All at once, words returned to Emerson’s life. The voice reentered his mind, in tones that conveyed hurt perplexity.
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE? ONCE ON OUR WAY, WE PLANNED SENDING YOU THE CYLINDER. THE PLUG OF TISSUE THAT YOU CRAVE. AFTER WE HAD NO FURTHER NEED OF IT, OR OF YOU.
“NOW YOUR TREASURE WILL BE LOST, ALONG WITH US, AS WE FALL INTO A DYING WHITE SUN.”
Already the mortally wounded sneakboat could be seen tumbling along a plummeting trajectory, while Streaker’s engines cranked to push the other way.
“I know that,” Emerson sighed. So many hopes had turned to ash when he fired the laser bolt. Especially his dream of talking to Sara. Of telling her what was in his heart. Or even holding on to thoughts that right now seemed so fluid and natural, so easy and fine. Smooth, graceful thoughts that would become hard again, moments from now, when what had been stolen, then restored, would finally be lost forever.
“BUT WHY? IN YOUR CRUDE WAY, YOU UNDERSTAND OUR WORRY. YOU SYMPATHIZE WITH OUR MISGIVINGS ABOUT THE EMBRACE OF TIDES. YOU EVEN SUSPECT WE MAY BE RIGHT! WOULD IT HAVE BEEN SO BAD TO LET US HAVE THE CLUES WE NEED? TO LEARN THE TRUTH ABOUT DESTINY? TO KNOW WHICH WAY TO CHOOSE?”
The plaint was so poignant, Emerson weighed explaining, while there was time.
Should he talk about orders from the Terragens Council, that secrets from the Shallow Cluster must be shared by all races … or none?
A raging corner pondered telling the aliens that this was Pyrrhic revenge, getting even for things they had done to him—no matter how well justified they thought they were.
In fact, though, neither of those reasons excused his act of murder. While Streaker shuddered under ever more intense spacetime waves—climbing laboriously through a maelstrom of colliding transport arks and flaming Zang globes—he found there was only one answer to give the Old Ones.
The right answer.
One that was both logical and entirely just.
“Because you didn’t ask,” he explained, as the quantum links began flickering out for the last time.
“You … never once said … please.”
Harry
THE SEARCH WENT BADLY AT FIRST.
Kazzkark was a maze of tunnels where sophonts could all too easily disappear—whether by choice or mischance. And matters only worsened as the placid lifestyle of an Institute outpost vanished like a memory. More refugees poured in, even after the planetoid started quivering in response to waves of sub-space disturbance. Tempers stretched thin, and there were more than enough troubles to keep police drones of the Public Safety Department busy.
When it came to looking for a pair of lost humans, Harry was pretty much on his own.
His first good lead came when he overheard a Synthian chatter to comrades in a space merchants’ bar, bragging about a sharp business deal she’d just made, acquiring some first-rate wolfling relics for resale to the collectors’ trade.
“Mild guilt—this I experience, concerning the meager price that I paid for such marvelously genuine handcrafted items,” prated the husky creature in Galactic Six. “Of their authentic, aboriginal nature, I have no doubt. Evidence of this was overwhelming, from the moment I programmed my scanner with appropriate archaeological search profiles, checking for tool marks, use patterns, and body-oil imbuements. The result? Absolute absence of techno-traces, or other signs of forgery! A bona-fide aboriginal tool/weapon, weathered and worn from the primitive fight for survival under barbaric circumstances!
“What? What is that you say? You would view this marvelous acquisition? But of course! Here it is. Behold the elegant sweeps and curves, the clever blending of animal and vegetal materials, revealing non-Galactic sapiency in its full, unfettered glory!
“The shipwrecked human who formerly owned these artifacts—his reported brain damage must have undermined all sense of value! His recovery from space amnesia—it will not bring pleasant realizations for the poor young wolfling, when he realizes how much more he might have charged for his precious archery set, which will now garner me great profit on the aficionado circuit.
“Especially now that the chief source of all such relics—planet Earth—will surely vanish under cascades of fire, within a few jaduras.”
Harry was not present where these words were spoken. He was halfway across Kazzkark, searching for Rety and Dwer in a poor refugee encampment, when those snatches of dialogue were sent to his earpiece by a clever spy program.
Using his new rank-status, he had ordered a scan of all sonic pickups, scattered throughout the planetoid, sifting countless conversations for certain rare key words. Till now, the computer had just found trivial correlations. But this time, the Synthian went through half the list in a few duras, covering all but Dwer’s name!
Racing across town, Harry sent a priority call for backup units to join him. Perhaps it was the new golden comet on his collar, or just a sense of urgency, but Harry plunged through the crowd, ignoring shocked looks from senior patron-class beings.
He arrived to find several proctor robots already hovering menacingly near a bar advertising a range of intoxorelaxants. A throng gathered to watch.
“The rear exit is secured, Scout-Major Harms,” reported one of the bobbing drones. “The denizens within seem unsuspecting. Several fondle concealed weapons, of types we are equipped to counter, with moderate-to-good probability of success.”
Harry grunted.
“I’d prefer a guarantee, but that’ll do. Just stay close. Let everyone see you as we enter.”
He was tempted to draw his own sidearm, but Harry preferred to handle this courteously, if possible.
“All right. Let’s go.”
Half a dozen Synthian traders sat in a booth, looking alike in grayish brown fur with dark facial streaks. Thickset, their heavy shoulders and bellies draped with pouched bandoliers. Harry soon found the one he wanted. A sleek bow and quiver of arrows, made from finely carved wood and bone, lay on the table. When a merchant reached for these, Harry bore in, asking where she got them.
Kiwei Ha’aoulin reacted with combative relish, striking an indignant, lawyerly pose. After listening to the Synthian complain loudly for more than twenty duras—vociferously denouncing “illegal eavesdroppers and bureaucratic bullies”—Harry finally broke in to remind Kiwei that Kazzkark was sole property of the Great Institutes, and lately under martial law. Moreover, would the merchant like to unpack her ship’s hold, comparing each smig and dram meticulously to the official cargo manifest?
All bluster quickly faded from the raccoonlike countenance. Harry had never met a Synthian, but they were familiar figures on daytime holodramas back on Earth, where Synthian characters were stereotyped as jovial, enthusiastic—and relentlessly self-interested.
This one took a long pause to evaluate Harry’s proposition, then switched to rather good colloquial Anglic.
“Well well, Scout-Major. You had only to ask. Shall I lead you to where I last saw Dwer Koolhan. Yes! But be warned, he may not look the same! If you find him. For as we parted, he was making enquiries. Asking questions about cosmetic surgery. As if his intent was to go into hiding!”
While they hurried together along the main boulevard, Harry muttered into his cheek microphone, inquiring if any local body-repair shops had done custom work on humans during the day and a half since Kiwei Ha’aoulin last saw Dwer.
He also checked in with HQ. Wer’Q’quinn had scheduled yet another emergency meeting of the local NavInst planning staff in four miduras.
What was left of the staff, that is. Most scouts and senior aides had already departed, scurrying across the quadrant on urgent rescue missions, commandeering vessels of all sizes to evacuate isolated outposts, setting up buoys to divert traffic from destabilized transfer points, and tracking the advance of chaos across this portion of the Five Galaxies.
Especially troubling were reports of violent outbreaks among oxy-clans, or between various life orders. An uncommonly furious confrontation had flared in Corcuomin Sect
or between one of the more reclusive hydrogen-breathing cultures and a vast swarm of machine entities, whose normal home-domain in deep space had grown so ruptured that vast numbers of unregistered mechs began migrating into rich territory forbidden to them by ancient treaties. So frenzied and brutal was the resulting clash that weapons of unprecedented force had been unleashed, tearing through walls separating various levels of spacetime, causing vortices of A and B hyperlevels to come swirling into the “normal” continuum, wreaking havoc everywhere they touched. There were even reports that memetic life-forms seemed to be involved as allies of one side or another—or perhaps taking advantage of the confusion to spread their ideogrammatic matrices into new hosts—filling the battlefield with riotous sensory impressions, fostering ideas that were too complex and bizarre for any organic or electronic mind.
Amid all this, Wer’Q’quinn kept delaying Harry’s next assignment. Too inexperienced and undiplomatic to be entrusted with a big command, Harry was also apparently too valuable to waste on some futile errand.
“Keep in touch,” Wer’Q’quinn kept telling him. “I suspect we will need your expertise in E Space before we’re done.”
The Synthian merchant motioned toward one of the side streets selling clothing and personal accoutrements of all kinds.
“Here is where I last saw the human, bidding me farewell as he clutched a purse filled with GalCoins from our transaction, appearing eager to rush off and spend his new fortune as quickly as possible.”
“GalCoin?” Harry asked. Far better if Dwer had been paid in credits or marks, which could be traced across the Commercial Web. “How much did you pay?”
Kiwei Ha’aoulin tried to demur, claiming commercial privilege, but soon realized it would not avail.
“Seventy-five demi units.”
Harry’s fists clenched and he growled. “Seventy-five! For genuine Earth-autochthonous handicrafts from a preindustrial era? Why you unscrupulous—”
He went on cursing the Synthian roundly, since the merchant clearly expected it. Anything less would have insulted her pride. But in fact, Harry’s mind was already racing ahead. He had no intention of informing Kiwei Ha’aoulin that the precious bow and arrows were far more recently made than she thought. They were, in fact, contraband from an illegal sooner settlement, carved by qheuen teeth and burnished at an urrish forge.
He was interrupted by a computer message. Apparently one of the body shops had been visited lately by a young Terran, who paid cash for a quick cosmetic overhaul. Nothing fancy. Just a standard flesh-regrowth profile that the shop had in its panspecies file.
“Let’s go!” he told the Synthian. She resisted momentarily, then caught the fierce look in Harry’s eyes. Kiwei Ha’aoulin gave an expressively Earth-style shrug.
“Of course, Scout-Major Harms. Well, well I remain perpetually at your service.”
Unfortunately, the repair shop in question lay some distance beyond the Plaza of Faith. To reach the other side, they would have to work their way past a host of missionaries and zealots, all fired up by the steady unraveling of order throughout the Five Galaxies.
Much had changed since Harry last visited this zone, where elegant pavilions had been tended by neatly robed acolytes, politely pontificating their ancient dogmas in the old-fashioned way, with traditional rhythms of surety and patience. Since most Galactic sects aimed to persuade entire races and clans, the emphasis had always been on relentless repetition and exposure—to “show the flag” and let other sapients slowly grow accustomed to a better view of destiny. Individuals mattered only as vehicles to carry ideas home, spreading them to family and nation.
This atmosphere of tranquil persistence had already begun wearing thin during Harry’s last visit. Now, as intermittent subspace tremors made the stony walls shiver, it seemed to be unraveling completely.
Crowds filled the once placid compounds of several religio-philosophical alliances—the Inheritors, Immersers, and Transcenders. Immaculate fabric partitions got trampled as listeners pushed toward shouting deacons dressed in gaudy silver gowns, perched on ridiculously elevated platforms that teetered near the high ceiling. Their amplified and translated words boomed or flashed, transmitting stridency in at least a dozen Galactic dialects, as if persuasion could be bought through sheer volume. Each side fought so hard to drown out the others that Harry could hardly make out anything beyond a head-splitting roar. That did not deter the crowds however, whose urgency seemed to make the air crackle with supercharged emotion.
This place must be swarmin’ with invisible psi waves and empathy glyphs, Harry realized, glad that his own mental talents went in other directions, leaving him blissfully insensitive to such scraping irritations. A Tymbrimi who got caught in this mob would prob’ly fry his tendrils on all the crazed vibrations.
There were other changes in the Plaza. Platoons of Inheritor and Immerser acolytes could be seen carrying staffs, cudgels, utility cutters, and other types of makeshift weaponry, eyeing each other with distrustful wrath. Beyond one translucent curtain, Harry even thought he glimpsed several sharply angled figures moving about—huge and mantislike.
He shuddered at the unmistakable silhouettes.
Tandu.
Next Harry and Kiwei Ha’aoulin passed the pavilions of the Awaiters and Abdicators … or rather, their remnants. Tattered banners lay charred on the ground—silent testimony to how vehement the ancient rivalries had become. Their differences of opinion were no longer even ostensibly patient, or theoretical, now that a day of reckoning seemed near.
A few soot-covered Awaiters—mostly spidery guldingars and thick-horned varhisties—picked warily through the ruins, protected by drones they had hired from some local private security service. The varhisties, in particular, looked bitterly eager for revenge.
Meanwhile, every side avenue seemed filled with clamor and speculation. A formation of cop-bots swept eastward at top speed, rushing around the next corner toward some noisy emergency. Duras later, Harry glanced down an alley and thought he glimpsed some shabby scavengers stripping a corpse amid the shadows.
Along the main north-south Way, preachers stood on rickety pulpits, shouting for attention. The dour-looking Pee’oot proselyte was still where Harry remembered, stretching out its spiral neck and goggle eyes, jabbering in obscure dialects about the need for all species to return to their basic natures—whatever that meant.
Harry also spotted the Komahd evangelist, whose deceptive smile split even wider upon meeting Harry’s gaze. Its rear tripod leg thumped loudly for emphasis.
“There!” the Komahd shouted, pointing with bony digits. “Perceive how yet another Terran passes by, thus proving that this vile infection will not be rubbed out when their homeworld is finally invaded and brought to justice. No, friends. Not even when Earth is sequestered, and its rich gene-pool is divided up among the righteous. For they have spread among us like infecting viruses!
“Have you all not seen, this very day, copious evidence for their malignant influence? Even here on far Kazzkark, wolflings and their insane followers spew vile lies and calumny, reviving ancient selfish heresies, undermining our shared vision of destiny, debasing the foundations of society, and depicting our revered ancestors as little more than fools!”
While shouting hatred of Harry’s clan, the Komahd kept “smiling” and batting deceptively beguiling eyelashes, creating a misleading expression that clearly meant something quite different wherever the creature came from. It seemed noteworthy that the proselyte’s ire, previously directed paranoically toward hydrogen breathers, now seemed centered wholly on poor little Earthclan.
That struck Harry as rather unfair and overwrought, since everyone was betting on the fall of Terra in a matter of weeks or days, if not hours. Nevertheless, he sensed danger from the Komahd’s small band of followers. The emblems of his Navigation Institute uniform might not offer protection if he stayed.
“Wait,” Kiwei Ha’aoulin murmured as Harry tugged her arm. “I find this soph
ont’s argument cogently enticing! His rhetoric is most appealing. The logic seems unassailable!”
“Very funny, Kiwei.” Harry growled. “Come on. Now.”
Clearly delighted with her own wit, the Synthian chortled happily. Kiwei’s people were enthusiasts, but pragmatists above all. Like many races in the “moderate majority,” they cared little about obscure religious arguments over the nature of transcendence, preferring to go about their business, leaving destiny to take care of itself. All else being equal, they would happily have shared the infamous “Streaker discovery” openly, and even paid the Terragens a nice finder’s fee, to make it all worthwhile.
Alas, the moderate majority was also famous for dithering and indecision. Eventually, they might finish their endless deliberations over whether to save Earth, though by that time help would come too late to accomplish anything but stir the ashes.
Speaking of going about one’s business, Harry hoped this would be the last of the religious swarms. But no sooner did he and Kiwei push around the next bend than they found the way completely blocked by the biggest mass gathering yet! Crowds extended far ahead and to both sides, filling a domed intersection that had formerly been a market for selling organonutrient supplements.
The mélange of sapient species types dazzled him with its sheer variety—from willowy, stalklike zitlths to a pair of hulking brmas. Indeed, an amazed scan took in many races that Harry had only vaguely heard of before. The veritable forest of strange limbs, heads, torsos, and sensory organs mingled and merged till his confused eyes found it hard to tell where some creatures finished and others began.
Smell alone was so dense and complex, it nearly made him swoon.
Many onlookers used portable devices to monitor what was being said by the distant missionaries—who could only be made out from here as dim silvery glints on an upraised stage. Others tilted their varied eyes toward a dozen or so large vid screens, mounted high along the stone walls, each one emanating a different dialect.