Uplift - Infinity's Shore Part 55

"Tell Dr. Baskin an' the others thanks, but I'll be makin' my own way from here on. Good luck. Now scram."

Chuchki stared at first, unable to move or speak. Then servos whirred. The walker started to move.

"Hit the b.u.t.ton, yee!" Rety shouted over her left shoulder.

Back in the control room, her little "husband" pressed a lever triggering the airlock's emergency cycle. The inner hatch slid shut, severing Chuchki's wail of protest. Soon, a row of purple lights showed the small chamber rilling with water as the outer door opened.

A few duras later, she heard engine noise-the nowfamiliar growl of the speed sled that had brought the two of them here-ebbing with distance as the machine fled. She ordered the outer door closed and locked against the possibility that Chuchki might try something "heroic." Some still thought of her as a child, and many dolphins also had a mystical attachment to their human patrons.

But I'll be just fine. A lot better off than those fools, in fact.

Several low, squat hallways led away from the lock, but only one was lit by a string of glow bulbs. Following this trail, she made her way back toward the control room, sometimes lingering to stroke a panel or gaze into a chamber filled with mysterious machines. For the last few days she had looked over this salvaged starship-once a Buyur packet boat, according to Chuchki. Though a mess, it was one of the "best" recovered derelicts, capable of life support as well as full engine maneuvering, owing its remarkable state to the Midden's chill, sterile waters. Durable Galactic machines might lie there unchanged forever, or until Jijo sucked them underground.

It's mine now, she mused, surveying her prize. I've got my own starship.

Of course it was still a hunk of dross. All odds were against her getting anywhere in this moving sc.r.a.p pile.

But the odds always had been against her, ever since she was born into that filthy tribe of savages, so proud of their sickly ignorance. And especially since she realized she'd rather be whipped for speaking up than be a slave to some bully with rotting teeth and the mind of a beast.

Rety had suffered some disappointments lately. But now she saw what each of the setbacks had in common. They all came about because of trusting others-first the sages of the Commons, then the Rothens, and finally a ragtag band of helpless Earthlings.

But all that was in the past. Now she was back doing what she did best-relying on herself.

The control room spanned roughly thirty paces in width, featuring about a dozen wide instrument consoles. All were dark, except one jury-rigged station festooned with cables and makeshift bypa.s.s connections. Lights blazed across that panel. On the floor nearby, a portable holosim display revealed a staticky map of the ancient vessel's surroundings, a dart-shaped glow threading its way through a maze of ridges at the bottom of the great ocean.

Most of the decoy ships cruised with simple autopilots, but a few moved more flexibly, crewed by volunteer teams, making adjustments to the swarm pattern planned by the Niss Machine. In this effort, Rety's intelligence and agile hands had been helpful to Chuchki, making up for her lack of education. She felt justified in having earned her starship.

"hi captain!"

Her sole companion pranced on the instrument console, each footstep barely missing a glowing lever or switch. The little urrish male greeted her with a shrill ululation.

"we did, it! like pirates of the plains! like in legends of the battle aunties! now we free. no more noor beasts, no more yuckity ship full of water-loving fish!"

Rety laughed. Whenever loneliness beckoned, there was always yee to cheer her up.

"so where to now, captain?" the diminutive creature asked, "shake free of Jijo? head someplace good and sunny, for a change?"

She nodded.

"That's the i.dea. Only we gotta be patient a little while longer."

First Streaker must collect Chuchki and other scattered workers. Rety had an impression that the Earthlings were waiting for events to happen onsh.o.r.e. But after hearing the Jophur ultimatum she knew-Gillian Baskin would soon be forced to act.

I helped them, she rationalized. An' I won't interfere with their plan . . . much.

But in the long run, none o' that'll matter. Everybody knows they're gonna get roasted when they try to get away.

Or else thejophur'll catch 'em, like a ligger s.n.a.t.c.hin' up a gallaiter faun.

n.o.body can blame me for tryin' to find my own way out of a trap like that.

And if someone did cast blame her way? Rety laughed at the thought.

In that case, they can try to out,art a traeki, for all I care. This ship is mine, and there's notbin' anybody can do about it! She was getting away from Jijo-one way or another.

Dwer THE NIGHT SKY CRACKLED. At random intervals his hair abruptly stood on end. Static electricity snapped the balloon's canopy with a ba.s.so boom, while pale blue glows moved up and down the rope cables, dancing like frantic imps. Once, a flickering ball of greenish white followed him across the sky for more than a midura, mimicking each rise, fall, or sway in the wind. He could not tell if it was an arrowflight away, or several leagues. The specter only vanished when a rain squall pa.s.sed between, but Dwer kept checking nervously, in case it returned.

Greater versions of the same power flashed in all directions-though from a safe distance, so far. He made a habit of counting kiduras between each brilliant discharge and the arrival of its rumbling report. When the interval grew short, thunder would shake the balloon like a child's rag doll.

Uriel had set controls to keep Dwer above most of the gale ... at least according to the crude weather calculations of her spinning-disk computer. The worst fury took place below, in a dense cloud bank stretching from horizon to horizon.

Still, that only meant there were moonlit gaps for his frail craft to drift through. Surrounding him towered the mighty heat engines of the storm-churning thunderheads whose lofty peaks sc.r.a.ped the boundaries of s.p.a.ce.

Though insanely dangerous, the spectacle exceeded anything in Dwer's experience-and perhaps even that of any star G.o.d in the Five Galaxies. He was tempted to climb the rigging for a better view of nature's majesty. To let the tempest sweep his hair. To shout back when it bellowed. But he wasn't free. There were duties unfulfilled. So Dwer did as he'd been told, remaining huddled in a wire cage the smiths had built for him, lashed to a wicker basket that dangled like an afterthought below a huge gasbag. The metal enclosure would supposedly protect him from a minor lightning strike.

And what if a bolt tears the bag instead? Or ignites the fuel cylinder? Or ...

Low clicks warned Dwer to cover his face just half a dura before the alt.i.tude sensor tripped, sending jets of flame roaring upward, refilling the balloon and maintaining a safe distance from the ground.

Of course, "safe" was a matter of comparison.

"In theory, this vehicle should convey you welt past the Rinner Range, and then veyond the Poison Plain," the smith had explained. "After that, there should ve an end to the lightning danger. You can leave the Faraday cage and guide the craft as we taught you."

As they taught me in half a rushed midura, Dwer amended, while running around preparing one last balloon to launch.

All the others were far ahead of him-a flotilla of flimsy craft, dispersing rapidly as they caught varied airstreams, but all sharing the same general heading. East, driven by near-hurricane winds. Twice he had witnessed flares in that direction, flames that could not have come from lightning alone. Sudden outbursts of ocher fire, they testified to some balloon exploding in the distance.

Fortunately, those others had no crews, just instruments recovered from dross ships. Dwer was the only Jijoan loony enough to go flying on a night like this.

They needed an expendable volunteer. Someone to observe and report if the trick is successful.

Not that he resented Uriel and Gillian. Far from it. Dwer was suited for the job. It was necessary. And the voyage would take him roughly where he wanted to go.

Where I'm needed.

To the Gray Hills.

What might have happened to Lena and Jenin in the time he'd spent as captive of a mad robot, battling Jophur in a swamp and then trapped with forlorn Terrans at the bottom of the sea? By now, the women would have united the urrish and human sooner tribes, and possibly led them a long way from the geyser pools where Danel Ozawa died. It might take months to track them down, but that hardly mattered. Dwer had his bow and supplies. His skills were up to the task.

All I need is to land in roughly the right area, say within a hundred leagues . . . and not break my neck in the process. I can hunt and forage. Save my traeki paste for later, in case the search lasts through winter.

Dwer tried going over the plan, dwelling on problems he could grasp-the intricacies of exploring and survival in wild terrain. But his mind kept coming back to this wild ride through an angry sky . . . or else the sad partings that preceded it.

For a time, he and Sara had tried using words, talking about their separate adventures, sharing news of friends living and dead. She told what little she knew about Nelo and their destroyed hometown. He described how Lark had saved his life in a snowstorm, so long ago that it' seemed another age.

Hanging over the reunion was sure knowledge that it must end. Each of them had places to go. Missions with slim chance of success, but compelled by duty and curiosity. Dwer had lived his entire adult life that way, but it took some effort to grasp that his sister had chosen the same path, only on a vaster scale.

He still might have tried talking Sara out of her intention-perhaps suicidal-to join the Earthlings' desperate breakout attempt. But there was something new in the way she carried herself-a lean readiness that took him back to when they were children, following Lark on fossil hunts, and Sara was the toughest of them all. Her mind had always plunged beyond his comprehension. Perhaps it was time for her to stride the same galaxies that rilled ha thoughts. *

"Remember us,'when you're a star G.o.d," he had told her,' before their final embrace.

Her reply was a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "Give my love to Lark and ..."

Sara closed her eyes, throwing her arms around him. ". . . and to Jijo."

They clung together until the urrish smiths said it was the last possible moment to go.

When the balloon took off, Mount Guenn leaped into view around him, a sight unlike any he ever beheld. Lightning made eerie work of the Spectral Flow, sending brief flashes of illusion dancing across his retinas.

Dwer watched his sister standing at the entrance of the cave, a backlit figure. Too proud to weep. Too strong to pretend. Each knew the other was likely heading to oblivion. Each realized this would be their last shared moment.

I'll never know if she lives, he had thought, as clouds swallowed the great volcano, filling the night with flashing arcs. Looking up through a gap in the overcast, he had glimpsed, a corner of the constellation Eagle.

Despite the pain of separation, Dwer had managed a smile.

It's better that way.

From now until the day I die, I'll picture her out there. Living in the sky.

Alvin AS IT TURNED OUT, I DIDN'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN things to my parents. Gillian and Uriel had already laid it out, before it was time to depart.

The Six Races should be represented, they explained. Come what may.

Furthermore, I had earned the right to go. So had my friends.

Anyway, who was better qualified to tell Jijo's tale? Mu-phauwq and Yowg-wayuo had no choice but to accept my decision. Was Jijo any safer than fighting the Jophur in s.p.a.ce? Besides, I had spine-molted. I would make my own decisions.

Mother turned her back to me. I stroked her spines, but she spoke without turning around.

"Thank you for returning from the dead," she murmured. "Honor us by having children of your own. Name your firstborn after your great-uncle, who was captain of the Auph-Vuhoosh. The cycle must continue."

With that, she let my sister lead her away. I felt both touched and bemused by her command, wondering how it could ever be obeyed.

Dad, bless him, was more philosophical. He thrust a satchel in my arms, his entire collection of books by New Wave authors of Jijo's recent literary revival-the hoon, urs, and g'Kek writers who have lately begun expressing themselves in unique ways on the printed page. "It's to remind you that humans are not in complete command of our culture. There is more than one line to our harmony, my son."

"I know that, Dad," I replied. "I'm not a complete humicker."

He nodded, adding a low umble.

"It is told that we hoons were priggish and sour, before our sneakship came to Jijo. Legends say we had no word for 'fun.'

"If that is true-and in case you meet any of our stodgy cousins out there-tell them about the sea, Hph-wayuo! Tell them of the way a sail catches the wind, a sound no mere engine can match.

"Teach them to taste the stinging spray. Show them all the things that our patrons never did.

"It will be our gift-we happy d.a.m.ned-to those who know no joy in heaven."

Others had easier leave-takings.

Qheuens are used to sending their males out on risky ventures, for the sake of the hive. Pincer's mothers did emboss his sh.e.l.l with some proud inlay, though, and saw him off in good style. Urs care mostly about their work, their chosen loyalties, and themselves. Ur-ronn did not have to endure sodden sentimentality. Partly because of the rain, she and Uriel made brief work of their good-byes. Uriel probably saw it as a good business transaction. She lost her best appren, tice, but had adequate compensation.

Uriel seemed far more upset about losing Tyug. But there was no helping it. The Earthers need a traeki. And not just any traeki, but the best alchemist we can send. No pile of substance b.a.l.l.s can subst.i.tute. Besides, it will be good luck for all races to be along.

Huck's adoptive parents tried to express sorrow at her parting, but their genuine fondness for her would not make them grieve. Hoons are not humans. We cannot transfer the full body bond to those not of our blood. Our affections run deeper, but narrower than Earthlings'. Perhaps that is our loss.

So the five of us reboarded as official representatives, and as grown-ups. I had molted and Pincer showed off his cloisonne. Ur-ronn did not preen, but we all noticed that one of her brood pouches was no longer virgin white, but blushed a fresh shade of blue as her new husband wriggled and stretched it into shape.

Huck carried her own emblem of maturity-a narrow wooden tube, sealed with wax at both ends. Though humble looking, it might be the most important thing we brought with us from the Slope.

Huphu rode my shoulder as I stepped inside the whale sub. I noted that the tytlal-style noor, Mudfoot, had also rejoined us, though the creature seemed decidedly unhappy. Had he been exiled by the others, for the crime of letting their ancient secret slip? Or was he being honored, as we were, with a chance to live or die for Jijo?

Sara Koolhan stood between her chimp and the wounded starman as the great doors closed, cutting us off from the wharf lanterns, our village, and the thundering sky.

"Well, at least this is more comfortable than the last time we submerged, inside a dumb old hollow tree trunk," Huck commented.

Pincer's leg vents whistled resentfully. "You want comfy? Poor little g'Kekkie want to ride my back, an' be tucked into her beddie?"

"Shut up, you two," Ur-ronn snapped. "Trust Ifni to stick me with a bunch of ignora.n.u.ses for conpanions."

Huphu settled close as I umbled, feeling a strange, resigned contentment. My friends' bickering was one unchanged feature of life from those naive days when we were youngsters, still dreaming of adventure in our Wuphon's Dream. It was nice to know some things would be constant across s.p.a.ce and time.

Alas, Huck had not mentioned the true difference between that earlier submergence and this one.

Back then, we sincerely thought there was a good chance we'd be coming home again.

This time, we all knew better.

wasx ARLARMS BLARE! INSTRUMENTS CRY OUT SIRENS OF danger!

Behold, My rings, how the Captain-Leader recalls the robots and remote crew stacks who were engaged in probing the deep-sea trench.

Greater worries now concern us!

For days, cognizance detectors have sieved through the deep, trying to separate the prey from its myriad decoys. It even occurred to us/me that the Earthling ship may not be one of the moving blips at all! It might be sheltering silently in some dross pile. In operating the swarm by remote control, they might bypa.s.s all the normal etheric channels, using instead their fiendish talent at manipulating sound.

I/we are/am learning caution. I did not broach this possibility to the Captain-Leader.

Why did I refrain? A datum has come to our attention. Those in power often ask for the "truth," or even the best guesses of their underlings. But in fact, they seldom truly wish to hear contradiction.

Anyway, the tactics stacks estimated improved odds at sifting for the quarry. Only one more day, at worst. We of the Polkjhy could easily afford the time.

Until we detected disturbing intruders. Interlopers that could only have come from the Five Galaxies!

"THERE ARE AT LEAST SIX SIXES OF THEM!"

So declares the cognizance detector operator. "Hovering, almost stationary, no more than fifteen planetary degrees easterly. One moment they were not there. The next moment, they appeared!"

The etherics officer vents steam of doubt. "I/we perceive nothing, nor have our outlying satellites. This provokes a reasonable hypothesis: that your toruses are defective, or else your instruments." But routine checks discover no faults in either. "They may have meme-suborned our satellites," suggests one tactician stack. "Combining this with excellent masking technology-"