Infinity's Shore (98 page)

A place of refuge. A sanctuary for Earthlings and others. They all meant to hunker down, cowering away from the cosmos, each race redeeming its heritage in its own peculiar way.

Then we brought the universe crashing in on them.

She watched Lieutenant Tsh't move among the crewfen at their dome consoles, encouraging them with bursts of sonar, always checking for lapses of attention. The meticulous supervision hardly seemed necessary. Not one of the elite bridge staff had ever shown a trace of stress atavism. All were guaranteed high uplift classifications when they got home.

If we get home.

If there is still a home, waiting for us.

In fact, everyone knew the real reason why half the crew had been left behind on Jijo, along with the Kiqui and copies of
Streaker
's records.

We don't have much of a chance of escaping … but it might be possible to draw the universe away from Jijo. Diverting its attention. Making it forget the sooners, once again.

It would take skill and luck just to achieve that sacrifice. But if successful, what an accomplishment! Preventing the extinction of the g'Kek, or the unwanted transformation of the traeki, or the discovery and blame that would befall Earth, if human sooners were exposed here.

If this works, we'll have a complete cache of Earthlings on Jijo—humans, chimps, and now dolphins, too. A safety reserve, in case the worst happens at home.

That seems worthwhile. A result worth paying for.

Of course, like everything in the cosmos, it would come at a price.

They had passed Loocen—the moon still glittering with abandoned cities—and accelerated about a million kilometers beyond when the detection officer declared:

“Enemy cruiser leaving atmosphere! Vectoring after swarm number one!”

The spatial schematic showed a speck rising from Jijo, larger and brighter than any other, lumbering to accelerate its titanic mass.

We could outrun you, once
, Gillian thought.
We still can … for a while.

Even handicapped by the irksome carbon sheathing,
Streaker
would spend some time increasing the gap between her and the pursuing battleship. Newtonian inertia must drag down the heavier Jophur—that is, until it reached speeds adequate for level-zero hyperdrive.

Then the speed advantage would start to shift.
If only a transfer point were nearer.
Gillian shook her head, and kept on wishing.

If only Tom and Creideiki were here. They'd get us away without much trouble, I bet. I could retire to sick bay with confidence, treating dolphins for itchy-flake and spending my copious free time contemplating the mysteries of Herbie.

In a moment of decision, she had elected to take along the billion-year-old mummy, despite the high likelihood
Streaker
would be destroyed in a matter of hours or days. She could not part with the relic, which Tom had fought so hard to snatch from a fleet of ghost ships in the Shallow Cluster—back in those heady days before the whole Civilization of the Five Galaxies seemed to turn against
Streaker.

Back when the naive crew expected
gratitude
for their epochal discovery.

Never surprise a stodgy Galactic
, went a Tymbrimi saying.
Unless you're prepared with twelve more surprises in your pocket.

Good advice.

Unfortunately, her supply of tricks was running low. There were, in fact, only a few left.

The Sages

T
HE LATEST GROUP OF PILGRIMS UNDERSTOOD more now, about the Holy Egg.

More than Drake and Ur-Chown knew, when they first stared at the newly emerged wonder, glowing white-hot from its fiery emergence. Those two famed heroes conspired to exploit the Egg for their own religious and political purposes, declaring it an omen. A harbinger of unity. A god.

Now the sages have printouts provided by the dolphin ship. The report, downloaded from a unit of the Great Galactic Library, calls the Egg—
a psi-active geomorph. A phenomenon observed on some life worlds whose tectonic restoration processes are smoothly continuous, where past cycles of occupation and renewal had certain temporal and technologic traits…

Phwhoon-dau contemplated this as the newly reassembled Council of Sages approached the sacred site, walking, slithering, and rolling toward the place they had all separately been heading when they heard Vubben's dying call.

In other words, the Egg is a distillation, a condensation of Jijo's past. All the dross deposited by the Buyur … and those who came before … has combined to contribute patterns.

Patterns that somehow wove their way through magma pressure and volcanic heat.

To the south, these spilled forth chaotically, to become the Spectral Flow. But here, conditions permitted coalescence. A crystalline tip consisting of pure memory and purpose.

At last he understood the puzzle of why every sooner
race settled on the Slope, despite initial jealousies and feuds.

We were summoned.

Some said this knowledge would crush the old ways, and Phwhoon-dau agreed. The former faith—founded in the Sacred Scrolls, then modified by waves of heresy—would never be the same.

The basis of the Commons of Six Races had changed.

But the basis survived.

A re-formed Council of Six entered the scarred canyon circle, where they spent a brief time contemplating the charred remains of their eldest member, a jumble of frail nerves and fibers, plastered against the Egg's pitted, sooty flank.

They buried Vubben there—the only sage ever so honored. Then began their work.

Others would join them soon. A re-formed council meant re-formed duty.

At last we know what you are
, Phwhoon-dau thought silently, leaning back to regard the Egg's great curving mass.

But other questions remain. Such as … why?

Rety

T
HE CONTROLS REFUSED TO RESPOND!

“Come on!” she shouted, slamming the holosim box with the palm of her hand, then jiggling more levers.

Not that Rety had much idea what she'd do if she gained mastery over the decoy vessel. At first, the stunning views of Jijo and space sent her brain reeling. It was all so much
bigger
than she ever imagined. Since then, she had left the big visual holo turned off, while continuing to fiddle with other panels and displays.

Wisdom preached that she ought to leave the machinery alone … and finally, Rety listened. She forced herself to back away, joining yee at her small stack of supplies, smuggled off the sled when Chuchki wasn't looking. She
stroked her little husband while munching a food-concentrate bar, pondering the situation.

Every salvaged decoy ship had been programmed to head out—by a variety of routes—toward the nearest “transfer point.” From there, they would jump away from fallow Galaxy Four, aiming for distant, traffic-filled lanes where oxygen-breathing life-forms teemed.

That was good enough for Rety, providing she then found a way to signal some passing vessel.

This old ship may not be worth much, but it oughta pay my passage to their next stop, at least.

What would happen next remained vague in her mind. Getting some kind of job, most likely. She still had the little teaching machine that used to belong to Dennie Sudman, so learning those jabber-talk alien languages shouldn't be too hard.

I'll find a way to make myself useful. I always have.

Of course, everything depended on making it to the transfer point.

Gillian prob'ly set things up so the decoys'll try to lure the Jophur. Maybe they give off some sort of light or noise to make 'em think there are dolphins aboard.

That might work for a while. The stinky rings'll chase around, losin' time while checkin' things out.

But Rety knew what would happen next. Eventually, the Jophur gods would catch on to the trick. They'd figure out what to look for, and realize which ship was the real target.

Suppose by then they've torn apart half the decoys. That still leaves me fitty-fitty odds. Which is Ifni times more than I'd have aboard old
Streaker.
Once they figure which one she is, they'll leave the rest of us decoys alone to go about our business.

At least that was the overall idea. Ever since she had found Kunn and Jass, dead in their jail cells, Rety knew she must get off the Earthling ship as fast as possible and make it on her own.

I'd better be able to send out a signal, when we pop into a civilized galaxy
, she thought.
I s'pose it'll take more than just shining a light out through a window. Guess I better study some more about radio and that hyperwave stuff.

As wonderful and patient as the teaching unit was, Rety
did not look forward to the drudgery ahead … nor to relying on the bland paste put out by the ancient food processor, once her supply of
Streaker
food ran out. The machine had taken the sample of fingernail cuticle she gave it, and after a few moments put out a substance that tasted exactly like cuticle.

Chirping tones interrupted her thoughts. A light flashed atop the holosim casing. Rety scooted over to the machine.

“Display on!”

A 3-D image erupted just above the floor plates. For a time, she made little sense of the image, which showed five small groups of amber points spiraling away from a tiny blue disk. It took moments to realize the dot was Jijo, and the decoy swarms had already left the planet far behind. The separation
between
the convoys also grew larger, with each passing dura.

One dot lagged behind, brighter than the others, gleaming red instead of yellow. It crept toward one of the fleeing swarms as she watched.

That must be the Jophur ship
, she realized. Squinting closer, she saw that the big dot was trailed by a set of much tinier crimson pinpricks, almost too small to see, following like beads on a string.