Even in a drugged state, I could savor multilevel irony in the whirling thing’s remarks. While being gracious, it was also reminding me that the survivors of Wuphon’s Dream owed a debt — our very lives.
“True,” I assented. “Though my friends and I might never have fallen into the abyss if someone had not removed the article we were sent to find in more shallow waters. Our search beyond that place led us to stumble over the cliff.”
The pattern of shifting lines took a new slant of bluish, twinkling light.
“You assert ownership over this thing you sought? As your property?”
Now it was my turn to ponder, wary of a trap. By the codes laid down in the Scrolls, the cache Uriel had sent us after should not exist. It bent the spirit and letter of the law, which said that sooner colonists on a forbidden world must ease their crime by abandoning their godlike tools. It made me glad to be speaking a formal dialect, forcing more careful thought than I might have used in our local patois.
“I assert … a right to inspect the item … and reserve an option to make further claims later.”
Purple swirls invaded the spinning pattern, and I could almost swear it seemed amused. Perhaps this strange entity already had pursued the same line of questioning with my pals. I may be articulate — Huck says no one can match me in GalSeven — but I never claimed to be the brightest one in our gang.
“The matter can be discussed another time,” the voice said. “After you tell us of your life, and recent events in the upper world.”
This triggered something in me … call it the latent trading instinct that lurks in any hoon. A keenness for the fine art of dickering. Carefully, tenderly, I sat up, allowing the supple back brace to take most of the strain.
“Hr-r-rm. You’re asking us to give away the only thing we have to barter — our story, and that of our ancestors. What do you offer in exchange?”
The voice made a pretty good approximation of a rueful hoonish rumble.
“Apologies. It did not occur to us that you would look at it that way. Alas, you have already told us a great deal. We will now return your information store. Please accept our contrition over having accessed it without expressed permission.”
A door slid open and one of the little amphibian creatures entered the cubicle, bearing in its four slim arms my backpack!
Better yet, on top lay my precious journal, all battered and bent, but still the item I most valued in the world. I snatched up the book, flipping its dog-eared pages.
“Rest assured,” the spinning pattern enounced. “Our study of this document, while enlightening, has only whetted our appetite for information. Your economic interests are undiminished.”
I thought about that. “You read my journal?”
“Again, apologies. It seemed prudent, when seeking to understand your injuries, and the manner of your arrival in this realm of heavy wet darkness.”
Once again, the words seemed to come at me with layers of meaning and implications I could only begin to sift. At the time, I only wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible, and confer with Huck and the others before going any further.
“I’d like to see my friends now,” I told the whirling image, switching to Anglic.
It seemed to quiver, as if with a nod.
“Very well. They have been informed to expect you. Please follow the entity standing at the door.”
The little amphibian attended while I set foot on the floor, gingerly testing my weight. There were a few twinges, just enough to help me settle best within the support of the flexible body cast. I gripped the journal, but glanced back at my knapsack and the bowl of baby vertebrae.
“These items will be safe here,” promised the voice.
I hope so, I thought. Mom and Dad will want them … assuming that I ever see Mu-phauwq, and Yowg-wayuo again … and especially if I don’t.
“Thank you.”
The speckled pattern whirled.
“It is my pleasure to serve.”
Holding my journal tight, I followed the small being out the door. When I glanced back at the bed, the spinning projection was gone.
Asx
HERE IT IS, AT LAST. THE IMAGE WE HAVE SOUGHT, now cool enough to stroke.
Yes, my rings. It is time for another vote. Shall we remain catatonic, rather than face what will almost certainly be a vision of pure horror?
Our first ring of cognition insists that duty must take precedence, even over the natural traeki tendency to flee unpleasant subjectivities.
Is it agreed? Shall we be Asx, and meet reality as it comes? How do you rule, my rings?
stroke the wax.…
follow the tracks.…
see the mighty starship come.…
Humming a song of overwhelming power, the monstrous vessel descends, crushing every remaining tree on the south side of the valley, shoving a dam across the river, filling the horizon like a mountain.
Can you feel it, my rings? Premonition. Throbbing our core with acrid vapors?
Along the starship’s vast flank a hatch opens, large enough to swallow a small village.
Against the lighted interior, silhouettes enter view.
Tapered cones.
Stacks of rings.
Frightful kin we had hoped never again to see.
Sara
SARA LOOKED BACK FONDLY AT LAST NIGHT’S WILD ride, for now the horses sped up to a pace that made her bottom feel like butter.
And to think, as a child I wished I could gallop about like characters in storybooks.
Whenever the pace slackened, she eyed the enigmatic female riders who seemed so at home atop huge, mythological beasts. They called themselves Illias, and their lives had been secret for a long time. But now haste compelled them to travel openly.
Can it really be just to get Kurt the Exploser where he wants to go?
Assuming his mission is vital, why does he want my help? I’m a theoretical mathematician with a sideline in linguistics. Even in math, I’m centuries out of date by Earth standards. To Galactics I’d be just a clever shaman.
Losing altitude, the party began passing settlements — at first urrish camps with buried workshops and sunken corrals hidden from the glowering sky. But as the country grew more lush, they skirted dams where blue qheuen hives tended lake-bottom farms. Passing a riverside grove, they found the “trees” were ingeniously folded masts of hoonish fishing skiffs and khuta boats. Sara even glimpsed a g’Kek weaver village where sturdy trunks supported ramps, bridges, and swaying boardwalks for the clever wheeled clan.
At first the settlements seemed deserted as the horses sped by. But the chick coops were full, and the blur canopies freshly patched. Midday isn’t a favorite time to be about, especially with sinister specters in the sky. Anyone rousing from siesta glimpsed only vague galloping figures, obscured by dust.
But attention was unavoidable later, when members of all six races scurried from shelters, shouting as the corps of beasts and riders rushed by. The grave Illias horsewomen never answered, but Emerson and young Jomah waved at astonished villagers, provoking some hesitant cheers. It made Sara laugh, and she joined their antics, helping turn the galloping procession into a kind of antic parade.
When the mounts seemed nearly spent, the guides veered into a patch of forest where two more women
