has commenced.”
Sara let out a soft grunt of comprehension.
“The inhabitants of the Fractal World—”
“Were officially members of the Retired Order, basking in the gentle tidal rub of their carefully tended private sun, quietly refining their racial spirits in preparation for the next step.
“A step that some of them now seem ready to attempt.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gillian.
“It is best illustrated visually. Please observe.”
One of the major screens came alight with a wavering image — greatly magnified — of several dozen ragged-looking vessels flying in convoy formation, skating along the shimmering verge of a transfer thread. As the telescopic scene gained better focus, Sara noted that the ships’ rough outlines resulted from their jagged coverings — a jumble of corrugation and protruding spikes. The very opposite of streamlining.
So, the fractal geometry of the fallen criswell structure carries on, even down to the small scale of their lifeboats, she realized. I wonder how far it continues. To the flesh on their bodies? To their living cells?
The portrayal magnified, zooming toward the bow of the lead vessel. There, Sara and her companions in the Plotting Room saw a glyphic symbol that seemed to shimmer in its own light — consisting of several nested, concentric rings.
Even a Jijoan savage quickly recognized the sigil of the Retired Order.
“Now watch what I have observed several times already. These refugees from the Fractal World are preparing to declare a momentous decision.”
Sara felt Emerson approach to stand close by. Quietly unassuming, the tall wounded man took her left hand while they both stood watching a fateful transition.
The foremost craggy-hulled ship appeared to shudder. Wavelets of energy coursed its length, starting from the stern and ultimately converging toward the bright symbol on its prow. For a few moments, the glare became so intense that Sara had to shield her eyes.
The glow diminished just as rapidly. When Sara looked again, the glyph had been transformed. Gone were the circles. In their place lay a simple joining of two short line segments, meeting at a broad angle, like a fat triangle missing its connecting base.
“The sign of union,” pronounced the Niss Machine, its voice somewhat hushed. “Two destinies, meeting at one hundred and four degrees.”
Gillian Baskin nodded in appreciation.
“Ah,” was all the older woman said.
Sara thought, I hate it when she does that. Now it behooved her to ask for an explanation.
But events accelerated before she could inquire what the mysterious change in emblems meant. As the camera shifted, they witnessed several more refugee ships undergoing identical transformations in rapid succession, joining the leader in assuming the two-legged symbol. All these separated from their erstwhile companions to form a distinct flotilla that began edging ahead, as if now eager to seek a new destiny. At the next transfer thread junction, they flared with ecstatic levels of probability discharge and leaped across the narrow gap, bound for Ifni-knew-where.
The remaining refugees weren’t finished changing and dividing. Again, ripples of light shimmered along the hulls of several huge ships, which began losing some of their jagged outlines. Hulls that had been jumbles of overlapping spikes seemed to melt and flow, then recoalesce into smoother, more uniform shapes … the familiar symmetrical arrangement of hyperdrive flanges used by normal vessels in the Civilization of Five Galaxies.
Like before, each metamorphosis concluded in a dazzling burst at the foremost end. Only this time, when the glare faded, Sara saw another symbol replacing the nest of concentric rings — a rayed spiral glyph. The same one Streaker carried on her bow.
“These others, apparently, do not consider their racial spirits advanced enough yet for transcendence. They, too, have chosen to surrender their retired status, but this time in order to rejoin the society of ambitious, fractious, starfaring oxygen breathers.
“Perhaps they feel there is unfinished business they must take care of before resuming the Embrace of Tides.”
Gillian nodded soberly.
“That unfinished business may be us.”
She turned toward the bridge. “Kaa! Be sure to stay away from any ship bearing a Galactic emblem!”
From the water-filled control room came a warbling sigh in complex Trinary — the expressive, poetical language of neo-dolphins that Sara had only just begun to learn. Rhythmic squeals and pops seemed to voice resigned irony, and several of those in the Plotting Room chuckled in appreciation of the pilot’s wit.
All Sara made out was a single elementary phrase—
… except the one biting our tail!
Of course. There was already one ship — bearing the rayed spiral crest — that wouldn’t be shaken easily. Sticking to the Earthling vessel like a shadow — far closer than most navigators would call safe — the Jophur dreadnought loomed in the rear-facing viewer. Without the new, dense layers coating Streaker’s hull, Kaa might have unleashed his full suite of tricks, evading the battle cruiser in a mad dash among the twisting threads. But that wasn’t possible with Streaker weighed down this way, maneuvering as sluggish as an ore freighter.
Well, without the coating, we would have fried the first instant those disintegrator beams struck, Sara thought. And we’d be easy prey for the Jophur. So maybe it evens out.
Turning back to the main magnifier screen, she watched the refugee flotilla break up once more. Those that had reclaimed the spiral galaxy symbol began peeling off, aimed toward heading back to the vigorous goals and passions of a younger life phase.
“From this t-point nexus, there are several routes leading eventually to the other four galaxies. The beings piloting those vessels are no doubt planning to rendezvous with former clan mates and clients.”
Gillian sniffed.
“Like Grandpa and Grandma coming home from Happy Acres to move back in with the kids. I wonder just how welcome they’ll be.”
The whirling hologram halted briefly, its expression perplexed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.” Gillian shook her head. “So we’ve seen a retirement home shatter before our eyes, and its residents divide in three directions. What about those?” She pointed to the craggy ships remaining in the flotilla, the ones who retained their original emblem of concentric circles. “Where will they go?”
The Niss resumed spinning.
“Presumably to another criswell structure. Truly retired species cannot long abide what they call the ‘shallow realm.’ They dislike space travel and crave instead the feel of solar tides. So they prefer hunkering deep within a gravity well, next to a tame star.
“In fact, I am picking up considerable short-range traffic right now … intership communications … inquiring if anyone in the area knows another fractal community that has spare volume and insolated—”
“In other words, they want to find out which other retirement homes have vacancies, to replace the digs they just lost. I get it.”
“Indeed. But it seems they are having little luck. A majority of the vessels we glimpse now, streaking across the nexus, are asking the same question!”
“What? The ones coming from other entry points? They’re also looking for a place to live? But I thought there were tens of thousands of other retirement habitats, each of them huge enough to—”
“Please hold awhile. Let me look into this.”
Silence reigned while the Niss delved deeper, coiling its mesh of spinning lines ever tighter as it listened acutely. When it finally reported again, the synthetic voice was lower, sounding somewhat astonished.
“It seems, Dr. Baskin, that the catastrophe we observed at the Fractal World was not an isolated incident.”
Another long pause followed, as if the Niss felt it necessary to check — and then double-check — verifying what it had just learned.
