by David Brin
It must still be high up in the atmosphere, she realized. Yet it seemed so big…
The god-ship passed from roughly southwest to northeast, clearly descending, slowing down for a landing. It took no great ingenuity to guess its destination.
For all its awesome beauty, Sara did not feel anything this time but a sour churn of dread.
Lark
It was hard to make out much from a distance. The blaze of light coming from the Glade was so intense, it cast long shadows, even down the forested lanes of a mountainside, many leagues away.
“Now you see what you’re up against,” Ling told him, standing nearby, watched by a half-dozen wary militiamen. “This won’t be anything like taking down a couple of little bodyguard robots.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Lark answered, shading his eyes to peer against the glare, as searchlights roved across the crater where the alien station lay in ruins. After two days without sleep, the far-off engines reminded him of a growl of a she-ligger, just returned from a hunt to find her pup mauled and now nursing a killing rage.
“It’s still not too late, you know,” Ling went on. “If you hand over your zealot rebels — and your High Sages — the Rothen may accept individual rather than collective guilt. Punishment doesn’t have to be universal.”
Lark knew he should get angry. He ought to whirl and decry the hypocrisy of her offer — reminding her of the evidence everyone had seen and felt earlier, proving that her masters planned genocide all along.
Two things stopped him.
First, while everyone now knew the Rothen planned inciting bloody civil war, aimed foremost at the human population of Jijo, the details were still unclear.
And the devil lies in the details.
Anyway, Lark was too tired to endure another mental tussle with the young Danik biologist. He turned his head in a neck-twist that mimicked an urrish shrug, and hiss-clicked in GalTwo—
“Have we not (much) better things to do, than to discuss (intensely) absurd notions?”
This brought approving snickers from the guards, accompanying the two of them into hiding. Other groups were escorting Rann and Ro-kenn to separate concealed places, dispersing the hostages as far apart as possible.
Yes, but why did they put me in charge of Ling?
Maybe they figure she’ll be too busy constantly fighting with me to plan any escape.
For all he knew, the two of them might be stuck together for a long time to come.
Silence reigned as they watched the mighty starship cruise back and forth, shining its fierce beam onto every corner of the Glade, every place where a pavilion had stood, only miduras before. From a remote mountainside, it was transfixing, hypnotic.
“Sage, we must be going now, it’s still not safe.”
That was the militia sergeant, a small wiry woman named Shen, with glossy black hair, delicate features, and a deadly compound bow slung over one shoulder. Lark blinked, at first wondering who she was talking to.
Sage — ah, yes.
It would take some getting used to. Lark had always figured his heresy would disqualify him, despite his training and accomplishments.
But only a sage can rule in matters of life or death.
As the group resumed their trek, he could not help glancing at Ling. Though half the time he “wanted to strangle her,” that was only a figure of speech. Lark doubted he could ever carry out his duty, if it came to that. Even now, smudged and gaunt from exhaustion, her face was too lovely by far.
A midura or so later, a blaring cry of dismay filled the mountain range, echoing round frosted peaks to assail them from all sides, setting trees quivering. A militia soldier pointed back along the trail to where the starship’s artificial glow had just grown impossibly brighter. They all ran to the nearest switchback offering a view southwest and raised their hands to shield their eyes.
“Ifni!” Lark gasped, while guards clutched their crude weapons, or each other’s arms, or made futile hand gestures to ward off evil. Every face was white with reflected radiance.
“It… can’t … be …” Ling exhaled heavily, sighing each word.
The great Rothen ship still hovered over the Glade — as before, bathed in light.
Only now the light blazed down upon it from above — cast by a new entity.
Another ship.
A much, much bigger ship, like a grown urs towering over one of her larvae.
Uh… went Lark’s mind as he stared, struggling to adjust to the change in scale. But all he could come up with was a blaspheming thought.
The new monster was huge enough to have laid the Holy Egg and still have room inside for more.
Trapped underneath the behemoth, the Rothen craft gave a grinding noise and trembled, as if straining to escape, or even to move. But the light pouring down on it now seemed to take on qualities of physical substance, like a solid shaft, pressing it ever lower toward the ground. A golden color flowed around the smaller star-craft as it scraped hard against Jijo’s soil. The dense lambency coated and surrounded it, congealing like a glowing cone, hardening as it cooled.
Like wax, Lark thought, numbly. Then he turned with the others and ran through the forest night for as long and as hard as his body could bear it.
Asx
What is this, my rings? This shivering sensation, coursing through our stack? It feels like dread familiarity. Or a familiar dread.
Amid this horrible glare, we stand rooted in the festival glade with the Rothen ship grounded nearby, encased in a bubble of frozen time, with leaves and twigs caught motionless, mid-whirl, next to its gold-sealed hull.
And above, this new power. This new titan. The searing lights dim. Humming an overpowering song, the monstrous vessel descends, crushing every remaining tree on the south side of the valley, shoving a new bed for the river, filling the sky like a mountain.
Can you feel it, my rings?
Can you feel the premonition that throbs our core with acid vapors?
Along the vast flank of the starship, a hatch opens, large enough to swallow a small village.
Against the lighted interior, silhouettes enter view.
Tapered cones. Stacks of rings.
Frightful kinfolk we had hoped never to see again.
Sara
The Stranger hurried into camp a while after the second ship passed overhead. By then, Sara had recovered enough to bring her mind back down to matters close at hand.
Matters she could do something about.
The star-man came from the south, herding a half-dozen weary donkeys. He seemed excited, feverish with need to tell of something. His mouth opened and closed, gabbling incoherently, as if trying to force words by sheer will.
Sara felt his forehead and checked his eyes.
“I know,” she said, trying to calm his overwrought nerves. “We saw it too. A huge damn thing, bigger than Dolo Lake. I wish you could tell us whether it was your ship, or someone you don’t like much.”
In fact, she wasn’t even sure the man could hear her voice, let alone follow her meaning. He had been closer to the stun-grenade and less prepared.
Nevertheless, something seemed strange about his excitement. He did not point at the sky, as she would have expected, nor to the north, where the two ships were last seen descending, one after the other. Instead, he gestured southward, in the direction he had just come.
The Stranger’s gaze met hers, and he shuddered. His brow furrowed in concentration as he took several deep breaths. Then, with a light suddenly in his eyes, he sang,
“Blacks and bays, dapples and grays,
Coach and six white horses,
Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy, little baby.”
His voice was raspy and Sara saw tears. Still, he went on, triggering verses that he knew by heart — that lay ready, even after many decades, creased in undamaged folds of his brain.
“When you wake,
you shall have cake,
and all th
e pretty
little horses.”
Sara nodded, trying to sift meaning out of the lullaby.
“All the pretty litt — oh, Ifni!”
She whirled to face the explosers.
“He’s seen more urs! They’re here already, swinging south to take us from behind!”
Kurt blinked a couple of times, then began to open his mouth — but was cut off by a fluting whistle of jubilation from the prisoners.
Ulgor stretched her neck toward them. “I told you our allies would not take long arriving. Now cut these cords so I can intercede, and fersuade our Urunthai friends not to treat you too badly.”
“Sara,” Kurt said, taking her elbow. But she shrugged him off. There was no time to spare.
“Kurt, you take Jornah, Prity, and the Stranger into the rocks. The Urunthai can’t follow well in rough terrain. You might reach high ground if Blade and I stall them. Try to find a cave or something. Go!”
She swiveled to face the blue qheuen. “Are you ready, Blade?”
“I am, Sara!” The blue clacked two fierce pincers and stepped forward, as if prepared to fight the Battle of Znunir Trading Post all over again.
More laughter made her turn around. This time it was Dedinger. The former sage chortled amusement.
“Oh, don’t mind me, sister. Your plan sounds delightful. It’ll save my life and those of my men. So by all means, Kurt, do as she says! Head for the rocks. Go!”
Sara quickly saw what Dedinger meant. If Urunthai reinforcements found they could not follow the fugitives through a boulder field, or down some narrow grotto, or up a garu tree, that could force them to renew their broken alliance with the band of human radicals, forgoing vengeance — at least for as long as it took the desert trappers to hunt Kurt and the others down.
She sagged, seeing the futility of it all.
We’ve been through so much, only to come right back where we started.
“Sara—” Kurt said again. Then the old man stopped what he had been about to say and cocked his head. “Listen.”
The clearing went silent. Moments later, she heard it too — the approaching clatter of rushing hooves. A great many of them. She could feel their rumbling haste through the soles of her feet.
Too late to come up with another plan. Too late for anything but dignity.
She took the Stranger’s arm. “Sorry I didn’t catch on when you first tried to warn us,” she said, brushing the worst streaks of dust off of his clothes and straightening his collar. If he was to be their prize, he should at least look the part of a valuable hostage, not some ragamuffin drifter. He repaid her with a tentative smile. Together, they turned south, to face the onrushing cavalry.
The newcomers swelled out of the darkness, from between giant pillars of stone. They’re urs, all right, she thought. Burly, powerful and well-armed they spilled into the clearing in a disciplined skirmish pattern, taking positions on all sides, brandishing their arbalests, scanning for danger signs. Sara was startled, and a bit insulted, when the vanguard simply ignored the standing humans and Blade, finding them no threat at all.
More surprisingly, they paid little more heed to the trussed-up prisoners, leaving them right where they were.
Sara noticed that the war paint of the new arrivals was unlike that of UrKachu’s band — more restrained, dabbed in smoother, more flowing lines. Could that mean they weren’t Urunthai, after all?
From the dismayed look on Ulgor’s face, Sara realized this was not the band of “friends” the tinker was expecting. She nursed a slim reed of hope. Could they be militia? They wore no formal brassards or tunics, nor did they act like the typical urrish militia unit — local herdsmen who drilled for fun every eighth day, when the weather was good.
Who are these guys?
Skirmishers whistled that the area was clear. Then a senior matron with a gray-fringed muzzle sauntered into the firelight. She approached the Dolo Villagers and lowered her neck, respectfully.
“We regret our tardiness, friends. It is sad you were inconvenienced, vut we are glad to see you overcane your trouvles, without helf.”
Sara stared as Kurt touched noses with the aged urs. “You’re not late if you arrive in the nick of time, Ulashtu. I knew you’d scent our affliction and come for us…”
At that point, Sara lost track of the conversation. For the Stranger pulled her about, squeezing her arm tight while a nervous, excited quaver throbbed along his skin.
More figures were approaching out of the darkness.
Perplexing shapes.
At first she thought it was another party of urs, outfitted for war. Very large urs, with strange, stiff necks and an odd way of moving. For an instant she recalled the ancient illustration that once rimmed the Parthenon — the one depicting savage, mythical centaurs.
A moment later, she sighed.
Silly thing. It’s only men riding donkeys. Ifni! This darkness would make anything ordinary seem mysterious, especially after all we’ve been thr—
She blinked and stared again.
They were big donkeys. The human riders’ feet did not drag but perched high off the ground, astride great torsos that seemed to pulsate with raw animal power.
“It’s them!” Jomah cried. “They’re real! They weren’t all killed off, after all!”
To Sara it felt like witnessing dragons, or dinosaurs, or stag-griffins come alive off the pages of a storybook. A dream made real — or a nightmare to some. The Urunthai prisoners let out a howl of anger and despair when they realized what was stepping into the firelight. This meant their one great achievement — their league’s sole claim to fame — was in fact a failure. A farce.
The riders dismounted, and Sara realized they were all women. She also saw that several more of the great beasts followed behind, bearing saddles but otherwise unburdened.
No, she thought, realizing what was about to be asked of her. They can’t seriously expect me to climb onto one of those things!
The nearest beast snorted as the Stranger reached up to stroke its mammoth head. The creature easily out-massed four or five urs, with jaws big enough to swallow a person’s arm, whole. Yet, the man from space pressed his cheek against its great neck.
With tears in his eyes, he sang again.
“When you wake,
you shall have cake,
and all the pretty
little horses.”
Epilogue
It is a strange universe.
He ponders this without putting it in words. It’s easier that way.
Lately, he has found quite a few means to express ideas without the swarm of busy, smacking, humming, clattering noises that used to run through all his thoughts.
Music and song. Numbers. Pencil sketches. Feelings. And the strange colors cast by those funny living-visors people sometimes wear on this world.
Rewq.
He can think the name of the beasts and is proud of the accomplishment.
As he slowly gets better, he finds he can contemplate important names more clearly.
Sara, Jomah, Prity…
And some other words, occasionally two or three at a time.
Memory, too, is becoming more clarified. He can recall the scoutship, for instance, blasted as he tried a futile diversion, attempting to draw a hunter ship away from its prey.
He failed, taking a jolting series of blows, and there had followed a period that was still a blur to him, a vague impression of rapid movement and change… after which he found himself plummeting, on fire, crashing—
No, no. Think of something else.
Riding. That was a much nicer thing to muse upon.
Riding a saddled animal. A spirited horse. The heady, surprising joy of it, with cool wind in his face, bringing a thousand amazing smells.
How strange to find so many things to like about this new world! About a life robbed of the one thing that makes most humans human. A command of words.
And now he remembers. Something very much like this i
njury of his happened before. To a friend.
To his captain.
An image swirls through his mind. A handsome, sleek-gray figure. Flukes thrashing through water filled with tiny bubbles. A narrow, bottle-shaped jaw, filled with pointy, grinning teeth. A brain, wounded, but still profoundly wise.
Silently, he mouths three syllables.
Crei… dei… ki…
And all at once this triggers more memories. More friends. A ship. A mission. A need.
An image of watery depths. So deep and black that no light could ever penetrate — a hiding place, but no sanctuary. In all the vast cosmos, there is no sanctuary.
But now, as if released from the prison of his illness, one more thing swarms through his mind, surprising him with sudden recognition.
A name.
My… name.
Slippery from pent-up frustration, it shoots out from wherever it had lain, dammed up for so long. Caroming back and forth, it finally settles down within reach.
It ought never have gone away. It should be the most familiar word in a person’s life, yet only now does it return, as if to say “welcome back.”
Riding through a night washed with exotic moonlight, surrounded by curious beings and a culture unlike any he had ever known, he now laughs aloud, ecstatic to be able to do this simple thing. This one, cherished act.
My… name… is… Emerson.
The End of Part One
Acknowledgments
For those familiar with my other work, this volume may seem a departure from my normal custom of trying to write novels that stand on their own. That was my intention this time, but the story kept growing, evolving beyond even the length of huge tomes like Earth and Glory Season, leaving me no alternative but to “go the trilogy route.” There is no shame in the practice-trilogies have their own lavish, wide-screen, Technicolor attraction. But in future I trust that I’ll plan better.