by Brin, David
PART FOUR
FROM THE NOTES OF GILLIAN BASKIN
I WISH I COULD introduce myself to Alvin. I feel I already know the lad, from reading his Journal and eavesdropping on conversations among his mends.
Their grasp of twenty-third-century Anglic idiom is so perfect, and their eager enthusiasm so dllierent from the hoons and urs I met before coming to Jijo, that half the time I almost forget I'm listening to aliens. that is, it I ignore the weird speech tones and inflecttons they take for granted.
Then one of them comes up with a burst of eerily skewed logic that reminds me these arent just human kids alter all, dressed up in Halloween suits to look like a crab, a centaur, and a squid on a wheelchair. passing the time, they wondered vand I could not blame them,, whether they were prisoners or guests in this underwater refuge. Speculation led to a wide-ranging discussion, comparing various tamous captives of literature. Among their intriguing perceptions-Ur-ronn sees Richard II as the story of a legitimate business takeover, with Dolingbroke as the kings authentic apprentice.
The red qheuen, I incerlip, maintains that the hero of the leng Ho chronicles was kept in the emperors harem against his will, even though he had access to the bight Hundred Beauties and could leave at any time. finally, Huck declared It frustrating that Shakespeare spent so little time dealing with Macbeths evil wile, especially her attempt to escape sin by iinding redemption in a presapient state.
[luck has ideas for a sequel, describing the ladys reuplilt from the tallow condition. Iner ambitious work would be no less than a morality tale about betrayal and destiny in the Five Galaxies!
Beyond these singular insights, I am struck that here on Jijo an illiterate community of castaways was suddenly Hooded with written lore provided by human settlers. What an ironic reversal of Larths situation, with our own native culture nearly overwhelmed by exposure to the Great Galactic Library. Astonishingly, the Six Kaces seem to have adapted with vitality and confidence, if tluck and Alvin are at all representative. I wish their experiment well.
Admittedly, I still have trouble understanding their religion. the concept of redemption through devolution is one they seem to take for granted, yet its attraction eludes me. to my surprise, our ships doctor said she understands the concept, quite well.
Every dolphin grows up tee ling the call, Makanee told me. In sleep, our minds still roam the vast songscape of the Whale Dream. It beckons us to return to our basic nature, whenever the stress of sapiency becomes too great.
This dolphin crew has been under pressure for three long years. Makanees tfait must care for over two dozen patients who are already redeemed, as a Jijoan would put it. These dolphins have reclaimed their basic nature all right. In other words, we have lost them as comrades and skilled colleagues, as surely as it they died.
Makanee fights regression wherever she finds symptoms, and yet she remains philosophical. She even otters a theory to explain why the idea revolts me so.
She put it something like so--
1 L,Ktiyl S you humans dread this lite avenue because your race had to work for sapiency, earning it for yourself the hard way across thousands of bleak generations.
We tins-and these urs and qheuens and noons, and every other Galactic clan--all had the gitt handed to us by some race that came before. you can t expect us to hold on to it quite as tenaciously as you, who had to struggle so desperately for the same prize.
The attraction of this so-called Redemption lath may be a bit like ditching school. There s something alluring about the notion of letting go, shucking the discipline and toil of maintaining a rigorous mind. It you slack off, so what' YOM descendants will get another chance. A fresh start on the upward road of uplift, with new patrons to show you the way.
I asked Makanee it she found that part of it especially appealing.
The idea of new patrons. Would dolphins be better off with ditlerent sponsors than Homo sapiens'
She laughed and expressed her answer in deliclously ambiguous Trinary.
*When winter sends ice*
*growling across northern seas*
*Wimps love the gull stream!*
Makanees comment made me ponder again the question of human origins.
On Earth, most people seem willing to suspend Judgment on the question of whether our species had help from genetic meddlers, before the age of science and then contact. Stubborn Darwinists still present a strong case, but few have the guts to insist Galactic experts are wrong when they claim, with eons of experience, that the sole route to sapiency is Uplift. Many terran citizens take their word (or it.
So the debate rages--on popular media shows and in private arguments among humans, dolphins, and chims-about who our absent patrons might have been. At last count there were six dozen candidates-from luvalllans and L"ethani all the way to Sun Ghosts and time travelers from some bizarre (Nineteenth Dimension.
While a few dolphins do believe in missing patrons, a majority are like Makanee. I hey hold that we humans must have done it ourselves, struggling against darkness without the slightest Intervention by outsiders.
How did Chaplain Creideiki put it, once" Oh yes.
1 Hr,Kt are racial memories, lorn and Jill. Recollections that can be accessed through deep keeneenk meditation. One particular image comes down from our dreamlike legends--of an apelike creature paddling to sea on a tree trunk, proudly proclaiming that he had carved it, all by himself, with a stone ax, and demanding congratulations from an indifferent cosmos.
Now I ask you, would any decent patron let its client act in such a way a manner that made you look so ridiculous'
INO. From the beginning we could tell that you humans were being raised by amateurs. Dy yourselves.
AT least thats how I remember Creidelki's remark, lorn found it hilarious, but I recall suspecting that our captain was withholding part of the story. There was more, that he was saving for another time.
Only another time never came.
Even as we dined with Creideiki that evening, Streaker was wriggling her way by an obscure back route into the Shallow duster.
A day or two later, everything changed.
It is late and I should finish these notes. Try to catch some sleep.
Mannes reports mixed results from engineering, lie and larkaett found a way to remove some of the carbon coating from Streaker's hull, but a more thorough job would only wind up damaging our already weak Ranges, so that's out for now.
On the other hand, the control parameters I hoaxed out or the Library cube enabled Suessi's crew to bring a couple or these derelict dross starships back to lire! They re still Junk, or else the Buyur would have taken them along when they lett. Out immersion in icy water appears to have made little difference since then. perhaps some use might be found for one or two of the hulks. Anyway, it gives the engineers something to do.
We need distraction, now that Streaker seems to be trapped once more. Galactic cruisers have yet again chased us down to a far corner or the universe, coveting our lives and our secrets.
How?
I've pondered this over and over. How did they follow our trail?
The course past l?munuti seemed well hidden. Others made successful escapes this way before. The ancestors of the Six Races, for instance.
It should have worked.
ACROSS this narrow room, I stare at a small figure in a centered spotlight. My closest companion since lorn went away.
Herbie.
Our prize from the Shallow cluster.
Bearer of hopes and evil luck.
Was there a curse on the vast fleet of translucent vessels we discovered at that strange dip in space? When Tom lound a way through their shimmering fields and snatched Herb as a souvenir, did he bring back a Jinx that will haunt us until we put the damned corpse back in its billion-year-old tomb!
I used to find the ancient mummy entrancing. Its hint of a humanoid smile seemed almost whimsical.
But I've grown to hate the thing, and alt the space this discov
ery has sent us Heeing across.
I'd give it all to have Tom back. To make the last three years go away. To recover those innocent old days, when the rive Galaxies were merely very, very dangerous, and there was still such a thing as home.
B-BUT YOU SAID HOONS WERE OUR ENEMIESSS!" Zhaki's tone was defiant, though his body posture- head down and flukes raised-betrayed uncertainty. Kaa took advantage, stirring water with his pectoral fins, taking the firm upright stance of an officer in the Terragens Survey Service.
"Those were different hoons," he answered. "The NuDawn disaster happened a long time ago."
Zhaki shook his bottle snout, flicking spray across the humid dome. "Eatees are eateesss. They'll crush Earthlings any chance they get, just like the Soro and Tandu and all the other muckety Galactics-cs!"
Kaa winced at the blanket generalization, but after two years on the run, such attitudes were common among the ranks. Kaa also nursed the self-pitying image of Earth against the entire universe. But if that were true, the torment would have ended with annihilation long ago.
We have allies, a few friends . . . and the grudging sympathy of neutral clans, who hold meetings debating what to do about a plague of fanaticism sweeping the Five Galaxies. Eventually, the majority may reach a consensus and act to reestablish civilization. They may even penalize our murderers . . . for all the good it will do us.
"Actually," said Brookida, turning from his workbench in the far corner of the cramped shelter. "I would not put the hoon in the same category as our other persecutors. They aren't religious radicals, or power-hungry conquerors. Sourpuss bureaucrats-that's a better description. Officious sticklers for rules, which is why so many enter service with Galactic Institutes. At NuDawn they were only enforcing the law. When human settlers resisted-"
"They thought they were being invaded!" Zhaki objected.
"Yessss." Brookida nodded. "But Earth's colony hadn't heard about contact, and they lacked equipment to hear Galactic inquiries. When hoonish officials came to give a ritual last warning, they met something not in their manuals ... armed trespassersss. Barbarians with no Galactic language. Mistakes followed. Military units swarmed in from Joph-"
"This has nothing to do with our present problem." Kaa interrupted Brookida's history lecture. "Zhaki, you must stop cutting the local hoons' fishing netsss! It draws attention to us."
"Angry attention," Brookida added. "They grow wary against your dep-p-predations, Zhaki. Last time, they cast many spears."
The young dolphin snorted.
* Let the whalers throw!
* As in autumn storms of old-
* Waves come, two-legs drown! *
Kaa flinched. Moments ago, Zhaki was eager to avenge humans who had died on a lost colony, back when dolphins could barely speak. Now the irate youth lumped all bipeds together,, dredging up a grudge from days before men and women became caretakers of Earth. There was no arguing with a mind that worked that way. Still, it was Kaa's job to enforce discipline.
* If you repeat this act,
* No harpoon will sting your backside
* Like my snapping teeth! *
It wasn't great haiku-not poetical Trinary like Captain Creideiki used to dazzle his crew with, Grafting devoted loyalty from waves of gorgeous sound. But the warning rocked Zhaki. Kaa followed up, projecting a beam of intense sonar from his brow, piercing Zhaki's body, betraying fear churnings within.
When in doubt, he thought, fall back on the ancestors' ways.
"You are dismisssssed," he finished. "Go rest. Tomorrow's another long day."
Zhaki swerved obediently, retreating to the curtained alcove he shared with Mopol.
Alas, despite this brief success, Kaa also knew it would not last.
Tsh't told us this was an important mission. But I bet she assigned us all here because we're the ones Streaker could most easily do without.
That night he dreamed of piloting.
Neo-dolphins had a flair for it-a precocious talent for the newest sapient species in all Five Galaxies. Just three hundred years after human geneticists began modifying natural bottlenose dolphins, starship Streaker was dispatched in a noble experiment to prove the skill of dolphin crews. The Terragens Council thought it might help solidify Earth's shaky position to become known as a source of crackerjack pilots.
"Lucky" Kaa had naturally been pleased to be chosen for the mission, though it brought home one glaring fact.
I was good . . . but not the best.
In half slumber, Kaa relived the terrifying ambush at Morgan, a narrow escape that still rocked him, even after -all this time.
Socketed in his station on the bridge, helpless to do anything but go along for the ride, as Chief Pilot Keepiru sent the old Snark-class survey ship through maneuvers a Tandu fighter ship would envy, neatly evading lurk mines and snare fields, then diving back into the Morgan maelstrom, without benefit of guidance computation.
The memory lost no vividness after two long years.
Transit threads swarmed around them, a dizzying blur of dimensional singularities. By a whim of cerebral evolution, trained dolphin pilots excelled at picturing the shimmering space-time clefts with sonar imagery. But Kaa had never rushed through such a tangle,A tornado of knotted strands. Any shining cord, caught at the wrong angle, might burl the ship back into normal space with the consistency of quark stew ...
. . . Yet somehow, the ship sped nimbly from one thread to the next, Keepiru escaped the pursuers, dodged past the normal trade routes, and finally brought Streaker to a refuge Captain Creideiki chose.
Kithrup, where resources for repairs could be found as pure isotopic metal, growing like coral in a poison sea . . .
. . . Kithrup, homeworld of two unknown races, one sinking in an ancient wallow of despair, and the other hopeful, new ...
. . . Kithrup, where no one should have been able to follow ...
. . . But they did. Galactics, feuding and battling insanely overhead . . .
. . . And soon Keepiru was gone, along with Toshio, Hikahi, and Mr. Orley . . .
. . . and Kaa learned that some wishes were better not coming true.
He learned that he did not really want to be chief pilot, after all.
In the years since, he has gained experience. The escapes he piloted-from Oakka and the Fractal System- were performed well, if not as brilliantly.
Not quite good enough to preserve Kaa's nickname.
I never heard anyone else say they could do better.
All in all, it was not a restful sleep.
Zhaki and Mopol were at it again, before dawn, rubbing and squealing beyond a slim curtain they nearly shredded with their slashing tails. They should have gone outside to frolic, but Kaa dared not order it.
"It is typical postadolescent behavior," Brookida told him, by the food dispenser. "Young males grow agitated. Among natural dolphins, unisex play ceases to be sufficient as youths turn their thoughts to winning the companionship of females. Young allies often test their status by jointly challenging older males."
Of course Kaa knew all that. But he could not agree with the "typical" part. I never acted that way. Oh sure, I was an obnoxious, arrogant young fin. But I never acted intentionally gross, or like some reverted animal.
"Maybe Tsh't should have assigned females to our team." He pondered aloud.
"Wouldn't help," answered the elderly metallurgist. "If those two schtorks weren't getting any aboard ship, they wouldn't do any better here. Our fern-fins have high standards."
Kaa sputtered out a lump of half-chewed mullet as he laughed, grateful for Brookida's lapse into coarse humor- though it grazed by a touchy subject among Streaker's crew, the petition to breed that some had been circulating and signing.
Kaa changed the subject. "How goes your analysis of the matter the hoons dumped overboard?"
Brookida nodded toward his workbench, where several ribboned casks lay cracked open. Bits of bone and crystal glittered amid piles of ashen dust.
"So f
ar, the contents confirm what the hoonish boy wrote in his journal."
"Amazing. I was sure it must be a fake, planted by our enemies." Transcripts of the handwritten diary, passed on by Streaker's command, seemed too incredible to believe.
"Apparently the story is true. Six races do live together on this world. As part of ecology-oriented rituals, they send their unrecyclable wastes-called dross-to sea for burial in special disposal zones. This includes parts of their processed bodies."
"And you found-"
"Human remainsss." Brookida nodded. "As well as chimps, hoons, urs . . . the whole crowd this young 'Alvin' wrote about."
Kaa was still dazed by it all.