Who could blame me? With hoons they act like clever animals, not sapient beings. According to the journal of the young hoon adventurer Alvin, Jijoans called the creatures noor beasts. And noor never spoke.
But the one on the beach had! And with a Tymbrimi accent, at that.
Could six races live here all this time without knowing that another band of sooners were right in their midst? Could tytlal play dumb the entire time, without giving themselves away?
The small creature seemed complacently willing to outwait Tsh’t, perhaps testing dolphin patience … until abruptly a new voice broke in, coming from the sub’s open hatch. The camera eye swung that way, catching in its field a tall figure, gangly and white, with scaly arms and a bellowslike organ throbbing below its jaw, emitting a low, resonant hum.
Alvin, Kaa realized. The young author of the memoir that had kept Kaa up late several nights, reading about the strange civilization of refugees.
He must be “umbling” at the tytlal.
In moments the sleek creature was seen perched atop the lieutenant’s striding exo-suit, as Tsh’t hurried aboard. Its grinning expression seemed to say, Oh, well. If you positively insist…
The hatch swung shut and the sub backed away swiftly, sinking beneath the waves. But the images did not stop.
Left alone at last, Streaker’s little scout robot turned its spy eye back toward the field of dunes. Sandy terrain swept past as it sought a vantage point — some ideal site to watch over two blasted wrecks that had once been small spacecraft, but now lay mired by mud and embraced by corrosive vines.
No doubt Gillian Baskin and the ship’s council were deeply interested in who might next visit this place of devastation.
Gillian
THE INITIAL EXERCISES ARE COMPLETE. A WARM TINGLING pervades her floating body, from tip to toes.
Now Gillian is ready for the first deep movement. It is Narushkan—“the starfish”—an outreach of neck, arms, and legs, extending toward the five planar compass points.
Physique discipline lies at the core of weightless yoga, the way Gillian learned it on Earth, when she and Tom studied Galactic survival skills from Jacob Demwa. “Flesh participates in everything we do,” the aged spy master once explained. “We humans like to think we’re rational beings. But feelings always precede reason.”
It is a delicate phase. She needs to release her tense body, allowing the skin itself to become like a sensitive antenna. Yet she cannot afford a complete letting go. Not if it means unleashing the grief and loneliness pent up inside.
Floating in a shielded nul-gee zone, Gillian lets her horizontal torso respond to the tug of certain objects located outside of the suspension tank, elsewhere in the ship, and beyond. Their influence penetrates the walls, making her sensitized nerves throb and twitch.
“Articles of Destiny”—that was how an enigmatic Old One described such things, during Streaker’s brief visit to the Fractal System.
She never got to meet the one who spoke those words. The voice came a great distance, far across that gargantuan edifice of spiky hydrogen ice. The Fractal System was one huge habitat, as wide as a solar system, with a tiny red sun gleaming in its heart. No pursuer could possibly find Streaker in such a vast place, if sanctuary were given.
“Your ship carries heavy freight,” the voice had said. “As fate-laden a cargo as we ever detected.”
“Then you understand why we came,” Gillian replied as Streaker’s lean hull passed jutting angles of fantastic crystal, alternating with planet-sized hollows of black shadow. The ship seemed like a pollen grain lost in a giant forest.
“Indeed. We comprehend your purpose. Your poignant request is being considered. Meanwhile, can you blame us for refusing your invitation to come aboard in person? Or even to touch your vessel’s hull? A hull so recently stroked by dire light?
“We who dwell here have retired from the ferment of the Five Galaxies. From fleets and star battles and political intrigues. You may or may not receive the help you seek — that has yet to be decided. But do not expect glad welcome. For your cargo reawakens many of the hungers, the urgencies, and irksome obsessions of youth.”
She tried to play innocent. “The importance of our cargo is overrated. We’ll hand it over gladly, to those who prove impartial and wise.”
“Speak not so!” the speaker scolded. “Do not add temptation to the poisons you already bring in our midst!”
“Poisons?”
“You carry blessings in your hold … and curses.”
The voice concluded, “We fear what your presence will do to our ancient peace.”
As it turned out, Streaker’s time of sanctuary lasted just a few slim weeks before convulsions began to shake the Fractal System, sending awful sparks crackling along an immense structure built to house quadrillions. Crystal greenhouses, as wide as Earth’s moon, blew apart, exposing sheltered biomass to hard vacuum. Jupiter-sized slivers cracked loose, diffuse as cardboard, though glittering with lighted windows. Like icicles knocked by a violent wind, these tumbled, then collided with other protrusions, exploding into hurricanes of silent dust. Meanwhile, a cacophony of voices swarmed—
The poor wolfling children … we must help the Terrans.…
No! Erase them so we may return to quiet dreaming.…
Objection! Let us instead squeeze them for what they know.…
Yes. Then we’ll share the knowledge with our younger brethren of the Awaiter Alliance.…
No! The Inheritors…
The Abdicators!..
Gillian recalls marveling at the unleashed storm of pettiness.
So much for the vaunted detachment of old age.
But then, when all seemed lost, sympathetic forces briefly intervened.
This icy realm is not the place you seek.
Advice you need, dispassionate and sage. Seek it from those who are older and wiser, still.
Where tides curl tightly, warding off the night.
Hurry, youngsters. Take this chance. Flee while you can.
• • •
Abruptly, an escape path opened for the Earth vessel — a crevice in the vast maze of hydrogen ice, with starspeckled blackness just beyond. Streaker had only moments to charge through … an egress too sudden and brief for Emerson D’Anite, who had already set forth in a brave, desolate sacrifice.
Poor Emerson. Fought over by resentful factions until his scout craft was swallowed by enfolding light.
All of this comes back to Gillian, not in sequence, but whole, timeless, and entire as she recalls that one phrase—
“Articles of Destiny.”
Immersed in a trance state, she can feel those tugging objects. The same ones that caused so much trouble in the Fractal System.
They stroke her limbs — the limbs of Narushkan—not with physical force, but with awful import of their existence.
Abruptly, Narushkan gives way to Abhusha—“the pointer”—and her left hand uncurls toward a massive cube — a portable branch of the great Galactic Library, squatting in a cool mist, two corridors away. With fingers of thought, Gillian traces one of its gemlike facets, engraved with a rayed spiral symbol. Unlike the minimally programmed units that wolfling upstarts could afford, this one was designed to serve a mighty starfaring clan. Had Streaker returned home with this prize alone, her costly voyage might be called worthwhile.
Yet the cube seems least among Streaker’s cargoes.
