Engine noises rumbled through the liquid environment, carrying notes of deep resolve. Lark sensed Polkjhy’s trajectory—and realized it was aimed almost straight toward one of the gleaming needle-gateways!
Throughout all this struggle and confusion, the Jophur have kept tenaciously—even single-mindedly—to their original purpose. They never lost track of the Earthling ship.
It lies dead ahead, ensnared by the Transcendents in a webbery of light.
Casting his viewpoint outward, Lark verified that each great needle was now surrounded by clusters of captive starcraft, wrapping them in layer after layer of lambent windings. No reason or purpose for this strange activity could be learned by sifting the mesh, but soon Lark noticed that a faint resonance seemed to echo from one of the confined vessels.
Something familiar.
Ling joined his efforts and together they focused closer, until something clicked and the circuits abruptly filled with jagged sonic patterns.
A human voice, somber but grimly determined.
“… we repeat. This is not a destiny of our choosing. We are not legitimate members of the candidate swarm. Nor are we part of the retired life order. We have no business in the Embrace of Tides, nor do we wish to experience any form of transcendence at this time.
“Duty calls us back to Galaxy Two. Please let us go! We humbly request that you let us flee this doomed place, while there is still time.
“Again, we repeat. This is not a destiny of our choosing.…”
Lark felt the traeki’s mental touch, sharing thoughts that seemed to slither, like smooth rivulets of dripping wax.
How interesting. Apparently the Terrans have been selected to perform some honored task. Some chore or service deemed worthwhile by the highest overminds. Yet, they petition to escape this distinction, resuming their forlorn plight in a world of danger and sorrows!
Meanwhile, the remaining Jophur send Polkjhy charging ahead with hut one thought in mind—to deny the Earthlings any taste of a transcendence they have not earned!
A confrontation looms. One that should prove interesting to observe.
Lark appreciated the traeki’s sense of detachment, even though the most likely outcome was for Polkjhy to be swatted aside—vaporized—like some irritating gnat, by powers unimaginably more powerful.
He considered ways to avoid this undesired end.
I wonder if it might be possible for us to communicate with Streaker, via the mesh.
Ling nodded.
I don’t see why not. If only for a few moments.
Their traeki friend also agreed.
I/we have our/my own reasons to wish this. Let us work together, and strive to achieve that connection.
Harry
WHEN ONE OF THE BIG SOUTH POLE GALLERIES suddenly collapsed—blowing several thousand gasping tenants into deadly vacuum—the high officials in dominion over Kazzkark finally gave in to the inevitable. They issued the long-awaited directive.
Evacuate!
“My research—sifting through the oldest, most ambiguity-protected archives in the Great Library—indicates that conditions were probably similar during the Gronin Collapse,” Wer’Q’quinn explained when Harry reported for his last assignment.
From a high balcony at Navigation Institute HQ, they watched as crowds thronged down the main arcades toward various egress ports, streaming to reclaim the starships that had brought them here. Meanwhile, Wer’Q’quinn waved a languid pseudopod and continued contemplating the past.
“Then, as now, the Institutes went into denial at first. Later, under instructions from higher life orders, they concealed the truth from most of our civilization until it was too late for any concerted preparation. Indeed, an identical scenario would have repeated this time, if not for the recent warning that was broadcast from Earth. Without it, most of the races in the Five Galaxies would have had scarcely any chance to get ready.”
“A lot of clans chose to ignore the warning,” Harry groused. “Some are too busy attacking Earth to listen.”
After a gloomy silence, he went on.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that all these spatial disturbances will affect the Siege of Terra, is there?”
Wer’Q’quinn swiveled a squidlike gaze toward the chimpanzee scout, as if scrutinizing him for any sign of wavering loyalty.
“That seems unlikely. We estimate that up to thirty percent of the t-points in Galaxy Two will remain at least partly functional. Of course, during the worst part of the crisis, metric backlash will convulse every level of hyperspace. Woe unto any vessel that tries to undergo pseudoacceleration while that is going on! But this should scarcely inconvenience the great battleships presently surrounding your ancestral solar system. They will be safe, so long as they remain in normal space, and refrain from using probability weapons until the rupture is over.
“Naturally, we expect the effects will be far more severe in Galaxy Four.”
Harry nodded. “Which is exactly where you’re sending me.”
“Would you withdraw? I can send another.”
“Oh, yeah? Who else are you gonna find who’s willing to enter E Space at a time like this?”
Wer’Q’quinn’s answer was eloquent silence. Of his remaining staff, only Harry had the experience—and talents—to hold any hope of success in that bizarre realm of living ideas.
“Well,” Harry grunted. “Why the hell not, eh? You say I should have time enough to lay down new instrument packages along the Path, from here to Galaxy Four, and still make it back before the crisis hits?”
“It will be close,” Wer’Q’quinn averred. “But we have supplemented our traditional calculations with new estimates, utilizing wolfling techniques of mathematical incantation that were contained in the message from Earth. Both methods appear to agree. The main rupture should not take place till after you safely return.”
Another long silence stretched.
“Of course I would’ve gone anyway,” Harry said at last, in a gruff voice.
A low sigh. A nervous curling of tentacles.
“I know you would.”
“For the Five Galaxies,” Harry added.
“Yes.” Wer’Q’quinn’s voice faltered. “For the Civilization of … Five Galaxies.”
Down on the boulevards of Kazzkark, the worst of the exodus appeared to be over. While gleaners sifted through dross and wreckage from so many hurried departures, Harry strode along with a floating donkey-drone, bearing capsules to deposit in E Space for Wer’Q’quinn. Telemetry from these packages might reveal more about the strains now pulling apart the connective tissue of space. Perhaps next time—in a hundred million years or so—people might understand things a little better.
And there would be a next time. As the universe expanded, ever more of the ancient “flaws” that linked galaxy to galaxy would stretch, then break. After each sundering transition, the number of surviving t-points would be smaller, their connections less rich, and the speedy lanes of hyperspace become that much more inaccessible.
As it ages, the cosmos is becoming a less interesting, more dangerous place. Everything must have seemed so close and easy in the Progenitors’ day, he thought. A time of magic, when it was almost trivial to conjure a path between any two points in seventeen linked galaxies.
He squared his shoulders back.
Oh, well. At least I get to take part in something important. Even if Wer’Q’quinn is exaggerating my chances of getting home again.
Kazzkark had seemed so immaculate when he first arrived here from training school. Now a dusty haze seemed to pervade the corridors, shaken from the walls by quakes and chaos waves, which rattled this entire sector at ever narrower intervals. They had grown so frequent, in fact, that he hardly noticed most of them anymore.
It just goes to show, even the abnormal can get to seem normal, after a while.
Approaching the dockyards, he witnessed a large party of hoonish clerks and their families, carrying luggage and tugging hover
-carts, preparing to board a transport for one of their homeworlds. The queue was orderly, as you would expect from a hoonish procession. Yet, something appeared different about this group. They seemed less dour, more animated, than others of their kind.
It’s their clothes! Harry realized, all at once. Alvin’s got them wearing Hawaiian shirts!
Indeed, roughly a third of the hulking bipeds had set aside the more typical robes of boring white or silver, and draped themselves instead with tunics bearing garish prints of flowers and tropical ferns—split down the back to leave room for their craggy spines. Umbling as they waited patiently in line, the group made every nearby corridor reverberate with tones that seemed far livelier than the dirgelike chants usually heard from hoons.
One GalSix trill-phrase, in particular, caused Harry to stumble.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that translates into Anglic as “heigh ho!”
Some of the older hoons looked on all this with perplexed—even miffed—expressions. But toward the front there stood a crowd of youths—teenagers, he noted—who boomed out the refrain with enthusiastic bellows of their bulging throat sacs.
A cheerful ballad about transition, and eagerness for new vistas.
Over in a corner, shuffling behind the hoons, stood a strange figure, looking like a short, shabby Jophur. It was Tyug, the traeki alchemist from Jijo, accompanying Alvin on the next phase of his adventure.
Harry tried to catch Alvin’s eye as he walked past, but the lad was fully immersed, enjoying his role as the out-of-town boy who had come to stir things up. With Dor-hinuf close to his side, and a pair of tytlal lounging on his broad shoulders, Alvin leaned against a loosely wrapped shipping crate, feigning nonchalance while keeping a close vigil over its contents.
One edge of the tarpaulin shifted as Harry watched. From the darkness within, a single eye drifted upward at the end of a waving stalk. Another tried to follow, squeezing through to twist and stare at the surroundings.
Without pausing in the umble song, Alvin silently used one burly hand to grab both wayward eyes and cram them back inside. Then he tied the tarp down firmly. The crate shuddered, as if someone inside were rolling back and forth in protest. But Alvin only leaned harder until things settled down.
“Ahoy!” shouted a hoon at the front of the queue, when the portal opened at last, leading to their ship. “Avast back there. Here we go!”
Harry tried holding it in. He struggled hard, and managed to make it fifty meters farther along before his splitting sides could take it no longer. Then he ducked around a stony corner, sagged against the nearest wall, and guffawed.
The Official Docks were nearly deserted. Dignitaries of the Library, Migration, Commerce, and War Institutes had already scurried off, leaving empty moorings. Only Wer’Q’quinn’s busy teams remained on duty, rushing forth on rescue missions, or using beacons to guide traffic around danger zones. Noble work. Harry’s own days might be better spent that way, helping save lives and patching the raveled skeins of Galactic society. After the main rupture event, NavInst must promote recovery by getting trade going again.
But Wer’Q’quinn saved me for this mission. I guess the old octopus knows what he’s doing.
Ahead lay Harry’s venerable observation platform, designed for cruising the memic jungles of E Space. Although this mission was bound to be the most dangerous yet, Harry found his footsteps speeding up, drawn by strange eagerness.
Humming under his breath, he recognized the same melody Alvin’s new in-laws had been umbling as they prepared to depart.
It seemed a catchy tune.
Good for traveling.
A song of anticipation.
More chaos waves struck the planetoid while he was busy loading Wer’Q’quinn’s instruments into the hold. Ancient stone walls groaned with resonant vibrations, causing the ship’s decks and bulkhead to vibrate violently. Harry had to scoot out of the way when an unsecured crate toppled from an upper shelf. Thanks to Kazzkark’s slight pseudogravity, he managed to avoid getting crushed, but the box smashed hard, spilling delicate parts across the floor.
While sweeping up, he listened for the wailing siren to announce a vacuum breach. Only after several duras passed did his fur settle down. Apparently, the dock seals were holding—for now.
Harry stepped outside to visit the stocky little Thennanin-built star cruiser that lay parked behind his station. Stepping through its airlock, he shouted for the pilot.
“Kaa! You ready to ship out? I’ll be outta here in less than a midura, if you’re still thinking of tagging along.”
The sleek gray dolphin emerged from his control cubicle, riding atop a six-legged machine. Kaa was starting to look weary. It had been weeks since he’d had a swim. Aside from rest periods in a narrow water tank, he’d spent most of that time lying on the float bed of a walker-drone.
“It’sss not soon enough for me,” the pilot hissed. “Alassss, I’m stuck waiting here till Dwer returns.”
Harry glanced around.
“Aw hell,” he grunted. “Now where’s Dwer gone off to?”
Another voice spoke up from a rear doorway, uttering Anglic words with unctuous, almost seductive tones.
“Well, well. I would surmise that the young human is trying—yes, one more time!—to persuade his female counterpart—Rety—to come along. Would you not guess it so?”
Kiwei Ha’aoulin emerged from one of the tiny cabins, working past a pile of supplies tied down by cargo netting. The Synthian had pressed to accompany Kaa, despite warnings that it would surely be a one-way trip. In fact, each admonition just heightened her resolve. Kiwei even offered to finance all the food and other items needed for Kaa’s voyage.
She did not believe that a so-called “great rupture” was imminent.
“These disturbances will pass,” she had blithely assured. “I am not saying everything will go back to normal. While the Institutes and great clans spend centuries sorting things out, they will be lax about enforcing minor rules against little sooner colonies—or against smuggling! Can’t you scent business opportunities in this? I shall serve as Jijo’s commercial agent, yes! In utter secrecy and confidence, as off-planet liaison for the Six-or-Seven Races, I will market primitive autochthonous implements on the collectors’ market, and make us all quite rich!”
Harry had watched greed battle typical Synthian caution. Eventually, Kiwei resolved the conflict by entering a state of pure denial, blithely rejecting any notion that upheavals might change the cosmos in fundamental ways. Harry felt guilty about giving in to her request. But a Synthian trader could be obstinately tenacious, wearing down all opposition. Besides, Kaa needed the supplies.
Kiwei stepped over the crude caricature that Pincer-Tip had carved in the metal deck—a chilling image of the qheuen’s murderer, who had probably departed Kazzkark by now, plotting more mischief.
“Indeed, Dwer went after Rety. I was monitoring comm channels, moments ago, when an urgent message came through from the boy.”
Kaa thrashed his tail. “You didn’t t-tell me!”
“Pilot, you seemed well occupied with pre-takeoff checklists and such. Besides, I had it in mind to go now and help the young human, myself! Generous, yes? Would you care to come along, Scout-Major Harms?”
Harry squirmed. His launch window would be optimum in a midura. Still, if the boy was in trouble …
“Did Dwer say what’s the matter?”
The Synthian rubbed her belly—a nervous gesture.
“The message was unclear. Apparently, he feels urgent action is needed, or the girl will not survive.”
They tracked the young Jijoan to a nearby warehouse chamber, crouching behind a pile of abandoned crates. Wearing a dark cloak and a frustrated expression, he gazed at a gathering of sapients, about forty meters away.
Empty cargo containers had been festooned with blue and gold draperies, a convivial backdrop for the big Skiano missionary, who stood surrounded by about two dozen acolytes from as many
races. The Skiano’s head jutted above most followers, resembling a massive ship’s prow. One pair of eyes gleamed ceaselessly, as if lighting the way into a warm night.
Most of the proselytes had already dispersed to far reaches of civilized space, spreading their exceptional message of personal salvation, but this remnant group remained by their leader, chanting hymns that chilled Harry’s spine.
“What’s up?” he asked Dwer, stepping past him. Harry quickly spotted Rety, a small human figure, sitting apart from the others, her face lit by the glow of a portable computer.
“Watch out!” Dwer snapped, seizing Harry’s collar and yanking him back hard.
“Hey!” Harry complained—till several small projectiles pelted a nearby crate, sending splinters flying.
He blinked. “Someone’s shooting at us!”
Dwer hazarded a glimpse back around the corner, then motioned it was okay for Harry and Kiwei to rejoin him. He pointed toward a pair of blue-clad acolytes—a gello and a paha—standing protectively near the dais, glaring with expressions of clear warning. Both races had been uplifted to be warriors, with innate talents for violent conflict. Though now dedicated to a religion of peace, these individuals had been assigned a task worthy of their gifts. While the gello brandished a metal-tipped staff, the paha sported a simple device on one arm—a wrist catapult, like the one Dwer was seen wearing earlier.
“Interesting,” Kiwei said. “Disallowed more sophisticated weaponry, they swiftly caught on to the advantages of wolfling arts. No doubt Rety taught them. Perhaps their new faith disposes them to be more open-minded than most.”