forget it if he tried.
Then his former captors offered a parting comment.
“CLEARLY WE MISESTIMATED YOUR LEVEL OF SAPIENCY, IN BELIEVING THAT SIMPLE AVERSION CONDITIONING COULD SWAY YOU EARLIER. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR APPARENT TENACITY AND FLEXIBILITY.
“NEVERTHELESS, WE HAVE CONFIDENCE IN THE EFFECTIVENESS OF OUR FINAL INDUCEMENT.”
With that, the voice cut off, though Emerson wasn’t done with them yet.
“Well let me tell you what you can do with your Ifni-damned offer, you gorslucking spawn of retard slime molds! Go seek redemption up your own clocoas, you jef-eating, dirt-licking, damned-to-Gehenna—”
Emerson’s stream of invective went on while he sped after Streaker, hurrying past robot combatants that grappled and slashed one another, but never laid a claw or ray on him. He cursed on and on, enjoying the rich flood of invective and the feel of words spilling from his mouth, keeping it going for as long as he could. Each added second of crass language seemed a victory.
Swearing was his touchstone. Filling the small cabin with hoarse noise, he clung to the knack of speech, fiercely refusing to let distance — or the enemy — rip it away.
Soon he noted that Streaker was slowing down, pausing in its flight to let him catch up. The act of loyalty warmed him as the docking tunnel opened, spilling a welcome glow. But Emerson kept shouting his opinion of the Old Ones — their ancestry, their character, and their likely destiny on the great pyramid of existence.
Only when he finished latching to Streaker’s guidance beam did Emerson pause long enough to remember something.
Cursing didn’t count.
He could do that even on Jijo. Like singing and sketching, profanity did not use the part of his brain that was stolen.
Emerson tried to say something else — to comment on the battle, the sky filled with shattered debris, or his own growing fear — and failed.
Desperately, his thoughts whirled, rummaging through his tormented brain, seeking an aptitude that had seemed so fluid and natural just moments before. A lifelong skill that villains had robbed from him, then briefly returned, but for too short a time.
It felt like trying to extend an amputated limb. The ghost was still there. A hint of volition. Meanings filled his mind, along with a readiness to act, to prompt sentences. To speak.
But some key element was gone again, and with it all the things he had hoped and planned saying to Sara. To Gillian.
Emerson slumped in a seat that had been built for a much larger pilot, a creature of great physical power, respected across the Civilization of Five Galaxies. His arms sank from the massive controls and his chin met his chest as tears streamed from eyes suddenly too foggy for seeing. He felt helpless, like an overwhelmed child: Like an ignorant wolfling.
Till that moment, Emerson had thought himself familiar with loss. But now he knew.
There was always someplace deeper you could go.
Gillian
LIEUTENANT TSH’T REPORTED FROM THE bridge. Turbulent bubbles fizzed as her tail slashed through oxywater.
“Engineer d’Anite is back aboard. Sh-shall we accelerate again?”
Gillian felt indecision like a heavy beast, clawing and dragging at her arms, her shoulders.
“Have sensors picked up any sign of the Zang?”
The Niss hologram expressed worry with taut lines.
“The hydrogen-breathing entities may be destroyed, along with their vessel. But even if the Zang are preoccupied elsewhere, some of these battling factions will surely unite to prevent our departure.”
“We don’t know their motives, or even how many cliques—”
“By appraising tactical patterns I count at least five different groups. Their forces are mostly robots of the sepoy-soldiery type, receiving instructions from various sectors of the Fractal World, working for local associations of the Retired Order.”
The Niss paused for a moment, then resumed.
“Let me revise. I perceive SIX battle patterns. One seems aimed toward opening an escape path for us. So it appears we do have allies among the combatants.”
“It appeared that way last time, too,” she replied. “These helpers — are they strong enough to protect us?”
“Doubtful. The crucial moment will come when we pass through the narrowest part of the gap that’s been torn in the Fractal World. Any group might choose to destroy us at that point, using the defense beams we saw earlier.”
That was a cheery thought to dwell on as Streaker reentered the gaping corridor filled with evaporating debris and shimmering artificial comets. Only this time a sparkle of battle also followed the Earthship, ebbing and surging around it.
Gillian had Kaa steer just half a million kilometers from one ragged edge of the great wound, threading a path between the stumps and stark shadows of titanic, brittle spires.
“Maybe someone will think twice about shooting at us with those big guns, if we’re so close to the shell itself.”
From here they could make out some of the giant machines striving to shore up the torn criswell structure, using nets woven from great spools of carbon thread to arrest its decay. These were a completely different order of mechanism, autonomous and sapient — hired workers, not slaves.
In fact, though, most of the supply spools looked nearly empty. They are running short of raw materials, Gillian thought. All their efforts may fail if this keeps up … especially if bands of Old Ones fight instead of helping.
A dolphin’s joyful shout erupted behind Gillian. She turned in time to see Emerson d’Anite enter the Plotting Room, his head and shoulders slumped in apparent depression.
“Well, there’s our hero—” Gillian began. But Sara Koolhan rushed past with a glad cry to embrace her friend. The little neo-chimpanzee, Prity, leaped among them, and soon Emerson was enveloped. Dolphins gathered around, clicking excitedly while their walkers hissed and clanked. The Jijoan youngsters — Alvin and his friends — slapped Emerson’s back, shaking his hand and telling him how wonderful he was.
Even if their words made no sense to him, the air of approval seemed to wash away some of the man’s dour mood. His eyes lifted to meet Gillian’s, and she returned his tentative smile with one of her own. But then the Niss cut in.
“Two new swarms are approaching, Dr. Baskin.”
She turned to look. “More sepoy robots?”
“No … and it worries me. These fresh arrivals are much more formidable beings, Gillian. They are independent constructor-contractors. Autonomous members of the Machine Order of Life.”
“Show me!”
The fresh arrivals were already near, coming in crowds of about a dozen each from opposite directions — one depicted as a cluster of red dots, the other green. Each group swept imperiously through the battle zone. As evidence of their status, none of the combatant robots fired on the newcomers. Instead, most scurried out of their way.
This looks bad, Gillian thought as the fierce green sparkles entered visual range. Each of the leaders resembled a giant spiny sea urchin, almost a tenth as long as Streaker, though most of that was in spindly leg- appendages that writhed as the mechanism flew toward Streaker’s tail.
