“Hannes …,” he began, then had to wait till another wave of fluency passed through his mind. He knew that each time might be the last.
“Hannes, we gotta use the comm laser to burn those two boats, now!”
Suessi stared in surprise at the brief, unexpected eloquence. His dome-covered head turned to follow Emerson’s pointing finger. “What, those? Why not call Dr. Baskin and use real combat beams—”
The quantum link to Emerson’s speech center flickered out, leaving him shrouded in dull muteness, unable to explain that the foe would surely have meme-disabled the fire-control systems of any formal weapons in order to guarantee their safe escape.
He managed to force a few words out by sheer willpower.
“No … time! Do! Do it!”
The shiny dome nodded. Both shoulders lifted in a true Suessi shrug.
“Okay! You gotta help me, though. This thing ain’t exactly meant for frying spaceships.”
They set to work at once, sharing a rhythm long familiar to engineers laboring through a shipboard emergency — from Roman trireme, to ancient submarine, to the first sluggish starcraft Earthlings once hurled toward the Milky Way, filled with hopes for a friendly universe. Emerson found that speechlessness did not hamper him as much if he let his hands and eyes work together without interference. Somehow, they knew which connections to shift. Which adjustments to make. When Hannes spoke, the hands responded as if they understood.
It left his mind free to observe with strange detachment, even as Streaker’s hallways started clamoring with alarm signals, sending crew rushing to battle stations. Clearly, Suessi yearned to go join his engine gang, but so great was their mutual trust, the fellow took Emerson’s word that this was more important.
It made Emerson doubly glad he hadn’t been forced to shoot his friend.
“Hokay,” Suessi announced. “Here goes nothing.”
The laser throbbed, and the air temperature in the little chamber abruptly dropped several degrees as pulsating energy flooded into space.
Instantly, he could tell that the first pulse missed its target, disappearing among the flashes of coruscating catastrophe that surrounded Streaker, growing more garish and terrible by the minute.
Cursing roundly, Emerson stabbed several control buttons, bypassing the computer, then began slewing the laser by hand, aiming by sight alone.
Meanwhile, the sneakboat kept fighting waves of spacetime backwash to finally make contact with the little craft carrying Tsh’t. Impact wasn’t gentle. Hull panels crumpled on one side, but the sturdy, Thennanin-built pod held together. Soon, the larger vessel’s surface melted to envelop the escape capsule, drawing it inside.
Tsh’t and her purloined cargo were safe in the grasp of those who wanted it so badly.
Emerson had mixed feelings while struggling to adjust the balky laser. Though he hated the Old Ones for their callousness — especially the way they had mutilated him and others for their own purposes — he also understood, just a little, their rationale. Without words, he could picture the panicky background for their actions.
Ultimately — after passing through the young, hot-tempered, starfaring stage — each race had to choose whether to continue down a comforting funnel that appeared to welcome all whose souls were ready. A place of union, where the best of hydro and oxy cultures merged, preparing to move on.
But move on to what?
The vast majority felt it must be something greater and more noble than anything in this cosmos. The place where blessed Progenitors had gone so long ago.
But there was another, minority opinion.
On Jijo, Emerson had learned something deep and gritty about the cycle of life. A metaphor that he held in his mind, even after speech had gone away.
An image of the deepest part of the sea.
And a single word.
Dross.
He jabbed the firing button.
Once again, the laser moaned a cry, deeper than a hoonish umble and more combative than the war shout of a desert urrish warrior, accompanied by a sudden wave of cold.
Something flared in the night! A sparkle of destruction. Fire illumined one end of the sneakship, outlining its aft segment, which now shimmered with devastating explosions.
All at once, words returned to Emerson’s life. The voice reentered his mind, in tones that conveyed hurt perplexity.
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE? ONCE ON OUR WAY, WE PLANNED SENDING YOU THE CYLINDER. THE PLUG OF TISSUE THAT YOU CRAVE. AFTER WE HAD NO FURTHER NEED OF IT, OR OF YOU.
“NOW YOUR TREASURE WILL BE LOST, ALONG WITH US, AS WE FALL INTO A DYING WHITE SUN.”
Already the mortally wounded sneakboat could be seen tumbling along a plummeting trajectory, while Streaker’s engines cranked to push the other way.
“I know that,” Emerson sighed. So many hopes had turned to ash when he fired the laser bolt. Especially his dream of talking to Sara. Of telling her what was in his heart. Or even holding on to thoughts that right now seemed so fluid and natural, so easy and fine. Smooth, graceful thoughts that would become hard again, moments from now, when what had been stolen, then restored, would finally be lost forever.
“BUT WHY? IN YOUR CRUDE WAY, YOU UNDERSTAND OUR WORRY. YOU SYMPATHIZE WITH OUR MISGIVINGS ABOUT THE EMBRACE OF TIDES. YOU EVEN SUSPECT WE MAY BE RIGHT! WOULD IT HAVE BEEN SO BAD TO LET US HAVE THE CLUES WE NEED? TO LEARN THE TRUTH ABOUT DESTINY? TO KNOW WHICH WAY TO CHOOSE?”
The plaint was so poignant, Emerson weighed explaining, while there was time.
Should he talk about orders from the Terragens Council, that secrets from the Shallow Cluster must be shared by all races … or none?
A raging corner pondered telling the aliens that this was Pyrrhic revenge, getting even for things they had done to him — no matter how well justified they thought they were.
In fact, though, neither of those reasons excused his act of murder. While Streaker shuddered under ever more intense spacetime waves — climbing laboriously through a maelstrom of colliding transport arks and flaming Zang globes — he found there was only one answer to give the Old Ones.
The right answer.
One that was both logical and entirely just.
“Because you didn’t ask,” he explained, as the quantum links began flickering out for the last time.
“You … never once said … please.”
Harry
THE SEARCH WENT BADLY AT FIRST.
Kazzkark was a maze of tunnels where sophonts could all too easily disappear — whether by choice or mischance. And matters only worsened as the placid lifestyle of an Institute outpost vanished like a memory. More refugees poured in, even after the planetoid started quivering in response to waves of subspace disturbance. Tempers stretched thin, and there were more than enough troubles to keep police drones of the Public Safety Department busy.
When it came to looking for a pair of lost humans, Harry was pretty much on his own.
His first good lead came when he overheard a Synthian chatter to comrades in a space merchants’ bar, bragging about a sharp business deal she’d just made, acquiring some first-rate wolfling relics for resale to the collectors’ trade.
