the back of her neck, prickling her occipital vertebrae, and follicles along the middle of her scalp. It is familiar. She’s felt it before, though never this strong. A presence, beckoning not from nearby, or even elsewhere in the ship, but somewhere beyond Streaker’s scarred hull. Somewhere else on the planet.
There is a rhythmic, resonant solidity to the sensation, like vibration in dense stone.
If only Creideiki were here, he could probably relate to it, the way he did with those poor beings who lived underground on Kithrup. Or else Tom might have figured out a way to decipher this thing.
And yet, she begins to suspect this time it is something different. Correcting her earlier impression, Gillian realizes—
It is not a presence on this world, or beneath it, but something of the planet. An aspect of Jijo itself.
Narushkan orients her like the needle of a compass, and abruptly she feels a strange, unprovoked commotion within. It takes her some time to sort out the impression. But recognition dawns at last.
Tentatively — like a long-lost friend unsure of its welcome—hope sneaks back into her heart, riding on the stony cadence.
Ewasx
ABRUPTLY COMES NEWS. TOO SOON FOR YOU RINGS to have interpreted the still-hot wax. So let me relate it directly.
WORD OF DISASTER! WORD OF CALAMITY!
Word of ill-fated loss, just east beyond this range of mountain hills. Our grounded corvette — destroyed!
Dissension tears the Polkjhy crew. Chem-synth toruses vent fumes of blame while loud recriminations pour from oration rings.
Could this tragedy be the work of the dolphin prey ship, retaliating against its pursuers? For years its renown has spread, after cunning escapes from other traps.
But it cannot be. Longrange scans show no hint of gravitic emanations or energy weapons. Early signs point to some kind of onboard failure.
And yet, clever wolflings are not to be underrated. I/we can read waxy memories left by the former Asx — historical legends of the formative years of the Jijoan Commons, especially tales of urrish-human wars. These stories demonstrate how both races have exceptional aptitudes for improvisation.
Until now, we thought it was coincidence — that there were Earthling sooners here, that the Rothen had human servants, and the prey ship also came from that wolfling world. The three groups seem to have nothing in common, no motives, goals, or capabilities.
But what if there is a pattern?
I/we must speak of this to the Captain-Leader … as soon as higher-status stacks pause their ventings and let us get a puff in edgewise.
Prepare, My rings. Our first task will surely be to interrogate the prisoners.
Tsh’t
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
She fretted over her predicament as the submarine made its way back to the abyssal mountain of dead starships. While other members of the Hikahi team exulted over their successful raid, looking forward to reunion with their crew mates on the Streaker, Tsh’t anticipated docking with a rising sense of dread.
To outward appearances, all was well. The prisoners were secure. The young adventurers, Alvin and Huck, were debriefing Dwer and Rety — human sooners who had managed somehow to defeat a Jophur corvette. Once Hikahi leveled its plunge below the thermocline, Tsh’t knew she and her team had pulled it off — striking a blow for Earth without being caught.
The coup reflected well on the mission commander. Some might call Tsh’t a hero. Yet disquiet churned her sour stomach.
Ifni must hate me. The worst of all possible combinations of events has caught me in a vise.
“Wait a minute,” snapped the female g’Kek, who had assumed the name of an ancient Earthling literary figure. As her spokes vibrated with agitation, she pointed one eyestalk at the young man whose bow and arrows lay across his knees. “You’re saying that you walked all the way from the Slope to find her hidden tribe … while she flew back home aboard the Dakkin sky boat …”
The human girl, Rety, interrupted.
“That’s Danik, you dumb wheelie. And what’s so surprisin’ about that? I had Kunn an’ the others fooled down to their scabs, thinkin’ I was ready to be one of ’em. O’ course I was just keepin’ my eyes peeled fer my first chance to …”
Tsh’t had already heard the story once through, so she paid scant attention this time, except to note that “Huck” spoke far better Anglic than the human child. Anyway, she had other matters on her mind. Especially one of the prisoners lying in a cell farther aft … a captive starfarer who could reveal her deepest secret.
Tsh’t sent signals down the neural tap socketed behind her left eye. The mechanical walker unit responded by swiveling on six legs to aim her bottle-shaped beak away from the submarine’s bridge. Unburdened by armor or lifesupport equipment, it maneuvered gracefully past a gaggle of dolphin spectators. The fins seemed captivated by the sight of two humans so disheveled, and the girl bearing scars on her cheek that any Earth hospital could erase in a day. Their rustic accents and overt wonder at seeing real live dolphins seemed poignantly endearing in members of the patron race.
The two seemed to find nothing odd about chatting with Alvin and Huck, though, as if wheeled beings and Anglicspeaking hoons were as common as froth on a wave. Common enough for Rety and Huck to bicker like siblings.
“Sure I led Kunn out this way. But only so’s I could find out where the bird machine came from!” Rety stroked a miniature urs, whose long neck coiled contentedly around her wrist. “And my plan worked, didn’t it? I found you!”
Huck reacted with a rolling twist of all four eyestalks, a clear expression of doubt and disdain. “Yes, though it meant revealing the Earthship’s position, enabling your Danik pilot to target its site from the air.”
“So? What’s yer point?”
From the door, Tsh’t saw the male human glance at the big adolescent hoon. Dwer and Alvin had just met, but they exchanged commiserating grins. Perhaps they would compare notes later, how each managed life with such a “dynamic” companion.
Tsh’t found all the varied voices too complicated. It feels like a menagerie aboard this tub.
The argument raged on while Tsh’t exited the bridge. Perhaps recordings would prove useful when Gillian and the Niss computer analyzed every word. Preparations were also under way to interrogate the Jophur survivors using techniques found in the Thennanin Library cube — sophisticated data from a clan that had been fighting Jophur since before Solomon built his temple.
Tsh’t approved … so far.
But Gillian will also want to question Kunn. And she knows her own kind too well to be fooled.
The Hikahi was a makeshift vessel, built out of parts salvaged from ancient hulks lining the bottom of the Rift. Tsh’t passed down corridors of varied substance, linked by coarsely welded plates, until she reached the cell where two human prisoners were held. Unfortunately, the guard on duty turned out to be Karkaett, a disciple of former Captain Creideiki’s keeneenk mental training program. Tsh’t couldn’t hope to send Karkaett off on some errand and have him simply forget. Any slip in regulations would be remembered.
“The doughnuts are sedated,” the guard reported. “Also, we z-zapped the damaged Rothen battle drone and put it in a freezer. Hannes and I can check its memory store later.”
“That-t’s fine,” she replied. “And the tytlal?”
Karkaett tossed his sleek gray head. “You mean the one that talks? Isolated in a cabin, as you instructed. Alvin’s pet is just a noor, of course. I assume you didn’t mean to lock her up, t-too.”
Actually, Tsh’t wasn’t sure she grasped the difference between a noor and a tytlal. Was it simply the ability to talk? What if they all could, but were good at keeping it secret? Tytlal were legendary for one trait — going to any length for a joke.
