by David Brin
"With scanners tuned for chemical sleuthing, we now perceive the depth of your shared perfidy. How undeserved were the rewards we planned conferring on murderous half-beasts!"
He might say more to the cowering throng, adding terrible threats. But at that moment, a new disturbance draws our focus toward the smoldering pit. The crowd parts for a phalanx of soot-stained rescuers, coughing and gasping as they bear pitiable burdens.
Rann cries out, bounding from his mount to inspect a crumpled form, borne upon a litter. It is Besh, the other female sky-human. From her mangled figure, our rewq reads no life flicker.
Again, the crowd divides. This time it is Ro-kenn who exclaims a distinctly unhuman wail. The litter brought before him bears the other of his race, Ro-pol, whom we guessed to be female. (His mate?)
This time, a slim thread of breath swirls in the near infrared, from the victim's soot-stained but still splendid face. Ro-kenn bends close, as if seeking some private communion.
The poignant scene lasts but a few moments. Then the reed of living tension is no more. A second corpse lies in the hollow, under bitter-bright stars.
The living Rothen stands to his full height, a terrible sight, emoting vast anger.
"Now comes the reward (foul) treachery deserves!" Ro-kenn cries, reaching skyward, his voice reverberating with such wrath that every rewq in the valley trembles. Some humans drop to their knees. Do not even gray queens whistle awe and dismay?
"For so long you have feared (righteous) judgment from above. Now behold its incarnate form!"
Along with the others, we/i look up, our gaze following Ro-kenn's extended arm.
There, crossing the sky, we perceive a single glaring spark. A pitiless glimmer that ponderously moves, passing from the Spider's Web into the constellation humans call The Sword.
The great ship is still a distant point, but it does not wink, nor does it twinkle. Rather, it seems to throb with an intensity that hurts those who watch for long.
One can hardly fault the zealots' timing, suggests our ever-thoughtful second-torus-of-cognition. If their objective was to bring an end to pretense, they could have chosen no better way.
Sara
SAGE TAINE WANTED TO SPEAK WITH HER BEFORE she left for Kandu Landing. So did Ariana Foo. Both wished she would delay her departure, but Sara was eager to be off.
Yet with just a midura to go before the gopher set sail, she decided on impulse to visit her old office, high in the cathedral-tower housing the Library of Material Science.
West from the Grand Staircase, her ascent first took her by the vast, rambling stacks of physics and chemistry, where the recent evacuation had taken a visible toll. The maze of shelves showed frequent gaps. Scraps of paper lay in place of absent volumes, to help staff put things back if the present crisis passed. In places, the wood surface looked almost new, implying this was the first time a book had budged since the Great Printing.
Glancing down one crooked aisle, Sara glimpsed young Jomah, teetering under a load of heavy volumes, lumbering gamely behind his uncle to begin the ornate rituals-of-borrowing. None too soon if they hoped to make the Gopher in time. The explosers and quite a few others were bound the same way as Sara, first by boat, then donkey-caravan to the Glade of Gathering.
The winding labyrinth triggered complex emotions. She used to get lost back in the early days, but never cared, so happy had she been to dwell in this splendid place. This temple of wisdom.
Her long year away had hardly changed her little office, with its narrow window overlooking the green-flanked Bibur. Everything seemed much as she had left it, except for the dust. Well, I always figured I'd be back before this. Many competed to be chosen by human sept for this life, subsidized by a race of farmers and gleaners whose one great sinful pride lay in their books.
Tacked to the far wall lay a chart showing the "devolution" of various dialects spoken on the Slope. Like branches splitting off from parent roots, there were multiple downward shoots for each Galactic language in current use. This older depiction showed the bias of scholars over in Linguistics, and was colored by one unassailable fact-the billion-year-old Galactic languages had once been perfect, efficient codes for communication. Deviation was seen as part of a foretold spiral toward the innocence of animal-like grunts-the Path of Redemption already blazed by glavers-a fate variously dreaded or prayed for by folk of the Slope, depending on one's religious fervor.
Human tongues were also traced backward, not over a billion years but ten thousand. Earthling authorities like Childe, Schrader, and Renfrew had carefully rebuilt ancestral languages and many of those grammars were more primly structured, better at error-correction, than the "bastard" jargons that followed. What better evidence that human devolution began long before the landing on Jijo? Did not all Earth cultures have legends of a lost Golden Age?
One conclusion-the missing Patrons of Earth must have been interrupted in their work, forced to leave humanity half finished. True, the ensuing fall was masked by some flashy tricks of precocious technology. Still, many scholars believed Earthlings had much to gain from any road leading toward re-adoption and a second chance, especially since they appeared to be heading that way anyway.
That's the orthodox view. My model takes the same data, but projects a different outcome.
Her most recent chart resembled this one--turned upside down, with lightless roots transformed into trees, showing the Six heading in a new direction. In many directions. If no one interferes. Yesterday, she had shown her latest work to Sage
Bonner, whose enthusiasm reignited the pleasure of a colleague's praise.
"Well, my dear," said Jijo's oldest mathematician, stroking his bald pate, "you do seem to have a case. So let's schedule a seminar! Interdisciplinary, of course."
He punctuated his enthusiasm with a sloppy GalTwo emotion trill of anticipation.
"We'll invite those stuffy pedants from Linguistics. See if they can bear to hear a bold new idea for a change. Heh. Heh-cubed!"
Bonner probably hadn't much followed her discussion of "redundancy coding" and chaos in information theory. The elderly topologist just relished the prospect of a brisk debate, one that might knock down some ensconced point of view.
If only you knew how good an example you are of my thesis, she had thought affectionately. Sara hated to disappoint him.
"We can have it when I get back from Gathering, with luck."
Alas, there might be no return from her coming journey. Or else, it might be to find that the explosers had done their duty at last, bringing down the stony roof, and with it a prophesied age of darkness and purity. She was turning to go, when a low thunk announced a message ball, landing on her desk. Above the in-box, a fleshy tube bounced in recoil, having spit the ball from a maze of pipes lacing the Biblos complex.
Oh no. Sara backed away, hoping to leave before the furry sphere unrolled. If the messenger found no one home, it would simply reenter the tube and report the fact to whoever sent it.
But the ball uncoiled swiftly and a tiny mouselike form scrambled up the box to see her, squeaking delight over achieving the purpose bred into it by the ancient Buyur-to deliver brief messages via a network of cross-linked tunnels and vines. With a sigh, Sara put out her hand, and the courier spat a warm pellet into her palm. The pill squirmed.
Suppressing distaste, she raised the little symbiont-a larger cousin of a parrot tick-and let it writhe inside her ear.
Soon, as she feared, it began speaking with the voice of Sage Taine.
"Sara, if this reaches you, I'd like to talk before you go. . . . It is essential to clear up our misunderstanding. "
There came a long pause, then the voice hurried on. "I've thought about it and have lately come to believe that this situation is largely my fau--"
The message stopped there. The record bug had reached its limit. It began repeating the message over again, from the beginning.
Fault? Was "fault" the word you were about to say? Sara tipped her head unt
il the bug realized it wasn't wanted anymore and crawled out of her ear. Taine's voice grew distant, plaintive, as she tossed the bug back to the furry little messenger, who snatched it, tweaking it between sharp jaws, making the bug receptive for Sara's reply.
I'm sorry, she almost said aloud. I should have made allowances. You were tactless, but meant well, in your haughty way.
I should have been honored by your proposal, even if you first made it out of a sense of duty.
I reacted badly when you renewed the offer at Joshu's funeral.
A month ago, I was thinking about finally saying yes. There are worse lives on the Slope than the one you offered.
But now everything had changed. The aliens had seen to that. Dwer had what it would take in the new era to come. He'd thrive and sire generations of fine hunter-gatherers, if an age of innocence really was at hand.
And if it's death the aliens have in mind for us? Well, Dwer will fool them, too, and survive. That thought made Sara poignantly glad. Either way, what use will Jijo have for intellectuals like us, Taine?
The two of them would soon be more equal than ever, alike in useless obsolescence, before the end.
Sara said nothing aloud. The messenger ball gave a stymied squeak. It popped the bug into one cheek, then reentered the tube, vanishing into the maze-work of conduits that laced Biblos like a system of arteries and veins.
You're not the only one. Sara cast a thought after the frustrated creature. There's more than enough disappointment to go around.
The Gopher was already putting on steam when Sara hurried to the dock. Ariana Foo waited nearby, the twilight shrouding her wheelchair so that she resembled some human-g'Kek hybrid.
"I wish I could have a few more days with him," she said, taking Sara's hand.
"You've done wonders, but there's no time to spare."
"The next kayak pilot may bring vital news-"
"I know. And I'd give anything to hear from Lark. But that reasoning will only take us in circles. If something urgent happens, you can send a galloper after us. Meanwhile I have ... a feeling that we'd better hurry."
"More dreams?"
Sara nodded. For several nights her sleep had been disturbed by ill-defined impressions of alpine fire, then watery suffocation. It might just be a return of the claustrophobia she felt years ago, as a youthful newcomer under the overhanging roof-of-stone. Or else maybe her nightmares echoed something real. An approaching culmination.
Mother believed in dreams, she recalled. Even as she drilled into Lark and me a love of books and science, it was Dwer whom she heeded, whenever he woke with those powerful visions, back when he was little-and then the week before she died.
The steam packet hissed, its boilers straining. Two dozen donkeys thumped and whinnied, tethered at the stern alongside sealed crates of books.
Contrasting strangely, a different sound came from the ship's bow. Delicate, melodic music consisting of parallel chains of halting notes, somewhat twangy. Sara tilted her head.
"He's getting better fast."
"He has motivation," the sage replied. "I expected him to choose a simpler instrument, like a flute or violus. But he pulled the dulcimer off the museum shelf and seemed to draw some deep satisfaction out of counting its strings. It's simple to learn, and he can sing along, when a tune spills out of memory. Anyway, he's fit for a journey, so"-she took a deep breath, looking weary and old-"give Lester and the other High Mucketies my regards, will you? Tell them to behave."
Sara bent to kiss Ariana's cheek. "I'll do that." The retired sage gripped her arm with unexpected strength. "Safe journey, child. Ifni roll you sixes."
"Safe house," Sara returned the blessing. "May she roll you long life."
Ariana's chimp aide pushed her upslope, toward the comfort of an evening fire. It was becoming a habit for Sara to doubt she would ever see someone again.
The captain gave the order to cast off, guiding his precious boat gingerly away from the camouflage shelter. Jop and Ulgor joined Sara at the rail, along with several morose-faced librarians, appointed to carry precious volumes to uncertain safety in the wilderness. Soon the churning shove of the paddle wheels settled to a reassuring rhythm, working with the Bibur's current to turn them downstream.
The spaceman played along with focused monomania. Hunched over a small, wedgelike instrument, he hammered its strings with two small curved mallets, faltering often but radiating passion. The music laced through bittersweet memory as Sara watched the mighty fortress slip by, with its many-windowed halls. The stone canopy seemed to hover like a patient fist of God. I wonder if I'll ever be back.
Soon they passed the westernmost edge of laser-cut stone-the mulching grounds. There were no banners today, or mourners, or busy little subtraekis consuming flesh, preparing white bones for the sea. But then, amid the dusky gloom, she did spy a solitary figure overlooking the river. Tall and straight-backed, with a sleek mane of silver-gray, the human leaned slightly on a cane, though he seemed far from frail. Sara's breath caught as the gopher swept by.
Sage Taine nodded-a friendly, even ardent display for such a diffident person. Then, to Sara's surprise, he lifted an arm, in a gesture of unadorned goodwill.
At the last moment she gave in, raising her own hand. Peace, she thought.
Biblos fell behind the chugging steamboat, swallowed by gathering night. Nearby, the Stranger's voice broke in, singing words to a song about a voyage of no return. And while she knew the lyrics expressed his own sense of loss and poignant transition, they also rubbed, both sweetly and painfully, against conflicts in her own heart.
For I am bound beyond the dark horizon,
And ne'er again will I know your name . . .
XXIII. THE BOOK OF THE SEA
g'Kek roller, can you stand and gallop
across the heavy ground?
Traeki stack, can you weave a tapestry,
or master the art of fire?
Royal qheuen, will you farm the
forest heights? Can you heal with your
touch?
Hoonish sailor, will you endure the plains,
or spin along a cable, stretched up high?
Urrish plainsman, would you sail to sea,
or sift fine pages out of slurried cloth?
Human newcomer, do you know this world?
Can you weave, or spin, or track Jijo's song?
Will all or any of you follow
in the trail blazed by glavers?
The Trail of Forgiveness
through oblivion?
If you do, save room to remember
this one thing--
You were one part of a union
greater than its parts.
--The Scroll of the Egg (unofficial)
Alvin's Tale
I DIDN'T BEGRUDGE MY POSITION CRAMMED WAY back, far from the window. At least not during the long descent down the cliff face with the sea looming ever-closer, closer. After all, I'd seen this part before and the others hadn't. But once we hit water, and my friends started cooing and oohing over what they saw through the bubble up front, I started getting a little resentful. It also put me in a bind as a writer, faced with having to describe the descent later, to my readers. At best I could see a bare patch of blue over the backs of my compeers. Looking back on it, I suppose I could solve the problem, in several ways.
First, I could He. I mean, I haven't decided whether to turn this story into a novel, and according to Mister Heinz, fiction is a kind of lying. In a later draft I might just write in a window aft. That way my character could describe all sorts of things I only heard about from the others. Or else I could pretend I was up front all along. In fiction, you can be captain if you want to be.
Or maybe I should rewrite it from Pincer's point of view. After all, it was his boat, more than any of ours. And he had the best view of what happened next. That would mean having to write believably from a qheuen's perspective. Not as alien as a traeki's, I suppose. Still, maybe I'm not ready to ta
ke on that kind of a challenge, just yet.
All of this assumes I live to do a rewrite, or that anyone else survives who I'd care to have read my tale. Anyway, for now, this semitruthful journal style will have to do, and that means telling what I really saw, felt, and heard.
The deploying drums transmitted a steady vibration down the hawser. The fresh air inlet hissed and gurgled by my left ear, so it was hardly what I had pictured as a serene descent into the silent deep. Now and then, Ur-ronn would gasp-"What was that?"-and Pincer identified some fish, piscoid, or 'skimmer-creatures a hoon usually saw dead in a net-catch, and an urs likely never glimpsed at all. Still, there were no monsters of fantasy. No faery minarets of undersea cities, either. Not so far.
It got dark pretty fast as we dropped. Soon all I made out were little streaks of phosphor that Tyug had smeared in vital spots around the cabin, such as the tips of my motor cranks, the depth gauge, and the ballast release levers. With nothing to do, I catalogued the odors assailing me from my friends. Familiar aromas, but never quite so pungent as now. And this was just the beginning.
A reason to be glad no human came along, I thought. One of many problems contributing to friction between urs and Earthlings had been how each race smelled to the other. Even today, and despite the Great Peace, I don't figure either sept would much enjoy being cooped up in an oversized coffin with the other for very long.
Ur-ronn started calling out depths from the pressure-bladder gauge. At seven cables she turned a switch, and the eik light came on, casting twin beams into cool, dark waters. I expected those in front to resume their excited exclamations, but apparently there was less to see at this depth. Pincer identified something only every few duras, in a voice that seemed disappointed.
We all tensed at nine cables, since trouble had struck there the first time. But the milestone passed uneventfully. It should, since Uriel had inspected every hoof of the hawser personally.