Who gave them the right?
No permission was needed. Galactics had followed the same pattern for aeons—each “generation” of starfarers spawning the next in a rippling bootstrap effect called Uplift.
On the whole, humans were better masters than most … and he would rather be sapient than not.
No. What drove him away from Earthclan was not resentment but a kind of detachment. The mayfly yammerings of Probsher mystics mattered no more or less than the desperate moves of the Terragens Council, against the grinding forces of an overwhelming universe. One might as well compare sparks rising from a campfire to the stars wheeling by overhead. They looked similar, at a glance. But what did another incandescent cinder really matter on the grand scale of things?
Did the cosmos care if humans or chims survived?
Even at university this notion threaded his thoughts. Harry’s natural links elongated till they parted one by one. All that remained was a nebulous desire to seek out something lasting. Something that deserved to last.
Joining Wer’Q’quinn and the Navigation Institute, he found something enduring, a decision he never regretted.
Still, it puzzled Harry years later that his dreams kept returning to the desolate world of his youth. Horst ribbed his memory. Its wind in the dry grass. Smells that assailed your nose, sinking claws into your sinuses. And images the shaman painted in your mind, like arcs of multicolored sand, falling in place to convey deer, or loper-beast, or spearhunter.
Even as an official of Galactic civilization, representing the oxygen order on a weird plane of reality where allaphors shimmered in each window like reject Dali images, Harry still saw funnels of sparkling heat rising from smoky campfires, vainly seeking union with aloof stars.
Lark
NOT THAT WAY!” LING SHOUTED.
Her cry made Lark stumble to a halt, a few meters down a new corridor.
“But I’m sure this is the best route back to our nest.” Lark pointed along a dim, curved aisle, meandering between gray ceramic walls. Strong odors wafted from each twisty, branching passageway aboard the mazelike Jophur ship. This one beckoned with distinct flavors of GREEN and SANCTUARY.
“I believe you.” Ling nodded. “That’s why we mustn’t go there. In case we’re still being followed.”
She didn’t look much like a star god anymore, with her dark hair hacked short and pale skin covered with soot. Wearing just a torn undertunic from her once shiny uniform, Ling now seemed far wilder than the Jijoan natives she once called “savages.” In a cloth sling she carried a crimson torus that leaked gore like a wounded sausage.
Lark saw her meaning. Ever since they had tried sabotaging the dreadnought’s control chamber, giant Jophur and their robot servants had chased them across the vast vessel. As fugitives, the humans mustn’t lead pursuers to the one place offering food and shelter.
“Where to then?” Lark hated being in the open. He grasped their only weapon, a circular purple tube. Larger and healthier than the red one, it was their sole key to get past locked doors and unwary guardians.
Ling knew starships far better than he. But this behemoth warship was different. She peered up one shadowy tunnel, a curled shaft that seemed more organic than artificial.
“Just pick a direction. Quickly. I hear someone coming.”
With a wistful glance toward their “nest,” Lark took her hand and plunged away at right angles, into another passageway.
The walls glistened with an oily sheen, each passage or portal emitting its own distinct aroma, partly making up for the lack of written signs. Although he was just a primitive sooner, Lark did know traeki. Those cousins of the Jophur had different personalities, but shared many physical traits. As a Jijoan native, he could grasp many nuances in the shipboard scent language.
Despite the eerie hall curvature, he was starting to get a mental picture of the huge vessel—an oblate spheroid, studded with aggressive weaponry and driven by engines mighty enough to warp space in several ways. The remaining volume was a labyrinth of workshops, laboratories, and enigmatic chambers that puzzled even the star sophisticate, Ling. Since barely escaping the Jophur command center, they had worked their way inward, back toward the tiny eden where they had hidden after escaping their prison cell.
The place where they first made love.
Only now the greasy ring stacks had shut down all the axial drop tubes, blocking easy access along the Polkjhy’s north-south core.
“It makes the whole ship run inefficiently,” Ling had explained earlier, with some satisfaction. “They can’t shift or reassign crew for different tasks. We’re still hurting them, Lark, as long as we’re free!”
He appreciated her effort to see a good side to their predicament. Even if the future seemed bleak, Lark felt content to be with her for as much time as they had left.
Glancing backward, Ling gripped his arm. Heightened rustling sounds suggested pursuit was drawing near. Then Lark also heard something from the opposite direction, closing in beyond the next sharp bend. “We’re trapped!” Ling cried.
Lark rushed to the nearest sealed door. Its strong redolence reminded him of market days back home, when traeki torus breeders brought their fledglings for sale in mulch-lined pens.
He aimed the purple ring at a nearby scent plate and a thin mist shot from the squirming creature. Come on. Do your stuff, he silently urged.
Their only hope lay in this gift from the former traeki sage, Asx, who had struggled free of mental repression by a Jophur master ring just long enough to pop out two infant tubes. The human fugitives had no idea what the wounded red one was for, but the purple marvel had enabled them to stay free for several improbable days, ever since the battleship took off from Jijo on its manic errand through outer space.
Of course we knew it couldn’t last.
The door lock accepted the coded chemical key with a soft click, and the portal slid open, letting them rush through acrid fumes into a dim chamber, divided by numerous tall, glass partitions. Lark had no time to sort impressions, however, before the corridor behind them echoed with human shouts and a staccato of running feet.
“Stop! Don’t you stupid skins know you’re just making things worse? Come out, before they start using—”
The closing door cut off angry threats by Ling’s former commander. Lark pushed the purple traeki against the inner sense-plate, where it oozed aromatic scramblers—chemicals tuned to randomize the lock’s coding. From experience, he knew it could take half a midura for their pursuers to get through—unless they brought heavy cutting tools to bear.
Why should they bother? They know we’re trapped inside.
He found it especially galling to be cornered by Rann. The third human prisoner had thrown in his lot with the Jophur, perhaps currying favor for the release of his Rothen patron gods from frozen internment on Jijo. It left Lark with no options, since the purple ring would have nil effect on the big Danik warrior.
Turning around, Lark saw that the glass walls—stretching from floor to a high ceiling—made up giant vivariums holding row after row of wriggling, squirming things.
Midget traeki toruses!
Clear tubes carried brown, sludgelike material to each niche.
Refined liquid mulch. Baby food.
We’re in their nursery!
By itself, no traeki ring was intelligent. Back on the world where they evolved, slithering through fetid swamps as wormlike scavengers, they never amounted to much singly. Only when traeki began stacking together and specializing did there emerge a unique kind of presapient life, ripe for adoption and Uplift by their snaillike Poa patrons.
This is where the Polkjhy crew grows special kinds of rings, packed with the right skills to be new members of the team.
A potent kind of reproduction. No doubt some of the pulsing doughnut shapes were master rings, designed millennia ago to transform placid, contemplative traeki into adamant, alarming Jophur.
Lark jumped as a human scream clamored down th
e narrow aisles. Pulse pounding, he ran, shouting Ling’s name.
Her voice echoed off glass walls. “Hurry! They’ve got me cornered!”
Lark burst around a vivarium to find her at last, backing away from two huge Jophur workers, toward a niche in the far wall. The nursery staff, Lark realized. Each tapered pile consisted of at least thirty component toruses—swaying and hissing—two meters wide at the bottom and massing almost a ton. Their waxy flanks gleamed with an opulent vitality one never saw in traeki back home on Jijo, flickering with meaningful patterns of light and dark. Colored stenches vented from chemsynth pores, as manipulator tendrils stretched toward Ling.
She moved lithely, darting left and right. Seeking an opening or else something to use as a weapon. There was no panic in her eyes, nor did she give Lark away in her relief to see him.
Of course, Jophur vision sensors faced all directions at once. But with that advantage came a handicap—slow reaction time. The first stack was still swaying toward its victim when Lark dashed up from behind. Somehow, Asx’s gift knew to send a jet of sour spray, striking a gemlike organ that quickly spasmed and went dim.
The whole stack shuddered, slumping to quiescence. Lark wasted no time spinning toward the other foe—only to find his right arm suddenly pinned by an adamant tentacle! An odious scent of TRIUMPH swirled as the second Jophur pulled him close, coiling tendrils and commencing to squeeze.
The purple ring spasmed in Lark’s hand, but the chemical spray could not hit its mark at this impossible angle, past the Jophur’s bulging midriff. The master torus drove its lesser tubes with a malice and intensity Lark had never seen in serene traekis back home. The constriction grew unbearable, expelling his breath in a choking cry of agony.
A shattering crash filled his ears, as a rain of wetness and needlelike shards fell across his back.
The Jophur emitted a shrill ululation. Then someone shouted a fierce warning in the clicking whistles of staccato Galactic Two.
“To let the human go—this you must.
“Or else other young ones—to ruin shall fall!”
The harsh pressure eased off Lark’s rib cage just as consciousness appeared about to waver and blow out. His captor huffed and teetered uncertainly. Peering blearily, Lark saw that slivers of glass dusted the big stack, and moisture lay everywhere. Then he caught sight of Ling, crouching several meters away with a crooked metal bar, brandishing it threateningly in front of another vivarium. Where she had found the tool, he couldn’t guess. But the floor was already strewn with flopping infant rings decanted violently from one of the nurturing mulch towers. Some struggled on vague flippers or undeveloped legs. Midget master rings waved neural feelers, seeking other toroids to dominate.
Lark felt the nursery worker tremble with hesitation.
Noises beyond the doorway indicated that the Polkjhy crew were already at work, unscrambling the door. Clearly, the two fugitive humans weren’t going anywhere.
The Jophur stack decided. It released Lark.
He managed to keep from slumping to the floor, teetering on wobbly knees, feebly raising the purple torus for a clean shot at the pheromone sensors.
In moments, the second worker joined the first in estivation stupor.
Sheesh, Lark pondered. If this was just a tender nurse, I’d hate to meet one of their fighters.
Ling grabbed his arm to keep him from buckling.
“Come on,” she urged. “There’s no time to rest. We’ve got lots to do.”
“What’re you talking about?” Lark tried asking. The question emerged as a gurgling sigh. But Ling refused to let him sink down and rest.
“I think I know a way out of here,” she said urgently. “But it’s going to be an awful tight fit.”
True to her prediction, the cargo container was tiny. Even by scrunching over double, Lark could barely cram himself inside. The purple ring squirmed in the hollow between his rib cage and a wall.
“I still think you should go first,” he complained.
Ling hurriedly punched commands on a complex keypad next to the little supply shuttle. “Do you know how to program one of these things?”
She had a point, though Lark didn’t like it much.
“Besides, we’re heading somewhere unknown. Shouldn’t our best fighter lead the way?”
Now Ling was teasing. Whoever went first would overcome opposition by using Asx’s purple gift, or else fail. Physical strength was nearly useless against a robot or a full-size Jophur.
He glanced past her toward the far door of the nursery, where the red glow of a cutting torch could be seen, slicing an arched opening from the other side. Apparently, Rann and the Jophur had given up unscrambling the lock and decided on a brute-force approach.
“You’ll hurry after me?”
For an answer, she bent and kissed him—once on the forehead in benediction, and again, passionately, on the mouth. “How is that for a promise?” she asked, mingling her breath with his.
As Ling backed away, a transparent hatch slid over the little cab—built to carry equipment and samples between workstations throughout the Jophur ship. There had been a crude version of such a system back at Biblos, the Jijoan archive, where cherished paper books and messages shuttled between the libraries in narrow tubes of boo.
“Hey!” he called. “Where are you sending m—”
A noise and brilliant flash cut off his question and made Ling spin around. The torch cutter was accelerating, as if the enemy somehow sensed a need to hurry. To Lark’s horror, the arc was over half finished.
“Let me out!” he demanded. “We’re switching places!”
Ling shook her head as she resumed programming the console. “Not an option. Get ready. This will be wrenching.”
Before Lark could protest a second time, the wall section abruptly fell with a crash. Curt billowings of sparks and dense smoke briefly filled the vestibule. But soon, Jophur warriors would come pouring through … and Ling didn’t even have a weapon!
Lark hammered on the clear panel as several things happened in rapid succession.
Ling knelt to the floor, where scores of infant traeki rings still squirmed in confusion amid shards of their broken vivarium. She emptied her cloth sling, gently spilling Asx’s second gift—the wounded crimson torus—to mingle among the others.
A tall silhouette passed through the roiling cloud to stand in the glowing doorway. The wedgelike torso was unmistakably Rann, leader of the Danik tribe of human renegades sworn to Rothen lords.
Ling stood. She glanced over her shoulder at Lark, who pounded the hatch, moaning frustration and fear for her.
Calmly, she reached for the keypad.
“No! Let me out! I’ll—”
Acceleration kicked suddenly. Lark’s folded body slammed one wall of the little car.
Ling’s face vanished in a blur as he was swept away toward Ifni-knew-where.
Dwer
ARE THEY REALLY GONE?”
Dwer bent close to an ancient, pitted window. He peered at a glittering starscape, feeling some of the transmitted chill of outer space, just a finger’s breadth away.
“I don’t see any sign of ’em over here,” he called back to Rety. “Is it clear on your side?”
His companion—a girl about fourteen, with a scarred face and stringy hair—pressed against another pane at the opposite end of the dusty chamber, once the control room of a sleek vessel, but now hardly more than a grimy ruin.
“There’s nothin’—unless you count the bits an’ pieces floatin’ out there, that keep fallin’ off this rusty ol’ bucket.”
Her hand slammed the nearest bulkhead. Streams of dust trickled from crevices in prehistoric metal walls.
The starship’s original owners must have been oddly shaped, since the viewing ports were arrayed at knee height to a standing human, while corroded instruments perched on tall pillars spread around the oblong room. Whatever race once piloted this craft, they eventually abandoned it as junk, over half a milli
on years ago, when it was dumped onto a great pile of discarded hulks in the dross midden that lay under Jijo’s ocean.
Immersion in subicy water surely had preserving effects. Still, the Streaker crew had accomplished a miracle, reviving scores of these wrecks for one final voyage. It made Rety’s remark seem unfair, all considered.
There is air in here, Dwer thought. And a machine that spits out a paste we can eat … sort of. We’re holding death at bay. For the moment.
Not that he felt exactly happy about their situation. But after all the narrow escapes of the last few days, Dwer found continued life and health cause for surprised pleasure, not spiteful complaint.
Of course, Rety had her own, unique way of looking at things. Her young life had been a lot harder than his, after all.
“i sniff every corner of this old boat,” a small voice piped, speaking Anglic with a hissing accent and a note of triumph. “no sign of metal monsters, none! we scare them off!”
The speaker trotted across the control room on four miniature hooves—a quadruped with two slim centauroid arms and an agile, snakelike neck. Holding his head up proudly, little yee clattered over to Rety and slipped into her belt pouch. The two called each other “husband and wife,” an interspecies union that made some sense to another Jijoan but would have stunned any citizen of the Civilization of Five Galaxies. The verbose urrish male and an unbathed, prepubescent human female made quite a pairing.
Dwer shook his head.
“Those robots didn’t leave on account of our fierce looks. We were hiding in a closet, scared out of our wits, remember?” He shrugged. “I bet they didn’t search the ship because they saw it for an empty shell right away.”
Almost a hundred ancient derelict ships had been resurrected from the subsea graveyard by Hannes Suessi and his clever dolphin engineers in order to help mask Streaker’s breakout, giving the Earthlings a slim chance against the overpowering Jophur dreadnought. Dwer’s presence aboard one of the decoys resulted from a series of rude accidents. (Right now he was supposed to be landing a hot-air balloon in Jijo’s Gray Hills, fulfilling an old obligation, not plummeting into the blackness away from the wilderness he knew best.)