Council.
(I have another hidden duplicate. Who knows which of us will get through first. Assuming the cosmos cooperates … and that Earth survives.)
I felt sad when Ur-ronn set off to depart with the p’un m’ang. Bidding our dear comrade farewell, I wanted to pick her up till all four hooves left the ground, and squeeze her in a full hoonish hug. But I know that our races view such things differently. Urs are not a nostalgic or sentimental people.
Of course Ur-ronn loves Huck and me, in the manner of her kind. Perhaps she will think about us, now and then, with passing fondness.
But her life will soon be busy and focused.
She will not miss us nearly as much as we already miss her.
Such is the world.
As Ur-ronn departed, another companion returned to me.
After miduras of intense questioning, Dwer finally got what he wanted from Mudfoot. At last the little noor spoke, confessing the truth of what we had supposed all along — that centuries ago some Tymbrimi planted an illicit colony of their beloved clients on Jijo. Although most noor are born silent and partly devolved, a secret group among them retained fully uplifted mental powers. They are tytlal.
Mudfoot agreed to provide Dwer with code words and phrases that will bring the secret ones out of hiding. This was Dwer’s price for letting the creature go. Mudfoot’s aim now is to make contact somehow with the Tymbrimi and inform them what’s happened on Jijo. Since that goal is compatible with my own, the little fellow will accompany me when I journey onward.
Dwer seems satisfied. Indeed, I think his chief aim was to get the best of Mudfoot, just once, before he and Kaa set course on their long voyage back to Jijo.
Before everything comes apart.
The Five Galaxies rock and shudder as the moment of sundering approaches.
With space quakes intensifying, and cracks spreading through the ancient planetoid’s walls, it grows apparent that even isolated Kazzkark will be no refuge against the coming convulsions. Already the refugee flow has reversed, as more ships and sapients leave than arrive. With half the normal space lanes already disrupted, many folks are using the remaining stable routes to head home while there’s still time.
Among those departing, the most singular looking are acolytes dressed in robes of blue and gold, spreading the gospel of a bizarre faith — one that focuses on salvation for individuals, not races. A creed in which Earth plays the central dramatic role, as martyr planet.
A sect that proclaims love for Terra, while joyous over its crucifixion.
I have no idea if the same message has been preached in a million other locales, or by just the one Skiano apostle. Either way, the cult seems to have struck a chord that resonates in these troubled times. Fanning, across space to spread the word, the missionaries seemed eager to take advantage of the chaos, and the shakiness of more ancient faiths.
At the center of it all, acting as the Skiano’s chief aide and majordomo, is Rety, the young human female who once seemed such an untamed savage, even on remote Jijo. Transformed by surgery and new garments, she beckons and commands the converts — even sophisticated starfarers — like some haughty lord of an ancient patron clan.
And they take it! Bowing respectfully, even when the parrot on her shoulder squawks irreverently caustic remarks.
I’ve never seen a human act more confident, or more arrogantly assured of her status.
Meanwhile, the Skiano himself paces slowly, an eerie light flickering in one set of eyes, while the other pair appears to stare at distant horizons.
Naturally, Dwer has failed persuading Rety to leave this fanatical group. She would not even budge when Harry Harms offered a transit pass to his homeworld, a colony located far from the current troubles, where she might possibly find safety and comfort with her own kind.
Harry and Dwer both express frustration. But frankly, I find Rety’s adamant resolution understandable. She has learned how pleasant it can be to find a sense of importance and belonging among people who value you.
So have I.
It’s nearly time to put down my journal. Dor-hinuf expects me at her parents’ dwelling, where members of the local hoon community will gather again for an evening of dinner and poetry. A normal enough occurrence, back home on Jijo, but apparently quite daring and new among my star-god relations.
I must paw through the box of books I brought from Jijo and select tonight’s reading. Last time, we had some Melville and Cousteau, but it seems that human authors are a difficult reach for many of these civilized hoons. I expect it will take a while for me to teach them the merits of Jules Verne and Mark Twain.
Mostly, they want me to umble from the odes of Chuph-wuph’iwo and Phwhoon-dau, singing melodramatically about taut sails straining against sturdy masts, defying wind and salt spray as a knifelike prow cleaves bravely through some gale-swollen reach. My father would be proud to know that the hoonish literary renaissance of Jijo, so long eclipsed by Earthling authors, is at last finding an eager audience among our distant, starfaring cousins.
It is most gratifying. And yet, I wonder.
How can this be?
Consider the irony! Huck and I always dreamed of how romantic and wonderful it would be to go flitting about in spaceships. But these civilized hoons only see starcraft as conveyances — dull implements for travel between assignments — as they plod through the routine destiny assigned to our kind long ago by our Guthatsa patrons.
So what makes them receptive now, to umbles of hope and joy? Is it the growing chaos outside? Or was something lying in wait all along, sleeping underneath a dark shell of oppressive, bureaucratic unhappiness?
Can it really be the simple image of a sailboat that triggers an awakening, a stirring deep inside?
If so, the elation might have lain buried forever. No civilized hoon would willingly risk life and limb at sea. The mere thought would be dismissed as absurd. The accounts would not balance. Averse to risk, they would never give it a try.
Besides, what hoon can swim? Nothing in our ancestral tree would logically suggest the way hoonish spines frickle at the sight of wintry icebergs on a storm-serrated horizon, or the musical notes that rope and canvas sing, like a mother umbling to her child.
Only on Jijo was this discovered, once our settler ancestors abandoned their star-god tools, along with all the duties and expectations heaped on us by the Guthatsa.
In fairness, perhaps our patrons meant well. After all, we owe them for our sapient minds. Galactic society sets a stern standard that most elder races follow, when uplifting their clients toward sober, dependable adulthood. The Guthatsa took our strongest racial traits — loyalty, duty, devotion to family — and used them to set us down a single narrow course. Toward prudent, obsessive responsibility.
And yet, only now are Dor-hinuf and her people learning how our patrons cheated us. Robbing our greatest treasure. One that we only recovered by playing hooky … by ditching class and heading for the river.
To Jijo, where hoons at last reclaimed what had been stolen.
Our childhood.
Lark
THE TRANSCENDENCE GATEWAYS APPEARED TO have finished their migration, climbing outward from their former position near the surface of a white dwarf star. Now all the huge, needle-shaped devices glistened in much higher orbits, beyond the outer fringes of the candidates’ swarm.
