by David Brin
All I need is a pilot … and someone strong and mean enough to do any fighting, if we run into trouble.
And luck. Rety had carefully timed things so there was little chance of running into Dwer along the way.
Dwer knows not to trust me … and I can’t be sure that both Jass and Kunn together would be enough to bring him down.
Anyway, all else being equal, she’d rather Dwer didn’t get hurt.
Maybe I’ll even think about him now and then, while I’m livin’ high on some far galaxy.
There wasn’t much else about Jijo that she planned on remembering.
Dwer
I DON’T BELONG HERE,” HE TRIED TO EXPLAIN. “AND neither does Rety. You’ve got to help us get back.”
“Back where?” The woman seemed honestly perplexed. “To that seaside swamp, with toxic engine waste and dead Jophur rings for company? And more Jophur surely on the way?”
Once again, Dwer was having trouble with words. He found it difficult to concentrate in these sealed spaces they called “starship cabins,” where the air felt so dead. Especially this one, a dimly lit chamber filled with strange objects Dwer could not hope to understand.
Lark or Sara would do fine here, but I feel lost. I miss the news that comes carried on the wind.
It didn’t help settle his nerves that the person sitting opposite him was the most beautiful human being Dwer had ever seen, with dark yellow hair and abiding sadness in her pale eyes.
“No, of course not,” he answered. “There’s another place where I’m needed.… And Rety, too.”
Fine lines crinkled at the edges of her eyes.
“The young hoon, Alvin, wants to let his parents know he’s alive, and report to the urrish sage who sent the four of them on their diving mission. They want help getting home.”
“Will you give it?”
“How can we? Aside from putting our own crewfolk in clanger, and perhaps giving our position away to enemies, it seems unfair to endanger your entire culture with knowledge that’s a curse to any who possess it.
“And yet …”
She paused. Her scrutiny made Dwer feel like a small child.
“Yet, there is a reticence in your voice. A wariness about your destination that makes me suspect you’re not talking about going home. Not to the tranquil peace you knew among friends and loved ones, in the land you call the Slope.”
There seemed little point in trying to conceal secrets from Gillian Baskin. So Dwer silently shrugged.
“The girl’s tribe, then,” the woman guessed. “Rety’s folk, in the northern hills, where you were wounded fighting a war bot with your bare hands.”
He looked down, speaking in a low voice.
“There’s … things that still need to be done there.”
“Mm. I can well imagine. Obligations, I suppose? Duties unfulfilled?” Her sigh was soft and distant sounding. “You see, I know how it is with your kind. Where your priorities lie.”
That made him look up, wondering. What did she mean by that? There was resigned melancholy in her face … plus something like recognition, as if she saw something familiar in him, wakening affectionate sadness.
“Tell me about it, Dwer. Tell me what you must accomplish.
“Tell me who depends on you.”
Perhaps it was the way she phrased her question, or the power of her personality, but he found himself no longer able to withhold the remaining parts of the story. The parts he had kept back till now.
— about his job as chief scout of the Commons, seeing to it that no colonist race moved east of the Rimmers — sparing the rest of Jijo from further infestation. Enforcing sacred law.
— then how he was ordered to break that law, guiding a mission to tame Rety’s savage cousins — a gamble meant to ensure human survival on Jijo, in case the Slope was cleansed of sapient life.
— how the four of them — Danel Ozawa, Dwer, Lena, and Jenin — learned the Gray Hills were no longer a sanctuary when Rety guided a Danik sky chariot to her home tribe.
— how Dwer and the others vowed to gamble their forfeit lives to win a chance for the sooner tribe … four humans against a killer machine … a gamble that succeeded, at great cost.
“And against all odds, I’d say,” Gillian Baskin commented. She turned her head, addressing the third entity sharing the room with them.
“I take it you were there, as well. Tell me, did you bother to help Dwer and the others? Or were you always a useless nuisance?”
After relating his dour tale, Dwer was startled by a sudden guffaw escaping his own gut. Fitting words! Clearly, Gillian Baskin understood noor.
Mudfoot lay grooming himself atop a glass-topped display case. Within lay scores of strange artifacts, backlit and labeled like treasures in the Biblos Museum. Some light spilled to the foot of another exhibit standing erect nearby — a mummy, he guessed. When they were boys, Lark once tried to scare Dwer with spooky book pictures of old-time Earth bodies that had been prepared that way, instead of being properly mulched. This one looked vaguely human, though he knew it was anything but.
At Gillian’s chiding, Mudfoot stopped licking himself to reply with a panting grin. Again, Dwer imagined what the look might mean.
Who, me, lady? Don’t you know I fought the whole battle and saved everybody’s skins, all by myself?
After his experience with telepathic mulc spiders, Dwer did not dismiss the possibility that it was more than imagination. The noor showed no reaction when he tried mind speaking, but that proved nothing.
Gillian had also tried various techniques to make the noor talk — first asking Alvin to smother the creature with umble songs, then keeping Mudfoot away from the young hoon, locking it instead in this dim office for miduras, with only the ancient mummy for company. The Niss Machine had badgered the noor in a high-pitched dialect of GalSeven, frequently using the phrase dear cousin.
“Danel Ozawa tried talkin’ to it, too,” Dwer told Gillian.
“Oh? And did that seem strange to you?”
He nodded. “There are folktales about talking noor … and other critters, too. But I never expected it from a sage.”
She slapped the desktop.
“I think I get it.”
Gillian stood up and began pacing — a simple act that she performed with a hunter’s grace, reminding him of the prowl of a she-ligger.
“We call the species tytlal, and where I come from, they talk a blue streak. They are cousins of the Niss Machine, after a fashion, since the Niss was made by our allies, the Tymbrimi.”
“The Tymb … I think I heard of ’em. Aren’t they the first race Earth contacted, when our ships went out—”
Gillian nodded. “And a lucky break that turned out to be. Oh, there are plenty of honorable races and clans in the Five Galaxies. Don’t let the present crisis make you think they’re all evil, or religious fanatics. It’s just that most of the moderate alliances have conservative mind-sets. They ponder caution first, and act only after long deliberation. Too long to help us, I’m afraid.
“But not the Tymbrimi. They are brave and loyal friends. Also, according to many of the great clans and Institutes, the Tymbrimi are considered quite mad.”
Dwer sat up, both intrigued and confused. “Mad?”
Gillian laughed. “I guess a lot of humans would agree. A legend illustrates the point. It’s said that one day the Great Power of the Universe, in exasperation over some Tymbrimi antic, cried out, ‘These creatures must be the most outrageous beings imaginable!’
“Now, Tymbrimi like nothing better than a challenge. So they took the Great Power’s statement as a dare. When they won official patron status, with license to uplift new species, they traded away two perfectly normal client races for the rights to one presapient line that no one else could do anything with.”
“The noor,” Dwer guessed. Then he corrected himself.
“The tytlal.”
“The very same. Creatures whose chief delight comes from thw
arting, surprising, or befuddling others, making the Tymbrimi seem staid by comparison. Which brings us to our quandary. How did they get to Jijo, and why don’t they speak?”
“Our Jijo chimpanzees don’t speak either, though your Niss-thing showed me moving pictures of them talking on Earth.”
“Hmm. But that’s easily explained. Chims were still not very good at it when the Tabernacle left, bringing your ancestors here. It would be easy to suppress the talent at that point, in order to let humans pretend …”
Gillian snapped her fingers. “Of course.” For a moment, her smile reminded Dwer of Sara, when his sister had been working on some abstract problem and abruptly saw the light.
“Within a few years of making contact with Galactic civilization, the leaders of Earth knew we had entered an incredibly dire phase. At best, we might barely hang on while learning the complex rules of an ancient and dangerous culture. At worst—” She shrugged. “It naturally seemed prudent to set up an insurance policy. To plant a seed where humanity might be safe, in case the worst happened.”
Her expression briefly clouded, and Dwer did not need fey sensitivity to understand. Out there, beyond Izmunuti, the worst was happening, and now it seemed the fleeing Streaker had exposed the “seed,” as well.
That’s what Danel was talking about, when he said, “Humans did not come to Jijo to tread the Path of Redemption.” He meant we were a survival stash … like the poor g’Kek.
“When humans brought chimps with them, they naturally downplayed pans intelligence. In case the colony were ever found, chims might miss punishment. Perhaps they could even blend into the forest and survive in Jijo’s wilderness, unnoticed by the judges of the great Institutes.”
Gillian whirled to look at Mudfoot. “And that must be what the Tymbrimi did, as well! They, too, must have snuck down to Jijo. Only, unlike glavers and the other six races, they planted no colony of their own. Instead, they deposited a secret cache … of tytlal.”
“And like we did with chimps, they took away their speech.” Dwer shook his head. “But then …” He pointed to Mudfoot.
Gillian’s eyebrows briefly pursed. “A hidden race within the race? Fully sapient tytlal, hiding among the others? Why not? After all, your own sages kept secrets from the rest of you. If Danel Ozawa tried speaking to Mudfoot, it means someone must have already known about the tytlal, even in those early days, and kept the confidence all this time.”
Absently, she reached out to stroke the noor’s sleek fur. Mudfoot rolled over, presenting his belly.
“What is the key?” she asked the creature. “Some code word? Something like a Tymbrimi empathy glyph? Why did you talk to the Niss once, then clam up?”
And why did you follow me across mountains and deserts? Dwer added, silently, enthralled by the mystery tale, although the complexity combined with his ever-present claustrophobia to foster a growing headache.
“Excuse me,” he said, breaking into Gillian’s ruminations. “But can we go back to the thing I came here about? I know the problems you’re wrestling with are bigger and more important than mine, and I’d help you if I could. But I can’t see any way to change your star-god troubles with my bow and arrows.
“I’m not asking you to risk your ship, and I’m sorry about being a pest.… But if there’s any way you could just let me … well … try to swim ashore, I really do have things I’ve got to do.”
That was when the tytlal rolled back onto his feet, wearing a look of evident surprise on his narrow face. Spines that normally lay hidden in the fur behind his ears now stood in stiff bristles. Moreover, Dwer felt sure he glimpsed something take shape briefly, in the air above Mudfoot. A ghostly wisp, less than vapor, which seemed to speak of its own accord.
So do I it said, evidently responding to Dwer’s statement.
Things to do.
Dwer rubbed his eyes and would gladly have dismissed the brief specter as another imagining … another product of the pummeling his nervous system had gone through.
Only Gillian must have noted the same event. She blinked a few times, pointed at the now-worried expression on Mudfoot’s face … and burst out laughing.
Dwer stared at her, then found himself breaking up, as well. Till that moment, he had not yet decided about the beautiful Earthwoman. But anyone who could set Mudfoot back like that must be all right.
Rety
AS THE GUARD ESCORTED HER TO THE CAPTIVES’ cell, she eyed several air-circulation grates. Schematics showed the system to be equipped with many safety valves, and the ducts were much too small for prisoners to squeeze through.
But not for a little urrish male, armed with borrowed laser cutters.
Rety’s plan was chancy, and she hated sending her “husband” into the maze of air pipes. But yee seemed confident that he would not get lost.
“this maze no worse than stinky passages under the grass plain,”he had sniffed while examining a holographic chart. “it easier than dodging through root tunnels where urrish grubs and males must scurry, when we have no sweet wife pouch to lie in.” yee curled his long neck in a shrug, “don’t you worry, wife! yee take tools to locked-up men. we do this neat!”
That would be the critical phase. Once Kunn and Jass were beyond the brig airlock, all the other obstacles should quickly fall. Rety felt positive.
Two prison cells had red lights glaring above reinforced hatches. The far one, she knew, contained Jophur rings that had been captured in the swamp. The little g’Kek named Huck was helping the Niss Machine interrogate those captives. Rety had racked her brain to come up with a way they might fit her plan, but finally deemed it best to leave them where they were.
This Streaker ship won’t dare chase us, once we get a star boat outside … but the Jophur ship might. Especially if those rings had a way to signal their crew mates.
As the guard approached Kunn’s cell, Rety fondled a folded scrap of paper on which she had laboriously printed instructions, sounding out the words letter by letter, stretching her newborn literacy to the limit. She knew it must look wrong, but no one could afford to be picky these days.
KUN I KAN GIT U OT UV HIR WANT TU GO?
So went the first line of the note she planned slipping him, while pretending to ask questions. If the Danik pilot understood and agreed to the plan, she would depart and set yee loose to worm his small, lithe body through Streaker’s ducting system. Meanwhile Rety had selected good places to set fires — in a ship lounge and a caigo locker — to distract the Streaker crew away from this area while Kunn used smuggled tools to break out. If all went well, they could then dash for the OutLock, steal a star boat, and escape.
There’s just one condition, Kunn. You gotta agree that we get away from here. Away from these Earthers, away from Daniks and Rothens and Jophur monsters and all that crap. Away from Jijo.
Rety felt sure he’d accept. Anyway, if he or Jass give me any trouble, they’ll find they’re dealin’ with a different Rety now.
The guard maneuvered his walker unit carefully in the narrow hallway. The gangly machine had to bend in order for him to bring a key against the door panel. Finally, it slid aside. Rety glimpsed two bunks within, each supporting a blanket-covered human form.
“Hey, Kunn,” she said, crossing the narrow distance and nudging his shoulder. “Wake up! No more delayin’ or foolin’ now. These folks want t’know how you followed em.…”
The blanket slipped off, revealing his shock of glossy hair, but there was no tremor of movement.
They must have him doped, she thought. I hope he’s not too far under. This can’t wait!
Rety shook harder, rolling Kunn toward her—
And jumped back with a gasp of surprise.
The Danik’s face was purple. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and his tongue had swollen to fill his mouth.
The dolphin guard chattered a dismayed squeal in the instinctive animal language of his kind.
Rety struggled with shock. She had grown up with death, but it
took all her force of will to quash the horror rising in her gorge.
Somehow, she made herself turn toward the other bunk.
Sara
“Oh, Doctor Faustus was a good man,
He whipped his scholars now and then;
When he whipped them he made them dance,
Out of Scotland into France,
Out of France, and into Spain,
Then he whipped them back again!”
Emerson’s song resonated through the Hall of Spinning Disks, where dust motes sparkled in narrow shafts of rhythmic light.
Sara winced at the violent lyrics, but the starman clearly enjoyed these outbursts, gushing from unknown recesses of his scarred brain. He laughed, as did a crowd of urrish males who followed him, clambering through the scaffolding of Uriel’s fantastic machine, helping him fine-tune each delicate part. The little urs cackled at Emerson’s rough humor, and showed their devotion by diving between whirling glass plates to tighten a strap here, or a pulley there, wherever he gestured with quick hand signs.
Once an engineer, always an engineer, Sara thought. At times, Emerson resembled her own father, who might go silent for days while tending his beloved paper mill, drawing more satisfaction from the poetry of pulping hammers and rollers than the white sheets that made literacy possible on a barbaric world.
A parallel occurred to her.
Paper suited the Six Races, who needed a memory storage system that was invisible from space. But Uriel’s machine has similar traits — an analog computer that no satellite or spaceship can detect, because it uses no electricity and has no digital cognizance. Above all, Galactics would never imagine such an ornate contraption.
And yet it was beautiful in a bizarre way. No wonder she had dreamed shapes and equations when her eyes first glimpsed this marvel through cracks in her delirium. Each time a disk turned against a neighbor’s rim, its own axle rotated at a speed that varied with the radial point of contact. If that radius shifted as an independent variable, the rotation changed in response, describing a nonlinear function. It was a marvelously simple concept … and hellishly hard to put into practice without years of patient trial and error.