info unit would be masked by the geysers and micro-quakes forever popping under the Rimmers.
Yet, to be safe, every founding colony, from g’Keks and glavers to urs and humans, sent their sneakships down to the Midden. Not a single computer was kept. Our ancestors must have thought the danger very real.
“You needn’t lecture a sooner about risk,” he told the big man. “Our lives are the floating tumble of Ifni’s dice. We know it’s not a matter of winning.
“Our aim is to put off losing for as long as we can.”
They were brought meals by Jimi, one of the blessed who dwelled in the redemption sanctuary — a cheerful young man, nearly as large as Rann but with a far gentler manner. Jimi also delivered a note from Sage Cambel. The embassy to the Jophur had arrived at Festival Glade, hoping to contact the latest intruders.
The handwritten letter had a coda:
Any progress?
Lark grimaced. He had no way of telling what “progress” meant in this case, though he doubted much was being made.
Ling helped load beige slabs into Rann’s data plaque — returned for this purpose. Together, the Daniks puzzled over a maze of sparkling symbols.
Books from pre-Tabernacle days described what it was like to range the digital world — a realm of countless dimensions, capabilities, and correlations, where any simulation might take on palpable reality. Of course mere descriptions could not make up for lack of experience. But I’m not like some fabled islander, befuddled by Captain Cook’s rifle and compass. I have concepts, some math, a notion of what’s possible.
At least, he hoped so.
Then he worried — might the Daniks be putting on an act? Pretending to have difficulty while they stalled for time?
There wasn’t much left. Soon Uthen would die, then other chitinous friends. Worse, new rumors from the coast told of hoonish villagers snuffling and wheezing, their throat sacs cracking from some strange ailment.
Come on! he urged silently. What’s so hard about using a fancy computer index to look something up?
Rann threw down a data slab, cursing guttural phonemes of alien argot.
“It’s encrypted!”
“I thought so,” Ling said. “But I figured you, as a member of the Inner—”
“Even we of the circle are not told everything. Still, I know the outlines of a Rothen code, and this is different.” He frowned. “Yet familiar somehow.”
“Can you break it?” Lark asked, peering at a maze of floating symbols.
“Not using this crude reader. We’d need something bigger. A real computer.”
Ling straightened, looking knowingly at Lark. But she left the decision up to him.
Lark blew air through his cheeks.
“Hr-rm. I think that might be arranged.”
A mixed company of militia drilled under nearby trees, looking brave in their fog-striped war paint. Lark saw only a few burly qheuens, though — the five-clawed heavy armor of Jijoan military might.
As one of the few living Jijoans ever to fly aboard an alien aircraft and see their tools firsthand, Lark knew what a fluke the Battle of the Glade had been — where spears, arbalests, and rifles prevailed against star-roaming gods. That freak chance would not be repeated. Still, there were reasons to continue training. It keeps the volunteers busy, and helps prevent a rekindling of old-time feuds. Whatever happens — whether we submit with bowed heads to final judgment, or go down fighting — we can’t afford disunion.
Lester Cambel greeted them under a tent beside a bubbling hot spring.
“We’re taking a risk doing this,” the elderly sage said.
“What choice do we have?”
In Lester’s eyes, Lark read his answer.
We can let Uthen and countless qheuens die, if that’s the price it takes for others to live.
Lark hated being a sage. He loathed the way he was expected to think — contemplating trade-offs that left you damned, either way you turned.
Cambel sighed. “Might as well make the attempt. I doubt the artifact will even turn on.”
At a rough log table, Cambel’s human and urrish aides compared several gleaming objects with ancient illustrations. Rann stared in amazement at the articles, which had been carried here from the shore of a far-off caustic lake.
“But I thought you discarded all your digital—”
“We did. Our ancestors did. These items are leftovers. Relics of the Buyur.”
“Impossible. The Buyur withdrew half a million years ago!”
Lark told an abbreviated version of the story — about a crazy mulc spider with a collecting fetish. A creature fashioned for destruction, who spent millennia sealing treasures in cocoons of congealed time.
Laboring day and night, traeki alchemists had found a formula to dissolve the golden preservation shells, spilling the contents back into the real world. Lucky for us these experts happened to be in the area, Lark thought. The tiredlooking traekis stood just outside, venting yellow vapor from chem-synth rings.
Rann stroked one reclaimed object, a black trapezoid, evidently a larger cousin to his portable data plaque.
“The power crystals look negentropic and undamaged. Do you know if it still works?”
Lark shrugged. “You’re familiar with the type?”
“Galactic technology is fairly standard, though humans didn’t exist, as such, when this thing was made. It is a higher-level model than I’ve used, but …” The sky human sat down before the ancient artifact, pressing one of its jutting bulges.
The device abruptly burst forth streams of light that reached nearly to the canopy. The High Sage and his team scrambled back. Urrish smiths snorted, coiling their long necks while human techs made furtive gestures to ward off evil.
Even among Cambel’s personal acolytes — his bookweaned “experts”—our sophistication is thin enough to scratch with a fingernail.
“The Buyur mostly spoke Galactic Three,” Rann said. “But GalTwo is close to universal, so we’ll try it first.”
He switched to that syncopated code, uttering clicks, pops, and groans so rapidly that Lark was soon lost, unable to follow the arcane dialect of computer commands. The star lord’s hands also moved, darting among floating images. Ling joined the effort, reaching in to seize ersatz objects that had no meaning to Lark, tossing away any she deemed irrelevant, giving Rann working room. Soon the area was clear but for a set of floating dodecahedrons, with rippling symbols coursing each twelve-sided form.
“The Buyur were good programmers,” Rann commented, lapsing into GalSix. “Though their greatest passion went to biological inventions, they were not slackers in the digital arts.”
Lark glanced at Lester, who had gone to the far end of the table to lay a pyramidal stack of sensor stones, like a hill of gleaming opals. Tapping one foot nervously, the sage kept wary vigil, alert for any spark of warning fire.
Turning farther, Lark found the mountain cleft deserted. The militia company had departed.
No one with sense would remain while this is going on.
Rann muttered a curse.
“I had hoped the machine would recognize idiosyncrasies in the encryption, if it is a standard commercial cypher used widely in the Five Galaxies. Or there may be quirks specific to some race or alliance.
“Alas, the computer says it does not recognize the cryptographic approach used in these memory slabs. It calls the coding technique … innovative.”
Lark knew the term was considered mildly insulting among the great old star clans.
“Could it be a pattern developed since the Buyur left Jijo?”
Rann nodded. “Half an eon is a while, even by Galactic standards.”
Ling spoke, eagerly. “Perhaps it’s Terran.”
The big man stared at her, then nodded, switching to Anglic.
“That might explain the vague familiarity. But why would any Rothen use an Earther code? You know what they think of wolfling technology. Especially anything produced by those unbelieving Terragens—”
