by David Brin
I never should’ve told him how Dwer saved me from the mulc spider. They say male urs are dumb. Ain’t it my luck to marry a genius one?
“Oh … all right!”
The bottle, an alien-made wonder, weighed little more than the liquid it contained. “Don’t drop it,” she warned Dwer, lowering the red cord. He grabbed it eagerly.
“No, fool! The top don’t pull off like a stopper. Turn it till it comes off. That’s right. Jeekee know-nothin’ slopie.”
She didn’t add how the concept of a screw cap had mystified her, too, when Kunn and the others first adopted her as a provisional Danik. Of course that was before she became sophisticated.
Rety watched nervously as he drank.
“Don’t spill it. An’ don’t you dare drink it all! You hear me? That’s enough, Dwer. Stop now. Dwer!”
But he ignored her protests, guzzling while she cursed. When the canteen was drained, Dwer smiled at her through cracked lips.
Too stunned to react, Rety knew — she would have done exactly the same.
Yeah, an inner voice answered. But I didn’t expect it of him.
Her anger spun off when Dwer squirmed, tilting his body toward the robot’s headlong rush. Squinting against the wind, he held the loop cord in one hand and the bottle in the other, as if waiting for something to happen. The flying machine crested a low hill, hopping over some thorny thickets, then plunged down the other side, barely avoiding several tree branches. Rety held tight, keeping yee secure in his pouch. When the worst jouncing ended she peered down again … and rocked back from a pair of black, beady eyes!
It was the damned noor again. The one Dwer called Mudfoot. Several times the dark, lithe creature had tried to clamber up from his niche, between Dwer’s torso and a cleft in the robot’s frame But Rety didn’t like the way he salivated at yee, past needle-sharp teeth. Now Mudfoot stood on Dwer’s rib cage, using his forepaws to probe for another effort.
“Get lost!” She swatted at the narrow, grinning face. “I want to see what Dwer’s doin’.”
Sighing, the noor returned to his nest under the robot’s flank.
A flash of blue came into view just as Dwer threw the bottle. It struck watery shallows with a splash, pressing a furrowed wake. The young man had to make several attempts to get the cord twisted so the canteen dragged with its opening forward. The container sloshed when Dwer reeled it back in.
I’d’ve thought of that, too. If I was close enough to try it.
Dwer had lost blood, so it was only fair to let him drink and refill a few more times before passing it back up.
Yeah Only fair. And he’ll do it, too. He’ll give it back full.
Rety faced an uncomfortable thought.
You trust him.
He’s the enemy. He caused you and the Daniks heaps of trouble. But you’d trust Dwer with your life.
She had no similar confidence in Kunn, when it came time to face the Rothen-loving stellar warrior.
Dwer refilled the bottle one last time and held it up toward her. “Thanks, Rety … I owe you.”
Her cheeks flushed, a sensation she disliked. “Forget it. Just toss the cord.”
He tried. Rety felt it brush her fingertips, but after half a dozen efforts she could never quite hook the loop. What happens if I don’t get it back!
The noor beast emerged from his narrow niche and took the cord in his teeth. Clambering over Dwer’s chest, then using the robot’s shattered laser tube as a support, Mudfoot slithered closer to Rety’s hand. Well, she thought. If it’s gonna be helpful …
As she reached for the loop, the noor sprang, using his claws as if her arm were a handy climbing vine. Rety howled, but before she could react, Mudfoot was already up on top, grinning smugly.
Little yee let out a yelp. The urrish male pulled his head inside her pouch and drew the zipper shut.
Rety saw blood spots well along her sleeve and lashed in anger, trying to kick the crazy noor off. But Mudfoot dodged easily, inching close, grinning appealingly and rumbling a low sound, presenting the water bottle with two agile forepaws.
Sighing heavily, Rety accepted it and let the noor settle down nearby — on the opposite side from yee.
“I can’t seem to shake myself loose of any of you guys, can I?” she asked aloud.
Mudfoot chittered. And from below, Dwer uttered a short laugh — ironic and tired.
Alvin
IT WAS A LONELY TIME, CONFINED IN GNAWING PAIN to a cramped metal cell. The distant, humming engine reminded me of umble lullabies my father used to sing, when I came down with toe pox or itchysac. Sometimes the noise changed pitch and made my scales frickle, sounding like the moan of a doomed wooden ship when it runs aground.
Finally I slept …
… then wakened in terror to find that a pair of metalclad, six-legged monsters were tying me into a contraption of steel tubes and straps! At first, it looked like a pre-contact torture device I once saw in the Doré-illustrated edition of Don Quixote. Thrashing and resisting accomplished nothing, but hurt like bloody blue blazes.
Finally, with some embarrassment, I realized. It was no instrument of torment but a makeshift back brace, shaped to fit my form and take weight off my injured spine. I fought to suppress panic at the tight metal touch, as they set me on my feet. Swaying with surprise and relief, I found I could walk a little, though wincing with each step.
“Well thanks, you big ugly bugs,” I told the nearest of the giant phuvnthus. “But you might’ve warned me first.”
I expected no answer, but one of them turned its armored torso — with a humped back and wide flare at the rear — and tilted toward me. I took the gesture as a polite bow, though perhaps it meant something different to them.
They left the door open when they exited this time. Slowly, cringing at the effort, I stepped out for the first time from my steel coffin, following as the massive creatures stomped down a narrow corridor.
I already figured I was aboard a submarine of some sort, big enough to carry in its hold the greatest hoonish craft sailing Jijo’s seas.
Despite that, it was a hodgepodge. I thought of Frankenstein’s monster, pieced together from the parts of many corpses. So seemed the monstrous vessel hauling me to who-knows-where. Each time we crossed a hatch, it seemed as if we’d pass into a distinct ship, made by different artisans … by a whole different civilization. In one section, the decks and bulkheads were made of riveted steel sheets. Another zone was fashioned from some fibrous substance — flexible but strong. The corridors changed proportions — from wide to painfully narrow. Half the time I had to stoop under low ceilings … not a lot of fun in the state my back was in.
Finally, a sliding door hissed open. A phuvnthu motioned me ahead with a crooked mandible and I entered a dim chamber much larger than my former cell.
My hearts surged with joy. Before me stood my friends! All of them — alive!
They were gathered round a circular viewing port, staring at inky ocean depths. I might’ve tried sneaking in to surprise them, but qheuens and g’Keks literally have “eyes in the back of their heads,” making it a challenge to startle Huck and Pincer.
(I have managed it, a couple of times.)
When they shouted my name, Ur-ronn whirled her long neck and outraced them on four clattering hooves. We plunged into a multispecies embrace.
Huck was first to bring things back to normal, snapping at Pincer.
“Watch the claws, Crab Face! You’ll snap a spoke! Back off, all of you. Can’t you see Alvin’s hurt? Give him room!”
“Look who talks,” Ur-ronn replied. “Your left wheel just squished his toes, Octofus Head!”
I hadn’t noticed till she pointed it out, so happy was I to hear their testy, adolescent whining once more.
“Hr-rm. Let me look at you all. Ur-ronn, you seem so much … drier than I saw you last.”
Our urrish buddy blew a rueful laugh through her nostril fringe. Her pelt showed large bare patches where fur had sloug
hed after her dousing. “It took our hosts a while to adjust the hunidity of ny guest suite, vut they finally got it right,” she said. Her torso showed tracks of hasty needle-work — the phuvnthus’ rough stitching to close Ur-ronn’s gashes after she smashed through the glass port of Wuphon’s Dream. Fortunately, her folk don’t play the same mating games as some races. To urs, what matters is not appearance, but status. A visible dent or two will help Ur-ronn show the other smiths she’s been around.
“Yeah. And now we know what an urs smells like after actually taking a bath,” Huck added. “They oughta try it more often.”
“You should talk? With that green eyeball sweat—”
“All right, all right!” I laughed. “Just stopper it long enough for me to look at you, eh?”
Ur-ronn was right. Huck’s eyestalks needed grooming and she had good reason to worry about her spokes. Many were broken, with new-spun fibers just starting to lace the rims. She would have to move cautiously for some time.
As for Pincer, he looked happier than ever.
“I guess you were right about there being monsters in the deep,” I told our red-shelled friend. “Even if they hardly look like the ones you descr—”
I yelped when sharp needles seemed to lance into my back, clambering up my neck ridge. I quickly recognized the rolling growl of Huphu, our little noor-beast mascot, expressing gladness by demanding a rumble umble from me right away.
Before I could find out if my sore throat sac was up to it, Ur-ronn whistled from the pane of dark glass. “They turned on the searchlight again,” she fluted, with hushed awe in her voice. “Alvin, hurry. You’ve got to look!”
Awkwardly on crutches, I moved to the place they made for me. Huck stroked my arm. “You always wanted to see this, pal,” she said. “So gaze out there in wonder.
“Welcome to the Great Midden.”
Asx
HERE IS ANOTHER MEMORY, MY RINGS. AN EVENT that followed the brief Battle of the Glade, so swiftly that war echoes still abused our battered forest canyons.
Has the wax congealed enough yet? Can you stroke-and-sense the awesome disquiet, the frightening beauty of that evening, as we watched a harsh, untwinkling glow pass overhead?
Trace the fatty memory of that spark crossing the sky, brightening as it spiraled closer.
No one could doubt its identity.
The Rothen cruiser, returning for its harvest of bioplunder, looted from a fragile world.
Returning for those comrades it had left behind.
Instead of genetic booty, the crew will find their station smashed, their colleagues killed or taken.
Worse, their true faces are known! We castaways might testify against them in Galactic courts. Assuming we survive.
It takes no cognition genius to grasp the trouble we faced. We six fallen races of forlorn Jijo.
As an Earthling writer might put it — we found ourselves in fetid mulch. Very ripe and very deep.
Sara
THE JOURNEY PASSED FROM AN ANXIOUS BLUR INTO something exalting … almost transcendent.
But not at the beginning.
When they perched her suddenly atop a galloping creature straight out of mythology, Sara’s first reaction was terrified surprise. With snorting nostrils and huge tossing head, the horse was more daunting than Tarek Town’s stone tribute to a lost species. Its muscular torso flexed with each forward bound, shaking Sara’s teeth as it crossed the foothills of the central Slope by the light of a pale moon.
After two sleepless days and nights, it still seemed dreamlike the way a squadron of the legendary beasts came trotting into the ruined Urunthai campsite, accompanied by armed urrish escorts. Sara and her friends had just escaped captivity — their former kidnappers lay either dead or bound with strips of shredded tent cloth — but she expected reenslavement at any moment. Only then, instead of fresh foes, the darkness brought forth these bewildering saviors.
Bewildering to everyone except Kurt the Exploser, who welcomed the newcomers as expected friends. While Jomah and the Stranger exclaimed wonder at seeing real-life horses, Sara barely had time to blink before she was thrust onto a saddle.
Blade volunteered to stay by the bleak fire and tend the wounded, though envy filled each forlorn spin of his blue cupola. Sara would trade places with her qheuen friend, but his chitin armor was too massive for a horse to carry. There was barely time to give Blade a wave of encouragement before the troop wheeled back the way they came, bearing her into the night.
Pounding hoofbeats soon made Sara’s skull ache.
I guess it beats captivity by Dedinger’s human chauvinists, and those fanatic Urunthai. The coalition of zealots, volatile as an exploser’s cocktail, had joined forces to snatch the Stranger and sell him to Rothen invaders. But they underestimated the enigmatic voyager. Despite his crippling loss of speech, the starman found a way to incite urs-human suspicion into bloody riot.
Leaving us masters of our own fate, though it couldn’t last.
Now here was a different coalition of humans and centauroid urs! A more cordial group, but just as adamant about hauling her Ifni-knew-where.
When limnous Torgen rose above the foothills, Sara got to look over the urrish warriors, whose dun flanks were daubed with more subtle war paint than the garish Urunthai. Yet their eyes held the same dark flame that drenched urs’ souls when conflict scents fumed. Cantering in skirmish formation, their slim hands cradled arbalests while long necks coiled, tensely wary. Though much smaller than horses, the urrish fighters conveyed formidable craftiness.
The human rescuers were even more striking. Six women who came north with nine saddled horses, as if they expected to retrieve just two or three others for a return trip.
But there’s six of us. Kurt and Jomah. Prity and me. The Stranger and Dedinger.
No matter. The stern riders seemed indifferent about doubling up, two to a saddle.
Is that why they’re all female? To keep the weight down?
While deft astride their great mounts, the women seemed uneasy with the hilly terrain of gullies and rocky spires. Sara gathered they disliked rushing about strange trails at night. She could hardly blame them.
Not one had a familiar face. That might have surprised Sara a month ago, given Jijo’s small human population. The Slope must be bigger than she thought.
Dwer would tell stories about his travels, scouting for the sages. He claimed he’d been everywhere within a thousand leagues.
Her brother never mentioned horse-riding amazons.
Sara briefly wondered if they came from off-Jijo, since this seemed the year for spaceships. But no. Despite some odd slang, their terse speech was related to Jijoan dialects she knew from her research. And while the riders seemed unfamiliar with this region, they knew to lean away from a migurv tree when the trail passed near its sticky fronds. The Stranger, though warned with gestures not to touch its seed pods, reached for one curiously and learned the hard way.
She glanced at Kurt. The exploser’s gaunt face showed satisfaction with each league they sped southward. The existence of horses was no surprise to him.
We’re told our society is open. But clearly there are secrets known to a few.
Not all explosers shared it. Kurt’s nephew chattered happy amazement while exchanging broad grins with the Stranger …
Sara corrected herself.
With Emerson.…
She peered at the dark man who came plummeting from the sky months ago, dousing his burns in a dismal swamp near Dolo Village. No longer the near corpse she had nursed in her tree house, the star voyager was proving a resourceful adventurer. Though still largely mute, he had passed a milestone a few miduras ago when he began thumping his chest, repeating that word—Emerson—over and over, beaming pride over a feat that undamaged folk took for granted. Uttering one’s own name.
Emerson seemed at home on his mount. Did that mean horses were still used among the god worlds of the Five Galaxies? If so, what purpose might they serve, where
miraculous machines did your bidding at a nod and wink?
Sara checked on her chimp assistant, in case the jouncing ride reopened Prity’s bullet wound. Riding with both arms clenched round the waist of a horsewoman, Prity kept her eyes closed the whole time, no doubt immersed in her beloved universe of abstract shapes and forms — a better world than this one of sorrow and messy non-linearity.
That left Dedinger, the rebel leader, riding along with both hands tied. Sara wasted no pity on the scholar-turned-prophet. After years preaching militant orthodoxy, urging his desert followers toward the Path of Redemption, the ex-sage clearly knew patience. Dedinger’s hawklike face bore an expression Sara found unnerving.
Serene calculation.
The tooth-jarring pace swelled when the hilly track met open ground. Soon Ulashtu’s detachment of urrish warriors fell behind, unable to keep up.
No wonder some urs clans resented horses, when humans first settled Jijo. The beasts gave us mobility, the trait most loved by urrish captains.
Two centuries ago, after trouncing the human newcomers in battle, the original Urunthai faction claimed Earthlings’ beloved mounts as war booty, and slaughtered every one.
They figured we’d be no more trouble, left to walk and fight on foot. A mistake that proved fatal when Drake the Elder forged a coalition to hunt the Urunthai, and drowned the cult’s leadership at Soggy Hoof Falls.
Only, it seems horses weren’t extinct, after all. How could a clan of horse-riding folk remain hidden all this time?
And as puzzling—Why emerge now, risking exposure by rushing to meet Kurt?
It must be the crisis of the starships, ending Jijo’s blessed/cursed isolation. What point in keeping secrets, if Judgment Day is at hand?
Sara was exhausted and numb by the time morning pushed through an overcast sky. An expanse of undulating hills stretched ahead to a dark green marsh.
The party dismounted at last by a shaded creek. Hands aimed her toward a blanket, where she collapsed with a shuddering sigh.