Probably not. To his own great surprise, Nelo found himself in a mood to be philosophical.
“Never have seen such a mess in all my days,” he said, with a resigned sigh. “I guess we’re gonna have our hands full, rebuilding.”
Henrik shook his head, as if to say, It can’t be done.
This, in turn, triggered a flare of resentment from Nelo. What business did Henrik have, wallowing in self- pity? As an exploser, his professional needs were small. Assisted by his guild, he could be back in business within a year. But even if Log Biter’s family got help from other qheuen hives, and held a dam-raising to end all dam-raisings, it would still be years before a waterwheel, turbine, and power train could convert lake pressure into industrial muscle. And that would just begin the recovery. Nelo figured he would devote the rest of his life to building a papery like his former mill.
Was Henrik ashamed his charges had been misused by a panicky rabble? How could anyone guard against such times as these, when all prophecy went skewed and awry? Galactics had indeed come to Jijo, but not as foreseen. Instead, month after month of ambiguity had mixed with alien malevolence to sow confusion among the Six Races. Jop represented one reaction. Others sought ways to fight the aliens. In the long run, neither policy would make any difference.
We should have followed a third course — wait and see. Go on living normal lives until the universe decides what to do with us.
Nelo wondered at his own attitude. The earlier shocked dismay had given way to a strange feeling. Not numbness. Certainly not elation amid such devastation.
I hate everything that was done here.
… and yet…
And yet, Nelo found a spirit of anticipation rising within. He could already smell fresh-cut timber and the pungency of boiling pitch. He felt the pulselike pounding of hammers driving joining pegs, and saws spewing dust across the ground. In his mind were the beginnings of a sketch for a better workshop. A better mill.
All my life I tended the factory my ancestors left me, making paper in the time-honored way.
It was a prideful place. A noble calling.
But it wasn’t mine.
Even if the original design came from settlers who stepped off the Tabernacle, still wearing some of their mantle as star gods, Nelo had always known, deep inside—I could do a better job.
Now, when his years were ripe, he finally had a chance to prove it. The prospect was sad, daunting … and thrilling. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was how young it made him feel.
“Don’t blame yourself, Henrik,” he told the exploser, charitably. “You watch and see. Everything’ll be better’n ever.”
But the exploser only shook his head again. He pointed across the river, where Jop’s partisans were now streaming toward the northeastern swamp, carrying canoes and other burdens on their backs, still singing as they went.
“They’ve got my reserve supply of powder. Snatched it from the warehouse. I couldn’t stop ’em.”
Nelo frowned.
“What good’ll it do ’em? Militia’s coming, by land and water. Jop can’t reach anywhere else along the river that’s worth blowing up.”
“They aren’t heading along the river,” Henrik replied, and Nelo saw it was true.
“Then where?” he wondered aloud.
Abruptly, Nelo knew the answer to his own question, even before Henrik spoke. And that same instant he also realized there were far more important matters than rebuilding a paper mill.
“Biblos,” the exploser said, echoing Nelo’s thought.
The papermaker blinked silently, unable to make his brain fit around the impending catastrophe.
“The militia … can they cut ’em off?”
“Doubtful. But even if they do, it’s not Jop alone that has me worried.”
He turned to show his eyes for the first time, and they held bleakness.
“I’ll bet Jop’s bunch ain’t the only group heading that way, even as we speak.”
Rety
THE MORE SHE LEARNED ABOUT STAR GODS, THE less attractive they seemed.
None of ’em is half as smart as a dung-eating glaver,
she thought, while making her way down a long corridor toward the ship’s brig. It must come from using all those computers and smarty-ass machines to cook your food, make your air, tell you stories, kill your enemies, tuck you in at night, and foretell your future for you. Count on ’em too much, and your brain stops working.
Rety had grown more cynical since those early days when Dwer and Lark first brought her down off the Rimmer Mountains, a half-starved, wide-eyed savage, agog over the simplest crafts produced on the so-called civilized Slope — all the way from pottery to woven cloth and paper books. Of course that awe evaporated just as soon as she sampled real luxury aboard the Rothen station, where Kunn and the other Daniks flattered her with promises that sent her head spinning.
Long life, strength and beauty … cures for all your aches and scars … a clean, safe place to live under the protection of our Rothen lords … and all the wonders that come with being a lesser deity, striding among the stars.
There she had met the Rothen patrons of humankind. Her patrons, they said. Gazing on the benevolent faces of Ro-kenn and Ro-pol, Rety had allowed herself to see wise, loving parents — unlike those she knew while growing up in a wild sooner tribe. The Rothen seemed so perfect, so noble and strong, that Rety almost gave in. She very nearly pledged her heart.
But it proved a lie. Whether or not they really were humanity’s patrons did not matter to her at all. What counted was that the Rothen turned out to be less mighty than they claimed. For that she could never forgive them.
What use was a protector who couldn’t protect?
For half a year, Rety had fled one band of incompetents after another — from her birth tribe of filthy cretins to the Commons of Six Races. Then from the Commons to the Rothen. And when the Jophur corvette triumphed over Kunn’s little scout boat, she had seriously contemplated heading down to the swamp with both hands upraised, offering her services to the ugly ringed things. Now wouldn’t that have galled old Dwer!
At one point, while he was floundering in the muck, talking to his crazy mulc-spider friend, she had actually started toward the ramp of the grounded spaceship, intending to hammer on the door. Surely the Jophur were like everybody else, willing to deal for information that was important to them.
At a critical moment, only their stench held her back — an aroma that reminded her of festering wounds and gangrene … fortunately, as it turned out, since the Jophur also proved unable to defend themselves against the unexpected.
So I got to just keep looking for another way off this mud ball. And who cares what Dwer thinks of me? At least 1 don’t make fancy excuses for what I do.
Rety’s tutor had been the wilderness, whose harsh education taught just one lesson — to survive, at all cost. She grew up watching as some creatures ate others, then were eaten by something stronger still. Lark referred to the “food chain,” but Rety called it the who-kills mountain. Every choice she made involved trying to climb higher on that mountain, hoping the next step would take her to the top.
So when the Jophur were beaten and captured by mythical dolphins, it seemed only natural to hurry aboard the submarine and claim sanctuary with her “Earth cousins.” Only now look where I am, buried under a trash heap at the bottom of the sea, hiding with a bunch of chattering Earthfish who have every monster and star god in space chasing them.
In other words, back at the bottom of the mountain again. Doomed always to be prey, instead of the hunter.
Crax! I sure do got a knack for picking ’em.
• • •
