Brightness Reef

by David Brin

  "Besh seems to think you've found yourselves a first-class candidate species."

  "Mm?" The dark-eyed woman looked up from a complex machine lavishly dedicated to producing a single beverage-a bitter drink Lark had tried just once, appropriately named coughee.

  "Found what?" Ling stirred a steaming mug and leaned back against the edge of the table.

  Lark gestured at the subject Besh studied, complacently chewing a ball of sap while a contraption perched on its head, sifting neurons. There had been a spurt of excitement when Besh swore she heard the glaver "mimic" two spoken words. Now Besh seemed intent, peering through her microscope, guiding a brain probe with tiny motions of her hands, sitting rock still.

  "I take it glavers have what you seek?" Lark continued.

  Ling smiled. "We'll know better when our ship returns and more advanced tests are made."

  Out the corner of his eye, Lark saw the small man remove the cover from a hole in one side of a box. There was a soft sparkle of glass.

  "And--when will the ship be back?" he asked, keeping Ling's attention.

  Her smile widened. "I wish you folks would stop asking that. It's enough to make one think you had a reason for caring. Why should it matter to you when the ship comes?"

  Lark blew his cheeks, hoon fashion, then recalled that the gesture would mean nothing to her. "A little warning would be nice, that's all. It takes time to bake a really big cake."

  She chuckled, more heartily than his joke deserved. Lark was learning not to take umbrage each time he suspected he was being patronized. Anyway, Ling wouldn't be laughing when shipboard archives revealed that glavers-their prime candidate for uplift-were already Galactic citizens, presumably still flitting around their own backwater of space, in secondhand ships.

  Or would even the star-cruiser's onboard records reveal it? According to the oldest scrolls, glavers came from an obscure race among the myriad sapient clans of the Five Galaxies. Maybe, like the g'Kek, they had already gone extinct and no one remembered them, save in the chilly recesses of the largest-sector branch Libraries.

  This might even be the moment foretold long ago by the final glaver sage, before humans came to Jijo. A time when restored innocence would shrivel their race, peel away their sins, and offer them a precious second chance. A new beginning.

  If so, they deserve better than to be adopted by a pack of thieves.

  "Suppose they prove perfect in every way. Will you take them with you when you go?"

  "Probably. A breeding group of a hundred or so."

  Peripherally, he glimpsed the small man replacing the cover of the camera lens. With a satisfied smile, Bloor the Portraitist casually lifted the box, carrying it outside through the back tent flap. Lark felt a knot of tension release. Ling's face might be a bit blurry in the photo, but her clothes and body stood a good chance of coming through, despite the long exposure time. By good fortune, Besh, the glaver, a robot, and a sleeping rock-staller had remained still the entire time. The mountain range, seen through the open entrance, would pin down location and season of the year.

  "And what of the rest?" he asked, relieved to have just one matter on his mind now.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean what will happen to all the glavers you leave behind?"

  Her dark eyes narrowed. "Why should anything happen to them?"

  "Why indeed?" Lark shifted uncomfortably. The sages wanted to maintain the atmosphere of tense ambiguity for a while longer rather than confront the aliens directly over their plans. But he had already done the sages' bidding by helping Bloor. Meanwhile, Harullen and the other heretics were pressuring Lark for answers. They must decide soon whether to throw their lot in with the zealots' mysterious scheme.

  "Then . . . there is the matter of the rest of us."

  "The rest of you?" Ling arched an eyebrow.

  "We Six. When you find what you seek, and depart- what happens to us?"

  She groaned. "I can't count the number of times I've been asked about this!"

  Lark stared. "Who-?"

  "Who hasn't?" She blew an exasperated sigh. "At least a third of the patients we treat on clinic day sidle up afterward to pump us about how we'll do it. What means do we plan to use when we finally get around to killing every sentient being on the planet! Will we be gentle? Or will it come as firebolts from heaven, on the day we depart? It gets so repetitious, sometimes I want to-agh!" She clenched her fist, frustration apparent on her normally composed features.

  Lark blinked. He had planned edging up to the very same questions.

  "Folks are frightened," he began. "The logic of the situation-"

  "Yes, yes. I know," Ling interrupted impatiently. "If we came to steal presapient life-forms from Jijo, we can't afford to leave any witnesses. And especially, we can't leave any native stock of the species we stole! Honestly, where do you people get such ideas?"

  From books, Lark almost answered. From the warnings of our ancestors.

  But, indeed, how well could those accounts be trusted? The most detailed had been lost to fire soon after humans arrived. Anyway, weren't humans naive newcomers on the Galactic scene back in those days, worried to the point of paranoia? And wasn't it the most paranoid who had boarded the Tabernacle, smuggling themselves to a far, forbidden world to hide?

  Might the danger be exaggerated?

  "Seriously, Lark, why should we fear anything a bunch of sooners might say about us? The odds of another Institute inspection team arriving at Jijo in under a hundred thousand years are very small. By the time one does, if any of you are still around, our visit will surely have dissolved into vague legends. We have no need to commit genocide-as if we could ever bring ourselves to do such a horrid thing, however strong the reason!"

  For the first time, Lark saw beyond Ling's normal mask of wry sardonicism. Either she deeply believed what she was saying, or she was a very skilled actress.

  "Well then, how do you plan to adopt any presentient species you find here? Surely you can't admit you picked them up on a restricted world."

  "At last, an intelligent question." She seemed relieved. "I confess, it won't be easy. They must be planted in another ecosystem for starters, along with any symbionts they need, and other evidence to imply they've been there for some time. Then we must wait quite a while-"

  "A million years?"

  Ling's smile returned, thinly. "Not quite so long. We have a couple of advantages going for us, you see. One is the fact that on most worlds the bio-record is a jumble of phylogenic anomalies. Despite rules to minimize harmful cross-flow, each time a new starfaring clan wins tenant rights to a world, they inevitably bring in their favorite plants and animals, along with a host of parasites and other hangers-on. Take glavers, for instance." She nodded over at the subject. "I'm sure we'll find records of places where similar genes flowed in the past."

  Now it was Lark's turn to smile, briefly. You don't know the half of it.

  "So you see," Ling went on. "It won't matter much if a residual population stays on Jijo, as long as we have time to modify the borrowed stock, artificially enhancing the apparent rate of genetic divergence. And that will happen anyway when we begin the process of uplift."

  So, Lark realized, even if the forayers eventually find glavers unsuitable, they might still make off with some other promising species and turn a nice profit from their crime.

  Moreover, they appeared completely comfortable seeing it as no crime at all.

  "And your other advantage?" he asked.

  "Ah, now that's the real secret." A shine seemed to enter the woman's dark eyes. "You see, what it really comes down to is a matter of skill."

  "Skill?"

  "On the part of our blessed patrons." Now her words struck a reverent tone. "The Rothen are past masters at this art, you see. Witness their greatest success so far- the human race."

  There it was again, mention of the mysterious clan that had the utter devotion of Ling, Rann, and the others. The star-humans had started out
reticent. Ling had even made it clear that Rothen was not their real name. But with time she and the others grew more talkative, as if their pride could not be contained.

  Or else, because they had no fear the tale would spread.

  "Imagine. They managed to uplift humanity in complete secrecy, subtly altering the records of the Migration Institute so that our homeworld, Earth, remained untouched, on fallow status, for an incredible half a billion years! They even kept their gentle guidance unknown to our own ancestors, leaving them with the fantastic but useful illusion that they were uplifting themselves!"

  "Amazing," Lark commented. He had never seen Ling so animated. He wanted to ask, "How could such feats be feasible?" But that might imply he doubted her, and Lark wanted this openness to continue. "Of course, self-uplift is impossible," he prompted.

  "Completely. It's been known since the fabled days of the Progenitors. Evolution can bring a species all the way up to pre-sapience, but the final leap needs help from another race that's already made it. This principle underlies the life-cycle of all oxygen-breathing races in the Five Galaxies."

  "So why did our ancestors believe they raised themselves up?"

  "Oh, the most insightful always suspected we had help from beyond. It explains the depth of feeling underlying most religions. But the true source of our gift of sapiency remained mysterious for most of the time that hidden hands guided our path. Only the Danikites- early precursors of our group-knew the secret all along."

  "Even the Tergens Council-"

  "The Terragens Council." Her voice soured. "The idiots guiding Earth and her colonies during these dangerous times? Their obstinacy hardly matters. Even this Streaker business, sending half the fanatics in the universe into a frenzy, howling for Earthling blood, even this will come out all right, despite the Terragens fools. The Rothen will see to things. Don't worry."

  Lark hadn't been worried. Not on the scale she referred to. Not till that moment. Now he found her words anything but reassuring.

  From other conversations with the Danik sky-humans, the sages had already pieced together hints that some great crisis was setting the Five Galaxies in an uproar. It might even explain why the gene raiders were here right now, taking advantage of the turmoil to do a little burglary.

  What could a feeble clan of Earthlings have done to cause such commotion? Lark wondered.

  With some effort, he pushed the thought aside as much too vast to be grappled with right now.

  "When did the Rothen reveal the truth to you . . . Danikites?"

  "Longer back than you might think, Lark. Even before your ancestors headed off in their creaky junkyard star-ship, taking their foolish wild gamble in coming to this world. Soon after humanity entered interstellar space, a few men and women were chosen by the Rothen to receive the word. Those who had already been keeping faith, holding steadfast vigil. Some stayed on Earth to help guide the race in secret, while others •went off to dwell in joy among the Rothen, aiding them in their work."

  "And what work is that?"

  She had a look Lark sometimes saw on the faces of those returning from pilgrimages to the Egg, on those blessed occasions when the sacred stone sang its serene harmonies. An expression of having experienced splendor.

  "Why, rescuing the lost, of course. And nurturing what might-yet-be."

  Lark worried she might drift into complete mysticism. "Will we get to meet some Rothen?"

  Her eyes had defocused while pondering vistas of time and space. Now they turned and glittered sharply.

  "Some of you may, if you are lucky.

  "In fact, a few of you may get luckier than you ever dreamed."

  Her implication set his head awhirl. Could she mean what he thought she meant?

  That evening, by candlelight, he went over his calculations one more time.

  From our best measurements, the starship had a volume of about half a million cubic meters. If you stacked every human on Jijo like frozen cordwood, we just might fit--providing you left no room for anything else.

  The first time he had worked out the numbers, his intent was simply to dispel rumors among some younger urs and qheuens that the human settlers would soon abandon Jijo. It was physically impossible, he showed, for the youngest sept to forsake the Commons for a ticket back to the stars. At least with this ship alone.

  But she said "some of you."

  Even after loading aboard hundreds of wuankworms, longsnouts, orglavers, there'd still be room for a few lost cousins. Those who had proved useful.

  Lark knew a bribe when he heard one.

  Much as he condemned the ancestors' choice to come here, Lark loved this world. He would feel a pang if he ever left, and for all his days thereafter.

  Yet if things were different, I'd go in a shot. Who wouldn't?

  The zealots are right. No human can be completely trusted these days. Not when any of us might be suborned. Bought with an offer to be made into a god.

  In fact, he had no idea what the zealots planned. Only that they felt free to act without advice or approval from the dithering sages. There were humans in the cabal, of course. What could be accomplished without Earthling skill and lore? But men and women were excluded from the inner circle.

  So what have I learned?

  He looked down at a blank sheet. Surely the sages and zealots had other feelers out. Even Harullen must be hedging his bets. Still, Lark knew his words carried weight.

  If Ling is telling the truth, and the zealots believe it, they might call off whatever action they planned. What do they care if a few glavers or rock-stallers are taken off-planet, so long as the intruders leave us in peace, as we were before?

  But what if Ling was lying? Might the zealots lose their best chance to strike, for nothing?

  On the other hand, suppose no one believed Ling, but she really was telling the truth? The zealots might attack, and fail, only to goad the very response they feared!

  At the opposite extreme of radicalism from the fiery zealots, some of the most radical heretics actually favored their own destruction, along with the rest of the Six. Some hoon and urs members of Harullen's society yearned for a time of transcendent ending-the urrish apostates because of their hot blood, and the hoon precisely because their passions stirred slowly, but once whipped, they stopped for nothing.

  If our extremists think Ling's folk haven't the guts to do the job, they may plot to provoke genocide.'This despite his speech, urging that the Six cede their place on Jijo by consensus and birth control.

  Then there was this scheme to try blackmailing the forayers. Lark had helped Bloor set up candid shots, but were the sages aware of how the scheme might backfire?

  Did they think they had nothing to lose?

  Lark rubbed his stubbled chin, feeling wearier than his years. What a tangled web we weave, he pondered. Then he licked the tip of his pen, dipped it in the ink, and began to write.

  The Stranger

  This place makes him want to laugh. It makes him want to cry. So many books--he even remembers that word for them--lay stacked high all around him, in row after mighty row, vanishing around corners or up twisty, spiral ramps. Books bound in the leather of unknown animals, filling the air with strange scents, especially when he cracks some volume taken off a shelf at random and inhales the fumes of paper and ink.

  It jolts something within him, dredging up memories more effectively than anything since he regained consciousness.

  Suddenly, he recalls a cabinet of books like these, in his room when he was very young . . . and that brings back the pinch and crinkling flex of paper pages, covered with bright pictures. Grown-ups did not use books very much, he remembers. Adults needed the constant flash and jangle of their machines. Machines that talked at you faster than a child was trained to hear, or cast flickering beams directly at the eyeball, filling it with facts that faded the moment you blinked. That was one reason he used to like the solid promise of paper-where a favorite story would not go away like smoke, or vanish when the
info-screens went dark.

  Another image leaps out from childhood--holding his mother's hand while strolling in a public place filled with busy, important people. Several walls were rimmed with bound volumes, much like the books surrounding him right now. Big books without pictures, filled with black, unmoving dots. Filled with words and nothing else. Hardly anyone used them anymore, his mother had explained. But they were important nonetheless, as decorations lining many of the places most sacred or important to human beings.

  They were reminders of something . . . of something he cannot quite recall right now. But it must have been important. That much he knows.

  Perhaps it might even be possible to find a way to save her and her people.

  Maybe that was what his hands had said to Prity, just a little while ago.

  If so, no wonder the little chimp broke out in wry, doubtful laughter.

  Patiently, he waits for the two women--Sara and Arianafoo-to finish their meetings and return for him. Passing the time, he sketches on a pad of rich, almost luminous paper, first refining some of his drawings of the machinery aboard the steamship, then trying to capture the eerie perspectives of the stone cavern where all these odd wooden buildings lay sheltered from the sky- under a cave whose roof is propped up by incredible, massive stone pillars.

  A few names are coming easier now, so he knows that it is Prity who brings him a cup of water, then checks his dressing to make sure it's still tight. Her hands seem to flutter and dance before her, then his do likewise. He watches, fascinated, as his own fingers make movements independent of his will or command. It might be frightening to behold . . . except that Prity suddenly grins broadly and slaps her knee, chuffing hoarse, appreciative chimpanzee laughter.

  He feels a wash of pleasure to know his joke had pleased her. Though it puzzles and slightly miffs him that his hands never saw fit to share the humor with him.

  Well, well. The hands seem to know what they are doing, and he draws some satisfaction from their work. Now they pick up the pencil once again, and he lets time slip away, concentrating on the moving pencil, and on the stretch and tilt of line and shadow. When Sara returns for him, he will be ready for whatever comes next.