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 space? 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 damned — 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 shell 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 apprentice, 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 balls can substitute. 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 uf, you two,” Ur-ronn snapped. “Trust Ifni to stick ne with a vunch of ignoranuses for confanions.”
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 space 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.
Ewasx
ALARMS BLARE! INSTRUMENTS CRY OUT SIRENS OF danger!
Behold, My rings, how the CaptainLeader 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 bypass 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 CaptainLeader.
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—”
“Perhaps,” interrupts another. “But gravitics cannot be fooled so easily. If there are six sixes of ships, they cannot be larger than hull type sixteen. No match for us, then. We can annihilate the entire squadron, forthwith.”
“Is that why they operate in stealth?” inquires the CaptainLeader, puffing pheromones of enforced calm into the tense atmosphere. “Might they be lingering, just beyond line of sight, while awaiting reinforcements?”
It is a possibility we cannot ignore. But, lacking corvettes, we must go investigate ourselves.
Reluctantly, gracefully, the Polkjhy turns her omnipotence around, heading toward the ghostly flotilla. If they are scouts for an armada — perhaps the Soro or Tandu, our mortal foes — it may be necessary to act swiftly, decisively. Exactly the kind of performance that best justifies the existence of master rings.
Others must not be allowed to win the prize!
As we move ponderously eastward, a new thought burbles upward. A streak of wax, secreted by our
