by David Brin
Several of the blessed ones gathered around Knife-Bright Insight, clucking or mewing in debased versions of Galactic tongues. These were hoons and urs, for the most part, though a red qheuen joined the throng as Lester watched, and several traeki stacks slithered timidly closer, burbling happy stinks as they approached. Each received a loving pat or stroke from Knife-Bright Insight, as if her claws were gentle hands.
Lester regarded his colleague, and knew guiltily that he could never match her glad kindness. The blessed were superior beings, ranking above the normal run of the Six. Their simplicity was proof that other races could follow the example of glavers, treading down the Path of Redemption.
It should fill my heart to see them, he thought.
Yet I hate coming to this place.
Members of all six races dwelled in simple shelters underneath the canyon walls, tended by local g’Keks, plus volunteers from across the Slope. Whenever a qheuen, or hoon, or urrish village found among their youths one who had a knack for innocence, a gift for animal-like naïveté, the lucky individual was sent here for nurturing and study.
There are just two ways to escape the curse bequeathed to us by our ancestors, Lester thought, struggling to believe. We could do as Lark’s group of heretics want — stop breeding and leave Jijo in peace. Or else we can all seek a different kind of oblivion, the kind that returns our children’s children to presentence. Washed clean and ready for a new cycle of uplift. Thus they may yet find new patrons, and perhaps a happier fate.
So prescribed the Sacred Scrolls, even after all the compromises wrought since the arrival of Earthlings and the Holy Egg. Given the situation of exile races, living here on borrowed time, facing horrid punishment if/when a Galactic Institute finds them here, what other goal could there be?
But I can’t do it. I cannot look at this place with joy. Earthling values keep me from seeing these creatures as lustrous beings. They deserve kindness and pity — but not envy.
It was his own heresy. Lester tried to look elsewhere. But turning just brought to view another cluster of “blessed.” This time, humans, gathered in a circle under a ilhuna tree, sitting cross-legged with hands on knees, chanting in low, sonorous voices. Men and women whose soft smiles and unshifting eyes seemed to show simplicity of the kind sought here … only Lester knew them to be liars!
Long ago, he took the same road. Using meditation techniques borrowed from old Earthling religions, he sat under just such a tree, freeing his mind of worldly obsessions, disciplining it to perceive Truth. And for a while it seemed he succeeded. Acolytes bowed reverently, calling him illuminated. The universe appeared lucid then, as if the stars were sacred fire. As if he were united with all Jijo’s creatures, even the very quanta in the stones around him. He lived in harmony, needing little food, few words, and even fewer names.
Such serenity — sometimes he missed it with an ache inside.
But after a while he came to realize — the clarity he had found was sterile blankness. A blankness that felt fine, but had nothing to do with redemption. Not for himself. Not for his race.
The other five don’t use discipline or concentration to seek simplicity. You don’t see glavers meditating by a rotten log full of tasty insects. Simplicity calls to them naturally. They live their innocence.
When Jijo is finally reopened, some great clan will gladly adopt the new glaver subspecies, setting them once more upon the High Path, perhaps with better luck than they had the first time.
But those patrons won’t choose us. No noble elder clan is looking for smug Zen masters, eager to explain their own enlightenment. That is not a plainness you can write upon. It is simplicity based on individual pride.
Of course the point might be moot. If the Jophur ship represented great Institutes of the Civilization of the Five Galaxies, these forests would soon throng with inspectors, tallying up two thousand years of felonies against a fallow world. Only glavers would be safe, having made it to safety in time. The other six races would pay for a gamble lost.
And if they don’t represent the Institutes?
The Rothen had proved to be criminals, gene raiders. Might the Jophur be more of the same? Murderous genocide could still be in store. The g’Kek clan, in particular, were terrified of recent news from the Glade.
On the other hand, it might be possible to cut a deal. Or else maybe they’ll just go away, leaving us in the same state we were in before.
In that case, places like this refuge would go back to being the chief hope for tomorrow … for five races out of the Six.
Lester’s dark thoughts were cut off by a tug on his sleeve.
“Sage Cambel? The … um, visitors you’re, ah, expecting … I think …”
It was a young human, broad-cheeked, with clear blue eyes and pale skin. The boy would have seemed tall — almost a giant — except that a stooped posture diminished his appearance. He kept tapping a corner of his forehead with the fingertips of his right hand, as if in a vague salute.
Lester spoke gentle words in Anglic, the only language the lad ever managed to learn.
“What did you say, Jimi?”
The boy swallowed, concentrating hard.
“I think the … um … the people you want t’see … I think they’re here … Sage Cambel.”
“Lark and the Danik woman?”
A vigorous nod.
“Um, yessir. I sent ’em to the visitors’ shed … to wait for you an’ the other Great Sage. Was that right?”
“Yes, that was right, Jimi.” Lester gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “Please go back now. Tell Lark I’ll be along shortly.”
A broad grin. The boy turned around to run the way he came, awkward in his eagerness to be useful.
There goes the other kind of human who comes to this place, Lester thought. Our special ones …
The ancient euphemism tasted strange.
At first sight, it would seem people like Jimi fit the bill. Simpler minds. Innocent. Our ideal envoys to tread the Path.
He glanced at the blessed ones surrounding Knife-Bright Insight — urs, hoons, and g’Keks who were sent here by their respective races in order to do that. To lead the way.
By the standards of the scrolls, these ones aren’t damaged. Though simple, they aren’t flawed. They are leaders. But no one can say that of Jimi. All sympathy aside, he is injured, incomplete. Anyone can see that.
We can and should love him, help him, befriend him.
But he leads humanity nowhere.
Lester signaled to his blue qheuen colleague, using an urslike shake of his head to indicate that their appointment had arrived. She responded by turning her visor cupola in a quick series of GalTwo winks, flashing that she’d be along shortly.
Lester turned and followed Jimi’s footsteps, trying to shift his thoughts back to the present crisis. To the problem of the Jophur battleship. Back to urgent plans he must discuss with the young heretic and the woman from the stars. There was a dire proposal — farfetched and darkly dangerous — they must be asked to accept.
Yet, as he passed by the chanting circle of meditating humans — healthy men and women who had abandoned their farms, families, and useful crafts to dwell without work in this sheltered valley — Lester found his contemplations awash with bitter resentment. The words in his head were unworthy of a High Sage, he knew. But he could not help pondering them.
Morons and meditators, those are the two types that our race sends up here. Not a true “blessed” soul in the lot. Not by the standards set in the scrolls. Humans almost never take true steps down redemption’s path. Ur-Jah and the others are polite. They pretend that we, too, have that option, that potential salvation.
But we don’t. Our lot is sterile.
With or without judgment from the stars — the only future humans face on Jijo is damnation.
Dwer
SMOKE SPIRALED FROM THE CRASH SITE. IT WAS against his better judgment to sneak closer. In fact, now was his chance to run the other way, while the
Danik robot cowered in a hole, showing no further interest in its prisoners.
And if Rety wanted to stay?
Let her! Lena and Jenin would be glad to see Dwer if he made the long journey back to the Gray Hills. That should be possible with his trusty bow in hand. True, Rety needed him, but those up north had better claim on his loyalty.
Dwer’s senses still throbbed from the din of the brief battle, when the mighty Danik scoutship was shot down by a terrifying newcomer. Both vessels lay beyond the next dune, sky chariots of unfathomable power … and Rety urged him to creep closer still!
“We gotta find out what’s going on,” she insisted in a harsh whisper.
He gave her a sharp glance, demanding silence, and for once she complied, giving him a moment to think.
Lena and Jenin may be safe for a while, now that Kunn won’t be returning to plague them. If the Daniks and Rothens have enemies on Jijo, all the star gods may be too busy fighting each other to hunt a little band in the Gray Hills.
Even without guidance from Danel Ozawa, Lena Strong was savvy enough to make a three-way deal, with Rety’s old band and the urrish sooners. Using Danel’s “legacy,” their combined tribe might plant a seed to flourish in the wilderness. Assuming the worst happened back home on the Slope, their combined band might yet find its way to the Path.
Dwer shook his head. He sometimes found it hard to concentrate. Ever since letting the robot use his body as a conduit for its fields, it felt as if voices whispered softly at the edge of hearing. As when the crazy old mulc spider used to wheedle into his thoughts.
Anyway, it wasn’t his place to ponder destiny, or make sagelike decisions. Some things were obvious. He might not owe Rety anything. She may deserve to be abandoned to her fate. But he couldn’t do that.
So, despite misgivings, Dwer nodded to the girl, adding with emphatic hand motions that she had better not make a single sound. She replied with a happy shrug that seemed to say, Sure … until I decide otherwise.
Slinging his bow and quiver over one shoulder, he led the way forward, creeping from one grassy clump to the next, till they reached the crest of the dune. Cautiously they peered through a cluster of salty fronds to stare down at two sky vessels — the smaller a smoldering ruin, half-submerged in a murky swamp. The larger ship, nestled nearby, had not escaped the fracas unscarred. It bore a deep fissure along one flank that belched soot whenever the motors tried to start.
Two men lay prostrate on a marshy islet, barely moving. Kunn and Jass.
Dwer and Rety scratched a new hole to hide in, then settled down to see who — or what — would emerge next.
They did not wait long. A hatch split the large cylinder, baring a dark interior. Through it floated a single figure, startlingly familiar — an eight-sided pillar with dangling arms — close cousin to the damaged robot Dwer knew all too well. Only this one gleamed with stripes of alternating blue and pink, a pattern Dwer found painful to behold.
It also featured a hornlike projection on the bottom, aimed downward. That must be what lets it travel over water, he thought. If the robot is similar, could that mean Kunn’s enemies are human, too?
But no, Danel had said that machinery was standard among the half a million starfaring races, changing only slowly with each passing eon. This new drone might belong to anybody.
The automaton neared Kunn and Jass, a searchlight playing over their bodies, vivid even in bright sunshine. Their garments rippled, frisked by translucent fingers. Then the robot dropped down, arms outstretched. Kunn and Jass lay still as it poked, prodded, and lifted away with several objects in its pincers.
A signal must have been given, for a ramp then jutted from the open hatch, slanting to the bog. Who’s going to go traipsing around in that stuff? Dwer wondered. Are they going to launch a boat?
He girded for some weird alien race, one with thirteen legs perhaps, or slithering on trails of slime. Several great clans had been known as foes of humankind, — even in the Tabernacle’s day, such as the legendary Soro, or the insectlike Tandu. Dwer even nursed faint hope that the newcomers might be from Earth, come all this vast distance to rein in their criminal cousins. There were also relatives of hoons, urs, and qheuens out there, each with ships and vast resources at their command.
Figures appeared, twisting down the ramp into the open air.
Rety gasped. “Them’s traekis!”
Dwer stared at a trio of formidable-looking ring stacks, with bandoliers of tools hanging from their toroids-of-manipulation. The tapered cones reached muddy water and settled in. Abruptly, the flipper legs that seemed awkward on the ramp propelled them with uncanny speed toward the two survivors.
“But ain’t traekis s’posed to be peaceful?”
They are, Dwer thought, wishing he had paid more attention to the lessons his mother used to give Sara and Lark. Readings from obscure books that went beyond what you were taught in school. He reached back for a name, but came up empty. Yet he knew a name existed. One that inspired fear, once-upon-a-time.
“I don’t—” he whispered, then shook his head firmly. “I don’t think these are traeki. At least not like anyone’s seen here in a very long while.”
Alvin
THE SCENE WAS HARD TO INTERPRET AT FIRST. HAZY blue-green images jerked rapidly, sending shivers down my still-unsteady spine. Huck and Pincer seemed to catch on more quickly, pointing at various objects in the picture display, sharing knowing grunts. The experience reminded me of our trip on Wuphon’s Dream, when poor Alvin the Hoon was always the last one to grok what was going on.
Finally, I realized — we were viewing a faraway locale, back in the world of sunshine and rain!
(How many times have Huck and I read about some storybook character looking at a distant place by remote control? It’s funny. A concept can be familiar from novels, yet rouse awe when you finally encounter it in real life.)
Daylight streamed through watery shallows where green fronds waved in a gentle tide. Schools of flicking, silvery shapes darted past — species that our fishermen brought home in nets, destined for the drying racks and stewpots of hoonish khutas.
The spinning voice said there were sound “pickups” next to the moving camera lens, which explained the swishing, gurgling noises. Pincer shifted his carapace, whistling a homesick lament from all five vents, nostalgic for the tidal pens of his red qheuen rookery. But Ur-ronn soon had quite enough, turning her sleek head with a queasy whine, made ill by the sight of all that swishing water.
Slanting upward, the surf grew briefly violent. Then water fled the camera’s eye in foamy sheets as our viewpoint emerged onto a low sandscape. The remote unit scurried inland, low to the ground.
“Normally, we would send a drone ashore at night. But the matter is urgent. We must count on the land’s hot glare to mask its emergence.”
Ur-ronn let out a sigh, relieved to see no more liquid turbulence.
“It forces one to wonder,” she said, “why you have not sent sleuthy agents vefore.”
“In fact several were dispatched to seek signs of civilization. Two are long overdue, but others reported startling scenes.”
“Such as?” Huck asked.
“Such as hoon mariners, crewing wooden sailing ships on the high seas.”
“Hr-rr … What’s strange about that?”
“And red qheuens, living unsupervised by grays or blues, beholden to no one, trading peacefully with their hoonish neighbors.”
Pincer huffed and vented, but the voice continued.
“Intrigued, we sent a submarine expedition beyond the Rift. Our explorers followed one of your dross ships, collecting samples from its sacred discharge. Then, returning to base, our scout vessel happened on the urrish ‘cache’ you were sent to recover. Naturally, we assumed the original owners must be extinct.”
“Oh?” Ur-ronn asked, archly. “Why is that?”
“Because we had seen living hoon! Who would conceive of urs and hoon cohabiting peacefully within a shared volu
me less broad than a cubic parsec? If hoon lived, we assumed all urs on Jijo must have died.”
“Oh,” Ur-ronn commented, turning her long neck to glare at me.
“Imagine our surprise when a crude vessel plummeted toward our submarine. A hollowed-out tree trunk containing—”
The voice cut off. The remote unit was in motion again. We edged forward as the camera eye skittered across sand mixed with scrubby vegetation.
“Hey,” Ur-ronn objected. “I thought you couldn’t use radio or anything that can ve detected from sface!”
“Correct.”
“Then how are you getting these fictures in real tine?”
“An excellent question, coming from one with no direct experience in such matters. In this case, the drone needs only to travel a kilometer or so ashore. It can deploy a fiber cable, conveying images undetectably.”
I twitched. Something in the words just spoken jarred me, in an eerie-familiar way.
“Does it have to do with the exflosions?” Ur-ronn asked. “The recent attack on this site vy those who would destroy you?”
The spinning shape contracted, then expanded.
“You four truly are quick and imaginative. It has been an unusual experience conversing with you. And I was created to appreciate unusual experiences.”
“In other words, yes,” Huck said gruffly.
“Some time ago, a flying machine began sifting this sea with tentacles of sound. Hours later, it switched to dropping depth charges in a clear effort to dislodge us from our mound of concealing wreckage.
“Matters were growing dire when gravitic fields of a second craft entered the area. We picked up rhythms of aerial combat. Missiles and deadly rays were exchanged in a brief, desperate struggle.”
Pincer rocked from foot to foot. “Gosh-osh-osh!” he sighed, ruining our pose of nonchalance.