This was but the latest trial for their poor ship.
Once, bizarre fields stroked her in a galactic tide pool called the Shallow Cluster, where they “struck it rich” by happening upon a vast derelict fleet containing mysteries untouched for a thousand eons. In other words, where everything first started going wrong.
• • •
Savage beams rocked her at the Morgran nexus point, where a deadly surprise ambush barely failed to snare Streaker and her unsuspecting crew.
Making repairs on poisonous Kithrup, they ducked out almost too late, escaping mobs of bickering warships only by disguising Streaker inside a hollowed-out Thennanin cruiser, making it to a transfer point, though at the cost of abandoning many friends.
Oakka, the green world, seemed an ideal goal after that — a sector headquarters for the Institute of Navigation. Who was better qualified to take over custody of their data? As Gillian Baskin explained at the time, it was their duty as Galactic citizens to turn the problem over to the great institutes — those august agencies whose impartial lords might take the awful burden away from Streaker’s tired crew. It seemed logical enough — and nearly spelled their doom. Betrayal by agents of that “neutral” agency showed how far civilization had fallen in turmoil. Gillian’s hunch saved the Earthling company — that and a daring cross-country raid by Emerson D’Anite, taking the conspirators’ base from behind.
Again, Streaker emerged chastened and worse for wear.
There was refuge for a while in the Fractal System, that vast maze where ancient beings gave them shelter. But eventually that only led to more betrayal, more lost friends, and a flight taking them ever farther from home.
Finally, when further escape seemed impossible, Gillian found a clue in the Library unit they had captured on Kithrup. A syndrome called the “Sooner’s Path.” Following that hint, she plotted a dangerous road that might lead to safety, though it meant passing through the licking flames of a giant star, bigger than Earth’s orbit, whose soot coated Streaker in layers almost too heavy to lift.
But she made it to Jijo.
This world looked lovely from orbit. Too bad we had only that one glimpse, before plunging to an abyssal graveyard of ships.
Under sonar guidance by dolphin technicians, their improvised cutter attacked Streaker’s hull. Water boiled into steam so violently that booming echoes filled this cave within a metal mountain. There were dangers to releasing so much energy in a confined space. Separated gases might recombine explosively. Or it could make their sanctuary detectable from space. Some suggested the risk was too great … that it would be better to abandon Streaker and instead try reactivating one of the ancient hulks surrounding them as a replacement.
There were teams investigating that possibility right now. But Gillian and Tsh’t decided to try this instead, asking Suessi’s crew to pull off one more resurrection.
The choice gladdened Hannes. He had poured too much into Streaker to give up now. There may be more of me in her battered shell than remains in this cyborg body.
Averting his sensors from the cutter’s actinic glow, he mused on the mound of cast-off ships surrounding this makeshift cavern. They seemed to speak to him, if only in his imagination.
We, too, have stories, they said. Each of us was launched with pride, flown with hope, rebuilt many times with skill, venerated by those we protected from the sleeting desolation of space, long before your own race began dreaming of the stars.
Suessi smiled. All that might have impressed him once — the idea of vessels millions of years old. But now he knew a truth about these ancient hulks.
You want old? he thought. I’ve seen old.
I’ve seen ships that make most stars seem young.
The cutter produced immense quantities of bubbles. It screeched, firing ionized bolts against the black layer, just centimeters away. But when they turned it off at list, the results of all that eager destructive force were disappointing.
“That-t’s all we removed?” Karkaett asked, incredulously, staring at a small patch of eroded carbon. “It’ll take years to cut it all away, at-t this rate!”
The engineer’s mate, Chuchki, so bulky she nearly burst from her exo-suit, commented in awed Trinary.
Suessi wished he still had a head to shake, or shoulders to shrug. He made do instead by emitting a warbling sigh into the black water, like a beached pilot whale.
Gillian
IT ISN’T EASY FOR A HUMAN BEING TO PRETEND she’s an alien.
Especially if the alien is a Thennanin.
Shrouds of deceitful color surrounded Gillian, putting ersatz flesh around the lie, providing her with an appearance of leathery skin and a squat bipedal stance. On her head, a simulated crest rippled and flexed each time she nodded. Anyone standing more than two meters away would see a sturdy male warrior with armored derma and medallions from a hundred stellar campaigns — not a slim blond woman with fatigue-lined eyes, a physician forced by circumstances to command a little ship at war.
The disguise was pretty good by now. It ought to be. She had been perfecting it for well over a year.
“Gr-phmph pltith,” Gillian murmured.
When she first started pulling these charades, the Niss Machine used to translate her Anglic questions into Thennanin. But now Gillian figured she was probably as fluent in that Galactic dialect as any human alive. Probably even Tom.
It still sounds weird though. Kind of like a toddler making disgusting fart imitations for the fun of it.
At times, the hardest part was struggling not to break out laughing. That would not do, of course. Thennanin weren’t noted for their sense of humor.
She continued the ritual greeting.
“Fhishmishingul parfful, mph!”
Chill haze pervaded the dim chamber, emanating from a sunken area where a beige-colored cube squatted, creating its own wan illumination. Gillian could not help thinking of it as a magical box — a receptacle folded in many dimensions, containing far more than any vessel its size should rightfully hold.
She stood at a lipless balcony, masked to resemble the former owners of the box, awaiting a reply. The barredspiral symbol on its face seemed slippery to the eye, as if the emblem were slyly looking back at her with a soul far older than her own.
“Toftorph-ph parfful Fhishfingtumpti parff-ful.”
The voice was deeply resonant. If she had been a real Thennanin, those undertones would have stroked her ridge crest, provoking respectful attentiveness. Back home, the Branch Library of Earth spoke like a kindly human grandmother, infinitely experienced, patient, and wise.
“I am prepared to witness,” murmured a button in her ear, rendering the machine’s words in Anglic. “Then I will be available for consultation.”
That was the perpetual trade-off. Gillian could not simply demand information from the archive. She had to give as well.
Normally, that would pose no problem. Any Library unit assigned to a major ship of space was provided camera views of the control room and the vessel’s exterior, in order to keep a WOM record for posterity. In return, the archive offered rapid access to wisdom spanning almost two billion years of civilization, condensed from planet-scale archives of the Library Institute of the Civilization of Five Galaxies.
