sundered as the universe
stretched its aging seams.
Of galaxies, the Progenitors
knew eleven.
Six more have parted ways,
in the ages since, stranding
distant cousins to unknown fates.
Of galaxies, our immediate ancestors
knew five.
What if it should happen
once again, while we seek redemption
in this fallow spiral?
Will anyone come down to claim us,
once our innocence is restored?
In our own sky, of Galaxies we see but one.
--The Scroll of Possibilities
Alvin's Tale
I DON'T WISH TO DWELL TOO MUCH ON MY OWN role in what came next. Let's just say that as a young male hoon, I seemed best suited to dangle at the end of the redeployed hawser, sitting in a makeshift sling while the crew lowered me toward the dark blue waters of the Rift.
After dropping below the edge, all I could see of the others were a few hoon and urrish faces, plus a pair of g'Kek eyestalks, peering down at me. Then even those blended into the rocks and I was alone, dangling like bait on a hooked line. I tried not to look at the long drop below, but soon a gusting wind set the hawser swaying, reminding me of the slender support overhead.
During the lonely descent I had time to ask myself-- "What the heck am I doing here?"
It became a kind of mantra. (If I recall that word right, since it's not in the dictionary I have with me in this cold, hard place.) Repeated often enough, the phrase soon lost some of its horrid fascination, instead taking on a queerly pleasant cadence. By the halfway point, I was umbling-
"What the heck. I am doing. Here!"
In other words, a deed is being done, and I'm the one doing it, so why not do it right? An Anglic way of phrasing a very hoonish thought.
Anyway, I guess I did a good job of convincing myself, 'cause I didn't panic when they overshot at the end. My furry legs got well dunked before the brakes firmed and the tether stopped jouncing. It took a moment to gather breath and start umbling at Huphu, calling her to swim over from Wuphon's Dream, almost an arrowflight away. Haste was vital, since the bathy was slowly drifting out from the placid water under Terminus Rock. Soon she'd hit the Rift Current, and we might never see her again.
This time Huphu didn't make me wait. She dove in and swam toward me like a little black dartfish, clearly not badly harmed by her plummet off the bluff.
What's that sick joke they tell about noors? If you ever have to kill one, it will take a quart of traeki poison, a qheuen's claw, a human's arrow, and a rack of urrish insults. That assumes a hoon first distracts the beast with a first-class umble, and even so, it's best to have a g'Kek roll back and forth over the corpse a few times, just to be sure.
All right, it's juvenile humor, but also respectful in a way. I couldn't help spine-laughing over it while waiting for our indestructible Huphu. Finally, she clambered up my leg and into my arms, wallowing in my happy umble. I sensed she was still frightened, since for once she made no effort to pretend nonchalance or to hide her happiness to see me.
Still, time was short. Soon as I could, I slipped a harness of tough cord over Huphu's shoulders and urged her back down to the sea.
Urdonnol's plan seemed a good one . . . that is, if Huphu understood my instructions . . . if the Dream hadn't already drifted beyond reach . . . if Huphu managed to hook the cable's end onto the bathy's grommet fixture . . . if the subtraeki, Ziz, could hold on awhile longer in its hugely distended form, bearing up the weight of all that dangling metal . . . if the re-spliced hawser would bear the burden when the crew above hauled away . . .
There were so many ifs. Is this why Earthlings chose to call their goddess of luck and chance Ifni? Her capricious whims sure do swing back and forth. As on that day, when she first cursed our enterprise with calamity, then tossed her dice again the other way. Throughout
the following tense midura, we all worried and wondered what her next clattering roll would bring-till at last Huphu and I stood atop the cliff together, dripping beside the beautiful flank of Wuphon's Dream, staring in amazement as Tyug carefully deflated and tended Ziz. Meanwhile, Pincer and Huck rolled round and round the bathy, inspecting nervously for damage, and Ur-ronn supervised the crew hauling in the rest of the dangling cable.
Finally, the two severed ends lay side by side on the stony mesa, burned, frayed, and torn.
"This will not haffen again!" I overheard our urrish friend mutter. It was in that tone of voice an urs uses when she makes a prediction, a vow, and means she'll rip the neck off anyone who tries to make a liar out of her.
The next day Uriel returned, galloping into camp accompanied by armed assistants and a retinue of pack donkeys. With her came messages that had arrived by semaphore-and-runner relay from the far north, which she read aloud that evening, with the Dandelion Cluster as a shimmering backdrop above the glistening Rift. Wearing the robes of a lesser sage, the smith summarized what had occurred at Gathering-the coming not just of starships but star-criminals. Beings capable of bringing an end to the Great Peace, the Commons, and perhaps every member of the Six.
I couldn't see Huck's reaction when Uriel told in passing that the g'Kek race was now extinct among the stars, their last survivors reduced to savages, wheeling primitive tracks in the dust of Jijo. My tunnel of attention was still centered on other startling news.
The forayers were humans!
Everyone knows Earthlings weren't much more than animals in the eyes of the Galactic god-clans, only three hundred years ago. So what were mere humans doing, trying to pull a complicated theft across such distances?
Then I realized, since Uriel was addressing us in formal GalTwo, I'd been thinking in that tongue, seeing events the way a Galactic would. Things looked quite different when I rephrased the question in Anglic.
Three hundred years? That's an eternity! In that time humans moved from sailboats to their first starships. By now, who knows? Maybe they own half the universe!
All right, I've probably read way too much stuff by Doc Smith and "Star-Smasher" Feng. But while most folks on the bluff that night expressed shock that wise, cultured human beings could ever do such things, I knew an inner truth about them. One that weaves through Earthling literature like a never-absent umble tone.
As long as their race survives, some among them will be wolves.
It amazed us all when Uriel said the project would continue.
Amid talk of militia call-ups, emergency camouflage repairs, and possibly having to fight for our lives against overwhelming power, I expected the smith to order us all back to Wuphon and Mount Guenn at once, putting our backs to labor for the common good. So we stared when instead she acted as if this were important, this silly diving expedition of ours.
I even said so to her face.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked the next day as Uriel oversaw resplicing the hawser and air hose. "Don't you have urgent things to worry about?"
Her neck stretched upward, lifting the center, pupil-less eye almost even with my own.
"And what would you have us do instead? Turn out weafons? Convert our forge into a factory of death?" Her single nostril flared, revealing the twisty membranes that lock in moisture, making urrish breath as dry as wind off the Plain of Sharp Sand.
"We urs know death well, young Hph-wayuo. It scales our legs and dries our husvand fouches all too soon. Or else we hurry it along with fights and feuds, as if glory could ever requite our haste to die. A great nany urs look fondly on those days when Earthlings were our finest foes, when heroes roared across the frairie, wheeling and charging recklessly.
"I, too, feel that call. And like others, I resist. This is an age for another kind of hero, young fellow. A warrior who thinks."
Then she turned back to her labors, directing workers with severe attention to detail. Her response left me confused, unsatisfied . . . but also, in some way I could not
quite fathom, just a bit more proud than I had been before.
It took two days to complete the overhaul and triple-check all systems. By that time, the mass of onlookers had changed. Many of the originals had hurried home on hearing Uriel's news. Some had militia duties, or were eager to perform destructive sacraments prescribed by the oldest scrolls. Others rushed back to save their property against premature dressing by the devout, or simply to be with loved ones during the expected last of days.
Those departing were replaced by others even angrier than the first, or frightened by things they had seen. Only yesterday, observers from Wuphon Port all the way to Finaltown Bay beheld a narrow, winged specter-a pale aircraft-that paused over the useless camouflage lattices, as if to say / see you, before resuming a twisty course along the coast, then out to sea.
No one had to say it. Whatever Uriel wanted to accomplish here, we didn't have a lot of time.
XX.THE BOOK OF THE SLOPE
Legends
The first sooner races arrived at Jijo knowledgeable, but they lacked a safe way to store that knowledge. The names of many archival tools come down to us, from data plaques to memo-slivers and info-dust, but all of these had to be consigned to the deep. Earthlings possessed a secure, undetectable way to store information. The secret of paper--pulping and screening vegetable fibers with clays and animal products--was a uniquely wolfling invention. But the Tabernacle crew left Earth so soon after contact, the data published in the Great Printing was sparse in galactology, especially concerning other "sooner infections" elsewhere in the Five Galaxies.
This makes it hard to put our Jijoan Commons in perspective. How different are we from other cases of illegal settlement on fallow worlds? Have we done a better job at minimizing the harm we do? What are our chances of avoiding detection? What kinds of justice were meted out to other squatters who were caught? How far down the Path of Redemption must a race travel before they cease being criminals and become blessed?
The Scrolls offer some guidance on these matters. But since most date from the first two or three landings, they shed little light on one of the greatest mysteries.
Why did so many come to this small patch of ground, in such a short span of time?
Against the half a million years since the Buyur left, two thousand years is not very much. Moreover, there are many fallow worlds--so why Jijo? There are many sites on Jijo--so why the Slope?
Each question has answers. The great carbon-spewing star, lzmunuti, began shielding local space only a few millennia ago. We are told this phenomenon somehow disabled robot sentinels patrolling routes to this system, easing the way for sneakships. There are also vague references to omens that a "time of troubles" would soon spread upheavals across the Five Galaxies. As for the Slope, its combination of robust biosphere and high volcanic activity assures that our works will be destroyed, leaving few traces we were ever here.
To some, these answers suffice. Others wonder, still.
Are we unique?
In some Galactic languages, the question does not even parse as sane. One can find a precedent for anything in the archives of a billion years. Originality is an illusion, everything that is also was.
Perhaps it is symptomatic of our low state -- our uncivilised level of consciousness, compared with the godlike heights of our ancestors -- but one still is tempted to wonder.
Might something unusual be going on here?
-- Spensir Jones, A Landing Day Homily
Asx
WE SAGES PREACH THAT IT IS FOOLISH TO ASSUME. Yet, during this, our greatest crisis, the invaders often turn out to know much that we thought safely hidden.
Should this surprise us, my rings? Are they not star-gods from the Five Galaxies?
Worse, have we been united? Have not many of the Six rashly exercised their right of dissent, currying favors from the sky-humans against our advice? Some of these have simply vanished-including the sooner girl who so vexed Lester with her ingratitude, daring to steal back the treasure she had brought, which intrigued our human sage for days on end. Does she even now dwell within the buried station, pampered as a g'Kek might groom a favorite zookir? Or else, did the sky-felons simply delete her, as a traeki voids its core of spent mulch, or as Earthling tyrants used to eliminate quislings who had finished serving their purpose?
For every secret the raiders uncover, there are as many ways they seem shockingly ignorant, for sky-gods.
It is a puzzlement-and small solace as we contemplate the proud, intimidating visitor who this morn came before the Council of Sages.
My rings, has memory of this event yet coated your waxy cores? Do you recollect the star-human, Rann, making his request? Asking that several from his group be invited along, when next we commune with the Holy Egg?
The request was courteous, yet it had aspects of a command.
We should not be surprised. How could the aliens not notice what is happening?
At first discernible only to the most sensitive, the tremors strengthen till now they pervade this corner of our world.
--curling the mists that rise from geysers and steam pools,
--guiding patterned flocks of passing birdlings,
--waking dormant rewq, both in caves and in our pouches,
--even permeating the myriad blue colors of the sky.
"We have heard much about your sacred stone," Rann said. "Its activity triggers fascination in our sensoria. We would see this wonder for ourselves."
"Very well," Vubben answered for the Six, wrapping three eyestalks in a gesture of assent. Indeed how could we refuse?
"Pray tell-how many will be in your party?"
Rann bowed again, imposing for a human, as tall as any traeki, broad in the shoulders as a young hoon. "There will be three. Myself and Ling, you have met. As for the third, his revered name is Ro-kenn, and it is incumbent to realize how you are about to be honored. Our master must be shown all expressions of courtesy and respect."
With varied eyes, visors, and sight patches, we sages winked and winced amazement. All save Lester Cambel, who muttered softly next to our traeki stack,
"So the bloody Dakkins had one underground with them, all along."
Humans are surprising creatures, but Lester's breach in tact so stunned our rings that "i" was unanimously amazed. Did he not fear being overheard?
Apparently not. Through our rewq, i read Lester's ill-regard for the man across from us, and for this news.
As for the rest of the Council, it did not take rewq to note their curiosity,
At long last, we were about to meet the Rothen.
Lark
Dear Sara,
The caravan bearing your letter took some time to get here, because of troubles on the plains. But how wonderful to see your familiar scrawl, and to hear you're well! And Father, when you saw him last. These days, there are few enough reasons to smile.
I'm dashing this off in hopes of catching the next brave kayak-courier to head down the Bibur. If it reaches Biblos before you leave, I hope I can persuade you not to come up here! Things are awful tense. Recall those stories we told each other about the dam, back home? Well, I wouldn't sleep in that attic room right now, if you smell my smoke. Please stay somewhere safe till we know what's happening.
As you asked, I've inquired carefully about your mysterious stranger. Clearly the aliens are seeking someone or something, beyond their goal of illicitly adopting a candidate species for uplift. I can't prove your wounded enigma-man isn't the object of their search, but I'd bet he's at most a small part of the picture.
I could be wrong. Sometimes I feel we're like kitchen-ants peering upward, trying to comprehend a human quarrel from the stir of shadows overhead.
Oh, I can picture your look right now! Don't worry, I'm not giving up! In fact, I have a different answer to the question you 're always asking me. . . . Yes, I have met a girl. And no, I don't think you'd approve of her. I'm not sure this boy does, either.
Smiling ironically, Lark finished th
e first page of the letter and put down his pen. He blew on the paper, then picked up his portable blotter, rolling the felt across the still damp lines of ink. He took a fresh sheet out of the leather portfolio, dipped the pen in the ink cup and resumed.
Along with this note you 'II get a hand-cranked copy of the latest report the sages are sending throughout the Commons, plus a confidential addendum for Ariana Foo. We've learned some new things, though so far nothing likely to assure our survival when the Rothen ship returns. Bloor is here, and I've been helping him put your idea into effect, though I see potential drawbacks to threatening the aliens, the way you recommend.
Lark hesitated. Even such veiled hints might be too much to risk. In normal times it would be unthinkable for anyone to tamper with someone else's mail. But such things used to be done by frantic factions during ancient Earthly crises, according to historical accounts. Anyway, what good would it do Sara to worry? Feeling like a wastrel, he crumpled the second sheet and started fresh.
Please tell Sage Foo that young Shirl, Kurt's daughter, arrived safely along with B-r, whose work proceeds as well as might be expected.
Meanwhile, I've followed up on your other queries. It's delicate questioning these space people, who always make me pay with information useful to their criminal goals. I must also try not to arouse suspicion over why / want to know certain things. Still, I managed to bargain for a few answers.
One was easy. The star humans do not routinely use Anglic, or Rossic, or any other "barbaric wolfling tongue." That's how Ling put it the other day, as if those languages were much too vulgar and unrigorous for a properly scientific person to use. Oh, she and the others speak Anglic well enough to converse. But among themselves, they prefer GalSeven.
He paused to dip his pen in the cup of fresh ink.
It fits our notion that these humans do not come from the main branch of the race! They aren't representatives of Earth, in other words, but come instead from an offshoot that's bound in loyalty to the Rothen, a race claiming to be the long-lost patrons of humankind.