by David Brin
No matter.
He resolves to wait, since there is no other choice. He even manages to hold back revulsion when the doughy cone-creature touches him, since healing seems its obvious intent, and since the pain always lessens a bit, each time it ivraps oily tendrils round his throbbing head.
In time, the contact becomes oddly pleasant.
Anyway, she is usually there, speaking to him gently, filling the tunnel-view of his attention with her smile, providing an excuse for frail optimism.
He doesn't recall much about his former life, but he can dimly remember something about the way he used to live . . . not so much a philosophy as an attitude--
If the universe seems to be trying to destroy you, the best way to fight back is with hope.
IX. THE BOOK OF THE SEA
Scrolls
In order to be blessed,
And to bring redemption,
Forgetfulness cannot come at random.
Aspects of oblivion
Must come in the right order.
First must come detachment from the driving
need
To coerce the material world,
Or to shape other beings to your needs.
To be shaped is your goal.
First by nature,
And later by hands and minds
Wiser than your own.
-- The Scroll of Promise
Alvin's Tale
SO THERE WE WERE, WAY UP IN THE THIN, DRY AIR atop Mount Guenn, surrounded by heat and dust and sulfury smells from Uriel's forge, and what does Gybz the Alchemist want to talk to us about?
The traeki tells us we're being sent to a different kind of hell.
But hold on, Alvin. Spin the yarn the way an old-time human storyteller would. Describe the scene, then the action.
Gybz concocts recipes for metal and glass in a grimy workshop, quite unlike Uriel's prim, spotless hall of spinning disks. Mineral powders spill across stained wooden shelves and earthenware jars stink with noxious liquids. One slit window overlooks a northern vista stretching all the way down to a splash of painful color that could only be .the Spectral Flow, which means the chamber is about as high as you can get without tumbling into Mount Guenn's simmering caldera.
Below the window, flies swarmed over a pile of nicely aged kitchen mulch. I hoped we weren't interrupting Gybz at dinner.
The four of us-Huck, Pincer, Ur-ronn, and me-had come up to the alchemy lab at the command of Uriel, the great blacksmith, ruler of this fortress of industry perched on Jijo's trembling knee. At first I figured she sent us away just to get rid of some irritating youngsters, while she conferred with a human sage over how to improve her beloved mobile of gears, pulleys, and whirling glass. The chief assistant, Urdonnol, muttered disapproval while shepherding us up a long ramp to the traeki's mixing room. Only our pal Ur-ronn seemed cheerful, almost ebullient. Huck and I exchanged a glance, wondering why.
We found out when Gybz shuffled ers mottled, conical bulk around from behind a workbench. Words bubbled from a speaking tube that puckered the third-from-the-top ring.
"Bright youths of four races, be made welcome! Sublime news for you, it is an honor to relate. A decision to approve your expedition, this has occurred. Your endeavor to reach, visit, explore the nearest reaches of the Upper Midden, this you may attempt."
Gybz paused, venting puffs from a purple synthi ring. When the traeki resumed, it was in warbling, uneven Anglic, with a voice that sounded strained.
"The attempt will have . . . the full backing of Mount Guenn Forge. As evidence of this support, behold-your completed window!"
The Master of Mixes gestured with a wraparound tentacle toward a wooden crate near the wall, with its cover removed. Amid drifts of fine sawdust, there gleamed a curved pane of thick glass, flawless to the eye.
Pincer-Tip danced excitedly, his red-clawed feet noisy on the stone floor. "Beautiful-iful!"
Gybz agreed. "It has been treated with proper coatings-for clear vision in the planned environment."
Ur-ronn snaked her long neck around to inspect the bubble-pane.
"This last phase was delicate. Thank you, Gyfz, for the exquisite coatings!"
Ur-ronn turned to explain to Huck and me, "After months of delay, Uriel suddenly agreed just three days ago to allow the casting. And since the results were good on the first try, she will let this count toward a kun-urul"
That was urrish plains dialect for a master work. One qualifying the maker for craftsman status. It would take Ur-ronn a long way toward fulfilling her ambitions.
None of the rest of us have started professions, or even decided what we want to do, I thought, a little jealously.
On the other hand, urs have to hurry. They don't get that much time.
I glanced at Urdonnol, who was Ur-ronn's top rival as Uriel's heir. I didn't need a rewq to read her annoyance with all this fuss over what she called a "childish hobby"-the making of an experimental deep diving craft.
You should know better, I thought, feeling a bit sorry for Urdonnol. Uriel also has a useless pastime, that room full of spinning disks. Ur-ronn's project shares thatjust-for-the-hell-of-it quality. It's a similarity between them that goes beyond mere kin-scent.
To Ur-ronn, then, this had also been a smart career move. I felt happy for our friend.
"The glass was tested to withstand hydrostatic pressures exceeding those at fifty cords depth," she commented with evident satisfaction. "And when you add the lanterns and other gear Uriel is kindly lending us-"
"Us?" Huck cut in, breaking the mood. She spun to face Ur-ronn with three outthrust eyes. "What you mean us, honky? You're volunteering to come along, then?"
Ur-ronn's narrow head snapped back, staring at Huck. Then her neck slumped in an S-curve.
"I will . . . if I can."
"Huck!" I chided. It was mean to rub Ur-ronn's nostril in her limitations. I could hear Huck's spokes vibrate with tension.
Gybz interrupted with another venting, this time pungent like rusty metal.
"If possible, an urrish presence will be called for." The traeki seemed short of breath. "But even if that proves impossible, fear not. A member from Mount Guenn shall . . . accompany this bold undertaking ... to its deepest depths."
I had trouble following Gybz's halting, accented Anglic. Huck and I shared a confused look.
"It is i/we . . . who shall part-wise accompany . . . this august group," Gybz explained, wheezing through the topmost ring. With that, the traeki showed us something none of us expected, shuffling around to expose an oozing blister on its far side, halfway up the fleshy stack. It was no normal swelling, where the traeki might be making another tentacle or readying chemicals for the mill. A crack split the swollen zone, exposing something slick and wriggly within.
Staring, I realized-the traeki was vlen-budding before our eyes!
While the crevice widened, the Master of Mixes seemed to flutter. A complex gurgle of vaguely sickening noises accompanied something that began to emerge, slithering through the opening, then sliding down the traeki's sloping flank, trailing loose fibers behind it.
"Gosh-osh-osh-osh-osh . . ." Pincer repeated in turn from each leg-vent, his sensor strip spinning frantically. Urdonnol edged away nervously while Huck rolled back and forth, torn between curiosity and revulsion. I felt sharp, biting sensations as little Huphu, our noor beast mascot, scrambled up my back and onto my shoulder, growling anxiously. Half-consciously I stroked her sleek pelt, rumbling an umble that must have sounded more confident than I felt.
Glistening with slime, the thing landed on the floor with a plopping sound and lay almost still, ripples coursing around its quadruple torus of miniature rings. Meanwhile, realignments quivered under the flaccid skin of the traeki parent.
"Not to ... be concerned," a somewhat altered voice burbled from the oration peak of the old stack of rings, "i/we adjust . . . reconfigure."
Reassuring words, but everyone knows vlenning is a dangerous time for a traeki, when th
e unity of the former stack is challenged and sometimes fails. For that reason, most of them reproduce externally, growing new rings singly, in pens, or buying them from expert breeders, exchanging and swapping for the full set of traits they want in an offspring. Still, vlenning has advantages, I hear. Mister Heinz claims to have witnessed several, but I bet he never saw a four-tier bud emerge like this, already stacked and moving on its own!
"This newly detached self may be addressed-for the time being--as Ziz. To that word-phrase it might answer, if engraved training patterns take hold. After performing its function with merit, it may then return for augmentation as a candidate for full life. Meanwhile, it is schooled ... to serve your quest, coming with traits you may require."
"I don't know." Ur-ronn's head swayed an oval of confusion. "Do you mean--"
Huck muttered, "Gybz, what are we supposed to--"
The traeki. cut in.
"i/we no longer answer to that name. Our rings vote among ourselves now. Please do not speak or interfere."
We fell silent, watching in awe as the creature literally wrestled with itself, within itself. A rippling seemed to rise from the base segment all the way up, terminating in a belch of yellow vapor. Waves flowed back and forth, crosswise as well as vertical. This went on for many duras, while we feared Gybz was about to tear erself apart.
Finally, the tremors lessened, then faded away. The traeki sensory organs refocused. Words bubbled from the puckered speech mouth, in a voice transformed.
"It is decided.
"Provisionally, you may call us/me Tyug and have good odds that this stack will answer.."
Another pulse of throbbing.
"That i will answer. Please inform Uriel that this thing is done. Furthermore, tell her that my/our major skill cores seem to be intact."
Only then did I realize what had been at risk during the vlenning. The Master of Mixes is a vital member of Uriel's team. If Gybz--if Tyug--failed to remember all of its tricks of the trade, Mount Guenn alloys might not shine or cut as well, or decay so completely with the passage of time.
Foolish me. I'd been worried the whole time about the poor traeki's life.
Huphu slithered down my back and approached the new-formed traeki half-entity, which was already gathering an array of flipperlike feet under its bottommost segment, waving clumsy tentacles from its stubby top ring. The noor sniffed suspiciously, then settled back with a satisfied trill.
Thus Huphu was first to welcome Ziz-newest member of our band.
Now if only we had a human kid, we'd be a true six.
Omens can be good things, as any sailor knows. Luck is uttergloss. Fickle, but a damn sight better than the alternative.
I had a feeling we were going to need all of Ifni's help we could get.
X. THE BOOK OF THE SLOPE
Legends
Among qheuens it is said that fleeing to Jijo was not as much a matter of survival as of culture.
There is dispute among the legends that have been passed down by the armored ones, since their landing on Jijo over a thousand years ago. Grays, blues, and reds each tell their own versions of events before and after their sneakship came.
Where they agree is that it all began in Galaxy One where the sept found itselt in trouble with its own alliance.
According to our surviving copy of Basic Galactic Socio-Politics, by Smelt, most starfaring races are members of clans--a relationship based on the great chain of uplift. For example, Earthclan is among the smallest and simplest, consisting of humans and their two clients--neo-chimps and neo-dolphins. If the patrons who supposedly raised up Homo sapiens are ever found, it could link Earthlings to a vast family stretching back ages, possibly even as far back as the Progenitors, who began the uplift cycle a billion years ago.
With membership in such a clan, Earthlings might become much stronger.
They might also become liable for countless ancient debts and obligations. Another, quite separate network of allegiance seems to be based on philosophy. Any of the bitter feuds and ornate wars-of-honor dividing Galactic culture arose out of disputes no member of the Six can now recall or comprehend. Great alliances fought over arcane differences in theology, such as the nature of the long-vanished Progenitors.
It is said that when qheuens dwelled among the stars, they were members of the Awaiters Alliance--a fealty they inherited from their Zhosh patrons, who found and adopted primitive qheuens from sea-cliff hives, dominated by fierce gray queens.
Things might have been simpler had the Zhosh only uplifted the grays, but they gave the same expansion of wit and mind to the servant castes as well. Nor was this the end, for according to lore, the Awaiter philosophy is egalitarian and pragmatic. The alliance saw useful talents in the reds and blues. Rulings were made, insisting that the bonds of obeisance to the grays be loosened.
Certain qheuens fled this meddling, seeking a place to preserve their natural way in peace.
That, in brief, is why they came here.
On Jijo, the three types disagree to this day over who first betrayed whom. Grays claim their colony began in harmony, discipline, and love. All went well until urs and then humans stirred up blue discontent. Other historians, such as River-Knife and Cuts-Coral, forcefully dissent from this view.
Whatever the cause, all agree that Jijo's qheuenish culture is now even more untraditional than the one their ancestors fled.
Such are the ironies when children ignore their parents' wishes and start thinking for themselves.
--Collected Fables of Jijo's Seven.
Third Edition. Department of Folklore and
Language, Biblos. Year 1867 of Exile.
Asx
SUDDENLY, THEIR QUESTIONS TAKE A NEW TURN. An edge of tension-not quite fear, but a cousin to that universal passion-abruptly colors the invaders' speech.
Then, in a single night, their apprehension takes hasty physical form.
They have buried their black station!
Do you recall the surprise, my rings? At dusk there it was, serene, arrogantly uncaring of the open sky. A cubic shape, blatant in its artificiality.
When we returned at dawn, a great heap of dirt lay there instead. From the size of the mound, Lester surmised the station must have scooped a hole, dropped itself inside, and piled the detritus on top, like a borer-beetle fleeing a digbat.
Lester's guess is proven right when Rann, Kunn, and Besh emerge from below, ascending a smooth, dark tunnel to resume discussions under the canopy-of-negotiation. This time they choose to focus on machines. Specifically-what devices remain from Buyur days? They want to know if ancient relics still throb with vital force.
This happens on some fallow worlds, they say. Sloppy races leave countless servant drones behind when they depart, laying their worlds down for an aeon of rest. Near-perfect and self-repairing, the abandoned mechanisms can last a long time, wandering masterless across a terrain void of living voices.
They ask-have we seen any mechanical orphans?
We try to explain that the Buyur were meticulous. That their cities were dutifully scraped away, or crushed and seeded with deconstructors. Their machine servants were infected with meme-compulsions, driving those still mobile to seek nests in the deep trench we call the Midden. All this we believe, yet the sky-humans seem to doubt our word.
They ask (again!) about visitations. What clues have we seen of other ships coming stealthfully, for purposes vaguely hinted at but never said aloud?
As planned, we dissemble. In old human tales and books, it is a technique oft used by the weak when confronted by the strong.
Act stupid, the lore suggests. Meanwhile, watch and listen closely.
Ah, but how much longer can we get away with it? Already Besh questions those who come for healing. In their gratitude, some will surely forget our injunctions.
The next stage will start soon, while our preparations are barely begun.
The fourth human forayer, Ling, returns from her research trip. Did.she not leave with
the young heretic, Lark? Yet she comes back alone.
No, we tell her. We have not seen him. He did not come this way. Can you tell us why he abandoned you? Why he left you in the forest, his assigned task undone?
We promise her another guide. The qheuen naturalist, Uthen. Meanwhile, we placate.
If only our rewq had not abandoned us! When i/we ask Lester about the woman's mood-what he can read from her demeanor-he only shudders and says he cannot say.
Sara
A CONCERT WAS ARRANGED BY AN IMPROMPTU group of passengers and crew, on the fantail of the Hauph-woa, to welcome the Stranger back among the living.
Ulgor would play the violus, a stringed instrument based on the Earthling violin, modified to suit deft, ur-rish fingers. While Ulgor tuned, Blade squatted his blue-green carapace over a mirliton-drum, stroking its taut membrane with his massive, complex tongue, causing it to rumble and growl. Meanwhile, all five legs held jugs filled to varied levels with water. Tentative puffs from his speech vents blew notes across each opening.
Pzora, the traeki pharmacist, modestly renounced any claim to musical talent but agreed to take up some metal and ceramic chimes. The hoonish helmsman would sing, while the professional scriven-dancer honored the makeshift group by agreeing to accompany them in the g'Kek manner, with graceful motions of his eyestalks and those famous dancing arms, calling to mind the swaying of trees, or wind-driven rain, or birds in flight.
They had asked Sara to round out a six, but she declined. The only instrument she played was her father's piano, back in Nelo's house by the great dam, and even at that her proficiency was unremarkable. So much for the supposed correlation between music and mathematics, she thought ironically. Anyway, she wanted to keep an eye on the Stranger, in case events threw him into another hysterical fit. He seemed calm so far, watching through dark eyes that seemed pleasantly surprised by nearly everything.