting, back at Streaker? He wondered. What will Creideiki decide to do if he doesn't hear from me?

  I must know what's been happening in the battle above Kithrup.

  "For conversation and distraction," he offered, "shall we exchange questions?"

  The Thennanin opened his eyes. They actually seemed to hold a hint of gratitude. "Nice. A nice idea. As elder, I shall begin. I will ask simple questions, so as not to strain you."

  Tom shrugged. Almost three hundred years we've had the Library. We have had six thousand years of intricate civilization. And still nobody believes humans could be anything but ignorant savages.

  "Why did you not, from Morgran, flee to a safer haven?" the scout asked. "Earth could not protect you, nor even those scoundrel Tymbrimi who lead you into evil ways. But the Abdicators are strong. You would have found safety with us. Why did you not come into our arms?"

  He made it all sound so simple! If only it were so. If only there had been a truly powerful alignment to flee to, one that would not have charged, in return, more than Streaker's crew or Earth could afford to pay. How to tell the Thennanin that his Abdicators were only slightly less unpalatable than most of the other fanatics.

  "It is our policy never to surrender to bullying threats," Tom said. "Never. Our history tells us the value of this tradition, more than those brought up on the Library annals could imagine. Our discovery will be given only to the Galactic Institutes, and only by our Terragens Council leaders themselves."

  At mention of Streaker's "discovery" the Thennanin's face showed unmistakable interest. But he waited his turn, allowing Tom the next question.

  "Are the Thennanin victorious overhead?" Tom asked anxiously. "I saw Tandu. Who prevails in the sky?"

  Air whistled through the pilot's breathing vents. "The Glorious fail. The killer Tandu thrive, and Soro pagans abound. We harass where we can, but the Glorious have failed. Heretics shall gain the prize."

  It was a bit of a tactless way to put it, with one of the "prizes" sitting in front of him. Tom cursed softly. What was he going to do? Some of the Thennanin survived, but could he tell Creideiki to go ahead and take off on that basis?

  Should they try a ruse which, even if successful, would gain them allies too weak to do any good?

  The Thennanin breathed raggedly.

  Although it was not his turn, Tom asked the next question.

  "Are you cold? I will move my fire here. Also, there is work I must do, as we talk. Forgive this junior patron if I offend."

  The Thennanin looked at him with purple, cat-irised eyes. "Politely spoken. We are told you humans are without manners. Perhaps you are merely unlearned, yet well-meaning…"

  The scout wheezed and blew sand grains from his breathing slits, while Tom quickly moved his camp. By the flickering flame-light, the Thennanin sighed. "It is appropriate that, trapped and dying on a primitive world, I shall be warmed by the crafty fire-making skills of a wolfling. I shall ask you to tell a death-bound being about your discovery. No secrets, just a story…a story about the miracle of the Great Return…"

  Tom drew forth a memory, one that still gave him chills.

  "Consider ships," he began. "Think of starships — ancient, pitted, and great as moons…"

  When he awakened next to the warm coals of his fire, the dawn was barely breaking, casting long dim shadows along the beach.

  Tom felt much better. His stomach had become resigned to a fast, and sleep had done him a lot of good. He was still weak, but he felt ready to try a dash for the next possible haven.

  He got up, brushed off the multi-colored sand, and peered to the north. Yes the floating derelict was still there. Hope on the horizon.

  To his left, under the massive bulkhead, the Thennanin scout breathed softly, slowly dying. It had fallen asleep listening to Tom's story of the Shallow Cluster, of the shining giant ships, and the mysterious symbols on their sides. Tom doubted the creature would ever reawaken.

  He was about to turn and pick up the shoes he had woven the night before, when he frowned and peered under a shading hand toward the eastern horizon.

  If only the binoculars had been saved!

  He squinted, and at last he made out a line of shadows moving slowly against the brightening horizon, spindly-legged figures, and one smaller, shambling thing. A column of tiny silhouettes moved slowly northward.

  Tom shivered. They were headed toward the eggshell wreck. Unless he acted quickly, they would cut him off from his only chance at survival.

  And he could tell already that they were Tandu.

  PART SIX

  Scatter

  "The moot point is, whether Leviathan can long endure so wide a chase, and so remorseless a havoc… and the last whale, like the last man, smoke his last pipe, and then himself evaporate in the final puff."

  — MELVILLE

  64 ::: Creideiki/Sah'ot

  Creideiki stared at the holo display and concentrated. It was easier to talk than to listen. He could call up the words one or two at a time, speak them slowly, shuttling them like pearls on a string.

  "… neural link… repaired… by… Gillian and Makanee… but… but… speech… still… still…"

  "Still gone," Sah'ot's image nodded. "You can use tools now, though?"

  Creideiki concentrated on Sah'ot's simple question. You-can-use-… Each word was clear, its meaning obvious. But in a row they meant nothing. It was frustrating!

  Sah'ot switched to Trinary.

  * Tools to prod?

  The balls

  The starships -

  * Is your jaw?

  The player

  The pilot — *

  Creideiki nodded. That was much better, though even Trinary came to him like a foreign tongue, with difficulty.

  * Spider walkers, walkers, walkers

  * Holocomm talkers, talkers, talkers

  Are my playthings, are — *

  Creideiki averted his eyes. He knew there were elements of Primal in that simple phrase, in the repetition and high whistling. It was humiliating to still have an active, able mind, and know that to the outside world you sounded retarded.

  At the same time, he wondered if Sah'ot noticed a trace of the language of his dreams — the voices of the old gods.

  Listening to the captain, Sah'ot was relieved. Their first conversation had started off well, but toward the end Creideiki's attention had begun to wander, especially when Sah'ot had started running him through a battery of linguistic tests.

  Now, after Makanee's last operation, he seemed much more attentive.

  He decided to test Creideiki's listening ability by telling him about his discove
ry. He carefully and slowly explained in Trinary about the "singing" he had heard while linked to the robot in the drill-tree funnel.

  Creideiki looked confused for a long moment as he concentrated on Sah'ot's slow, simplified explanation, then he seemed to understand. In fact, from his expression, it seemed he thought it the most natural thing in the world that a planet should sing.

  "Link… link me… pl-please… I… I will… listen… listen…"

  Sah'ot clapped his jaw in assent, pleased. Not that Creideiki, with his language centers burned, would be able to make out anything but static. It took all of Sah'ot's subtle training and experience to trace the refrain. Except for that one time, when the voices from below had shouted in apparent anger, the sounds had been almost amorphous.

  He still shuddered, remembering that one episode of lucidity.

  "Okay, Creideiki," he said as he made the connection. "Listen closely!"

  Creideiki's eyes recessed in concentration as the static crackled and popped over the line.

  65 ::: Gillian

  "Triple damn! Well, we can't wait for her to get here to start the move. It might take Hikahi two days to circle around in the skiff: I want to have Streaker safely inside the Seahorse by then."

  Suessi's simulacrum shrugged. "Well, you could leave her a note."

  Gillian rubbed her eyes. "That's just what we'll do. We'll drop a monofilament relay link at Streaker's present position, so we can stay in touch with the party on the island. I'll stick a message to the relay telling her where we've gone."

  "What about Toshio and Dennie?"

  Gillian shrugged. "I'd hoped to send the skiff after them and Sah'ot… and maybe after Tom. But as things are, I'd better have Dennie and Sah'ot head toward your site by sled. I hate doing it. It's dangerous and I need Toshio there watching Takkata-Jim until just before we take off."