Brightness Reef (47 page)

Those departing were replaced by others even angrier than the first, or frightened by things they had seen. Only yesterday, observers from Wuphon Port all the way to Finaltown Bay beheld a narrow, winged specter-a pale aircraft-that paused over the useless camouflage lattices, as if to say / see you, before resuming a twisty course along the coast, then out to sea.

No one had to say it. Whatever Uriel wanted to accomplish here, we didn’t have a lot of time.

Legends

The first sooner races arrived at Jijo knowledgeable, but they lacked a safe way to store that
 
knowledge. The names of many archival tools come down to us, from data plaques to memo-slivers and info-dust, but all of these had to be consigned to the deep. Earthlings possessed a secure, undetectable way to store information. The secret of paper—pulping and screening vegetable fibers with clays and animal products—was a uniquely wolfling invention. But the Tabernacle crew left Earth so soon after contact, the data published in the Great Printing was sparse in galactology, especially concerning other “sooner infections” elsewhere in the Five Galaxies.

This makes it hard to put our Jijoan Commons in perspective. How different are we from other cases of illegal settlement on fallow worlds? Have we done a better job at minimizing the harm we do? What are our chances of avoiding detection? What kinds of justice were meted out to other squatters who were caught? How far down the Path of Redemption must a race travel before they cease being criminals and become blessed?

The Scrolls offer some guidance on these matters. But since most date from the first two or three landings, they shed little light on one of the greatest mysteries.

Why did so many come to this small patch of ground, in such a short span of time?

Against the half a million years since the Buyur left, two thousand years is not very much. Moreover, there are many fallow worlds—so why Jijo? There are many sites on Jijo—so why the Slope?

Each question has answers. The great carbon-spewing star, lzmunuti, began shielding local space only a few millennia ago. We are told this phenomenon somehow disabled robot sentinels patrolling routes to this system, easing the way for sneakships. There are also vague references to omens that a “time of troubles” would soon spread upheavals across the Five Galaxies. As for the Slope, its combination of robust biosphere and high volcanic activity assures that our works will be destroyed, leaving few traces we were ever here.

To some, these answers suffice. Others wonder, still.

Are we unique?

In some Galactic languages, the question does not even parse as sane. One can find a precedent for anything in the archives of a billion years. Originality is an illusion, everything that is also was.

Perhaps it is symptomatic of our low state—our uncivilised level of consciousness, compared with the godlike heights of our ancestors—but one still is tempted to wonder.

Might something unusual be going on here?

Spensir Jones, A Landing Day Homily

Asx

WE SAGES PREACH THAT IT IS FOOLISH TO ASSUME. Yet, during this, our greatest crisis, the invaders often turn out to know much that we thought safely hidden.

Should this surprise us, my rings? Are they not star-gods from the Five Galaxies?

Worse, have we been united? Have not many of the Six rashly exercised their right of dissent, currying favors from the sky-humans against our advice? Some of these have simply vanished-including the sooner girl who so vexed Lester with her ingratitude, daring to steal back the treasure she had brought, which intrigued our human sage for days on end. Does she even now dwell within the buried station, pampered as a g’Kek might groom a favorite zookir? Or else, did the sky-felons simply delete her, as a traeki voids its core of spent mulch, or as Earthling tyrants used to eliminate quislings who had finished serving their purpose?

For every secret the raiders uncover, there are as many ways they seem shockingly ignorant, for sky-gods.

It is a puzzlement-and small solace as we contemplate the proud, intimidating visitor who this morn came before the Council of Sages.

My rings, has memory of this event yet coated your waxy cores? Do you recollect the star-human, Rann, making his request? Asking that several from his group be invited along, when next we commune with the Holy Egg?

The request was courteous, yet it had aspects of a command.

We should not be surprised. How could the aliens not notice what is happening?

At first discernible only to the most sensitive, the tremors strengthen till now they pervade this corner of our world.

curling the mists that rise from geysers and steam pools,

guiding patterned flocks of passing birdlings,

waking dormant rewq, both in caves and in our pouches,

even permeating the myriad blue colors of the sky.

“We have heard much about your sacred stone,” Rann said. “Its activity triggers fascination in our sensoria. We would see this wonder for ourselves.”

“Very well,” Vubben answered for the Six, wrapping three eyestalks in a gesture of assent. Indeed how could we refuse?

“Pray tell-how many will be in your party?”

Rann bowed again, imposing for a human, as tall as any traeki, broad in the shoulders as a young hoon. “There will be three. Myself and Ling, you have met. As for the third, his revered name is Ro-kenn, and it is incumbent to realize how you are about to be honored. Our master must be shown all expressions of courtesy and respect.”

With varied eyes, visors, and sight patches, we sages winked and winced amazement. All save Lester Cambel, who muttered softly next to our traeki stack,

“So the bloody Dakkins had one underground with them, all along.”

Humans are surprising creatures, but Lester’s breach in tact so stunned our rings that “i” was unanimously amazed. Did he not fear being overheard?

Apparently not. Through our rewq, i read Lester’s ill-regard for the man across from us, and for this news.

As for the rest of the Council, it did not take rewq to note their curiosity,

At long last, we were about to meet the Rothen.

Lark

Dear Sara,

The caravan bearing your letter took some time to get here, because of troubles on the plains. But how wonderful to see your familiar scrawl, and to hear you’re well! And Father, when you saw him last. These days, there are few enough reasons to smile.

I’m dashing this off in hopes of catching the next brave kayak-courier to head down the Bibur. If it reaches Biblos before you leave, I hope I can persuade you not to come up here! Things are awful tense. Recall those stories we told each other about the dam, back home? Well, I wouldn’t sleep in that attic room right now, if you smell my smoke. Please stay somewhere safe till we know what’s happening.

As you asked, I’ve inquired carefully about your mysterious stranger. Clearly the aliens are seeking someone or something, beyond their goal of illicitly adopting a candidate species for uplift. I can’t prove your wounded enigma-man isn’t the object of their search, but I’d bet he’s at most a small part of the picture.

I could be wrong. Sometimes I feel we’re like kitchen-ants peering upward, trying to comprehend a human quarrel from the stir of shadows overhead.

Oh, I can picture your look right now! Don’t worry, I’m not giving up! In fact, I have a different answer to the question you ‘re always asking me. . . . Yes, I have met a girl. And no, I don’t think you’d approve of her. I’m not sure this boy does, either.

Smiling ironically, Lark finished the first page of the letter and put down his pen. He blew on the paper, then picked up his portable blotter, rolling the felt across the still damp lines of ink. He took a fresh sheet out of the leather portfolio, dipped the pen in the ink cup and resumed.

Along with this note you ‘II get a hand-cranked copy of the latest report the sages are sending throughout the Commons, plus a confidential addendum for Ariana Foo. We’ve learned some new things, though so far nothing likely to assure our survival when the Rothen ship returns. Bloor is here, and I’ve been helping him put your idea into effect, though I see potential drawbacks to threatening the aliens, the way you recommend.

Lark hesitated. Even such veiled hints might be too much to risk. In normal times it would be unthinkable for anyone to tamper with someone else’s mail. But such things used to be done by frantic factions during ancient Earthly crises, according to historical accounts. Anyway, what good would it do Sara to worry? Feeling like a wastrel, he crumpled the second sheet and started fresh.

Please tell Sage Foo that young Shirl, Kurt’s daughter, arrived safely along with B-r, whose work proceeds as well as might be expected.

Meanwhile, I’ve followed up on your other queries. It’s delicate questioning these space people, who always make me pay with information useful to their criminal goals. I must also try not to arouse suspicion over why / want to know certain things. Still, I managed to bargain for a few answers.

One was easy. The star humans do not routinely use Anglic, or Rossic, or any other “barbaric wolfling tongue.” That’s how Ling put it the other day, as if those languages were much too vulgar and unrigorous for a properly scientific person to use. Oh, she and the others speak Anglic well enough to converse. But among themselves, they prefer GalSeven.

He paused to dip his pen in the cup of fresh ink.

It fits our notion that these humans do not come from the main branch of the race! They aren’t representatives of Earth, in other words, but come instead from an offshoot that’s bound in loyalty to the Rothen, a race claiming to be the long-lost patrons of humankind.

Recall how Mother used to have us debate the Origins Question? One of us arguing the Danikenite side and the other supporting the Darwinists? At the time it seemed interesting but pretty pointless, since all our facts were out of texts three hundred years old. Who would think we’d live to see an answer proclaimed on Jijo, before our eyes?

As to the validity of the Rothen claim, I can’t add anything to the report except that Ling and the others seem passionately to believe.

Lark took a sip from an earthenware cup of springwater. He dipped the pen again.

Now for the big news everyone’s excited about. It seems we’re about to get our first glimpse of one of these mysterious beings! Within hours, one or more Rothen are scheduled to emerge from their buried station and join a pilgrimage to the reawakening Egg! All this time, we never guessed their starship had left any of them behind with Rann and the others.

The Commons is tense as a violus that’s been strung too tight. You could cut the anxiety here with an overused metaphor.

I’d better wrap this up if I’m to slip it in the mail packet.

Let’s see. You also asked about “neural taps.” Do the aliens use such things to communicate directly with computers and other devices?

I was going to answer yes. Ling and the rest do carry tiny devices that bring them voice and data information, arriving as if by magic from afar.

Then I reread your account of the Stranger’s injury and reconsidered. The forayers command their machines by voice and gesture. I never saw anything like a brain-direct computer link, or the sort of “instant man-machine rapport” Ariana spoke of.

Now that I think about it

Lark dipped the pen again, poised to continue, then stopped.

Footsteps clattered on the gravel path beyond his tent. He recognized the heavy, scrape-ratchet of a gray qheuen. Nor was it the casual, unpretentious rhythm of Uthen. This was a stately twist-and-swivel cadence, using a complex ripple of alternating feet-a difficult aristocratic step, taught by chitinous matriarchs who sometimes styled themselves royal queens.

Lark laid down his pen and closed the portfolio. A low, wide silhouette loomed against the tent flap. Harul-len’s voice was accompanied by fluting sighs from three speech vents, each singing a different note in a high qheuenish dialect of Galactic Six.

“Friend Lark, are you within? Please greet me. I come bearing precious gifts.”

Lark lifted the flap, shading his eyes as he emerged from dimness to face the lowering sun, poking sharp rays between rows of forest giants. “I greet you, Harul-len, faith-comrade,” he replied in the same language.

Harullen wore pilgrim’s robes draped across his pentagonal carapace, leaving the central cupola uncovered. The g’Kek-woven finery shimmered under glancing sunshine. It took a moment for Lark’s adapting eyes to spot what else was different-something wound around the qheuen’s ash-colored cupola.

“Aha,” he commented, slipping into a more relaxed sevenish dialect. “So it’s true. The mask renews its offer.”

“To take nourishment of our bodies in exchange for revelation of the soul. Indeed. The mask returns among us. Caves which had seemed barren now swarm with labile young rewq, even as the Egg resumes its patterning song. Are these not good omens? Shall we rejoice?”

With a snap of one claw, Harullen signaled to a lornik, which had been crouching out of view behind its master. The small servant creature hurried around the qheuen’s great flank, scuttling and twisting in a four-legged imitation of Harullen’s own stately walk. With small, three-fingered hands it bore a box of polished wood, showing fluted traces of personal tooth-carving.

“From among this crop of cave fledglings, there were many shaped for noble human brows,” Harullen continued. “Please accept these to choose from, as offerings of deep esteem.”

Lark took the box from the lornik, knowing better than to thank or make eye contact with the shy creature. Unlike chimps and zookirs, lorniks seemed able to bond only with the race that brought their ancestors to Jijo, nearly a thousand years ago.

He lifted the delicately grooved lid of the gift box, which by qheuenish tradition had been gnawed by the giver and could never be used again for any other purpose. Inside, resting on a bed of garu sawdust, several clusters of brown-speckled tendrils quivered, coupled by colored bands of translucent film.