Brightness Reef

by David Brin

  A crowd gathered beyond Rety, most of the human tribe, watching this confrontation between a ragged stranger and one of their own who had harnessed a flying devil. It must seem a pretty uneven matchup.

  Some things are exactly as they seem.

  Dwer caught a flash of movement toward the prison-pen. Jenin, making her move.

  "Well?" Rety demanded, glaring down at him.

  "Well what?"

  "You sent for me, idiot! Did you hike halfway round the world just to try and make me feel guilty? Why didn't you stay away, once you saw what's going on here?"

  "I could ask you the same question, Rety. What are you doing? Showing off for the folks? Getting some payback? Did the star-gods have some special reason to need a guide to this armpit of Jijo?"

  Complex emotions crossed her face. What finally won was curt laughter.

  "--armpit? Heh. That just about tells it all." She chuckled again, then leaned closer. "As for what Kunn is lookin' for, I can't tell ya. It's a secret."

  Rety was a lousy bluffer. You don't have the slightest idea, Dwer pondered, and it galls you.

  "So, where's that pack of Slopies you were gonna lead out here?" she demanded.

  "In hiding. I came ahead to make sure it's safe."

  "Why shouldn't it be? Nothin' dangerous here, except maybe my nasty ol' cousins . . . an' a bunch of smelly hinneys--"

  When she said that, a piping whistle, like faint, piccolo laughter, vented from a padded pouch at her waist.

  "And killers from outer space?" Dwer added. "Planning to wipe out every thinking being on the planet?"

  Rety frowned. "That's a damn lie! They ain't gonna do it. They promised."

  "And what if I showed you proof?"

  Her eyes darted nervously. "More lies. They just wouldn't do nothing like that!"

  "Like they wouldn't shoot a poor, unsuspecting bird-thing, I suppose. Or attack those urs without warning."

  Rety turned red as Dwer hurried on.

  "Come along. I'll show you what I'm talking about."

  Before she could refuse, he turned to walk back toward the forest. "I left it over there, behind that stump."

  The girl grumbled but followed on her robot steed. Dwer worried that the machine might be more sophisticated than Ozawa guessed. The reference works the sage had studied were three hundred years out of date and sparse on details. What if the robot both understood speech and could tell he was lying? What if it could read his thoughts!

  The tree stump was thicker than most. The sooners must have worked hard with their primitive tools to hack it down, when they made this clearing. Dwer bent to pick up two things he had stashed on the far side. One, a slender tube, he slid up his tunic sleeve. The other was a leather-bound book.

  "What is it?" Rety demanded, nudging the robot to drop closer. Atop the machine's flat upper surface there protruded short tentacle-things with glossy ends. Three swiveled toward Dwer, while the fourth watched for danger from the rear. So far, Danel Ozawa had been right about the robot's mechanical organs. If these were "eyes," then that narrow spindle jutting up from the robot's center-

  "Show me!" Rety demanded, dropping closer still, peering at the small volume, containing about a hundred paper pages, a treasure from Danel's Legacy.

  "Oh, it's a book," she muttered with contempt. "You think you can prove anything with this? The Rothen-kin have pictures that move, an' talk, an' tell you anythin' you want to know!"

  Exactly, Dwer thought. They can create images to show exactly what you want to see.

  But he answered with a friendly nod. "Oh, sorry, Rety. I forgot, you can't read. Well, open it up, and you'll find this book has pictures, too. I'll explain them, if you like."

  This part had been Danel's idea. Back at Gathering, the lesser sage had seen Rety flip through dozens of picture books in apparent fascination-when she felt no one was watching. Dwer was trying to mix insult with encouragement, shame with curiosity, so the girl would have no choice but to look at this one.

  Wearing an unhappy grimace, Rety reached down further and accepted the book. She sat up and riffled the paper leaves, clearly puzzled. "I don't get it. What page should I look at?"

  The robot's hover-fields brushed Dwer's leg, making all the hairs stand on end. His mouth felt dry, and his heart pounded. He fought a wave of anticipation-weakness by pure force of will.

  "Oh, didn't I open it to the right picture? Here, let me show it to you."

  As Rety turned toward him, the robot dropped lower. Dwer raised his arms, reaching toward the book, but staggered when he bumped the robot's side.

  It was fiery death if the thing thought it was being attacked. Would the machine recognize normal human clumsiness and make allowances?

  Nothing happened. The robot didn't fear his touch.

  "Hey, watch it," he complained. "Tell your pal here to take it easy, will you?"

  "What? It's not any o' my doin'." She kicked the machine. "Leave him be, you stupid thing!"

  Dwer nodded. "All right, let's try again."

  Both hands went up. His legs were like coiled springs-and Dwer's life seemed to float above him like a sound, ready to flee on the wind.

  He leaped.

  The robot's brief hesitation ended in a sudden yowl, joined instantly by a series of sharp detonations, coming from the nearby forest. Heat flared between Dwer's legs as he yanked two of the sensor-heads, using them as hand-holds to swarm desperately up the machine's flank, away from the deadly ball. Pain erupted along one thigh the split instant before he hauled his torso atop the gyrating machine. He clutched the bucking thing with his left hand while his right brought forth the slender tube.

  The world was a blur of trees and clouds and whirling sky. More explosions pealed, accompanied by horrible sizzling sounds. Desperately, Dwer shoved the tube at the robot's central spindle and squeezed.

  Traeki enzymes combined and emerged in an acrid, fizzing stream, vanishing down openings at the spindle's base. Dwer kept squirting despite the robot's wild pirouettes, until his aim was spoiled by Rety, shoving his arm away. Only then did Dwer note her screams amid the general tumult. When her teeth clamped on his wrist, Dwer's own howl joined in. The half-empty tube escaped his convulsing hand, tumbling away.

  Purple steam rose from the robot's center. The spindle began to slump. Dwer shook Rety off and with a reckless cry threw himself on the drooping antenna, taking it in both hands, heaving with all his might. He shouted an ululation of triumph when the whole thing tore free at the base, though it left him rolling across the flat surface, clutching futilely for a hold.

  Flailing, he tumbled off the edge, falling toward the meadow floor.

  Dwer never worried, during that brief interval, about striking some rock or jagged tree stump. The machine would likely dice him to bits before he ever hit the ground.

  But he was not sliced. Nor did he strike the rough meadow. Blinking in surprise, he found that a pair of arms had caught him!

  Relief was tempered when he saw the arms belonged to the robot.

  Oh, great. Out of the frying pan and into the-

  There came another series of detonations, and the hovering machine rocked as if slammed along one side. Hanging below the octagonal body, Dwer saw part of the globe underneath explode in a spray of steel and glass. The weapons-ball was already a smoking ruin. Not a single lens or tube appeared intact.

  Great work, Lena, Dwer thought, proud of how well she used the terrible devices that only she and a few others on the Slope were trained to use. Firearms that did not use a bit of metal. He turned his head in time to see more brief flares as Lena or Danel fired again from the forest edge. The machine rocked as another exploding shell impacted. This time one of the dangling tentacles holding Dwer shuddered and went limp.

  That was definitely Lena's work. What a clever girl, he thought, half-dazed from pain. The sages chose well. I would've been a lucky boy, if things had gone according to--

  He got no chance to finish the thought, as
the robot whirled around to flee, zigzagging across the meadow, using his body as a shield between it and danger. Dwer saw Lena rise and take aim with her launcher, then lower it, shaking her head.

  "No! Shoot, dammit!" he screamed. "Don't worry about me!"

  But the rushing wind of flight carried off his words. Lena dropped her weapon and hurried to a figure lying on the ground nearby, slumped beside a second missile tube. She turned Danel Ozawa over, revealing a red river pouring from his chest.

  The robot's next zigging turn spun that poignant scene away. Now Dwer spied terrified villagers cowering beyond a low hill of garbage near the prisoners' pen. So dismayed were they by the battle that they seemed unaware of the group now circling around behind them--Jenin Worley and a dozen newly released urs. The former captives held ropes and arbalests. Dwer prayed this part of Danel's plan would turn out all right.

  "All or nothing, " Ozawa had said. "Either we live together as civilized beings, or let's end it. End it now- bringing as much harm to our enemy as we can."

  Dwer had time for one benedictory thought, as Rety's cousins grew aware of the reversal taking place behind their backs.

  Learn to be wise . . .

  Then the village vanished as the fleeing machine streaked around a bend, whipped through a forest aisle, and plunged almost straight downhill, accelerating.

  Rety was still shrieking from her perch, wailing for it to stop. From Dwer's point of view, dangling underneath, the ground seemed to sweep by in a blur. Fighting the buffeting wind, he brought up both arms to grab the base of the tendril wrapped around his torso, holding him horizontal to the rushing terrain. If he tore it loose, the fall might kill him, but anything would be better than this torment.

  He tugged with all his might, but the tentacle would not budge. It flexed occasionally, yanking him up in time to miss being smashed against some boulder or shrub. Soon they were swooping beside the canyon's central stream, an obstacle course of sudden turns and bitter, stinging spray. Disorientation forced Dwer to close his eyes, moaning.

  Faintness took hold, threatening to haul him the rest of the way to unconsciousness.

  Come on, he chided. Now's not the time to give up. If you can't escape, at least check and see if you 're bleeding to death!

  Pain helped him concentrate, ignoring the looming vertigo. It came in a nagging medley, from a searing ache in his left thigh, to Rety's teeth-marks that still oozed blood from his right hand, to the chafing rub of the robot's arm, all the way to a series of awful, biting scratches that clawed into his hip, then his abdomen, and finally his chest-as if someone •were stabbing him with clusters of sharp needles, working their way up along his battered body.

  He opened his eyes-and shrieked at the sight of a gaping mouth, filled with horrible, glistening fangs!

  "Oh, Ifni . . ." he moaned. "Oh, God oh God oh God . . ."

  Even when he knew the truth about the specter that loomed inches from his face, it didn't help much. At this point, and for a while longer, all Dwer could manage was a frail, thready whimper.

  Mudfoot, the noor, yawned a second time, then settled into the narrow space between Dwer's chest and the robot's hard shell. The beast watched the boy-jibbering from one shock over his limit. With a sigh of affectionate scorn, it started chuttering, less to comfort Dwer than for its own simple pleasure, making a sound somewhat like that of a hoon sailor, umbling a song about the joys of travel.

  Asx

  IF THE COMMONS SURVIVES--IF WE SIX ENDURE into times to come--no doubt it will be called the Battle of the Glade.

  It was brief, bloody, and tactically decisive, was it not, my rings?

  And strategically futile. An interval of flame and terror that made my/our manicolored bands so very glad/sorrowful that we are traeki.

  Sorrowful because these stacks of rings seemed so useless, so helpless to match the frantic pace of other beings whose antic warlike fury drives them so quickly in a crisis. With such speed that waxy imprints cannot form within our core, except duras behind actual events.

  Sorrowful that we could not help, except to serve as chroniclers-after-the-fact, bearing testimony to what already took place.

  And yet we are also glad, are we not, my rings? Glad because the full impact of violence never quite fills our central cavity with a searing steam of dread. Not until the action is already over, leaving the dead like smoky embers, scattered on the ground. That is a blessing, is it not, my rings? To us, horror is seldom an "experience," only a memory.

  It was not always so. Not for the beings we once were, when our kind roamed the stars and were a terror on the Five Galaxies. In those days, creatures like us wore bright shining rings. Not only the ones given to us by our patrons, the Poa, but special collars, donated by the meddlesome Oailie.

  Rings of power. Rings of rapid decisiveness and monumental ego. Had we possessed such rings but moments ago, they might have spurred us to move swiftly, in time to help our friends during the struggle.

  But then, if the old tales are true, those same rings might have kept us from having friends in the first place.

  Stroke the wax. Trace the images, frozen in fatty drippings.

  Images of atrocity and dread.

  There lies Bloor, the portraitist, a smoldering ruin, draped over his precious camera.

  Nearby, can we trace the slithering path of a dying creature? A symbiont crawling off the face and brow of the dead Rothen named Ro-pol? Revealing in its wake a sharp, angular visage, humanoid, but much less so than we had thought. Less charismatic. Less winsomely womanlike than we were led to believe.

  If Bloor died for seeing this, are all eyes now accursed?

  There, screams Ro-kenn, ordering Rann, the star-human servant, to call back the fierce sky-car from its distant errand, even if it means "breaking" something called "radio silence."

  There, screams Ro-kenn once more, ordering his slave-demons, his robots, aloft to-"clear all of these away."

  Meaning us. All witnesses to this abrupt revelation. All who know the secret of Bloor's Bane.

  Up, up rise the awful instrumentalities, meting out slashing doom. From their bellies lash spears of cold flame, slicing through the stunned host, turning it into a roiling, screaming mob. Four-legged urs bound high into the air, screeching panic. Qheuens cower low, trying to burrow away from rays that carve chitin as easily as flesh. Humans and hoon throw themselves flat on the ground, while poor g'Keks spin their wheels, trying to back away.

  We traeki-those left at Gathering after weeks of silent departures-mostly stand where we were, venting multi-fragranced fumes of woe, erupting wet fear-stench as cutting beams slice through popping toruses, spilling rich liquor, setting our stacks afire.

  But look! Stroke the image layers one more time, my rings. See the darkly clad ones? Those who rush forward toward the terror, not away? Our vision spots scry little, even by daylight, for their clothing blurs them in uncanny ways. Nonetheless, we/i trace squat qheuen shapes, running with humans crouched on their backs, and urrish troops sweeping alongside. There comes, as well, a booming noise, a rarely heard sound, that of lethal hoonish ire. From their midst, these dim shapes raise strange tubes, even as the soaring demons turn their killing rage upon the newcomers, slashing at them mercilessly.

  There is a place . . .

  It is here, in our core, where the wax depicts only a roar--a flash--an overload of searing afterimages--and then . . .

  What followed now lies before us.

  Cinders--where the robots fell to sully Jijo's holy soil, shattered and reduced to dross.

  Three sky-lords--stunned to find themselves held captive, taken prisoner, stripped of their godlike tools.

  A poignant field--strewn with lamented dead. So many dead.

  A makeshift infirmary--where even more wounded writhe and grimace, crying diverse plaints of pain.

  Here, at last, is something we can do in real time. Perhaps they can use the assistance of an old retired pharmacist.

  Is it
agreed, my rings?

  Wonderful unanimity. It makes easier the unaccustomed haste as i hurry forth to help.

  Sara

  THE HARD MARCH HAD TAKEN NOTHING FROM the tension between the two rebel groups. UrKachu's painted warriors and Dedinger's dun-clothed hunters eyed each other warily while eating separate meals under an aged canopy of patched and weathered blur-cloth, never wandering far from their weapons. Members of each group took turns sleeping after supper, no more than six at a time, while the rest kept watch. Sara found it hard to imagine this alliance lasting a dura longer than it was in both sides' perceived self-interest.

  What if fighting broke out? In these close quarters it would be no artful exercise in maneuver and strategy but a roiling tumble of slashing, grappling forms.

  She recalled the frontispiece illustration in volume one of The Urrish-Earthling Wars, by Hauph-hutau, one of the most popular titles published since the Great Printing. In small type, the great historian acknowledged copying the scene from a Tabernacle-era, art book, showing the sculpture frieze that once surrounded the Parthenon, in ancient Greece. That famous relief depicted a long row of mighty figures, clenched in mortal combat-naked men brawling with furious monsters, half human and half horse, who reared, kicked, and slashed at their foes in a bitter fight to the death. According to myth, the feud broke' out during a festival of peace and concluded with extinction for the centaur race.

  Of course, an urs had almost nothing in common with a centaur, beyond having four legs and two arms. Yet the symbolism of the frieze was so eerie, so unnerving, that it became notorious during the age of struggle, helping steel the resolve of both sides. Sara had no wish to see such a bloody scene enacted in front of her.

  Of the others taken captive at Uryutta's Oasis, young Jomah was already out like a snuffed candle, curled in his bedroll, fast asleep. The Stranger picked away at his meal of corn mush, frequently putting down his spoon to pluck a series of soft notes from his dulcimer, or else performing the ritual of counting its strings. Numbers, it seemed, were like music to him-a window to what he once had been, more faithful than the knack at sentences, that he had lost.