Uplift - Infinity's Shore Part 40

How lessened the universe would be without them!

Despite their difficulty on rough trails, some g'Kek had made it to this remote mountain base, laboring to weave fabric, or applying their keen eyes to the problem of making small parts. Yet their own sage was nowhere in sight.

Vubben had gone south, to a sacred place dangerously near the Jophur ship. There, he was attempting in secret to commune with Jijo's highest power.

Lester worried about his wise friend with the squeaky axles, venturing down there all alone.

But someone has to do it.

Soon we'll know if we have been fools all along ... or if we've put our faith in something deserving of our love.

lallon la " DOMAIN OF BLINDING WHITENESS MARKED THE border of the Spectral Flow, where that slanting shelf of radiant stone abruptly submerged beneath an ocean of sparkling grains. North of this point commenced a different kind of desert-one that seemed less hard on the brain and eyes, but just as unforgiving. A desert where hardy lifeforms dwelled.

Dangerous life-forms.

The escaped heretic's footprints transformed as they crossed the boundary. No longer did they glow, each with a unique lambency of oil-slick colors, telling truths and lies. Plunging ahead without pause, the tracks became mere impressions on the Plain of Sharp Sand-indentations that grew blurrier as gusty winds stroked the dunes-revealing only that someone recently came this way, a humanoid biped, favoring his left leg with a limp.

Fallen could tell one more thing-the hiker had been in an awful hurry.

"We can't follow anymore," he told his young companions. "Our mounts are spent, and this is Dedinger's realm. He knows it better than we do."

Reza and Pahna stared at the sandy desert, no less dismayed than he. But the older one dissented-a st.u.r.dy redhead with a rifle slung over her shoulder.

"We must go on. The heretic knows everything. If he reaches his band of ruffians, they'll soon follow him back to Xi, attacking us in force. Or else he might trade our location to the aliens. The man must be stopped!"

Despite her vehemence, Fallen could tell Reza's heart was heavy. For several days they had chased Dedinger across the wasteland they knew-a vast tract of laminated rock so poisonous, a sliver under the skin might send you into thrashing fever. A place almost devoid of life, where daylight raised a spectacle of unlikely marvels before any unprotected eye-waterfalls and fiery pits, golden cities and fairy dust. Even night offered no rest, for moonbeams alone could make an unwary soul shiver as ghost shadows flapped at the edge of sight. Such were the terrible wonders of the Spectral Plow-in most ways a harsher territory than the mundane desert just ahead. So harsh that few Jijoans ever thought to explore its fringes, allowing the secret of Xi to remain safe.

Reza was right to fear the consequences, should Dedinger make good his escape-especially if the fanatic managed to reforge his alliance with the horse-hating clan of urrish cultist's called the Urunthai. The fugitive should have succ.u.mbed to the unfamiliar dangers of the Flow by now. The three pursuers had expected to catch up with him yesterday, if not the day before.

It's my fault, Fallen thought. , was too complacent. Too deliberate. My old bones can't take a gallop and I would not let the women speed on without me.

Who would guess Dedinger could ride so well after so little practice, driving his stolen horse with a mixture of care and utter brutality, so the poor beast expired just two leagues short of this very boundary?

Even after that, his jogging pace kept the gap between them from closing fast enough. While the Illias preserved their beloved mares, the madman managed to cross ground that should have killed him first.

We are chasing a strong, resourceful adversary. I'd rather face a hoonish ice hermit, or even a Gray Champion, than risk this fellow with his back cornered against a dune. Of course Dedinger must eventually run out of reserves, pushing himself to the limit. Perhaps the man lay beyond the next drift, sprawled in exhausted stupor.

Well, it did no harm to hope.

"All right." Fallen nodded. "We'll go. But keep a sharp watch. And be ready to move quick if I say so. We'll follow the trail till nightfall, then head back whether he's brought down or not."

Reza and Pahna agreed, nudging their horses to follow. The animals stepped onto hot sand without enthusiasm, laying their ears back and nickering unhappily. Color-blind and unimaginative, their breed was largely immune to the haunting mirages of the Spectral Plow, but they clearly disliked this realm of glaring brightness. Soon, the three humans removed their rewq symbionts, pulling the living veils from over their eyes, trading them for urrish-made dark gla.s.ses with polarized coatings made of stretched fish membranes.

Ifni, this is a horrid place, Fallen thought, leaning left in his saddle to make out the renegade's tracks. But Dedinger is at home here.

In theory, that should not matter. Before ceding the position to his apprentice, Dwer, Fallen had been chief scout for the Council of Sages-an expert who supposedly knew every hectare of the Slope. But that was always an exaggeration. Oh, he had spent some time on this desert, getting to know the rugged, illiterate men who kept homes under certain hollow dunes, making their hard living by spear hunting and sifting for spica granules.

But I was much younger in those days, long before Dedinger began preaching to the sandmen, flattering and convincing them of their righteous perfection. Their role as leaders, blazing a way for humanity down the Path of Redemption.

I'd be a, fool to think I still qualify as a "scout" in this terrain.

Sure enough, Fallen was taken by surprise when their trail crossed a stretch of booming sand.

The fugitive's footprints climbed up the side of a dune, following an arc that would have stressed the mounts to follow. Fallon decided to cut inside of Dedinger's track, saving time and energy . . . but soon the sandy surface ceased cushioning the horse's hoofbeats. Instead, low groans echoed with each footfall, resonating like the sound of tapping on a drum. Cursing, he reined back. As an apprentice he once took a dare to jump in the center of a booming dune, and was lucky when it did not collapse beneath him. As it was, he spent the next pidura nursing an aching skull that kept on ringing from the reverberations he set off.

After laborious backtracking, they finally got around the obstacle.

Now Dedinger knows we're still after him. Fallon chided himself. Concentrate, dammit! You have experience, use it!

Fallon glanced back at the young women, whose secret clan of riders chose him to spend pleasant retirement in their midst, one of just four men dwelling in Xi's glades. Pahna was still a lanky youth, but Reza had already shared Fallen's bed on three occasions. The last time she had been kind, overlooking when he fell asleep too soon, They claim experience and thoughtfulness are preferable traits in male companions-qualities that make up for declining stamina. But I wonder if it's a wise policy. Wouldn 't they be better off keeping a young stallion like Dwer around, instead?

Dwer was far better equipped for this kind of mission. The lad would have brought Dedinger back days ago, all tied up in a neat package.

Well, you don't always have the ideal man on hand for every job. I just hope old Lester and the sages found a good use for Dwer. His gifts are rare.

Fallon had never been quite the "natural" that his apprentice was. In times past, he used to make up for it with discipline and attention to detail. He had never been one to let his mind wander during a hunt.

But times change, and a man loses his edge. These days, he could not help drifting away to the past. Something i always reminded him of other days, his past was so filled with riches.

'Oh, the times he used to have, running across the steppe with Ul-ticho, his plains hunting companion whose grand life was heartbreakingly short. Her fellowship meant more to Fallon than any human's, before or since. No one else understood so well the silences within his restless heart.

Ul-ticho, he glad you never saw this year when things,oil i apart. Those times were better, old friend. Jijo was ours, and even the sky held no threat you and I couldn't handle.

Dedinger's tracks still lay in plain sight, turning the rim of a great dune. The marks grew steadily fresher, and his limp grew worse with every step. The fugitive was near collapse. a.s.suming he kept going, it would be a half midura, at most, before the mounted party caught him. And still some distance short of the first shelter well. Not bad. We may pull this off yet. a.s.sumptions are a luxury that civilized folk can afford.

But not warriors or people of the land. In those staggered footprints, Fallon read a rea.s.suring story, and so violated a rule that he used to pound into his apprentice.

They were riding in the same direction as the wind, so no scent warned the animals before they turned, slanting down to the shadowed north side of the dune. Abruptly, a murmur of voices greeted them-shouts, filled with wrath and danger. Before Fallen's blinking eyes could adjust to the changed light, he and the women found themselves staring down the shafts of a dozen or more c.o.c.ked arbalests, all aimed their way, held by grizzled men wearing cloaks, turbans, and membrane goggles.

Now he made out a structure just ahead, shielded from the elements, made of piled stones. Fallon caught a belated sniff of water.

A new well? Built since I last came here as a young man! Or did I forget this one? More likely, the desert men never told the visiting chief scout all their secret sites. Far better, from their point of view, to let the High Sages think their maps complete, while holding something in reserve.

Lifting his hands slowly and carefully away from the pistol at his belt, Fallon now saw Dedinger, sunburned and shaking as he clutched devoted followers-who tenderly poured water over the prophet's broken lips.

We came so close, The hands holding Dedinger right now should have been Fallen's. They would have been, if only things had gone just a little differently.

I'm sorry, Fallon thought, turning in silent apology to Reza and Pahna. Their faces looked surprised and bleak. I'm an old man . . . and I let you down.

Net elo THE BATTLE FOR DOLO VILLAGE INVOLVED LARGER issues, but the princ.i.p.al thing decided was who would get to sleep indoors that night.

Most of the combatants were quite young, or very old.

In victory, the winners took possession of ashes.

In defeat, the losers marched forth singing.

Aided by a few qheuen allies, the craft workers started the fight evenly matched against the fanatical followers ofJop the Zealot. Both sides were angry, determined, and poorly armed with sticks and cudgels. Every man, woman, and qheuen of fighting age was away on militia duty, taking the swords and other weapons with them. Even so, it was a wonder no one died in the melee. Combatants swelled around the village meeting tree in a sweaty, disorderly throng, pushing and flailing at men who had been their neighbors and friends, raising a bedlam that blocked out futile orders by leaders of both sides. It might have gone on till everyone collapsed in hoa.r.s.e exhaustion, but the conflict was abruptly decided when one side got unexpected reinforcements.

Brown-clad men dropped- from the overhanging branches of the garu forest, where gardens of luscious, protein-rich moss created a rich and unique niche for agile human farmers. Suddenly outflanked and outnumbered, Jop and his followers turned and fled the debris-strewn valley.

"The zealots went too far," said one gnarled tree farmer, explaining why his people dropped their neutrality to intervene. "Even if they had an excuse to blow up the dam without guidance from the sages . . . they should've warned the poor qheuens first! A murder committed in the name of reverence is still a crime. It's too high a toll to pay for following the Path."

Nelo was still catching his breath, so Ariana Foo expressed thanks on the craft workers' behalf. "There has already been enough blood spilled down the Bibur's waters. It is well past time for neighbors to care for one another, and heal these wounds."

Despite confinement to her wheelchair, Ariana had been worth ten warriors during the brief struggle, without ever aiming or landing a blow. Her renowned.status as the former High Sage of human sept meant that no antagonist dared confront her. It was as if a bubble of sanity moved through the mob, interrupting the riot, which resumed again as soon as she had pa.s.sed. The sight of her helped the majority of farmers decide to come down off the garu heights and a.s.sist. ; No one pursued Jop's forces as they retreated on canoes and makeshift rafts to the Bibur's other bank, re-forming on a crest of high ground separating the river from a vast swamp. There the zealots chanted pa.s.sages from the Sacred Scrolls, still defiant.

Nelo labored for breath. It felt as if his ribs were half torn loose from his side, and he could not tell for some time which pains were temporary, and which were from some fanatic's baton Or quarterstaff. At least nothing seemed broken, and he grew more confident that his heart wasn't about to burst out of his chest.

So, Dolo has been won back, he thought, finding little to rejoice over in the triumph. Log Biter was dead, as well as Jobee and half of Nelo's apprentices. With his paper mill gone, along with the dam and qheuen rookery, the battle had been largely to decide who would take shelter in the remaining dwellings.

A makeshift infirmary was set up surrounding the traeki pharmacist, on a stretch of leaf-covered loam. Nelo spent some time sewing cuts with boiled thread, and laying plaster compresses on bruised comrades and foes alike.

The task of healing and st.i.tching was hardly begun when a messenger dropped down from the skyway of rope bridges that laced the forest in all directions. Nelo recognized the lanky teenager, a local girl whose swiftness along the branch-top ways could not be matched. Still short of breath, she saluted Ariana Foo and recited a message from the commander of the militia base concealed some distance downriver.

"Two squads will get here before nightfall," she relayed proudly. "They'll send tents and other gear by tomorrow morn . . . a.s.suming the Jophur don't blow the boats up."

It was fast action, but a resigned murmur was all the news merited. Any help now was too little, and far too late to save the rich, united community Dolo Village had been. No wonder Jop's people had been less tenacious, more willing to retreat. In their eyes, they had already won.

The Path of Redemption lies before us.

Nelo walked over to sit on a tree stump near the town exploser, whose destructive charges were commandeered and misused by Jop's mob. Henrik's shoulders slumped as he stared over the Bibur, past the shattered ruins of the craft shops, at the zealots chanting on the other side.

Nelo wondered if his own face looked as bleak and haggard as Henrik's.

Probably not. To his own great surprise, Nelo found himself in a mood to be philosophical.

"Never have seen such a mess in all my days," he said, with a resigned sigh. "I guess we're gonna have our hands full, rebuilding."

Henrik shook his head, as if to say, It can't be done.

This, in turn, triggered a flare of resentment from Nelo. What business did Henrik have, wallowing in self-pity? As an exploser, his professional needs were small. a.s.sisted by his guild, he could be back in business within a year. But even if Log Biter's family got help from other qheuen hives, and held a dam-raising to end all dam-raisings, it would still be years before a waterwheel, turbine, and power train could convert lake pressure into industrial muscle. And that would just begin the recovery. Nelo figured he would devote the rest of his life to building a papery like his former mill.

Was Henrik ashamed his charges had been misused by a panicky rabble? How could anyone guard against such times as these, when all prophecy went skewed and awry? Galactics had indeed come to Jijo, but not as foreseen. Instead, month after month of ambiguity had mixed with alien malevolence to sow confusion among the Six Races. Jop represented one reaction. Others sought ways to fight the aliens. In the long run, neither policy would make any difference.

We should have followed a third course-wait and see.

Go on living normal lives until the universe decides what to do with us.

Nelo wondered at his own att.i.tude. The earlier shocked dismay had given way to a strange feeling. Not numbness. Certainly not elation amid such devastation.

I bate everything that was done here.

. . . and yet ...

And yet, Nelo found a spirit of antic.i.p.ation rising within. He could already smell fresh-cut timber and the pungency of boiling pitch. He felt the pulselike pounding of hammers driving joining pegs, and saws spewing dust across the ground. In his mind were the beginnings of a sketch for a better workshop. A better mill.

All my life I tended the factory my ancestors left me, making paper in the time-honored way. It was a pride ful place. A n.o.ble calling.

But it wasn't 'mine.

Even if the original design came from settlers who stepped off the Tabernacle, still wearing some of theil mantle as star G.o.ds, Nelo had always known, deep inside-I could do a better job.

Now, when his years were ripe, he finally had a chance to prove it. The prospect, was sad, daunting . . . and thrilling. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was how young it made him feel.

"Don't blame yourself, Henrik," he told the exploser, charitably. "You watch and see. Everything'll be better'n ever."

But the exploser only shook his head again. He pointed across the river, where Jop's partisans were now streaming toward the northeastern swamp, carrying canoes and other burdens on their backs, still singing as they went.

"They've got my reserve supply of powder. s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the warehouse. I couldn't stop 'em."

Nelo frowned.

"What good'll it do 'em? Militia's coming, by land and water. Jop can't reach anywhere else along the river that's worth blowing up."

"They aren't heading along the river," Henrik replied, and Nelo saw it was true.

"Then where?" he wondered aloud.

Abruptly, Nelo knew the answer to his own question, even before Henrik spoke. And that same instant he also realized there were far more important matters than rebuilding a paper mill.

"Biblos, " the exploser said, echoing Nelo's thought. The papermaker blinked silently, unable to make his brain fit around the impending catastrophe. "The militia . . . can they cut 'em off?"

"Doubtful. But even if they do, it's not Jop alone that has me worried."

He turned to show his eyes for the first time, and they held bleakness.

"I'll bet Jop's bunch ain't the only group heading that way, even as we speak."

Rety THE MORE SHE LEARNED ABOUT STAR G.o.dS, THE less attractive they seemed. I None of 'em is half as smart as a dung-eating glaver, she thought, while making her way down a long corridor toward the ship's brig. It must come from using all those computers and smarty-a.s.s machines to cook your food, make your air, tell you stories, kill your enemies, tuck you in at night, and foretell your future for you. Count on 'em too much, and your brain stops working.

Rety had grown more cynical since those early days when Dwer and Lark first brought her down off the Rimmer Mountains, a half-starved, wide-eyed savage, agog over the simplest crafts produced on the so-called civilized Slope-all the way from pottery to woven cloth and paper books. Of course that awe evaporated just as soon as she sampled real luxury aboard the Rothen station, where Kunn and the other Daniks flattered her with promises that sent her head spinning.

Long life, strength and beauty . . . cures for all your, aches and scars . . . a clean, safe place to live under the' protection of our Rothen lords . . . and all the wonders that come with being a lesser deity, striding among the stars. There she had met the Rothen patrons of humankind.

Her patrons, they said. Gazing on the benevolent faces of Ro-kenn and Ro-pol, Rety had allowed herself to see wise, loving parents-unlike those she knew while growing up in a wild sooner tribe. The Rothen seemed so perfect, so n.o.ble and strong, that Rety almost gave in. She very nearly pledged her heart.

But it proved a lie. Whether or not they really were humanity's patrons did not matter to her at all. What counted was that the Rothen turned out to be less mighty than they claimed. For that she could never forgive them.

What use was a protector who couldn't protect?

For half a year, Rety had fled one band of incompetents after another-from her birth tribe of filthy cretins to the Commons of Six Races. Then from the Commons to the Rothen. And when the Jophur corvette triumphed over Kunn's little scout boat, she had seriously contemplated heading down to the swamp with both hands upraised, offering her services to the ugly ringed things. Now wouldn't that have galled old Dwer!

At one point, while he was floundering in the muck, talking to his crazy mule-spider friend, she had actually started toward the ramp of the grounded s.p.a.ceship, intending to hammer on the door. Surely the Jophur were like everybody else, willing to deal for information that was important to them.

At a critical moment, only their stench held her back-an aroma that reminded her of festering wounds and gangrene . . . fortunately, as it turned out, since the Jophur also proved unable to defend themselves against the unexpected.

So I got to just keep looking for another way off this mud ball. And who cares what Dwer thinks of me? At least I don't make fancy excuses for what I do.