by David Brin
Oh, hell, he thought as the ocelot face whirled toward him with a twist of sour hatred. Wasting no time, Harry ducked his head and crossed both arms before him in the stance of a repentant client, backing away as the creature launched into a tirade, berating him in shrill patronizing tonal clefts of GalFour.
“To explain this insolent interruption! To abase thyself and apologize with groveling sincerity! To mark this affront on the long list of debts accumulated by your clan of worthless—”
Not a great power, the Xatinni routinely picked on Earthlings for the oldest reason of bullies anywhere — because they could.
“To report in three miduras at my apartment for further rebukes, at the following address! Forty-seven by fifty-two Corridor of the—”
Fortunately, at that moment a bulky Vriiilh came gallumping down the avenue, grunting ritual apologies to all who had to scoot aside before the amiable behemoth’s two-meter footsteps. The Xatinni fell back with an angry yowl as the Vriiilh pushed between them.
Harry took advantage of the interruption to escape by melting through the crowd.
So long, pussycat, he thought, briefly wishing he could psi cast an insult as he fled. Instead of shameful abasement, he would much rather have smacked the Xatinni across the kisser — and maybe removed a few excess limbs to improve the eatee’s aerodynamics. I hope we meet again sometime, in a dark alley with no one watching.
Alas, self-control was the first criterion looked for by the Terragens Council, before letting any neo-chim head unsupervised into the cosmos at large. Small and weak, Earthclan could not afford incidents.
Yeah … and a fat lotta good that policy did us in the long run.
They gave dolphins a starship of their own, and look what the clever fishies went and did. They stirred up the worst crisis in Ifni-knows-how-many millions of years.
If the honest truth be told, it made Harry feel just a little jealous.
Beyond those coming to Kazzkark on official business, the streets and warrens supported a drifting population of others — refugees from places disrupted by the growing chaos, plus opportunists, altruists, and mystics.
The lattermost seemed especially plentiful, these days.
On most worlds, matters of philosophy or religion were discussed at a languid pace, with arguments spanning slow generations and even being passed from a patron race to the clients of its clients, over the course of aeons. But here and now, Harry detected something frenetic about the speeches being given by missionaries who had set up shop beneath Dome Sixty-Seven. While clusters and nebulae shimmered overhead, envoys of the best-known denominations offered ancient wisdom from perfumed pavilions — among them the Inheritors, the Awaiters, the Transcenders … and the Abdicators, showing no apparent sign of fragmentation as red-robed acolytes from a dozen species hectored passersby with their orthodox interpretation of the Progenitors’ Will.
Harry knew there were many aspects of Galactic Civilization he would never understand, no matter how long or hard he tried. For instance, how could great alliances of sapient races feud for whole epochs over minute differences in dogma?
He wasn’t alone in this confusion. Many of Earth’s greatest minds stumbled over such issues as whether the fabled First Race began the cycle of Uplift two billion years ago as a manifestation of predetermined physical law — or as an emergent property of self-organizing systems in a pseudovolitionary universe. All Harry ever figured out was that most disputes revolved around how oxy-life became sapient, and what its ultimate destiny might be as the cosmos evolved.
“Not exactly worth killing anybody over,” he snorted. “Or gettin’ killed, for that matter.”
Then again, humans could hardly claim complete innocence. They had slaughtered countless numbers of their own kind over differences even more petty and obscure during Earth’s long dark isolation before Contact. Before bringing light to Harry’s kind.
“Now this is new,” he mused, pausing at the far end of the dome.
Beyond the glossy pavilions of the main sects, an aisle had opened featuring proselytes of a shabbier sort, preaching from curtained alcoves and stony niches, or even wandering the open Way, proclaiming unconventional beliefs.
“Go ye hence from this place!” screeched a dour-looking pee’oot with a spiral neck and goggle eyes. “For each of you, but one place offers safety from the upheavals to come. That is the wellspring where you began!”
Harry had to decode the heretical creed from highly inflected Galactic Three. Use of the Collective-Responsive case meant that the Pee’oot was referring to salvation of species, of course, not individuals. Even heresy had its limits.
Is he saying each race should return to its homeworld? The mudball where its presapient ancestors evolved and were first adopted by some patron for Uplift?
Or did the preacher refer to something more allegorical?
Perhaps he means that each chain of Uplift is supposed to seek knowledge of its own legacy, distinct from the others. That would call for breaking up the Institutes and letting every oxy-life clan go its own way.
Of course Harry wasn’t equipped to parse out the fine points of Galactic theology, nor did he really care. Anyway, the next zealot was more interesting to watch.
A komahd evangelist — with a tripod lower torso but humanoid trunk and arms — looked jovial and friendly. Its lizardlike head featured a broad mouth that seemed split by a permanent happy grin, while long eyelashes made the face seem almost beguiling. But a single, fat rear leg thumped a morose beat while the komahd chanted in GalSix. Its sullen tale belied those misleadingly cheerful features.
“All our
“See how our great powers and alliances bleed each other, wasting their armed might, struggling and striving in search of
“This can only serve the interests of
“Who does not recall how
“We are told that the hydros
“What of the
The komahd finished by pointing an all-too-humanlike finger straight at Harry, who in his uniform seemed a convenient representative of NavInst. Blushing under his fur, Harry backed away quickly.
Too bad. That was starting to get interesting. At least someone’s complaining about the stupid way the Soro and other powers are acting. And the komahd’s message was about the future, instead of the regular obsession with the past. All right, it’s a bit paranoid. But if more sophonts believed it, they might ease the pressure off Earth and give those poor dolphins a chance to come home.
Harry found it ironic then that the freethinking Komahd generally disliked Terrans. For his own part, Harry rather fancied their looks, and thought they smelled pretty good, too. What a pity the admiration wasn’t reciprocal.
A ruckus from behind made him swivel around — just in time to join a crowd scooting hurriedly toward the nearest wall! Harry felt a shiver course his spine when he saw what was
coming. A squadron of twenty frightening, mantislike Tandu warriors, unarmed but still equipped with deadly, razor-sharp claws, trooped single file down the middle of the boulevard, the tops of their waving eye pods almost brushing the corrugated ceiling. Everyone who saw them coming scurried aside. No one argued right of way with a Tandu, nor did any vendors try to hawk wares at the spiky-limbed beings.
Before departing on his latest mission, Harry had seen a Tandu bite off the head of an obstinate Paha who had proudly refused to give way. Almost at once, the leader of that Tandu group had reproved the assailant by casually chopping its brother to bits. By that act, a simple tit-for-tat justice was served, preventing any action by the authorities. And yet, the chief lesson was clear to all and sundry.
Don’t mess with us.
No inquiry was ever held. Even the Paha’s commanders had to admit that its bravado and demise amounted to a case of suicide.
Harry’s pulse raced till the terrifying squadron entered a side avenue and passed out of sight.
I … better not dawdle anymore, he thought, suddenly feeling drained and oppressed by all the clamorous crowding. Wer’Q’quinn is gonna spit bile if I don’t hand in my mission report soon.
He also wanted to ask the old snake about things he had heard and seen since landing — about hoons interested in E Space, and t-points going on the blink, and komahd preachers who claimed—
Harry’s heart almost did a back flip when his shoulder was suddenly engulfed by a bony hand bigger than his forearm. Slim white fingers — tipped with suckers — gripped softly but adamantly.
He pivoted, only to stare up past an expanse of silver robe at a tall biped who must surely mass half a metric ton. Its head was cast like a sea ship’s prow, but where an ancient boat might have a single eye painted on each side, this creature had two pairs, one atop the other. A flat jaw extended beneath, resembling the ram of a Greek trireme.
It’s … a Skiano … Harry recalled from the endless memory drills during training. He had never expected to encounter this race on the street, let alone have one accost him personally.
What’ve I done now? he worried, preparing to go through another humiliating kowtow and repentance. At least the walking skyscraper can’t accuse me of blocking his light.
A colorful birdlike creature perched on one of the Skiano’s broad shoulders, resembling an Earthly parrot.
“I beg your pardon for startling you, brother,” the titan said mellowly, preempting Harry’s apology. It spoke through a vodor device held in its other mammoth hand. The mouth did not move or utter sound. Instead, soft light flashed from its lower pair of eyes. The vodor translated this into audible sound.
“It seemed to me that you looked rather lost.”
Harry shook his head. “Apologies for contradiction, elder patron. Your concern warms this miserable client-spawn. But I do know where I’m going. So, with thanks, I’ll just be on my—”
The bird interrupted, squawking derisively.
“Idiot! Fool! Not your body. It’s your soul. Your soul! Your soul!”
Only then did Harry realize — the conversation was taking place in Anglic, the wolfling tongue of his birth. He took a second squint at the bird.
Given the stringent requirements of flight, feathered avians had roughly similar shapes, no matter what oxy-world they originated on. Still, in this case there could be no mistake. It was a parrot. A real one. The yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum kind … which made the Skiano seem even stranger than before.
Wrong number of eyes, Harry thought numbly. You should be wearing a patch over one — or even three! Also oughta have a peg leg … and a hook instead of a hand.…
“Indeed, my good ape,” the buzzing voice from the vodor went on, agreeing with the talking bird. “It is your soul that seems in jeopardy. Have you taken the time to consider its salvation?”
Harry blinked. He had never heard of a Skiano proselyte before, let alone one that preached in Anglic, wearing a smartass Terran bird as an accessory.
“You’re talking about me,” he prompted.
“Yes, you.”
Harry blinked, incredulous.
“Me … personally?”
The parrot let out an exasperated raspberry, but the Skiano’s eyes seemed to carry a satisfied twinkle. The machine sounds were joyous.
“At last, someone who quickly grasps the concept! But indeed, I should not be surprised that one of your noble lineage comprehends.”
“Uh, noble lineage?” Harry repeated. No one had ever accused him of that before.
“Of course. You are from Earth! Blessed home of Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, Tipler, and Weimberg-Chang! The abode where wolflings burst to sapience in a clear case of virgin birth, without intervention by any other race of Galactic sinners, but as an immaculate gift from the Cosmos itself!”
Harry stepped back, staring in blank amazement. But the Skiano followed.
“The world whence comes a notion that will change the universe forever. A concept that you, dear brother, must come help us share!”
The huge evangelist leaned toward Harry, projecting intense fervor through both sound and an ardent light in its eyes.
“The idea of a God who loves each person! Who finds importance not in your race or clan, or any grand abstraction, but every particular entity who is self-aware and capable of improvement.
“The Creator of All, who promises bliss when we join Him at the Omega Point.
“The One who offers salvation, not collectively, but to each individual soul.”
• • •
Harry could do nothing but blink, flabbergasted, as his brain and throat locked in a rigor from which no speech could break free.
“Amen!” squawked the parrot. “Amen and hallelujah!”
Alvin’s Journal
FOR ONCE I HAD THE BEST VIEW OF WHAT WAS going on. My pals — Ur-ronn, Huck, and Pincer — were all in other parts of the ship where they had to settle for what they could see on monitors. But I stood just a few arm’s lengths from Dr. Baskin, sharing the commander’s view while we made our escape from Izmunuti.
It all happened right in front of me.
Officially, I was in the Plotting Room to take care of the smelly glavers. But that job didn’t amount to much more than feeding them an occasional snack of synthi pellets I kept in a pouch … and cleaning up when they made a mess. Beyond that, I was content to watch, listen, and wonder how I’d ever describe it all in my journal. Nothing in my experience — either growing up in a little hoonish fishing port or reading books from the human past — prepared me for what happened during those miduras of danger and change.
I took some inspiration from Sara Koolhan. She’s another sooner — a Jijo native like me, descended from criminal settlers. Like me, she never saw a starship or computer before this year. And yet, the young human’s suggestions are heeded. Her advice is sought by those in authority. She doesn’t seem lost when they discuss “circumferential thread boundaries” and “quantum reality layers.” (My little autoscribe is handling the spelling, in case you wonder.) Anyway, I tell myself that if one fellow citizen of the Slope can handle all this strangeness, I should too.
Ah, but Sara was a sage and a wizard back home, so I’m right back where I started, hoping to narrate the actions of star gods and portray sights far stranger than we saw in the deepest Midden, relying on language that I barely understand.
(On Jijo, we use Anglic to discuss technical matters, since most books from the Great Printing were in that tongue. But it’s different aboard Streaker. When scientific details have to be precise, they switch to GalSeven or GalTwo, using word-glyphs I find impenetrable … showing how much our Jijoan dialects have devolved.)
The caterwauling of the glavers was something else entirely. It resembled no idiom I had ever heard before! Enhanced and embellished by the Niss Machine, their noise reached out across the heavens, while a terrifying Zang vessel bore down toward Streaker, intent on blasting our atoms through the giant
star’s whirling atmosphere.
Even if the approaching golden globule was bluffing — if it veered aside at the last moment and let us pass — we would only face another deadly force. The Jophur battleship that had chased Streaker from Jijo now hurtled to cut us off from the only known path out of this storm-racked system.
Without a doubt, Gillian Baskin had set us on course past a gauntlet of demons.
Still, the glavers bayed and moaned while tense duras passed.
Until, finally, the hydrogen breathers replied!
That screeching racket was even worse. Yet, Sara slapped the plotting table and exulted.
“So the legend is true!”
All right, I should have known the story too. I admit, I spent too much of my youth devouring ancient Earthling novels instead of works by our own Jijoan scholars. Especially the collected oral myths and sagas that formed our cultural heritage before humans joined the Six Races and gave us back literacy.
Apparently, the first generation of glaver refugees who came to our world spoke to the g’Keks who were already there, and told them something about their grounds for fleeing the Civilization of Five Galaxies. Centuries before their kind trod the Path of Redemption, the glavers explained something of their reason for self-banishment.
It seems they used to have a talent that gave them some importance long ago, among the starfaring clans. In olden times, they were among the few races with a knack for conversing with hydrogen breathers! It made them rich, serving as middlemen in complex trade arrangements … till they grew arrogant and careless. Something you should never do when dealing with Zang.
One day, their luck ran out. Maybe they betrayed a confidence, or took a bribe, or failed to make a major debt payment. Anyway, the consequences looked pretty grim.
In compensation, the Zang demanded the one thing glavers had left.