by David Brin
He sees worried concern, even affection. But it’s not the same.
Emerson frees his gaze from the torment-colored desert, turning east toward less disturbing vistas. Far-off mountains offer respite with natural undulating shapes, softened by verdant green forests.
Then, from one tall peak, there comes a glittering flash! Several more gleam in series. A rhythm that seems to speak.…
His intrigued detachment is cut short by a frightened yell. Yet, for an instant Emerson remains too distant, too slow to turn. He does not see Sara tumble off the path. But Prity’s scream tears through him like a torch thrust into cobwebs.
Sara’s name pours from his throat with involuntary clarity. His body finally acts, leaping in pursuit.
Hurtling down the jagged talus slope, he flings eloquent curses at the universe, defying it—daring it—to take another friend.
Lark
THE SERGEANT’S FACE WAS STREAKED WITH CAMOUFLAGE. Her black hair still bore flecks of loam and grass from worming through crevices and peering between brambles. Yet Lark had never seen Jeni Shen look better.
People thrive doing the thing they were bom for. In Jeni’s case, that’s being a warrior. She’d rather have lived when the elder and younger Drakes were fashioning the Great Peace out of blood and fire than during the peace itself.
“So far, so good,” the young militia scout reported. Blur-cloth overalls made it hard to trace her outline amid stark lantern shadows.
“I got close enough to watch the emissaries reenter the valley, bringing the sages’ reply to the Jophur. A couple of guard robots swooped in to look them over, especially poor Vubben, sniffing him from wheel rims to eyestalks. Then all six ambassadors headed down to the Glade, with the bots in escort.” Jeni made slanting downward motions with her hands. “That leaves just one or two drones patrolling this section of perimeter! Seems we couldn’t ask for a better chance to make our move.”
“Can there be any question?” added Rann. The tall starfarer leaned against a limestone wall with arms folded. The Danik was unarmed, but otherwise Rann acted as if this were his expedition. “Of course we shall proceed. There is no other option.”
Despite Rann’s poised assurance, the plan was actually Lark’s. So was the decision whether to continue. His would be the responsibility, if three-score brave lives were lost in the endeavor … or if their act provoked the Jophur into spasms of vengeful destruction.
We might undermine the High Sages at the very moment when they have the Galactic untraekis calmed down.
On the other hand, how could the Six Races possibly pay the price the Jophur were demanding? While the sages tried to negotiate a lower cost, someone had to see if there was a better way. A way not to pay at all.
Anxious eyes regarded him from all corners of the grotto — one of countless steamy warrens that laced these hills. Ling’s gaze was among the most relentless, standing far apart from Rann. The two star lords had been at odds since they worked to decode those cryptic data slabs — that awful afternoon when Rann cried “treason!” then a dread gold mist fell on Dooden Mesa. Each sky human had a different reason to help this desperate mission.
Lark found little cheer in Jeni’s report. Only one or two drones left. According to Lester Cambel’s aides, the remaining robots could still probe some distance underground, on guard against approaching threats. On the plus side, this terrain was a muddle of steam vents and juttering quakes. Then there were the subtle patterning songs put out by the Holy Egg — emanations that set Lark’s stone amulet trembling against his chest.
They all watched, awaiting his decision — human, urs, and hoon volunteers, plus some qheuens who weren’t yet sick.
“All right.” Lark nodded. “Let’s do it.”
A terse, decisive command. Grinning, Jeni spun about to forge deeper into the cavern, followed by lantern bearers.
What Lark had meant to say was, Hell no! Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy a round of drinks so everyone can raise a glass for poor Uthen.
But if he mentioned his friend’s name, he might sob the wrenching grief inside. So Lark took his place along the twisty column of figures stooping and shuffling through the dim passage, lit by glow patches stuck to the walls.
His thoughts caromed as he walked. For instance, he found himself wondering where on the Slope all six races could drink the same toast at the same time? Not many inns served both alcohol and fresh simla blood, since humans and urs disdained each other’s feeding habits. And most traeki politely refrained from eating in front of other races.
I do know one bar in Tarek Town … that is, if Tarek hasn’t already been smothered by a downpour of golden rain. After Dooden, the Jophur may go for the bigger towns, where so many g’Kek live.
It makes you wonder why the g’Kek came to Jijo in the first place. They can only travel the Path of Redemption if it is paved.
Lark shook his head.
Trivia. Minutiae. Brain synapses keep firing, even when your sole concern is following the man in front of you … and not slamming your skull on a stalactite.
When they glanced at him, his followers saw a calm, assertive pose. But within, Lark endured a run-on babble of words, forever filling his unquiet mind.
I should be mourning my friend, right now.
I should be hiring a traeki undertaker, arranging a lavish mulching ceremony, so Uthen’s polished carapace can go in style to join the bones and spindles of his foremothers, lying under the Great Midden.
It’s my duty to pay a formal visit to the Gray Queens, in that dusty hall where they once dominated most of the Slope. The Chamber of Ninety Tooth-Carved Pillars, where they still make pretenses at regal glory. But how could I explain to those qheuen matrons how two of their brightest sons died — Harullen, sliced apart by alien lasers, and Uthen, slain by pestilence?
Can I tell those ashen empresses their other children may be next?
Uthen had been his greatest friend, the colleague who shared his fascination with the ebb and flow of Jijo’s fragile ecosystem. Though never joining Lark in heresy, Uthen was the one other person who understood why sooner races should never have come to this world. The one to comprehend why some Galactic laws were good.
I let you down, old pal. But if I can’t perform all those other duties, maybe I can arrange something to compensate.
Justice.
Debris littered the floor of the last large cavern, strewn there during the Zealots’ Plot, when a cabal of young rebels used these same corridors to sneak explosives under the Danik research station, incinerating Ling’s friend Besh and one of the Rothen star lords. Repercussions still spread from that event, like ripples after a large stone strikes a pond.
The Jophur battleship now lay atop the station wreckage, yet no one suggested using the same method of attack a second time. Assuming a mighty starcraft could be blown up, it would take such massive amounts of exploser paste that Lark’s team would still be hauling barrels by next Founders’ Day. Anyway, there were no volunteers to approach the deadly space behemoth. Lark’s plan meant coming no closer than several arrowflights. Even so, the going would be hard and fraught with peril.
“From here on, the way’s too close for grays,” Jeni said.
Urrish partisans peered down a passage that narrowed considerably, coiling their long necks in unison, sniffing an aroma their kind disliked.
The gray qheuens squatted while others unstrapped supplies from their chitin backs. Given enough time, the big fellows might widen the corridor with their digging claws and diamond-like teeth, but Lark felt better sending them back. Who knew how much time they had, with plague spreading on Jijo’s winds? Was it a genocide bug? Ling had found supporting evidence on decoded data wafers, though Rann still denied it could be of Rothen origin.
The glowering starman was obsessed with a different wafer-gleaned fact.
There had been a spy among the station’s staff of outlaw gene raiders. Someone who kept a careful diary, recording every misdemean
or performed by the Rothen and their human servants.
An agent of the Terragens Council!
Apparently, Earth’s ruling body had an informant among the clan of human fanatics who worshiped Rothen lords.
He wanted badly to quiz Ling, but there was no time for their old question game. Not since they fled the Dooden disaster along with Lester Cambel’s panicky aides, plunging through a maze of towering boo. New trails and fresh-cut trunks had flustered the breathless fugitives until they spilled into an uncharted clearing, surprising a phalanx of traeki who stood in a long row, venting noxious vapors like hissing kettles.
Galloping squads of urrish militia then swarmed in to protect the busy traeki, nipping at ankles, as if the humans were stampeding simlas, driving Cambel’s team away from the clearing, diverting them toward havens to the west and south.
Even after finally reaching a campsite refuge, there had been no respite to discuss far-off Galactic affairs. Ling spent her time with the medics, relating what little she had learned from the spy’s notes about the qheuen plague.
Meanwhile, Lark found himself surrounded by furious activity, commanding an ever-growing entourage of followers.
It goes to show, desperate people will follow anyone with a plan.
Even one as loony as mine.
Hoonish bearers took up the grays’ burdens, and the caravan was off again. Half a dozen blue qheuens took up the rear, so young their shells were still moist from larval fledging. Though small for their kind, they still needed help from men with hammers and crowbars, chiseling away limestone obstructions. Lark’s scheme counted on these adolescent volunteers.
He hoped his farfetched plan wasn’t the only one at work.
There is always prayer.
Lark fondled his amulet. It felt cool. For now the Egg was quiescent.
At a junction the earlier zealot cabal had veered left, carrying barrels of exploser paste to a cave beneath the Rothen station. But Lark’s group turned right. They had less distance to cover, but their way was more hazardous.
Jimi the Blessed was among the burly men helping widen the path, attacking an obstruction with such fury Lark had to intervene.
“Easy, Jimi! You’ll wake the recycled dead!”
That brought laughter from the sweaty laborers, and booming umbles from several hoonish porters. Brave hoons. Lark recalled how their kind disliked closed places. The urs, normally comfortable underground, grew more nervous with each sign of approaching water.
None of them were happy to be approaching the giant star cruiser.
The Six Races had spent centuries cowering against The Day when ships of the Institutes would come judge their crimes. Yet, when great vessels came, they did not bear high-minded magistrates, but thieves, and then brutal killers. Where the Rothen and their human stooges seemed crafty and manipulative, the Jophur were chilling.
They demand what we cannot give.
We don’t know anything about the “dolphin ship” they seek. And we’d rather be damned than hand over our g’Kek brothers.
So Lark, who had spent his life hoping Galactics would come end the illegal colony on Jijo, now led a desperate bid to battle star gods.
Human literature has been so influential since the Great Printing. It’s full of forlorn causes. Endeavors that no rational person would entertain.
He and Ling were helping each other descend a limestone chute, glistening with seepage and slippery lichen, when word arrived from the forward scouts.
“Water just ahead.”
That was the message, sent back by Jeni Shen.
So, Lark thought. I was right.
Then he added—
So far.
The liquid was oily and cold. It gave off a musty aroma.
None of which stopped two eager young blues from creeping straight into the black pool, trailing mulc-fiber line from a spool. Hoons with hand pumps kept busy inflating air bladders while Lark steeled himself to enter that dark, wet place.
Having second thoughts?
Jeni checked his protective suit of skink membranes. It might ward off the chill, but that was the least of Lark’s worries.
I can take cold. But there had better be enough air.
The bladders were an untested innovation. Each was a traeki ring, thick-ribbed to hold gas under pressure. Jeni affixed one to his back, and showed him how to breathe through its fleshy protrusion — a rubbery tentacle that would provide fresh air and scrub the old.
You grow up depending on traeki-secreted chemicals to make native foods edible, and traeki-distilled alcohol to liven celebrations. A traeki pharmacist makes your medicine in a chem-synth ring. Yet you’re revolted by the thought of putting one of these things in your mouth.
It tasted like a slimy tallow candle.
Across the narrow chamber, Ling and Rann adjusted quickly to this Jijoan novelty. Of course they had no history to overcome, associating traekis with mulch and rotting garbage.
“Come on,” Jeni chided in a low voice that burned his ears. “Don’t gag on me, man. You’re a sage now. Others are watchin’!”
He nodded — two quick head jerks — and tried again. Fitting his teeth around the tube, Lark bit down as she had taught. The burst of air did not stink as bad as expected. Perhaps it contained a mild relaxant. The pharmacist designers were clever about such things.
Let’s hope their star-god cousins don’t think of this, as well.
That assumption underlay Lark’s plan. Jophur commanders might be wary against direct subterranean assault. But where the buried route combined with water, the invaders might not expect trouble.
The Rothen underestimated us. By Ifni and the Egg, the Jophur may do the same.
Each diver also wore a rewq symbiont to protect the eyes and help them see by the dim light of hand-carried phosphors. Webbed gloves and booties completed the ensemble.
Ling’s tripping laughter made him turn around, and Lark saw she was pointing at him as she guffawed.
“You should talk,” he retorted at the ungainly creature she had become, more monstrous than an unmasked Rothen. Hoons paused from laying down cargo by the waterline, and joined in the mirth, umbling good-naturedly while their pet noors grinned with needlelike teeth.
Lark pictured the scene up above, past overlying layers of rock, in the world of light. The Jophur dreadnought squatted astride the mountain glen, thwarting the glade stream in its normal seaward rush. The resulting lake now stretched more than a league uphill.
Water seeks its own level. We must now be several arrowflights from shore. That’s a long way to swim before we get to the lake itself.
It couldn’t be helped. Their goal was hard to reach, in more ways than one.
Bubbles in the pool. One qheuen cupola broached the surface, followed by another. The young blues crawled ashore, breathing heavily through multiple leg vents, reporting in excited GalSix.
“The way to open water — it is clear. Good time — this we made. To the target — we shall now escort you.”
Cheers lifted from the hoons and urs, but Lark felt no stirring.
They weren’t the ones who would have to go the rest of the way.
Water transformed the cavities and grottoes. Flippers kicked up clouds of silt, filling the phosphor beams with a myriad of distracting speckles. Lark’s trusty rewq pulled tricks with polarization, transforming the haze to partial clarity. Still, it took concentration to avoid colliding with jagged limestone outcrops. The guide rope saved him from getting lost.
Cave diving felt a lot like being a junior sage of the Commons — an experience he never sought or foresaw in his former life as a scientist heretic.
How ungainly swimming humans appeared next to the graceful young qheuens, who seized the rugged walls with flashing claws, propelling themselves with uncanny agility, nearly as at-home in freshwater as on solid ground.
His skin grew numb where the skink coverings pulled loose. Other parts grew hot from exertion. More upsetting was the squir
my traeki tentacle in his mouth, anticipating his needs in unnerving ways. It would not let him hold his breath, as a man might do while concentrating on some near-term problem, but tickled his throat to provoke an exhalation. The first time it happened, he nearly retched. (What if he chucked up breakfast? Would he and the ring both asphyxiate? Or would it take his gift as a tasty, predigested bonus?)
Lark was so focused on the guide rope that he missed the transition from stony catacombs to a murky plain of sodden meadows, drowned trees, and drifting debris. But soon the silty margins fell behind as daylight transformed the Glade of Gathering — now the bottom of an upland lake — giving commonplace shapes macabre unfamiliarity.
The guide rope passed near a stand of lesser boo whose surviving stems were tall enough to reach the surface, far overhead. Qheuens gathered around one tube, sucking down drafts of air. When sated, they spiraled around Lark and the humans, nudging them toward the next stretch of guide rope.
Long before details loomed through the silty haze, he made out their target by its glow. Rann and Ling thrashed flippers, passing Jeni in their haste. By the time Lark caught up, they were pressing hands against a giant slick sarcophagus, the hue of yellow moonrise. Within lay a cigar-shaped vessel, the Rothen ship, their home away from home, now sealed in a deadly trap.
The two starfarers split up, he swimming right and she left. By silent agreement, Jeni accompanied the big man — despite their size difference, she was the one more qualified to keep an eye on Rann. Lark kept near Ling, watching as she moved along the golden wall.
Though he had more experience than other Sixers with Galactic god machines, it was his first time near this interloper whose dramatic coming so rudely shattered Gathering Festival, many weeks ago. So magnificent and terrible it had seemed! Daunting and invincible. Yet now it was helpless. Dead or implacably imprisoned.
Tentatively, Lark identified some features, like the jutting anchors that held a ship against quantum probability fluctuations … whatever that meant. The self-styled techies who worked for Lester Cambel were hesitant about even the basics of starcraft design. As for the High Sage himself, Lester had taken no part in Lark’s briefing, choosing instead to brood in his tent, guilt-ridden over the doom he helped bring on Dooden Mesa.