and technologic traits…
Phwhoondau contemplated this as the newly reassembled Council of Sages approached the sacred site, walking, slithering, and rolling toward the place they had all separately been heading when they heard Vubben’s dying call.
In other words, the Egg is a distillation, a condensation of Jijo’s past. All the dross deposited by the Buyur … and those who came before … has combined to contribute patterns.
Patterns that somehow wove their way through magma pressure and volcanic heat.
To the south, these spilled forth chaotically, to become the Spectral Flow. But here, conditions permitted coalescence. A crystalline tip consisting of pure memory and purpose.
At last he understood the puzzle of why every sooner race settled on the Slope, despite initial jealousies and feuds.
We were summoned.
Some said this knowledge would crush the old ways, and Phwhoondau agreed. The former faith — founded in the Sacred Scrolls, then modified by waves of heresy — would never be the same.
The basis of the Commons of Six Races had changed.
But the basis survived.
A re-formed Council of Six entered the scarred canyon circle, where they spent a brief time contemplating the charred remains of their eldest member, a jumble of frail nerves and fibers, plastered against the Egg’s pitted, sooty flank.
They buried Vubben there — the only sage ever so honored. Then began their work.
Others would join them soon. A re-formed council meant re-formed duty.
At last we know what you are, Phwhoondau thought silently, leaning back to regard the Egg’s great curving mass.
But other questions remain. Such as … why?
Rety
THE CONTROLS REFUSED TO RESPOND!
“Come on!” she shouted, slamming the holosim box with the palm of her hand, then jiggling more levers.
Not that Rety had much idea what she’d do if she gained mastery over the decoy vessel. At first, the stunning views of Jijo and space sent her brain reeling. It was all so much bigger than she ever imagined. Since then, she had left the big visual holo turned off, while continuing to fiddle with other panels and displays.
Wisdom preached that she ought to leave the machinery alone … and finally, Rety listened. She forced herself to back away, joining yee at her small stack of supplies, smuggled off the sled when Chuchki wasn’t looking. She stroked her little husband while munching a food-concentrate bar, pondering the situation.
Every salvaged decoy ship had been programmed to head out — by a variety of routes — toward the nearest “transfer point.” From there, they would jump away from fallow Galaxy Four, aiming for distant, traffic-filled lanes where oxygen-breathing life-forms teemed.
That was good enough for Rety, providing she then found a way to signal some passing vessel.
This old ship may not be worth much, but it oughta pay my passage to their next stop, at least.
What would happen next remained vague in her mind. Getting some kind of job, most likely. She still had the little teaching machine that used to belong to Dennie Sudman, so learning those jabber-talk alien languages shouldn’t be too hard.
I’ll find a way to make myself useful. I always have.
Of course, everything depended on making it to the transfer point.
Gillian prob’ly set things up so the decoys’ll try to lure the Jophur. Maybe they give off some sort of light or noise to make ’em think there are dolphins aboard.
That might work for a while. The stinky rings’ll chase around, losin’ time while checkin’ things out.
But Rety knew what would happen next. Eventually, the Jophur gods would catch on to the trick. They’d figure out what to look for, and realize which ship was the real target.
Suppose by then they’ve torn apart half the decoys. That still leaves me fitty-fitty odds. Which is Ifni times more than I’d have aboard old Streaker. Once they figure which one she is, they’ll leave the rest of us decoys alone to go about our business.
At least that was the overall idea. Ever since she had found Kunn and Jass, dead in their jail cells, Rety knew she must get off the Earthling ship as fast as possible and make it on her own.
I’d better be able to send out a signal, when we pop into a civilized galaxy, she thought. I s’pose it’ll take more than just shining a light out through a window. Guess I better study some more about radio and that hyperwave stuff.
As wonderful and patient as the teaching unit was, Rety did not look forward to the drudgery ahead … nor to relying on the bland paste put out by the ancient food processor, once her supply of Streaker food ran out. The machine had taken the sample of fingernail cuticle she gave it, and after a few moments put out a substance that tasted exactly like cuticle.
Chirping tones interrupted her thoughts. A light flashed atop the holosim casing. Rety scooted over to the machine.
“Display on!”
A 3-D image erupted just above the floor plates. For a time, she made little sense of the image, which showed five small groups of amber points spiraling away from a tiny blue disk. It took moments to realize the dot was Jijo, and the decoy swarms had already left the planet far behind. The separation between the convoys also grew larger, with each passing dura.
One dot lagged behind, brighter than the others, gleaming red instead of yellow. It crept toward one of the fleeing swarms as she watched.
That must be the Jophur ship, she realized. Squinting closer, she saw that the big dot was trailed by a set of much tinier crimson pinpricks, almost too small to see, following like beads on a string.
The red symbol accelerated, slowly closing the distance to its intended prey.
Boy, I pity whoever’s in that swarm, when the stink rings catch up with ’em.
It took Rety a while longer to fathom the unpleasant truth.
That swarm was the one that contained her own ship.
The Jophur were coming for her first.
My usual luck, she complained, knowing better than to think the universe cared.
Dwer
EVERYTHING CHANGED.
One moment, he had been surrounded by sky. Mountains, clouds, and prairies stretched below his wicker gondola. The urrish balloon bulged and creaked overhead.
From the high northwest, a glittering object fell toward him, like a stoop raptor, unstoppable once it has chosen its prey.
That’s me, he thought, feeling transfixed, like a grass mouse who, caught in the open, knows there is no escape, and so has little choice but to watch the terrible beauty of Death on the wing.
Death came streaking toward him.
He felt an explosion, a shrill brilliance…
… and found himself here.
A gilded haze surrounded Dwer as he took stock.
I’m alive.
The sensations of a young, strong body accompanied irksome itches and the sting of recent scrapes. His clothes were as they had been. So was the gondola, for that matter — a basket woven out of dried river reeds — its contents undamaged.
The same could not be said of the balloon itself. The great gasbag lay collapsed in a curved heap of blur cloth, its upper half apparently cleaved off. Remnant folds lay spread across the interior of what Dwer came to
