The Harmony contains many religions, and after the bloody horror of the Last War, great care is taken never to emphasize one above another, and to give major reverence to the ecumenical concept finally agreed on, the Oversoul which unites all.
Kanaklee’s mind is never far from one subject. “Our baby is white,” he confides to Zilla as they hop warily along in the drizzle.
“Oh, how beautiful! Watch out, Kanak, the flooring is damp there... What color is the nurser?”
“Well, as a sex-animal it turned out a strange cream shade, quite lovely, with red ears and paws. Red like you. A real genetic oddity. We quite gave up hope of a white baby, but afterward”—here Kanaklee blushes perceptibly around his muzzle—“afterward it paled quite a lot. And the baby was white from the start. We couldn’t believe our eyes.”
“How wonderful.” She hops a puddle. “I remember you were so gloomy, insisting it was going to be spotted like you. I never quite understood, because we’re told the Oversoul has a special fondness for those who are spotted. And I think Leiloy might have preferred it.”
“Ah, my spots. Actually those spots are why I never got to be a Spacer.”
“What? You never told me that.”
“Oh, I will, if you’re interested. But in a drier place.”
His mind skips back to the childhood day when he had announced that he wanted to train for space. His parents had firmly discouraged him.
“Just think,” said his mother, Kanakloy, after whom he was named. “Supposing there was a new, far mission. You’d be sure to get on it. And supposing it was a great success, such as to deserve a Ritual. And you the most spotted member of the crew! You’d jump at the chance.”
“And supposing the ship turned into a giant Magglegg fruit!” young Kanak had retorted frivolously. “So what, if I were to return to the Oversoul in such a highly honorable way? You’d still have my sister—”
“Ah, yes,” cut in his father. “But it so happens that we are very fond of this little expression of the Oversoul in his present dry form. Son, I share your mother’s feelings. Study languages and codes, you know you like them, too, and let space missions go. They’re just a routine like any other, these days.”
So Kanaklee had obeyed, and seldom regretted it. In the present calm state of the Harmony, space wasn’t very exciting, as his father had said. And here as Message chief he was daily dealing with more of space and aliens than he could hope to know as a Spacer.
They are nearing the Shrine.
“Oh, look! How beautiful—and how it’s grown while 1 was away!” Zillanoy exclaims.
The great raised offerings-floor is truly gorgeous, almost mature. Many people stop here, and there seems to be a high level of artistry.
They go in out of the rain to the preparatory steps and remove their tail-sheaths to inspect their own colors. At the tip of Kanaklee’s tail is a pleasing soft green powdering of feces. Now, where should this go? He feels it important that this should be a fortunate placement and studies the huge offerings-design carefully.
On the sunrise side, someone—more likely a group—has been working up a structure of dark red lines. And there are other symmetrical arrangements. He will not disturb them. Finally he spots a sketchy patch to the right between a heap of bright blue crystals and an orange line. There.
He turns and levers the open tip of his big tail delicately over the design to the unfinished spot. Careful, now. Delicately he squeezes, blows gently, and sees a small cloud of green-gray excrement extruding right into the site he’s selected. There—lovely. Now to get his long tail back without dripping green crystals on the near part of the design or fanning too much air. Luckily the moisture in the air has partially cemented all the offerings, making the great rug quite stable; he gets his tail safely away and pauses to observe the effect. Excellent!
Meanwhile Zillanoy has been adding yellow powder to a large golden triangle that’s been started at the rear. Yellow is quite rare; perhaps it comes from the shipboard food she’s been eating.
Before going out, they pause a moment to appreciate the unity-in-diversity represented here, the harmony of life-essences offered to the Oversoul. Some people become overabsorbed in the artistry of the’Ritual, Kanaklee thinks. Devout souls who live for weeks on exotic diets that produce rare colors, crystalline feces of violet, vermillion, even white. But that’s perhaps a little untrue to the spirit; after all, the idea is to work with what you honestly are. He’s quite satisfied with his softly glowing area of gray green that enhances the neighboring blue and orange. Honesty, modesty, and harmony.
As they prepare to leave, a nurser bustles up with a girl-child in tow.
“ ’Scuse, ’scuse,” it says importantly, and reaches in its vest to extract a neck-chain bearing a plaque. Kanaklee takes it and reads:
“This child and nurser belong to Amblevoy III and Plazeen of the office of Base Maintenance. Their Names are Fitzloy and Chanlo. If they are in trouble, please call TH-O-86 or EM-&-117. Your help is deeply appreciated. In Harmony, Amblevoy III”
Chanlo, the nurse-animal, waits impatiently for Kanaklee to inscribe the numbers on his noter. As he replaces the nurser’s neck-chain, it points outside and says worriedly, “Lain! Lain! T’ouble!” and exhibits a child’s tom rain-cloak.
The little girl appears about three years old; she watches Zilla and Kanaklee with a large, excited eye, her small tail thumping. When Kanaklee turns to the Shrine’s caller, the child holds up the tail to show Zillanoy. There is a quite large raw spot, through which bright green baby feces are crystallizing. Apparently the parents had underestimated the likelihood of this rare rain and allowed the child’s rain-gear to go unchecked.
Zilla shows the corrosion to Kanaklee, who is rolling Amblevoy Ill’s code on the caller. When he gets through to her she thanks him profusely.
“I’ll be right up to get them, Kenta Kanaklee. No need for you to wait, the nurser is very responsible, although it doesn’t talk too well. Just tell it to wait there—better yet, let me talk to it and you run right along. And thank you so much again—”
But the caller is too high for Chanlo; they must stay to help. Kanaklee holds the speaker down to where the animal can grasp it in its feathery, Ziello-like paw. It’s already growing dark with age.
“Kenta Amblov? Lain! Lain-clo’ ha’ hole,” it says urgently. Amusing to see it imitate people’s mannerisms.
They wait while Amblevoy directs it, in order to hang the speaker back up.
“Than’ you. I use this!” it says proudly to Kanaklee. “Bu’ he’e too high.”
“Yes, that’s fine.” They pat the nurser on its soft shoulder and wave good-bye to little Fitzloy, before taking themselves out in the rain. It’s coming down harder now, they can barely see the separate drops. Under the edges of the rain-cloud a sunset is casting gold-and-blue shadows over the web of walkways between the tall Administration buildings. Beautiful... Beautiful Zieltan, the Garden of the Oversoul...
Zillanoy must leave him now, to go to her home transit station. Affectionate farewells; and Kanaklee hops on alone, watching the lights come on in the buildings alongside. Just beside him is the Alien Affairs Section, where Zilla works. As he passes it the lights come up in the huge three-di display of the Harmony, colored to show the star-systems of all the allied races, of which the green of Ziello are far the most numerous. The stars are connected by the thin golden lines of regular transport routes. It really is impressive, a great hive-shaped brilliance sitting atop a long blackness to the south that represents the River Darkness.
Kanaklee pauses for a moment to look and notices that someone has already wired in some little red flashers among the Comenor’s colonies at the far east-end. These must stand for the Zhuman incursions. To his imagination they look ominous, expanding.
Beyond them, around the end of the River, begins the unknown. The Zhumanor must come from there. Zilla has just told him that the fleet is seeking authority to proceed into that area in search of Z
human bases. Well, it’s no use stamping out the sparks and leaving the source to spread. But Kanaklee flinches mentally; horrible that even the suggestion of war should be raised again. He is just old enough to remember some of the ceremonies of the Great Peace, when the warships were flown away to lie dead forever on a far-away, airless rock. Dreadful that they should fly again, now. But what choice is there? These appalling Zhuman invaders, stealthily killing colony after colony in their ruthless pursuit of riches—they have to be stopped.
But what lies beyond them? Are they perhaps the leading edge of some savage alien empire, which might have the power to retaliate?
Shaking his head to clear it of dark thoughts, Kanaklee moves on toward his station, His dear little Zillanoy seems really to have done well, getting a Navy commendation. That must be from this Captain Krimheen, who seems to be second in command of the whole fleet, as well as captain of the great warship that sits out there on the field. He has returned to get reinforcements, and to argue in person before the Council for permission to extend operations into the unknown. The good captain had apparently taken quite an interest in little Zilla and her language work.
As he hops into the shelter of the transit station, the monorail car for his home area is just approaching. Good. And good for little Zilla. This dreadful war in the east has at least brought some good to his friend. He had been wrong about her plan; it now looks as if she’s chosen her field of special knowledge very well.
Back behind him, beyond the Shrine, the night lights of his own offices are on. The duty clerk is just filing a routine message on his desk for the morning shift. It’s from a southern Ziello world in the River’s fringes, which has just spotted a small unidentified ship that refuses or is unable to acknowledge signals. And it’s apparently coming from the River Darkness.
Meanwhile the calendars at Human FedBase 900 have clicked onward, bringing their quota of stimulating events. But all are overshadowed now by increasingly ominous reports of trouble in the far east sector. Three hundred’s scoutships sensors persistently report the presence of elusive somethings out beyond clear range: entities fast-moving, purposive, emphatically not the natural movements of stray rocks or other phenomena of nature. Three more colonies go silent, and their worlds are found destroyed. EM traffic is picked up at extreme distance. It looks more and more as though the operations of some life-form inimical to the Federation are coming closer and more close.
As the bad news reaches Central, responses are evoked. Nine hundred hears that an expedition is sent out to recover and refit the Class Y warships, long lying abandoned on a dead planet to the south. FedBase 300 turns four of its reconnaissance ships into crudely armed scouts, and six new ones are under construction at Central.
These doings almost eclipse what would have been the exciting rumors of a new breakthrough of some kind at Central Research. Those who attend to them consider grimly that the advances may come in time to help in a new Last War—provided the unknown enemy hasn’t got them, too.
At FedBase 900, the old deputy retires. His replacement is a young man who is the clone of a man who had been deputy at 900 three generations back. The cloning of particularly successful deputies is quite customary, since their success depends primarily on temperamental qualities, and the job is so important to a Base’s equilibrium. His nickname is also Fred, that being the informal way of addressing all deputies—short for Federation Regulatory Executive Deputy.
Exec Jonne is still too young to think of retiring, despite her nightmares. Thus she is still on duty when the third message pipe from Rift-Runner One falls into the incoming chute.
Down below, Pauna is now chief Signals officer. With a thud of her still excitable heart she opens the battered pipe and threads the message on her voder.
Again she hears the voice of Navigator Torrane, sounding surprisingly young—he has been in cold-sleep these many years: “Rift-Runner One to FedBase Nine hundred, message three. We are in the northern fringes of the Rift, approaching the planet tentatively identified as Zeel-tan. Their EM traffic is very heavy—”
This must go at once to Exec. A call brings a quick appointment, and Pauna is trotting up the exercise ramp; her aide handles routine traffic now. She’s considering the quality of Torrane’s voice: more composed, but strained, she decides.
The decades-old scene reassembles itself in Exec’s office. This time Realune, now gray-haired, is invited in from the start. Exec turns to her new deputy:
“Fred, you’ll recall the briefing about Rift-Runner One when you first came aboard. Their first message, from their Beacon Alpha, showed them very disturbed by feelings, or hallucinations, that their body shapes were wrong, or should or would change. Specifically, they were too small and short, they were missing an upper pair of smaller arms and hands, and a tail heavy enough to brace them or be used in a hopping gait. Torrane did all the talking; he claimed that the others had similar disturbances, but we have no way of knowing for sure if this is so or whether Torrane alone was hallucinating. However, we have uncovered a similar phenomenon, with a different body pattern, down south and also in a starless region.
“Rift-Runner’s second message was purely technical, except for Captain Asch’s ‘Status quo ante’. Here is message three. Pauna says they’ve reached the starfields on the far north side of the Rift and are approaching their computer-chosen target, a center of EM transmission activity. Green? Very well, here we go.”
Torrane’s voice comes on, very calm and formal. “We can now confirm that the fourth planet of this white-star system is a hub of signal activity, both transmitting and receiving. The syllables ‘Zeel-tan’ are clearly audible at the start of transmissions. There is also quite a volume of traffic between it and its two large moons, suggesting that some industry has been moved off-planet, as Human worlds have done.
“This is a high-density volume of space. We have counted at least fifteen systems originating traffic with Zeel-tan. Some ship-to-ship traffic is also probable, but we’re outside the range of reliable detection.”
“So formal?” whispers Pauna. “I guess he’s making up for last time.”
“The poor lad,” says Exec. “He may believe we think he’s crazy.”
“—one highly significant phenomenon,” Torrane is saying. “At regular daily intervals—planetary rotation is close to twenty-three hours Standard—all traffic falls off abruptly, and Zeel-tan originates a single powerful transmission. This is immediately picked up and rebroadcast outward to systems beyond; we’ve counted at least five such relays. We guess that this is a daily government news broadcast, suggesting that this is one big unified system extending beyond our sensor range.
“The really significant thing here is the speed of pick-up and retransmission. Until we can get more instruments on it, we are tentatively suggesting that they have some faster-than-light means of commo.”
“Whew!” The deputy whistles. Exec just looks more intent and grave.
“I am now closing down while we near the planet. Our plan is to approach within orbital range, broadcasting standard First Contact signals. If there is no hostile response, we will spiral in and land wherever seems suitable. Navigator Torrane signing—”
There is another voice in the background, and then Torrane says, “Oh. Yes, well, I wish I didn’t have to say this. The former hallucinations, or, uh, whatever, are still with us. It’s almost as though we have imaginary outer bodies. But we’re getting better at ignoring these symptoms. As Captain Asch says, they don’t really interfere with carrying out our duties. Kathy—Lieutenant Ekaterina Ku—says that she thinks hers are getting weaker, or easier to live with, as we get into populated space.” His voice has relaxed now. “We have a strong feeling that the people out here, the people on Zeel-tan, must look like we feel—for whatever that’s worth.
“I will now lay this aside while we go closer. The maneuvers will put us near the end of our allotment of outbound fuel, but this is certainly the best target we can reach. If for a
ny reason we have to use more, we can always get back to Beacon Alpha and wait there to be rescued... Navigator Torrane out.”
Clicks and more clicks from the voder. Suddenly another, deeper voice speaks.
“This is Captain Asch, commanding. It occurs to me that while we go in, you might welcome confirmation of the subjective phenomena Navigator Torrane has reported. His description of imaginary outer bodies is very apt. In my case, the hallucinatory impression that I have a, er, a muscular, ah, tail strong enough to brace me or even propel me is intense enough to make me stumble occasionally, even in our minimal gee. My normal Human body seems to feel as if I were in some way’s crippled or missing parts. And I wish to record here a general commendation for the crew, and Lieutenant Torrane in particular, who met these symptoms alone, for constancy and perseverance to duty in the face of a seriously disorienting and stressful challenge. Asch out.”
A female voice replaces him.
“Lieutenant Sharana here, linguist and logistics. Everything Torry says is true. Everybody looks weird to me, arms missing, wrong faces, too many eyes, no tails—it’s weird. And if I try to pick one more thing up with my imaginary hands, I’ll—well, no I won’t. It’s just as bad for everyone. Shara out. Oh, our Asch-o has been tremendous.”
Another woman takes over.
“Lieutenant Ku, copilot and Sensitive. Yes, it’s all so. I may have felt it more strongly than others, I’ve been almost paralyzed for a while. Everything is so wrong. But now I’m feeling more like it’s normal, only I’m so clumsy. And I hear voices, every so often I can understand what they say. Like about the Oversoul.” Her tone has-an odd tinge of involuntary reverence or awe. “Some of the others tell me they hear things, too, in a kind of whisper or mumble, like they should be able to understand. It’s my strong belief that the nature of the life-forms here is transmitting itself to us... Kathy Ku out.”
The last member is Lieutenant Dingariar, engineer and paramed.
The Starry Rift Page 16