She tried cultivating patience, as Creideiki used to teach.
“Dr. Baskin canceled plans to send more parties to the sunlit surface,” she told Bulla-jo, whose speckled flanks and short beak revealed ancestry from the stenos dolphin line. “Did it escape your notice that gravitic emissions have been detected, cruising above this deep fissure? Or that someone has been dropping sonic charges, seeking to find usss?”
Bulla-jo lowered his rostrum in an attitude of obstinate insolence. “We can g-go naked … carry no tools the eatees could detect-ct.”
Tsh’t marveled at such single-minded thinking.
“That might work if the gravitics were far away, say in orbit, or passing by at high altitude. But once they know our rough location they can cruise low and slow, ssseeking the radiochemical spoor of molecules in our very blood. Surface-swimming fins would give us away.”
Irony was a bittersweet taste to Tsh’t, for she knew something she had no intention of sharing with Bulla-jo. They are going to detect us, no matter how many precautions Gillian orders.
To the frustrated crew member, she had only soothing words.
“Just float loose for a while longer, will you, Bulla-jo? I, too, would love to chase silvery fish through warm waters. All may be resolved sh-shortly.”
Grumpy, but mollified, the messmate saluted by clapping his pectoral fins and swimming back to duty … though Tsh’t knew the crisis would recur. Dolphins disliked being so far from sunlight, or from the tide’s cycloid rub against shore. Tursiops weren’t meant to dwell so deep, where pressurized sound waves carried in odd, disturbing ways.
It is the realm of Physeter, sperm whale, great-browed messenger of the ancient dream gods, who dives to wrestle great-armed demons.
The abyss was where hopes and nightmares from past, present, and future drifted to form dark sediments — a place best left to sleeping things.
We neo-fins are superstitious at heart. But what can you expect, having humans as our beloved patrons? Humans, who are themselves wolflings, primitive by the standards of a billion-year-old culture.
This she pondered while inhaling deeply, filling her gill lungs with the air-charged fluid, oxy-water, that filled most of Streaker’s residential passages — a genetically improvised manner of breathing that nourished, but never comfortably. One more reason many of the crew yearned for the clean, bright world above.
Turning toward the Streaker’s bridge, she thrust powerfully through the fizzing liquid, leaving clouds of effervescence behind her driving flukes. Each bubble gave off a faint pop! as it hiccuped into existence, or merged back into supercharged solution. Sometimes the combined susurration sounded like elfin applause — or derisive laughter — following her all over the ship.
At least I don’t fool myself she thought. I do all right. Gillian says so, and puts her trust in me. But I know I’m not meant for command.
Tsh’t had never expected such duty when Streaker blasted out of Earth orbit, refurbished for use by a neodolphin crew. Back then — over two years ago, by ship-clock time — Tsh’t had been only a junior lieutenant, a distant fifth in line from Captain Creideiki. And it was common knowledge that Tom Orley and Gillian Baskin could step in if the need seemed urgent … as Gillian eventually did, during the crisis on Kithrup.
Tsh’t didn’t resent that human intervention. In arranging an escape from the Kithrup trap, Tom and Gillian pulled off a miracle, even if it led to the lovers’ separation.
Wasn’t that the job of human leaders and heroes? To intercede when a crisis might overwhelm their clients?
But where do we turn when matters get too awful even for humans to handle?
Galactic tradition adhered to a firm — some said oppressive — hierarchy of debts and obligations. A client race to its patron. That patron to its sapience benefactor … and so on, tracing the great chain of uplift all the way back to the legendary Progenitors. The same chain of duty underlay the reaction of some fanatical clans on hearing news of Streaker’s discovery — a fleet of derelict ships with ancient, venerated markings.
But the pyramid of devotion had positive aspects. The uplift cascade meant each new species got help crossing the dire gap dividing mere animals from starfaring citizens. And if your sponsors lacked answers, they might ask their patrons. And so on.
Gillian had tried appealing to this system, taking Streaker from Kithrup to Oakka, the green world, seeking counsel from impartial savants of the Navigation Institute. Failing there, she next sought help in the Fractal Orb — that huge icy place, a giant snowflake that spanned a solar system’s width — hoping the venerable beings who dwelled there might offer wise detachment, or at least refuge.
It wasn’t Dr. Baskin’s fault that neither gamble paid off very well. She had the right general idea, Tsh’t mused. But Gillian remains blind to the obvious.
Who is most likely to help, when you’re in trouble and a lynch mob is baying at your tail?
The courts?
Scholars at some university?
Or your own family?
Tsh’t never dared suggest her idea aloud. Like Tom Orley, Gillian took pride in the romantic image of upstart Earthclan, alone against the universe. Tsh’t knew the answer would be no.
So, rather than flout a direct order, Tsh’t had quietly put her own plan into effect, just before Streaker made her getaway from the Fractal System.
What else could I do, with Streaker pursued by horrid fleets, our best crew members gone, and Earth under siege? Our Tymbrimi friends can barely help even themselves. Meanwhile, the Galactic Institutes have been corrupted and the Old Ones lied to us.
We had no choice.
… I had no choice …
It was hard concealing things, especially from someone who knew dolphins as well as Gillian. For weeks since Streaker arrived here, Tsh’t half hoped her disobedience would come to nought.
Then the detection officer reported gravitic traces. Starcraft engines, entering Jijo space.
So, they came after all, she had thought, hearing the news, concealing satisfaction while her crew mates expressed noisy chagrin, bemoaning that they now seemed cornered by relentless enemies on a forlorn world.
Tsh’t wanted to tell them the truth, but dared not. That good news must wait.
Ifni grant that I was right.
Tsh’t paused outside the bridge, filling her gene-altered lungs with oxy-water. Enriching her blood to think clearly before setting in motion the next phase of her plan.
There is just one true option for a client race, when your beloved patrons seem overwhelmed, and all other choices are cut off.
May the gods of Earth’s ancient ocean know and understand what I’ve done.
And what I may yet have to do.
Nelo
ONCE, A BUYUR URBAN CENTER STRETCHED BETWEEN two rivers, from the Roney all the way to the far- off Bibur.
Now the towers were long gone, scraped and hauled away to distant seas. In their place, spiky ferns and cloudlike voow trees studded a morass of mud and oily water. Mulc-spider vines laced a few rounded hummocks remaining from the great city, but even those tendrils were now faded, their part in the demolition nearly done.
To Nelo, this was wasteland, rich in life but useless to any of the Six Races, except perhaps as a traeki vacation resort.
What am I doing here? he wondered. I should be back in Dolo, tending my mill, not prowling through a swamp, keeping a crazy woman company.
Behind Nelo, hoonish sailors cursed low, expressive rumblings, resentful over having to pole through a wretched bog. The proper time for gleaning was at the start of the dry season, when citizens in high-riding boats
